Chapter Text
I need to get out of here.
Shivering in his concrete prison, that single thought echoed throughout Finney Blake’s mind like a mantra. During his times with and away from the Grabber, he would often imagine himself being somewhere, anywhere else, other than his captor’s basement. Imagining a place filled with warmth and light instead of a cold, gray tomb, a place where he was surrounded by people he genuinely loved: His sister, his mother, sometimes his father, Robin, and of course…Donna.
Donna Anderson, Finney’s crush since the seventh grade. In moments where he felt especially dirty, he would envision her soft smile and gentle eyes, telling him that it didn’t matter what happened to him on the outside, that it was what’s on the inside that really counted. And then she’d lean over to touch his face and kiss him like something out of a Disney movie. And it made Finney feel happy and comfortable and it didn’t hurt at all.
And now, three years later, that dream was becoming a reality.
Sort of.
Finney glanced at the girl next to him, watching as she gently placed the white carnations next to the memorial for Robin Arellano. Though the school day ended, there were usually always a few stragglers in the school courtyard. But today it was barren and empty, aside from themselves and a skittish chipmunk weaving through the flowerbed.
She leaned her head against his shoulder as butterflies danced in his stomach. It was still hard to wrap his head around the fact that Donna Anderson was now his girlfriend in real life. After escaping from the basement, Finney felt a surge of confidence that allowed him to talk to Donna like a normal human being instead of a rambling, stuttering mess. They grew closer over the years, the culmination being a month ago when Finney finally, finally mustered up enough courage to ask her if she wanted to be more than friends.
For some unfathomable reason, she agreed.
Due to Finney’s general discomfort regarding physical contact, their progression from ‘friends’ to ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ was slow. At first, they simply spent more time together. Then, they started holding hands, hugging more, and then, finally, kissing on the cheek.
But not anymore. Today, he was going to act like a normal sixteen-year old boy and not like Finney Blake. Today, he was going to make out with his girlfriend.
Yeah, I can do this.
He looked at the memorial, invigorated, as if Robin was cheering him on from beyond the grave. Maybe he was.
But how should Finney start?
Maybe just be direct–that’s what Robin would do.
“So, um, do you wanna make out?”
Donna lifted her head from Finney’s shoulder and blinked in disbelief. His stomach started flip-flopping. “You want to make out? Like…here?”
Did I mess this up? Shit. “Um. Yes?” Ahhhh, I’m not supposed to say it like a question! He repeated, this time in a flatter, statement-like tone. “I meant…yes.”
Her mouth twitched into a small smile, which made him relax a bit. Unless she’s smiling because I look like an idiot, in which case that’s a bad sign. “Isn’t it a little…weird to do it now?” she asked. “Since Robin’s memorial is right there and all.”
Finney tried to think of reasons why she might find it weird, but came up blank. Did she think Robin would be upset for some reason? If so, why? Was this one of the many social cues that just flew by him? Was this a girl thing? He wished real life could be like his daydreams, where she would just automatically know what he was thinking and feeling. “W-Well, we don’t have to. I just thought, y’know, since we’ve been dating for almost a month we might. But we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to,” she said quickly, then started blushing. Finney’s butterflies started waving pom-poms. “I was just a bit surprised.”
“Okay, well, if we both want to, then that’s cool.” ‘Cool’? Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
Donna smiled, then tilted her head upward and opened her mouth slightly. He stared for a couple seconds, not comprehending at first. Then, it dawned on him after she cleared her throat that she was expecting him to lean in and make the first move.
How is it that every passing second of the conversation made him feel progressively more like a dumbass? I should have died in that basement, Finney thought miserably, not for the first time.
Nevertheless, he leaned in, pressed his lips to hers, and they kissed. It wasn’t Finney’s first kiss, but it was the first one he wanted. It wasn’t like in his daydreams, though–real life was sloppier, more awkward. He wondered why he was tasting cherry before he realized it was the chapstick on her lips. Then he started to panic as he realized the last thing he ate was beef macaroni for lunch and he probably smelled terrible and she’d never want to kiss him again. Still, it felt…nice. Nice and gentle. He wanted to stroke her hair or her back, but restrained himself.
WBoth of them were smiling when they broke apart, which was a good sign. There was a breeze and Finney was momentarily taken aback by how beautiful her hair looked in the wind.
“You’re amazing, Donna,” he blurted out, not caring how lame he sounded for once. Donna’s eyes brightened and she reached out to touch Finney’s face.
Finney quickly stepped back, a wave of guilt crashing into him at her crestfallen expression.
“Oh! I’m sorry. You’re hair was a bit messed up from the wind, and I was just going to—”
“N-no, no, it’s my fault,” Finney mumbled, face growing red at his instinctive reaction. “I don’t know why I did that. It’s okay, you could—”
Rude laughter interrupted them, and Finney groaned inwardly. Matt. Of course.
He turned around to see the black-haired boy slouching against a tree, backpack slung lazily over his shoulder. As if this moment wasn’t embarrassing enough already.
“That was pathetic,” he sneered. “You’re dating the hottest girl in the school, and you move away when she tries to touch you?” He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus Christ.”
Donna frowned. “Knock it off, Matt.”
Finney’s first impulse was to ignore him. Matt and Donna used to date before Donna dumped him a few months ago, and Finney was sure some of the venom came from a place of jealousy. But his ego was already bruised, and he wasn’t about to let it get kicked around some more, especially in front of Donna. “Why are you even here? I doubt it’s to pay your respects,” he said, gesturing towards Robin’s memorial.
Matt scowled. “Is that what you were doing? ‘Paying respects?’” He rolled his eyes. “As if. Mrs. Davis wanted me to see if Donna was out here.” His eyes drifted to her. “You left your science project in the classroom. Guess sucking face with this dipshit is more important than your GPA.”
Donna’s eyes widened. “Crap. I need that in order to do the writeup for tomorrow. Thanks.” He nodded, a bit stiffly. “But Matt, my boyfriend’s not a dipshit, okay? Stop calling him that.” She turned to Finney. “Finn, just wait out here. I’ll be in and out real quick. Bye, Matt.”
She rushed back into the building, leaving the two boys outside. Matt, to Finney’s annoyance, did not leave. “You realize she’s way out of your league, right?”
“Yeah,” Finney replied honestly.
“I totally fucked her, you know. Before you started dating.”
Finney felt irritated; Donna wasn’t some kind of conquest. “So?”
“Did you ever bang a chick before?”
No. “None of your business.”
“That’s what I thought. She’ll be missing me in no time.”
Finney knew Matt was just shittalking, but it made the insecurity he tried so hard to suppress creep back up again against his better judgment. Would Donna expect more from him? Would Finney even want to do more? The thought made him nervous. Maybe one day, eventually, but now? He didn’t feel ready for anything like that. They were only sixteen—isn’t that too early? Or was he the weird one for thinking it was? “I guess we’ll see.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed, upset at Finney’s lack of reaction, and decided to amp it up. “I bet you wouldn’t even be able to get it up without thinking about him.”
Now Matt succeeded. Finney’s fists clenched, but he asked (though he knew the answer) as calmly as possible, “Thinking about who?”
It was a silent dare, which Matt accepted with relish. “The pedo freak in the mask.”
He’s baiting you. Don’t fall for it. Thinking about what Robin would say was the only thing that kept him from lunging at Matt right then and there.
Back in middle school, Finney was lauded by his peers for being some kind of action hero like Dirty Harry or Bruce Lee—not many thirteen-year olds can snap the neck of a grown serial killer, after all. And even now, the Grabber’s death and the justice he got for the victims is usually what people mention when they talk about Finney Blake.
But with age comes understanding, and as those middle school children grew, so did their knowledge of the full scope of the situation. It became clear what it meant when their parents used to whisper their fears of the Grabber killing their sons, “or worse,” and Finney’s captivity seemed less action movie and more horror film. There was an unspoken understanding that more happened besides just Finney killing the Grabber, which no doubt led to his classmates speculating wildly behind closed doors. But no one had been shameless or insensitive enough to say anything like that to his face.
That is, until now.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Finney said, his voice deadly calm yet laced with a clear threat.
(Just like how the Grabber’s voice could be, a tiny part of his brain whispered. He pushed it away.)
A flicker of something that might have been guilt crossed Matt’s expression. But it vanished, quickly replaced with teenage bravado.
“Why? It’s true. I just don’t want Donna to get hurt. I’ve seen how you look at other boys sometimes, and how you used to look at Robin. I bet you enjoyed it when it happened. Hell, maybe Robin did too—”
Finney’s body reacted before his mind did. He flung himself at Matt and shoved him to the ground with a rage he hadn’t felt in three years. He lifted his fists and started pounding at Matt’s face, again and again and again, until blood speckled his knuckles. And even then, he only paused for a brief second before ignoring it and continuing.
He felt fury. He felt hatred. He wanted to reach out and wrap Matt tight in a headlock until he snaps his fucking neck and—
A shriek. “Finn, stop it! Let him go, now!”
Finney turned around and saw Donna, Mendel’s pea plant experiments in hand, looking at Matt in abject horror. He glanced downward and felt his insides churn. Matt’s nose was bloody and smushed, his cheeks swollen, and his eyes glistening with tears. How did Finney not notice?
What the hell did I do?
“I–I’m so sorry, Matt, I didn’t mean–”
Matt shoved the other boy off and darted down the street, leaving Finney and Donna alone. Donna looked at Finney with an expression never directed at him before: fear.
‘Naughty Boy,’ a smug, intrusive imaginary voice purred. Finney’s mouth felt dry. “I don’t know what happened. I just…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t even know how to finish. Donna, to her credit, didn’t leave, but her eyes started to well up and Finney felt even worse. “Matt was really hurt.”
“I know. I screwed up.”
“Obviously! But that…that’s not like you. What happened?”
He hesitated. Although he trusted Donna a lot, he didn’t fully feel comfortable talking about…that with her. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about it to anyone, truthfully.
“He said some bad things about Robin. And”–-this part was hard—”he mentioned some things about me and that man”–he was not going to say the name– “from three years ago that was, well, it was stuff that just caused me to lose it, and I know I reacted terribly, and it was no excuse for what I did, and I completely understand if you want to break up because I know this probably seems like a massive red flag but I would never do anything to hurt you, it’s just—Matt’s, well, he’s—” Finney sighed. “I’m just really sorry.”
Donna didn’t say anything at first, but Finney felt a bit better when he saw the fear dissipate from her expression. Still, her voice was wobbly when she spoke. “I really, really don’t like it when people get violent like this. It scares me. But”–she hesitated–”I know how Matt–-not that this excuses it or anything, but–I know how provocative Matt can be, and you’ve never done anything like this before, so…I’m trusting what you’re saying. But if this ever happens again—”
“It won’t,” Finney promised.
“Okay,” Donna nodded tentatively. There was an awkward pause, then she added, “I guess we should head home now.”
They started walking in silence, Finney sparing Robin’s memorial one last glance. He saw a few small drops of blood splattered from the beatdown, and Finney felt nauseous. It was wrong for Robin to be covered in blood.
He rushed to the memorial and hastily wiped it off the best he could before rejoining Donna. As they walked, Finney racked through his brain trying to come up with non-awkward ways to start the conversation. Gwen would usually walk home with them, but today she was hanging out at Amy’s house. Finney was originally happy since it would give him more time alone with Donna, but after what just happened, he wished Gwen was with them. She always had a knack for diffusing tension.
As it turns out, he didn’t have to be the one to come up with a topic. Donna turned to him and inquired, “Are you still seeing Dr. Moore?”
Dr. Moore was the therapist Finney saw after escaping from the basement. He gave her a wry smile. “What do you think?”
She tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping her lips. “Why did you stop?”
“Dad couldn’t afford to pay her anymore.” That hurt to admit. “But clearly, I need it.”
“Talking to the guidance counselors at school might help. They sometimes help me with my…stuff.” She blushed slightly. Finney was curious but didn’t pry, just as she didn’t pry when he was vague about what Matt said.
“I did talk to Mr. Garcia yesterday,” Finney admitted. “Not about, you know, the past, but about career plans.”
“Oh?” Donna looked interested. “Have you decided what you want to do?”
“Not really. Mr. Garcia said my SAT scores were good, and my grades are pretty high too. He asked me about colleges, but…I don’t know. I don’t think I’d be able to go. Not sure if I want to, either. It costs too much money, and I don’t know how I’d feel about going away.” He left out the main reason: He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Gwen alone with his father. Sure, Terrence was getting better, but what if his father started drinking again? “No idea what I’d even do for a job, anyway. What about you? Have you decided?”
Donna put her finger on her chin in contemplation. “I might go into teaching. I know I said before that I was thinking about nursing, but I don't know if I'll be able to handle the blood and needles.” She shuddered. “Either way, I’m definitely going to college. Just not sure which one yet.”
If he stayed in Colorado and she left to go to an out-of-state college, would they be able to remain a couple? Do long distance relationships work?
“You’d make a good teacher since you’re really nice and have a lot of patience.” She grinned at that, and Finney felt himself blushing. “Maybe I’ll start thinking more about college. I dunno. It’s just…I don’t even know what jobs I could get. Remember Frozen Swirls?”
Donna winced. Earlier in the year Finney was hired to work part-time at an ice cream shop, but his unwanted status as Colorado’s youngest celebrity caused more people to ask him questions about the Grabber than the flavors of ice cream. There were even True Crime enthusiasts who came from out of state just to talk to Finney. He hated the attention, and the owner of the shop ended up having to let Finney go because it was too much of a hassle to handle. The owner was very apologetic and Finney understood why he had to do it, but it still stung.
“If you go away to college, then maybe people won’t recognize you as much.”
“Yeah, but it was all over the national news. We know about Gacy, Bundy, Berkowitz, and none of those assholes live in Colorado. No matter where I go, people are going to recognize me.” His voice started raising in frustration. “Everyone’s going to connect me with—with him forever. Everyone’s going to know what happened to me. There’s no escape from any of this. I’m fucked no matter where I go or what I do.”
Donna bit her lip and Finney could tell she was searching for a way to comfort him, but she also wasn’t one for empty platitudes. They both knew everything Finney said was true. When he was thirteen, he didn’t realize the enormity of the situation. He felt his time in the basement would be just another event in his life that he would eventually move on from, like his mother’s suicide.
But now, at sixteen, he came to the bleak conclusion that there was no moving on. How could there be, when the whole country–perhaps even the whole world–knew about him? His name would be intertwined with the Grabber forever, just like how Watergate overshadowed everything else in Nixon’s life. What future could Finney possibly have? Who would want to marry him, knowing what happened? Why was Donna even bothering to date him?
Finney subconsciously fended off those thoughts for a year now, but the events of today made it glaringly obvious. He felt an oppressive, crushing sense of despair and hopelessness that he only ever felt once before.
Perhaps sensing this, Donna gently put her hand in his and they walked through the neighborhood. They were quiet for a moment, then Donna brought up lighter topics they started discussing, like the Raiders of the Lost Ark movie that was supposed to be coming out next month, something silly her dog did, debating on whether or not Darth Vader actually was Luke’s father, math homework, etc. When they arrived at Donna’s house, she hesitantly turned towards him.
“Is it alright if I kiss you?”
Finney felt a spark of annoyance that she felt the need to ask. Normal couples didn’t need to do that, but there was something wrong in him that made him so damn jumpy and skittish.
“Yeah, of course.”
She gave him a light peck on the cheek and smiled. “You said it was fine if I called you later for help with the math homework, right?”
“Yup.” Why didn’t she kiss me on the lips? Is she upset about earlier? Does she hate me now? Am I just being neurotic and overthinking things? “Donna…I’m really sorry about Matt. I know it was wrong of me to do that.”
“I know you are, and if I thought you weren’t, then we’d be having a different conversation. But we all mess up sometimes. And it’s okay to forgive yourself, too.” Her eyes clouded. “Matt’s been through worse, so I think he’ll be fine. See you tomorrow, Finn.”
She gave his hand one last squeeze and retreated into her house, and Finney turned and made his way down the street. He did feel guilty about Matt. He didn’t know he had the ability or the willingness to do something like that, and it made him uncomfortable.
But what Matt said…
Finney hissed in frustration and kicked a can out of the way with more force than necessary. He was attracted to Donna. He was attracted to girls in general. But as much as he tried to deny it, the truth was, he did sometimes find himself drawn to other boys, and he didn’t like it. It reminded him of the Grabber, and despite what his therapist said, he wasn’t sure that his time in captivity didn’t play some sort of role in why he had those feelings towards some of his male classmates. Then again, he felt that way towards Robin before he was kidnapped, so maybe it really was unrelated.
But was it even possible for someone to like both girls and boys? He remembered overhearing the topic coming up in passing conversation between his father and one of his father’s friends, and Terrence snorting with laughter, saying that people who claimed they liked both were just ‘fags in denial.’ But Finney loved Donna, right?
And he hated the Grabber. He hated his fingers, his rings, his mask. Hated him with an intensity he never hated anyone ever before, not even Terrence at his most violent towards Gwen. Would he feel that way if he liked boys in the same way he liked girls? It was confusing. It was times like these that made Finney really, really want to speak with Dr. Moore despite the general embarrassment he felt seeing her in the first place. She was way more knowledgeable about things like this than he was.
As he walked down the streets, he found himself growing tense and on edge, as he usually did when walking alone. He analyzed every detail of his surroundings with vigilance, never able to get over how much of an idiot he was for falling for the Grabber’s obvious trap. Why would a man randomly carry a grocery bag outside his van in the middle of the street if they were in a residential area with no stores nearby? He wasn’t even parked in a driveway. And why did Finney act like an idiot and ask about the balloons instead of getting the fuck out of there? Why did he run down the street quietly when he first escaped instead of jumping into backyards and screaming bloody murder?
If he was smarter, then he could have been saved easily. But Finney was an idiot. He had to be, no matter what his test scores said. In fact, if he didn’t get help from the others in that basement, then he probably would have died. He should have died. Robin should have lived.
Those thoughts hung over Finney's head like a raincloud as he entered his home. He made himself a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich and ate it as he mindlessly watched a show on television, attempting to decompress from a very stressful day. After about an hour, the phone in the kitchen rang and Finney made his way over, his spirits lightening.
“Hey, Donna.”
“Who’s Donna?”
At the sound of the voice, Finney froze. No. No, no, no. Not possible. No fucking way.
“W-Who is this?” Finney demanded, heart beating rapidly as he clutched the phone tightly in his grip. It had to be some sicko’s prank, there was no way it could be–
There was a sigh from the other end. “Am I that forgettable? Come on, now. You know who I am, Finney.”
There was no forgetting that voice. Fuck. Finney swallowed. “It can’t be…you. You’re dead.”
“Of course I’m dead.” Goosebumps crept across his skin as he heard the chuckle that had long haunted his nightmares. “That doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you! You know this already.”
Memories of a dingy basement, a black phone, and ghostly whispers raced through Finney’s mind. He tried, unsuccessfully, to steady himself. “There’s nothing for us to talk about.”
He heard another laugh, this time sharper and mocking. “Ohhh, there’s plenty to talk about. Who’s Donna, Finney? Do you have a girlfriend now? Does she know about me?”
Hearing Donna’s name coming out of that man’s lips felt profane. Finney knew he should just hang up, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Was this residual fear of angering him, a feeling that apparently hadn’t gone away in three years? The thought made him sick to his stomach. “It’s over. It’s been over for three years already. Just—just move on.”
“Three years? Huh. It doesn’t feel that way. It feels longer—no, shorter. Or maybe longer…hmmm, I guess I don't really know. Time doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. Weird, right?”
Finney’s hope that the Grabber (yes, it was him, there was no denying it anymore) was burning in Hell for his crimes seemed like a long shot now. “Where are you?”
“It’s like I’m in the world I used to be in, except it’s quieter. Darker. Emptier, I suppose. I think I’m the only one here. But I don’t mind. I get to talk to you now, just like before.”
Hearing those words caused something in Finney to snap. “It’s not like before. It never will be, because you’re dead, and thank God for that. I hate you and I have other things to do besides sitting here talking to a dead guy.”
“Is Donna ‘other things,’ Finney? Who is she?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I don’t want you with her. You should be with me, in the basement.”
“F-Fuck you and your basement!”
“Oh, my.” The playfulness in the Grabber’s tone receded, and his voice dropped into the low growl that used to terrify Finney. “Looks like distance made you cocky. You used to be such a good, sweet boy. But I can fix that. I can help you remember how things are supposed to be.”
I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid anymore. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me. Finney kept repeating those thoughts in his head over and over as if it would make it true. “I hope Robin and Vance and the others kick your ass for the rest of eternity.”
“They’re not here. It’s just me. Well, me and you.”
“I’m not with you.”
“Ha! That’s what you think. So, who’s Donna, Finney? You didn’t answer my question.”
Why is this happening? “I said it was none of your business.”
“Does she make you breakfast? Does she take care of you? Does she do things to you that you like?”
“Shut up!”
“When she touches your neck, does she—”
Finney hung up the phone.
For the next thirty minutes, he sat on a stool in the kitchen, heart pounding in his chest, palms sweating, thoughts swirling as he went over the conversation he had with the man he killed. As much as he wanted to attribute it to some kind of psychotic break, he knew better.
The Grabber was back, and his ghost was haunting Finney.
God fucking damnit.
In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been that surprising. If benevolent ghosts could communicate with Finney, what was stopping malevolent ones from doing the same?
Finney bit his lips as he recalled the ghostly conversations from three years ago. The only people who could hear the black phone in the basement were people with some kind of supernatural sensitivity. The other kidnapped children couldn’t hear it. The only ones who could were Finney and…the Grabber. The Grabber, who was now dead. And if the Grabber was a human with supernatural powers, then it stands to reason that his ghost would have some kind of powers that the other ghosts didn’t have.
I’m screwed.
Finney almost jumped when the kitchen phone rang again. He didn’t answer, instead holding his breath as he waited for the voicemail. After a brief pause from the speaker, Finney allowed himself to breathe again once he heard Donna’s voice, asking when a good time would be for her to call back about the homework.
He couldn’t bring himself to pick up. He didn’t trust how his voice would sound on the phone, and for the first time ever, Finney wished his father didn’t throw out all the alcohol.
Why was this happening now? What could Finney do to make it stop? He felt as terrified and helpless now as he did his very first day in the basement, shivering on that stupid mattress as the Grabber caressed his hair.
He wanted to punch something. He wanted to cry. He wanted to–
“Finney?”
He spun around to see Gwen with her satchel slung over her shoulders, looking at her brother with wide, frightened eyes. “Finney, what’s wrong? Are you–are you okay?”
He wanted to pretend that everything was alright. But it wasn’t, and he owed it to Gwen of all people to tell the truth.
“No,” Finney whispered, and the whole story came pouring out. Gwen listened without interrupting, only stopping near the end to hug him tightly. They stayed like that for a minute, tears of anger and fear finally escaping his eyes. If Gwen felt them land on her head, she had enough tact not to say anything.
When Gwen finally let go, he was surprised to see that her eyes too shined with tears, but they also contained a spark of determination. “You know what? Next time he calls, tell him to bring it.” She closed one hand into a fist and then pounded it into the palm of her other hand. “We’ll kick his ass.”
“How, Gwen? He’s dead. He can’t die twice.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Don’t worry. I have an idea, I just need to pray on it for a bit. I’ll let you know more about it tomorrow. But don’t worry, Finney, it’ll be okay. He’s got both Blake siblings to deal with now. That fucker won’t know what hit him.”
And with that, she rushed up the stairs, leaving her much-less-confident older brother behind. Finney called Donna back, somehow managing to make it through the phone conversation without breaking down, and similarly maintained his composure when his father returned home as well.
Memories of kissing Donna now seemed like they belonged to another person. Another person who was an average, normal sixteen-year old, and not Finney Blake, the kid who talked to ghosts and flinched at sudden movements and couldn't watch Michael Myers trying to kill Laurie Strode without throwing up.
Later that night in bed, Finney felt the hairs on his arm stand straight, unable to shake the eerie, invasive sensation of someone gazing upon him. He clenched the sheets tighter, but didn’t open his eyes. He kept them squeezed shut the whole night, refusing to open them even when hearing a familiar heavy breathing beside him, and especially when feeling a cold, faint touch upon his neck.
I need to get out of here.
****
Notes:
Thank you MaisFlower for the lovely collage at the end of the chapter!
Chapter 2: Two Plans
Notes:
-Just as with the canon material, there will sporadic references to suicide throughout the story. A tag has been added.
-The "Mr. DeMille" line in this chapter is a quote from the movie Sunset Boulevard, which came out 30 years before the events of this story. The movie might not be as well-known today, but it would have been a common part of pop culture awareness at the time, like how if someone today says "Use the Force," we would be able to know that it's a reference to Star Wars.
-Believe it or not, the newspaper article about a man dressed as Spider-Man climbing up the Sears Tower is a true story that happened on Memorial Day in 1981 (This chapter takes place two days later on May 27). Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction!
Chapter Text
“You alright?”
Finney mentally forced himself to look up from his breakfast of toast and bacon (not eggs, never eggs again) and towards his father, who lowered the newspaper he was holding and was studying Finney with furrowed brows. Even Terrence Blake had to be observant enough to notice that something was wrong with his son this morning.
“Yeah. I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all,” Finney mumbled. How is that not obvious? These bags underneath my eyes make me look like a raccoon.
In total, Finney only got about an hour and a half of sleep before his alarm went off. He spent the whole night petrified, hearing the heavy breathing and feeling the faint touches on his neck that made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Although his eyes remained shut, he remained mentally alert and on edge, going through possibilities of what the Grabber might do. The only time he let his guard down was when traces of sunrise peeked through the windows. It was at that time that the spirit of the Grabber seemed to leave him alone, and only then that Finney dared relax enough to let sleep take him. Unfortunately, it was a short-lived respite, and the harsh ringing of his alarm clock jolted him back to reality a short time later.
“Too busy thinking about your girlfriend?” Terrence asked, giving his son a slight smile.
Finney gritted his teeth. Terrence never seemed to give much of a shit about what went on in Finney’s personal life before, but Donna was a topic he was weirdly invested in. It was only recently that Finney was able to piece together why, which should have been obvious in retrospect: Finney’s relationship with Donna was–in Terrence’s mind–proof that he had a normal son. A normal son who wasn’t “turned homo” from his captivity with a pedophile. A normal son he could be proud of. A normal son who never experienced any feelings beyond platonic affection for male classmates.
A normal son who doesn’t exist.
“Yeah,” Finney lied, trying to ignore his warring feelings of resentment and desire for approval.
“Good,” Terrence grunted as he continued to read at the newspaper. “You’re gonna want to hold on to that one, because–” He stopped abruptly, read a section of the paper over, then shook his head, muttering out loud to himself: “Goddamn idiots.”
“What is it?” Finney asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Terrence sighed. “It’s that fucking house. It’s back up for rent again.”
There was no need to ask what “that fucking house” referred to. It could only be 7742 Meadowbrook Lane–the Shaw House, as it was sometimes called. Or, as Finney remembered it, The Basement.
Finney felt himself grow still, as he often did when 7742 Meadowbrook Lane was mentioned, but attempted for a tone of levity. “That’s gotta be a new record. The last family was only in there for, like, what, a week?”
Terrence shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know why they don’t just bulldoze the damn thing. That’s what they did to Gacy’s home. The only people who want to stay in the Shaw House are sick bastards who get their jollies thinking about dead kids, or poor bastards who can’t afford to live anywhere else because the rent is so damn cheap.”
The rent was so damn cheap for a reason; according to the previous tenants, there was something off about the house, many believing it to be haunted. Finney knew from firsthand experience that it certainly used to be, but he also knew that those ghosts experienced peace and moved on once the Grabber died. Was there really another ghost lingering in the Shaw House, or was it all in the tenants’ heads, exaggerated psychological fear due to the morbid history of the house? Finney always assumed it was the latter, but now he wasn't so sure. If it was the Grabber, could he haunt two different spots at once? Maybe he got bored now that the family left and decided to come bother me instead. If it wasn’t for the events of yesterday he would laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought, but for all Finney knew, it might be the truth.
At that moment, Gwen bounded down the hall to the kitchen table. Like Finney, she had bags under her eyes, though the eyes themselves reflected a manic gleam and innate Gwen-like energy that Finney would never be able to replicate, even with coffee. “They can’t bulldoze 7742 because it has some kind of historical significance from before the Shaws moved in. I think it was supposed to be a big gathering place for Theosophy meetings or something like that in the 1920s.” She paused and tapped her chin. “Or maybe one of the leaders was born there? I don’t really remember.”
Finney and Terrence both stared at Gwen blankly. Because she seemed oblivious to the confusion, Finney asked, “What's Theo…whatever you said?”
Gwen shrugged, grabbed a piece of bacon, and began to nibble. “It was some kind of secret society that centered around occult stuff and claimed they knew secrets of the universe and the afterlife and stuff like that.”
“Bunch of grifters, that’s all,” grumbled Terrence.
“I never even heard of that religion before,” Finney said.
“It died out after World War II, so it’s not really that surprising. And Theosophy wasn’t really a religion, it was more like a…a philosophy or movement, I guess. Not really the kind of thing that gets passed down with families. Most people who joined up were wealthy, single people. Academic, ‘elite’ types.”
Weird. While Finney received an admittedly limited view of the home, from what he saw, the layout of the Shaw House didn’t exactly scream “rich people used to live here.” It looked like a regular, if slightly cramped, suburban home.
Terrence rolled his eyes. “A bunch of trust fund babies with no day jobs spending their time naval-gazing. That’s the history our state wants to protect. That’s what they think takes priority in that house.” He shook his head in disgust. “Damn thing should be destroyed,” he muttered again.
Finney wondered if the Grabber knew about the house’s history before he bought it. Well, no, he wouldn’t have been the one to buy it. If the occultists had the house in the ‘20s and the Shaws didn’t move in until the ‘30s, then his parents probably—
Finney frowned and stabbed the bacon with his fork with more force than was required. He hated thinking of the Grabber being an actual person with parents and a childhood, instead of some kind of demon who sprang into existence fully-formed.
Finney felt Gwen’s eyes on him. “During their meetings, they probably talked about the astral plane and spirits. They thought that what we view as ghosts could be one of three things: either astral bodies that linger after a person’s death, a strong feeling imprinted on astral light that becomes visible, or victims of unnatural deaths who are caught between Earth and the afterlife and keep contacting the physical plane.”
Finney didn’t know or care what any of this “astral” nonsense was, but he got the hint: Gwen was prodding to see if Finney wanted to mention the Grabber’s ghost to his father. He hesitated.
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” snorted Terrence as he took a swig of his orange juice. “‘Astro plains’–pffft. I can’t believe grown-ass adults bought into that crap. Goes to show you that you can go to college and still be an idiot.”
Welp, that answers my question. In a way, Finney felt relieved that he didn’t have to make the decision.
Gwen frowned slightly and pressed, “But Daddy, it’s just a fancy way of saying the spirit world. Is it really that weird? I mean, that’s basically how I was able to figure out where the bodies were being kept.”
An uncomfortable silence descended on the table. Terrence had grudgingly accepted that his wife’s ability was real and his children inherited it, but it was never something that was discussed openly. Since the Grabber’s death three years ago, there was never a reason to bring it up again. Finney looked at his father attentively, mentally preparing for the different ways Terrence might react.
“There might be some grains of truth in there,” Terrence said carefully after a few seconds, “but sweetheart, when you’re my age you’d understand…when someone starts to make it a business or some kind of weird cult thing, it’s right to be suspicious. About ninety percent of cults and businesses are just meant to squeeze people out of money, and whoever made the Theowhatsits targeted rich morons for a reason. Usually the best grifters are the ones that wrap bits of truth in their lies. Ghosts might be real maybe two percent of the time, and what you saw was part of that two percent. I guarantee ninety-eight percent are bullshit though.”
Finney was dying to ask how Terrence thought he was in any way qualified to act like both a statistics and ghost expert–or where any of these statistics came from, for that matter– but still had some residual fear of pissing him off and getting his ass beat. Instead, he listened as his father continued: “That thing with the dead kids, well, it’s done. The guy who killed them is dead because your brother’s a fucking badass. It’s all over, and we should be thankful for that and just move on with our lives.”
Gwen looked at Finney expectantly, but Finney said nothing and continued to munch on his toast. Gwen deflated slightly and started to eat breakfast too, then her eyes brightened as she saw the front page of the newspaper and the topic shifted to bewilderment about how a guy dressed as Spider-Man could climb the Sears Tower in Chicago.
Finney didn’t focus on the conversation that much, as he was in deep thought. There was an unspoken rule in the house that anything more than surface-level discussions about the Grabber were off-limits. “It’s over, let’s move on” had been Terrence’s mantra since the day the police found Finney, and neither father nor son seemed keen on changing that.
There were no absolutely discussions between the two of what went down in that house. It was as though Terrence didn’t want to acknowledge it, as if verbalizing what happened would make it more real. At the same time, however, he clearly recognized that it did happen; there’s no way he wouldn’t, especially after Finney’s conversations with the police. Terrence set him up to speak with Dr. Moore after all, despite his disparaging view of psychotherapy and the heavy financial expense. But even when driving Finney to and from therapy, their conversations in the car were always about unrelated topics. The unrestrained feelings that flooded out during his therapy sessions were bottled up immediately the moment Finney left the office.
Finney didn’t know how to feel about that. It was as if it were impossible for “The Grabber’s Sixth Victim” to have the same identity as “Terrence Blake’s son,” even though Finney knew that–objectively speaking–they were one in the same. The thought of actually sitting down and having a frank discussion with his father about what happened made Finney feel sick. Where would he even begin? How would he be able to look his father in the eye afterwards? How would his father be able to look at him? His father would be disgusted with him for sure. Maybe he’d go back to beating him regularly, just like how he did before. No, it was much better to just forget about it and move on.
But then why did it sting so much? Why did it make Finney feel like crap whenever Terrence would go out of his way to avoid talking about the basement? It made Finney feel dirty, like there was something inherently wrong with him.
Whatever, Finney thought as he washed off his plate, waiting for Gwen to get her satchel ready to walk to school, I’ve got bigger problems now.
Once they were outside, Gwen wasted no time, eyes shining with excitement. “All right, I’m going to tell you the plan, but first, I need to know: Did you hear or see anything ghost-related last night?”
Finney thought of the Grabber and the night that seemed to go on endlessly. Trying his best to maintain a neutral tone, he replied, “Yeah, I think his ghost was in the room with me.”
Gwen looked at Finney, eyes wide. Finney knew the question that was running in her mind, but he was not in the mood to answer.
Sensing this, Gwen moved on. “Okay, so this is the plan. We’re going to perform an exorcism.”
Finney tried valiantly to keep a straight face, but was unsuccessful.
“I’m serious!” huffed Gwen. “It’s a good plan. All we need is holy water, a priest, and whatever prayer ritual they do to get rid of the ghost. We already have crosses and protective medallions at home—”
“What ‘protective medallions’?”
“The ones we got for our first communion.”
Finney shook his head in disbelief. “Wow. Well, that guy from The Exorcist must be pretty upset. He wasted all that time doing archeological digs in Iraq to find that ancient demon-repelling medallion, when he really could have just gone to the dollar store and bought a cheap, mass-produced piece of plastic with a dove on it like Mom did.”
Gwen scowled. “The origin doesn’t matter! It’s–it’s all about the intention behind it. It gives the object power.”
“You’re just making that up, and Mom didn’t give them to us to fight off evil spirits! They literally say ‘Happy First Communion’ on the back. You can’t come up with a plan just based on what you see in the movies.”
“The Exorcist was based on a true story!” Gwen protested.
Finney sighed in frustration. “Father O’Brien said that real life isn’t like the movies, remember? Besides, the Grabber’s a ghost, not a demon, so it wouldn’t work.”
“Well, he wears a devil mask, and he does evil things, so, symbolically he could be like a demon, and because of the symbolic connection I think it’ll work. And who’s to say it couldn’t work on ghosts, anyway?”
Finney felt a familiar mix of fondness and exasperation for his sister. “Look, I know you’re trying to help and I appreciate it, but it’s just…well, just think about it. He’s not possessing anyone”—Yet, a dark inner voice whispered to him, and Finney shuddered at the possibility—”and he doesn’t have a body. What’s the priest supposed to be looking at when he does the exorcism? The kitchen phone?” The mental image was ridiculous.
Gwen rubbed her chin in contemplation. “But he’s not just in the phone, right? You said he was with you last night.”
While Finney knew Gwen didn’t mean for it to come out that way, the phrasing made him feel nauseous. “I said I thought he was there. Maybe I’m just going crazy, I dunno.”
“Finney, you’re not crazy. You do raise a good point about the physical form, though. We’ll just have to use something as a stand-in.” Her eyes widened and started to sparkle as an idea came to her. “Oh, I know! We’ll use an Ouija Board to summon the spirit! Then the priest can put the crosses and holy water on the board and then say Sayonara to that assclown.”
This idea was progressing from bad to worse. “A priest isn’t going to want to use an Ouija Board. They say those things are dangerous.”
“This is a special case,” Gwen insisted stubbornly.
Finney rolled his eyes. “Okay, since we’re using Hollywood as the basis of whether or not this plan will be successful, here’s a counterpoint: In The Amityville Horror, the priest tried to help, but the ghost makes him go blind and have a mental breakdown. Nothing the family does works, and the only way they’re able to escape it is to leave the house for good.”
Gwen’s brows furrowed. “Do you think the Grabber’s haunting our house, or do you think…?” Her voice trailed off.
Finney knew what she was going to say. He considered the same possibility. “You think he’s haunting me specifically?” He then dared to voice his fear: “I don’t know. I guess it’s possible.” And if that’s the case, then I really am screwed.
Gwen bit her lip for a moment, then a spark of determination lit her eyes. With gusto, she raised her two middle fingers high in the air and rapidly rotated in a circle. After the first rotation, she did another one. Finney noticed out of the corner of his eyes a man in pajamas picking up the morning newspaper in his driveway, narrowing his eyes at the siblings in suspicion. Finney felt his cheeks heat up. “Gwen, stop it!” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Gwen gave a third rotation, eyes focused and resolute. “Just in case old habits die hard and the Grabber’s still stalking underage kids like a creeper, I want to make it perfectly clear that we hate him and are not to be trifled with.”
Finney started to feel butterflies in his stomach. “Okay, I think he gets it. Come on, we’re going to be late.” Gwen gave a fourth and final rotation, and Finney began to sweat.
If the Grabber really was watching them now, taunting him like this was not a good idea.
Gwen stopped and then said cheerfully, as if nothing happened: “So, we’ll head to St. Luke’s right after school then. Since Donna has play practice, we won’t have to wait.”
Donna. Finney remembered what the Grabber said about her and had an uneasy feeling. Was she in danger? As if reading his thoughts, Gwen asked, “When are you going to tell her about all this?”
“‘When’? I’m not going to say anything.”
Gwen looked offended. “But she’s your girlfriend! You can’t keep secrets this big from her.”
“I’ll sound like an idiot!” Finney cried out in protest. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Oh hey Donna, by the way, I can talk to ghosts and now the ghost of a child predator from my past is haunting me and I think he’s jealous of you.’ Come on.”
Gwen frowned. “If you want to have a good relationship, you need to be open with one another. What if you get married? She’s going to feel betrayed that you hid something this big.”
“Since when are you the expert on romance?” Finney scoffed. Immediately after he said it, he felt bad, especially after seeing Gwen wince slightly. Gwen never had a boyfriend or even a crush before, unless you count the actors she obsessed over on television. Gwen would sometimes confess to him that she felt worried something wasn’t right with her, since all her friends had multiple crushes on classmates by this point, but she never felt that pull to be with someone. Finney told her there’s nothing wrong with not being interested in romance and genuinely meant it, so he felt massively scummy for using her concerns against her now. “Sorry, that was…mean.”
Gwen shrugged it off. “It’s alright. I guess it’s not really any of my business, anyway. I’m just worried for you since I know you really like Donna, and she’s my friend too, so it would be weird and awkward for everyone if it’s a messy breakup.”
“You made a good point about being open,” Finney admitted. “It’s just kind of a weird thing to drop on someone, especially since there’s no solution.”
“‘No solution?’” Gwen echoed in disbelief. “We just spent the last five minutes talking about the solution!”
“Gwen, I’m sorry, but it's not going to work. We’re not going to banish the Grabber’s spirit with plastic medallions from Dollar Tree and an Ouija Board.”
“Well, obviously, the priest is going to have official exorcism stuff. I’m just saying we have those as backup in case he doesn’t.”
“Do you really expect us to go to the church after school, have the priest follow us home, banish the spirit, and have the whole problem solved within a day?” From the look on Gwen’s face, that’s exactly what she expected. Finney stifled a groan. “Even in The Exorcist, it wasn’t that simple.”
“Well, like Father O’Brien said, movies aren’t real life.”
Finney felt like pulling his hair out in frustration. Gwen wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Finney, I don’t want you to stress out over this for another night, and I really think this is our best shot. Jesus helped us against the Grabber before, and the same thing’s gonna happen now.”
Finney had no other options. He didn’t understand why he was being haunted and felt in the pit of his stomach that something bad was going to happen soon. But what else could he do? He didn’t want to imagine another night with that man’s presence near him.
He relented. “Fine, we’ll talk to the priest.”
Gwen literally leaped for joy, and Finney didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was extremely unlikely that the priest would actually agree to do the exorcism.
Which means, knowing his sister, that the Blake siblings will be doing a half-assed exorcism later tonight on their own.
Great…
****
The hours after that seemed like a blur. Finney noticed during homeroom that Matt was absent, causing him to feel a wave of guilt as his mind raced with the implications of what that might mean. If Matt didn’t show up tomorrow, then Finney decided that he would try to go to his house to see if everything was okay.
During lunch, Finney and Donna were granted special permission to use the auditorium stage to test out one of the school’s new Super 8 mm film cameras, which Mr Clarkson–the director of the school play–wanted to use to record the school’s performance of Hamlet. He felt the best way to test it out would be to film one of the lead actors performing some of their lines, which was an opportunity Donna pounced on eagerly. Finney, somehow, got roped into operating the camera, but he wasn’t complaining. He always found himself mesmerized by Donna whenever she was on stage, and the long white dress she was wearing for her costume looked very flattering on her. Donna caught him staring and wagged her eyebrows flirtatiously, causing him to blush.
He coughed. “So, um, if you just move slightly to the left then—yup, that’s it. Perfect. I can get the whole stage from this distance.”
“Do you think we should move the chairs?” Donna asked, looking at the chairs in the background that littered the stage from a previous assembly.
“I think it’s fine to leave them. On the day of the play, there’s going to be props and scenery in the background, so this is a good test to see how detailed they come out.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, fixed her hair slightly, then gave a mischievous wink. “Alright, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
He grinned; Donna always managed to make everything seem fun and easy. “Ready, aaand, action!”
In an instant, Donna transformed into Ophelia and began softly: “O, what a noble mind is here overthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword. The expectancy and rose of the fair state, the glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!”
Despite Donna’s claim that Shakespeare was technically considered Modern English, she might as well have been talking in a foreign language–Finney did not understand Shakespeare at all. She could have been reciting instructions out of some Elizabethan cookbook for all he knew. Still, even though he didn’t understand the words, her tone and movements made the overall feeling of the character clear. There was no denying that she had clear stage presence.
At one point, Donna started to have a coughing fit, so Finney walked over and handed her a water bottle, forgetting to stop the film. She laughed as she took a sip. “Thanks, Finn. Guess this is a sign I need to practice more. Didn’t realize the pressure this could put on my throat.”
“I think you’re doing a great job,” Finney said.
“Haha, well, you’re not exactly an objective opinion, but I appreciate it.” Her smile faded slightly. “Hey, is everything alright with you today?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he lied. He should have realized Donna would notice something was off. Donna studied him for a moment with an expression he couldn’t decipher.
“Okay,” she said. Then, she hesitated before adding, “Listen, we don’t have to keep doing this. I know you had something planned with Danny during lunch and–”
“It’s totally fine, don’t worry about it,” he said quickly. He definitely didn’t want Donna to think that she was the cause of his issues. “He got the new Walkman that just came out and was going to let me and the other guys listen to some cassettes. We could do that anytime. I’d rather be doing this.”
“Alright,” she said, nodding. She looked slightly more upbeat. Once she got on the stage again, things went much more smoothly. She seemed to be more animated, leaning into an imaginary touch, expressions shifting from somber to loving, eyes gleaming with emotion. When she came back down, her smile was dazzling.
“That was really great!” Finney said.
She appeared to be glowing with happiness. “I don’t know what happened, but I felt super energized that time. It was like there was this—I don’t know—this spark was running through me.” She giggled. “I know that sounds corny as hell, but that’s really what it felt like. It was as if I really was Ophelia and felt all her affection and longing. I swear, it was almost like a holy experience—hey, stop laughing!”
Her protest had no power since she too was laughing when she said it. Finney knew what he was getting into when he made the decision to date a theater kid. “Want to keep going?”
Donna nodded eagerly, and they went through the scene two more times, both replicating that same energy. Her face was flushed and she practically skipped out of the auditorium afterwards. Finney returned the camera to Mr. Clarkson, who was thrilled that the recording seemed to go well. He asked Finney if–since he was “so good with technology”—it would be possible for him to check over the film quality in the supply room, since that was one of the few rooms with a working projector. Finney agreed, and Mr. Clarkson wrote him a pass to head to the supply room during his study hall period.
When did everyone start thinking of me as “the tech guy”? Finney thought as he pushed open the door to the supply room. It was small and cluttered, with props and other materials tossed haphazardly around. Finney saw the 8 mm film reel Mr. Clarkson left for him on one of the chairs.
Finney put the reel in the projector and started it up. So far, everything seemed to be in order. Donna was in the center reciting the soliloquy (she looks so nice in that dress), the sound was working at an acceptable volume, picture quality was good, the background seemed to be clear, although…
Finney squinted his eyes. Near a chair in the back there seemed to be some kind of dark spot. A shadow from one of the props, maybe? Finney grabbed a tissue from a nearby tissue box and wiped down the lens of the projector, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The screen flickered and Finney groaned. Great, an issue with the tape. He glanced at the screen and blinked. The dark section of the screen near the chair was bigger this time. the In fact, it looked like there was a person in—
“Hi, Finney.”
Oh, fucking hell…
Sitting in the chair near the back of the stage on the projector screen was the Grabber, slouched in the same posture he was when Finney quietly crept past him all those years ago. He stood up from the chair and walked closer to the screen, standing right next to Donna, who was continuing with her soliloquy, oblivious to the intruder. Now that he was closer, Finney could get a better look at him: he was wearing the expressionless mask he wore the very first time Finney woke up in the basement, and the same outfit from that day too. A chill ran down Finney's spine. He continued to talk directly to Finney from through the screen:
“Listen, I don’t appreciate you cutting me off like that yesterday. I get that you’re mad though. Emotions were high and some things were said that we both regret.” Speak for yourself, jerk. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come on so strong, I don’t know. But let’s put the past in the past, shall we?”
He turned to Donna and began circling around her, looking her up and down. Finney’s fingers clenched into a fist around the tissue. “So, this is the famous Donna, hmm? She’s pretty–I can see why you like her. Reminds me a lot of someone I once liked. My brother’s girl…it was this whole big drama I’m not going to bore you with, but all I’ll say is that I got what I wanted, but it wasn’t worth it in the end. I bet you’re surprised, right? Yeah, I had quite an eventful personal life in my youth. Cast a bit of a wide net when I was younger, and it took a while for me to refine my tastes and find what truly hits the spot.”
Finney twitched involuntarily. The Grabber paused for a few seconds, listening to Donna’s impassioned words. “Wow, I can’t believe they’re still doing the ol’ classics. They did Hamlet when I was a kid, too. I used to go to this school, did you know that? I’m sure they’ll deny it if you ask them, but I’m pretty sure some of the staff would remember me. Anthony Clarkson definitely remembers me. Does Mrs. Jameson still teach math?”
There was another pause that lasted for several seconds while Finney tried to wrap his head around what the hell was happening. The screen flickered again, and the Grabber’s mask was replaced with the frowning one, causing Finney to experience a spike of anxiety. Nothing good ever happened when he was wearing that mask. “Finney, I asked you a question.”
Finney blinked. “Y-you can see me? Now?”
“Of course.” The screen flickered again, and his mask changed to the smiling one, causing Finney’s nerves to drop by a very small margin. “I see you riiiiight there.” He pointed directly at Finney. “We already have one person on this stage giving a soliloquy. I want to have a conversation. That means you need to talk, too.”
Finney’s first impulse was to turn off the projector and flee, but he knew that would be a bad idea, especially if the Grabber was annoyed that he hung up on him the last time. He thought of feeling the Grabber last night, and the terror and memories that accompanied it. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities of what an angry spirit—especially this angry spirit–could do. “Talk about w-what?”
“You can start by answering the question I asked.”
What the fuck was the question? His mind was buzzing with nerves and panic and couldn’t remember. “W-what was the, um, what was the question?"
“Does. Mrs. Jameson. Still. Teach. Math.” He sighed dramatically. “Finney, you really need to be an attentive listener. Are you this scatterbrained around Donna?” His tone suddenly became lighter. “Or maybe you’re feeling shy and nervous because it’s the first time seeing me in a while?”
Fuck you. He swallowed. “Y-yes, Mrs. Jameson still teaches. I have her for algebra.”
“Old broad’s probably ancient by now–a real nice lady, though. Guess she doesn’t want to retire. You know what they say: If you get a job you love, you never work a day in your life. That’s why I became a magician.”
Part-time magician, full-time asshole. “What do you want?”
“I already told you, I just want to talk. It gets lonely here sometimes. I miss you.”
Her throat felt dry. “We have nothing to talk about.”
The Grabber was quiet for a moment, then leaned over to Donna and wrapped his fingers against her throat–not too hard, but enough to cause her to start coughing.
How is this possible?
“Stop it!” Finney shouted.
“I just want to talk, Finney.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll talk,” he said quickly. The Grabber lifted his fingers and Donna laughed as she got her water bottle. “How are you doing that?”
If the Grabber was talking to Finney right now, how could she have the coughing fit earlier in the day?
“It’s like I told you yesterday, this is a weird place. Time and distance get jumbled. At first I thought it was creepy, but it's been making things work out pretty easy, so…” He trailed off and shrugged. “But that’s not really important. Anyway, no offense, but I never took you as the literary type. Do you actually understand anything she’s saying right now?”
Did the Grabber really expect Finney to sit and have a normal conversation with him? Actually, yes. Yes, that’s exactly what he would expect. After his experiences three years ago, he shouldn’t be surprised by this. That man’s mind was twisted like a pretzel.
“Not really,” Finney answered honestly. Don’t piss him off. Just be conversational. The fact that the Grabber’s ghost was clearly able to exert some sort of influence on the physical world had massive implications, and none of them good.
“Her character’s saying wonderful things about a man who rejects her and treats her terribly. She loves him despite how ungrateful he is to her. Can you think of anyone in your life who's going through something similar?"
Finney knew what the Grabber wanted him to say, but wasn’t about to entertain his delusions. “Nope.”
Finney heard the sigh from behind the mask again. “Finney, you need to work on your empathy.”
A trickle of anger was starting to mix with his fear, but he forced it down. The Grabber moved towards Donna again, but this time, he caressed her hair and brushed his fingers lightly against her cheek. She leaned in to the touch, a reflection of the same movement from earlier in the auditorium. “You know, maybe it could apply to her, too. You’re keeping big secrets from her and she'll go wild trying to figure them out, wondering why the one she loves doesn’t trust her. Poor kid. This is one of those ‘life imitating art’ kind of things.” He started to chuckle. “Hopefully she won’t have the same ending as her character!”
The seeds of anger were starting to grow very quickly. He knew this was bait, but it was extremely effective bait. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?” he asked innocently, gently rubbing her shoulders in a way that caused her forlorn expression to bloom into a smile.
“Stop touching her!”
He locked his arms around her shoulders, which could be interpreted as either a hug or a restraint. “I’m starting to like her now. I can always appreciate a thespian. Believe it or not, I have a fondness for drama and the theater. Does that surprise you?”
Finney thought of the seven different mask combinations, the fake fall with the groceries, the white face paint, the elaborate Naughty Boy game, and the Grabber’s general theatrics. “Not at all.”
“Listen, if it makes you jealous, I’ll stop.” He removed his hands and raised them up in a pacifying gesture.
“I’m not jeal—”
A loud creaking sound caused Finney to jump. He spun around to see Danny Perez pushing open the door to the supply room, carrying a big, heavy box of fabrics.
“Hey, Finn, I was told to drop these off here.” He wobbled over to the table and plopped it down with a loud thud. “Jeez, you wouldn’t think from looking at it, but that box actually weighs a ton.”
Finney glanced quickly at the projector screen. The Grabber was inching a bit closer, inspecting the new arrival. Many different thoughts were flying through Finney’s head at once. Danny looked at his friend and seemed a bit startled. “Dude, you alright? You look kinda…frazzled.”
Danny’s eyes drifted to the projector screen and widened.
Oh, shit.
“I can explain,” Finney said quickly, even though he most definitely couldn’t.
Danny turned to him and raised an eyebrow, smiled mischievously. “Hey, man, I’m not judging. When the urge comes, it comes, right? Why do you think I always go to the bathroom during History? It’s Megan Cook, bro. She sits right in front of me. I can’t help it. Wish I had a bigass screen like this in the stall when I’m choking the chicken. Could definitely make things go a lot quicker, y’know?”
Finney realized what Danny was getting at and felt his face start to heat up. “T-that’s not why I’m here!” he sputtered, ignoring the Grabber’s mocking laughter. “I–I’m just checking the film quality.”
“Yeah, okay, ‘film quality.’ Suuuure,” grinned Danny. “Why you holding that tissue, then?”
“Oh Finney,” the Grabber practically purred, “You can take care of whatever you need to. No need to feel uncomfortable around me.”
I hate you. The knowledge that the Grabber was hoping for some sort of reaction was the only thing preventing Finney from taking the video camera and smashing it against the wall. A fire of indignation and fury had been slowly building inside Finney’s heart during the course of the entire conversation, and this last comment added a massive amount of kindling.
“Just cleaning the lens,” Finney muttered through gritted teeth, tossing the tissue forcefully in the trash.
The twinkle in Danny’s eye seemed to dim a bit at Finney’s expression. “I’m just messing, Finn. No worries.”
From the corner of his eye, Finney could see the Grabber whispering something into Donna’s ear, causing Finney’s skin to prickle. What the hell is he saying? Finney took a breath, then said in a tone as even as possible, “You see Donna on the screen? That’s it?”
Danny blinked and shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah?”
“He can’t see or hear me now,” the Grabber said unnecessarily. “No one can. No one except people like us. Special people, you know.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny,” Finney said flatly.
Danny seemed taken aback by the abruptness. “Um, alright…” he said awkwardly and shuffled out. Finney felt guilty, but that feeling was miniscule compared to all the other stronger emotions that were fighting for dominance. Once the door slammed shut, Finney turned back to the projector, only to see that his enemy was now running his fingers down Donna’s arm.
“It gets passed down through families, I think. My mom had it, I have it, my brother had it– though he was usually so coked up he wouldn’t be able to tell–and you and your sister have it.”
“I said stop that!” Finney hissed, watching as the fingers were now running through her hair.
“Why? She likes it. It helps enhance her performance.”
It was at this point that Finney realized that the video of Donna’s soliloquy was somehow playing on a loop. Ughhh. He assumed that once the film got to the end it would stop like usual and the Grabber would be forced to go away, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Whatever unusual ability the Grabber had was affecting the playback of the video. If there was no end in sight, then Finney would have to make one.
“I have to go,” Finney said brusquely. “My teacher’s going to be wondering what’s taking so long.”
The movement of the Grabber’s fingers came to a halt, and after a slight pause, he lifted them. “We still have more time. I don’t want you to go yet.”
It took every fiber of his being to maintain some modicum of self-control. “You said that you didn’t want to get cut off, so I’m telling you now in advance: I need to get back to class.”
“I don’t know why you’re in such a rush to leave me. I’m not a bad guy.”
That was the moment when Finney snapped.
The sheer audacity of that statement wiped away any trace of fear, replacing it with fury and righteous indignation instead. Finney snarled, “You killed five children!”
“They were naughty.”
“And you lied about it.” Now that he was fueled by anger rather than fear, emotions from years ago that were bottled up began to pour out. “You said it was someone else who killed the missing children, but it was you. You said you'd take me home soon. You said you wouldn’t hurt me anymore. You said nothing bad would happen. You said you weren’t going to do anything I wouldn’t like. But the one time I lied, you threw those shitty eggs on the floor–my only meal of the day–to punish me. You’re a liar and a goddamn hypocrite.”
The Grabber cocked his head to the side and paused for a few seconds. “I know it wasn’t exactly the Ritz,” he finally said, “but I put a lot of effort into making you those meals.” Your version of ‘a lot of effort’ amounts to over-salted eggs that were cooked in about ten minutes. Good to know. “It’s true I did sometimes bend the truth slightly, but I had to, otherwise you would have been scared. Sometimes it’s okay for adults to lie, if it’s for a good reason.”
“I should have been scared. You tried to kill me!”
“I only did that after you behaved badly. I wouldn’t have done that if you stayed in the basement like you were supposed to.”
Finney remembered the Grabber in his chair, belt in hand, waiting patiently for his prey to come into his web. The man was a sadist, even if he pretended that he wasn’t. There was no doubt in Finney’s mind that the Grabber would have eventually created some kind of twisted internal justification for torturing and murdering him, regardless of whether or not Finney ever left the basement.
“You know, Finney, I always enjoyed your compliance, but I can’t deny there’s something rather…appealing about seeing you put up a fight. It gives me goosebumps.”
Okay, definitely time to switch topics. “Have you been watching me?” he demanded.
“Come on, now. You know I was. I knew you weren’t sleeping last night. I can always tell, remember?”
Finney clenched his fists. “What about after that?”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t~” he sang playfully.
Finney closed his eyes and took a deep breath to regain his patience. If nothing else, Finney wanted to at least figure out how much the Grabber listened in on.
“You know, my sister and I already came up with a way to get rid of you,” Finney said, putting on a facade of confidence that Gwen’s plan absolutely did not warrant.
“Your sister is rude, Finney.” The projector sputtered and when it resumed, the Grabber was wearing the frowning mask. “I don’t like her. She’s a bad influence and plants these nasty little ideas in your head.”
“Leave Gwen alone.”
“I get that she’s concerned about you, but there’s nothing to fear. I suppose it’s only natural for siblings to worry, though. I was overly protective of my brother too.”
“You split his skull open with an axe!” Finney cried in protest. And slept with his girlfriend, apparently.
“I didn’t want to kill Max, but I had no choice. You made me, remember? I forgive you for it, though. That’s what people do in relationships. They don’t hold past mistakes over the other.”
Jesus Christ… “There is no relationship between us! There never was.”
“There is, Finney, whether you want to admit it or not. Our names are going to be linked forever, like the handcuffs I use in my magic acts. Whenever they hear your name, they’re going to think of me. Whenever they think of me, they’re going to think of you and all the other naughty boys who can’t follow simple directions.”
“You never gave any directions.” This thought had been annoying Finney for three years, and it felt cathartic to finally be able to confront the Grabber about it. “You didn’t actually tell us to stay in the basement–all you did was unlock the door. We didn’t ‘break’ your rule because there was no rule.”
The Grabber waved the thought away. “It was heavily implied.”
“You’re unbelievable. Just say what you want to say: you enjoy mentally and physically causing pain.”
“Some children need guidance, and pain is a necessary part of that. Otherwise, how would they learn?" The screen flickered, and the Grabber's mask was smiling again. "So, yes, I suppose I do ‘enjoy mentally and physically causing pain.’ There, see? I have no problems being honest with myself.”
‘Oh, really? Is that why you hide behind masks?’ That sentence was on the tip of his tongue and he wanted to say it so badly, but even in the clouded haze of his anger, Finney realized that mentioning that–or the Grabber’s paralyzed reaction once the mask was removed–would be pushing his luck far more than he already was.
“So what’s your plan here?” Finney finally asked. “And don’t just say ‘I want to talk to you.’ I know there’s more to this. What’s the end goal?”
“I want you to be with me, in the basement, just like how it used to be.”
Finney felt a cold chill creep through him, despite the heat of his anger. “You’re dead,” he hissed. “I’m alive. A ghost can’t keep a living person locked up.”
“Oh, it’s possible.”
“You won’t be able to touch me,” Finney said bluntly, and the thought gave him strength.
The Grabber finally moved away from Donna (Thank God…) and walked closer to the screen. “Maybe not yet. Not when you’re still in this world. But you won’t be here forever. Everyone needs to leave sometime.”
“You’re going to try to kill me, is that the plan?” Finney asked, trying to sound brave and confident. “Or are you just going to wait until I die of old age?” The thought of being haunted by the Grabber until he died filled him with a vast and overwhelming sense of despair.
“I’m going to do neither of those things. Remember how you chose to run away and leave me? I want you to do the opposite this time. I want you to choose to stay with me.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Finney didn’t understand at first, but then it clicked. He swallowed.
“You want me to k-kill myself?” It felt like his mind was short-circuiting now. “You think after I die I’ll be stuck with you?” Finney’s heart started pounding. “What makes you think I won’t just go to, like, Heaven or something? I don’t see any of the others sticking around. I bet that’s where they are right now. That’s where the good people go.”
The Grabber tilted his head curiously. “But you’re not a good person, Finney. You know what you are. You’re a killer, and killers don’t go to Heaven. Trust me, it takes one to know one.”
“I’m nothing like you! There was a big difference between what I did and what you did.”
“Is there?” The grin of the mask seemed to grow wider, like some twisted Cheshire cat. “Alright, Finney. Now it’s your turn to be honest. Go ahead and say it, then. Tell me that you didn’t enjoy killing me. Tell me that it didn’t make you feel powerful. Tell me that you would have preferred a nonviolent way of escaping. If you say it, I’ll leave you alone for good, Scout’s honor!” The projector flickered again, and the frowning devil mask replaced the smiling one. “But you need to be honest, because you know I don’t like it when people lie.”
Finney opened his mouth to speak, but—
His mouth felt dry. He couldn’t say it.
Because deep down, Finney knew the truth.
When he spoke to the police after being rescued and Father O’Brien a week later, he was told that what he did was self-defense, not murder. He was told he was not to blame, because he did nothing wrong.
But it felt as though it should be wrong, because there was no denying it: In the moment, Finney took pleasure in ending a person’s life. He felt such a rush at killing the man who caused him and Robin so much misery and pain. Instead of being at the Grabber’s mercy, the Grabber was at Finney’s mercy for once, and Finney was determined to show him the same amount of mercy that he showed all the other missing boys.
He was celebrated by his town as a hero for killing the Grabber, which is something he basked in at first, but then it started to feel…off. It started to seem as though it shouldn’t be something for people to squeal and cheer over. There were many nights where Finney would stay up thinking about how the man struggled and gasped for breath as Finney held the phone cord tightly around his neck, how he looked into the Grabber’s dead eyes afterwards, how he felt Max’s blood seep from the Grabber’s shirt onto his own. And in those moments, his confidence wavered, and regret started to creep in.
Despite what Gwen said, the Grabber was not a demon. The Grabber was a man, a man who committed horrific acts, yes, but a man nonetheless. A man who had parents, a sibling, a pet. A man who was killed by a thirteen year old kid who–in the moment of his death–took pleasure in taking the life of a human being.
Was it wrong to enjoy killing him? Was it wrong to feel bad that he enjoyed killing him? Finney had no idea what to feel, or even what he was supposed to feel.
Finney was snapped out of his reverie by the Grabber’s dark chuckle. When he looked back at the screen, the smiling mask returned. “Well, I guess that answers my question. The first kill is always the hardest, but it gets easier, don’t worry.”
Finney took a deep breath. He twists things, that’s what he does. He’s all about sleight of hand and misdirection. “I’m not like you. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get into my head and make me doubt myself. I’m not thirteen anymore. It won’t work.”
“What I’m trying to do is help you, Finney. When you’re with me, you don’t have to worry about grades, jobs, fathers, or girlfriends. I can give you everything you need.”
“Everything except eating utensils, a blanket and pillow, or even a fucking sink. Come off it. I know what your version of ‘caring’ is. In case I haven’t made it perfectly clear, I don’t like you. I never did. No matter what was happening, I never liked you.”
“It hurts me to hear you say that, Finney.”
“I don’t care!” Finney cried out. “Why are you still so obsessed with me? Aren’t I above your age range now?”
“No.”
Finney ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m not going to die for you,” he said hoarsely, and Finney was furious with himself to feel tears from prickling up in his eyes. No matter how much he willed himself to do otherwise, the emotions were just too much to handle. “I’m not. I fought so hard last time for a reason. I want to live. I don’t want to–to—”
“Hey, hey, hey, don’t get upset,” the Grabber said in a softer voice. It was the tone that he used to use to make himself seem unassuming, to “comfort” Finney whenever he saw tears. It made Finney shiver. “I know it’s going to be a challenge, working up the courage to take that big step. It’s going to involve embracing some deeper feelings, which I know is hard for you. You’ll need to make some big life changes to get there, and it won’t happen right away. I don’t expect it to. You’re going to need a lot of guidance, but I’ll be here to give it. I’ll always be here. I’m not leaving you, so don’t worry. We’re in this together.”
Finney took another breath to mentally steady himself. “You’re nuts. If you think your sick plan is going to be easy, you’re so, so wrong.”
Once he said that, he knew it was true, and that hope made the tears finally recede.
“Oh, I know it won’t be. That’s all part of the challenge.” The Grabber paused, then added thoughtfully, “You know, this exorcism sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun. I can't wait to talk to Gwen.”
That sounded…ominous. Goddamnit.
Finney looked at the clock; it really was close to the end of the period now. “Can I go now?” Finney asked emotionlessly.
The Grabber tilted his head, paused for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
Finney didn’t need to be told twice. He turned the projector off and stared at the blank, empty screen in front of him. He sat down on the floor and continued to stare, lost in thought, ignoring the ringing of the bell.
He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel scared. He didn’t feel angry.
He just felt numb.
Chapter 3: Father O'Brien
Chapter Text
“Finney, Gwen! Welcome! I haven’t seen you here in a while.”
Finney smiled and waved in greeting as Father O’Brien finished fastening the last of the banners and gently stepped down from the chair. At St. Luke’s, it was customary for children receiving their first communion to create a handmade, personalized banner, and seeing the inside of the church decorated with dozens of them hit Finney with a wave of nostalgia. It reminded him of a simpler, more innocent time long ago, back when he was seven and his mother was still alive, back before everything in his life went to shit. He remembered her laughing and talking with him as she helped him clumsily cut the fabric in order to make the shapes for his own banner. He remembered five-year old Gwen spilling orange juice on it and Finney and Mom needing to start over again from scratch. He remembered the day of his first communion, when his dad took a bunch of pictures and his mom clapped and he felt like dying right then and there because no one else’s parents are this embarrassing, jeez, just stop!
The “problems” he had when he was seven seemed like such a big deal at the time, but now? Now, Finney would give anything to have them back.
”Hi, Father O’Brien. Wow, this looks really nice!” exclaimed Gwen, mission momentary forgotten as she gazed around at the banners adorning the walls and pews. “Do you remember my banner?”
Gwen’s banner was double the normal size, colored with a mix of mustard yellow and neon orange (“I want mine to stand out!” she said proudly). Whereas Finney always shied away from attention, Gwen thrived in it, which was something he never understood—not seven years ago, and especially not now, after becoming the most famous kid in Colorado.
“Of course. How could I forget?” Father O’Brien laughed, eyes twinkling. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Thinking of their reason for being here shook Finney away from his lighthearted memories of the past, and he felt the overwhelming gloom from earlier cast over him again like a raincloud. On the way to St. Luke’s, Finney told Gwen about how the Grabber was able to communicate with him through the film projector, how the Grabber’s actions in there were able to affect Donna’s emotions hours earlier, and how the Grabber clearly had the power to leave the house since he somehow knew about the exorcism. Gwen admitted that the Grabber not being constrained by time and space was “totally unfair and makes him overpowered,” but still clung on to the exorcism idea despite the Grabber’s ominous warning. She also suggested that they create some kind of secret code to communicate, which Finney said wouldn’t work because he could theoretically listen in on them when they came up with the code, meaning that all attempts at strategy were well and truly fucked. The only real chance of coming out ahead would be to get lucky and somehow bumble their way to success, and luck was something that was in short supply for the Blake family.
One key detail he didn’t tell Gwen was the Grabber’s end goal. He knew that if Gwen knew the Grabber’s plan was to drive Finney to commit suicide, then his sister would freak out and wouldn’t let Finney out her sight for even a second. But there was also another, more uncomfortable reason. That part of the conversation felt weirdly personal and intimate in a way that made his skin crawl–even moreso than the rest—and to talk to Gwen about that would go far past his personal comfort zone. He hated discussing his “relationship” (ughhh) with the Grabber with anyone, even Dr. Moore.
Finney realized at this point that both Gwen and Father O’Brien were staring at him, expecting him to answer the question of why the Blakes decided to stop by the church today. Hell, no. Gwen told him after school that she thought he would have a better chance “selling the idea” to Father O’Brien than she would, and Finney’s stance had not changed since then: This plan was not his idea and he refused to take any responsibility for it. “We came because Gwen had a question to ask you, Father.”
Gwen gave Finney a quick glare before looking at Father O’Brien imploringly. “Father, have you ever seen the first Star Wars movie?”
Finney immediately regretted his decision not to answer the question when asked. Father O’Brien rubbed the scar that ran across his chin in contemplation and tilted his head curiously. “I have. Why do you ask?”
“You know the scene where Princess Leia asks Obi-Wan to help the rebels and says that he’s their only hope? That’s kind of the situation we’re in now. See, there’s this demon that’s making Finney’s life a living hell, and in order to stop him, we need to do an exorcism. And you’re the only priest we know except for the bald guy who does Mass here, like, once a month, but we don’t even know his name and he seems kind of a dick, no offense, so we’d rather have you do it. We were hoping you can bring your exorcism things to our house and banish the demon so we won’t have to worry about him again. If you have something else planned and you can’t do it today, you can just give us the holy water and demon-repelling chant and we can do it ourselves. So we really want your help, but if you can’t actually be there, you can just guide us spiritually and we’ll do most of the real work, just like Luke and Han did in the movie. ”
Finney expected the worst, yet somehow it still managed to exceed his expectations. Father O’Brien opened his mouth then closed it, glance alternating between Gwen, who was staring at him with a hopeful expression, and Finney, who looked as though he was going to die of mortification on the spot. Probably trying to figure out if we’re pranking him. He wished they were.
“Is this about Matty Gallagher?” Father O’Brien finally asked.
“He goes by Matt now,” Finney mumbled, eager to change topics. Shortly after Finney asked to be called Finn in school and the other Matt in their grade moved, Matthew “Matty” Gallagher started going by the name of “Matt,” sticking with it despite Gwen complaining that he was just copying what Finney did.
Father O’Brien looked at Gwen kindly. “As I told you before, Gwen, someone choosing to behave aggressively doesn’t mean they’re possessed by a demon, it just means—”
“It’s not about Matt! We’re talking about—well, he’s not an official demon, exactly, even though he's demon-ish. He’s a ghost of a regular person and he’s not possessing anyone. He was—wait!” Gwen’s eyes lit up as a thought occurred to her. “Father, Finney and I were debating this earlier on our way here—If a ghost was haunting a person, could they hypothetically follow that person into a church, or do they get stuck outside? Finney thinks the ghost can follow us in here, but I think he can’t.”
Father O’Brien blinked, trying to follow the whirlwind that was Gwen Blake’s train of thought. “Hypothetically speaking, I believe—and I fully admit this is far from my area of expertise—but I believe that the house of God is a place for all souls to repent and find peace and God’s grace if they wish to receive it, even if that soul lingers on the earthly plane after death.”
“But this is an evil ghost, not a good one!” she cried out in protest. “He doesn’t feel bad about anything he did. He doesn’t want any of that feel-good crap. All he wants to do is terrorize Finney!”
Father O’Brien’s eyes narrowed slightly at ‘feel-good crap,’ but answered, “If his motives for attempting to enter the church are malicious, then I’m assuming he wouldn’t be allowed in. This is a place of spiritual protection.”
Gwen shot Finney a look of triumph; she was the one who suggested that they use the church as a type of home base to discuss their “secret strategies” against the Grabber, something that Finney already decided would never happen. Bold of you to assume I’ll have the mental fortitude to show my face in this building after today.
“Good,” said Gwen smugly as she rubbed her hands together. “He won’t know what we’re talking about now, so it’ll come as a surprise when we banish his ass to Hell. Oh man, I can’t wait!”
Father O’Brien’s frown grew deeper. “Sending a human soul to Hell is hardly something to take pleasure in.”
“But he’s really evil!” Gwen turned to Finney, eyes wide. “Finney, tell him!”
Finney was rooted to the spot and said nothing, mouth growing dry. Gwen sighed in frustration. “Finney’s being haunted by the Grabber!” Father O’Brien’s eyes locked onto Finney, who looked down at his sneakers, suddenly finding them fascinating. “He heard the Grabber on the phone and saw him earlier today, and worst of all, he felt the Grabber last night in his bedroom!”
“Gwen!” hissed Finney, face flushed with embarrassment. He knew without looking up that Father O’Brien’s eyes grew softer and more sympathetic.
“So as you can see,” Gwen continued briskly, “we’re crunched for time, especially since he could do some kind of weird time/space manipulation. The sooner we banish him, the better.”
There was a very long and uncomfortable pause that seemed to last an eternity. “I know you believe you are being haunted,” Father O’Brien finally said. “However, I fear going straight to an exorcism might be a bit…premature, in this scenario.”
He doesn’t believe me. No surprise there. Gwen came to the same conclusion and folded her arms. “But why?!” she asked angrily. “We told you everything that’s happened!”
Father O’Brien took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his hand. “Gwen, I realize that Hollywood has created a certain…impression of how these sorts of things work, but in reality, the amount of true exorcisms performed is incredibly small. The Church receives many reports of alleged possessions or supernatural activity, but it’s far more likely that there’s an earthly reason for unusual behavior. Most of the time it ends up being an external source–such as a gas leak—that causes irregularities in perception, or it could be an undiagnosed medical condition, or even psychological trauma. Have you seen this ghost, Gwen?”
Gwen deflated slightly and mumbled, “No…”
“I see.”
There was another long pause, the implication thick in the air. Finney knew what the whole situation sounded like from the outside. A small part of him felt compelled to defend himself, but the larger part urged him to stay quiet.
Could he have been hallucinating? Was this all some kind of delayed stress response to what he went through three years ago? His conversations with the ghosts in the basement led to tangible results and information he otherwise couldn’t have known, but there was no evidence of the Grabber communicating with him beyond his own memories.
If they were just delusions inside his mind, would that make things better or worse?
“Finney saw a ghost!” Gwen loyally insisted. “I know he did. It wasn’t a hallucination.”
“I didn’t say it was,” replied Father O’Brien quickly. “But assuming your story is true, and there really is a malevolent spirit, I can’t just…go to your house and banish the spirit tonight. That’s not how it works. The Church takes these things very seriously. There needs to be examinations done by medical professionals and psychologists and—”
“Finney already saw a shrink, and she didn’t say he was crazy.”
Gwen, shut up! “Depending on the spirit, exorcisms can take days, weeks, and sometimes–in very rare cases–even years. The bishop’s approval also needs to be given first. And furthermore, I’m not even a trained exorcist.”
Gwen looked like her whole worldview was shattered. “But you’re a priest!”
“Yes, but not every priest is trained in the art of exorcism. Our diocese does have one certified exorcist, but it’s not me. It’s”—he smiled wryly—”Father Rivera. Or ‘the bald one,’ as you put it.”
“I was just kidding when I said he was a dick. Is he here? Can we talk to him?”
Father O’Brien smiled gently. “I’m afraid he’s off on a mission trip to Guatemala. Finney, did you tell your father about any of this?”
The thought of mentioning any of this to his father made his stomach churn. “Um, no.”
Gwen bit her lip. “Please don’t tell Daddy! He won’t understand.”
Father O’Brien sighed. “A formal exorcism wouldn’t even be able to occur without an adult’s permission. But putting that aside, I think it’s valuable, Finney, for you to tell your father about these experiences so that—”
“Could you at least give us the holy water and instructions and other exorcism stuff so we can do it on our own?” Gwen interrupted impatiently. “If anyone asks where we got it from, we won’t snitch.”
Father O’Brien peered at Gwen from behind his spectacles. “...No. I’m sorry, Gwen.”
“You don’t get it!” Gwen tugged at her pigtails in frustration. “Finney’s been—he was kidnapped and—and—it’s not right! You don’t know what he had to go through, or what it was like to suffer like that. If you did, you would help us!”
Why does she always treat me like I’m made of glass? “Knock it off!” whispered Finney angrily. He was the older brother. He should be overly protective of her, not the other way around. Seeing Gwen act like this made him feel even weaker than he already felt over the course of the past 24 hours.
“I admit I never experienced the horrors Finney endured, especially at such a young age,” Father O’Brien said quietly, “but as you may know, Gwen, I’m no stranger to suffering.”
Gwen had the grace to look embarrassed, and–not for the first time during the conversation–Finney felt like crawling into a hole and staying there forever. It was easy to forget because he rarely mentioned it, but Father O’Brien fought during World War II and was captured by the Japanese army. He was one of the many who were forced into the Bataan Death March, and one of the few survivors. The slight limp and scars were simply a part of Father O’Brien for as long as the Blake siblings knew him, and the fact that he wasn’t born with them was something that often escaped their mind.
In a stronger voice, Father O’Brien continued, “I know from personal experience that the memories don’t just vanish. Sometimes they remain buried inside, only to fester and emerge stronger than ever, even years later, affecting our lives in negative ways. Avoiding the memories—or pretending they don’t exist—makes us more vulnerable to them. Being willing to face them head on is a daunting task, I’m well aware, but ultimately strengthens the soul and prepares it for healing.”
Finney knew this speech was directed at him, but avoided eye contact. The subtleties seemed to be lost on Gwen, who asked the priest, “So you’re definitely not going to help us?”
“I won’t be able to give you the help you want, no.”
Gwen sighed dramatically and adjusted her satchel. “Okay, fine. Could I at least use the bathroom before we head back home?”
Father O’Brien blinked at her sudden, uncharacteristic acquiescence and nodded. “Of course. You remember where it is, right?”
“Yep.” Gwen scurried off, leaving Finney and the priest alone.
“I have no idea what she was talking about,” lied Finney once Gwen was out of sight. “I just told her that I might have—might have–seen a ghost and–and then she made it into this whole big thing. You know how Gwen is. It was probably just my imagination. I said we shouldn’t have come here to bother you with this but she insisted.”
Father O’Brien smiled. “It’s not a bother, Finney. How are you feeling?”
Awful. “I’m fine.”
There was a brief moment of silence before the priest spoke. “You know, Jim Mulligan and I go way back.”
Jim Mulligan was the owner of Frozen Swirls. Finney tried to keep the scowl off his face, but didn’t think he was fully successful. “Yeah?”
“I heard about what happened, and I know that must have been upsetting. But just because that job didn’t work out doesn’t mean none of them will.”
“Did he tell you why he fired me?” Finney put his hands into his pockets and tried to look casual, even though he felt anything but.
“He did, and I know you must feel as though your experiences three years ago will never allow you to live a normal life. But in truth, Finney, there is no such thing as normal. Everyone is dealt a different hand in life and has their own set of burdens and challenges to overcome. While certain paths may be blocked—as they are for everyone—there’s still a great, vast world out there for you to explore, full of opportunity. It’s healthier to focus on the paths open to us rather than the ones that are closed.”
Finney just shrugged. He didn’t feel like there was a vast world out there waiting for him. He felt much like he did in the basement—confined, helpless, and terrified of opening the unlocked door to find what waits on the other side.
“You don’t need to shoulder the burden of your experiences alone, Finney. Sometimes it helps to confide in others. I know you aren’t able to see Dr. Moore any longer, but my door is always open if you would like to talk. You can also speak with the guidance counselor in school, your father—”
Finney couldn’t help but let a sound of scorn escape his lips. There was no way he would ever talk about any of this with his father. No way in hell. “My dad and I don’t really talk about stuff like this.”
Father O’Brien smiled sadly. “He might be more amenable than you think. He’s been to see me recently. Did you know that?”
Finney didn’t, and it came as a surprise. The Blakes used to attend church regularly when Mom was alive, but after she died, their visits slowly tapered off to the point where they only showed up during the holidays. “Why?”
“The way things are in the world right now…he has his own share of burdens and concerns,” the priest said sadly. “That’s all I can say on the matter. If you want to know more, you’d have to ask him yourself.”
Finney barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes; what ‘burdens and concerns’ could Terrence Blake possibly have? That the Broncos would never win the Superbowl?
And where the hell was Gwen? What was taking so long?
Father O’Brien looked at Finney with concern. “Do you have something on your mind? You look a bit...perturbed.”
“U-um,” Finney stammered. “I’m just thinking about” —whether or not Gwen is in danger from an evil ghost— “stuff.”
Father O’Brien tilted his head. “What kind of ‘stuff’?”
Finney mentally fumbled around for something to say as he kept his eyes locked on the door Gwen used to leave. Without giving it much thought, he blurted out the first thing on his mind: “Did you kill a lot of people in the war?”
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Yes, I did,” Father O’Brien said after a short pause.
Finney finally looked away from the door and met Father O’Brien’s gaze. He knew that he shouldn’t ask the follow-up question, but he really needed to know: “How did you feel when you killed those people?”
Father O’Brien sighed, looking–in that moment–much older than he was. “I didn’t feel much of anything, truthfully. In a combat situation, there isn’t much time to reflect. My priority was defending my own life, and the lives of my friends. Violence was so normalized out on the battlefield that it was only after returning to the States that the full gravity of the situation hit me.”
After giving the door another quick glance (stop it, nothing’s going to happen to her) , Finney said hurriedly, “Sorry if it was a rude question to ask. I was just curious…n-not that I’m surprised! Of course you wouldn’t, like, enjoy killing other people. Only psychos do that and you’re not a psycho, so…”
Father O’Brien chuckled, interrupting Finney’s babbling. “Is that what you think?” He gave another wry smile. “Then I’m sorry to ruin your image of me, but I’m afraid that there were several times where I did, in fact, take pleasure in the death of others.”
Finney blinked in surprise. “But I thought you just said you didn’t.”
“Well, the deaths I celebrated weren’t committed by my hand,” Father O’Brien admitted, “but a death is still a death, and these people were—shall we say—very deserving of it, in my opinion at the time.”
“You’re talking about your captors,” Finney said, mentally putting the pieces together as he gave the door another glance. Should he go searching for Gwen? “We read in history class that the leaders in charge of the Bataan Death March were tried for war crimes and executed.”
“Yes. Those were only the higher-ups, though. The grunts–the ones who committed most of the atrocities—were able to slink into the shadows unscathed. The one who did this”—he gestured to his bad leg—”was the same man who mutilated, tortured, and killed two of my best friends. The man’s name was Hoshiro Yamasaki, and he was a real nasty piece of work. As it so happens, I was able to track down what happened to him after the war. In early August of 1945, he was given special permission to visit relatives. Those relatives happened to live in Hiroshima.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Indeed. His death was not one of the quick ones. When I found out the news, I broke out three bottles of champagne. One for me, and one for each of my friends.”
Finney paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out what to say. “Do you still feel that way now?”
Father O’Brien sighed. “No, I don’t. As time went on, I realized that their deaths did not give me the peace I wanted. I still felt lingering bitterness and hatred, and in doing so, these dead men had power over me. I don’t like feeling hatred; it makes life exhausting. So I made the personal–albeit difficult— decision to forgive and move on. My decision did not mean that I accepted or condoned their actions, but it was something that personally helped me let go and stop them from posthumously destroying me from the inside out.” He stopped, then shrugged. “That being said, the way I felt all those years ago was a very human reaction, and I don’t think it was wrong for me, necessarily, to feel that way, especially given the torture perpetrated by those men. While our faith encourages us to forgive, we’re also not expected to be perfect. Everyone has their own road to follow in life.”
It was a lot to take in. Finney felt the sudden impulse to admit to Father O’Brien that he enjoyed killing the Grabber, that he would never—could never—- just ‘forgive and move on,’ and to ask what that says about him and his soul. But before he could, a slightly out-of-breath voice interrupted his thoughts: “Alright, Finney, I’m back. Let’s go.”
Finney let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Thank God. I need to stop being so paranoid. He turned to Gwen, who appeared to look slightly anxious and fidgety. Finney’s trepidation crept back inside him.
Father O’Brien apparently felt something was off too. “Is everything alright, Gwen?”
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just girl problems.”
“Ah, I see.”
Finney, on the other hand, knew it was bullshit. Gwen always made it a big deal and let everyone in the Blake household know when she was having “girl problems,” and that was only two weeks ago. What was going on?
“Bye, Father O’Brien!” Gwen said as she grabbed Finney’s arm and dragged him to the door. Finney waved goodbye as Father O’Brien waved back in confusion, taken aback by the rapid exit.
After the doors shut and the siblings headed back onto the street, Finney shook Gwen off and frowned. “You didn’t have to be so rude in there.”
“He didn’t want to help us,” Gwen said stubbornly, gripping the straps of her satchel tightly.
“Yeah, but ‘You don’t know what it’s like to suffer?’ C’mon…”
Gwen flushed. “I forgot, okay? Anyway, you didn’t ask me what took so long when I went to the bathroom.”
“Okay, what took so long?”
Gwen smiled in a way that Finney didn’t like. “So you know how we’re fighting the Grabber, right? Well, I decided to ‘grab’ something of my own.”
Finney started to get very nervous. “Please don’t tell me you stole from a church.”
“It was for a good reason! God will understand.” Gwen rummaged through her satchel, pulling out her half-empty Poland Spring water bottle. “Ta-da! I put the holy water in this,” she said triumphantly. “I didn’t finish drinking the whole bottle before I put the holy water in, so it’s mixed in with the regular water, but I think it should still work. And I also found this in Father O’Brien’s office.” She took out a crumpled up piece of paper and tossed it to Finney, who was rolling his eyes at his sister in disbelief. He read:
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in memory of Agnes Schumacher, a woman whose warmth, generosity, and honesty will be deeply missed. Agnes has been many things throughout her life: a daughter, a librarian, a sister, a wife, a mother, and a dear friend. While we mourn the loss of Agnes, we also pay tribute and celebrate a life that was well-lived. Born Agnes Mueller, she was the child of German immigrants who came to America with high hopes of ensuring a future of success and happiness for Agnes and her five siblings, hopes that Agnes was able to thoroughly achieve. At the age of twelve, Agnes survived the sinking of the Titanic, and was inspired by the kindness of the passengers of the Carpathia to participate in various volunteer organizations throughout her life, such as the American Red Cross, Denver Human Services, Care International, and the ASPCA. In 1924, she married Rolf Schumacher and later had three children: Clara, Emma, and Leon, who remember their mother as a kind, gentle woman with nerves of steel, willing to push against gender barriers characteristic of the time period. Agnes went on to become a librarian, where she spent the remainder of her life championing the freedom to read without censorship. Agnes’s courage to speak up and take action even in the face of adversity is truly a testament to her strength of character. Life can be quick and fleeting, but a life lived to the fullest remains within our memories, and Agnes’s will certainly live with us for many, many years to come. May Agnes Schumacher find peace and love in God’s embrace and joy of Heaven for all eternity. Amen.
“Who the hell’s Agnes?” Finney asked after reading the paper a second time, trying and failing to find any relevance whatsoever to the Grabber.
Gwen took the paper from Finney and shoved it in her satchel. “She’s a librarian who survived the Titanic, didn’t you read the whole thing? Anyway, that’s not important—the main reason I took it is because this can help us banish our ghost.”
“How?”
“So you know how we’re supposed to read a special banishing ritual? Well, there were so many books in his office and I couldn’t find anything exorcism-related, but then I saw this on his desk and took it. It’s funeral-related, which I figure is the second-best thing since we’re trying to send him off to the next plane of existence. We can use this eulogy as a template, but obviously we’re going to change the Agnes stuff to Grabber stuff. I’ll go over the steps once we get everything set up later, don’t worry.”
There were so many things wrong with this plan, but Finney already figured it was going to be a shitshow and knew there was no dissuading Gwen. “How am I not supposed to worry? We’re making up our own ghost-banishing ritual. Does that not sound dangerous to you?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Oh, and by the way, I was talking to Amy earlier—I didn’t go into specifics, so you don’t have to look at me like that—and she said there are special herbs that could be burned to help dispel negative spirits. Sage is one, but she gave me this whole big list. I figured we could just burn all of them for maximum power, which means we need to stop by the store before we head home and—”
“Gwen, I know you’re going to do it anyway, but I want to reiterate that this is a really bad idea.”
Gwen sighed in frustration and kicked a pebble out of our way. “What other option is there? We can’t go another day with him haunting you.”
That much was true. “Maybe I should just be the one to do it.”
Gwen spun around and looked offended. “Absolutely not! We’re in this together.”
“But remember what he said about you and the exorcism? I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she huffed. Then, a dark smirk crossed her lips. “I can’t wait to talk to him, too.”
Finney felt incredibly uneasy.
Chapter 4: The Exorcism
Notes:
Here it is, the exorcism chapter! I’ve been looking forward to posting this one for a while. I originally wanted the scene at the church to be a part of this chapter to make for an easier side-by-side comparison of the two eulogies, but it would have been too long otherwise and needed to be split up.
I’m relatively new to AO3, but according to the site's FAQ, the “&” in the tags is for platonic relationships whereas “/” is used for romantic and/or sexual ones. Because of the Grabber’s romantic/sexual interest in Finney and discussions of past sexual abuse, I’m adding a relationship tag with “/", but I also included the "&" tag to show Finney is (thankfully) no longer in the compromised position he was in three years ago. If you have any questions, please let me know.
This chapter references some world events (such as the recession of the early 80s) that were occuring around the time period this story takes place in. As a general disclaimer, thoughts/feelings expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect my own, etc.
Chapter Text
Terrence was working the night shift again, so Finney and Gwen had the house to themselves. According to Gwen, there were four steps that needed to be taken before the exorcism could begin, and each one made Finney feel less and less confident with the plan:
First, white candles needed to be lit by the windows of each room in the house for “purifying energy.” Gwen believed that the candles’ power would be able to offset the Grabber’s negative energy and make him more vulnerable to the exorcism.
Second, they had to close all doors and windows. Amy told Gwen that doing this would “confuse the spirit” and lead him to the Ouija Board.
Third, they had to burn the “sacred herbs” in the incense bowls that were strategically placed around the house. The herbs wouldn’t be burned in any of the shut rooms, but would be burned near the board and throughout the hallways that led to the closed rooms.
And finally, they needed to prepare the materials for the exorcism itself. Finney and Gwen already had their medallions on, but Gwen needed the table to be cleared off in order to set up the Ouija Board, holy water, crosses, more candles, and Agnes Schumacher’s eulogy.
Out of all the steps, the only one Finney felt had any shred of merit was step three, and that simply because the smell was so overpowering and stifling that he couldn’t imagine anyone—living or dead—wanting to spend another minute under its oppressive weight. The Blakes bought and burned every single herb on Amy’s list: sage, dill, rosemary, rue, oregano, thyme, cedar, and lavender. What resulted was an odor that proved that these herbs were never meant to be mixed together.
Finney had a genuine fear of what would happen when his father came home; it soon became obvious that the herbs were stinking up the entire house, especially with the windows shut, and he wasn’t confident that it would dissipate before Terrence returned. Finney knew that Terrence was trying—at least—to make amends and be significantly less rough with his children since the events of three years ago. Since he stopped drinking, he was generally able to control his temper better and Finney didn’t feel like he constantly had to walk on eggshells the way he used to.
But, there were times when he would occasionally slip.
It hadn’t happened recently, and those instances were never nearly as bad as they were before Finney’s time in the basement, but they still served as unfortunate reminders of the emotional gap that existed between Terrence Blake and his children, a gaping chasm that may never truly be filled. The one silver lining is that Terrence would never use his belt. The only time he tried it—a few months after Finney’s return home three years ago—Finney’s visceral reaction to seeing the belt alarmed Terrence enough to set him up with Dr. Moore, despite his prior insistence that “Finney’s acting normal, so there’s no need to piss away money on a shrink. Whatever happened to him there is over.”
I guess this’ll test Dad’s commitment, Finney thought gloomily as eyed the table that Gwen tasked him to clean. Gwen’s idea of “clearing the table” meant pick up all the shit that was on it and move it somewhere else, but Finney had a different idea, something that could possibly mitigate his father’s future ire.
Right now, the table was a mess, cluttered with papers, mail, and other random junk. Since Terrence and Gwen never lifted a finger to clean anything, Finney decided that he would go through the garbage on the table and see what could be thrown out and make their home look somewhat presentable.
Grabbing a stack of papers, he flipped through them to see what was valuable and what could be tossed in the trash. Flyer for the Memorial Day neighborhood barbeque? Trash. Electricity bill? Keep. Water bill? Keep. Envelopes from the bank with a whole bunch of cash in them? Keep, but Dad, you can’t just leave them sitting out on the table like this, jeez. Political advertisement for Ronald Rea—Christ, this one’s been on the table since before last year’s election! Trash. Tax form? Keep. Loan denial form—
Finney frowned, looking at the paper again. Loan denial form? Why would Terrence Blake need to take out a loan? And more importantly, why would it be denied? Slightly disconcerted, he put it in the “Keep” pile and continued looking.
Overtime application sheet for work? Keep. Furniture catalog? Not sure why they keep sending this to us—trash. “Save 15% on office supplies” coupon? Trash. Mortgage payment? Keep. Electricity bill? Ke—wait a sec, didn’t I just see this?
Finney opened the bill and noticed that “PAST DUE” was stamped on it in big, blocky letters. Heart sinking, he kept flipping through the papers.
TV Guide? Kee—no wait, that’s from last month. Trash. Flier for the new gym that opened? Trash. Water bill? Finney checked the inside, only to find that this one, too, said “PAST DUE” on it. Goddamnit, keep. Old newspaper? Trash. Last week’s grocery list? Trash. Scribbled list of…what? Finney squinted and tried to make out Terence’s sloppy handwriting. It seemed to be a list of the expenses the Blakes racked up every month, like the mortgage, money spent on food, money spent on gas, bills, and other things. The total amount was…a lot. Was it supposed to be this much? His dad always took care of everything money-related, so Finney was clueless when it came to that area.
Finney looked at the next item in the pile. Bank statement. Keep. But instead of putting it in the pile, Finney opened it with fingers that were trembling slightly. He looked at the date on top: It was recent, mailed last week. He looked at the amount of money in the checking account and felt his stomach drop.
“Gwen!” Finney shouted. His palms were starting to sweat as he glanced at the other pieces of mail. Everything was starting to make sense now.
Gwen fumbled in, giant Ouija Board in hand. She plopped it down with a loud thump and looked at the table with approval.
“Looks good, Finney! Now we just need to—”
“Gwen, I think we’re in trouble.” He saw her opening her mouth and cut her off. “I’m not talking about the Grabber, I’m talking about money. Did you know that we have basically nothing in the bank now? I think Dad took out all the money that was in there and put it on this table. We’re living paycheck-to-paycheck now, and we’re still having problems paying all the bills.”
Gwen’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Daddy didn’t say there were any problems. Are you sure you’re not just doing the math wrong?”
“He didn’t say it, but there were signs,” Finney said, mind racing. “He stopped bringing me to Dr. Moore, we’ve been eating leftovers a lot, he’s been doing a bunch of extra shifts, he was really pissed when I got shitcanned from Frozen Swirls, he’s been saying how college would cost a lot of money…and remember his complaining last year before the election? Maybe all this has been going on for a while, and we just didn’t know.”
It was a sobering thought, and one that–in retrospect–should have been obvious. Whenever his father watched the news, Finney would often overhear television pundits and analysts predicting that within a couple months, the U.S would be experiencing the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression. When they would go over current events in History class, the teacher would talk about how the country was currently in a recession and how it could get substantially worse and affect everyone’s day-to-day life. Finney remembered feeling surprised when his teacher mentioned how manufacturing was one of the fields getting hit the hardest, since his father worked at a manufacturing plant and didn’t seem affected at all. Clearly, that was not the case.
The more Finney thought about it, the more frustrated he became. How could he have been so naive? He was sixteen, not six. He remembered hearing about the revolution in Iran and the oil crisis two years ago that resulted from it. He remembered tuning out his father’s rants of how ‘Carter was fucking up the economy.’ He remembered how he, Gwen, and Terrence would sit crammed in the car, waiting in line to get gas for an hour, and the ridiculously high prices that Terrence would mutter about as he handed the cash to the gas attendant. How could something like that have no economic ramifications?
He knew some kids in school who were struggling; Donna told him that her mom had to get a job in order to help support her and her brother, and Danny’s dad was out of work. The economic situation explained why there were so many ‘poor bastards’—in Terrence’s words—who were willing to live in the Shaw House despite its morbid history. It also might explain why, after so many years, Terrence was willing to step into a church on a day that wasn’t a holiday.
Father O’Brien’s comment about “the way things are in the world” suddenly made more sense. Finney was so focused on his own problems, and had been for years, that he didn’t realize there was a lot more going on—not just with Terrence—but with everyone.
“We’ll talk to Daddy about it tomorrow,” said Gwen, twirling her pigtails nervously as she looked at the bills. “We can’t let that distract us from our mission.”
Finding out about his family’s financial troubles made Finney even less inclined to go through with the ‘mission’ in the first place; it felt very childish compared to the adult problems his father was dealing with, and he felt like an even bigger idiot for spending all that money on herbs. Still, he knew there was no dissuading Gwen. “So how is this going to work, exactly?”
“First, we need to make sure the spirit we’re talking to is actually the Grabber,” Gwen said as she started rummaging through the cabinets to find a tablecloth. “We want to make sure we’re not summoning some random ghost or demon. So we’ll have to ask for proof and—found it!” she exclaimed in triumph as she held up a white tablecloth. “Finney, pick up the Ouija Board so I could put this over the table. Ok, so once we get confirmation, then we’re going to do the demon-repelling ritual.”
“You mean the Agnes thing?” Finney asked as he held the board, watching Gwen warily as she smoothed out the corners of the tablecloth. “What if we summon her spirit by accident since we’re using her eulogy in the ritual?”
“Then maybe her and the Grabber can duke it out,” Gwen giggled, and Finney smiled in spite of himself. “Like I told you, the eulogy is just meant to act as a template, and I’m going to be personalizing it to fit the Grabber. He’s going to get a very—shall we say—special eulogy that helps his spirit move on to the next plane of existence.”
Finney frowned as he placed the Ouija Board on top of the table cloth. “Gwen, seriously, don’t antagonize him.”
Gwen rolled her eyes and started putting some candlesticks around the Ouija Board. “We’re trying to send his ghost to Hell, Finney. He’s going to feel antagonized—there’s no getting around it.”
Finney thought of the Grabber’s description of…wherever he was. The dark, lonely place, where time is meaningless. “He can stay where he is, I don’t even need him to go to Hell,” Finney muttered as he handed Gwen a matchbox. “I just don’t want him”—constantly calling me like some kind of deranged ex-girlfriend—“interfering with the life I’m living right now.”
“You’re not living, not really. You’re just going through the motions. I think you know that, deep down.”
It was a soft whisper, right by Finney’s ear. A whisper of a man’s voice so faint he might have thought it imaginary, if not for the slight, gentle touch on the back of his neck. A caress that was so familiar to him and brought back many different memories. On instinct, Finney spun around, heart pounding.
There was nothing there.
“Finney, did you hear what I said?”
Finney swallowed and turned to Gwen, who was looking at him with a frown on her face. The candles were now fully lit, and the Poland Spring Bottle, crosses, and eulogy were placed right next to the board. Upon seeing his expression, her eyes widened. “Did something happen? Was it the—”
“Everything’s fine,” he lied, heart still feeling as though it would burst out of his ribcage. “W-what did you say?”
“I said, after we do the eulogy, I’m going to dump the bottle of holy water on the Ouija Board, and we’re going to pick up the crosses and shout ‘The power of Christ compels you’ at it just like how the priest did in The Exorcist. After that, he should be gone.”
“Okay. L-let’s just get started,” he muttered as he sat in the chair. Gwen turned off the lightswitch, so the candles were now the only source of the light in the house. Everything was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning in the background. The darkness made everything suddenly seem a lot more foreboding, and Finney had to fend off an impulse to turn the lights on and tell Gwen he wasn’t going to do it.
“Ok, it’s showtime,” said Gwen, rubbing her hands together. She cleared her throat and then said in a low, slow voice, “Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat…call in the spirits, wherever they’re at!”
Finney rolled his eyes. He knew where this was from: the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. When Finney was nine, the Blakes went on a family trip to California, and Gwen insisted on going on the Haunted Mansion ride over and over, while Finney was too scared to go more than once. He remembered how Mom would walk around the park with him, taking pictures and buying him ice cream and laughing.
Normally the thought would comfort him and abate his nerves, but the fondness that usually accompanied memories of his mother wasn’t there now for some reason.
Instead, he felt…annoyed.
Annoyed at Mom. It was an unusual feeling. But in this moment, he felt angry towards his mother, for taking her own life and leaving her children behind. For leaving him behind. For not helping when he was suffering in that basement. For having the gall to ‘at peace’ even though she left her family behind to suffer for years.
Does she not know what I’m going through, or does she just not care?
“Rap on a table—it’s time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere beyond!”
Finney was immediately snapped out of his reverie and jerked his hand off of the table; he felt a throbbing sensation across his knuckles, as if someone knocked on them.
“I, uh, I think he’s here,” Finney muttered, rubbing the back of his hand. This is such a bad idea.
Gwen’s eyes gleamed. “That’s good!”—No it’s not—”We just need to confirm it. Since we have Agnes’s eulogy in the circle, there might be cross-spirit contamination.”
Finney was very familiar with the feeling of the rings, how they felt pressed against his skin. “It’s not Agnes, alright?” he hissed.
“We still need to confirm it, otherwise we might have two pissed-off ghosts to deal with. Finney, put your hand on the planchette.”
“What the hell’s a planchette?”
“It’s that heart-shaped thing that shows us what the spirit’s saying. It’s what my fingers are on right now.” Finney put his fingers on the planchette and swallowed. This is a terrible, terrible idea. “Spirit, is your name Agnes Schumacher?”
After a brief pause, the planchette slowly began to move underneath their fingers. Gwen’s face broke into a grin as the planchette moved to the upper-right corner of the board, which said: NO.
Finney’s heart race started to pick up again, even though he knew for a while now that the Grabber was already there. Gwen eagerly asked, “Spirit, is your name Albert Shaw?”
Albert Shaw, the Grabber’s “real” name. Finney first heard the name in the news after escaping the basement. He didn’t like to think of the name. He didn’t like to think of anything that made the devil seem human.
The siblings waited, but the planchette didn’t move. Gwen started frowning, but Finney knew why nothing happened. The Grabber wore his masks for a reason, after all.
“Spirit, are you the Grabber?” Finey asked flatly, even though he knew the answer. As expected, the planchette moved from the right to the left of the board: YES.
“Holy shit,” mumbled Gwen, smiling. Even though Gwen put her heart and soul into setting up this exorcism, Finney privately suspected that she had doubts that it would actually work. She then spoke louder: “Alright, Spirit, prove it. Prove that you really are the Grabber.”
Finney tensed up; there were so many ways this could go wrong, so many things the Grabber could do or say. But Finney didn’t feel any touches on his arms, thighs, neck, or stomach. He didn’t see the planchette move.
What he did hear was the television, which turned on from the next room over, despite neither of the Blakes being anywhere near the remote. Finney and Gwen craned their heads to see the news anchor on the television saying, “—three years since the Grabber’s reign of terror ended and the mothers and fathers of North Denver could sleep soundly. However, at a press conference earlier today, Chief of Police Arnold Walker says that the story may be far from over.”
The screen cut to Chief Walker, who was talking in front of several flashing cameras. “—while the only bodies discovered in 7741 Meadowbrook Lane are those of the five missing boys, our department is working tirelessly with neighboring precincts in order to determine whether or not Albert Shaw could be considered a person of interest in several unsolved cases within the past few decades. Among those we are at liberty to divulge currently are the disappearances of Eva Fischer, Walter Kaminski, Robert Huang, and Thomas Murphy, as well as the deaths of Ruth Evans, Anna Lavigne, and Gabriel Lopez. If anyone has any information about these individuals or the circumstances of their deaths or disappearances, please contact your local police department immediately. Furthermore, our district is reevaluating certain cases that were initially ruled as accidental or attributed to other causes, such as the deaths of Salvatore Bernardi and Cynthia Sh—”
The television turned off as suddenly as it turned on, leaving the rest of the house in silence.
“Did you kill any of those people?” Gwen demanded. The planchette remained motionless.
“Is there, um, a reason why you’re using the board and not talking to us directly through the TV or phone?” Finney asked. The planchette moved to YES. He swallowed. “What’s the reason?”
Now, there was only silence: the planchette didn’t move. “Okay, well, even though he’s not answering all the questions, he’s obviously here,” Finney muttered nervously. He wondered if the Grabber would be able to feel the sweat that was dripping from his hands onto the planchette. “Let’s start the ritual.”
“Before we do that, I’ve got some more questions first,” said Gwen, eyes flashing with determination.
Finney did not like the sound of that. “Gwen, I really don’t think we—”
“First off, fuck you and your ugly-ass van.” Goddamnit, Gwen. “Second, why are you—”
Both Finney and Gwen jumped and put their hands over their ears as the loud, screeching sound of the smoke detector echoed throughout the halls. Finney stood up, but Gwen grabbed his arm. “We’re not supposed to leave the board once the exorcism begins!” she shouted over the sound of the alarm.
Finney ignored her and pulled away, following the sound to Gwen’s room. Upon opening the door, nothing looked out of the ordinary, besides the candles that were propped up on the windowsill. Though it was hard to tell with the burning sage and other scents, Finney didn’t think he smelled any smoke. He didn’t see any fire. Finney grabbed a chair and hastily moved the stuffed bear that was sitting on it next to the candles on the windowsill. He stood on the chair, reaching up to press the off button on the smoke detector. Nothing happened. Irritated, he took out the batteries, and the house was finally quiet again.
He returned to the table to find Gwen, who was standing up and looking at him in concern. Finney explained to her about how the smoke detector wouldn’t turn off without removing the batteries, and Gwen glared at the planchette in an accusatory way. “Gee, I wonder who could have done that?”
The planchette sat on the board, innocently immobile.
“Gwen, I told you—stop antagonizing him. Let’s just do this exorcism and get on with our lives.”
One thing that nagged at Finney’s mind was the fact that it stopped making noise once the batteries were removed. He was able to hear the ghosts through the black phone, even though the cord was cut. If the Grabber wanted the alarm to keep going, then theoretically, he could.
So, why didn’t he?
Feeling a bit uneasy, Finney sat back in his chair and the Blakes put their hands on the planchette again, Gwen glowering. “So before we were rudely interrupted, I said I had some questions. I want to know, why are—wait, Finney. Did you close the door to my room after you left it?”
Finney tried to remember. “Um, I don’t think so.”
“Quick! You need to go back and close it!”
Sighing, Finney grudgingly walked back to the door and shut it tightly to ‘confuse the spirit’ before heading back to the table, where Gwen was peering down at the planchette with a frown. Finney put his hands on it too while Gwen asked her question: “So what I was going to say is, why are you here and how did you come back?”
There was a long pause and Finney thought the Grabber wouldn’t answer. Then, he felt the planchette move beneath their fingers, pointing at the different letters: F-I-N-N-E-Y.
“You didn’t answer my other question, shit-for-brains.”
Another extremely loud screeching sound echoed throughout the house. “For fuck’s sake, Gwen!” Finney yelled over the alarm as he followed the sound down the hall again. “I told you to stop!” This time, the sound was coming from his room. As with before, the smoke detector would only stop screeching after taking out the batteries.
When Finney returned back to the table, Gwen was scowling in her seat, arms crossed. “Finney, you might as well just take the batteries out of all the other smoke detectors in the house while you’re at it, otherwise we’re going to be here for a while. I’m going to stay here and make sure he doesn’t try anything.”
Finney rolled his eyes but continued the pointless task of removing batteries from the smoke detectors that could go off anyway if the Grabber wanted them to. After he finished with the last one, he coughed and waved his hand in front of him; the smell in the house was very strong.
“I don’t think we really need all these plants burning, do we? I mean—-”
He stopped; very faintly, he heard music, an old-timey melody that he could have sworn he heard before. As he continued to walk down the hallway, the music grew louder and he also heard his sister’s forceful voice mixed in with the melodic tones. As he rounded the corner, he saw Gwen hunched over the Ouija Board, hand on the planchette, venomous expression on her face and in deep conversation. The music was coming from a nearby radio.
“—-before it was just you and Finney, but now you have me to deal with, and you have no idea what I’m capable of.”
The TV sparked back to life, except instead of the news channel, it was in the middle of the laugh track from a rerun of Happy Days. Although it was hard to hear over the song playing on the radio, It seemed to last a bit longer than usual, and Finney realized that the laugh track was looping the same way Donna’s performance did when Finney was watching the projector in school. He felt goosebumps creep over him again.
“Laugh all you want,” she hissed. “but you were the one who just said—”
“Gwen?”
His sister jumped and quickly spun around to look at Finney, who took an instinctive step backwards. Gwen did not look okay. She looked rattled, which was an expression that looked very out-of-place on her and caused Finney’s protective instincts to go into overdrive.
“Gwen, are you all right?”
“Yup,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything’s fine.”
Yeah, like I was ‘fine’ when Father O’Brien asked me…Finney sat down hesitantly, the only sounds being the television and the radio. The laugh track on the TV felt very harsh and jarring and clashed with the soft, melodic tones of the singer crooning, “You made me love you.~ I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to do it. ~You made me want you~”
”If you’re fine, then why’s this creepy-ass song playing on the radio?” Finney asked, leaning back in his seat.
“Oh, you think it’s creepy?” she echoed pointedly, voice slightly louder than normal as she glared at the TV. “Not surprising, Finney, considering you actually have good taste in things. Like, for example, your girlfriend, Donna.”
Finney started to get nervous. What happened when he was away? “Well, I really like the melody, but—”
Gwen kicked him swiftly from under the table. The grating laughter from the television got much louder, and Finney could barely make out the rest of the singer's lyrics: “You made me happy sometimes, you made me glad.~ But there were times, dear, you made me feel so bad~”
Oh fuck, this better not be some “romantic” song directed at me. Finney’s hands started to feel clammy. “Why is this song playing?” Gwen shrugged in a sulky manner, still looking at the television. Finney decided to change tactics and be more direct. “Gwen, you shouldn’t be talking to him without me. What did he say?”
Gwen’s eyes drifted from the television to Finney, a guilty expression on her face. “I know. I messed up…”
Finney’s heart started racing. “What did he say?” he repeated.
The old spark was starting to come back into Gwen’s eyes. “Just a bunch of lies,” she shrugged. “Let’s keep going.”
Finney hesitated for a moment, then put his hands on the planchette. Immediately after he did, the planchette moved beneath the Blakes’ fingers, spelling out: N-O-T L-I-E-S
“Gwen, what the fuck did he say?” Finney whispered, watching his sister’s face grow red with anger.
Gwen’s fingers tightened over the planchette. “I told you: just lies! He’s pretending that they’re not, but they are.”
The planchette moved beneath their fingers, spelling out, again: N-O-T L-I-E-S
Gwen looked up at Finney, as if expecting him to say something. When he didn’t and just continued to look confused, she snarled at the board. “Yes, they are!”
The TV screen flickered and the station changed, showing the Captain grumbling to Luke Jackson, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”
Gwen looked like she was about to lose her shit and throw the board at the TV, and it finally dawned on Finney what the Grabber’s “reason” was for was refusing to communicate directly. He wanted to fuck around with Gwen, and knew this would be the most effective way to do so. He wanted Finney’s sister to lose her cool, to feel insignificant, as though she were some kind of gnat buzzing around his head, not worthy of serious consideration. He was a cat toying with his prey, and Gwen was the mouse, even if she didn’t realize it. Everything’s always some kind of game with him. It was incredibly disconcerting to Finney that the Grabber somehow figured out how to push Gwen’s buttons so effectively without ever meeting her before.
“Gwen,” Finney interrupted. He was surprised at how calm and assertive his voice sounded, given the circumstances.“The Grabber’s trying to rile you up on purpose. You can’t let him get to you. Right now, you’re doing what he wants. You’re getting distracted from the exorcism, which is the whole reason we’re here in the first place.” Finney didn’t think the exorcism would actually work—or that the Grabber believed it would—but kept that part to himself. “Like I said before, it’s a bad idea to antagonize him. Let’s just try to act…professional, okay?”
Finney and Gwen were both startled when the planchette suddenly moved, spelling out, letter-by-letter: G-O-O-D B-O-Y
Finney’s eye twitched while his sister remained silent.
Gwen’s fingers curled, and when Finney glanced up to look at her, he was taken aback to see her eyes filled with tears as she glared at the planchette. “You ruined our lives,” she whispered, voice trembling with the weight of emotions long bottled up. “Not just us, but the Yamadas, and the Arellanos, and all the other families you tore apart. These are real children with real families, not just toys for your dick!” Tears were now flowing freely down her cheeks. “You raped my brother, you sick fuck. You starved him and beat him and tried to fucking kill him. And what’s worse, you don’t even care. I don’t even know if you could care with that psychopath brain of yours. After everything you did to him, after everything you put him through, why do you think he’d ever want anything to do with you?”
For about five seconds, there was complete silence. Finney felt a lot of conflicting emotions battling for dominance inside him, but before he could make heads or tails of it or figure out what to say, the TV turned on again, with Jenny Cavilleri sitting mournfully on the front porch, telling Oliver through her tears, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Gwen stood up. Finney quickly reached out and grabbed her hand, shaking his head. After a moment, Gwen slowly descended back into her seat, eyes bloodshot and full of unbridled hatred. Finney, on the other hand, just felt tired and empty. “Gwen, don’t bother. Let’s just do the ritual.”
Gwen nodded slowly and lifted Agnes’ eulogy with trembling fingers from the table. He remembered how it began: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in memory of Agnes Schumacher, a woman whose warmth, generosity, and honesty will be deeply missed… Gwen said she would use the content and format of Agnes’s entire eulogy as a “template”—what exactly was she going to be saying?
Finney could tell Gwen was still furious, but instead of the explosive outbursts displayed earlier, the rage had simmered into a cold, controlled flame, but no less powerful. She began the eulogy by speaking in a calm, even tone. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in memory of Albert Shaw, a man whose cruelty, selfishness, and self-delusion will not be missed.”
Oh fucking hell.
“Albert has been many things throughout his life: a Grabber, a shitty magician, a shittier brother, a rapist, a murderer, and a hated enemy.”
A thick silence had descended upon the house, and Finney vaguely noticed that the air conditioning stopped running and both the television and radio had turned off. “Gwen, maybe, uh, I should take over—”
Gwen continued, eyes blazing, “While we celebrate the loss of Albert, we also laugh and mock a life that was poorly-lived.”
The lights overhead began to flicker, and Finney began to hear swishing and sloshing of the dishwasher starting up.
“Albert was the child of two people who, presumably, had high hopes of ensuring a future of success and happiness for Albert and his brother, hopes that Albert was absolutely not able to achieve, especially since he killed their other son.”
Finney jumped slightly as he heard a sudden banging sound that seemed to traverse throughout the house from inside the walls. He soon realized the sound must have been coming from the pipes, a belief reinforced once he heard the sound of water spraying out of various facets in the house. Finney could hear the shower turn on, and from the flickers of light, he could see from outside the window that water was running through the hose.
If anything, the Grabber’s reaction galvanized Gwen even more as she continued, “At the age of forty-something, he decides to kidnap a twelve-year old boy named Griffin Stagg to get his rocks off, and was inspired by the horrific suffering of this child to go out and kidnap, torture, and kill various other kids throughout his life, such as Billy Showalter, Vance Hopper, Bruce Yamada, Robin Arellano, and Finney Blake.”
Finney heard the whirring whine of the blender and beeping of the microwave from the nearby kitchen. “Gwen, I think—”
She ignored him and plowed on. “In 1978 he wasn’t married, thankfully, and had no children, which is a good thing because he’d probably torture, rape, and maybe even kill them too—.”
It was at this point that all hell broke loose.
In an instant, everything in the house that could be turned on was, and at the maximum power possible. From outside, Finney could hear the sounds of the lawnmower and sprinklers. On the inside, all the lights in the house were fully lit, the television and radio were both on the highest volume possible, and the fans were spinning rapidly. Finney heard the faint buzz of the razor from the bathroom, and heard the oven turn on. He heard the sounds of the trash compactor, mixer, toaster, coffee maker, vacuum cleaner. Washing machine, dryer, electric drills—every appliance seemed to be active now. “GWEN!”
Gwen, on the other hand, remained serenely rooted to the spot, the only sign of discomfort being how she was saying the eulogy at a louder volume. “—and they would remember their father as a sadistic, violent man with nerves of batshit crazy, willing to push against morals and ethics characteristic of the time period.”
Finney went to the kitchen, and as he got closer, he could faintly discern— through the hazy smog of the incense—that there was gas coming from the stove. In order to get air flow, he tried to open the window in the kitchen, but to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. The cabinets and drawers were now banging and rattling, and glasses perched along the sink started shattering impulsively. “Gwen! You need to stop!”
“Albert went on to get killed by a thirteen-year old, where he spent the remainder of his corpse-y existence as a cautionary tale that warns people not to fuck with the Blakes.”
As Finney carefully tried to avoid the glass pieces, he looked up as he heard banging sounds from doors of the rooms being swung open and shut.
“Albert’s cowardice of hiding behind masks and denying any kind of responsibility for all the pain he inflicted is truly a testament to his weakness of character.”
The pipes burst, and Finney soon found himself—and anything else nearby a faucet—drenched in water that was spraying out from the nearby pipes. “Gwen, seriously, shut up!”
“Life can be quick and fleeting, but a life lived to the fullest remains within our memories, so Albert’s will be forgotten very, very quickly.”
Vases, photo frames, and paintings trembled and came crashing down the floor. The house now looked like it was experiencing an earthquake.
“May Albert Shaw find pain and suffering by getting fucked in the ass by Satan and burning in Hell for all eternity. Amen."
And then, everything stopped.
That’s it, Finney thought miserably as Gwen unscrewed the cap of the Poland Spring bottle. We’re going to fucking die. Whether it would be at the hands of the Grabber or Terrence Blake, Finney wasn't sure.
Finney assumed the power went out; it was pitch black, with the only source of light being the candles that illuminated the Ouija Board. Aside from Gwen’s movements, the house was dead silent. The cacophony of noises from the appliances had ceased, and the water stopped flowing. Finney could no longer hear the low hum of the air conditioning. The candles showed that the doors to the rooms were closed again. Aside from the remnant of the gas smell—which mixed with the burning herbs to create a truly potent, horrific mix—and the broken shards and debris on the floor, the overall atmosphere of the table felt similar to the quiet that permeated the seance when they first began.
“Are you happy now, Gwen?” Finney demanded as he held up the candle to assess the damage. “I told you to stop! Now our house is ruined and Dad’s going to kill us.”
“Hell yes I am,” Gwen said as she dumped the bottle of water over the Ouija Board, which splashed and pooled outward. The board was covered in water, but so was the tablecloth around it. Since the holy water was mixed with the regular water, Finney wasn’t sure how much of the holy water—if anything—landed on the board. “That eulogy was fucking amazing. And Finney, if our house has to get wrecked for this motherfucker to leave you alone, then it’s worth it. I don't see him anywhere now, do you? I think it’s working.”
Where was the Grabber? There was a tiny small hope inside him that the exorcism might have worked, but he didn’t think he would be that lucky. “What’s next?”
“Now, the final step,” Gwen whispered. She held up a cross and gave another one to Finney. “We have to chant ‘The power of Christ compels you.’”
“How many times?” Finney asked warily, eying the brown cross in his hand.
“I dunno, in the movie they just kept going until the demon left.”
“But we don’t have a possessed body to look at. All we have is the board, and he’s not doing anything right now, so how are we supposed to know if he’s gone?”
Gwen shrugged. “Father O’Brien said it could take a long time. I say we just keep going until Daddy comes home.”
“Keep going unti—no. No, fuck no. Have you seen what the damage is? We need hours to clean, at least.”
“Okay, so we’ll do the chant for….three hours, maybe? That should give us enough time to banish this fucker for good and clean before Daddy gets back.” She took a breath, then held up her cross and began the chant: “The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ comp—come on, Finney, I can’t do it all by myself!”
“The power of Christ compels you.” He felt like such an idiot for doing this. “The power of Christ compels you. The power of—-”
“Oh, fuck!” Gwen cursed, pulling her pigtails in anger.
“What’s wrong?” Finney asked, alarmed.
“Shit, I knew I was forgetting something. In the movie, I think they spray the holy water while they’re doing the chant. That’s how Regan gets those cuts on her leg. Goddamnit, we messed up.”
“We messed up long before this, so I don’t know why it’s now suddenly a big deal,” Finney snapped. The amount of stress and anxiety he’d been experiencing over the course of the whole day was exacerbated by the last five minutes and was rapidly approaching a breaking point.
Gwen seemed to be at the limit of her patience too. “Well, excuse me for trying to make this exorcism as close to reality as possible!”
Finney wanted to respond that it was as close to the movies as possible, but just barely was able to restrain himself. Tempers were extremely short for both Blakes right now, it seemed. “Whatever, let’s just keep going. You said it’s all about intent, right?”
Gwen nodded grudgingly and held up her cross again, and the siblings chanted in unison: “The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you.”
Then, the kitchen phone rang.
“The power of Christ comp—-Ignore it, Finney—-The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you. Finney, don’t stop the chant!”
But he did stop, since the phone didn’t. Suddenly, he felt very exhausted and defeated. “That’s the Grabber. He’s just going to keep ringing it until someone picks up.”
“The power of—so what? He’s trying to distract us. He knows we’re on the final step! Keep going!”
Finney sighed and followed Gwen’s instructions, trying his best to ignore the discordant sounds of the phone that plagued them as they continued to do their repetitive chant for what seemed like several hours.
It was difficult. Not just because the task was extremely monotonous, but also because every ring of the phone reminded him more and more of his time in the basement, which caused him to feel extremely agitated and on edge.
Eventually, Finney became mentally fatigued enough that he needed to ask: “The power of Christ compels you—-Gwen, are we at the halfway point yet?—The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you.”
Gwen put her hand closer to the candle so she could see her watch. Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing. “The power of Christ compels you. The power of Christ compels you—-We’ve only been doing this for twelve minutes—The power of Chr—”
“What the fuck?!” exclaimed Finney, aghast. “There’s no way this has only been twelve minutes. Gwen, I’m not doing this anymore. It’s not working, and I feel ridiculous.”
“—compels you. Finney, no, you can’t stop now! If he wanted to talk to us, then he could just use the radio or TV. He’s using the phone because he’s getting weaker and needs one of us to pick up and give the spirit entrance into our world.”
“No, he’s using the phone because it’s either a nostalgia thing or a power play thing that’s meant to show he can get one of us to cave in. Either way, he’s obviously here and ignoring him is a bad idea, especially since he’s pissed off because someone made a big speech about how much he sucks.”
“Who cares how he feels? The ritual needs—”
Finney was now at his breaking point. “I don’t give a fuck about this dumb ritual, Gwen!” Every ring of that stupid phone felt like a hole being drilled into his skull, again and again and again. He couldn’t take it anymore. “I never did. This was never going to work, alright? I appreciate you trying, but it’s just not. I’m picking up the phone, then we’re going to put all this shit away and try to make this house look somewhat decent for when Dad comes back.”
“Finney, I know you’re scared now, but you don’t have to keep giving in to him all the time—”
Even if it wasn’t her intention, her words felt extremely condescending, and Finney bristled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“N-nothing,” Gwen mumbled.
“Of course I’m scared. It would be stupid not to be. He’s not haunting you, he’s haunting me, and you have no idea what that’s like. You don’t know what he’s like. Did it ever occur to you that I know more about him than you do? And did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, my feelings about the exorcism should have taken priority over yours?”
From the candlelight, he could see Gwen looked as if she’d just been slapped. Ignoring the twinge of guilt, he stalked over to the kitchen and picked up the damn phone.
“Put Gwen on, Finney.”
Finally took a deep breath. “Okay, I know you’re angry, but—”
The sudden, sputtering static sound of the radio tuning cut through the silence in the house like a knife. “Gwen, I get it. I know why you’re trying so hard,” the Grabber said, now speaking through the radio. The volume went to as high as it can go, causing his lilting tone to echo throughout the house. “See, there’s this thing called overcompensation. It’s when someone tries to go overboard in one area in order to make up for shortcomings in another.”
“Like someone going after kids because they can’t find anyone their own age willing to do it with them?” Gwen shot back angrily.
The Grabber laughed over the radio. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, missy. You and your assumptions—Jesus. Here’s a better comparison: it’s like someone who gets visions of a serial killer and their brother being held captive by that serial killer, and then doing absolutely nothing about it. And then, years later, that person acts like they’re hot shit in order to make up for not doing real shit all those years ago. That’s overcompensation.”
“Hey, knock it off! Gwen helped plenty!” defended Finney. He couldn’t make out Gwen’s expression in the dark. “She found where you were keeping the bodies and gave closure to the parents of the missing boys.”
“Yeah, after you escaped from me, I’m sure the police wouldn’t have thought of investigating the other fucking house I owned. C’mon, Finney. I know it’s your sister, but still…c’mon. She did nothing. You can admit it. She knows it, too.”
“You’re wrong!” Finney hissed, fists clenched. Gwen remained silent.
“Really, Gwen, you did nothing except give me more time with Finney. But maybe you knew that. Maybe that’s what you wanted, hmm? After all, you were quite the little voyeur, weren’t you? Didn’t you see me with him? Didn’t you see that he liked it? When he was with me, he never fought once.”
Finney felt numb and nauseous as he tightened his grip on the phone. “Finney, that’s not true!” Gwen frantically insisted. “ I–I saw a couple of weird things, but nothing R-rated! Nothing really bad. He’s just trying to get into your head, like he did with mine!”
Finney turned his back to Gwen and whispered in the phone quietly enough so Gwen wouldn’t be able to hear: “I never fought because I was scared. I was thirteen.”
How many times had he talked about this with Dr. Moore? And how many times had she told him it was okay, that his reaction was natural? And how many times did he cry himself to sleep thinking about this over the past three years?
The Grabber’s voice was now back in the phone, quiet and for Finney’s ears only. “Robin was scared, and he fought. He fought every time, thrashing about like a little hellcat. He pretended like he wasn’t afraid, but he was, I could tell. Everyone in my basement was afraid, even Vance. But you, Finney, you were a good boy.”
The Grabber’s voice traveled back to the radio, echoing throughout the house. “Is that way you’re upset, Gwen? Are you jealous of him? Feeling forlorn since everyone around you is experiencing love, while you’re sitting back watching it all from the sidelines?”
Hearing this seemed to give Gwen a second wind as she snapped back, “Why the everloving fuck would I be jealous of anything relating to you? First off, you’re a rapist, and I don’t care what you say to try to justify it, and second, you’re a massive failure at literally everything you do. I don’t know a single person who was upset when you died. The only person who would have given a shit, you killed by bashing his skull in with an axe, so fuck you.”
“Interesting that you’re talking about failures as if you aren’t one. Remind me, how did this exorcism go again?” He giggled. “It was like watching two blind elephants walking through a maze made of glass, I swear. I actually felt bad for the both of you at certain points, and I usually don’t feel bad for other people. Ahhh, well. At least Finney had enough sense to know it wasn’t going to work.”
“Shut up!” Gwen yelled. Finney could tell from her voice that she was on the verge of tears. “You don’t know anything!”
“I know everything, sweetie, it comes with being a ghost. Your plan didn’t work. Want to know why?” His voice then got lower and Finney felt an instinctive fear. “Because it was your idea, and you’re…you. Couldn’t help Finney then, can’t help him now. I mean, it makes things convenient for me, but still…what would your mother say, knowing that you failed your brother not just once, but twice? Hell, you practically gifted him to me three years ago, so I should really be thanking you. Hope your time at Susie’s house was worth it.”
Everyone—no matter how strong—has their breaking point, and this was Gwen’s. Muffling back a sob, she ran away from the table in a direction Finney couldn’t see due to the darkness in the house. Finney called after her, but received no response.
Finney felt his grip on the phone tighten. He was furious that the Grabber mentioned him and Robin in that way, he was furious that the Grabber was able to exploit Gwen’s vulnerabilities and insecurities, and he was furious with himself for making both of those things possible. “Congratulations,” he spat, “you just made a fourteen-year old girl cry.”
“I didn't want to, but she made me.” The Grabber’s tone was considerably lighter now that Gwen ran off in tears. Finney tried turning on the lights–the exorcism was thoroughly over at this point—but the power was out, and the Grabber didn’t seem inclined to turn it back on. “I usually don’t like making little girls cry—it gets me feeling all weird and emotional—but she really did have it coming. She said some things that were just plain wrong. You might not believe me, but just because I did a few things that are illegal doesn’t mean—”
“Where the hell do you get off on saying those things about my mom?” Finney snarled. He could feel the veins in his neck throbbing and was on the precipice of losing his shit. “I doubt your mom would be happy with your—you know—what you decided to do with your life.”
“Being a magician?” he teased. “It isn’t exactly the most stable career, I'll admit, but I think I did pretty well. My second house didn’t pay for itself.”
And now he leapt off the precipice. “You know that’s not what I fucking meant!”
He wanted to rip this phone out of the wall, he wanted to burn it in effigy, he wanted to wrap the cord around the Grabber’s neck and—
“Finney.” The Grabber’s voice was low and serious now. “You know I don’t like it when you talk like that.” There was a very, very long pause where Finney stewed in his anger and the Grabber didn’t speak. Then, “Is there anything you’d like to say?”
Yes: Go fuck yourself. But with the fire inside gradually dimming, logic prevailed and he knew it would be unwise to voice his true feelings—for Gwen’s safety, at least, if not his own. “Sorry,” he quietly lied through gritted teeth. Maybe Gwen should make a eulogy for my sense of dignity and self-respect…
“I forgive you, Finney,” the Grabber said happily. “I know from personal experience that dead moms can be a bit of a soft spot. And on that note, to answer your question from before….well, she always told me—and I know this sounds cliche, but—she always told me I should never be afraid to go for what I want in life, even if it’s unpopular. I don’t think she’d fully understand, but if she saw how it made me feel, I think she’d be okay with it. She always loved me and had my best interests at heart.” There was a slight pause. “Or she might get mad and blame my dad for it. I don’t know, it’s one of those situations that could go both ways.”
“So what you always wanted was to kidnap and kill kids,” Finney said flatly. Emptiness, and resignation had overcome his sense of anger, leaving him drained and exhausted. He leaned his back against the wall. “Interesting life goals.”
There was a staticy silence and Finney thought—hoped—that he was gone, but then the voice returned.
“No,” he said quietly. “I wanted to feel…ohhhh, this is hard to explain. I guess the best way to describe it would be that I always felt like I was missing something, like I was never a full person. You see people on the streets who are just happy doing random shit, and I was never like that. I never felt complete. I never felt like I had a purpose. I just felt sad and broken all the time. Do you ever feel that way?”
“...Sometimes,” Finney answered truthfully. But I never had any urges to go out and kill people either, you asshole.
“Right. So the thing with the kids…I only started that recently. Trust me, I’ve been down a whole bunch of other roads before, tried different things, and they either didn’t work out or didn’t get me where I wanted. Some came close though, and some might have if—” he stopped suddenly, then redirected his train of thought. “Having you boys in the basement, it’s…I don't know, it just feels right. Like you’re right where you belong, and I'm right where I belong, and everything is right in the world.”
Fucking hell, I wish I didn’t ask. “Okay. Well, I have to go clean up an exorcism and comfort my crying sister, so….” he trailed off. Given how volatile the Grabber was earlier, Finney didn’t want to piss him off even more by hanging up, but he had zero desire to extend the conversation any more.
“I doubt Gwen wants to talk to you now. But don’t worry, I’ll put myself on speaker so we can talk while you clean up.” Greaaaat. Finney sighed in resignation and tried to figure out where to even begin with the cleaning.
“Could you at least turn the power back on?” Finney asked as he bumped into a chair. “I can’t see anything, and it’s hot as hell without the air conditioning.”
“I could, but I’m not going to. I have my reasons, so don’t ask why.”
Yeah, fuck you too. Finney fumbled for the dustpan and tried to sweep up the shards of broken glass, which was an extremely difficult task to do by candlelight. There was about a minute of silence while he worked, then Finney mustered up the mental resolve to ask a lingering question that’s been on his mind since it was first brought up: “Did Gwen actually have visions of…us? Or were you just saying that?”
“Hmmm. You’ll have to ask her.”
Typical. Wiping down the counter, Finney said, “Okay, then. Why was the radio on when I came back?”
“Oh, that? She asked why I liked you so much and sometimes music helps express the soul better than words can, so I put it on. I think it really expresses my feelings, Finney.” Ughhhhh. “You know, for the longest time Griffin was my favorite, but now you’re my favorite. It’s like it was an emotional battle between ‘you never forget your first’ and “the one that got away,” and you ended up winning. You want to know another song that makes me think of us?”
Without waiting for a response, the radio static sputtered to the jaunty tune of “Midnight, the Stars, and You.”
“This one barely has any lyrics,” Finney muttered as he dumped some of the glass in the trash bin. He sniffed; the herbs smelled far worse now, rotten almost, mixed with something else Finney couldn’t quite pinpoint. Gas from the oven, most likely. I wonder if the windows are still jammed… “Did you just pick it because it was in The Shining? Because the main character goes nuts because of the ghosts and later dies and becomes one of them?” The thought of why the Grabber picked that song, of all songs, made him feel nauseous.
“Good connection, Finney. I wasn’t sure if you were going to pick up on that. I don’t like the phrase ‘goes nuts’ though. It’s more like…the spirits help bring out a side to him that he always had, but tried to keep repressed and hidden. See where I'm going with this?”
Yeah, I see that you’re a lunatic and—wait. “But that movie didn’t come out until last year! You died before that.”
“Yeah, but like I said, this place is all fucked up. It looks kind of like the world I came from, but…different. If I go into a building like a theater, there’s stuff from the past and stuff that hasn’t even come out yet in your world, and no one notices I’m there. I saw some silent ones that came out before I was even born. Gone with the Wind was here too, but even for this place it still feels too damn long—good movie though. Hmmm, what else, what else….oh! There was this movie that had Clint Eastwood in it, but his hair was all gray, so it’ll probably be a while before that one comes out by you. I’m not sure if Silence of the Lambs came out yet either. I know you think I have problems, but the guy in that movie, well—anyway, when you come here I’ll show you around and we can go to all sorts of places. We’ll have all the time in the world.”
Finney felt himself grow icy cold as he remembered the Grabber’s plan for him. Eternity with the Grabber was a horrifying possibility. He needed to change topics, badly. “You didn’t tell us earlier, but did you kill those other people that Chief Walker thinks you did?”
The Grabber sighed. “Don’t worry about that. It’s just cops being cops. Missing person cases and unsolved deaths make them look bad, so they want to pin everything on me to make it seem like a storybook ending where the ‘bad guy’ is caught. Just because I happen to be a killer doesn’t mean I killed every single missing person in the tri-state area.”
It did not go unnoticed by Finney that the Grabber dodged the question. “But did you kill some of them, at least? Like Timothy or Thomas or whatever his name was? Or Ruth? Or what about that Cynthia person?”
“I told you: don’t worry about that,” The Grabber said in a low voice. The warning edge was clear.
Knowing he pushed his luck, Finney continued to clean in silence, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. He really wished the Grabber would let the air conditioning come back on. He scrunched up his nose. Christ, it really does smell bad. The odor was so thick and penetrating that Finney even found himself coughing sporadically as he cleaned. “Are you the reason the sage and other plants smell like shit now? It wasn’t like this before.”
“Ehhh. Sort of.” He didn’t elaborate.
Finney tried to open a window, only to find that it was jammed. Probably this asshole’s fault, he thought glumly. He wants me to suffer with this shitty smell.
Finney continued the slow, painstaking process of cleaning by candlelight, and almost jumped when the Grabber started talking again; he assumed he left. “Remember when I put on Love Story before?” How could he forget? Finney nodded reluctantly. “Jenny gets more beautiful the closer she is to death. Isn’t that weird? Movies never show what it’s like to really die of an illness, what it truly means to waste away. It never shows the physical and mental toll it takes on the person, and on their family. I wonder why that is. It could probably prepare families a lot better if they knew what to expect.”
There was a moment of silence where the Grabber clearly expected him to say something, but philosophy was never his strong suit, so Finney just shrugged and said, “Yeah. That’s weird.”
The Grabber sighed again. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry, but I want to say it anyway. I’m sorry, Finney.”
Finney stopped midway. This was unexpected. He had no idea how to take this, or how to respond. “Um, thanks.” ‘I’m sorry’ was the absolute bare minimum given everything he did, and hardly covered anything, but at least it was something. A recognition of guilt. Then, a spark of inspiration hit him: could he use this to his advantage and get the Grabber to stop haunting him? “If you really are sorry for what happened in the basement, then—”
“Hmm? Oh, Finney, I think we’re talking about different things. Look, if you feel there’s something else I need to apologize for, you’re entitled to your own opinion, but I'm talking about right now. For distracting you while I've been busy elsewhere. This was a nice conversation and I feel bad that it was under…slightly misleading circumstances.”
Finney was feeling dizzy; was it growing even hotter? And the smell was getting stronger, more pungent and rotten, completely overpowering the traces of sage and other herbs. In fact it smelled like—
Oh, fuck. “W-what did you do?”
“You’ll be fine, Finney–I can’t have you die yet. But your sister? Well, she shouldn’t have said those things about me. And she was wrong, too. I’m not going to be the one who burns today. Try not to be too mad, okay?”
The power turned back on, showing what the house truly looked like. It was now clear why the smell was so rotten, why the heat felt so sweltering, and why the Grabber wanted the batteries to be removed from the smoke detectors.
As the tendrils of smoke drifted through the air from both directions of the hallway, there was only one frantic thought racing through Finney’s mind:
Where’s Gwen?
Chapter 5: Poor Bastards
Notes:
-The grocery store encounter mentioned in this chapter is taken from a promotional event for the film. If you type in "Are you scared of the Grabber?" into the search engine, it should be one of the first videos that pops up. You DO NOT need to watch it to understand this story, and the important bits are recapped in this chapter, but I just want everyone to be aware that the details taken from it (store clerk, cocktail onions, etc.) are not my own. I'm not sure if it's officially canon, but for the purposes of this story, I'm assuming it is.
-And on that note, it doesn't say in the movie how long Finney was held in captivity for. Since it's fanfic, I'm putting it at about 4 weeks (EDIT: This was later changed to 2 months because a month after he was taken would be Christmas), but in canon it might be shorter. My reasoning is that the deep wound the Grabber received from the pen was completely healed the next time we see him, Max had enough time to set up this whole conspiracy board and come up with theories, and in the promotional event, there's definitely this sense that the family was growing desperate. Gwen had the time to put up 'Missing' posters around town, while Terrence believed it was a pointless task and was losing hope. This makes me think that more time elapsed than just a day or two, but idk. Either way, in this story he's held captive for a while before he escapes.
-Thank you everyone who's been reading/commenting/leaving kudos! It's much appreciated! :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On instinct, Finney sprinted through the house to Gwen’s bedroom, covering his mouth with his shirt as he did. Coughing, he placed his hand on the doorknob and yelped; it was extremely hot. He knew there had to be a fire within the room, but he needed to know if his sister was there. With resolve, he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and used it to turn the doorknob, pushing through the pain. Sure enough, there were flames: the candles near the window were tipped over and the stuffed animals and window curtains were on fire, and it seemed to be spreading fast. Finney’s eyes teared up from the smoke and he hurriedly pushed it closed again, for all the good that would do. He looked at the other rooms in this section of the hall and saw that smoke was coming out from them as well.
Where the hell is Gwen? he thought as he opened the door to his room, only to be met with flames. What direction did she run in?
He pushed the door to his room shut and tried to latch onto any semblance of logic that was present amidst the overwhelming terror and panic that was permeating throughout his entire body. What should he do? Should he keep trying to open the doors and see where she was? Or would that just be a waste of time that would put his sister’s life–and his—at risk? He could try asking the Grabber, but would that be a bigger waste of time?
Finney needed to know that she was alive, that she didn’t burn to death or die of smoke inhalation. He had only a few precious moments left, and every second he spent looking for her could be a second too late.
Coughing, he tried to open a window in the hallway to get some ventilation, only to find that it wouldn’t budge. No, he couldn’t waste anymore time fucking around when Gwen could be closer and closer to death. Fumbling his way back to the kitchen, vision blurry, he grabbed the phone with shaky hands. “W-where is she?” he rasped.
“I’m not telling~”
Hearing that smug voice gave him a rush of adrenaline and purpose as he bellowed into the phone as loud as his voice would allow: “Just tell me, you son of a bitch!” He wasn’t sure if it was the smoke or the emotions running through him—or a combination of both— that were causing his eyes to tear, but tears were falling freely. “Please, she can’t die.”
“Finney, you know I only give rewards to children who behave. Why would I tell you where she is after you just called my mom a bitch?”
“I’m sorry! I—”
The Grabber interrupted him with a long, drawn-out sigh that caused Finney’s anxiety to spike as he imagined the horrible things that could be happening to Gwen during those few seconds. “I wonder if you treat Donna like this.”
Finney needed to make a split-second decision.“Y-you know what? I’ll do it,” Finney choked out, coughing and tearing up amidst the smoke, “I–I don’t even care. If she lives, I’ll walk back into the flames and die. Then you can do whatever you want with me. I just need Gwen to live.”
If it came down to an eternity of hell with the Grabber or Gwen’s safety, he’d choose the latter, every time.
“You can’t do it yet.” The Grabber’s voice was now completely devoid of all traces of playfulness. “If you do it now, it’s not going to work. It needs to be with the right conditions.”
“Then what the hell do you want from me?” he cried out. His mind was racing and finally settled on a possible way to approach this, which caused him to wilt inside but knew it would improve his chances. “I’ll do anything, I just need Gwen to be okay. Just help me find her, please. I—I need you.”
The Grabber reacted the way Finney expected him to. “Aww, Finney,” he purred into the receiver, smugness practically radiating out of the phone. “You know I love it when you beg. If I help you find her, you’ll owe me a favor, right?”
Just tell me where she is, you motherfucker. “Yes, anything!”
“Okay. She went down to your basement. But there’s no guarantee she’s—”
Finney dropped the phone and sprinted down to the basement door, which was difficult through the haze of smoke that was growing thicker and thicker. The knob was hot as hell, as Finney used the bottom of his shirt to open it, just as he did with the bedrooms.
He made his way through the heavy, smoky haze, coughing and choking all the way, vision watery. It felt like he was in some kind of inferno. Why the hell would she have gone to the basement anyway, when—
Then, he remembered: Mom. Terrence put a bunch of Mom’s old crap down here, under the impression that if it was out-of-sight, it’d be out-of-mind. Years ago, Gwen would sneak down and face her father’s anger to do so. After her conversation with the Grabber earlier, it was no surprise she would want to come here today.
There were flames down here in the basement, as there were in the closed rooms. On the floor was Gwen, sprawled out on the floor, motionless. Oh no no Gwen please God she needs to live please don’t have her suffocate from the smoke or burn or—
Finney rushed towards Gwen and grabbed her in his arms, hoping to see or feel any signs of life, but the only thing he felt was the heat from the fire and the oppressive smoke. Finney turned back to see with a drop of his stomach that the entrance he used to get into the basement was now blocked off with flames.
Was there any other way to exit? Wait—the window. His watering eyes scanned the room and was able to vaguely make out, through the smoky haze, a window that was small, but large enough for them to go through. There was a small table nearby that he could use to stand on to reach it, but he needed to hurry. Carrying Gwen, Finney pushed his way over through the smoke and placed Gwen on the table as he reached up to fumble with the window locks. After unclasping the locks, he tried to push it up.
It wouldn’t move. The window was stuck.
Finney wanted to scream in anger, and likely would have if he didn’t feel as if he were suffocating. Was this another one of the Grabber’s games? Did he send Finney to the basement to find Gwen, only to watch her die? Was the Grabber bullshitting when he said he needed Finney to live, and really wanted him to die too? Or did the Grabber want him to beg some more, in order to get another ‘favor’?
No. Fuck that.
Finney thought of Robin, of Bruce, of Vance, of Paper Boy, and of Griffin. He thought of how the boys gave him the strength he needed in order to make it through his personal hell. They didn’t do all that just to have him capitulate to the Grabber’s sadistic whims once he was free. Finney knew he was capable; hadn’t he proven it, three years ago, when he worked up the courage to fight and kill the devil?
Finney knew how to survive. And if he escaped the Grabber’s basement, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die in his own damn basement.
Finney quickly surveyed the area; what could he use to break the window? His eyes settled on a nearby brick, which was small, but should be able to serve his purposes. He quickly reached down and grabbed it, noticing vaguely that it was heavier than it looked. Would this work? Would he be able to lift it? He felt himself growing weaker and dizzier by the moment. But nevertheless, he held it up and, with a rush of adrenaline and all his strength, slammed it against the window.
He heard a faint cracking sound, but the window wasn’t broken.
The Grabber’s taunts of how Finney never fought when he was with him echoed in Finney’s mind as he pulled the brick back a second time and slammed it again, harder. Still nothing.
But, slamming it down a third time, and then a fourth, Finney realized that it wasn’t fully true. Because for all the times he withdrew into himself and behaved passively, he knew that he fought back when it counted the most, on the last day he was in that basement, and the Grabber knew it too.
And that’s what this whole thing’s about, Finney thought as he swung and slammed the brick a fifth time, rewarded with a louder cracking sound. He knows I’m not under his control anymore, and he’s trying to get me back.
With a strangled yet determined cry, he pulled the brick back and slammed it for the sixth time, and finally, finally, the window shattered.
Finney didn’t have time to think about the shards of glass; his only focus was on saving Gwen. He grabbed her from the table and pushed her body out the window and onto the grass. After she was out, he pulled himself up and out the window, ignoring the piercing cuts that were forming on his arms and hands. He then dragged her further away from the house and closer to the road, where he started to feel more and more fatigued.
With a final yet feeble amount of strength, Finney held up two middle fingers in the direction of his house before allowing exhaustion to overtake him and drifting into unconsciousness.
****
Finney didn’t remember much in the following days. He remembered waking up with an oxygen mask around his face in the hospital, groggy and confused, with the nurses cooing around him, telling him to relax. He remembered trying to ask how Gwen was and not be able to voice the words properly because of his raspy throat. He remembered drifting in and out of consciousness, and in those bouts of lucidity, he remembered seeing his father cry by his bedside holding his hand, he remembered vaguely hearing the words “smoke inhalation,” “firefighters,” “lacerations,” and “needs to be monitored.” He remembered Donna talking to him, but didn’t know what she was saying. He remembered overhearing the nurses murmur amongst themselves about the Blake home and how “it’s all ashes now” and “that poor family can never seem to catch a break.” He remembered the overwhelming wave of relief he felt when he heard a voice from the bed next to him that was scratchy, but unmistakably Gwen’s, complaining that she was tired of yogurt and wanted other food. He also remembered the dazed sense of panic when he thought of medical bills and the house burning down and the overall uncertainty of what the future had in store for the Blake family.
Finney fully regained consciousness in the middle of the night; the only reason he knew it was nighttime was because of the moonlight that peeked in through the window to his right. He had no idea what day of the week it was, or how much time had passed since the fire. A curtain was put up to the left of his bed, so he couldn’t see if there was anyone else there with him. Finney shifted his position and rested on his side, wincing when he did so. Finney shifted his position and held his arms up closer to his face, being able to vaguely see that his arms were bandaged as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
From the corner of his eyes he saw the curtain quiver and he tensed up, ready to spring out of bed if needed, but then—-
“Finney? Pssst! Finney, are you awake?”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “…Gwen?”
“Thank God. I know the nurse said you would be fine but—-“
There was a loud clanging sound as something dropped and Gwen swore loudly. Finney’s lips twitched into a smile. “What was that?”
He heard a loud, frustrated sigh. “They put these stupid curtains up and they’re to far for me to reach from the bed. There was this broom that I was going to use to try to move them, but I dropped it.”
Finney lowered his voice to a whisper, “I don’t want to wake anyone up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“It’s just us in the room.” There was a moment of hesitation, then she asked feebly, “C-can we talk now? Only if you’re up for it though…”
Finney was quiet for a moment. Was he up for this now? “Yeah…”
“Finney, I’m so sorry,” she said hurriedly, and Finney felt a pang of sadness hearing the teary tone of her voice. “I fucked up badly. You were right, I should have listened to you. What the Grabber said about overcompensating…I think that was true. I put my own feelings over yours and now we don’t have a house and everything’s my fault…”
“It’s not your fault.” Finney mumbled as he absentmindedly ran his hands over his bandages. “I mean, yeah, you should have listened, but you weren’t the one that burned the house down. You weren’t the one that grabbed me and stuffed me in a van. That was all him, and I never once thought it was your fault for going to Susie’s, okay? You have to stop blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault.”
Her next words were so quiet, Finney almost didn’t hear them: “You need to stop blaming yourself, too.”
They were both silent for a moment, then Finney asked a question he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know the answer to, but needed to ask. “Gwen, did you really see, um, stuff with me and the Grabber?”
Gwen let out a sigh of irritation. “No, I didn’t. Like I said during the exorcism, I saw a couple things, but they weren’t, like, really bad or anything. He was just saying that to mess with you.”
His fingers were now fidgeting with the frayed edges of the sheet as he quietly asked, “What kind of things did you see?”
“Honestly, it’s hard to say.” There was a sound of movement from behind the curtain, Gwen shifting her position on the bed. “My dreams show me things, but most of the time they’re not fully accurate.”
“They showed you the black balloons,” he muttered, wincing slightly as he accidentally created a slight tear in the sheet.
“Yeah, and the van and the mask. But there are things that I know can’t be true too. Like, I had a vision of Vance being driven by the police to the house he was buried in. I also had one of the Grabber, and he had white face paint and the bottom half of a mask. He was holding black balloons and was posing in front of his house with his hand on hip. That one was weird.”
Finney’s fingers stopped. “What the fuck?”
“Exactly! That’s what I said to Jesus.”
Finney was trying to wrap his mind all this. “So the dreams can show you some things that did happen, but are mostly…symbolic?”
“I think so. But if the Grabber one really did happen, then his neighbors should be shot for being so dumb. Did you ever scream and bang on his front door from the inside?”
Finney was startled by the sudden question. “N-no.”
“Then that one was symbolic too.”
It certainly illustrated his feelings about being trapped, that’s for sure. “The vision with Vance probably represented how finding his bones would be like bringing him home. The one with the Grabber…” He thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe the combination of the facepaint and the mask was meant to show a mix of his two sides—magician and, uh, serial killer. The way he was standing could show how confident he was hiding in plain sight. That’s just my guess, anyway.”
There was a few seconds of silence.” Wow,” Gwen breathed in awe. “That’s way better than my guesses. You should be the one who gets the dreams.”
“I only know all this stuff because of Donna,” Finney said, blushing slightly as she resumed his fiddling with the edges. “She talks about books and plays and metaphors and all that, so I guess I picked up on some of it.”
Gwen giggled. “And speaking of Donna…whew, Finney, you were totally out of it when she came by to see you yesterday!” She started cracking up, which caused Finney to feel very alarmed. “You told her—bwahaha! I can’t even say it! You’ll have to ask her.”
“Gwen, what did I say?” hissed Finney, brain fritzing with various worst-case-scenarios flickering through his mind.
“Hahaha, it’s nothing bad, just funny. I’m not going to ruin it!”
Finney would normally push more against it, but what she said before–’you’ll have to ask her’–reminded him of something the Grabber said.
“So what did you see with him and me?” Finney asked again, heart starting to beat a bit faster against his will.
Gwen’s laughter died down and she grew more serious. “Like, I told you, nothing R-rated. I saw him touching your hair in a creepy way”—that could have been so many different times, it was probably literal—”I saw him holding you, and you shifting into Robin and Bruce and all the other missing kids, so obviously that didn’t happen”—that probably shows how I was in the same position as them, or how he views us interchangeably; me being ‘special’ was always bullshit—”and then there was another where he was on the mattress with you and feeding you meat”—That never happened, so what does that symb—oh…—“but I know that can’t be literal because you only ate eggs there. So I think the meat must symbolize the scrambled eggs he gave you.”
“Y-yeah,” lied Finney quietly, shifting to his other side to look at the moonlight through the window. He was suddenly very thankful for the curtain around his bed, “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
A familiar sense of numbness and trepidation returned to him as his mind drifted to his last conversation with the Grabber. If he was now a disembodied spirit, what ‘favor’ could he possibly expect?
He could tell from the sound that Gwen was fluffing her pillows. “See, I’m not so bad with this symbolism stuff—don’t know why I have a C in English. Aside from those, I can’t think of anything else.”
Finney felt slightly more relaxed, knowing that his privacy with that portion of his life was still intact. Still…“Did you tell him about what you saw? Is that what made him laugh?”
“No,” she huffed. “I didn’t tell him that.”
“Well, I know you told him something. You were having a whole big conversation while I was running around like a jackass with the smoke detectors.”
Gwen sighed. “He was just trying to get into my head.”
“Okay, but what does that mean?”
There was a long pause, then Gwen said hesitantly, “He said some things about you. I don’t want to bring them up because I know they’re bullshit and will just make you upset, but he’s, um, he’s got it bad for you.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finney said glumly.
“I mean, I thought Millie had it bad for Harrison Ford, but Jesus Christ, this is like a whole new level of crazy.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finney repeated, voice gaining a slight edge to it.
“He has this whole big fantasy that you’re going to…that you’re going to just, like, leave somehow. Leave me and Daddy and Donna and everyone else behind and go stay with him forever in the ghost world or wherever he is. And he said it was something you’d want to do.” Her voice began to sound more pained. “He sounded really confident, Finney. It was kind of scary.”
Finney said nothing, but just kept staring numbly out the window. Mistaking the reason behind his silence, Gwen pressed on, in a more anxious tone. “It, um, it is bullshit, right? You wouldn’t want to do that?”
“Of course not,” Finney replied, inwardly debating on whether or not to tell Gwen about the Grabber’s plan for him. “You know what he did to me. Why would I choose to go through all that again?”
“I know, I know,” Gwen said quickly and apologetically. “He just got into my head, is all. He’s pretty good at that.” Finney heard her fidgeting around in the bed again. “It’s weird, though. If he mentioned it, there has to be a way for us to be able to get to the spirit world. I wonder how? Maybe the library has books on how humans could enter it. Then we could have a showdown with him on an even playing field.”
Finney wanted to desperately change the topic before she put two and two together and realized what the Grabber’s entry plan for Finney was. “We’re not going to travel to the ghost world and beat him up or whatever you think is going to happen.”
“I–I didn’t say we would beat him up, I just said—”
“The answer’s no. Right now, our main priority is just finding a place to live and getting our lives back on track, and that’s it.” Thinking about the fire brought up another concern, one that he didn’t want to verbalize, as if saying it would solidify that it’s real. “Was there anything they were able to salvage from the house?”
Gwen started to sniffle, and Finney felt guilty for asking. “Everything’s gone, Finney, and Daddy’s devastated. All that money he took out of the bank, our clothes, all of m-mom’s old s-stuff…I think the church and school are doing some kind of donation drive, but even with that, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. Daddy s-said he’s looking for places for us to stay, but we don’t know where yet. I know the city offered him a house, but he turned it down for some reason…maybe it was too far from school, I dunno. He said it needs to be somewhere that’s close enough for him to work and also for us to get to school. All we have is what we wore on the day of the fire, and those stupid medallions we put around our necks. Lot of help they were…”
Finney raised his hand to his neck and realized for the first time that the ‘protective medallion’ wasn’t on. He turned to the table next to him and saw that it was removed and placed there, the heat from the fire warping it so badly that it was barely recognizable. “Hey, we’re alive, aren’t we? Maybe they did help.”
“...Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Gwen said, in a slightly more upbeat tone. Because of this upbeat tone, Finney felt a bit guilty when he asked his next question.
“Was there anything else you talked about with the Grabber? Besides me, I mean.”
Gwen sighed. “Just more crap that was meant to get into my head.”
“Okay, but what does that mean?”
“He said…he said I spoke to him before, and he wasn’t talking about the grocery store.”
Finney’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, 'grocery store'?”
“When you went missing, Daddy drove me to these different places to hang up flyers with your picture on them. One of those places was Hortford’s Groceries, and you know how the owner there is a total dick?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, he was giving me a hard time about the flyers, and then this customer interrupts asking for help finding which aisle has the cocktail onions, so the owner gets distracted and that’s when I got the hell out of there. I obviously didn’t know it then, but that customer was really the Grabber.”
What the hell? “You never mentioned this to me before.”
“I didn’t think it was important anymore!” Gwen protested. “After you came back, it didn’t make sense to randomly bring him up. We all kind of wanted to forget about him…and now, it still didn’t seem important. The only reason I’m mentioning it is because he’s saying that I spoke to him before, but he said he wasn’t talking about Hartford’s.”
Finney blinked. “But you didn’t talk to him. You just listened while he talked to someone.”
“Shhh, I’m not finished with the story yet! So when I was walking back to the car, it looked like the owner was following me and I may have—maaaay have—-freaked out a little. I was eleven, okay? It wouldn’t have happened now.”
“Suuuure,” Finney said, rolling his eyes and smiling.
“If this dumb curtain wasn’t up, I’d throw a pillow at you right now,” she said, giggling. “So like I was saying, I rushed into the car but it turns out the owner was just running after a runaway grocery cart and not me. But anyway…Daddy forgot his wallet in the liquor store, so he went back in while I stayed in the car. Then, I hear this voice ask me if the owner was bothering me and I look out the window, and sure enough, it was the customer, aka the Grabber, aka Albert Shaw, aka the worst person ever, standing next to the car. I said no and then he tells me that he’s glad, and that there were a lot of sickos in the world and I needed to be careful. Even though he acted friendly I could tell something was off, and I started getting this cold feeling and then I started thinking this could be the guy from my dreams. But before I could say anything, he goes back to his stupid van and drives away. So…yeah. That was our conversation.” She let out a huffing sound and added bitterly, “I bet he got a real laugh out of that, saying that shit to the sister of one of the kids he kidnapped. Jerk…”
It was a lot for Finney to wrap his head around. “So he’s saying he talked to you another time, besides this?”
“Yeah, but like I said, he was probably just bullshitting. If we did, I would remember it, right?”
The gears in his mind started to turn. “Maybe you just didn’t recognize him, or you were too young to remember, or something like that.”
“I guess that’s possible. But I think it’s more likely he was probably just saying that to get under my skin.”
“Yeah,” Finney said, even though he wasn’t quite sure he believed that. The man was a liar, but this seemed like a weirdly specific thing to lie about. “Okay, so he talked about me, and about you. Was there anything else?”
“Yes, actually,” Gwen’s voice seemed a bit more chipper and animated now, and Finney wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. “I have some intel that might help us out.”
“Yeah?” Finney asked wryly. “What ‘intel’?”
“So it turns out, he isn’t following us all the time.”
“He told you that?” Finney asked skeptically.
“No, but I tricked him into revealing it. I mentioned that if the exorcism didn’t work, we’d get Father O’Brien to do it after he comes back from his mission trip from Guatemala. But it’s Father Rivera who’s the exorcist. If he was in the church with us, he would have known that, but he didn’t say anything.”
Finney didn’t think this was the smoking gun Gwen believed it was. “He might have just gotten the names confused or didn’t remember.”
“If it was once, then maybe. But I also have proof that he wasn’t with us during breakfast on the day of the fire. I asked him if he was going to possess me and have me leap off a giant building like Dan Goodwin did on Memorial Day. But Dan Goodwin didn’t jump off the Sears tower—he climbed it, remember? We spent, like, five minutes talking about it during breakfast.”
Finney vaguely recalled Gwen and Terrence talking about it, but he didn’t participate in the conversation then because his mind was elsewhere. “Maybe he was focused on me or just didn’t think it was important.”
“But Goodwin was dressed up as Spider-Man! No offense Finney, but even if he spent breakfast staring at you and jacking off the whole time, hearing that someone climbed up the Sears Tower dressed like a fucking superhero would be weird enough to pause for at least a few seconds. Daddy and I talked about it for a while too, so it’s not like it was a one-sentence thing.”
Could what Gwen said be true? Finney didn’t want to get his hopes up. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Gwen said confidently. He heard her position shift from behind the curtain again. “And that was it. We didn’t talk about anything else.”
“Okay.” There was a lot to think about, but Finney didn’t feel like he had the energy to dwell on it right now.
“Daddy’s going to be here tomorrow. The nurses said we can leave once you feel alright, so we’ll be out of here soon. Thank God, because the food here sucks.” She yawned. “I’m so tired…we’ll talk more in the morning. ‘Night, Finney.”
Hey, you’re the one who woke me up... “‘Night, Gwen.”
Sleep came for him much easier than he thought it would.
****
The next day, Terrence Blake arrived and the Blake siblings were finally allowed to be discharged from the hospital. Terrence pulled Finney into an awkward side-shoulder hug and told Finney that him and Gwen are what’s really important, and everything that burned in the fire were just “things that could be replaced.” Finney bit his tongue, knowing full well that much of what burned in the fire could not be replaced—like precious photographs and memories of Mom—but also knowing that his father was well aware of that too. “It’s just stuff, none of it’s important” was the mantra the Blake siblings kept hearing from Terrence over the next several days, and Finney knew Terrence was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince his children.
The story Gwen concocted while Finney was still unconscious was that the Blake siblings had “no idea what happened, we just saw smoke and then suddenly there were flames everywhere.” Terrence made enough noise that the city agreed to see if they could investigate the cause of the fire, despite the current condition of the house. Terrence was convinced it was arson, believing it to be the work of some kind of “looney fan” or “serial killer lover” who burned the house down to get at Finney, and told his children with eyes blazing that they’ll “find the bastards who did this and make them pay.” If he glanced behind him when leaving the room, he would have noticed the nervous looks his children shared.
For about a week, the Blakes did not attend school. Finding a place to stay was a Herculean task that caused their family no small amount of grief. While the donations from school and church were able to help, they weren’t anywhere close to the amount of money lost. Finney and Gwen had no living grandparents or aunts and uncles, and Terrence didn’t exactly have many close friends. The few friends of the family they did have were struggling economically due to the recession, and wouldn’t be able to financially support a family of three for an indefinite amount of time. Because of this, the Blakes found themselves staying at various motels.
The Blakes, it seemed, had particularly terrible luck; after all, every motel they tried to book always ended up having some kind of issue that would force them to travel elsewhere. At their first motel, the pipes in the room would keep bursting, even after the plumbers tried to fix it. At the second, there was some kind of electrical outage in the room that prevented it from having any power (and weirdly enough, moving to different rooms within the same motel caused the power to stop working in those rooms too). At the third, the fire alarms would consistently go off and not stop. At the fourth, the room would experience constant tremors. Etc. etc.
There were a couple families within the area that extended their homes to the Blakes, but unfortunately, the results were not much different from what happened in the motels.
The Yamadas, oddly enough, were the first family to extend their home to the Blakes. While Gwen and Amy were friends, Terrence never met the Yamadas personally and was a bit reluctant to take them up on their offer. Mr. Yamada was a friendly man that reminded Finney a lot of Bruce, but Mrs. Yamada was the opposite. The death of her son caused her to become a shell of her former self, a forlorn, paranoid, and withdrawn woman who rarely smiled.
For about a day, things seemed to be alright, until Mrs. Yamada had a breakdown due to the “poltergeist activity” that she swore she witnessed, though no one else in the household did. She accused the Blakes of bringing “that horrible man’s ghost” with them, an accusation that Terrence did not take kindly to at all, and ended with a shouting match that resulted in Terrence storming out of the Yamada household, Finney and Gwen trailing guilty behind him.
The Hoffmans—the Blake’s former neighbors—agreed to let them stay for a time, but right when the Blakes drove up to the driveway, they saw the Hoffmans rushing out wildly, saying that they needed to evacuate their home because of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Susie Martin’s parents also allowed the Blakes to stay with them, but the day they moved in, the structural foundation somehow weakened to the point where one of the rooms caved in.
It was at that point that whispered rumors of the “Curse of the Grabber’s Ghost” started to trickle throughout North Denver and began to pick up steam with every house or motel the Blakes needed to evacuate from. For the few families that were financially stable enough that they could have supported the Blakes if they wanted to, the rumor served as a hefty deterrent. For others—both financially stable and not—the rumor served the opposite purpose. The Hoppers, for example, didn’t offer so much as demanded that the Blakes move in with them so they would be able to “tear this ghost a new asshole and avenge Vance.” These rumors enraged Terrence, who wouldn’t hesitate to claim “All that shit’s in the past! You people are fucking fools” whenever he heard anyone speculate that the Grabber was more than just ashes scattered in some unknown location.
Finney and Gwen debated quietly yet avidly with each other over whether or not to tell Terrence about the ghost. In the end, they decided that they wouldn’t (at least not yet), solely for the reason of Terence’s health. It became obvious to the Blake siblings that these rumors were doing a number on Terrence, and they were afraid he’d have some kind of stroke or heart attack from the compounded stress of both being homeless and having the ghost of a child predator haunting his son. Terrence not only wanted, but needed to believe, that the Grabber was a closed chapter in his family’s history.
Because of this, Finney immediately shot down Gwen’s tentative suggestion of using their powers to make money somehow to support the family. Putting aside the fact that the Blakes had no idea how to control their powers, it also would form a connection between him and the Shaws that he didn’t want. During the week of their nomadic lifestyle, Finney found himself learning slightly more about the Shaw family against his will, simply due to overhearing rumors about his family’s current predicament. The Blakes’ recent hardships revitalized an old rumor from the 1930s and 1940s, a rumor of the mysterious Evelyn Shaw and her “witchy powers.” Whereas Finney’s mother was secretive with her abilities, Evelyn monetized hers and made a decent amount of money acting as a psychic, which was in no small demand during the wartime climate of the early 20th century. According to a few of the old-timers, if Evelyn had some kind of witchiness in her, it stands to reason that her son had some kind of devilish magic himself.
That was true, of course. But since the day of the fire, the Grabber made no attempts to speak with Finney directly, and Finney made no attempts to speak with him. Finney wasn’t sure if this was meant to be some kind of battle-of-wills where the Grabber expected Finney to come crawling to him in supplication, begging for him to stop, but Finney already decided that wasn’t going to happen. The fire and previous conversations with the Grabber caused a flame of stubbornness to spark up in him and he refused to back down, something Gwen adamantly supported.
After about a week after the fire, Terrence drove them to City Hall, where Terrence was meeting with some officials to discuss…something. Something he wouldn’t tell his kids about. On his way back, Finney was perturbed to see the grim expression on his father’s face. When Terrence opened the car door, he sat quietly for a moment, both of his children eying him expectantly.
He cleared his throat. “So,” he began, looking at Gwen with an unreadable expression, “As you know, our luck’s been shit this past week.”
“Did they, um, find out what caused the fire?” Finney asked. He knew if Terrence found out that part of it was caused by an obscene amount of candles falling down, there’d be hell to pay. But Terrence didn’t seem angry, and he wasn’t sure why his father kept his eyes on Gwen and not him. It made him anxious.
“Not yet, but they’re working on it,” Terrence said, glancing at Finney quickly before turning back to Gwen. “Not fast enough if you ask me, but that’s our tax dollars at work.”
“So what’d they say?” Gwen asked, as she started playing with her hair nervously.
Terrence hesitated, and looked at Finney with such sad, vulnerable eyes that caused Finney’s stomach to flutter. “Look, we’ve been to about every single fucking motel in this goddamn city. I’ve called every boarding house I could that’s within a reasonable distance where I don’t get fucked in the ass by gas prices in order to drive to work, but there’s always some goddamn problem. It also needs to be close enough for you kids to get to school, and someplace that would let us stay indefinitely, and there is one, but—”
Terrence swallowed and clenched and unclenched his fists, gaze drifting away from Finney. He didn’t continue. Finney and Gwen glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell was the issue? “Daddy..?” Gwen asked tentatively.
Terrence took a deep breath. “There’s this place…it used to be put up for rent, but the city’s willing to sell it to us. Now, I—I normally wouldn’t have taken it, but given the current circumstances and Finney’s history, they’re willing to give it to us practically for free. They say it’s the least they could do.”
Gwen’s eyes sparkled as she beamed widely and clapped her hands. “We’re getting a new house? Already?! And it’s permanent?”
Terrence glanced at Finney quickly again before diverting his eyes back to Gwen. “N-no. No, sweetie, it doesn’t have to be. I mean, it could be, but it probably won’t. I sure as hell don’t want it to be. There’s loads of better houses out there. We—we can sell this one and get a different one. We just can’t do it now because money is–money is really tight. I haven’t told you kids this, but even before the fire, things have been a bit…rough. And going from motel to motel has been eating away at our funds too.”
‘Rough’ was a massive understatement. Gwen looked at her father in confusion. “So where is it, Daddy? Where are we going?”
Terrence turned to Finney, and Finney was frozen to the spot as he saw rare tears well up in his father’s eyes. What the fuck is happening?
Terrence continued to ramble. “They offered it to me last week, but I didn’t take it because, well…I—I normally wouldn’t have even considered it, but we’re really up shit creek here. If this doesn’t work out, we might have to go to a homeless shelter, and that's—I don’t know how safe that would be.” He hesitated for a moment, then empathically added, “But Finney, if you have a problem with it, I’ll go right back in and tell them to shove it. We’ll figure something else out. ”
Then it clicked, and everything that happened over the past week finally fell into place. Finney turned his head away and gazed out the window, numbly wondering if there was a bucket or anything like it nearby that he could use to throw up in.
Gwen’s head whipped back and forth between her father and brother. “I don’t get it. Where are we going?”
Finney took a few deep breaths to steady himself, willing the hurricane of emotions to disappear from his face in order to create a mask of neutrality. When he turned around, his father’s pleading eyes met with his impassive ones.
“It’s fine,” Finney said in a clipped tone. "It's just a house, after all." After a beat, he couldn’t help but add, “I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t bulldoze it.”
Gwen’s eyes widened.
Notes:
If you don’t know where the Blakes are going, rereading the beginning of chapter 2 (the conversation with Terrence at the breakfast table) might help. What he says in that part also connects to the chapter title.
Thanks again for reading! <3
Chapter 6: 7742 Meadowbrook Lane
Notes:
-I have no idea what the Grabber's street address is supposed to be, so "Meadowbrook Lane" comes from a street on the zoomed-in map that Max put on the conspiracy board at the end of the movie. It's also not clear what his actual house's number is supposed to be (7741 is the house with the bodies), so for the purposes of this story, it's 7742 lol
-all the artwork mentioned in this chapter is real! They're relatively famous pieces, but if you're not sure what they look like, they should pop up if you google the title of the painting.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For better or for worse, Finney at least knew what to expect when his father pulled up into the driveway of 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. It would have been strange if he didn’t, considering the hours he spent staring hollowly at the house from the back of the ambulance on the day he escaped. The black door, the mailbox, the bushes that ran along the side of the house and slightly blocked the view of the windows—they all there. The only things that stood out as being different were the overgrown lawn and, of course, the driveway, which was now going to be home to his father’s Ford Pinto instead of the Grabber’s horrible black van.
No, not home, Finney mentally told himself as he clutched the duffel bag in his lap tightly. It’s just temporary, until we can get back on our feet. That’s all.
Deep down, Finney knew, of course, that was bullshit. He could practically feel the Grabber’s smug, self-satisfied aura right now, and knew that whatever the next step in that man’s twisted plan was, it involved Finney being here, and he would do everything to ensure the Blakes would remain stuck in this hellhouse.
Finney glanced at his father, whose hands remained gripping tightly on the steering wheel. He could see the guilt and hesitation in Terrence’s eyes, and for a moment, Finney thought Terrence would back the car up and drive somewhere, anywhere, else. But with a sigh of irritation, he grabbed the gearshift and put the car into park.
“You know, one good thing about being poor is that we don’t have a lot to unpack,” Gwen chirped from the backseat.
Finney rolled his eyes, but Terrence smiled wryly and said, “Always a silver lining somewhere, huh?”
Gwen giggled and pushed open the car door, grabbing her bags as she did, and Terrence followed. Finney hesitated for a moment (Is it too late for me to tell Dad I don’t want to do this?), but braced himself and did the same.
The bright, cheerful, summery weather was a sharp contrast with the emotional tempest Finney was experiencing. Everything about this felt wrong. The neighborhood shouldn’t be this…quiet. There should be sirens, and ambulances, and policemen, and camera crews, and stretchers carrying bodies covered in sheets and—
Finney’s reverie was interrupted by Gwen elbowing him in the side, and he followed her gaze. The house closest to the driveway of 7742 Meadowbrook Lane had a woman, who appeared to be older than even Mrs. Jameson, sitting on her porch in a rocking chair. She was peering at the Blakes from behind her cat-eyed spectacles with a frown.
Terrence apparently noticed the woman as well. Small talk and pleasantries were never Terrence’s strong suit, so Finney was curious about how this would go down. “Hi,” Terrence began stiffly, “I’m Terrence Blake, and these are my kids, Gwen and…Finney.”
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you!” Gwen said with a smile. Finney waved to the woman, who did not return the smile, wave, or greeting.
“I know who you are,” the woman said simply. Terrence waited a few seconds for her to introduce herself, but when it became clear that wasn’t happening, he rummaged in his pocket to get the key and started to trudge along to the front door.
“I bet they’re all wackos on this street,” Terrence muttered to his children as they approached the entrance. Finney felt his stomach churning as Terrence put the key in the lock and turned the knob.
With the obvious exception of the basement, the interior of the house was much less familiar to Finney. The only room he remembered in detail was the kitchen, and Finney knew would be one of the first things in view once the door opened. After Terrence made his way through the door, Finney instinctively turned his head to the right and scooted off to the side and into the living room. It seemed a bit roomier than he remembered, and when he tried to rack his brain to remember why, he vaguely recalled a large board with pictures that used to be set up here. Now, there was only a sofa, table, television, and…huh…
Gwen tossed her bag on the ground unceremoniously and rushed to crouch down near the television, beaming. “Finney, there’s an Atari 2600 here!”
Finney swallowed and took a few more tentative steps into the living room. He was close enough to see Gwen perusing through a pile of cartridges, and could make out the titles: Space Invaders, Warlords, Adventure, Defender…some of those games came out within the past year.
“The last family probably left it here,” Terrence grunted as he lugged his bag into the living room and plopped it down by Gwen’s. Finney did the same. “I was told they left a bunch of their shit and never came back to claim it, so the city said anything in here is ours now.”
“Awsome,” Gwen said, eyes sparkling as she held up the Video Pinball cartridge as if it were a holy relic.
Finney wasn’t nearly as thrilled as his sister. The fact that the previous family decided to leave something that expensive behind–in addition to several other items, apparently—didn’t seem like a good sign.
What the hell happened here?
Finney tried to push the thought away and turned to look at his father expectantly.
“So…w-where are we going to be sleeping?” Finney asked Terrence, annoyed that he couldn’t keep the stutter out of his voice.
He was not going to sleep in the Grabber’s old room. No way in hell.
“I was told there were three bedrooms here, just like our house.” ‘Our house’ referred to the house that burned down, the house that would always be the Blakes. Not this hellhole. “I’ll get the asshole’s, and both of you can figure out who gets the other two. Before we start moving shit around, let’s just empty out the trunk and back of the car first so we’re not running back and forth like jackasses.”
The Blakes headed back outside, only to find that there was a slightly overweight, middle-aged man with his face up against the car windows, peering in. He looked vaguely familiar, but Finney couldn’t recall why. The man was holding a leash with a dachshund attached, which caused Gwen to squeal with excitement.
Terrence, on the other hand, was pissed. “Hey!” he shouted sharply, which caused the man to jump and the dog to start yipping. “What the hell are you doing with my car?”
The man turned around and grinned widely, holding a hand up in greeting. “Don’t worry! I wasn’t trying to case your car or nothin’. Emma”—he gestured to the old woman, who was still sitting stony-faced—”said that you folks actually bought the house, but I didn’t believe it. I mean, I’m happy that you’ve got a home again and everything, but still. Holy shit. Kid, you must have balls of steel for coming back here.”
Finney realized with a jolt that the man was referring to him and froze. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “Um, thanks…” Not like I had much of a choice…
“I’m Oscar Romano, and this little lady is Rosie,” he said, gesturing to the dachshund, whose tail was wagging ferociously back-and-forth. “We live across from the Smiths. They live right there.” He pointed across the yard to the other neighboring house that was next to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. “My wife and daughters are out shopping, but I’m sure you’ll meet them soon. And I see you’ve already met Mrs. Baur–that’s Emma. So…welcome to the neighborhood!”
“Nice to meet you,” Terrence said brusquely. “I’m Terrence, and this is Finney and Gwen.”
Oscar chuckled. “There’s not a person in Colorado who doesn’t know Finney Blake!” His warm eyes met Finney's alarmed ones. “Man, I still can’t believe you’re actually here. I’ve never met someone famous before. Well, except for Al, I guess.”
Finney saw a brief twitch in his father’s hand as he pulled the car keys from his pocket and started making his way to the car. Rosie started whining and straining at the leash.
“Can I pet your dog?” Gwen asked eagerly.
Oscar smiled. “Sure.”
Instead of waiting for Gwen to come to him, he dropped the leash, and Rosie—perhaps sensing Finney's hesitation—made a beeline for Gwen and scampered toward the girl as fast as her little legs could take her, barking all the way.
Instinctively, Finney tensed as unwanted memories from the past—and a dog much larger and intimidating—slithered their way into his mind. Finney remembered the loud barks, Max’s corpse staring up at Finney with dead, glassy eyes, the Grabber’s sadistic smile and promise that he wanted this to really hurt, the terror of being chased and not knowing if the plan would work.
Stop, it’s a fucking weiner dog. My god, get a hold of yourself…
Finney mentally kicked himself, furious that something so innocuous and tangentially related could bring those memories to the forefront. Again.
Was this really going to be his life? Would he be in his forties one day and still be unable to see white facepaint without thinking of the Grabber? Would he be in his sixties and still instinctively tense up if the lights turned on and he didn’t know who did it? When he was in his eighties and had dentures, would he be able to eat scrambled eggs without wanting to throw up?
It was embarrassing and made him feel weak, especially since his reactions—and the things that caused them—were often unexpected. Another reason why Robin should have lived insteads of me. I bet he wouldn’t be acting like this.
“Finney, give me a hand with these bags in the back seat,” Terrence called from near the car. Finney hurried over, making his way past Gwen, who was cooing and giving the pup tummy rubs. Terrence handed him a bag from the church full of clothing donations, and Finney could see from over the top of the bag that Oscar was leaning up against the Ford Pinto, apparently oblivious to Terrence’s deepening scowl.
“I know this probably wasn’t your first pick for a house, but it really ain’t a bad neighborhood,” Oscar shrugged. “Usually it’s a pretty uneventful, quiet place, at least as long as I’ve been here. I mean, besides from what happened with the killings and the cops and everything three years ago, but that kind of thing only happened once and Al’s, y’know, dead now. So aside from that, it’s pretty peaceful. I can let my kids walk around outside without worrying about gang violence or getting hit by people driving like they’re Speedy Gonzales. I think you might like it here.”
Finney could see a vein in his father’s neck throbbing and was bracing himself for whatever was about to come out of Terrence’s mouth, but before he could say something, he heard a derisive snort coming from Emma Baur, who was still rocking back and forth on her porch.
“You’re a goddamn fool if you think things are going to remain quiet, Oscar. Mark my words, the press are gonna come back here like locusts at the first sign of trouble, especially since this one’s here.” She gestured to Finney, who swallowed nervously. “Remember those numbskulls two weeks ago who were knocking on doors asking about why no one stays in 7742? It’s going to be like that, only worse. Things have finally—finally—quieted down, and now it’s about to go tits up again.”
“Dad, just ignore her,” Finney whispered. One look at Terrence’s face told Finney that that was not going to happen.
Terrence put his hands on his hips. “Well, I’m sorry that my kid was fucking kidnapped,” he snarled, venom dripping off every word. “Next time I’ll tell him to sit back and die so his death’ll remain unsolved, and you could have your precious quiet. Wouldn’t want to be a goddamn nuisance.”
Damn it, Dad…
Oscar put his hands up in a pacifying gesture, eyes wide in alarm. Sometime during the midst of the tension, Rosie wandered back to him, and Gwen scooted closer to the rest of her family. “H-hey, Emma’s just busting your chops, is all,” he stammered, fumbling for Rosie’s leash. Despite what Oscar said, Emma looked deadly serious. “Things were…well, things were pretty rough for everyone these past couple years, and some of us are still a bit on edge. Obviously you all had it the worst and I’d never say otherwise, but it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for us either. We kept getting interviewed by police and the press were hounding us for months, years in Emma’s case since she knew Al his whole life. I didn’t mind so much and did a few interviews, but others preferred their privacy.”
Finney remembered now why Oscar seemed familiar. In the months after his abduction, he would turn off the news whenever it discussed Albert Shaw, and Oscar’s face would sometimes be on the screen when he clicked the remote. He never heard what Oscar had to say about the Grabber, and was never curious, until now.
“And there’s that eyesore,” Emma spat, pointing across the street. Finney followed her finger and saw, for the first time, the empty, grassy lot that sat across from 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. Finney knew what once stood there: 7741, the building the boys were buried in. That house apparently didn’t have the same historic significance 7742 did and was destroyed. “What a waste of a damn fine house. No reason for it to be destroyed…Christ, the only things they needed to take out were those bodies, and then it could have been sold to someone else. Now there’s just that shitty, overgrown patch of grass.” She shook her head in disgust. “The city said they might not even build a new house there. Idiots, all of ‘em. We shouldn’t be punished because of something Albert did. Our property values are plummeting now and no one besides the people on this street seem to give a crap.”
“Maybe no one gives a crap because they care more about the murdered kids and their families than your shitty house.”
“Dad, stop!” hissed Finney, cheeks growing red, at the same time Gwen whispered encouragingly, “You tell her, Dad!”
Emma straightened her back and looked down haughtily at the Blakes. “Don’t twist my words to satisfy your self-righteousness. I never said it was a bad thing that Albert was caught, I just don’t want my own life to get fucked over in the process. Surely you can understand that. I can’t imagine the press vultures left you alone either.”
That much was true at least. Before Terrence could respond, Oscar hurriedly interjected, “Also, you gotta understand, the way people talked about us made it seem like we were idiots, and now a bunch of people who don’t even know us think we are idiots. Askin’ why we didn’t think there was anything weird about him carrying tarps and shovels and shit into 7741. See, we know Al’s one fry short of a Happy Meal now, but back then we all thought he was just a regular guy. The kind of guy you’d wave to if you saw him driving or outside doing yardwork. Quiet and kept to himself mostly, and didn’t start shit with anyone.”
“Except John,” Emma added, nodding.
“Right, but John's kinda…” Oscar trailed off as he looked at the house to the right of 7742. Finney followed his gaze to see someone peeking out from behind the blinds. When they caught Finney’s eye, the person behind it retreated, and goosebumps started to creep over his skin. “Well, it was just a clash of personalities. Nothing too heated. Nothing that stands out as unusual. And when he’d be all decked up in that magician garb, he’d be way more chatty and talkative, and my girls loved him. If I was told there was a killer on Meadowbrook Lane, he wouldn’t be in my top three guesses, that’s how non-suspicious he was.”
“Who would be your top guess?” Gwen immediately asked.
Oscar chuckled. “I, ah, probably shouldn’t say.” The way Oscar’s eyes glanced back to the house he was looking at previously did not go unnoticed by Finney. “So, long story short, when he said he was remodeling, I believed him, and so did everyone else. None of us had any idea he was killin’ and rapin’ kids, otherwise we would have said something.”
Terrence’s jaw clenched and his face started to flush with the same anger he’d experience whenever he heard “the ‘r’ word” used in reference to Finney or any of the missing kids. Because God forbid he actually acknowledges what happened to me…
“You people are idiots,” Terrence snapped. And with that, Finney’s faint hopes of having a somewhat-normal life on 7742 Meadowbrook Lane vanished. “My son was screaming for help, and you dimwits didn’t even bother to look outside and see that he was being chased by a masked maniac.”
Finney felt his mouth grow dry and wanted to be anywhere but there. He had a feeling his dad would bring this up. “It’s fine. I didn’t, um, I d-didn’t even scream that loud, so…”
Oscar looked at Finney, eyes shining with sympathy. “Believe me, we’re all kicking ourselves for that. It’s just, well, we knew Max was staying with Al, and there were a few times in the past where Max would run out in the middle of the night drunk as a skunk, and most of us figured that was what was happening. And then others genuinely didn’t hear anything. I’m really sorry, Finney.”’
“Besides, I’m almost eighty years old,” Emma snapped. “I can’t see shit when it’s dark.”
“I—I’m not blaming anyone!” Finney insisted as he grabbed on to the clothing bag tighter.
“I am,” Terrence said sharply. “Gwen, get the other bag in the back seat. We’re heading in.”
Gwen complied faster than normal, and Terrence locked the car before stalking towards the front door, Finney and Gwen trailing behind him. He slammed the door shut and threw the bag on the floor. Finney shifted uncomfortably. Even though the force wasn’t directed at him specifically, it still made him uncomfortable and reminded him of his father’s rages from the past.
Still, he needed to say something. “Dad, those are going to be our new neighbors for a while. We should—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Terrence snapped. He then took a few deep breaths before saying in a slightly calmer tone, “Just pick out your rooms.”
Gwen grabbed Finney’s arm and dragged him down the hallway–Finney pointedly refusing to look at the kitchen as he passed–to where the bedrooms were.
“Don’t be mad at him,” she whispered, Finney, looking behind at their father, who was sitting in one of the chairs and staring off numbly into space. “I think he’s overcompensating too.”
Finney gritted his teeth, trying to push aside the warring feelings of annoyance and compassion. He felt like a sideshow freak being put on display and didn’t like the attention he was getting from the neighbors, but Terrence’s defense of him made him feel even more like a freak.
Finney saw the room with the biggest bed, the one Finney assumed the Grabber used to sleep in, and felt his hands start to grow clammy. There were two other, smaller rooms, but both looked relatively similar in terms of interior design, though the one closest to the kitchen had a lighter color palette. Without needing to discuss it with Gwen, he immediately set his sights on the bedroom furthest from the kitchen—and, of course, the basement door—and threw his bag on the bed, staking his claim.
Finney wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but he was surprised to see that the room seemed weirdly generic. It was very plain and tidy, with a dresser, a nightstand (which had a camera resting on it, another likely leftover from the previous tenant), a closet, and a mirror. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise; it’s been three years, after all, and with so many tenants and cleaners in between, it made sense that the room was organized in a way that made it presentable to guests. Most of his personal belongings would have probably been tossed out at this point. It’s not as though I’d see top hats and cards just laying on the floor…
The thought made him relax slightly, though that ease was short-lived when he saw the painting that was hanging up on the wall.
Finney wasn’t surprised that the Grabber had an interest in art; he guessed as much already. But he expected to see replicas of surreal, bizarre imagery—paintings like The Scream. Instead, he saw a realistic depiction of a man in a gray overcoat and bowler hat, standing in front of a low wall, with the sea and a cloudy sky further in the background. It would have been a normal enough painting, if not for the floating green apple, which obscured most of the man’s face and hid his expression.
It wasn’t a scary image, but there was something about it that felt inherently unnerving, and Finney wasn’t sure why.
“Finneyyyy, do you have a freaky-ass painting hanging in your room, too?” he heard Gwen call from the room next to him.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Finney grumbled as he made his way into Gwen's room. Her room seemed less gloomy than his was, but he wasn’t sure if it was the lighter color palette or the fact that Gwen was there. She was tilting her head and looking at a painting, which was much more in line with what Finney was originally expecting to see in this house. The painting showed several clocks melting over a desert landscape, and a pocket watch covered in ants.
“Finney, I need your symbolism skills. What’s this supposed to be?”
Finney looked at the title placard, which said, The Persistence of Memory. “Um, well, these clocks aren’t solid, so maybe the artist is saying that time isn’t…solid, and our memories are what keeps them stable.”
He had the feeling that he wasn’t fully on the mark, but Gwen accepted the explanation and nodded before bounding into Finney’s room to see his painting. “Haha, wow. I don’t know if yours is weirder than mine or not. The label underneath it says Son of Man, so that might be a—ooooh, did you see the camera on the nightstand? Quick, take my picture!”
With a sigh, Finney walked into his room and grabbed the camera. Gwen skipped over to the doorframe and crouched down low, putting her hands in a finger gun pose that was reminiscent of Charlie’s Angels. Finney positioned himself to get a good shot and held the camera up to his eye, peering through the lens.
Once he did, he saw a quick, dark movement near the doorframe and behind Gwen that quickly went out of view. He blinked and lowered the camera.
“Finney,” she whined, shifting her position slightly. “Staying like this is harder than it looks. Just take the picture!”
Ignoring the growing sense of trepidation, he slowly pushed past a protesting Gwen and walked into the hallway. There was no one there.
“Dad…?” he called out tentatively.
“Yeah?” His father’s voice was distant, and in the exact opposite direction that he saw the shadowy figure move towards. Fuck my life.
“N-never mind.”
“Finney, are you okay?” asked Gwen, brows furrowed with worry.
Finney thought about lying, but he owed it to his sister to tell the truth. “I thought I saw something, but it was probably my imagination or a trick of the light.”
Gwen rolled her eyes and sighed, going back to her pose. “In a haunted house, is it ever actually a trick of the light? C’mon. It’s probably just the Grabber being stupid again. Now quick, take the picture before he tries to ruin it.”
Finney was both unsettled and impressed with how blasé Gwen was being. In a way, it made sense: supernatural shit was bound to happen. Encountering it was really a matter of ‘when,’ not ‘if.’
Still, she should be scared, Finney thought as he got back into position and held the camera up with sweaty palms. When it comes to him, you can never be complacent.
Finney peered through the lens a second time–no weirdness this time, thank God—and clicked, but the picture didn’t take. He frowned. “Sorry, Gwen, I think the last person used up all the film.”
Gwen groaned. “Just our luck…” She pouted and moved back towards the Son of Man painting. “If it worked, you could have taken a picture of this guy to show Donna.”
“Yeah, she’d probably know what it symbolizes,” he agreed. “Because honestly, I haven’t got the slightest clue.”
Gwen turned away from the picture and towards Finney, folding her arms. “By the way, you need to call her. It’s been a week already.”
“You know I’ve been trying!” Finney protested.
And he did. While his address book burned in the fire, he already had Donna’s number memorized, and tried to call her sporadically throughout the week while they were bouncing to and from houses and hotels. Every time he dialed her number, the phone would either magically stop working, or there would be so much static it was impossible to hear what she was saying on the other end. Finney knew who was really at fault, but from Donna’s perspective, he knew it probably seemed as though Finney was purposely avoiding her.
“Yeah, but she’s going to think—” Gwen stopped once she heard footsteps approaching and saw their father’s head poke into the room. When he saw the painting, he groaned.
“Just wanted to check to see what your rooms looked like,” he said, rolling his eyes at the Son of Man painting. “Christ, I’ll never understand these ‘high art’ types…can’t believe people actually spend money on this crap.”
“Did you see the picture of melty clocks in my room?” Gwen asked. “Which one do you think looks weirder, mine or Finney’s?”
Terrence laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Pretty sure the one in mine gets the award for most fucked-up.”
Gwen’s eyes gleamed as she darted to their father’s room. A few seconds later, Finney heard her cracking up with laughter. “Oh my God, Finney, come in here!”
Against his better judgment, Finney followed her down the hall, hesitating slightly before entering the threshold of what he assumed was the Grabber’s old room, and finally saw what Gwen was pointing at.
It was a picture of what looked like some kind of older, feral man with frantic eyes and long, scraggly hair, crouching down and eating what Finney thought–at first–was a steak. As he got closer, he saw that the ‘steak’ had legs. Jesus Christ… He read the placard underneath the painting: Saturn Devouring His Son.
Gwen was awash with a fresh new wave of giggles. “Imagine actually buying this and thinking, ‘hmmm, yes, this is it. This is exactly what I want to see every morning when I wake up.’”
Despite the horrific content of the image, Gwen’s humor was contagious. “Better here than in the dining room, I guess.”
There was probably some kind of symbolism or deeper significance to the picture, but Finney didn’t know—or want to know–-what it was.
“I don’t know much about art, or how much replicas sell for,” Terrence said with a twitch of a smile, leaning against the doorframe, “but if we can sell these shitty paintings, I’m thinking we might get hundreds—maybe even thousands—of dollars.”
“Are we allowed to do that?” Finney asked as his eyes wandered over the rest of the room. It was a similar dark color scheme, like Finney’s, and was larger, but other than that, it had—with the obvious exception of the painting—an inoffensively neat, tidy blandness to it.
Terrence shrugged. “We’re owners, not renters. Don’t see why not. In fact, I think we should go around the rest of the house and see what else could be sold off. After we unpack, there’s—” Terrence stopped suddenly, then put his palm against his forehead. “Goddamnit, we forgot to empty out the trunk.”
Gwen and Finney glanced at each other. Due to the distractions of the conversation and heightened emotions from earlier, they only took the remaining bags from the back of the car.
“Dad,” Finney began again, more firmly. “It’s our first day, and we might be living here a while. Since they’re our new neighbors, I think we should probably act a bit…nicer. It’s not their fault that they lived next to—to him.”
Terrence suddenly looked a lot older than he really was as he started to move away from the doorframe and through the hallway. “Yeah. Yeah, I know…”
His children trailed after him, watching as he peered through the front blinds. Terrence cursed underneath his breath. “There are two more out there now. I swear, they’re like flies on shit.”
“I really don’t want this to become a big thing,” Finney insisted. “It’s not their fault. It’s not your fault.” Terrence’s eyes snapped from the blinds to his son. “It’s not anyone’s fault, except…his.” And mine. “And I'm fine with living here, really.” No, I’m not. “I don’t want things to start off on the wrong foot with people who are going to be living right next to us for a while.”
Terrence was quiet for a moment. “Alright.”
Then, he opened the door and headed out.
“Nice one, Finney,” Gwen whispered to him under her breath, giving him a thumbs up sign. Finney wasn’t so sure if what he said actually got through to his father or not. Guess he’d see.
As they walked closer to the car, Finney spotted both Oscar and Emma, as well as the two new additions his father was complaining about: a man and a woman who seemed to be in their late thirties or early forties. The man was wearing a sport’s coat and had brown, slicked-back hair, while the woman had soft blonde hair that was curled right above her shoulders, and an immaculately clean, knee-length red dress. She was holding a container with tinfoil paper wrapped around it, and beamed when she saw the Blakes.
“Oh, John, that’s them now!”
John strode up to Terrence and stuck his hand out with a bright, dazzling smile. “Hi there. The name’s John Smith. My wife Mary and I live on 7744.”
‘John and Mary Smith?’ Gwen mouthed to Finney in disbelief. Finney ignored her, worried that they’d see. ‘John and Mary Smith’ did seem like extremely generic names, generic to the point where it seemed unusual that someone would actually have them.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Terrence took his hand, and the relief from everyone present was almost palpable. “Nice to meet you,” he said gruffly. He looked at Oscar. “Didn’t mean to be so on edge earlier.”
That was the closest Oscar would get to an apology, and he nodded, eyes wide. “No worries, man. I getcha. Tough times and all that.”
“I was on edge too,” Emma admitted tersely. “Some of what I said came out…wrong.”
Terrence nodded stiffly. “I know the press can be shitty.”
There was a brief moment of awkward silence, which was broken by John. “Excellent,” he said smiling, clasping his hands. His eyes seemed to sparkle as they landed on Finney. “And this must be the famous Finney Blake and his lovely sister, Gwendolyn.”
Without warning, Finney found himself in a firm handshake too. “Hi,” Finney mumbled.
“We’re so sorry we didn’t come out earlier,” Mary said cheerfully. “I was making apple pie.”
“That’s alright,” Terrence said as he pulled the keys from his pocket. “We’re just getting bags from our trunk, and then we’re heading back in.”
John gave a hearty laugh. “Oh, it’s not for us! Mary made that pie as a welcome present. She made a casserole for you folks, too.”
Terrence wasn’t sure quite how to take that. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered.
Finney and Gwen thanked the Smiths too, and Mary handed the food to Gwen while Finney and Terrence dug through the rest of the bags in the trunk.
“You know, Al and I didn’t really get off on the right foot,” John said with a smile as he watched the Blakes fiddling around with the bags. “I’m glad things are different now. You’ve got a house, we’ve got a new neighbor. Everything's coming up roses!”
Finney saw Terrence’s eye twitch and knew that his father was trying very, very hard to maintain his composure, for Finney’s sake. He slung the bags over his shoulders. “We’d prefer not to talk about him. As far as we’re concerned, Shaw’s old news. He’s done. We want to move on, and we’d appreciate you not talking about him to us.”
“But what about the ghost?” Oscar asked, aghast. Shit, Finney thought, watching as father’s face rotated through various shades of red. “He’s gotta be haunting that house, man. The last family—the Williams family—they were running out of there like a bat out of hell in the middle of the night, screaming their asses off. They were buggin’ out so much, they didn’t even come to get back any of their shit, that’s how scared they were. And a bunch of other families just up and left too.”
“They’re being haunted already, Oscar,” Emma snapped. “Why do you think every damn place they went to had some kind of problem?”
“We’re not being haunted,” Terrence said, voice raising. Finney saw the veins on neck bulging. “We’ve just had some bad luck, that’s all.”
“But the Williams’ said their youngest kid almost died, and—”
“Oscar,” John cut in silkily, perhaps sensing that Terrence was on the verge of blowing a gasket. “If Al’s ghost really is haunting the house, then we should take solace in the fact that he can’t successfully kill a three year old. Looks like the old boy’s lost his touch.” John chuckled and winked at Finney. What the fuck? “And besides, we all know that, for whatever reason, he held an unreasonable vendetta against me. And in these past three years, not once have I experienced anything I would consider supernatural. I say let the Blakes enjoy their new home without planting all these ideas in their heads.”
“Especially poor Finney,” Mary said sympathetically. “This must be so hard for him already.”
Everyone turned to look at Finney, and his face started to heat up. “I, um, I—I’m fine. Really.”
“If that’s it, we’re going to head back in,” Terrence said curtly
“There is one more thing,” John said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A few months ago, the police inspected the house again and were digging through your yard. You saw how last week, they announced they were looking for links between him and other disappearances, yeah? They found a couple things in the house, but nothing outside. Still made one heck of a mess though. Just wanted to let you know in case you notice anything unusual about the soil.”
“Got it, thanks,” Terrence mumbled. He nodded to the rest of the neighbors and made his way back to the house, Gwen and Finney right behind him. As Finney entered the door, he was keenly aware of four sets of eyes that lingered on him until he was out of sight.
****
The next few hours were generally uneventful. Finney spent most of that time mentally working up the courage to enter the kitchen, which he eventually did. In doing so, he got to see the basement door from the outside, which was an angle he’d never seen it from before. It still filled him with dread but—weirdly enough—not as much as he thought it would, which he attributed to the presence of Gwen and Terrence, who were within his view.
There was still no way he would go downstairs, though. Not a chance in hell.
But Terrence did. “It’s just a regular basement now,” Terrence said on his way up the stairs, meeting his children’s wide-eyed stares. “Nothing special about it.”
Finney could feel Terrence’s eyes on him most of the day and tried his best to act normal. He saw Terrence nod approvingly out of the corner of his eye when Finney first stepped into the kitchen, and could tell Terrence was hoping Finney would attempt to venture downstairs to face his fears head-on, but that was simply out of the question.
When they ate dinner, even Terrence couldn’t find anything to criticize about Mary’s casserole and pie. It reminded Finney of the meals he used to eat back when Mom was alive, which filled him with a now-familiar mix of longing and annoyance.
During the middle of dinner, the phone rang. Finney and Gwen immediately tensed up, which caused Terrence to look at them oddly. They relaxed when they heard Mr. Clarkson’s message on voicemail explaining that the school has enough materials to resupply them with the books and binders lost in the fire, and that they didn’t have to worry about making up any assignments.
Gwen decided to celebrate by testing out the Atari 2600 after she finished showering, while Terrence headed in early for the night.
Since Finney was now alone without Terrence or Gwen nearby, the reality of being in this house again was beginning to set in. As much as he pretended otherwise when with his family, it still felt as though he had a noose wrapped around his neck and was standing on a box, waiting in trepidation for someone to kick the box out from beneath his feet.
But I’ll have to get used to it, he thought glumly as he opened the kitchen window in hopes that it would somehow alleviate the overwhelming sense of oppressiveness. Eventually, he would need to shower. Eventually, he would need to sleep. And eventually, he might even need to go into the—
Ring. Ring.
Goosebumps crept over Finney’s skin as that infernal ringing seemed to echo throughout the house. It felt as though the air grew still and the imaginary noose around his neck grew tighter. With a mix of frustration, resignation, and despair, he slowly trudged over and picked it up with sweaty hands. He put the receiver up to his ear and listened.
“Hi, Finney!”
Finney felt his grip loosen.
“Donna?”
She giggled. “I know you’ve probably got a lot on your mind right now, but Gwen gave me your new number and I wanted to surprise you.” Her tone grew a bit more anxious. “Is this a bad time? If it’s a bad time, I’ll go.”
“No!” Finney practically shouted into the receiver. He then started to blush. “N-no, I have time. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to call you this past week but there were a lot of tech problems at every single different house and hotel I went to, and…yeah.”
If she doesn’t dump you, it’ll be a miracle, Finney told himself, inwardly cringing at how fake his explanation sounded.
But Donna didn’t seem mad. Instead, she just giggled again. “Oh, darn. Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time.”
Finney felt butterflies and couldn’t help the big, stupid grin from spreading across his face. “I guess so.”
“Alrighty then,” she said cheerfully. “Tell me. I want to hear about everything that’s happened!”
And he did—at least, the parts that didn’t involve ghosts, or the paintings. While he knew she would probably be knowledgeable about the artwork, he didn’t want to bring them up. Mentioning them would involve Donna in this twisted world of the Grabber and his past, and it felt wrong somehow, even though Finney knew--deep down--that Donna would want to know that part of him.
Instead, he told her about how a fire mysteriously started in their home and he broke the window in order to save Gwen. He told her about the Yamadas, the Hoffmans, and the Martins. He told her about the motels and the various issues they had. He told her about the stress of essentially living out of the car, and the weirdness of meeting the new neighbors, which she seemed very interested in.
They were on the phone for about thirty minutes. Donna–like always—was a good listener. When Finney asked about school, she would shift the focus back on him, and she was so full of energy that it made Finney a bit jealous. And Finney wasn’t sure if it was in his head or not, but he thought she was acting a bit flirtier than normal, which caused him to get tongue-tied and embarrassed and her to laugh, which made him get even more flustered, but also a gooey mess on the inside.
Eventually the conversation progressed to the point where Finney was describing the house itself, but stopped, finding himself not able to finish. Sensing his discomfort, Donna’s voice became softer and more serious.“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Being back in the house…I know there’s a lot of memories. It’s probably hard to deal with, after being away for so long.”
Finney thought for a moment, debating on what to say. “I feel kind of…empty,” he admitted. “Like how I felt before when I was here. You’re right, there are a lot of memories, and they’re all really terrible. I remember feeling miserable and”—alright, enough with the pity party—”well, anyway, there’s not much else I can do, so I just have to deal with it, I guess.”
Donna was quiet for a moment. “You felt empty?” she asked, so soft that he could barely hear at all. “You were miserable all the time? There was nothing you liked? Nothing that made you feel happiness or love or anything good?”
Finney thought it was a really odd question at first, but then, when he heard her sniffle on the other end, he understood why she asked it. “Donna, it’s—it’s okay, it’s over. I’m over it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up. The past is the past and—”
He heard her crying softly and began to panic. This was the kind of thing he was afraid of; people sometimes got weird when he would talk about the basement, even without going into detail. He knew Donna would be saddened and empathetic, but he didn’t think she would react quite this emotionally. Is this hormonal? Am I sexist for thinking that?
Thinking solely of Donna’s comfort, Finney backpedaled and said, “Y-you know, it wasn’t all bad.”
Her sniffling abided somewhat. “R-really? Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
He thought about hearing Robin’s voice over the phone for the final time and how it gave him courage. He remembered waking up to see the light from the window, which let him know that he survived another day. He remembered the hope that the first phone call with Bruce gave him, remembered the righteous feeling when the boys were finally avenged. “No. There were some things…”
“Like what?”
Finney shifted uncomfortably. “It’s kind of, um, personal stuff.”
Am I a bad boyfriend for saying that? Am I supposed to tell her? Is she going to hate me?
Donna didn’t seem to mind, though. It was as if a light switch was turned on and she immediately perked up, rushing to say, “It’s alright if you feel shy talking about it. I’m just glad to hear you have some good memories! When you’re home, try to remember those instead of the bad.”
Hearing her tone that seemed to be brimming with a contagious happiness made Finney smile as well. “Thanks, Donna. You always know how to make me feel better.”
“Mmm hmm~”
There was a moment of comfortable silence, and before Finney could figure out what to say, Donna continued, this time a bit more subdued. “You know, Finney, when you were talking about how you felt empty before, well…I just want you to know that you’re not alone. I used to feel that way, too. But me and you being together like this makes me feel like we’re both where we belong. Like everything’s right in the world again. This is the way it should be.”
Finney had a vague feeling of deja vu that was quickly blown away by her next few words. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a long time, but…I love you, Finney.” Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you. That’s when I knew I had to have you. If you ever felt like I didn’t feel that way, or if I ever made you feel confused or miserable, then I'm sorry. I just wanted you to be happy.”
Holy crap. This is it. It’s really happening. He felt like he had enough energy to run a marathon five times over. All his earlier worries dissipated into thin air, and the Grabber became a distant memory. The giddiness inside him was even stronger than when he kissed Donna for the first time, stronger than when he first asked her out on a date after a couple years of just being friends.
“Donna, I–” WHY DID MY VOICE HAVE TO CRACK NOW?? He swallowed and took a couple deep breaths, suddenly so, so glad Gwen was absorbed in her Space Invaders game at maximum volume. “I love you, too.” And he knew he meant it. The joy inside made him feel like there should be fireworks in the background, like there was a little person inside him doing cartwheels. “I just wish I could have said it to you in person first instead of on the phone.”
Immediately after he said it, he felt like punching himself. She told him ‘I love you’ first. Why the hell would he say anything that wasn’t 100% positive? He opened his mouth to verbally self-flagellate and clarify that he was not upset, but Donna spoke up instead. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of times to tell me in person. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and relaxed. “It’s funny you say that, because—and I know this is going to sound really corny—but back when I was thirteen, I remember thinking to myself, ‘I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life with this person.’” Holy shit, this is not a proposal. REIGN YOURSELF IN, MAN. “N-not that I’m saying, um, we have to, but for now, I mean, um—”
“No, no, I want to!” Donna’s voice was bridled with joy as she soothingly rushed to assure him all was well. “Back then, when you were thirteen, I knew how you felt. I could tell you wanted me too, even if you were too shy to admit it. There were other boys I was….fond of. But you, Finney, you’re special. There’s this connection between us that I didn’t have with the others.”
Other boys... He thought of Matt’s taunts, and his smile faded. Although Finney started to become friends with Donna after his escape three years ago, it was only within the past couple months that he actually worked up the courage to ask her out. Before that, she dated a couple different guys, though Gwen said she only did that because she thought Finney wasn’t interested since he never made a move.
Can I really be the kind of guy she needs? Doubt began to gnaw at him. “Thanks for, um, sticking around. Most girls wouldn’t want to deal with a boyfriend who gets a bit weird with, um”—how could he say it without sounding completely pathetic?—”touching.” He cringed, there was no way to make it sound anything other than terrible. Face growing red, he rushed to continue. “But I’m basically over it. I mean, I'm in this house, right? That’s all old news. I can’t wait to see you and then I can, um…yeah.”
“Touch me?” she asked mischievously.
He felt his face heating up again. “I—I didn’t mean it like that!” he sputtered.
There was a long pause where Finney wanted to sink into the floor. Did I just offend her? Should I say something? He opened his mouth, but stopped when he heard her voice over the receiver, sounding very sad and forlorn. “There’s no need to be nervous around me,” she said quietly. “I know in the past there were times when, well…” she trailed off. “I–I think…I think I can fix this. I can make it so you’ll definitely like it this time. When you're with me again, I just need to remember to be nice and gentle. Sometimes it’s easy to forget if we’re caught up in the moment…”
Whoa whoa whoa whoa this is moving way too fast what the hell is even happening now.
Finney felt his throat grow dry and swallowed. Was she talking about sex, or was he reading too much into it? They just made out for the first time last week. Donna never seemed this forward with him before. But was this normal? Was this how normal high school relationships progressed?
He felt a stab of self-loathing as he tightened his hands over the receiver. He wasn’t sure if it was a result of being raised by Terrence Blake or just being an American male in general, but what Donna was saying felt weirdly emasculating. He should be comforting her, making her feel comfortable, not the other way around.
But, a nagging, darker inner voice whispered, you’re not a man. A real man would jump at the chance to have sex with his girlfriend. But not you, because every little thing reminds you of him. Maybe he was right and you really did want it, that must be why you can't get over it. You’re pathetic. Robin deserved to live, not you.
Finney bit down on his lip so hard he was sure it would start bleeding. He remembered Dr. Moore talking to him about intrusive thoughts like this, but he forgot what she said to do about them. And at that moment, he didn’t care.
The elation he felt earlier deflated, and he felt disgusting.
“Finney? Finney, are you alright?”
“Yeah…” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I just…” What should he say? “I just love you a lot, Donna. I really do. I’m sorry I can’t be a better boyfriend, and I’m sorry that you’re dealing with all my baggage.” Although his tone sounded even, he was annoyed to feel tears prickle in his eyes.
“Hey, hey…” she soothed gently. “There’s no reason to cry. I’m here now, so everything’s okay.”
That emasculating feeling came back again. “I’m not crying,” he lied. “There’s just a lot of dust in here and the air’s all stuffy, so it’s causing my eyes to feel a bit irritated.”
“Suuuure.”
“It’s true!”
She giggled. “But the window’s open, silly. How could the dust and air be bothering your eyes?”
“Well, that’s—”
Finney suddenly stopped, blood turning to ice in his veins.
How did she know the window was open?
He could see the hairs on his arms standing up. The room suddenly seemed a lot colder, and it wasn’t because of the window. His heart started pounding against his ribcage and his breath seemed to be caught in his throat.
How did she know I had tears in my eyes?
And since when does she call me ‘Finney’ and not ‘Finn’?
There was a long moment of dead silence. Finney tried to quash his overwhelming nausea as he mentally replayed their conversation over and over, feeling growing horror and revulsion at the double meanings that originally went over his head.
Gwen didn’t have Donna’s number memorized like Finney did, so there’s no way she could have called Donna. It should have been obvious from the beginning.
He really was an idiot who deserved to die.
“H-how are you doing this?” he whispered weakly into the receiver. “I know it’s you. How are you changing your voice?”
There was a pause, and then: “I’m not changing my voice.”
Finney closed his eyes and said nothing as he leaned his head against the wall. He remained like that for about fifteen seconds.
Then, ‘Donna’ finally caved.
“Welllll, I guess it’s really just semantics. I’m not changing my actual voice, but you might be hearing it kind of…differently on the phone today. And no, I’m not going to tell you how. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
Finney opened his eyes. “I’m hanging up.”
Donna’s voice took a colder, commanding tone that Finney never heard come out of her mouth. “I don’t want you to hang up.”
“I said everything you wanted me to say, right?” he spat, wringing the phone cord around his hands. His hands were shaking slightly out of anger and something else. “W-what else could there possibly be?”
He knew he was tempting fate by asking this, and for a few seconds there was silence, until ‘Donna’ finally spoke. Her voice sounded tired and weary. “It originally was in the dining room, you know. Not my copy, but the original.”
Finney knew this was going to turn into some circuitous bullshit, and he was right. Part of him wanted to just hang up the phone now. Part of him wanted to start yelling and cursing the Grabber out for fucking with his feelings like this. But the largest part of him felt too ashamed and weak and defeated to do anything and just wanted this to be over, and knew it wouldn’t without listening to what he wanted to say. “...what was?”
“That painting. You know the one I’m talking about.”
“The old guy eating the kid?” he asked hollowly, absentmindedly locking his eyes on the basement door.
“Yeah. See, the artist actually painted fourteen images on his walls. They’re called the Black Paintings because the poor sap was in a bit of a downward spiral at the time…. we both know what that’s like, right?”
Finney said nothing, but curled his fingers. ‘Donna’ continued, “And, well, if you keep all this darkness inside, it just festers and eats away at you until there's nothing left. You need to get it out somehow. So the way he got it out was by making these paintings that are—according to your dad—’fucked up.’ And when he died, people went into his villa and saw them on the walls, and then transferred them onto a canvas and made them public. Those paintings were meant to be for his eyes only, but people never respect the dead unless it's convenient for them. It’s a real shame.”
Before he mainly felt a dull emptiness, but that last comment roused a familiar wave of irritation in him. “Like you’re one to talk about respecting the dead.”
“Hmmm, I guess you're right. But if I knew what being dead was like at the time, I probably would have handled some things differently.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to continue the story.”
“You know what? Fuck this,” His anger flared again as he gripped the phone tightly. “I care about Donna—the real Donna—and I need to know she’s safe. If you—”
“So like I was saying,” the Grabber continued loudly, “the paintings were found, and then put onto a canvas. Now, because the artist didn’t want or expect anyone to see them, he didn’t bother giving any of them titles. The ones who found the paintings after he died made assumptions and created the names based on what they thought was happening. They thought the image in the bedroom was a reference to the Roman myth, so that’s what they named it. And that’s the name everyone knows it by, centuries later.”
There was a long pause, and Finney realized the Grabber was expecting him to say something. “That’s it? You’re done?” The story seemed weirdly anticlimactic. “Can I hang up now?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I want you to think hard about why I’m mentioning this.”
“I don’t know,” Finney cried out in exasperation. “To tell me that if you could paint, you wouldn’t have killed kids? Because you don’t feel like you fucked around with my mind enough already? Because you want to scare me?”
A dark chuckle came from the other end of the receiver that sounded so wrong coming from Donna’s mouth. “Oh, this isn’t meant to scare you. If you want to be scared, then you should get the film developed from the camera upstairs.”
Goosebumps crept over his skin as he remembered the Williams’ camera, perched atop the nightstand. Yeah, no. That film’s remaining undeveloped. Ignorance was bliss.
“You see, Finney, everyone made all these assumptions about the artist, and about what he was thinking and what he intended, and then years later, the whole world treats those assumptions as fact. But they’re not. In the myth, Saturn doesn’t eat his children, he just swallows them whole. People think they’re looking at Saturn, but really have no idea what the hell they’re looking at. No one truly knows who the man in the picture is supposed to be, or what the artist was thinking, or if he was even thinking at all. But people like to believe they do, because it makes them feel more comfortable that way. So what I’m trying to get at is that you, and others, think you know a lot about me, but you really don’t. You shouldn’t make assumptions about me, or about what I’m feeling or thinking, or it might come back to bite you.” There was a slight pause. “That phrasing was just coincidental. I’m not a cann—-“
“Just stop. I know enough.” The emotions from earlier started piling up as he hissed into the receiver. “I know you killed and”—he couldn’t bring himself to say “the ‘r’ word”—”violated a bunch of kids. I know that today, you did what I actually think might have been the cruelest thing you ever did to me, and that bar’s pretty fucking high.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Donna’s soft voice suddenly sounded fragile and vulnerable over the receiver. It felt so profane and wrong. “I meant every single word I said before. The only reason I’m talking to you like…this, is because I knew you wouldn’t listen otherwise. I know you think I’m a monster, but my feelings are real.”
Finney ran his fingers through his curls in frustration. He felt tears prickling at his eyes again. “Jesus Christ, just stop it. Please. I don’t want to hear this.”
He heard Donna’s voice sniffling. “Okay…I’ll go…but I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be coming by later tonight to explain some things, like why you’re here, and what the next steps are going to be. I’m also going to be cashing in that favor you owe me.”
Finney froze. He hadn’t forgotten, but the previous conversation with ‘Donna’ made him fear the possibilities. “What is it?”
“You’ll find out soon. But don’t worry, it’s not anything bad.”
That meant absolutely nothing, coming from this man. But Finney knew the Grabber liked to play games, and wanted to be somewhat prepared. “Can I have a hint?”
“Hmmm. You were mostly good today, so I guess I could give you a little something. Your hint is…gray.”
What the hell?
The first thing that came to mind was, of course, the basement. His heart started pounding. “You don’t have to be nervous, Finney. It’ll be a good thing, you’ll see. I just wanted to let you know about it now so that you could get some sleep in beforehand, since I know it’s a school night. I’ll be there around 3:30, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep afterwards.”
No fucking way was he going to be able to get a single wink of sleep tonight. It just wasn’t happening. “Why can’t you just tell me now?”
“You’ll see~” Donna’s voice sang playfully. Then, it grew more serious. “Oh, and Finney…I know your dad wants to get rid of the artwork, but if he does, I’m going to be upset. They mean a lot to me, especially the two portraits in your room.”
Wait, two? Before Finney could open his mouth to ask, Donna’s voice grew more upbeat. “Bye, Finney! I’ll see you later.”
He stared at the receiver, heart still beating rapidly. Without thinking, he immediately took his shaking fingers and dialed Donna–the real Donna’s—number. Every ring brought a heightened sense of nervousness.
Please be okay…
He had no idea if the call would even go through, just like he had no idea how the Grabber was able to sound just like Donna. Was it some kind of spirit possession? The thought made him ill to think about. He remembered Gwen telling him in the hospital that she asked the Grabber if he would possess her. She later told him that he answered ‘Maybe’ on the Ouija Board, but Finney wasn’t sure if possession was something he could actually do, or if he was just saying that to fuck with Gwen.
Or maybe it’s something else. The Grabber said he didn’t change his voice, but changed how it sounded over the phone.
But if that was the case, could Finney truly trust anyone who called the house?
Finney was about to hang the phone up when he heard a deep, male voice on the phone. “Hello?”
“Jesse?” Finney asked tentatively. Jesse was Donna’s older brother, a senior at their high school.
“Oh. Hey, Finn,” Jesse said. It sounded like him, but was there any way to truly tell? “Sorry to hear about your house, man. Your luck’s been really shitty, but at least you’ve got a new place. A house’s still a house, yeah?”
“Y-yeah. It’s fine.” Finney swallowed. “Jesse, is Donna acting alright?”
There was a long pause, and Finney’s anxiety started to spike wildly. “She wouldn’t want me to unload this on you now with all you’re going through, but there’s…I dunno. She’s got something big going on." Shit, is the Grabber haunting her too? “Not that I'm the best person to ask...”
Finney winced a bit at Jesse’s dejected tone. Jesse and Donna were both adopted by the Andersons, which was sometimes a point of contention since Donna knew some information about her birth mother while Jesse knew absolutely nothing about his. Whereas Donna could be passed off as a biological child of the Andersons, Jesse’s skin color and facial features made him feel out of place, and in the past he would sometimes verbally take his frustrations out on Donna. Although their relationship had gotten much better within the past two years, there was still an occasional lingering tension that made Finney grateful of his relationship with Gwen.
“Did she try calling me before?”
“How would she? None of us know the number to that freaky place—er, no offense.”
“None taken,” Finney muttered.
“We just finished dinner now, and she’s washing dishes. I’ll call her over. Donna! It’s your boyfriend!”
Finney heard movement from the other side, and heard Donna’s breathless voice. “H-hi, Finn!”
Unwanted memories of the Grabber began to claw their way into his mind. “Hey, Donna.”
Donna paused slightly at the unintentional sharpness in her boyfriend’s tone, and Finney felt a wave of hatred for both the Grabber and himself. “Finn, is everything…okay?” Before he could respond, Donna said, “Ugh, that was a stupid question…of course it’s not. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I keep telling my mom that you should be staying with us, but she’s such a stick-in-the-mud, saying how it would be”—here she did a surprisingly decent imitation of Mrs. Anderson—”‘improper.’ Pffft. Her mind’s always in the gutter. I just—I wish I was with you right now.”
Finney clutched the phone tighter, and with his sweaty palms he was surprised it didn’t slip away. Normally, hearing something like this would fill him with joy, but the spectral memory of Albert Shaw loomed over him like a raincloud, distorting his feelings and thoughts. And the reference to what Mrs. Anderson thought might be happening reminded him of—no, stop it. “I-it’s fine. I’m just a bit tired from traveling, that’s all. What about you? How are you doing?”
“Yeah, I’m fine! Everything’s good over here.”
Finney could tell it was a lie. He knew Donna well enough to know when the cheer in her voice was fake, and he could tell from her tone that this was one of those moments. This was the “I don’t mind that Megan Cook got the role of Emily in ‘Our Town’ instead of me,” voice, the “I don’t care if Jesse says he hates this family,” voice, the “I blanked out on my math final, but it’s totally not worth worrying about” voice. Something was bothering Donna, and Finney needed to know what.
“You sure? Jesse said that you were kind of on a downward spiral and—”
Finney stopped his sentence midway. ‘Downward spiral’? Goddamnit, would the Grabber ever get out of his mind?
“Ughhh. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s nothing important, I promise. Just stupid stuff. Anyway, enough about me! I want to hear about you. Tell me everything!”
Normally, he’d jump at the chance to talk to Donna, like he did earlier. But now, he just felt drained. Empty. “I, um, I’m not really up for getting into everything right now,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the cord. “I just called to, y’know, check in…”
There was another pause that lasted a few seconds, and that slimy, intrusive voice pushed its way back into his mind and laughed.
He hated himself. He really did.
“Oh,” she said, softly. “I just thought that since it’s been a week, we could—”
He closed his eyes again and felt tears prickle in his eyes again. “We’ll talk more tomorrow when I see you in school,” he whispered. “Bye, Donna.”
“...Okay. Bye, Finn.”
He stared at the receiver long after he heard the phone click. He felt like a gaping chasm now existed between him and Donna that was never there before. A chasm that was entirely his fault.
****
That night, Finney took a long, hot shower, the first in a long time.
He didn’t think that he would; this entire week, his paranoia only allowed him to take showers that only lasted a few minutes out of fear of spectral voyeurs. But he realized that today, he no longer had the energy to care.
If he was being watched, then so be it (it’s nothing he hasn’t seen, anyway, ughh). What was more important was feeling clean.
And today, he found that to be extremely difficult.
Because nothing he seemed to do worked to get rid of the feeling of uncleanliness. He washed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed again, but kept feeling as if there were spiders and centipedes crawling underneath his skin. He only stopped when he noticed his hands turning raw and red and worried that Gwen would notice them tomorrow.
Finney didn’t bother telling his sister about the phone call. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing anyone could do.
‘Stop acting like you already lost!’ he could imagine Robin scolding him as he put on his pajamas. ‘This is what he wants! C’mon, you gotta be strong for me, Finn.’
But he didn’t feel strong, not today. He felt so incredibly violated, and that was the thought that kept replaying through his mind as he vomited into the toilet.
Afterwards, he finished unpacking. And it was during this time that Finney found the second portrait.
It was hidden away behind stacked up boxes, encased in glass and attached firmly to the wall deep inside the closet.
And it wasn’t a painting, not really. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a carefully-preserved, vintage, illustrated advertisement from the 1930s.
It was a portrait of a handsome man from the shoulders up, wearing a tuxedo and juxtaposed against a navy curtain background. The man had short, wavy brown hair and gray eyes that reflected wisdom and knowledge beyond his young age. The words “Thurston: The Great Magician” were written out in big, yellow blocky letters at the bottom, and in smaller blue letters underneath it, there was a caption that read, “The Wonder Show of the Universe.”
But what caused Finney’s skin to prickle were the two creatures resting on the man’s shoulders. Clinging to Thurston’s right shoulder was a small red devil, peering up at the magician with a frown on his face. On his left shoulder stood a happier devil, who was leaning over and whispering into Thurston’s ear.
The magician appeared stoic, but Finney could see–upon closer inspection—the hint of a smile on the man’s face.
Finney sat looking at the portrait for a while, numbly lost in thought, before closing the closet door and slipping under the covers of the bed, an overwhelming sense of wrongness throbbing throughout his body.
There was nothing else to do tonight but wait.
****
Notes:
The poster of Howard Thurston is also a real piece of artwork! If you google "Thurston magician" it should be one of the first pictures you see. He has a couple different ones where the devils are on his shoulders, but the image I used as a reference is the one with the navy background.
Other paintings include:
-Son of Man by René Magritte
-The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí
-Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco Goya
Chapter 7: Only Good Things
Notes:
Sorry this chapter took a while to post! This chapter was originally VERY LONG, so I ended up needing to split it. The good news is that I have most of the next chapter written out already, so it'll definitely be posted by next Sunday.
-As a minor warning, the first couple paragraphs include some surreal dream imagery, including insects and overeating. If that's something that bothers you, I recommend skipping the first couple paragraphs. I don't think it's anything too graphic, but I'm mentioning it just to be on the safe side.
- The Time-Out mentioned in the chapter is what the Nintendo Game & Watch was called when it came to America in 1980
-A few of the lines from the storybook in this chapter are from the Illustrated Classics version of the "Theseus and the Minotaur" story
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Finney went to bed fully expecting to stay awake the entire night, but vastly underestimated the physical and mental toll of ‘Donna’s’ conversation. Within an hour, the boy’s mind drifted into unconsciousness, memories and fears mixing together like paint on a canvas to create a Kafkaesque dreamscape.
In the dream, Finney was seated at the dinner table, which was covered in steaks and other meats. He wasn’t hungry, but two red devils behind him were cooing and coaxing him to eat, growing harsher and more demanding the longer Finney hesitated. So he reached out and ate. He ate and ate and ate even though he was bloated and nauseous and wanted nothing more than to leave the table. But it never seemed to be enough for the devils, who kept clawing at him and teasing and whispering praises that made his skin crawl.
And then he saw the apple. It was a hopeful, vibrant green in a sea of red, dead meat, and when he reached out and grabbed it, Finney found that he was now in the desert instead of the dining room. The apple melted in his hands, and when Finney reached down and tried to wash his hands in the resulting puddle of goo, his hands grew dirtier instead of cleaner. He scrubbed and scrubbed but nothing seemed to work, and his hands began to bleed and spiders and centipedes started crawling out from under his skin, and he started screaming and crying and then—
And then he was seven again, huddled up in his bed with astronaut posters and star cutouts sloppily taped onto his bedroom walls, leaning against Mom. She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them, making everything better like always. Five-year old Gwen curled up next to him, tracing her fingers against the illustrations of the picture book Mom was holding.
“—and so Theseus descended into the depths of the labyrinth in order to face the fearsome Minotaur,” Mom narrated in a low, dramatic voice. Gwen giggled, and the world became more grounded.
I’m dreaming, Finney realized. And this part is a memory.
It was an odd feeling, being aware that he was dreaming. It was as though his mind was split in two directions. Finney knew there was something important that was going to happen in the waking world, but wasn’t sure what it was. And at this point, he didn’t care.
Finney recalled asking a certain question long ago, and he repeated the action in his dream: “Was he scared?”
“No he wasn’t,” Gwen yawned. “Heroes never get scared of anything. They’re brave.”
“Everyone gets scared sometimes,” said Mom, poking Gwen’s nose lightly and causing the five-year old to giggle. “Bravery doesn’t mean you never get scared, it just means you’re willing to face danger even though it’s scary. And Theseus was scared too. But he had something that made him brave. Do you remember what it was?”
“The red string,” Finney remembered. “The princess gave it to him so he wouldn’t get lost in the maze.”
“Exactly, sweetie.” She kissed his forehead. “Everyone needs help sometimes, even heroes like Theseus. The reason there are so many people on this earth is because God doesn’t want anyone to be lost and lonely. And because of his special bond with the princess, Theseus knew no matter how dark and dangerous it was, he would be able to find his way back. There’s always a way back, if you have someone waiting for you.”
‘That’s not true,’ Finney tried to say. ‘You couldn’t find your way back.’ He wanted to tell Mom that she couldn’t handle the darkness, that she chose to kill herself and leave the people who loved her behind. But the words wouldn’t come out.
Mom adopted her storyteller persona once more. “And so Theseus found the Minotaur and locked him into a ferocious battle. The beast towered above the hero, growling with anger. Theseus drew his dagger, and the Minotaur chuckled, unafraid of the young man he was so sure he would overpower.”
Gwen’s eyes grew wide as saucers and Finney started to feel nervous for the hero.
“But Theseus was fast and cunning, and was fighting for a greater purpose. The two were in an epic struggle, but in the end, Theseus leaped forward and plunged his dagger into the beast’s heart.”
Mom imitated the stabbing motion and Gwen squealed and started clapping. Finney wondered if there would ever be nights where Theseus would stay wide awake, thinking about the monster he killed. Probably not...
“As the beast let out one final breath, Theseus knew the victims had been avenged, and there would be no more deaths at the hands of the monster. And in the end, good triumphed, like it always does.”
‘No, it doesn’t!’ he wanted to say. But no sound came out of his mouth. ‘It didn’t for Robin. It didn’t for Bruce and all the others.’
But who was Robin? Who was Bruce?
Who were the others he was thinking of?
Mom saw his distress, like she always does, and pulled him into a hug. She gave him a kiss on the forehead and stroked his hair, telling him what a good, sweet, special boy he was. He cuddled and leaned in to her touch and was so happy, he couldn’t even remember why he was upset. He was where he belonged and she was where she belonged, and all was right with the world.
****
When Finney opened his eyes, his mind was in the dreamlike haze between slumber and reality, wondering—for a moment—where his mom went. He couldn’t see her, but but he could still feel her soothing fingers caressing the locks of his hair in undulating motions, though they seemed a bit firmer and calloused and—
Finney blinked, shaking the grogginess aside and pushing himself into a sitting position. Within a few seconds, the nighttime reverie was just that: a dream. His room with the space decorations was a pile of ash. His mother was rotting six feet under the earth. His memories of her forehead caresses and kisses couldn’t even give him joy anymore because…
Oh. Right…
Finney was now fully awake and alert and felt the air on the back of his arms stand up. The house was silent and pitch black. Finney tried to squint and make out the numbers of the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. Was that a 2 or a 3?
He turned the lamp on and squinted. 3:33. Shit. He tried to get his breathing under control, and while he mentally counted to ten, his heart felt as though it was thrashing in panic like a mouse stuck in a glue trap.
He looked around the room and saw nothing unusual. Tentatively, he moved his hands around his bed, which he quickly realized was pointless.
Well, if he’s not here, what am I supposed to do?
Still exhausted, he turned the light off and laid back down rigidly. He turned on his side and faced inward, away from the nightstand.
For about a minute, the only sound in the room was the sound of his unsteady breathing. Then, Finney felt a touch on his forehead that was not unexpected, but still entirely unwelcome.
It didn’t feel exactly the same as it did years ago, or even what Finney felt when he woke up after his dream. The touch was lighter, fainter, colder, but there was no question of who it belonged to. That much was reinforced when the ghost spoke in a voice that was so quiet, Finney almost didn’t hear. “I know I scared you earlier…I didn’t mean to. But I just couldn’t help myself. If you only knew the things you do to me…”
Yeah, sure, it’s all my fault, Finney thought bitterly, staring into the inky blackness. Anything to avoid responsibility. His fingers clenched from under the covers. I was a kid, you sick fuck.
And he still was, technically. Even though he didn’t feel it, and hadn’t for a long time.
Undeterred by the lack of response, the Grabber moved his fingers across the boy's hair. “The silent treatment, hmmm? Can’t say I don’t deserve it, but I meant what I said. You don’t have to be scared anymore, not with me. Nothing bad’s going to happen here, only good things. On that I give my word, Finney.”
It was a purposeful callback to the first time the Grabber spoke to him in the basement. At the time, Finney thought that the man was confusing him for another child—‘Johnny’—but the next day, he understood.
John Doe.
To the Grabber, Finney was a nameless boy that would become a nameless body. He left the door unlocked before he read Finney’s name in the paper and fully expected his captive to die before then.
“I’ve heard that one before,” Finney muttered hollowly, and turned around to his other side, towards the nightstand. Refusing to face where he assumed the spirit was, he said, “Don’t be shocked if I don’t take your word for it.”
There was a sigh and Finney felt another faint, light touch, this time on his shoulder. “This is a second chance for both of us to do this right.”
Finney was hoping to maintain a facade of impassivity, but that quickly crumbled as indignation overpowered him. “Both of us?” he echoed, incredulous. “Are you serious?” He clenched the sheets tighter underneath the blankets, gritting his teeth. God forbid I have the audacity to try to escape from my kidnapper…
The lingering touch trailed from his shoulder and slowly started making its way down his side, causing Finney to feel goosebumps. “Mmm hmm~”
Okay, fuck this, Finney thought once he felt the invading touch linger on his waist. He pushed himself out of bed and turned on the lamp.
There was still nothing there that he could see, and it was frustrating as hell. He didn’t hear anything either. The room was dead silent. Heart hammering, Finney said in a tone that sounded much more confident than he felt: “You said you’d tell me why you brought me here, and wanted to discuss the favor”—his throat grew dry—”so…what is it? Why did you need to burn down my house?”
He was met with only silence, and anxiety started to morph to frustration. Why wasn’t ther Grabber talking now? Was he choosing not to, or….
Maybe he couldn’t?
Finney looked at the lamp and tried to remember past instances where the Grabber would be able to touch him and speak directly to him without the use of some kind of machine as an intermediary. There was the first night, when he could feel the fingers on the back of his neck, and the Grabber dissipated at dawn. And there was the second time, right before the exorcism, when the lights in the house were off. The gears in Finney’s mind started to spin.
“Why aren’t you talking now?” he demanded. He heard nothing. Feeling a bit emboldened, he asked, “Is it because the light is on? Are you able to do more in the dark?”
It remained silent. For the first time since the phone call earlier in the evening, Finney felt a spark of hope.
That spark was quickly subdued as he heard a thudding sound right next to him. His eyes darted to the nightstand and saw that the camera fell on the ground. Remembering the glimpse of something he saw when looking through the camera earlier, as well as the Grabber’s taunts about getting the film developed, caused his insides to twist. But after a moment’s deliberation, he reached down and picked it up. Taking a breath and bracing himself, he put the camera to his eyes.
Although he knew what he would see, he backed up instinctively and felt a surge of panic race through him. Through the lens, he could see the Grabber reclining on his side, on the bed next to where Finney was previously sleeping. He only had the bottom half of the mask, the grinning one, and Finney could see his eyes. Despite the grin at the bottom, the eyes were cool and distant, which both unnerved Finney and excited him since he knew that meant his guess was correct.
“You always were a clever boy,” he said in a slightly lower tone, stretching out his arms a bit. “Normally I need some kind of machine—which can be a real pain in the ass, let me tell ya—but at night? I can do all kinds of shit.”
When the Grabber spoke, his voice sounded clearer and louder, indistinguishable from when he was alive. And he looked just as clear as he did years ago, just as Griffin looked when Finney awoke to the dripping of the blood.
Hearing the Grabber’s voice on the phone and seeing him in the movie projector was one thing, but actually seeing him up close like this, in his room within touching distance, was something Finney was not emotionally prepared to handle and had to try very, very hard not to immediately bolt from the room.
The Grabber tilted his head slightly, and Finney could tell from the way the skin crinkled by the eyes that he was smiling. “Cat got your tongue?”
Finney swallowed and tried to sound less nervous than he really felt. “Get off my bed.”
The Grabber raised an eyebrow and—as Finney expected—didn’t budge. “Actually, it’s my bed. Well, it used to be, anyway, back when I was a kid.”
That was the answer Finney was dreading, but figured as much when he saw the magician poster in the closet. He hastily tried to redirect the conversation back to his original question in an attempt to fish for more information that might help him. “When I was in—” He stopped and swallowed again. “Three years ago, I saw, um, Griffin’s ghost at night, when I used my flashlight. And Vance was able to shatter bottles during the day. Why can’t you do that?”
Finney didn’t mean for it to come off as rude, but it sounded that way, and the Grabber’s eyes grew colder. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had such high standards for ghosts.”
“I didn’t—”
But the Grabber was now in one of his moods, and shifted himself up to a sitting position on the bed. “I don’t know why we can do different things, it’s not like there’s a handbook,” he snapped. “I’m figuring this out as I go. And just because you need that camera to see me doesn’t mean I’m powerless, especially this late at night. Remember what happened to your old house?”
How could he forget? Anger started to seep into his mind, and he decided to call the Grabber’s bluff. “Yeah, so? You’re not going to burn down your own house.”
The Grabber tilted his head, challenging, and Finney noticed the nightstand trembling slightly. “No, but I can’t say the same for your school, or the manufacturing plant where your dad works.”
Finney’s fingers gripped the camera a bit tighter. “So much for you telling me I don’t have to be scared. I knew that was a bunch of crap.”
“You don’t have to worry, Finney,” the Grabber said, eyes growing a bit softer. “But your dad and Gwen might, if you don’t follow through with your end of the deal. But I know you will since you gave me your word, and I don’t think you’re a dirty little liar anymore. Are you?”
The bed was now starting to shake too. Finney knew from the exorcism that the Grabber was able to exert some influence on things that weren’t electronics, like the doors and the dressers. Maybe he could only do that at night? He pointed to the bed and said in a tone that he hoped sounded calm, “Gwen’s going to wake up with this noise.”
The Grabber looked to where Finney was pointing, and the shaking stopped. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, and Finney was relieved to hear that the Grabber’s tone wasn’t as sharp as it sounded before. “Normally doing things like that takes a lot of energy, but it’s a lot easier when I’m mad, and sometimes I don’t even notice. Like that half-assed exorcism you did. That one I did on purpose, but it really winded me.”
“When you say ‘that,’ are you talking about things that aren’t machines?”
“Yeah.” The Grabber leaned back down on his side in the position he was in before. “Some things are easier to use than others.” He held up his finger and wagged it in a chiding motion. “Aaaaand that’s all I’m going to say, so stop trying to snoop.”
At least I got some info, Finney thought glumly, though he knew whether it would be useful or not was a separate matter entirely. “Alright.” He swallowed. This conversation was going to happen sooner or later, so he might as well jump into it. “So what did you want from me?”
“Ehhh, we don’t need to get into that right away,” the Grabber said lightly, absentmindedly tracing the indentation of Finney’s form in the bed. How long are you going to drag this out, old man? “Are there any questions you have? About the house, the street, anything?”
His head turned to the Son of Man painting in a not-so-subtle way, but Finney was not in the mood to act like some kind of marionette on a string. “Not really.”
The Grabber’s hand motions stopped and his eyebrows furrowed, but a couple seconds later the skin around the edges of his eyes crinkled once again. “You’re so eager to get to the favor already, is that it?” he teased.
Finney’s mouth felt dry. “Um..” He wasn’t sure; should he get it over with, or could he possibly distract the Grabber until daybreak, when the spirit was weaker? “W-we could talk more.” The Grabber laughed and Finney felt a rush of venomous hatred. “Why are the paintings here?”
The Grabber sat up and moved himself off the bed, Finney making sure he stayed in sight through the camera at all times. “The one in the closet is of Howard Thurston.” His eyes sparkled. “I was lucky enough to see one of his final performances. You remember him, right?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. In the basement, the Grabber would occasionally babble on about random shit Finney didn’t care about, much like how he was doing now. “I think so.”
“And this one here”—he gestured toward the painting of the man in the bowler hat—“shows an important message. What’s the first thing you think when you see it?”
Finney shrugged. “Why’s there an apple in midair?”
“Anything else?”
“What’s the guy’s face look like?” Oh…
The Grabber reached out tenderly to touch the name placard underneath the picture and said sadly, “No one’s ever satisfied with what they see. People want to see what’s hidden, but the problem is, everything we see hides something else, even if we don’t realize it. If there was no apple, he'd be blocking the view of the ocean. And if he wasn’t there at all, we still wouldn’t be able to see what’s in the ocean.”
“Is that why it’s an apple? Is it meant to be a ‘forbidden fruit’ reference? From the Tree of Knowledge?” Finney asked.
Impressed, the Grabber looked at him with eyebrows raised, and Finney wished he didn’t say anything. “Finney, I’m genuinely shocked you were able to make that connection. But I think you’re probably right. And speaking of hiding shit, what do you think of those weirdos, the Smiths?”
Finney blinked, not expecting the sudden conversation whiplash. He knew from Oscar that the Grabber didn’t like John and Gwen said the couple seemed very ‘Stepford-y,’ but who were the Blakes to judge? And seriously, the Grabber’s in no position to call anyone weird. “I don’t know. They seem….normal.”
The Grabber plopped back down on the bed, much to Finney’s annoyance. “Too normal. Normal to the point where it's almost aggressive. You know, Max had a theory they’re Soviet spies.”
It was so ridiculous and random that Finney came close to laughing, and likely would have if he was in the room with literally anyone else. “W-why would he think that?”
“The Rocky Flats Plant is here, and it would explain why they look and act like they stepped off the set of a fifties sitcom. Leaning hard into ‘classic Americana’ to avoid suspicion, only to be even more suspicious because no one acts like that in real life. But I think the truth’s much simpler. They probably have their own dirty little secrets and are overcompensating. I’ll bet you anything John fucks men on the side and Mary’s addicted to pills.”
Finney wasn’t sure why, but that comment aggravated him. “Just because you had something to hide, doesn’t mean everyone else does. There are some people out there who are genuinely good.”
He wasn’t sure how the Grabber would react, but thankfully, he didn’t seem to get mad. Instead, his eyes drifted back to the painting, and he sighed. “Maybe, but it sure as hell ain’t the Smiths, I’ll tell you that much.” He leaned back against the headboard and entwined his fingers. “The others are…nice. I know what you told me on the phone about Mrs. Baur, but she’s been through a lot, so try to have a bit of compassion.” Finney opened his mouth to protest the unfairness of that criticism, but the Grabber kept going. “Oscar’s a bit annoying, but the Romanos are a good family.” He paused for a moment, as if debating on whether or not to say more. “I feel a bit bad for their kids, especially the youngest. They liked me a lot. But you know the saying about omelets and eggs….”
Finney’s grip tightened around the camera. “These are real people you’re talking about. Not just the Romanos, but me and Robin and all the people who died because of you. We’re not some—”
The Grabber held up his hand. “Calm down, kiddo. It’s just an idiom, I don’t need a big morality speech. I was just going to say that a harsh lesson not to trust everyone they see might save their lives someday, so really, I probably did the Romanos a favor. If you learned that lesson when you were their age, I doubt you would have been talking to the strange man near the strange van, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, hmm?”
Finney could tell the Grabber was baiting him into getting temperamental, and he was successful. But the Grabber wasn’t the only one who knew how to press buttons. “Would you have killed them, too? Branch out into killing girls? The cops think you did.”
‘Cops’ was the magic word, and the Grabber’s eyes became clouded with anger. “I wouldn’t have killed the Romano kids. And the basement’s a special place—the only ones I took there were you six boys. That’s it. There’s no need to be jealous.”
Finney figured that much was true, since the five boys were the only ones who contacted him. But because he was so irritated by the Grabber’s incessant need to make conversation with him, he pressed ahead anyway: “But the cops said you might have killed others long before that whole”—what the fuck do I even call it?—”thing started. Or that there were some you killed without bringing into the basement.”
The Grabber shook his head in disgust. “People keep getting added to that stupid list, but I don’t even know half of them. They make me out to be a criminal mastermind, but the truth is, I only got as far as I did because the cops in this town are fucking stupid. Once they found the black balloons, that should have been it for me. I mean, how many people in this town buy black balloons? C’mon…”
While Finney had nothing against any of the police officers personally and was grateful for how they took Gwen seriously and were compassionate towards him afterwards, he grudgingly admitted that his faith in the cops’ detective work was…not the best. He remembered his father nodding in agreement with the television two years ago, when Mr. Showalter gave a profanity-laden rant on TV about his perceived ineptitude of the North Denver police before he and his family moved out of state.
“Watch, one of these days they’ll say I’m the Zodiac Killer or I killed Jimmy Hoffa or some shit like that. It’s pathetic. There’s plenty of people I hate that are still standing, like Anthony Clarkson, Judy Wilson—she’s this lady that tried to sue me for something that wasn’t my fault—and John, and—”
“Well, there has to be some reason the police believe it!” Finney insisted, mentally filing away that Mr. Clarkson was mentioned yet again. What’s the history there? “You’re really telling me there's zero connection between you and all of the victims on that list?”
The Grabber shifted his position and stretched out again. He was quiet for a moment. “Some are just a case of bad timing. Like Eva Fischer. I performed at her birthday and then a few days later, she disappeared. But I didn’t do it. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”
“Why the hell should I trust you?” Finney demanded. He had no patience for the Grabber’s woe-is-me-routine. “You’ve lied to me before, and apparently, death isn’t stopping you from trying to kill people. I heard about the Williams kid.”
The Grabber moved to a sitting position again. “That wasn’t me, that was—”
“—someone else,” Finney finished. “Yeah, I heard that one before, too.”
“It wasn’t!” he insisted.
Finney felt the urge to fold his arms, but couldn’t while holding the camera. “Then who was it?”
The Grabber shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s an old house. Maybe it was the same person you saw in the camera earlier today.”
Finney felt his skin start to prickle with goosebumps. “That wasn’t you?”
“No, I was standing behind you then. Why would I ever run away from you?”
It was a question Finney thought about earlier, but dismissed at the time. His throat suddenly felt very dry. “You’re not just saying that? You really don’t know who it was?”
“I swear on my mother’s grave.” He held up two fingers. “And I didn’t try to kill the Williams boy, either. I barely even noticed that family was here.”
Finney’s internal bullshit detectors started to go off. “How could you not notice that a family was living here?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t notice them, just that I barely noticed them. Like I said before, this place is weird,” the Grabber repeated, eyes growing very weary. “I was in here, but I was mainly watching things that happened in the past. My mind was all fucked up, too. I couldn’t even remember my own damn name…” Then, his eyes lit up and he looked at Finney with an expression so intense, it caused the boy to take an instinctive step back. “But then I heard your voice. You were crying and calling for help, even if you didn’t know it. So I followed it, like a string in a maze, and then as I got closer, I started to remember more and more, and then I remembered everything.”
The Grabber stood up from the bed and walked towards him. Finney backed up and noticed with alarm that he felt the wall against his back. “I was never really a believer in miracles, but at that moment, I knew there were some things in the universe that really are pure and holy, and our bond is one of them.”
The Grabber reached out and gently cupped his cheek, and Finney felt, with horror, the firmer, familiar fingers that haunted his memories. He wanted to kick and thrash and scream at him that it’s not a miracle, it’s a fucking horror story, and there’s nothing pure and holy about raping a kid, you bastard. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed with fear.
The expression in the Grabber’s eyes was one he saw a couple times before, but the memory that was most vivid was his first night in the basement, where he woke up to find the Grabber watching him sleep. He remembered the man’s tears and the expression in his eyes: a loving, vulnerable expression that seemed tender, but made Finney’s skin crawl for reasons he didn’t understand at the time.
He knew then that the Grabber wanted to, was going to, do something else besides kill him. And he realized then that—no matter what the Grabber would tell him later—there was no way he was ever going to let Finney go.
“Deep down, you didn’t think I was really gone. You were waiting for me to come back.” His hands trailed up to Finney’s hair and began caressing it in soothing motions. “And there’s always a way back if someone’s waiting for you.”
That phrase was enough to shock Finney into action. He slapped the Grabber’s hand away from his hair, something he always used to daydream about but never had the courage to actually do.
It felt extremely cathartic.
The motion caused the camera to fall to the ground, and when he picked it up, the Grabber was sitting on the bed again, back facing Finney.
“How did you know about that?” Finney demanded, voice breaking. “Did you—did you get into my head? Did you cause my dream?”
The Grabber was quiet for a second, then said in a flat tone, “I didn’t cause your dream, I just took a little peek, that’s all. I can do that here.”
“Is that why you burned down my house?” Finney snapped, gripping the camera tighter. “Because you’re stronger here?”
“Partly.” There was a very long moment of silence afterwards. Then, the Grabber turned towards him, eyes distant and cold again. Finney noticed the bottom half of the mask was now frowning. “Back in the basement, you dreamed about your mom, too. I heard you talking in your sleep. I think it must be some kind of primal instinct…it’s the first bond we have, coming into the world.” He now fully shifted his body towards Finney again, eyes glinting slightly with mockery. “You know, every single one of you boys either dreamed or cried or mumbled about your moms at one point. It’s very predictable.”
There were a lot of things Finney wanted to say to that, but the one that he spat out was, “How did you sleep at night?”
Finney meant it as a rhetorical question, but the Grabber took it seriously and paused a moment before answering. When he spoke, the sharpness in his eyes dulled somewhat. “A lot of nights I didn’t. At first, I told myself ‘this is a one-time thing,’ and that later became, ‘alright, this is gonna be the last one.’ But it never was. Until I met you.”
“I don’t get why you did it in the first place, or why you kept doing it,” Finney said quietly. His anger mostly receded, and now he just felt hollow. “You said you loved us, but you wanted us to go upstairs. You wanted us to be in pain. You made us be in pain. You wanted to kill us. That’s not love. That’s…I don’t know what the fuck it is. It’s something else. It’s evil.”
The seconds ticked by, and Finney shifted uncomfortably. What he said was something he thought about for a while, but he had no idea how the Grabber would take it. While the man was largely delusional, Finney knew there was some level of self-awareness deep down, which was the reason he wore masks.
Though the Grabber was looking at the Son of Man painting, Finney could see from the side that his eyes were tired, weary and vulnerable. When he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. “I do love you, Finney. I know it’s not the kind of love you see in books and movies, but it’s pure and beautiful and I don’t know why I can’t stop doing those things. I wish I could. I wish I was different.” He lowered his head and paused for a few seconds, and Finney couldn’t make out his expression anymore from behind the curtain of hair. But when he lifted his head and looked back, he was wearing the grinning bottom piece of the mask and his voice became much lighter, confident, and familiar. “Buuuuuuuut, I’m not. I guess I could have decided to just walk right by you, but why should I? It’s like you were put on this earth just for me. A cute little peach ripe for the picking. Why should I go hungry when no one else does? What happened in the basement…” The Grabber exaggerated a shivering motion. “It’s a real rush. Nothing else comes close. Guess I should have been a bit more understanding of poor ol’ Max.”
Finney tried not to let his disappointment show. He knew it was a massive long shot to actually be able to penetrate the Grabber’s twisted mind, but he couldn’t help but hope all the same.
The Grabber clasped his hands together in excitement. “Now, enough with the gloom and doom! I want to talk about good things. In fact, I think it’s time for that favor. Are you ready?”
Shit.
Finney glanced at the clock (how is it only 3:45?) and tried to not let his nerves show, but didn’t think he was fully successful. “Y-yes.”
The skin near the eyes crinkled again. “Good, good…I like that enthusiasm!” He pointed to the top drawer in the dresser. “The first step is to open that. There’s something inside that we need in order to make this possible.”
Oh god. “What is it?”
He tapped the bottom of his mask in thought. “You know, I’m actually not sure what it’s called. But you’ll know when you see it.”
Finney remained rooted in his spot, and the Grabber waved his hand in a shooing motion. “Well, go on.”
Fighting off trepidation, he pulled open the drawer with slightly shaking hands. Rummaging through the drawer with one hand on the camera and one hand inside was annoyingly difficult. He saw a black shirt that must have belonged to the previous tenant and held it up.
“Why would I need a shirt if I’m dead? Keep looking.”
Feeling like an idiot, he kept shuffling things around. He saw a pack of Skittles, a copy of The Indian in the Cupboard, a pair of gray socks (Gray? Is this it?), and in the very corner of the drawer was—
“Holy crap,” Finney blurted, forgetting where he was for a moment. He pulled out the small, metallic rectangle and held up to confirm that yes, it was a Time-Out game system. Finney saw the commercials and wanted one for a long time, and was insanely jealous of Danny Perez for having three.
He held it up. “Is this what you wanted? The Time-Out?”
“Hmm, is that what it’s called? All I know is that the last kid in here couldn't get enough of this little thing. Although, now that I'm looking closer, maybe my hint should have been silver, not gray….what do you think? Is it silver or gray?”
Finney blinked. “Is this…?”
“My favor’s pretty simple. All you need to do is take this tiny little thing with you wherever you go. Within reason, obviously. You can’t take it with you in the shower.” He giggled, and Finney’s eyes narrowed from behind the camera. “But you should be able to keep it in the same room, at least. It’s small and portable.”
“That’s it? That’s the favor?” Finney asked, bewildered. A rush of relief was running through him. “I–I thought that, um, I thought it would be…something else.”
Finney wished he could take it back; he didn’t want to give the Grabber any more ideas. He could tell the Grabber was smiling from behind the mask again. “Ohhh, Finney, are you disappointed? What could you—-haha—possibly have been thinking? ” He started laughing, and Finney would have glared at him if he wasn’t holding the camera. “I didn’t realize you had such a dirty mind!” He laughed, eyes dancing with mirth. “You do have a naughty side.”
Fuck you… Now that the initial relief wore off, doubt and suspicion started to slither their way into his mind. There’s no way the favor could be something that innocuous. With the Grabber, was it ever this simple?
Pressing his lips together, Finney pressed the ‘On’ button and felt a stab of envy when he saw Flag Man pop up on the screen with his big, dumb grin. A simple man in a simple world, whose biggest concern was that he wouldn’t raise the right flag.
The screen started glitching and turned off. Finney hit the power button again, but nothing happened.
“You don’t have to worry about getting distracted. I got rid of that nonsense so you can focus on the real world instead of that fake world. See, when I was younger, kids went outside and played real games instead of pretending to play.”
There goes the only not-terrible part of the day. Suppressing a sigh, Finney asked, “Why do you want me to carry this around if it doesn’t even work?”
The Grabber rested his chin in his hands, looking up at Finney with inappropriate fondness. “I want to be able to reach you at all times.” There it is… “It’s easy to talk when you’re near a TV or phone, but what if you go to the beach, or go camping, or get lost in a corn maze? I was thinking of using a pager, but then I saw the kid with this and it clicked. Can a pager do this?”
The screen fizzled and sparked back to life, and when Finney looked down, he almost jumped. He saw the dark silhouette of the Grabber’s upper shoulders and full grinning mask, which didn’t look like a mask anymore. It was devoid of any details, and the spot where the eyes and teeth used to be were empty spots of gray.
“It’s like a little portable TV. Isn’t that neat?” There were two voices he heard simultaneously: The apparition of the Grabber sitting on the bed, and the metallic echo from the screen in his hand.
“Yeah, that’s amazing,” Finney said in a flat tone that indicated he felt anything but.
Finney noticed that the shadowy movements on the screen below were smoother and more realistic than the janky, limited motions of the pixels he saw earlier. And the more he stared at the gray, blank eyes, the more unnerved he became. He didn’t realize how much he relied on the Grabber’s eyes to give hints about his mood.
It was at this moment that the full realization of what the ‘favor’ meant hit Finney like a brick, and the grin below him seemed to grow. This little tiny screen was going to be a millstone around his neck, a prisoner’s ball and chain. Even though he suspected that the Grabber was listening and watching him the past week, having a constant reminder would be a psychological stranglehold he didn’t know if he could handle. He suddenly felt very sick.
Perhaps seeing his falling expression, the dual voices soothed him by saying, “Hey, don’t worry. I won’t distract you during school, or even at home. I’ll only interrupt if I have something really important to say.”
Finney fully expected that the Grabber had a much looser definition of what counted as ‘really important.’ The light little screen suddenly felt very heavy in his hands.
“Don’t do anything to hurt Donna,” Finney pleaded. He was angry at himself for sounding vulnerable, but the concern for his girlfriend was far more important than his pride. “Please…”
The grin of the shadowy figure grew wider.
Finney dropped the screen on the dresser and the silhouette vanished. Finney turned the camera back to his bed, where the Grabber was leaning back again and steepling his fingers. “Not everyone that dies comes here, you know. I thought they did, but there’s a lot of dead people who I thought I would see that aren’t here, so I think…I think this place is sort of like a giant colander. Most people slip through the cracks and move on to…wherever, but some people get caught here. Their feelings might be too big, or there’s something they think they need to do. My love for you was stopping me, and the other boys, well…”
“They wanted me to kick your ass.”
“Right,” he said unhappily. “And once that happened, they were able to slip back through those cracks and leave. I don’t think you can move on unless you want to move on; it all comes down to your mindset. And that’s why I brought you here to this house, and that’s why you’re going to be carrying that screen with you.”
Finney felt his palms grow sweaty again. “What do you mean?”
“This is all for your benefit, Finney. I’m going to guide you and build you up so your soul is free to go where it’s meant to be: with me. That tiny little thing is a symbol of my affection. No matter how bleak things get, it’s a reminder that I’ll always be around to help. I’ll be with you wherever you go, and you'll never be lonely. Being in this house is meant to help remind you of what we shared. Eventually, you’ll understand that we’re supposed to be together, and we will be. This is all because I love you, Finney.”
Finney knew the Grabber well enough to know what the man really meant:
“This is all for my benefit, Finney. I’m going to manipulate you and break you down so your soul is trapped where it’s not supposed to be: with me. That tiny little thing is a symbol of my control. No matter how good things get, it’s a reminder that I’ll always be around to fuck it up. I’ll be with you wherever you go, and you’ll never be able to escape. Being in this house is meant to help remind you of how much I enjoyed raping you. Eventually, I’ll break your mind to the point that you’re deluded enough to think you love me, and you’ll be trapped in my world. This is all because I want you, Finney.”
Finney felt his hands start to shake. If he was with the Grabber forever, in the afterlife…the thought made him nauseous. Whether the Grabber genuinely believed he loved him or not, Finney knew that he wouldn’t stop hurting him. He needed to hurt him, and would find ways to justify it. Finney could tell during their times together three years ago that the Grabber was barely restraining himself from indulging in his desire to cause serious harm, and the arbitrary ritual was the only veneer of protection.
But with Finney dead, there’d be no stopping him. The Grabber could kill him again and again for all eternity, beating him and fucking him and killing him over and over.
It would be the Grabber’s heaven and Finney’s hell.
Although he swore earlier that he was not going to cry, he couldn’t help but feel tears well up in his eyes at the thought of eternity with this man. He would never, ever want that.
He lowered the camera a few seconds to blink tears back, and when he raised it again, the Grabber was right next to him, the bottom piece of his mask in a frown. Finney felt the man's cold finger linger on his cheek, and it was only then that he realized a tear was able to slip out. But to his relief, even though he felt the touch, the Grabber didn’t seem able to have a physical impact.
“Shhh, shhh. There’s no need to cry.” Seeing the hurt in the Grabber’s eyes caused Finney to clench the camera tighter. “I wish I could wipe your tears away, like how I used to.”
The Grabber enjoyed the dual role of being both the comforter and the one who caused the tears. Finney backed up and wiped his cheek with his own hand.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” Finney said firmly. “You need to just…stop. No matter how bad things get, I’m never, ever going to want to be with you.”
The Grabber looked at him sadly. “You will. But I know you have a lot to think about now, so I’ll go…” He started moving away from Finney, but paused, then turned back. The soft, vulnerable look in the killer's eyes was reminiscent of the first time Finney saw him in the basement without the top half of the mask. “Oh, and Finney? You can call me Al now. Since we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all.”
Finney lowered the camera. He didn’t want to see that inappropriate, invasive expression, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to call him Al. But he also didn’t want to prolong this conversation any longer than it needed to be. “Okay...”
When he raised the camera, the Grabber was gone.
After a few minutes of standing still to mentally collect himself and reign in his wild nerves, Finney put the camera on the nightstand and crept back under the sheets, shivering.
Several different thoughts were pounding on the insides of his skull, but the one that stood out the most was the Grabber’s recollection of how he was able to return. Was that story real, or was it bullshit the Grabber made up? The way he looked at Finney made Finney think that the Grabber thought it was true, at least.
So does that mean this whole thing is my fault? Finney groaned and rolled over onto his side.
Finney tried to remember the day he heard the Grabber’s phone call at his house. What was different about that day compared to any other? He tried to go through the events hour by hour. He remembered Matt’s taunts about the Grabber and Finney’s reaction afterwards. He remembered talking to Donna about future plans and realizing he didn’t have any. He remembered thinking about why he lost his job at Frozen Swirls, and his fear that everyone would always associate him with the Grabber, no matter what college he went to or what job he got. He remembered feeling uncertain if his relationship with Donna would continue after graduating, remembered thinking about Robin and how it wasn’t fair that Robin died. He remembered thinking that he was the one who deserved to die instead.
Finney shifted onto his back. He thought about all those things at different points within the past three years, but that day was a perfect storm of several factors: uncertainty for his future, anxiety for his present, and despair for his past. He remembered acknowledging, for the first time, that he still felt trapped, and there might not be a way out.
In a way, Finney was waiting for the Grabber to return. Not because he wanted him to, but because Finney felt—on some level—that part of him never fully left the basement. That the Grabber would show up one day with a tray of food, asking him why he was mumbling about colleges and a girl named Donna in his sleep.
But he wanted to leave. He wanted to, so badly. He just didn’t know how.
Is that it, then? He was able to latch onto my feelings and come back, somehow? Finney thought about what the Grabber said about their “special bond” and felt his fingers curl underneath the sheets. He couldn’t deny he had strong feelings for the man. Granted, those feelings were entirely negative, but they were strong feelings nonetheless. Were those emotions able to attract the spirit to him?
If that’s the case, I should theoretically have the power to make him go away. Maybe he knows I have that power, and that’s why he’s trying so hard to win me over. Finney felt a brief spark of hope that quickly dimmed. Now that the Grabber was back, it seemed impossible to get rid of him. The killer remembered his own identity and sick obsession with Finney, and was far too powerful to just ignore. Things, once again, seemed hopeless.
And speaking of hopeless…
Through the darkness, he moved his head in the direction where the little screen was located. Finney believed that, deep down, part of the Grabber had to know there was no way Finney would ever genuinely fall in love with him. But he knew that it was possible to break Finney’s mind to the point where Finney would believe it was true.
Finney remembered hearing about a bank robbery in Sweden years ago, where the captives defended their captors. He remembered thinking at the time that those people must have been crazy, but after his time in the basement, he learned that the human mind was a fragile, malleable thing. If people are lonely or scared or desperate enough, thoughts that once would seem horrific suddenly seem reasonable.
Finney thought numbly about events that transpired in the basement, about the separation between the sensations his body was feeling and the agony raging within his mind. The Grabber knew exactly what to say to get under his skin and cause him to doubt himself and what he was feeling. If Finney never had the courage to leave through the door, would he have been like the captives in Stockholm? The possibility made him feel sick.
The arrival of the Grabber brought many fears to the forefront of Finney’s mind, but the biggest was the idea of losing himself. He was terrified of turning into the person the Grabber thought he was, or wanted him to become. Finney even wondered—in his darkest moments—if that perfect captive was lurking somewhere deep inside him, waiting to come out.
But I’m not going to be lost, Finney told himself, taking a few deep breaths. I’m not alone this time.
And he wasn’t. He had Gwen, and Donna, and Terrence, and his friends, teachers, and counselors at school. He had people waiting for him. He wasn’t in the same situation he was in years ago, no matter what the Grabber believed. Everything would be fine.
He shut his eyes and turned on his side, ignoring the part of his brain that was whispering to Finney that he could have all the friends and family in the world, but it wouldn’t make a difference if he was keeping secrets and shutting people out.
The Grabber was right about one thing: Finney wasn’t able to sleep for the rest of the night.
Notes:
Next chapter will focus more on Finney's attempts to heal from his trauma and a new plan to get rid of the Grabber. We'll also get to meet the Romano kids :)
Chapter 8: Body and Mind
Notes:
-Sorry this was a bit later than expected! I got sick over the weekend, which delayed things a bit. Next chapter will probably be out in 2 weeks or so.
-In this chapter, we finally get to see the double meaning behind the title. It refers to Ghost Al communicating through machines, but also…something else.
-No one will probably care about this but me, but “douche” was a word used as an insult since the sixties. I’m only mentioning it because when I originally wrote one of the lines I had to look up its history because it felt too much like a modern insult. But apparently, it’s not!
-As a reminder, period-typical attitudes is one of the tags. Viewpoints expressed by the characters do not necessarily reflect my own.
Chapter Text
The first thing Finney did the next morning was wash the blankets.
The logical part of him knew that the Grabber’s spirit couldn’t have made any physical impression the previous night, but the emotional part of him didn’t care. The thought of the Grabber laying on his bed, caressing his hair and doing God-knows-what while he slept was too much.
So, for his peace of mind, Finney got out of bed at daybreak and stripped the bed. As he gathered the blankets in his arms and headed out the bedroom door, an obnoxious, electronic “Ahem! Aren’t you forgetting something?” stopped him in his tracks. Grimacing, he trudged over to the dresser and shoved the Time-Out in his pocket.
Fuck my life, Finney thought, not for the first time. This is going to take some getting used to. As he wandered down the hall, he realized he had no idea where the washing machine was, but sure as hell wasn’t planning on asking the Grabber.
Luckily, he didn’t need to. The smell of coffee wafted through the air, and Finney followed it to find Terrence in the kitchen, hunched over his cup with dark circles under his eyes. When Terrence saw his son holding the sheets, he looked up in surprise. “Finney? School doesn’t start ‘till 8:00. You outta be getting some rest.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Finney mumbled, grateful for how the blankets obscured his face.
“Yeah? Me neither,” Terrence sighed. “Look, I know this isn’t—well, this what any of us wanted, but in time, I think…I really think it’ll get easier.”
Yeah, right…“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Finney lied. “Hey Dad, do you know where the washing machine is?”
Terrence’s brows furrowed. “You don’t need to worry about that. Pretty sure the cleaners washed them all when the other family moved out.”
That’s a nice way to say ‘ran away screaming…’ “Still, I’d feel better washing them myself.”
Terrence gave a small smile. “Ever the neat freak, huh? Alright, follow me.”
Terrence led Finney down the hall to a door in a part of the house Finney had never been in before. When Terrence opened it and started to head down the stairs, he stopped midway to look back up at his son, who was frozen in place at the top. Terrence’s eyes squinted, then recognition dawned in them. “This isn’t the same basement.”
“I know that,” Finney snapped. He inwardly winced at his defensive tone and started heading down the stairs, trying to quell his growing nerves. Finney knew every centimeter of that basement, and he knew the only entrance was the one leading from the kitchen.
So where the hell were they going?
Although he knew it was childish, Finney found that he felt more comfortable the closer he was to his dad, and stuck like glue to his side as Terrence walked up to the washing machine. Back when Finney was thirteen, he had a fantasy of his dad busting down the door and beating the shit out of the Grabber in order to rescue Finney. Obviously, that didn’t happen, but Finney still felt—perhaps illogically–that his father could offer him some degree of protection from the man in his nightmares.
Then Finney remembered the Grabber’s talk about primal instincts and how the boys would dream and cry for their mothers, and his hands clenched the sheets tighter.
“I think it’s some kind of storage space,” Terrence said as he turned on the water and grabbed a bottle of laundry detergent. “Guess he must’ve had two basements. One for normal basement things, and the other for killing kids.”
Sometimes Finney was grateful for Terrence’s bluntness, other times he wasn’t. Finney wasn’t sure how he felt now. He looked at some of the nearby items—garden shears, a wheelbarrow, shovels (Christ, he probably used some of these things to bury the bodies…). “It’s a lot smaller than the, um, basement. Maybe it’s some kind of cellar?”
“Could be,” Terrence said. After he finished pouring, he took the sheets from Finney’s arms and pushed them into the washing machine. “Now let’s hope this machine isn’t as crappy as our old one. Remember how that one used to overheat and—”
Terrence stopped suddenly, looking at something in the opposite corner. Finney followed his gaze, and once he saw what his father was looking at, his eyes widened.
Terrence’s face broke out into a grin. “Hey, isn’t that the freezer you broke into?”
The Unico Freezer was standing upright in the corner of the room, large and imposing. Memories of Vance, of slamming the toilet tank cover against the wall again and again, of the hope he felt when he finally broke through and the crushing despair once he realized the freezer door was locked, all raced through him at once.
Terrence was told details of Finney’s captivity from the police, and while he seemed content to pretend the vast majority of it didn’t happen, the parts that he had no problem mentioning were Finney snapping the Grabber’s neck and “Finney’s” cleverness in coming up with an escape plan. Smashing through the wall, breaking the grate, getting the right lock combination, pulling the wire and making sure the Grabber fell in the hole…those were all things Terrence—and everyone else except Gwen—attributed to Finney. He felt like a massive fraud and always felt uncomfortable when people would ask him questions about it. The other boys should get the credit, not me. I couldn’t do anything on my own. I still can’t…
Terrence walked over to the freezer door and unlocked it. Finney wanted to protest, but his mouth was dry.
While the Grabber wasn’t particularly imaginative when it came to uses for this freezer, the previous tenants' tastes were much more eclectic. Frozen pizza, ice cream, fruit, vegetables, shrimp, cookie dough, and chicken were littered on the inside, and Finney hoped the Blakes would be able to save money by eating some of them. The back wall of the freezer was a slightly different shade than the rest and was clearly a new piece; there was no doubt this was the same freezer Finney broke into all those years ago.
Terrence closed the door and walked back over to the washing machine, which was now filled to the brim with water. He closed the lid and the machine started to hum. “They had to remodel the back of the wall,” Terrence said proudly. “That’s undeniable proof my son’s a badass.”
Finney wondered if Terrence would still think he was a badass if he knew that his son turned into a sobbing mess a minute after breaking through the wall. He wondered if Terrence would still feel he was a badass if he knew Finney considered taking a shard from the toilet tank cover and cutting his throat in order to avoid whatever horrific fate the Grabber had in store for him.
Finney felt a firm hand on his shoulder and Finney instinctively flinched and shuffled away. He wasn’t sure if it was due to residual memories of what his father’s touch would often mean, or if it was residual memories of what the Grabber’s touch would often mean, given the close proximity to the basement and recollections that were currently running rampant through him.
Regardless, the hurt in his father’s eyes cut Finney deep. But when Finney opened his mouth to apologize, he couldn’t say anything. He didn’t even fully know what he would be apologizing for. He knew there was a lot that needed to be said to Terrence—not just about this one instance, but about their past, what happened in the basement, Finney’s feelings towards girls and boys, how Finney was not fine and was crumbling on the inside. They needed to talk about everything. But the thought of openly discussing those things seemed perhaps even more daunting than successfully banishing the Grabber’s spirit, and Finney was in no way emotionally or mentally prepared to have that conversation. Especially with this fucker listening in.
Terrence averted his gaze and said, “You know how to walk to school from here?”
Finney wasn’t surprised his father tried to change topics. “Yeah.”
“Alright,” Terrence nodded. He turned to walk up the steps, Finney trailing behind. There were a few seconds of silence, and when they exited, Terrence looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Make sure to bring your umbrella, because it looks like it might rain. And tell Gwenny I said goodbye. I’m gonna be heading out now.”
“We will. Bye, Dad,” Finney said quietly, watching as Terrence grabbed the keys to the car.
“See ya later,” he said, not looking Finney in the eyes. When Terrence opened the front door, he hesitated for a few moments, and Finney felt a flicker of hope that Terrence might turn around and say something–anything—to him.
But he didn’t. And within a minute, Finney heard the engine of the Ford Pinto start up.
Finney glanced at the clock. Terrence left for work much earlier than he needed to.
****
Finney told Gwen about the phone call on the way to school. He kept it simple and just said that the Grabber was able to make his voice sound like Donna's over the phone. He left out the details of what they were talking about, and about the favor—he knew it would only cause her to get even more upset than she already was.
And she was very upset.
“That stupid dickface!” Gwen was pulling at the straps of her new Caribou backpack so forcefully, Finney thought they would rip. “Imitating Donna…jeez. That’s creepy and pathetic at the same time.” She raised her voice. “In case you haven’t noticed, Finney doesn’t want you. Take a goddamn hint, already!”
“Gwen, don’t antagonize him,” Finney whispered, keenly aware of the weight of the screen in his pocket. Finney hadn’t heard a peep from the Grabber since this morning and wasn’t sure if he was even with them now, but didn’t want to take any chances.
Gwen was fuming, but didn’t say any more. The fire was an unwelcome reminder that the ghost had the upper hand, and over the course of the past week she’d been less directly confrontational. But Finney knew his sister, and knew that it wouldn’t be long before Gwen stopped licking her wounds and would be ready to go on the offensive again.
“I still think we should see Father O’Brien again,” she muttered, putting her hands in her pockets.
After getting donation bags, Terrence told the siblings that Father O’Brien wanted the two of them to come by the church if they had the chance, which was something Finney wanted to delay for as long as possible. He wasn’t sure if the priest suspected they caused the fire due to the botched exorcism or was coming around to realizing that there really was a ghost haunting them, given the Blakes’ streak of terrible ‘luck.’
“I told you: we need to keep this just between us. Telling more people would paint a target on their backs.”
“I know, I know. But we can’t just sit here doing nothing!” Gwen cried out in frustration. “We should at least try to figure out his limitations and stuff like that.”
“I think he’s stronger at night,” Finney said carefully, inwardly debating how much he should say, or if it even mattered. “And during the day, he needs some kind of machine or technology to act as a medium. Otherwise there would be shit flying around all the time, like there was during the exorcism.” Gwen and Finney both winced at the memory. “And remember the day of the first phone call? I was able to feel him in my room at night when I was sleeping and—”
“Was he there last night, too?” Gwen interrupted sharply, turning to look at Finney with piercing eyes.
“N-no,” he lied, but his face grew red and gave him away.
“Arghhh! That bastard!” Gwen cried out, and started swinging punches in the air.
“Gwen, c’mon….that’s not going to do anything. He might not even be here.”
“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly, attempting a roundhouse kick. She looked at Finney with wide eyes that were (oh no) brimming with tears. “Finney, this guy was in your room, creeping on you while you were sleeping. Why aren’t you freaking out about this?”
“I am freaked out by it. It’s just that I’m—” Finney stopped short. He was about to finish by saying ‘used to it,’ but didn’t want to make Gwen feel guilty or sound like he was feeling sorry for himself. “Well, freaking out isn’t going to do me any good.”
“Not having a plan isn’t going to do you any good either. I think we need to—” Gwen stopped mid-punch and looked past Finney’s shoulder, face turning grave as she put her arm down and stood rigid.
Finney spun around to see what she was looking at. In the middle street was an Oldsmobile, remaining stationary, but with the engine running. Finney couldn’t make out the driver from this distance, but started to feel his skin start to prickle.
As he was about to tell Gwen to keep walking, the car door opened, and Finney instinctively stepped in front of his sister. He relaxed somewhat when he saw that the driver was a woman with brown, side-swept bangs and jeans, who was grinning as she walked over to the Blakes.
“Are you Finney and Gwen Blake?” she asked, green eyes darting between the pair.
Finney hesitated before answering. Christ, I hope it’s not one of my ‘fans.’ Or a reporter…”Um, yeah, that’s us…”
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. Then, without warning, she startled both of them by scooping them into a hug, which Finney had to try very, very hard not to instinctively push her away. When she pulled back, Finney got a whiff of White Linen perfume. “I’m Maria Romano. My husband told me he introduced himself yesterday. Where are you two heading so early?”
“School,” Finney said, gesturing to his bag. That should have been obvious.
Maria blinked. “You’re walking to school?” Her gaze lingered on Finney. “You?”
“...Yeah?” he said, suddenly starting to feel very uncomfortable. “We know how to get to school from here. It’s not that much further from our old route.”
Maria didn’t say anything, but pursed her lips as she continued to look at him.
Finney wasn’t an idiot. He knew why she was surprised he was walking to school, and he’s been through this conversation with others before. Usually it was accompanied by some kind of implicit criticism or questioning of Terrence’s parenting abilities, and while Finney was the first to admit his father wasn’t perfect, this particular topic caused him to get defensive.
A couple months after escaping from the basement, Terrence drove them to school in the morning and had them carpool with Susie Martin’s family during the afternoons. The timing was inconvenient with Terrence’s work schedule and often caused him to lose shifts and pay, but he stubbornly stuck to it. That only stopped when Finney, who had become more self-conscious about being seen as different from others, had a big argument with Terrence about it.
“Why don’t I drive you today?” Maria suggested. “The high school isn’t too far from the elementary school, and I can drop you off after I drop off Angie. You won’t have to be lugging those bags around with you.”
“That’s nice of you to offer, but we’re fine,” Finney replied, tightening his grip on the strap of his new backpack.
“Finney, it’s about to rain!” Gwen huffed. She looked at Maria with an angelic expression. “We’d love to, thanks!”
Maria selectively chose to listen to Gwen. “I like that enthusiasm! You two can squeeze into the back. We could even make this a usual thing!”
Maria spun around and headed back to the car, Finney trailing reluctantly behind the clicking sound of her heels.
Inside the car were two girls. The one in the front seat had a friendly expression and looked about twelve or thirteen, with a headband pulled over her brown hair. The one in the back had black hair and looked a few years younger. She was frowning at the two interlopers and clutched a white stuffed rabbit in her folded arms.
“Girls, we’ve got two special passengers today. Do you know who they are?” Maria asked as the Blakes piled into the backseat, Finney having the misfortune of being stuck in the middle between Gwen and the younger girl.
“Yes. He’s”—the younger girl grabbed the rabbit’s paw and pointed it towards Finney— “the one who killed Mr. Shaw.”
The color drained from Maria’s face. “Neighbors. They’re our new neighbors, Angie. Didn’t we talk about this yesterday? He doesn’t want to be reminded of that!”
“In all fairness,” Gwen said diplomatically, “that is what Finney’s best known for.”
Finney wondered if there was still time to exit the car, but that hope was soon dashed as he felt the Oldsmobile begin to move. The brown-haired girl, who seemed more socially-aware than her sister, turned around and smiled warmly. “I’m Sofia. That’s Angela.” She pointed to the girl in the back seat, who was playing with the rabbit’s ears. “Angie, say hi.”
Angela ignored her sister at first, but after seeing her mom’s glare in the rearview mirror, she reluctantly held up the rabbit and said, raising the pitch of her voice slightly, “Hello, hello~”
Terrence’s words of ‘I bet they’re all wackos on this street’ echoed in Finney's mind as Sofia rolled her eyes. “Sorry, she’s got…problems.”
“Sofi, enough,” Maria said sharply.
“But she’s so embarrassing…”
“So what grade are you in, Sofia?” Gwen asked, attempting to smooth out the awkwardness.
Over the course of the car ride, Finney learned that Sofia was in seventh grade, liked horses, won the spelling bee, played flute, and her favorite show was Little House on the Prairie.
He learned next to nothing about Angela, except that she obviously wasn’t happy with having the Blakes in the car. He did learn that the siblings were two years apart, which surprised him—he would have guessed she was younger, based on her mannerisms.
While Gwen and Sofia got into an intense discussion about Blondie, Finney turned to the younger girl right next to him and tried to extend an olive branch. “So how are—”
He was met with the rabbit almost immediately, and Finney noticed for the first time that the stuffed toy had uneven stitch marks running down its underside, as if it was cut open and hastily sewn back together. “Ah ah ah, we need silence~”
Guess it only applies to me, Finney thought glumly, watching as Sofia and Gwen continued to chat away happily.
What Angela said vaguely reminded Finney of something he couldn’t quite pinpoint, but before he could think more of it, Maria interrupted in a stern voice, “Angela Romano, you need to cut this out right now. This boy has done nothing wrong, and you’re making him feel unwelcome.”
“But Mom, he did do something wrong. He’s a muuuuuuurderrrrrrerrrrr,” Angela said through the rabbit, drawing out the last word obnoxiously long.
The car suddenly got very quiet and Finney was really, really wishing Gwen kept her mouth shut when Mrs. Romano offered to drive them.
Over the past three years, Finney saw a variety of different reactions to the news that he killed the Grabber: “Oh, you poor thing, that must have been so difficult,” to “Fuck yeah, you’re a badass” to “You’ve done the community a favor, thank you so much,” to “THIS is the kid who killed the Grabber? I thought he’d be taller.” etc., etc. But he never, ever had anyone act hostile towards him because he killed Albert Shaw.
No one, that is, until today. He had no idea how to react, or how he should even feel.
Maria’s face was growing red from a mixture of anger and embarrassment and she was gripping the steering wheel tightly. Before Finney could open his mouth to say that everything’s fine, Sofia spoke up. “Finney used self-defense, and you don’t get sent to prison for that. We’ve been over this a dozen times. Mr. Shaw was the murderer. The cops got evidence and stuff.”
“Well if he did, it was because he was possessed by a demon,” Angela insisted stubbornly in her normal voice, clutching the rabbit to her chest. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“There’s no demon. He was a good actor,” Sofia said flatly, looking out the window. “Him being nice was just pretend.”
“If it was all just pretend, then why’d he give me this rabbit?” she asked empathetically, holding it up like a trump card.
“It probably has hidden cameras in it or something to perve on you,” Sofia muttered, rolling her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with the bunny, we checked,” Maria shot Sofia a withering look. “But Angie, honey, that’s not—-”
They were pulling up to Northwest Jr. High, so Maria stopped mid-sentence, taking a few deep breaths before saying in a strained voice, “Sofi, have fun in school, sweetie.”
Before Sofia left, she leaned over to whisper something in her mother’s ear before closing the car door. There was a thick and heavy silence as Maria started driving to the elementary school.
“Angie,” Maria finally began. Her voice didn’t have any of the earlier anger, and instead just sounded weary and tired. “You need to stop acting like…this. Look at your sister. She’s in a bunch of clubs and has a lot of friends. Isn’t that something you would like, too?”
“No, ma’am~” she said cheerfully through the rabbit. Maria gritted her teeth, but said nothing.
Finney realized with a startled jolt why the ‘rabbit’s’ voice seemed familiar; it was a crude imitation of the same playful, sing-songy inflection Finney heard right before he was thrown into the Grabber’s van on the day he was kidnapped. Except instead of coming out of a fifty-year old man, it was coming out of a ten-year old girl.
Once they arrived at the elementary school, Angela bolted out of the car and rushed to the front doors. Maria began to drive out of the drop-off zone, and Finney tried to placate the woman. “It’s alright, I’m not—”
But once they were out of the elementary school parking lot, it was like a dam broke.
“I’m sooooo sorry!” Maria wailed. She turned to look at them with teary eyes, and Finney felt alarmed and even more uncomfortable—if such a thing were possible—than he already did.
“No, it’s alright, I get it. I’m not—”
But Maria started to ramble. “No it’s not alright! This is so embarrassing…I–I knew something like this might happen, but…” She took a deep breath and began to unload far more information than Finney wanted to know. “Angie was always a bit…off, compared to her classmates. I don’t know if it’s because of something Oscar and I did, or if she was just born that way or what, but one of her issues is that she has this very black-and-white way of viewing the world. It’s hard for her to understand that this man who was so nice to her could be capable of evil things. It’s easier for her to separate them in her head.”
Finney thought of the masks the Grabber wore, how he compartmentalized his actions by having ‘someone else’ commit certain acts. “It’s okay, I—”
Finney wasn’t sure if Maria was even listening to him at this point. “Sofia, Oscar, and I are all pretty outgoing, but Angie never was. She’d always just hide whenever she met new people and, well, Al was really one of the few adults who were able to get her out of her shell and connect with her. She always loved magic. Who’s someone you look up to, Finney?”
Finney was taken aback by the sudden question. His first thought was ‘Robin Arellano,’ but didn’t want to make this more awkward than it was. “Neil Armstrong…”
“It would be like if you lived next door to Neil Armstrong and he gave you a toy rocket and said you could one day be a great astronaut, and then later you find out that he was kidnapping and killing kids. That’s what it was like for her.” She chuckled bitterly. “Of course, we didn’t know why he found it so easy to relate to kids then. And I left the girls alone with him at times.” Her eyes shone with tears. “They said nothing happened, but who really knows? It’s horrifying to think about.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think little girls are outside his target demographic,” Gwen said, trying to be helpful.
Maria didn’t look convinced. “That’s what they say, but who the hell knows what goes on in a crazy person’s mind? The cops said he might have gone after Eva Fisher and maybe even h–” she stopped abruptly and looked back in the mirrors and sighed. “Look, I’m a parent, and he had access to my children. My mind goes to the worst-case scenarios, thinking about what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. The cops said he picked out Griffin Stagg as a volunteer for one of his magic shows, and that’s when the obsession started. Griffin was another goddamn face in the crowd, a regular kid…it could have been anyone.” Her hands were white clenched on the wheel. “Absolutely anyone.”
Griffin…
Finney thought of the shy, quiet boy, and the deep, violent gash slashed across his throat. Before Finney had the dubious honor of being the Grabber’s favorite, the spot belonged to him. The boy who was just another face in the crowd, one of the hundreds if not thousands of kids the Grabber had encountered over the years.
Albert Shaw brought joy to so many children, but chose to trap six in their own personal hell.
Why Griffin? After years of entertaining, what was it about this child that made Albert Shaw decide to take those awful steps to drag the twelve-year old into his basement and expose him to a world of suffering that most adults would never experience in a lifetime?
And why Finney?
Finney always wondered whether his abduction was simply a crime of opportunity, the wrong place in the wrong time—or the right place in the right time, for the Grabber. He also wondered if he was stalked beforehand, and how long it went on without him noticing. Without his magician getup, Albert Shaw looked fairly innocuous—another face in the crowd. He could have spotted Finney at the store or leaving school. It was a question that often kept him up at night when wondering what he could have done differently, and he remembered Dr. Moore telling him there’s no use thinking about it, and that torturing himself with the what-ifs wouldn’t lead to anything productive.
“I’m sorry Angie brought back those memories. I know it wasn’t easy for you to kill, um…” she trailed off. “It was a tough experience. There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about.”
But it was easy. When Finney had the Grabber in his chokehold, he thought of all the horrific things the killer did and had no problem snapping his neck. In a way, Angela was right: he was a murderer. The whole conversation brought back a mix of complicated feelings towards the Grabber’s death that Finney hadn’t thought about since his talk with Father O’Brien at the church. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Maria finally pulled up to the high school. “You take care, alright?”
“We will,” said Gwen. Finney and her waved until Maria’s car pulled out of the drop-off zone.
“Guess we won’t be asked in a second time,” Gwen joked feebly, looking carefully at Finney’s expression.
Finney was aware of Gwen’s studying gaze and tried to say very lightly: “Guess not.”
As they headed closer to the entrance, Gwen saw Amy, Millie, and Susie and left to go join them only after Finney reassured her everything was fine. But before he put his hand on the doors to the school, he hesitated.
As if sensing the unspoken questions, a smug, metallic voice echoed from his pocket, “What’s wrong? Something you want to know?”
There was a lot Finney wanted to ask, but Finney knew that's what the Grabber wanted. He was hoping Finney would ask those questions. He wanted to drive Finney toward him when Finney knew he should be running in the opposite direction.
Finney was a curious person by nature, which is why he enjoyed science. He liked taking things apart and seeing how they worked. But there were some things, he realized, that were beyond logical understanding. The Grabber’s brain was warped, diseased—wires weren’t crossed right. He would drive himself crazy trying to find logic in something that was inherently illogical, like Alice in some kind of fucked up Wonderland.
Finney pulled the screen out of his pocket and saw the shadow of the Grabber’s neutral mask. Since he could only see the gray background in the space that would normally be the eyes, he had no idea what the ghost was thinking.
“Nothing,” Finney said finally. “Just remember your promise. Don’t bother me during school, and don’t hurt Donna.”
The Grabber tilted his head curiously. “Hmm, I don’t remember promising anything about Donna.”
Finney was hoping he could slip that one in unnoticed, but apparently not. “Well, can you?”
The shadow on the screen morphed from the blank mask to the grinning one. “Don’t worry, I’ll never do anything that’s not in your best interest.”
“That doesn’t answer my question!” Finney whispered frantically, trying to look casual while other students moved past him to enter. But the screen was now blank.
Goddamnit. Gwen was right about one thing: they needed to come up with a plan.
****
Despite the Grabber’s promise, Finney fully expected to be bombarded with a constant stream of unsolicited commentary throughout the school day. But to his surprise, the Grabber kept his word. Aside from the expected platitudes from friends and teachers about the loss of his house—and the occasional tactless question from classmates about whether or not the ghost rumors were real—the day felt relatively normal. So normal, in fact, that Finney could almost forget about the Grabber’s favor.
Almost.
Finney sighed as the eraser tip from his pencil broke off, an innocent victim of his inner agitation. He fumbled with his pencil case reached inside, fingers pausing as they bumped into the tiny, metallic screen.
During science class earlier in the day, Finney was pelted with the sudden realization that keeping the screen in his pocket meant keeping it close to his legs, and even though the ghost wasn’t technically inside the machine, it was an uncomfortable enough thought that he immediately switched the location of the device. While he knew there were times when it would eventually have to go back in his pocket, for now, the Time-Out was going to have its home among erasers, gum wrappers, no. 2 pencils, TI-1766 calculator, and other school crap.
He peeked inside: the screen looked dead. Swallowing, Finney hastily grabbed another pencil and zipped up the case. When he held the pencil to begin writing his response, he made sure his thumb was further down so it wouldn’t subconsciously push at the eraser.
The prompt was to read a quote from Sun Tzu and connect it to their own life experience. Finney looked at the quote for the fifth time: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
Finney imagined what he wanted to write: Sun Tzu’s quote in the passage connects to an experience in my life. I can relate because I have an enemy named Albert Shaw, also known as the Grabber. I know nothing about him except he likes masks, magic, scrambled eggs, paintings, and kidnapping/raping/killing kids. I thought I knew myself but now I’m realizing I've just been putting on a show for the past three years and I’ve lost control of everything. So basically, I’m 0-2 and completely fucked.
Then, he looked down at what he actually wrote: Sun Tzu’s quote in the passage connects to an experience in my life. I can relate because
He was tempted to ask Mr. Clarkson if he could leave to go to the nurse; he knew the teacher would allow him to go if he asked. But Finney didn’t want to draw attention to himself, both from his classmates and from the Grabber, who would no doubt have some smug self-satisfaction if he believed he was the one causing Finney discomfort.
If he’s even watching, Finney thought bitterly, flipping through the pages of the textbook and clutching his pencil tightly.
And that was the part most irritating: the uncertainty. As Finney predicted, there was a strong psychological component that went along with carrying the screen around. But what made it most unsettling was how the lack of communication and absorption into his regular school schedule would lull him into a false sense of security, only to be broken suddenly by brushing his hands against the screen and remembering who was now back in his life. His mood was constantly fluctuating between alertness and relative ease, similar to how the Grabber’s abrupt arrivals in the basement would jolt him out of his thoughts and fill him with dread and—
The pencil he was holding snapped in half. Shit.
“Finn, you know how I feel about pencils. Come up here and take a pen, we’ve got extras,” Mr. Clarkson’s voice carried from the front of the room. With a mumbled “Thanks,” Finney stood up and walked past Danny Perez, who was sleeping with his head on the desk, and Matt, who glared as Finney walked past.
Earlier in the day, Finney tried to apologize to Matt for beating the shit out of him the week before, but Matt brushed it off with a gruff, “Whatever.” Finney didn’t know whether Matt was still harboring resentment about the fight, or if his attitude was about Donna, or just disdain towards Finney in general. All three options were possibilities, but Finney didn’t have time to worry about that anymore.
As he got closer to Mr. Clarkson’s messy desk, he saw his teacher hunched over a student’s paper, brows furrowed as he mouthed out the sentence he was reading a couple times, trying and failing to make sense of it before scribbling a comment in red pen. Mr. Clarkson had blonde hair that always seemed meticulously cared for and wore aviator glasses with clear frames. While he was generally cordial, there was a slight air of arrogance to him which Finney sometimes found off-putting, but he reluctantly acknowledged that Mr. Clarkson had the intelligence to back it up. He had one of those faces that could be in his thirties, forties or fifties, and Finney was never curious enough to know his age—until now. He was Finney’s English teacher, but was also unlucky enough this year to teach the Humanities elective, and the amount of effort he put into teaching English compared to the class Finney was in right now was like night and day.
Although it was June, Finney would not have been able to articulate what Humanities class was supposed to be at gunpoint. From what he gathered, it was designed to serve as a dumping ground for students of all grade levels who were in danger of failing core subjects or who the guidance counselors feared wouldn’t be able to keep up with the typical grade-level coursework, either due to emotional, home, or other personal issues. It took Finney an embarrassingly long time to realize why the guidance counselor recommended for him to take this elective.
The curriculum was a haphazard mix of basic philosophy, literature, history, and religion, which sounded more rigorous than it actually was. Most days consisted of answering obvious questions from a textbook and copying definitions. As long as a student handed in something vaguely related to the question, they’d get a 100% on an assignment.
And yet, Gwen somehow managed to have a B.
From the corner of his eye, he looked warily at his sister, who had even less written than he did and was doodling Star Wars drawings in the margins of the notebook. Because it was open to all grade levels, Gwen insisted on taking it too, which caused Finney no small degree of secondhand embarrassment throughout the year.
“Everything alright, Finn?” Mr. Clarkson asked, brows knit with worry as he stopped his pen’s motions.
Finney realized he hadn’t yet picked out a pen. “Y-yeah, I’m fine,” Finney said, taking one and hurrying back to his seat.
Ever since the conversation with the Grabber in the supply room, Finney had been curious about why Mr. Clarkson would ‘definitely’ remember Albert Shaw. At the time he assumed that Mr. Clarkson—like Mrs. Jameson—was one of his teachers, but in retrospect, the ages wouldn’t have matched up.
I guess he could have been one of those fresh-out-of college student teachers, he thought, sitting back in his seat.
Thinking about Albert Shaw filled Finney with irritation as he remembered what happened earlier in the day. While the Grabber kept silent for the most part, there were three times where he occasionally spoke up that served as an unwelcome reminder that he was watching—at least some of the time, anyway.
The most recent time was during lunch, where he heard the Grabber’s voice telling him to watch out two seconds before Finney slipped in water Danny spilled.
Another time was when Finney needed to leave the classroom during math. He had put the screen in the pencil case by then and forgotten about it, but the Grabber helpfully reminded him that the screen needed to be on him at all times.
And then there was the first time, which involved—of course—Donna.
Finney spent a lot of time trying to decide how best to deal with the conflict of having both Donna and the Grabber in the same proximity. There were a lot of conflicting emotions and ideas in Finney’s mind, and up until the moment he saw her, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
But when he finally saw her again, his heart felt those familiar butterflies and happiness and overall sense of rightness. He leaned down to kiss her which–in retrospect—might not have been the wisest move, but it was one guided by love and teenage hormones.
And it felt good, too. Like munching on a delicious steak after eating scrambled eggs for weeks.
Or—more accurately—like munching on a delicious steak after eating scrambled eggs for weeks, standing four feet away from a very hungry, very angry lion.
Finney and Donna talked about a bunch of topics. With dawning horror, he realized that the play was coming up soon and had no idea what to get Donna for a gift. He also found out that Jesse took on the cameraman role while Finney was hopping from hotel to hotel. Despite her penchant for the stage, Donna was weirdly camera-shy when it came to seeing herself on video, so relied on Jesse to watch them on his own and dictate what she should be doing differently. When she asked Finney what he remembered from the video of her and what suggestions he would make, Finney’s mind blanked momentarily from how the experience was marred by the Grabber’s presence, and gave the generic boyfriend response of her being perfect. It resulted in a hug, so he considered it a win.
When Donna tried to ask about his life and interests and what was going on, Finney tried to divert the conversation back to her. He didn’t want to talk about his shitty life, and to do so would remind him too much of his phone conversation with the Grabber the night before.
And as much as Finney hated to admit it, a lot reminded him of that phone conversation, and of the Grabber.
Finney kept thinking about how happy he felt when ‘Donna’ told him she loved him, and wondered if the real Donna felt the same. Finney kept worrying about whether or not Donna was in danger, and wondered why she wasn’t saying anything if something was bothering her. When they talked about acting and Donna explained that part of the appeal was stepping into a different role and becoming someone you’re not, it made Finney think of the Grabber and his different personas and then got angry at himself for making that connection.
Finney made sure to pay close attention to Donna’s behavior. She seemed chipper and enthusiastic, but Finney could tell from looking at her face closely—and he paid more attention than a regular person, admittedly—that she was using makeup that attempted to cover dark circles underneath her eyes, causing Finney no small amount of unease. Why can’t she tell me what’s wrong?
Their conversation drifted to the end of the school year, and Donna began to discuss some possible date ideas that morphed into vacation ideas:
“—I know it’s kind of a big jump, but I was thinking it would be cool to go on some kind of road trip to California. I know you’ve been there before, but I have an aunt who moved out there and she really wants to meet you,” she said, blushing slightly. “She’s lucky enough to live by the beach, if you could believe it. It’d be nice to go there.”
Finney thought of his California vacation with his parents and sister and smiled. “I’d be up for it,” he said, enjoying being able to pretend his life wasn’t complete shit. “But you can’t swim, right?”
Donna saw Jaws when she was younger and was always terrified of the water since then. “No, but you could teach me,” she said, winking mischievously.
Finney blushed and tried not to think about the image of Donna in a swimsuit. “Y-yeah, that’d be nice. I don’t know if I’d be able to afford the trip though.”
Goddamnit, WHY am I like this? "I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. And it doesn’t have to be the beach,” Donna rushed to say, “I was just thinking someplace we could just unwind and decompress and relax and be away from all this business of the suburbs, you know? There’s plenty of stuff to do in Colorado. We could go camping at Rustic Creek, that might be fun…oh! Denver Botanic Garden had a corn maze, which I think is creepy on principle, but if we’re both there it might be—Finney? Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” he said weakly. “I’m fine.”
The beach and camping were generic enough, but Finney remembered thinking the night before that ‘corn maze’ was a weirdly specific thing for the Grabber to mention.
“You sure? I know that—”
“Donna, could I borrow you for a moment? I just wanted to touch base about one of the scenes.”
Finney had never been so glad to see Mr. Clarkson in his life. After Donna went off with their teacher and the pair was out of earshot, Finney yanked the screen out of his backpack and saw the grinning, shadowy silhouette. “Woooow, what a coincidence! I must be psychic!”
“How did you know she was going to say those things?” Finney hissed at the screen. The Grabber shrugged and the screen went blank again. Finney had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from crying out in frustration as he shoved the Time-Out back into his pocket.
Needless to say, thinking about it now put him in a bad mood.
His recollections were interrupted by Gwen’s eager voice. “Mr. Clarkson! When are we going to get to page 91?”
Mr. Clarkson lowered his glasses slightly as he peered at the girl. “Gwen,” he said slowly. “It’s the end of the school year. Right now we’re on page 44. We’re not getting to 91.”
“But page 91 sounds interesting!”
What the hell is she going on about? Finney shifted in his seat and became acutely conscious of how most people in the class were looking at her.
Mr. Clarkson flipped through the textbook and looked up again, raising an eyebrow. “René Descartes?”
Gwen held up the textbook and pointed to the section she was reading. “The ghost part.”
The classmates began to whisper and snicker and Finney started to flush as he felt eyes stare at him. For fuck’s sake…
“Alright, enough,” Mr. Clarkson snapped at the rest of the class. He then turned to Gwen, “You’re talking about the ‘ghost in the machine’ concept, I take it?” Finney’s eyes instinctively latched onto the pencil case. “While I can see how the term might be misleading, it doesn’t refer to what we think of when we normally hear the word ‘ghost.’ It was a phrase coined by a British philosopher named Gilbert Ryle to describe René Descartes theory of dualism between the mind and body.”
“What does that mean?”
Mr. Clarkson adjusted his glasses. “Descartes believed that the human mind is not physical and exists independently from our brain. ”
Finney grew still in his seat. While he never used the language Mr. Clarkson was using, the overall idea of the mind being something separate from the body was a topic Finney thought a lot about, both while he was in the basement and afterwards. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and exposed.
Danny actually lifted his head and yawned. “Half the people we read about have their heads so far up their asses….seriously. How do people like this get famous?”
“Right?” scoffed Matt. “The mind’s obviously part of the brain. That’s what a brain is. That guy’s a moron and gets his picture in textbooks centuries later, but ninety-nine percent of this class is going to be forgotten once we kick the bucket.” He shot Finney a withering look, who was part of the remaining one percent.
Mr. Clarkson blinked. This was perhaps the most engagement he’d seen from Humanities class this whole year. His eyes started to light with the same vigor he had when discussing metaphors or author’s intent in English. “Under this viewpoint, the body’s only a vessel to carry human consciousness. A better way to view it would be to conflate Descartes' idea of mind with the theological concept of the soul, that unique consciousness that makes us ‘us.’ According to many belief systems, the destruction of the body does not affect the condition of one’s spirit, which is said to remain whole long after death. By that logic, the mind and the body must be distinct entities. We sometimes hear the ‘ghost in the machine’ term used in reference to computers, when—”
“Why did he think they were separate?” Finney was surprised to hear himself interrupt. He flushed and belatedly raised his hand.
Mr. Clarkson looked at him in surprise and strode over to his desk. Finney lowered his hand as Mr. Clarkson held up the broken pencil. “If you take a body, or pencil like this, and break it, you now have two physical shapes. But regardless of what happens to the body on the outside, our minds can never truly break, despite the hyperbolic rhetoric you sometimes see on TV. Metaphorically, perhaps, but not literally. The mind–or ‘spirit,’ if you prefer—always remains whole. Descartes' argument hinged on the idea that because we view our bodies as having parts while our minds don’t have parts, believing them to have the same nature is a contradictory existence, therefore they must have distinct natures.”
Finney found himself blanking midway, but felt like he understood the general gist. Unwanted memories of the basement intruded into his mind as he recalled how his inner feelings would be at odds with the physical reactions of his body. He remembered in his darkest moments wondering if, somewhere deep down, he did like it, because otherwise how would it have been possible to have those physical sensations?
“But the mind and body can’t be different,” Finney was surprised to hear himself speak up, and to hear the weariness of his tone. He felt Gwen’s head whip around to look at him and avoided eye contact.
Mr. Clarkson looked at him with interest. “What do you mean, Finn?”
Finney swallowed and tried to sound more confident as he verbalized the thoughts that haunted him for years. “If I think about raising my hand, it happens, if I get scared of something, my heart starts racing. The body and mind have to be connected.”
Mr. Clarkson began tapping his chin in contemplation. “It’s a viewpoint that attracted its fair share of detractors over the years, Gilbert Ryle being one. He believed that the mind is very dependent on the brain. Of course, Descartes was aware of the criticisms and addressed them while still maintaining the validity of his philosophy.”
Finney was about to ask how those criticisms were addressed before Gwen perked up again. “So basically, you’re saying our souls are completely separate from the body and our bodies are just housing them?”
“I’m not saying that,” Mr. Clarkson clarified, “I’m just telling you what René Descartes believed.”
“But the soul or mind or whatever remains whole, right?” Her eyes started to gleam in a way Finney didn’t like. “So what if it just, like….leaves the body?”
“Then you’d be dead, genius,” Matt muttered, rolling his eyes. “If the only reason we walk and stuff is because of the soul, then we’d just stop moving.”
“But if the soul or mind or whatever is separate, then what if it comes back into the body?” She leaned over her desk eagerly.
Where the hell was she going with this?
Mr. Clarkson started to look a bit wary. “I don’t think this is the direction Descartes was thinking of when—”
The loud ring of the bell put the discussion to rest, and the majority of the class rushed off as Mr. Clarkson hastily mentioned a few due dates as kids bolted out the door. Gwen was one of those kids, almost knocking down two sophomores who were unlucky enough to be in her path.
The only one who wasn’t rushing was Finney. Humanities was the last period of the day, and Donna had play practice again, so the only person he’d be meeting up with was Gwen. The conversation brought a lot of uncomfortable memories to the forefront, and he was feeling very tired.
“Nice work today, Finn,” said Mr. Clarkson, leaning up against his desk with his arms crossed. “You really brought your A game.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled. He knew he wasn’t exactly the most vocal student when it came to participating in class.
“Did you get my voicemail last night? I told the principal I’d give you a call.”
“Yeah, I did. Sorry we didn’t pick up, we were in the middle of dinner.”
“Not a problem,” Mr. Clarkson smiled.
“Ask him how he knew that number.” Finney almost jumped at the Grabber’s smarmy tone—it had been a while since Finney last heard the voice, and felt more irritated than usual given the subject matter of the class conversation.
Still….it was a good point. How did Mr. Clarkson know that number?
Mr. Clarkson turned his back to Finney as he started to gather the graded papers, allowing Finney to try to sort through his thoughts. His dad hadn’t called the phone company yet to change the number back to their old one, so the landline was presumably the same as it was when Albert Shaw was in the house. Finney started to feel uneasy. Or was this just the Grabber messing with his mind again?
He started to ask the question, but felt nervous, so his mind defaulted to another question that was in retrospect—perhaps—even worse, but one he was curious about nonetheless. “Mr. Clarkson, did you know…Albert Shaw? Personally, I mean.”
Finney couldn’t see Mr. Clarkson’s expression with his back turned, but saw him pause a moment before putting the binder clip around the stack. Still, his tone was his normal calm, tone when he said, “Nope, can’t say I ever did.”
“What a crock of shit,” the Grabber scoffed. “See, what did I tell you? Everyone’s gonna deny, deny, deny. This is what they call ‘historical revisionism.’”
Finney tried not to look at the pencil case and forced out a weak laugh.“S-sorry, I know that was a weird question.”
Mr. Clarkson turned around, and whatever feeling the man had inside was masked by the regular expression Finney had seen countless times, which–in retrospect–might be a mask in its own way, given the typical student bullshit he had to deal with on a daily basis. “Never apologize for asking questions, Finn. I know you and your family are going through a lot now. The school has resources, if you ever feel like talking to someone.”
“Yeah, I know,” mumbled Finney as he started heading to the door. “Bye, Mr. Clarkson.”
“One more thing before you leave,” Mr Clarkson said. When Finney looked back, he couldn’t quite make out the expression in the teacher’s eye. “Be on the lookout for anything…unusual at your new house. The police inspected it recently and found something that belonged to Eva Fischer. Serial killers sometimes keep trophies of their victims.”
Finney started to feel a bit lightheaded and thought of Griffin’s lock. He suspected that was why the Grabber let him keep his spaceship pen despite using it as a weapon—to collect it after his death. “I know…”
“Right, sorry.” Mr. Clarkson winced slightly. “I’m sure they checked it over thoroughly, but if you see anything unusual, it would be prudent to go to the police. That’s all.”
“I-I will, Mr. Clarkson. Thanks.”
After Finney was out of the room and out of earshot, Finney dug into his pencil case and pulled out the screen, seeing that the Grabber’s shadow was of the blank mask. Since it was the end of the day, there was a lot of commotion in the halls, but Finney still kept his voice quiet when he said, “I thought you said you didn’t kill Eva!”
“I didn’t.”
Finney really, really wished he could see the spirit’s eyes to give some hint on how he was feeling. “Let me guess, another ‘you’ did.”
“No.” His tone grew slightly irritated.
“’Then why were there things from a missing girl in your house?” he whispered frantically. “You said the only connection was that you performed at her birthday, but Mr. Clarkson said some of her things were found there! What else are you lying about?”
“It wasn’t a lie, I just didn’t think it was important!” The Grabber gave a loud sigh. “And it wasn’t ‘some things,’ it was one little thing. When I was leaving, she gave me a necklace as a thank you present for performing. It was made of plastic and a bit tacky-looking and didn’t really match my aesthetic, but it’s the thought that counts. I never get gifts from kids and thought it was sweet, so I kept it. That’s all. People like to find patterns when there aren’t any, especially if they’re already biased against me. She wasn’t with your little group, right?”
It took Finney a moment to understand what he meant. “If you’re talking about the ghosts of the children you murdered, then no, she wasn’t.”
“There you go,” he said proudly. “Case closed. You know, if money was worth anything here, I’d bet my life savings that it was the parents. They saw her give it to me and have to know I didn’t take the necklace, but they’re on board with this witch hunt. When it comes to taking kids, everyone with two working brain cells knows I have a type, and she doesn’t quite fit. Sweet kid, though.”
“Why the hell would it be the parents?” Finney asked as he pushed through the crowds. “That’s their own child.”
The Grabber sighed affectionately. “Ohhh, I forget how naive you are sometimes. There are a lot of reasons, kid. Being a parent can be…difficult. The parents might miss their old life and regret having her, or maybe Eva had some kinda issue and it was a mercy-kill. Or maybe the parents were overwhelmed with the stress of having to take care of a child every day, or maybe when they were punishing her they went too far without meaning to. I dunno. There’s a lot of reasons. But it wasn’t me.”
“Yeah, okay,” muttered Finney, rolling his eyes. In truth, he wasn’t sure if the Grabber was responsible for her death, but he had a hard time thinking the Fischers might be guilty. They seemed like normal people on television.
The Grabber sensed his reluctance. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a parent. Take your dad, for example.”
Finney froze and felt rage start to boil inside him. “What the hell does that mean?” He knew this was bait, but couldn’t help biting anyway. “You better not be saying that because he used to hit me with a belt. Because first off, that’s over half the parents in Denver, and second, you of all people have no moral high ground to stand on when it comes to that.”
Finney knew the Grabber knew Terrence used to beat him, because in his first week in the basement he saw the faint remains of welts and gleefully prodded Finney about what he did to deserve them, wanting all the details.
The Grabber laughed and Finney thought for a split second about smashing the screen against the wall. “That’s not why. But that little exchange this morning showed me a lot about the two of you. Look, I know things are rough now, but when you’re with me, it’ll be better. I know how to take care of you and make you happy. I’ll be like a better version of your dad.”
“What the fuck?” That comparison actually made Finney feel nauseous. He knew the Grabber had fetishized the idea of paternal punishment to some degree, but bringing Terrence into the conversation was a place Finney did not want to go. “Jesus Christ. No. Just…fucking no. I don’t want you to be my dad.”
“I don’t want to be your dad either. I said I’d be like your dad. I just mean there’s going to be similarities. I’ll guide you and feed you and love you and–yes–punish you, but only if—”
“Holy shit, stop. Please.” There were two snarky retorts that were battling for dominance in Finney’s mind: the first was, ‘You know my dad is someone I actually love, unlike you, right?’ and the second was, ‘You know that ‘dads’ aren’t supposed to want to fuck their kids, right?’ But the first Finney knew would piss him off a lot, and the second…
The second was something that Finney wasn’t sure the Grabber actually knew. Aside from some vague snippets about his mom, Finney had zero idea what the man’s childhood was like and wanted to keep it that way, but he assumed—like most killers he read about—it was probably bad. Normal, well-adjusted people don’t wear devil masks to terrorize children and make them play a game called ‘Naughty Boy,' after all.
Both retorts died on Finney’s tongue. The conversation was going in weird places, even weirder than normal. He needed to steer it back to something that was more familiar and not quite as skin-crawling. “I know what you said, but Mr. Clarkson thinks he’s got it figured out. He thinks you killed Eva.”
“Pfft. I’m not shocked that Jack Kerouac-wannabe took it upon himself to pretend to be some amateur sleuth. His arrogance is staggering. That should have been obvious just from looking at that poster of—”
It continued on like this for much of the trip from the classroom to Finney’s locker. Finney thought showing no reaction would deter him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect as the lack of buffer allowed the Grabber to spew criticism about Mr. Clarkson’s classroom decor, glasses, and outfit, all of which were–according to the ghost— designed to “convey a nonexistent sense of self-importance.” He gloated that he probably got paid more as a magician than Mr. Clarkson did as a teacher and said Mr. Clarkson must have an ulterior motive for being a high school teacher since he “knew for a fact” Mr. Clarkson doesn’t care about educating children. In what Finney believed to be a blatant display of projection, the Grabber insinuated that the reason Mr. Clarkson chose to work at a high school was because he was either emotionally stunted or attracted to teenagers.
“—as much of a pretentious douche now as he was since I last saw him, and that was decades ago. Worse, if that’s even possible. He can’t even—”
Finney’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “How do you and Mr. Clarkson know each other?”
The Grabber was quiet for a few moments, and Finney had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Oh, now you don’t want to talk?
“It’s all a bit complicated,” he finally said, “but long story short, his family used to live in the house across from mine.”
Finney froze. “The house with the bodies?”
“Well, there were no bodies in it at the time, but yeah.”
“He sold you that house?”
“No, his dad did. There was this thing with his sister, and he didn’t get along with his dad, so the dad gave the house to me and well….he was pissed and it became this whole big thing.” The Grabber sighed again. “Look, it’s a long story, and I don’t like dwelling about that time in my life. It’s ancient history, and I’m over it.”
This time Finney couldn’t stop his eye roll. “Sounds like it.”
“Aww, are you worried about me?” he cooed, taking charge of the conversation again. Finney roughly shoved his books in his locker. “Well, as much as I love your enthusiasm, I’m not the one you should be worried about.”
“Are you talking about Donna?” he pulled out the screen to see it smiling. “Are you…are you doing something to hurt her?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean she’s not in danger. There’s a lot of crazies out there, you know. I know it’s hard to take your eyes off of me, but try looking up every once in a while.”
On that cryptic note, the screen went blank, leaving Finney feeling very apprehensive.
Chapter 9: Trust Me
Notes:
-All the books that Finney reads in the library shelves are real and would have been available in 1981. The summaries are real too, except the one for Ordeal is from the 2006 back cover, not the edition that would have been in a library in 1981.
-This chapter is going to involve a fictional book that is a riff on the real-life book My Friend Dahmer, which was (as I’m sure you guessed from the title) written by a friend of Jeffrey Dahmer. The author of the fictional book gets dragged a lot in this chapter, but it’s not intended to be a commentary on the real-world book author.
-Kids Halloween costumes in the 1930s were creepy as fuck. This isn’t Finney’s bias, it’s just fact lol
-As stated previously, the internal narration and dialogue of characters do not necessarily reflect my own, and there are period-typical attitudes throughout this story. I felt like this is the chapter that could really benefit from a reminder, but for future chapters, I will not be making this disclaimer any more.
Chapter Text
After school, Gwen insisted on going to the library to do research for a “school project.” That caused Finney’s internal bullshit detector to go off for three reasons: 1. She was being very vague and contradictory when describing what it was for, 2. It was the end of the school year, so the Freshmen weren’t getting any new projects, and 3., Since when did Gwen go to the library for schoolwork without being dragged by one of her friends or Finney?
Still, he didn’t press. Anything that could delay having to return to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane was a good reason in his book.
Once they got to the library, Gwen darted off, leaving him to wander the shelves aimlessly. As the minutes ticked by, his thoughts returned to Humanities class and the “ghost in the machine” concept.
Could it be true? Could the mind and body really be separate entities? Finney wanted to believe it, but wasn’t certain. Whenever he used to feel those rough hands trailing over his body, possessively, greedily, he knew his soul was withering inside.
So why did his own body act like a goddamn traitor back then?
Finney could vividly recall the Grabber’s taunts and whispers. He had no issues—then or now—with dismissing most of what the man said as lies and manipulation, but when it came to what the Grabber said about his body and mind…that was much more difficult. For whatever reason, that topic was a wound that always seemed fresh and sensitive, and those poisonous words managed to seep under his skin and fester for years. The shame and self-doubt he internalized waxed and waned in intensity, but today it was overwhelmingly oppressive. And because it was so overwhelming, a nagging thought kept prodding at his mind and wouldn’t stop until Finney addressed it.
Finney unzipped the pouch from his backpack and pulled out the tiny, dead-looking screen. He felt his hands grow clammy. “Are you there?” he whispered.
No response.
Finney frowned. Was the Grabber really there and just choosing not to respond, or was Gwen right and there really were times when he wasn’t around?
There was one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, Finney uttered the one word that made him wilt inside, but knew would be like catnip for the ghost. “...Al?”
Still, no response. Finney’s heart started to beat quicker. Is he actually gone? Could I really be this lucky?
Not wanting to waste a single second, Finney hurried to the card catalog. He didn’t delude himself into thinking Grabber was gone for good, but if he was gone for even fifteen minutes, that could give Finney enough time to do what he wanted.
After a couple minutes of flipping through the catalog, he found the subject he was looking for and headed towards the designated section. Before looking through the shelves, he double and triple checked that the Grabber wasn’t there, because there was no way he would ever have the emotional fortitude to go to this specific section if he knew the ghost was watching him.
Finney bit his lip as he scanned the shelves. He didn’t have a specific book he was looking for and was hoping a title would stick out. His eyes settled on a book promisingly titled Ordeal, and pulled it from the shelf. He looked at the inside of the dust jacket and read the synopsis: Linda Boreman was just twenty-one when she met Chuck Traynor, the man who would change her life… As he continued to read, his eyes widened as he saw that Linda Boreman was the real name of Linda Lovelace. Finney remembered Danny’s unsuccessful attempts at getting him to watch Deep Throat, and was so, so relieved he managed to stick to his guns as he continued to read: Enslaved by the man who would eventually force her into marriage so that he could control her completely, Linda was beaten savagely with regularity, hypnotized, and raped. She was threatened with disfigurement and death. She was terrorized into prostitution at gun and knifepoint. She was forced to perform unspeakable perversions on film.
He hesitated for a moment, then put it back on the shelves. It was similar to what he was looking for, but not quite.
Another title caught his eye: From Reverence to Rape. He turned the book over and read: From the tremulus virgins and rip-roaring flappers of the twenties to the raped and brutalized sex objects of the sixties and seventies, women on film follow a downward path. Where once movies highlighted the strength and independence of stars like Katharine Hepburn, Joan Crawford, and Barbara Stanwyck, today we are given little but sexist images of demeaned and dehumanized females.
Definitely not what he was expecting or hoping for based on the title. Donna would love to read that book, though. Maybe I could buy that as a gift for the play….or would that be really weird? Yep, it’d probably be weird, he decided as he continued to parse through the shelves, fingers halting on one title that screamed for attention.
He unzipped his backpack and quadruple-checked that the Grabber wasn’t there before plucking the book off the shelf: How to Say No to a Rapist and Survive. Wish I had read this one three years ago… His eyes then hovered on the subtitle: “The Book Every Woman Should Read!” Or maybe not…
Pushing a mixture of irritation and dejection aside, he flipped through the book. Vomiting, outwitting the attacker, feigning…pregnancy? Ughh…
He shoved the book back into the shelf, irritation beginning to boil. He then yanked out a different book: Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape. He remembered hearing about the book on the radio when he was ten, but was too young at the time to care or understand what the controversy was about. He looked at the excerpt from the New York Times review at the top of the cover, which seemed promising: Chilling and monumental…deserves a place next to those rare books which force us to change the way we feel about what we know.
He flipped the book over and skimmed: From ancient Greek warriors to American soldiers in Vietnam, from Jack the Ripper and the Boston Strangler to rapidly rising statistics on police blotters. IT IS NOT A CRIME OF LUST BUT OF VIOLENCE AND POWER.
Could this be the book he was looking for? He read the next bolded section: RAPE VICTIMS ARE NOT ONLY THE “LOVELY YOUNG BLONDES” OF NEWSPAPER HEADLINES—RAPISTS STRIKE CHILDREN—Finney felt himself grow lightheaded as hope began to well up in him—THE AGED, THE HOMELY: ALL WOMEN.
Aaaand there it was. The hope that was fluttering within his chest sank like a rock into his stomach. Biting his lip, he continued reading: Downplayed by society, glorified in popular culture, shrouded in myths, excused by boys-will-be-boys logic of “SHE ASKED FOR IT.”
The spark within him died out as he shoved the book back, only to be replaced by a familiar sense of resignation and numbness. I don’t know what I expected. It’s always like this.
Before his time in the basement, he didn’t even know men (boys, his conscience whispered, you were a boy) could be raped. It was always a danger for women and girls, not thirteen-year old boys who played sports, and the only time he ever remembered male rape being mentioned directly was as the punch line of a joke.
Finney remembered Dr. Moore telling him that the percentage of male rape victims was far higher than he thought, but he didn’t believe her. How could he? If it happened to so many men and boys, why didn’t anyone talk about it?
He didn’t know why his mind and body had such different reactions back then, and probably never would. The trip to the library reinforced a truth Finney always knew, but was a bitter pill to swallow all the same: He was truly alone. There was no magic book that he could point to, no expert opinion that he could brandish as a weapon and say, “See? You’re wrong. I didn’t ask for it. I never wanted it.” No such book existed because to society at large, Finney’s experiences in the basement didn’t exist. He was invisible, inconvenient, and—most of all—invalidated.
There was something inherently wrong with him. He was defective, he was weak, he was—
“Alright Finney, I’m rea—wait, are you okay?”
Finney spun around to see Gwen peering at him with concern, stack of books almost overflowing out of her hands. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”
Gwen wasn’t convinced, and her eyes narrowed. “Was it the Grabber?”
“No. I said I’m fine,” he snapped, inwardly wincing at how harsh his tone sounded. He began to head away from the shelves, hoping and praying that Gwen wouldn’t think to look at the spines of the section he was just in. “Let’s go.”
Gwen looked slightly taken aback, but nodded and began to make her way past the shelves to the front desk. Finney glanced at her expression, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure what his sister was thinking. Guilt and regret started to pool up in him; the last thing he wanted to do was push her away and isolate himself even more.
Once they got in line, he opened his mouth to apologize, but his words died on his tongue as his eyes drifted to a book in a glass display case behind the front desk.
What. The. Fuck.
Gwen saw the book too. Except instead of sharing Finney’s sense of horror, she thought it was hilarious. “Hahaha! Oh man, that title…Finney, you have to get it!”
“Are you insane?” Finney hissed, eying the case warily. “If I do, our house is going to get burned down. Again. And I doubt the guy who wrote it even knew him that well. He’s probably a random classmate trying to make a few bucks.”
Regardless, the random classmate must have felt extremely confident in order to write the book, My Pal Al: The Inside Story of Serial Killer Albert Shaw. On the cover was a black-and-white class photo, but Finney couldn’t make out the details from a distance.
“Hmmm, maybe,” Gwen said thoughtfully. Her humor subsided and she was looking at the book with an expression Finney didn’t like. “Or maybe not. This could be important. Remember Sanju?”
“Who the fuck is Sanju?”
“The guy we read about in class today!”
It took a moment for it to click. “You mean Sun Tzu?”
“Whatever,” she shrugged, “I was close. So, remember what he said about ‘knowing your enemy’ and all that? Well, this might be a sign. We read about him in class and then, when we go to the library, we just haaaaapen to see a book that has all this information about our enemy.”
Finney scowled. “Just because it’s in print doesn’t mean it’s going to be true. Remember all those weird tabloids about me? Or Bound in Chains?”
Bound in Chains was a novel that came out a year ago that was a “dramatization of the true story” of the Grabber and his victims, despite Finney—or any of the other victims, to his knowledge—never actually being in chains. In reality, it was a fetishization of the true story, and Finney knew the only thing stopping the bullies in school from using it as ammunition to mock him was the fact that they didn’t read books.
Reading the Bound in Chains was the only time in his life Finney wished he was illiterate. Although some details were accurate, the book was largely exploitative schlock and borderline pornographic, and Mr. Showalter successfully sued the author and publisher into oblivion. The character that was supposedly based on Finney was so far off-base in personality and dynamic with the Grabber that Finney wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
God, I hope he never finds out about that, Finney thought, a new fear added to his already-ample list. The Grabber would have enjoyed Finney’s literary alter-ego and his propensity for “quivering” on almost every damn page. And if I never hear or read the words “throbbing manhood” again, it’ll be way too soon.
“I know, I know,” Gwen admitted. Bound in Chains was a massive sore spot for everyone in the Blake family, and today, thoughts of the book—and the idea of strangers getting off on his victimization—upset Finney even more than usual. “But even if some of it’s wrong, some of it could still be true. You can find out more about his life, and maybe there's some kind of key there that could help us.”
“I don’t want to know more about his life,” Finney said stubbornly, taking a step forward as the line moved up.
“Okay, fine. I’ll read it! Whatever. But that book’s coming with us.”
“Don’t you have enough books to read?” Finney asked skeptically, craning his neck to see the spines of Gwen’s stack.
But his sister was too quick for him. She hunched over and rotated, mumbling an unconvincing, “I told you, they’re for school!”
Before Finney could call her on her bullshit, it was finally their turn, and the gray-haired librarian beckoned them forward. Gwen carefully put her books in a pile face-down and gave the librarian a bright smile. “We’d also like the book in the display case, please.”
“Ahhh, that one,” the librarian sighed. “Sorry you had to see that. Personally, I think it’s a bit tasteless, especially so soon.”
She gave Finney a sympathetic look that reminded him of the neighbors from the previous day, and that emasculating feeling came back. “It’s fine. It's a famous case. People are going to write about it.”
The librarian didn’t look convinced, but Gwen pushed forward. “So, are we able to check it out?”
“I’m afraid not,” the librarian said. Relief washed over Finney while Gwen looked crushed. “The book in the display case is an advance copy. We’re advertising it so our patrons could put their names on the wait-list, but it’s not scheduled to be published until the end of July. And even that’s up in the air, with all the legal drama…”
“Mr. Showalter?” Finney guessed.
“I’m not sure,” the librarian confessed. “I know there’s some concerns about privacy and how some individuals are portrayed, but I haven’t been keeping up with it all. It’s very hush-hush and quite frankly, I’m tired of hearing about that awful man.”
Me too. “Well, thanks for letting us know.”
Gwen, on the other hand, wasn’t going to accept ‘no’ quite so easily. “Look, Ms., um—”
The librarian squinted her eyes, as if she knew what Gwen was trying to do. “Schumacher.”
Gwen’s eyes widened like saucers and even Finney felt himself catch his breath. Against his better judgment, Gwen’s talk of signs echoed throughout his mind.
“Are you related to Agnes Schumacher?” Gwen asked, fingers flexing in the way they often did when she was anticipating something.
The librarian’s eyes furrowed. “Agnes Schumacher was my mother. I’m her daughter, Clara. How did you know Mom?”
The Blakes knew ‘We stole your mom’s eulogy’ wouldn’t win them any points. “We read it in an obituary,” Gwen lied. Then, she started to pick up steam. “See, we love books. That’s why I got so many right here. And your mom was really anti-censorship, so we’re really appreciative of her and what she did. Even though we never met her personally, it feels like we did. She seemed like a woman with nerves of, uh, steel, and pushed against barriers. I respect that.”
Finney was reluctantly impressed with his sister’s quick thinking and ability to bullshit so effectively on the spot. Clara seemed to ease up and smiled warmly at the pair. “Thank you so much, dear. I’m sure she’d be very happy to hear you say that.”
Gwen hesitated slightly, knowing her next words could make or break her plan. “And because she pushed against barriers and knew to do the right thing even though it was unpopular, I think it might be a sign that maybe, it might be okay—just this once!—to bend the rules…slightly, for the greater good.”
Clara’s smile began to fade. Gwen looked at Finney with alarm, who wasn’t planning on giving her any help whatsoever. Gwen started to ramble and talk quicker. “Y-you see, it’s like this…Finney went through a tough time, and this book might be the key to helping him move on from that bad experience. I know it doesn’t officially come out until July, but since it might get delayed and might not even come out at all, I don’t think Finney could wait that long and we’d really, really appreciate it if you let us borrow that copy. Please…”
Finney felt himself grow rigid as the librarian’s eyes morphed from suspicion to compassion. He tried to maintain a neutral mask, but inwardly, he was incensed. Once again, he felt like a frog being dissected in front of a stranger, and if he didn’t think doing so would contribute to Gwen’s insinuation, he would have denied and lashed out right here.
“...All right,” Clara said finally. “Because it’s a special situation, you can take the book with you. But be sure to return it when you can, you hear?”
“Thank you so much!” Gwen beamed, and the sight infuriated Finney.
Feeling the librarian’s eyes on him, he muttered a quick, emotionless “Thanks…” before shoving the book in his backpack without looking at it.
After they left the library, Gwen was practically skipping down the sidewalk.
“I can’t believe our luck! Clara Schmacher. Schumacher! See? The signs are everywhere, we just—”
“Why the hell did you say those things?” Finney demanded. He felt his face growing red, a mixture of anger and embarrassment as the conversation—and Clara’s pitying gaze—replayed in his mind, again and again.
Gwen looked startled and clutched the strap of her backpack. “W-what?”
“The stuff about me! About how—how—you made me seem like such a—Gwen! Jesus Christ, you made me sound like such a faggot!”
Gwen’s jaw dropped, but Finney didn’t care. He was no longer thinking straight, guided only by the visceral, intoxicating rush of anger and shame. “I don’t need everyone knowing about all that shit!”
Gwen swallowed and looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d get so pissed.” The conversation might have ended at that, but she felt the need to defend herself. “But I–I didn’t say anything ghost-related. I just stuck with the general stuff…”
“That’s the point.” Why was this so hard for her to understand? “I don’t want people to know about—about how hard everything is for me, okay? That’s personal.”
Gwen’s eyes snapped up from the ground and looked at him with another unreadable expression. “But Finney, I think everyone—”
She stopped speaking and bit her lip, averting her eyes again. Finney felt his fingers clench. “Everyone what?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled.
“Just say it.”
“No,” she insisted, a slight scowl forming on her lips. “You’ll just get mad. Forget about it, alright?”
“I’m not some porcelain doll,” he snapped. “Stop acting like I’m going to break from every little goddamn thing and just say it, already.”
“Okay, fine!” Gwen looks up, eyes flashing with determination, fear, and concern. “I’m pretty sure…well, I’m pretty sure everyone—um, any adult, anyway—kinda…knows that things are hard for you.” Gwen started rushing upon seeing Finney’s expression. “And that’s normal! It’s totally normal. In fact, it’d be really weird if someone went through what you did and was all, ‘hey, everything’s good.’ So I think you don’t have to worry about how strangers feel. All you have to worry about is how you feel.”
Finney knew—objectively—that what Gwen was saying was true. It was no secret that strangers pitied him. He had three years of experience and even talked to people like that the previous day.
And he never reacted the way he was right now. He had no idea why he was feeling this way right now. But what he did know is that despite Gwen’s good intentions, she could never truly help him once she said, “And remember, you’re not alone this time! I know what you’re going through.”
His anger dimmed, replaced by a weary melancholy. “You could never know what I‘m going through.” When he said it, there was no accusation, only fatigue. “You’re—”
He tried to find the language to describe why she couldn’t know, but couldn’t find the means to articulate it properly. Instead, he said the closest thing that came to mind, even if it wasn’t fully what he was looking for. Dr. Moore seemed to understand, after all, but she was a trained professional. “You’re a girl.”
Gwen’s eyebrows raised in the way Finney expected. “Wow. Sexist much?”
“It’s not sexism, it’s just facts.” He thought of his futile quest to find a book—any book—that showed that what happened to him was real, that there wasn’t anything wrong with him.“ You’ll never be able to understand what it’s like to be a guy, and for something like this to happen.” He took a deep breath. “I know you’re trying to help, but you’ve got to quit using me to get what you want.”
“I wasn’t using you!” Gwen protested, face flushing in indignation. “I know I should have said something to you first and I’m really sorry, but that book might give us a clue. I was doing it for your benefit.”
“Yeah, sure.” Finney rolled his eyes. He knew he should stop it there, but the impulse to add one last jab was too overpowering. “You know, he says that to me all the time, too.”
It took Gwen a moment to realize what Finney was referring to, and when she did, the expression on her face was what Finney imagined it would be if Finney really did kill himself. “How could you even say that? I’m nothing like that creep!”
She’s right. I’m going way too far. Still, he couldn’t help but say, “Why? Both of you never seem to care about my opinion.”
“I do care, Finney!’ she exclaimed, eyes welling with tears.
“You ignored me and went in Mrs. Romano’s car when I didn’t want to—”
“We would have gotten drenched if we didn’t!”
“—and you got the book when I didn’t want to. And I’m guessing the other books you checked out are probably for Exorcism 2.0 or some other shit you know I’d be against.”
“It’s not for an exorcism,” Gwen whispered hoarsely, tears starting to drip down her cheeks.
The second wind of anger he picked up earlier receded, and guilt started to trickle through him. When he spoke next, it was no longer accusatory or volatile. “What’s your plan, Gwen?”
Gwen’s gaze remained focused on the sidewalk ahead and she clutched the straps of her backpack tighter. Finney was resigned to not getting a response, but to his surprise, Gwen shrugged off her backpack and tossed it to Finney. When he caught it, he almost dropped it immediately; this thing was heavy.
He unzipped the punch to see the tops of the library books jutting out. Bracing himself for what he might find, he began pulling them out one by one.
The first book was called Elementary Theosophy and second, A Textbook of Theosophy. The names sounded familiar, but Finney couldn’t quite pinpoint it. After looking at the next one—The Astral Plane—memories of an awkward breakfast the day their house burned down came rushing back. The final two books confirmed Finney’s worst fears: The Study and Practice of Astral Projection and The Techniques of Astral Projection.
Oh, fucking hell…
Part of him wanted to fling the books into the road like a frisbee, but he shoved them into the backpack and returned it to a sulking Gwen.
He swallowed and took a few deep breaths to steady his voice, not wanting to return to the volatile emotional state he was in a few minutes ago. “No.”
“Oh, come on!” Gwen complained. While her eyes were still red, they held a challenging, stubborn glint that Finney was more used to seeing. “You have no plan! This is at least something. If I'm able to separate my spirit from my body, then my spirit could go into that ghost world and even the playing field a little.”
The phrase ‘even the playing field’ reminded Finney of their conversation in the hospital and he shook his head in disbelief. “When I talked about going to the spirit world to kick his ass, that wasn’t supposed to be a suggestion! It was supposed to show you how dumb the idea is.”
“I’m not going to fight him, I’m going to do reconnaissance. And think about all the signs!” she exclaimed, gesturing vaguely around her. “Earlier, we were talking about how we needed a plan. And then during Humanities, Mr. Clarkson gives us hints about the mind and body being separate. And that reminded me of the theosophists, and how we just so happen to be living in a house where theosophists tried to get to the astral plane—the ghost world—which happens to be where the Grabber’s ghost is. Everything’s connected.”
“You’re seeing patterns when they aren’t there, because you want to see them! Sometimes it’s just a coincidence.”
Gwen put her hands on her hips. “Oh, like how my dreams were ‘just a coincidence?’”
“That’s different. It’s—look, Gwen. It’s like Dad said, these people were grifters. There’s no proof anything they did actually happened.”
“Yes, there is!” Gwen insisted.
“Oh, yeah?” Finney scoffed. “Like what?”
Gwen slouched over a bit and seemed more reluctant to say anything, which set off more warning bells. “So, um,” she finally began. “They said that whenever they would try to send their minds to the ghost world, their bodies would be unconscious. And there were, like, twelve or thirteen people—I think—in the 1920s, and one time they astral projected in the basement, and they didn’t wake up.”
Finney blinked slowly and looked at his sister, who was trying to look impassive. “They didn’t wake up? So they…died?”
“Y-yeah, eventually. But the silver lining is that it definitely worked,” she said hurriedly. “It’s proof they found their way there. They just couldn’t get back.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a huge fucking relief. I’m sure when we separate our souls from our bodies, we’ll be so glad that it worked. And I’m sure we’ll be able to come back easily and not die horrible deaths, since plans and foresight are our strength.”
“It probably didn’t work right because they didn’t have powers like us! And Finney, I’m going, not you,’” Gwen said, crossing her arms. “Sending you to the astral plane would be like dressing you in a suit made of steaks and dropping you off in the savannah. At least my girl bits might scare him away.”
Finney thought the idea sounded insane and unfeasible, but the tiny possibility of it working caused his gut to churn. Despite her claims that she just wanted to see what the ghostly plane was like and gather information about the limitations of spirits, she would, theoretically, be able to interact with the Grabber’s spirit there. “No,” he repeated, mind racing with horrible scenarios. “It’s not happening. This is another example of you putting your feelings over mine.”
The tears came back in Gwen’s eyes. “I can't just sit here while the Grabber keeps messing with you! I’m worried something bad’s going to happen and—and I’d never forgive myself. You’re my brother and I love you and I know you’re really pissed at me right now, but I just…”
Gwen trailed off, and Finney–-despite his fears and previous fury—felt a rush of humility and love towards his sister. He recalled the Grabber’s goal for him and felt another stab of hate for the man.
How could Finney ever kill himself with Gwen here? How could anyone leave their family behind like that?
(Finney wondered if Mom ever thought the same thing. He pushed the thought away.)
“You know what I think?” Finney finally said. “I think the theopeople died of carbon monoxide or something, and this whole thing’s a wild goose chase.”
“It might be,” Gwen admitted. “But there has to be some way for us to get into the ghost world, and this is the only way I can think of. Remember what I said in the hospital? The Grabber knows it’s possible for humans to get to the astral plane. That’s why he said he wants you to join him.”
Finney debated about whether or not to tell Gwen about the Grabber’s plan for him. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t force the words out. “I think he meant he wanted me to die,” he said as a compromise.
Gwen shook her head. “But then you’d go to Heaven, like Mom. If he's crazy enough to think you’d go to the ghost world when you die, then I don’t get why he doesn’t just try to kill you now. He probably could. Not that I’m saying he should or anything, but—”
Finney didn’t want to discuss this anymore. “Who knows what goes on in a crazy person’s mind? Why Griffin? Why me? Why kids and not adults? If you try to find logic in the way in his mind works, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
Gwen peered at him curiously, but Finney didn’t elaborate. She shrugged. “Well, if you’re right and it’s all bunk, then I have nothing to worry about. And if I’m right, then we could get important intel that could help us banish his ghost ass to hell. Either way, it’s a win-win.”
“You literally just said that thirteen people died from doing what you’re trying to do.”
“Because they weren’t psychic! And they died from carbon monoxide, probably.”
Finney was getting a sense of deja vu of the day of the exorcism. “No. I’m not letting you do this.”
Gwen was quiet for a moment. “I know I’m going to sound like a movie villain for saying this, but…you can’t stop me. And if you try to hide or throw out my books when I’m not looking, I’ll go back to the library and check out more. I promise I’ll be really careful, and also it probably won’t work anyway, so just….trust me, okay? Please?”
Finney’s lip thinned and he looked ahead, refusing to make eye contact. They continued to walk in silence for a minute, then Gwen added, “There’s a 90% chance it won’t even work and I'll just end up falling asleep.”
Finney continued to say nothing. Gwen groaned. “Are you going to give me the silent treatment forever? Look, I said—oh, Finney, we have to stop here!”
Finney looked to where she was pointing. “The comic shop? Why?”
Gwen beamed, glad that Finney finally spoke. “All my issues of Ms. Marvel burned up, and I’m going to use the money Daddy gave me to try to replenish my collection.”
“That’s what you're spending yours on? Comics?”
Despite Finney’s vehement protests, Terrence insisted on giving Finney and Gwen thirty dollars of spending money. While Gwen started chipping away at her amount, Finney’s had not left his wallet.
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Yeah. At least mine won’t spend years rotting in my pocket, waiting for ‘something important.’”
Finney didn’t bother telling her that he already had “something important” in mind—a present for Donna. “Go. But hurry up.”
Gwen scampered to the shop, Finney trudging behind. He had no desire to enter and see all these powerful, colorful characters saving the day.
He slung his heavy backpack off his shoulder and dumped it on the floor, unzipping his backpack and removed the Time-Out. He knew the spirit wasn’t in the library, but was he with them on their way back? Did he overheard what Gwen was saying? “Al?” he asked again.
Still, no response. Finney was relieved and anxious at the same time. He liked his moments of freedom, but that led to the question: Where was the Grabber? Was he haunting Donna? Was he spying on that mysterious person he hinted was the true cause of Donna’s misery?
No, he was just messing with me. He has to be the one responsible for how she’s feeling. But what-ifs and worst-case scenarios kept multiplying in his mind.
He couldn’t just sit here dwelling on it. There had to be something productive he could do. Finney searched through his backpack to find the folder with his math worksheet, but before he could spot it, his fingers lingered on the book he didn’t want in the first place.
Taking a breath, he pulled out My Pal Al. It wasn't that he wanted to read the book, but the knowledge that this might be the last time he saw the book undamaged was enough to prod at his natural sense of curiosity. As he slumped against the storefront and gazed at the school photo of twenty shabbily-dressed eight-year olds, Finney tried to spot the Grabber. It was harder than he thought, but eyes finally settled on a scrawny boy in the second row with messy hair and an oversized sweater. He was smiling, but his eyes were skittish.
Okay, this is fucking weird. I need to stop.
But like the compulsion to watch a trainwreck, he started flipping through the book to see if there were any more photos.
And there were. In the middle, there were a few pages with black-and-white photos and captions. Finney skimmed over them quickly. The first photo was a picture of the Grabber’s house (my house now, Finney thought, stifling a groan) and the second had the child version of Albert Shaw beaming as he held up something small in the face of a shorter, heftier kid who was covering his mouth. The next page had a handful of kids in Halloween costumes—a ghost, a clown, a devil, an angel, a wolf, a witch, and some demon....pumpkin...thing. All of whom looked creepy as fuck, and Finney couldn’t tell which one was Albert. There was also a picture of him and a light-haired girl on playground swings, someone who might have been the angel from the previous picture, but he wasn't sure.
The next page showed him older and more weary, about thirteen or fourteen, outside of a shop with a poster advertising war bonds in the window. A small, dark-haired boy was clutching his hand and grinning and waving at the camera. Max... Another picture showed a sullen Albert and a scowling boy in glasses carrying a box full of scrap metal through the halls of the high school.
Finney felt much more comfortable on the next page, which had photographs from when the Grabber looked more like an adult, albeit a young one. One picture showed Albert with shorter hair and an older man with a goatee. Both men were decked in magician garb and posing on a stage—Albert wearing a cape and the older man wearing a familiar black top hat. The confident gleam in Albert's eye was one Finney was more accustomed to seeing. Finney read the blurb next to the picture: A promotional still from the ill-fated collaboration between Albert and Salvatore Bernardi. Working titles for the act were “Shaw and Bernardi’s Magical Menagerie” and “Sal & Al’s Wonder Show.” Albert favored the former while Bernardi favored the latter, one of the earliest sources of friction between the pair.
Finney’s brows furrowed. Salvatore Bernardi. Bernardi….the name sounded vaguely familiar. Looking at the next image—a smirking close-up shot of Albert—caused him to remember that name from the night of the exorcism. The Grabber radiated an aura of smugness as he held the brim of the black top hat, winking, as if sensing Finney’s conclusion.
The final two photos caused Finney to squint in order to make sure it really was the Grabber. Based on the outfits, they were likely taken sometime during the mid-to-late 1940s or early 1950s, and reminded Finney of John and Mary. The first showed Albert and a young light-haired woman sitting underneath a tree and smiling, Albert covering her eyes from behind her. In front of her was a small box. The second had Albert with his arms wrapped around the same woman’s waist, standing in front of a house that looked similar to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, but couldn’t be because of the angle of the photo. There was a tree on the lawn that had a twisted trunk and was covered in leaves and apples, and Finney wondered if it was the same tree from the other photo.
In both photos, Albert was smiling and did seem genuinely happy to a certain extent. But Finney spent a lot of time looking at the Grabber’s eyes out of necessity three years ago. He relied on those eyes to provide him hints to what the man was feeling, and was fairly confident he could discern the emotions behind them in most cases. And in those two photos, Finney saw happiness, but also….something else.
Resignation? Restlessness? Longing?
Before he could look at the captions, a sneering voice interrupted his thoughts. “Move, Blake.”
He suddenly felt regret for not following Gwen into the comic shop. Closing the book and obscuring the title from view, he replied, “Matt, I’m leaning against the wall. Where the hell do you expect me to go?”
“I’m expecting you to stop leaving your shit in the middle of the sidewalk like a dumbass. That’s what I expect.”
He looked down and was annoyed to find that in his haze of emotion, he tossed his backpack down in front of him instead of to the side. He looked up at Matt, who was glaring at him, holding the leashes of a German Shepherd and Beagle, both of whom were wagging their tails and sniffing the backpack blocking their way. Finney hastily grabbed it and put it to his side, trying to not let his instinctive panic show.
“Sorry.” Still feeling a bit guilty for the way he beat the shit out of him, Finney felt the inexplicable urge to make light conversation. “I heard you had five dogs now.”
Dogs were a topic Matt was always willing to talk about, even with people he hated. “I have three,” he snapped. “One’s at home, and the other two got adopted.”
While Matt was a violent jerk, his mother was the exact opposite, and would volunteer for various causes. For as long as Finney could remember, the Gallaghers would foster dogs from nearby animal shelters until they found permanent owners. Early on in his friendship with Donna, Finney made a joke that Matt must be adopted since he’s so different from his mom. Donna’s cool reception was how Finney first found out she was adopted, and while he and Donna joked about that awkward moment now, at the time he was mortified. Gwen thought Finney’s floundering and backpedaling was hilarious and would sometimes remind him of it randomly.
Finney had no idea how to continue a conversation with Matt, so lamely said, “That’s cool.”
Matt rolled his eyes and started to walk away. Before he got too far, a sudden thought occurred to Finney, and he blurted out, “Matt, hold on.”
Matt turned to look at him warily. Swallowing his pride, Finney asked, “I’ve been out of school for a while. How’s Donna doing?”
“She’s your girlfriend, you should know,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“But is she…okay?” he pressed. “Is there anything going on with her? She seemed a bit out of it today.”
He hated asking Matt these questions, but any insight would be valuable.
“You don’t know?” asked Matt, brows furrowing. Finney’s heart started to race. “Guess I'm not surprised she’d want to keep it from you.”
“What is it?” Finney asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
Matt’s expression grew more smug. “If she didn’t say anything, then I’m not going to tell you either.”
Was Matt just fucking with him, or was there really something going on? Finney’s first thought was that it had to be the Grabber’s ghost, but if it was something Matt knew about, then maybe the Grabber was telling the truth earlier.
Or maybe Matt just thinks he knows what’s bothering her…
“Matt, come on. If you really cared about Donna, then you’d—”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Fuck you. As if you know the first thing about caring for someone else. You’re so wrapped up in your own shit, your own girlfriend’s afraid to talk to you. Christ, I can’t wait for the day she dumps your sorry ass.”
And with that, Matt stormed off, leaving Finney in the dust with many, many conflicting thoughts and emotions.
****
Thoughts of Donna, the photographs, and Gwen’s new plan plagued him throughout the walk home and later that night. After eating dinner and showering, he closed the bedroom door and sat on his bed, thinking frantically about what he could do. He felt powerless, and there didn’t seem to be much he could do.
He tried to remember what Dr. Moore said to do whenever he felt overwhelmed: Break it down into small steps. The most pressing issue, he figured, was Gwen’s astral projection idea. In an effort to dissuade her, Finney mentioned on the way back that the Grabber’s ghost could probably see she was trying to astral project, but all Gwen did was shrug and said, “Good! Let him know I’m coming. I don’t care.”
But would the Grabber care? Was astral projecting a real threat, or would it be as futile as the half-assed exorcism?
Either way, he needed information. He walked over to his dresser and picked up the screen. “Al?”
The screen flickered and the grinning silhouette appeared. “Oh, Finney,” he cooed. “You remembered!”
Finney felt his mouth grow dry. During the course of the day, he became so accustomed to using it as bait that he became desensitized to it. But now that the Grabber actually responded, Finney wished he could take it back. He didn’t want to do or say anything that would seem intimate.
“U-um, yeah,” he sputtered. He paused—how should he approach the next part? “So…I wanted to, um, ask you something.”
The shadow tilted its head curiously, and Finney felt his palms start to sweat. “It’s about the people who lived here in the 1920s. I heard they died.” He couldn’t go straight into discussing astral projection; he needed to work up to it first. “Are their ghosts here, too?” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Is that what I saw in the camera yesterday?”
“Don’t worry about those weirdos. A few of ‘em used to haunt the house back when I was a kid, but they’re long gone.”
“So what did I see in the camera?” Finney pressed.
The shadow shrugged, but the grin seemed to grow wider. “Hmm, dunno. Couldn’t get a good look. I’ve got a couple guesses, though.”
Finney knew what the Grabber was trying to do, but refused to play along. He had a mission, after all. “How did they die?”
“Ehhh. A bunch of egos fucked with things that aren’t meant to be fucked with, and it backfired. Same old story.”
Finney felt his insides grow colder. “So it was something they did that caused them to die?”
“You worried about Gwenny?” he chuckled. “What a good brother…”
That answered the question of whether or not the Grabber knew Gwen’s plan. “So are you saying it’s real? Astral projection, I mean.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn't,” he said thoughtfully. “Max would sometimes say he felt his soul traveling outside his body, but that could have been the drugs. And with the loonies….well, I’m old, but not that old. I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure what happened to them.”
“You never tried to do it?” Finney asked, desperate for more information that could help Gwen. “What about your mom? Wasn’t she some kind of famous psychic? Wouldn’t she know?”
“Neither of us would have been dumb enough to do it. You don’t need to be psychic to know that splitting your soul from your body is a terrible idea. There are tried-and-true ways of getting here, so if you want to see me that badly, you can—” The Grabber stopped abruptly, and the screen flickered. When he appeared again, his silhouette was frowning and his tone of voice was lower. “What’s that?”
Finney felt his skin prickle at the familiar tone. “W-what?”
“That. In your backpack.”
Finney’s eyes drifted to the backpack, which wasn’t fully zipped. Shit.
“It’s, um, a library book.”
“Take it out. I want to see it.”
Finney pushed himself off the bed and trudged over to the backpack, unzipping it and taking out My Pal Al. He swallowed. “Okay. So, it's a book about….you. I saw it and got it to, um—” He had no idea what to even say; he didn't want the book in the first place.
“To burn it? Good thinking.”
“I can't burn it, it’s an advance copy. It doesn't belong to me,’ Finney protested. He felt a spark of inspiration for how to redirect the conversation. “But the book hasn't been officially published yet. Why don’t you go on the phone and call the publishing company? You could change your voice and pretend to be the author or president or something and stop it from getting made.”
“Christ, what a shitty idea...first, I didn't change my voice, second, I wouldn't be able to do that, and third, even if I could, it wouldn't work because that idea's so..."—he paused, as if searching for the right word—"childish." The Grabber then focused back on the book. “Why does the title sound like a kids show?”
Finney glanced down at the cover. “I think it’s written by a friend of yours.” Finey noticed that the dresser was beginning to shake. “I meant, someone who says he was your friend!”
“I didn’t have friends,” he spat. The screen was glitching and Finney couldn’t make out the shadowy face anymore. It was just an array of disjointed black pixels fading in and out from all corners of the screen. “Tell me who has the balls to write this trash.”
Silently praying he wouldn’t be complicit in the author’s murder, Finney looked at the name and said, “I’m probably butchering the pronunciation, but it says his name is Witold Rusnak.”
“...who?”
“Witold Rusnak,” Finney repeated. He held up the cover in a random direction, hoping the Grabber would be able to see how the name was spelled.
“I have no idea who the hell that is.” His voice started to grow louder, and the bed started to tremble. “See, this is what happens when you die. Maggots come out of the woodwork and leech off your corpse. I’ll bet this is someone who went to my school and knew of me, and now that I’m famous and he’s a meaningless little shitstain, he’s trying to profit off that. Some vulture looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. Look at the author page and tell me how pathetic his life is.”
Finney flipped to the back of the book. “It says he’s a surgeon with beachfront property in Florida, and has five kids.”
“And you think I’m a liar. Ha! His life must be even more pathetic than I thought.”
Finney was relieved to see that the shaking stopped. Now that the hissy fit had subsided and the Grabber seemed to be in better spirits—as evidenced by the shadow of the grinning mask on the screen—Finney tentatively began to breach a topic that’s been on his mind since he first opened the book. “There are pictures of you in there, so the author had to get them from somewhere.” Finney opened the book to the first page of pictures in the middle. “See?”
Now that he was looking at it a second time, Finney read the captions. The one underneath the picture of the house just said: 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. Evelyn Shaw and Albert were living here when I first met them.
Finney noticed a father wasn’t mentioned. He looked at the caption under the second picture: When we were playing baseball, Albert threw the ball at my face (by accident?) and one of my molars came out. At first we thought it was lost for good, but he found it in the grass!
Finney pointed to the other boy in the photograph. “It says that kid’s the author.”
The screen flickered to the neutral mask, then back to the smiling one. “....Russ? Russ is the author? Huh. Always wondered what happened to him.”
“You did know him, then?” Finney asked, curious despite his better judgment.
“Yeah. Everyone just called him Russ, so I forgot that wasn’t his real name. His grandparents used to live where the Romanos are now.”
“Guess he’s not a maggot,” Finney said, feeling slightly more relaxed knowing the author won’t suffer from a mysterious death.
The screen flickered back to the blank mask. “He’s still an opportunistic little shit. Our ‘friendship’ peaked when I was in elementary school, and I haven’t talked to him since I was in my twenties, so I don’t know where he gets off on saying he’s my pal. He’s the kind of guy you think about every one in a while and go, ‘hmm, I wonder how he’s doing.’ But that’s all.”
Finney flipped to the next page and pointed to the Halloween one and the girl on the swings. “What about these kids? Did you keep in touch with them?”
“Nope. Next!”
Finney rolled his eyes and flipped the page again. “This is Max, right?”
“Yup, that’s Maxie. And do you know what store we’re outside of?”
Finney tried to make out the details, but couldn’t. “...No?”
“It’s Hortford’s! Man, seeing this one brings back the memories. You kids today don’t know how lucky you are. You didn't have to grow up with rationing.”
“Is that why you look upset in these photos?”
“Kinda. Next!”
Finney flipped to the pictures of Bernardi and Albert in his magician outfits. “Were you—”
“Next!”
Finney frowned and put his fingers on the corners of the page, but hesitated. He really, really wanted to read the captions on the next page, but had no idea how the Grabber would react. “The next one has you and a girlfriend, I think.”
He glanced at the screen, hoping to have some indicator of how the ghost was feeling, but all he saw was empty grayness and a blank mask. “You don’t need to be jealous, Finney. Next!”
Finney flipped to the page and immediately tried to speed-read the captions in case the book spontaneously combusted. Underneath the picture of Albert closing the woman’s eyes, Finney read: Albert surprising Kathy Sinclair with her engagement ring.
“What the fuck?” Finney blurted. “Jesus Christ, you were…married?” Finney remembered the Grabber’s talks of casting a wide net and seeing what works for him, but didn’t think it was ever that serious. “Why??"
The Grabber sighed, and Finney noticed the shadow on the screen was frowning. “Trust me, if I had to go back and do things in my life differently, I would. I just…I dunno. It was the fifties. I thought the white picket fence life would make me feel successful and whole. But it didn’t. I was forcing myself to be someone I’m not.” The face flickered back to the grinning mask. “Like I said, you don’t need to be jealous. I only felt true fulfillment when—”
Finney was not about to let the Grabber turn this conversation around; there were too many questions. “Is this the girl Max was dating?”
The screen flickered back to the frown. “No.”
Finney looked at the woman’s face, wondering if she knew how deep her husband’s (this is so weird) depravity went. “What happened to Kathy?”
The Grabber paused for a moment. “Well, clearly the married life didn’t take.”
“So you were honest about your feelings and had a mature conversation that ended in an amicable divorce, right? That’s how it went?”
The Grabber said nothing while Finney glared at the screen.
Alright, there’s only so much shit I can take in one day. Finney stretched and stood up. “Well, this has been…educational. But I’m going to bed now, so—”
“But we didn’t even talk about what’s going to happen tomorrow!” the Grabber complained.
Finney tried not to roll his eyes as he returned the book to his backpack. “Okay. What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, you’re going to find out what’s going on with Donna. And no, I’m not going to tell you now,” he said, preemptively warding off Finney’s interruption. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“This isn’t a game!” Finney argued, sitting back down on the bed. “If Donna’s in da–”
The Grabber ignored him and continued. “Tomorrow, she’s going to invite you to her house. She claims it’s to ‘hang out,’ but she’ll probably end up throwing herself at you like a whore." Oh, fuck you... "While we’re there, we’re going to be gathering evidence. I know subtlety isn’t your forte”—it’s not yours either, asshole—”but you need to be delicate with this. One wrong move, and the whole plan goes sideways.”
“What ‘evidence’?”
“I’ll explain more tomorrow, I don’t want to ruin your sleep again.”
Liar. “So we’re going to be gathering clues like the fucking Hardy Boys tomorrow? That’s your plan?”
“Yep. If I tell you what happened now, you won’t believe me. You need to see the proof. Otherwise you’ll say”—The Grabber made his voice more high pitched and whiny—“‘You liar! You’re trying to mess with me! I hate you!’ Blah, blah, blah.”
Finney bristled, “Well, you are a liar, and you do try to mess with me”—and I do hate you—”so it shouldn’t come as a shock if I’m suspicious. I know you have some kind of secret agenda. Why else would you be concerned about Donna’s safety?”
The Grabber sighed again. “I’m concerned because of you. Everything I do is because of you. I only have your best interests in mind, and it’s all for your benefit. So just trust me on this, okay?”
Finney gritted his teeth and put the screen on the dresser. He had no desire to continue this conversation.
For the next hour, Finney laid down in his bed, staring at the ceiling with the lights on. Eventually, he drifted off to a deep sleep, memories of Robin playing in loop like a phantasmal carousel. In the dream world, Finney was happy, Finney was confident, Finney was content, and Finney was completely unaware of the dark presence lurking just beyond his peripheral vision.
And in the room next to his, Gwen Blake received one of her Dreams, the first in three years. She remained alert and awake, heart thumping rapidly, for the rest of the night.
Chapter 10: Someone Else
Notes:
Like chapters 3-4 and 6-7, this is yet another chapter that needed to get split up because it was becoming monster length. As a heads up, this half gets, uh, intense… a lot of conflict between Finney and the Grabber, but also Finney and his family. Next one’s not nearly as angsty, I promise!
The original outline included the trip to Donna’s house, but that needed to get pushed back until Chapter 11. BUT the good (?) news is we get told what the secret is in this one. The bad news is that it comes from an extremely dubious source and might not even be true, lol.
The Cassandra mentioned in this chapter is a character from Greek mythology who could tell the future, but was cursed so whenever she told the truth, no one believed her.
Thank you everyone who’s been reading/commenting/kudos-ing! I appreciate you all so much!!!! <3333
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Beep! Beep!
Finney blinked groggily, turning his head to the side and wondering, through his dreamy haze, where Robin went. His friend wasn’t there, but something else was: a black rectangle with blurry red letters on it. W A K E?
He blinked again; the red lines now said 5:11. A second later, reality came crashing down and Finney groaned.
Well, it was nice while it lasted…
Despite being shaken out of his reverie, Finney took no initiative to turn off the alarm clock. He hadn’t had a nice dream in a while. He wanted to hold onto the memory of being carefree, of being happy, of being with Robin again, even if only for a little longer.
But eventually, the persistent beeping got the better of him. Finney pressed the off button with a sigh, but his fingers paused before lifting the sheet covers. He glanced at the alarm clock again.
Why did the alarm go off so early?
Finney frowned. He set the alarm to go off at 6:30, he knew he did.
He snatched the Time-Out from the bedside table, irritation boiling. Losing out on a deep sleep—especially in a week where it was very sparse—was one thing, but losing out on a dream of Robin was another, especially when the man rousing him was the reason Finney would be able to see Robin in his dreams only.
“Was that you?” Finney demanded. But there was only silence. “Did you mess with the clock? Hello?”
There were another few seconds of silence. Finney opened his mouth again, but was interrupted by a voice that snapped, “What?”
The Grabber sounded as cranky as Finney today. Self-preservation instincts began to claw at Finney’s growing temper, but not enough to keep the accusation out of his voice when he said, “You woke me up. My alarm wasn’t supposed to go off until 6:30.”
“I’m not the cause of every single goddamn problem in your life,” the ghost hissed, voice low. “You set it wrong. Whine to a mirror.”
The harsh tone caused Finney to instinctively shrink away; he was no stranger to the Grabber’s mood swings. The Grabber’s words tracked with how it usually went: periods of ‘kindness’ followed by cruelty. But still…
Something about this situation felt off. Finney rubbed his neck as he recalled the anguished declarations he was subjected to over the past few days. Yeah, I’m really feeling the love here…
Why was the ghost so pissed? Finney didn’t think he screwed up the alarm, but maybe he was wrong. Or maybe this was some kind of manipulative ploy. With the Grabber, it could be anything.
Finney debated what to say. “I know it’s not always you. I just thought you wanted me to get up early to do something, that’s all. Sorry.”
That seemed to be enough to placate the spirit. “Ohhh, there’s plenty I want you to do.” The Grabber’s low tone was amorous now as opposed to threatening, but to Finney, they were often one in the same. Finney’s fingers clenched the bedsheets as he felt his insides twist. “But let’s wait until you’re back in arms again, okay? If I tell you now, you’ll go bolting off like a baby deer!” The Grabber laughed. Finney didn’t. “Besides, isn’t it time for you to get dressed?”
Finney’s skin crawled at the lecherous tone. He assumed the ghost was watching him the past week, but this was the first time it was mentioned directly. His face hardened as he got up and rummaged through the dresser, grabbing some clothes before heading to the bathroom for the illusion of privacy.
After slamming the door shut, thoughts of earlier played through his mind as he changed. Whatever the cause of the ghost’s bad mood was, it wasn’t enough to deter his obsession with Finney. But could anything? Was this going to be his life now? Living in constant fear and paranoia, dreading daily tasks like showering and changing?
When Finney finished pulling his shirt over his head, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Ever since escaping from the basement three years ago, looking into mirrors made him feel uncomfortable, though he wasn’t sure why. He typically avoided anything longer than fixing his hair or checking to see if there was anything noticeable on his face. He knew, on a superficial level, what he looked like.
But today, Finney couldn’t tear his eyes away from the young man in the mirror with the bleak, haunted expression. Both Finney and the twin in the mirror’s mouths curled.
He didn’t want to be that person. What would Robin say?
The thought caused a spark of life to flicker in the eyes of Finney’s twin, causing Finney to relax slightly. He still had the capacity for hope. It might be buried deep, deep down, but it was still there.
With trepidation, he leaned closer to the mirror, allowing himself to truly examine the face staring back at him for the first time in years. While some parts remained the same—-like his sloppy hair, and eyes that reflected a wisdom beyond their years—other aspects of his reflection seemed to belong to someone else. His heart skipped a beat when it dawned on him that he was only around three inches shorter than the Grabber. The man always seemed so large and towering in Finney’s mind.
When did Finney get so tall? Why were there a few pimples by his hairline? (Is it because I put my hands to my forehead a lot?) When did he start to grow muscles instead of looking so scrawny? And was that—
Finney put his fingers up to his chin. Holy shit, it is. It was very faint, and very light, but he was beginning to feel the first traces of facial hair.
On the inside, Finney felt fixed in time, eternally frozen at thirteen. But he wasn’t. The world kept changing. He kept changing, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Finney ran one of his hands through his hair, watching as the strands softly fell against his brow. The Grabber used to do that all the time to him, but he never saw what it looked like until now. It was a gesture meant for a child and looked out of place on someone his age. He poked the tiny stubble on his chin, double-checking to make sure they were still there.
Maybe that’s the key to getting rid of him: I can grow a beard and look like Dad.
Finney saw a wry smile spread across his doppleganger’s face. It was an intriguing thought. Would the Grabber lose interest in him as he got older? Could he wait it out? He remembered the Grabber saying Finney wasn’t out of his age range, but how long would it be until Finney was?
The smile vanished as quickly as it emerged. He could barely handle a week, and now he was considering years? Not happening.
And if by some miracle, he coexisted with the ghost until adulthood without losing his mind, there’d still be no guarantee of his safety. The Grabber told him in the supply room that young boys apparently were what “hit the spot” (ewww) but did that mean he only enjoyed children? Or did he just prefer children? Was he miserable with Kathy, or did he get some kind of enjoyment out of it? Were adult men also part of his ‘wide net,’ or just—
You know what? You’re right, Finney agreed, nodding at the nauseated sixteen-year old in the mirror, this is a huge fucking case of ‘I Don’t Need To Know.’
Finney stood in the bathroom for the next several minutes despite being dressed, hoping the Grabber would get bored and fuck off to wherever he went yesterday. Finney's grumbling stomach eventually bothered him enough to the point where he reluctantly creaked the door open and quietly made his way to the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone. As he did, he heard the faint sound of music echoing down the halls. Bracing himself in case it ended up being another ‘romantic’ song, Finney took a deep breath and followed the source of the noise.
But it wasn’t the Grabber at all. It was Gwen.
Finney’s sister was hunched in front of the Atari, blasting space aliens again and again. Finney’s eyes drifted to the clock on the mantelpiece: 5:30. Gwen was the type of person who would roll out of bed thirty minutes before they needed to leave. Why was she up so early?
Finney started to feel goosebumps as the same sense of wrongness from earlier crept throughout his body.
“Gwen? You okay?”
Gwen jolted upright and spun around. She didn’t look okay: she had bags under her eyes and looked oddly alert for this time of day. Worst case scenarios buzzed in his head and his protective instincts went into overdrive. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, turning back away from him and resuming the game. “I couldn’t sleep and figured this was better than staring at the ceiling.”
“Why weren’t you able to sleep?” Finney pressed, moving closer to see her expression.
Gwen’s eyes remained purposefully glued on the screen as she tugged the joystick side-to-side. “Just a really bad headache. And I still have it, so I might stay home from school today.”
Finney knew he was being a massive hypocrite, but couldn’t just let the lie go. He folded his arms, hoping his growing sense of unease would be masked by his tone. “You have a really bad headache, so you’re up at 5:30 playing video games? Uh-huh…”
Gwen didn’t tear her eyes away from the screen, but her face flushed. “I—I really couldn’t sleep, okay?”
“Was it the Grabber?” he demanded. Gwen (and himself, as much as he hated to admit it) had a history of retreating into screens to distract from life’s problems. He didn’t want ‘playing Atari to stop thinking about the Grabber’ to become the new ‘watching TV to stop thinking about Dad.’
Gwen scowled and mashed the red button forcefully. “No. What about you? Is he why you’re up?”
“No,” Finney lied. “The music woke me up.”
“How did the music wake you up? I have it on super low, and your door was shut.”
Now it was Finney’s turn to flush. “I don’t know! It just did.”
“Yeah, okay,” she replied in a clipped tone, rolling her eyes.
There was a moment of silence where the only sound was the shooting of laser guns. Finney wished he could rewind the conversation; everything seemed to be going wrong.
He forced his voice to sound soft and even, despite his concern and the lingering tension from yesterday’s argument. “I’m not trying to be an ass, I’m just worried. Is this about”—he tried to mask his disgust—”astral projection?”
“No,” she huffed.
Finney threw up his hands in exasperation. “Alright. Well, if it’s not that, then what? Just be honest.”
That was the magic phrase that finally caused Gwen to pause the game and spin around. “Yeah, that’s soooooo weird, right? Keeping secrets from the people you love. I wonder who would do that…. Finney?”
It was a fair point, but he felt compelled to defend himself nonetheless. “It’s not—” He sighed. “Look. I’m not trying to hide stuff or anything, it’s just, well—”
He had no idea how to finish the sentence; he wasn’t fully sure why the idea of Gwen knowing about the Grabber’s favor would bother him so much, but it did. It made him feel vulnerable, exposed, dirty.
Weak.
“Some of it’s just pointless to share,” he finally said, Matt’s schoolyard taunts of being a ‘pussy’ echoing in his mind. “If it’s anything major, I’ll tell you.”
“Will you?” Gwen asked glumly, crossing her feet.
“Yes,” Finney insisted, watching as she unpaused the game. “Remember what you said after we saw Father O’Brien? We’re in this together.”
Finney was hoping that would cause her to perk up, but it seemed to have the opposite effect as she slouched down and lowered her head slightly. Finney couldn’t see her expression from behind the curtain of hair. Now he was really worried.
“Yeah,” she said quietly.
Finney hesitated as she continued to wobble the joystick around, lacking her earlier intensity and enthusiasm. He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it after a moment’s hesitation. Part of him wanted to get to the bottom of this, but the other part of him knew that continuing to press would be like picking at a scab. He never liked it when people grilled him for answers; the least he could do is offer Gwen the same courtesy.
Nevertheless, with yesterday’s argument fresh in his mind and Gwen’s newfound reticence, he couldn’t help but feel a chasm growing, similar to how he felt with Donna two nights ago. It made him very uneasy.
Biting his lip, he made his way to the front door to get the newspaper from the driveway. Once his hand was on the doorknob, the silence was broken by Gwen. “Soooo, when are you and Donna going to go on real dates again?”
Finney looked back, not expecting the sudden change but relieved she spoke. She was still staring at the screen, but her tone was light. Almost too light, to the point where it seemed forced.
He tried to match her light tone, but the bitterness of his predicament couldn’t help but seep through. “Dunno. Guess whenever I decide to grab some twenties off the money tree in the backyard.”
“You don’t need to spend a ton of money to have a good date. You could take her on a picnic or go to one of those animal sanctuaries she likes. Something like that. Obviously there’s a lot going on, but she’s gonna think you’re abandoning her if—”
Finney bristled. “I’m not abandoning her. I’m going to her house after school.”
After he said it, he remembered the Grabber’s plans for Finney to play detective and almost groaned. This went unnoticed by Gwen, who perked up slightly. “That’s good! Because remember, the Grabber’s trying to get you to feel alone in the world so—”
“This isn’t the first time you said that,” Finney said, finally turning the doorknob. “I know how manipulative he can be. In fact, I know more than you do. So you don’t have to keep reminding me.”
“Sorry,” she muttered, wincing slightly. She then tried to shift the conversation. “Did everything seem okay with her, when you guys talked yesterday?”
“Why, do you know something?” he asked, grip tightening on the doorknob.
“No,” she replied quickly. “I was just wondering if he’s accepting defeat like a mature adult, or if he’s being a sore loser.”
They both knew it was a rhetorical question. “Well, he said she wasn’t in danger from him,” Finney replied diplomatically, trying to pretend like the ghost’s words held any weight.
Gwen scoffed but didn’t say any more, though Finney noticed her fingers flexing and fidgeting over the joystick. He exited through the front door and stepped off the porch and into the driveway. Thinking about Donna was causing him bucketloads of stress, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he spoke with her later today.
But did Gwen know something he didn’t?
As he hunched over to pick up the newspaper, trying to quell his growing tangle of nerves, he noticed Emma Baur sitting in her rocking chair on her porch, studying him closely. “Good morning,” he said politely, giving a slight wave with one hand.
Emma snorted. “‘Good morning.’ Ha! For you, maybe.”
God fucking damnit. Finney only spoke up to be cordial; he had no intention of starting a conversation, but didn’t have the social skills to walk away without seeming like a dick. So instead, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“My piece of shit air conditioning is busted again, and it’s going to be ninety today. Ninety. I’ve been on the phone with assholes all yesterday trying to get someone to come in and fix it. They either say they can’t do it until the weekend, or they try to overcharge me. Guess no one in this town gives a shit what happens to an old lady. Sons of bitches…”
“What about your—” Finney was about to say ‘kids? Can’t they come over and help?’, but he realized he had no idea whether Emma had children or not. “Um, is there anyone else that can help? Who usually fixes it?”
Emma peered at Finney over the rims of her spectacles. “Albert. ‘Course, he can’t do that anymore.”
She didn’t say it in an accusatory way, but Finney took that as his cue to leave anyway. “Well, I hope everything works out.”
“Hmph, we’ll see,” she replied, leaning back in her chair.
Finney took a few steps towards the house but stopped, an idea beginning to creep its way into his brain. “Mrs. Baur, do you remember what—”Finney wasn’t sure what to call him. ‘Albert’ sounded weird, ‘Al’ made him feel like swallowing nails, but ‘the Grabber’ seemed equally out of place given the mundanity of the task. “—he said was wrong with it? Was it the same problem each time?”
Emma put a bony finger to her chin. “He’d say it was something about fuses…there needed to be a reset of something…he might have mentioned tripping? Something tripped? Hell if I know.”
“A fuse tripped,” Finney pieced together, “and the circuit breaker needed to be reset. Was that it?”
“Hmm, maybe. I really don't have a goddamn clue. All I know is that he does something in the garage and it starts working again.”
“You know what?” Finney said, pretending the idea just occurred to him. “I think I might be able to help, as long as you’re okay with it. My old house used to have problems like this. It shouldn’t take that long.”
Emma sat a bit straighter in her seat and looked at Finney with newfound interest. “You’ll have to come inside in order to get to the breaker. The garage door doesn’t open more than halfway, but I didn’t want to piss away money on that since I don’t drive anymore. Maybe you can fix that while you’re here.”
Sure, keep piling on shit for me to do. But outwardly, he smiled compliantly. “I’ll try.”
Emma pushed herself off the rocking chair and hobbled to her door, beckoning Finney to follow. Finney dropped the newspaper back onto the driveway as he crossed Emma’s overgrown lawn and entered 7740. Despite the exteriors of the houses looking similar, the inside of Emma’s home was much cozier and warm than 7742. The hummels, cat figurines, potted plants, and embroidery that covered most surfaces gave the impression the home belonged to a stereotypical kindly grandmother instead of a foul-mouthed crotchety old woman. Finney noticed black-and-white pictures of smiling, handsome young men near the fireplace, and felt a pang of sympathy and guilt when he noticed two gold star service banners hanging next to the pictures.
When Emma unlocked her basement door with slightly shaky hands and began to descend down the steps, Finney swallowed and took a deep breath. It’s not the same basement, he kept telling himself as he followed, sweat from his palms seeping into the banister.
The basement was cluttered, and Finney wasn’t sure how Emma was able to navigate without falling over random shit. He saw the circuit breaker and, sure enough, the fuse tripped. Within fifteen minutes, he was able to fix the problem and, for brownie points, was able to remove the debris that was obstructing the track and got the garage door to open.
While he had ulterior motives for coming here, he couldn’t deny helping the old woman gave him a sense of satisfaction. Before Mom died, he would follow his father around, pretending to be his sidekick, whenever Terrence needed to fix something around the house. Finney learned a lot about practical matters of household maintenance that way, and would often fix things on his own in the aftermath of Mom’s death. The fear of bothering Terrence and risking his anger was a strong motivator in figuring things out himself.
Also, Finney enjoyed helping people. He enjoyed the feeling of being needed. He enjoyed the feeling of being respected and treated like an adult instead of a child trapped in a glass snowglobe.
By the end, Emma was beaming, which caused Finney to smile genuinely in return. For the first time, she looked like a woman who could live alongside the upstairs aesthetic. As they walked upstairs, Emma even offered to pay him. Granted, it was only five dollars, but still.
Despite his family’s financial situation, he declined. There was something else he was hoping he’d get as payment, something he couldn’t get anywhere else.
“If there’s anything you or your family needs, or any questions you have, just ring my doorbell,” she said.
That was the moment Finney was waiting for. “There is one thing I was wondering about,” he admitted. “Mr. Romano mentioned that you knew”—this part was hard—”Albert Shaw most of his life. Is that true?”
The warm expression faded, but weariness was present instead of coldness. Finney considered that a small victory. “Yes. Why?”
Because I want to know how much of what he’s telling me is bullshit. “I guess I’m just curious. I don’t know much about him, but he kno—um, he knew everything about me. ”
“Hmph. Well, I’ll tell you what I told the reporters: I never saw him torture animals or start fires or any of that. There were no signs anything was wrong. He was normal, until he wasn’t.”
A question he wasn’t planning on asking forced its way past his lips. “What do you think caused him to, uh, to…do the things he did to those kids?”
Emma adjusted her glasses and looked at Finney with an expression he couldn’t identify. “If I knew that, I’d be making millions instead of living out the last of my days on this shitty street.” She paused and tilted her head, drumming her withered fingers against her chin. “What are you looking for, young man?”
Finney needed to phrase the next part carefully, not wanting to feed into the ghost’s ego in case he was watching, but also needing the information. “I think finding out more about him might help me make sense of what happened.”
The last line was a major stretch and a complete lie, but he included it as a gamble to appeal to Emma’s emotions. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect as Emma put her hands on her hips. “Don’t go naval-gazing like those hippie dipshits Max brought here. There are some things in this world that don’t make sense and never will.” Her eyes shifted to the paintings of the young men in uniform and softened. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you dwell too much on it.”
“What hippies?”
Emma paused for a moment as if debating something internally. Then she continued, “In the sixties, Max—you met Max, right?”
“Yeah,” Finney said. For fifteen seconds…
“Well, Max got roped into this gaggle of idiots and he traveled with them a bit, but then he invited them to stay at ‘his’ house, which was really Albert’s house and, well, Albert wasn’t happy about it. No one on this street was happy. They were like a plague of locusts straight outta the Bible. But then one of them goes missing, and then another, and the rest get spooked and left, thank the Lord. And Albert got the house to himself again.”
Christ, how big is his body count? “Chief Walker had a list of people he thinks the Grabber—um, Albert—killed. Are they on the list?”
“Ha! They had fluffy names like Starshine and Meadow and crap—you’d remember if you heard it. ‘Course, he might’ve killed them and the cops are too dumb to know, that’s possible.” Emma chuckled and shook her head. “That list is a steaming pile of horseshit, anyway. I’d bet my right tit it’s the Fischers who killed Eva. And I know he’d never kill Cindy, the poor dear. Since they got him for that one, I’m surprised they didn’t try to pin Kathy’s death on him, like how some say the Kennedys killed Marilyn.” She added, after a pause, “Kathy was this girl he was married to back in the fifties. Not sure if you know that.”
So she was dead, then. “How’d she die?”
“Pill overdose. It’s a shame, too—she was a real sweet girl.”
Finney blinked. The Grabber’s words of ‘I’ll bet you anything John fucks men on the side and Mary’s addicted to pills’ echoed in his mind. He assumed the Grabber killed Kathy, but the method of death made murder seem unlikely.
“Was it an accident, or did she…”
Emma folded her arms, looking a bit frostier. “I don’t know. That’s none of my business.”
Finney knew he was on thin ice and needed to back off; there were more important things he needed to know, after all. “You’re right, it’s not any of mine, either.” Emma nodded, which gave Finney the go-ahead to ask his next question. “So, um, another thing I was wondering about was the house”—where my friends were buried—”that got bulldozed. I heard my teacher Mr. Clarkson used to live there, but I’m not sure if that’s just a rumor.”
“Whoever said that was pulling your leg. The Sinclairs owned it since the thirties, then it was given to Albert. Never heard of anyone by the name of Clarkson.”
The Sinclairs…“That’s Kathy’s family, right?” Finney asked.
Emma looked impressed. “You know more than I thought. And yes, that’s how they met. She was the girl next door. Sappy, right? Like something outta an Andy Hardy picture.”
Finney wasn’t sure why he was so aggravated that the Grabber lied to him; he should have expected it. It was another reminder that he shouldn’t trust anything that comes out of the man’s mouth. “I have one final question.” He could tell Emma was starting to get impatient. “Do you know about the people who used to live in the house before the Shaws?”
Emma scoffed. “Unfortunately. And it wasn’t a group of people, it was one person. Leona Parsons, this hoity-toity rich priss who chose to slum it up with us commoners on Meadowbrook. She’d invite the other muttonheads over every week.”
“I heard a bunch of them died. Do you know how?” What he really needed to know was, Is Gwen in danger?
“Either a gas leak or satanic shit. Could also be a Jonestown thing. I heard different stories. But like I said before, it’s no use—”
Both Emma and Finney jolted when they heard a loud, frantic pounding at the front door. Emma grabbed a fire poker that was leaning up against the fireplace and muttered to Finney, “Probably another jackass reporter. I’ll handle him.”
Finney looked at her warily and muttered, “It’s okay, I’ll check it out.”
When he peeked through the window, his stomach dropped. When the person outside saw him, the banging got even louder. Finney reluctantly opened the door.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone you were here?” Terrence demanded by way of greeting. His eyes had that familiar whirlwind of fury that made Finney instinctively back up.
But he wasn’t thirteen anymore, so instead of mumbling an apology and shrinking away, he met his father’s eyes (albeit with difficulty) and said, “Why would I need to? I was only gone for”—he glanced at the clock—”thirty-five minutes”—okay, that’s longer than I thought…”and I do stuff on my own all the time.”
“This is a new neighborhood.”
“Yeah, but you let us walk to school...”
“You know the route. That’s different than—”
Emma hobbled over, fire poker still in hand. “I invited him in, spur of the moment. He fixed my air conditioning. Didn’t know it would be an issue.”
Terrence’s harsh gaze finally left Finney and settled on Emma. “This issue isn’t that he helped you, it’s that he didn’t let any of us know where he was.”
“You weren’t even awake!” Finney protested.
He folded his arms. “Gwen was, and she woke me up. Your sister’s panicking right now.”
“Alright,” Emma said sharply. “Both of you need to take this somewhere else. I don’t want your family drama laid out in my living room. Finney, thank you for helping an old woman out.” She looked at Terrence. “You raised a nice young man. You should be proud.”
As they exited through the door, it took all his willpower for Finney to bite his tongue and prevent himself from snarling, ‘He didn’t raise us at all!’
Once the door was shut and they were outside, Terrence said quietly, “Finney…”
Finney scowled, refusing to make eye contact. He knew that if he opened his mouth he would say something he’d regret, so he put his hands in his pockets and said nothing.
“Finney,” he said again, voice firmer. When Finney didn’t reply and continued to walk forward, Terrence said in a sharp tone, “Hey! Don’t you walk away from me!”
In one sudden motion, Terrence reached out and grabbed Finney’s shoulder with force, yanking him closer. The grip caused memories from three years ago to come flooding back in, and Finney’s breath started to hitch. “Get the hell off me!” he shouted, thrashing in an attempt to free himself from his father’s grasp.
“Just stop and listen to—”
But Finney wasn’t listening. He wasn’t thinking of anything except the last time someone grabbed his shoulder like that and felt like a caged beast. Instinctively, he turned around and pushed his father as hard as he could, causing the man to stumble.
First he saw shock in Terrence’s face, then fury, then Finney was cradling his left cheek as a stinging sensation spread across the side of his face. It wasn’t that painful as far as his father’s slaps went, but he felt tears pool into his eyes anyway due to the emotions involved. It’s been a long time since this happened.
Whatever Terrence saw in Finney’s expression caused the older man to falter. “Finney, I—” He saw his father swallow. The regret on the man’s face was evident, but so were traces of stubbornness. “Th-this is a new place, that’s all,” he said in a calmer tone, eyes darting away from his son and looking towards the house instead. Terrence rubbed his neck with one hand, knuckles white. “I don’t trust any of these people. I care about you and—”
“Don’t you have to go to work?” Finney interrupted hollowly. “You left this time yesterday, right?”
Terrence’s face flushed, catching the subtle jab. Finney lowered his hand from his cheek and—steeling himself—turned and walked towards their house. He allowed himself to breathe once he didn’t hear his father follow.
He was bombarded with Gwen’s voice the moment he opened the door. “Finney, thank God. I was—”
“Why did you wake Dad?” he asked tonelessly as he gathered his backpack.
“You went to get the newspaper, and then you were gone and it was still in the driveway. What was I supposed to think?” she insisted, peering at him wide-eyed from over the head of the sofa. “There are some things you need to tell us. You can’t shut us out all the time.”
‘Us.’ Finney was used to him and Gwen acting as a team against their father. He wasn’t used to Gwen and his father acting as a team against him. The gap he felt earlier now seemed like a canyon.
“I was next door!” Finney muttered, hastily tossing schoolbooks in his backpack. “What, you thought Mrs. Baur kidnapped me? She’s, like, eighty.”
“But I didn’t know you were with her! I had no idea where you went. It could have been someone else who got you, or—”
“Is this going to be my life now?” Finney snapped, flinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I can’t even be on my own for an hour without search parties being sent after me?” He thought of the young man he saw in the mirror, and his temper flared. “I’m not a kid anymore. Normal people my age don’t get treated like this.”
“But you’re not—” Gwen bit her lip, stopping herself before saying the thing everyone was thinking.
“Not what?” Finney challenged, meeting her eye.
“Alright,” Terrence said as he walked through and closed the front door. “I think everyone’s on edge right now and we all need to back up.”
The idea that Terrence had the balls to act like a mediator was so ridiculous and borderline offensive that Finney laughed. “I thought you’d agree with me, Dad. You’ve been pretending everything’s normal for the past three years.”
The succession of shock and anger that spread over his father’s face reminded him of what happened a few minutes earlier, except this time, Finney didn’t shrink away. “You know damn well I haven’t,” Terrence growled. “I pissed away so much money on that bimbo of a shrink. And she was happy enough to gouge me for money, but couldn’t even fix what I paid her for.”
“Fix what?” Finney prodded, hysterical edge creeping into his voice. “Fix me?”
“No. I—” Terrence made a sound of exasperation as he ran his hands through his hair. “She was supposed to fix the whole problem.”
“What problem?” Finney asked, staring his father fiercely in the eyes. “That I was raped?”
It was the first time he ever said it out loud, and he continued to speak before he could give himself time to process what he was feeling. “Does she have a time machine? What exactly were you expecting her to do?”
Terrence’s face paled, and Gwen was rooted in her seat, mouth ajar. Finney’s heart started pounding faster, disbelief buzzing throughout his head. I actually said it.
“I was expecting her to—to help you forget about all this,” Terrence stammered, gesturing vaguely to the rest of the house. “To help you be a regular kid again. If you get hung up on….all that….you won’t be able to find a wife or keep a job. I didn’t want that bastard to take away the rest of your life.”
Several different emotions were erupting in Finney’s heart: Terror, shame, grief.
But also—weirdly—liberation.
He looked at Gwen, who watched him teary-eyed, and Terrence, who was standing rigid. Corks began popping off bottled emotions. A tidal wave of…something…was slowly building up inside of him for years and was now about to wipe away everything in its path.
He had a very strong, very irrational urge to make his family very uncomfortable.
“I guess I could always go into porn,” Finney said, shrugging in an illusion of nonchalance. “Anything they’d ask me to do, I'd have experience with.”
Terrence’s eyes bulged and his gaping expression would have been comical if it were under any other circumstances. “Wh-why the hell would you say that?”
Why did he say that? Finney wasn’t sure. The high of emotions wasn’t letting him think clearly. For the past three years, warring desires to keep what happened to him a shameful secret and talk about it battled for dominance, with the former winning out nearly every time.
But today, the floodgates were open. Someone else—someone banished to the dark recesses of Finney’s mind for the past three years—was in control. He wanted to dig the knife deeper. He wanted to make them hurt, like how he hurt. “Because it’s true,” Finney said innocently. “Gwen was saying earlier that I shouldn’t keep secrets.”
“Knock it off!” Terrence said sharply, face growing red. He pointed at Gwen. “Look what you’re doing.”
Finney glanced at his sister, who was sobbing softly into a pillow. Part of him whispered urgently that he needed to back off, that this wasn’t what he wanted, but the other part who enjoyed the giddy liberation said fuck it.
It was like the Grabber said: the first step was always the hardest. Now that Finney breached “the ‘r’ word,” everything hidden and building up for years came falling down like dominos. “Talk about what? Getting fucked daily by the man who killed my best friend? Being forced down on my knees while he’d grab my hair and—”
“That’s enough!” Terrence bellowed, Gwen’s sobs growing into wails. “Jesus fucking Christ, just stop! We don’t need to hear that shit!”
Finney knew he should feel something, watching as his father tried to comfort Gwen. But those soothing words grated like sandpaper against his ears. This was a scene where he didn’t belong.
“I’m not a kid,” Finney repeated dully as he put the key to the house in his pocket. “I haven’t been a kid for a while. If you want to keep me locked up, just toss me in the basement. It’s not getting any use.”
When Terrence turned to look at Finney, the man’s eyes were brimming with tears. “I don’t…I can’t deal with this. I don’t know what to do.” A tear ran down his cheek. “God, this never should have happened to us.”
Terrence looked smaller and weaker than Finney ever thought he could. And it was at this moment that Finney realized that he was even closer in height to Terrence than he was to the Grabber.
Finney was right: he really wasn’t a child anymore.
He clenched the doorknob, briefly mourning his lost innocence. “It didn’t happen to us, it happened to me. There is no us.” Then, after a beat, he added: “Oh, and also, your son might be a fag. Just thought you should know.”
He turned the doorknob and stepped out into the summer heat, slamming the door shut.
****
“Woooooooow. A whole lotta trouble in paradise, huh?”
Finney was wondering how long it’d take before the Grabber popped in and added his two cents. “Yeah,” he said simply, making the turn off Meadowbrook Lane.
Within five minutes of leaving the house, the high of emotions came crashing down to earth. Finney was left to deal with a massive hangover of horror, disgust, and self-loathing.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
For the life of him, he had no idea what unholy entity possessed him to say such things. Replaying the events in his mind felt like watching a movie instead of something he was involved with. It was another Finney, an evil, mirror doppelganger who wanted to lash out at the people he loved.
Oh god, what did I do, I mentioned it to my FAMILY jesus christ what the hell is wrong with me
How was he ever supposed to look them in the eye again?
How was he ever supposed to look at himself again?
WHY did he say that? What made him want to say that?
Finney felt a sudden impulse to buy a bus ticket and go somewhere, anywhere else. Maybe Canada. Just keep riding the bus until the last stop…
“Let me guess: you think it’s all my fault.”
“I-it is,” Finney insisted, annoyed to hear his voice break. He didn’t bother taking the screen out of his pocket. “You’re the one who kidnapped me. My f-family’s all messed up because of you.”
He didn’t want to think about how much he hurt his family within the past hour; it was easier to blame everything on the ghost.
The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. He wanted, needed, to keep those feelings on the inside. His worst fear for years was what just happened: exposure of all his disgusting ugliness to the world.
He was a quiet, considerate, good boy. He wasn’t the kind of person who would say things like that.
It couldn’t have been him. It wasn’t him. It had to be someone else.
“Sounds like it was crumbling waaaaay before I came along, kid. And if you want my opinion”—I don’t—”This is another sign that you don’t belong with them. We never had fights like that.” He paused. “Well, up until the end, when you decided to be an ungrateful brat. But for the most part, I treated you like an adult.”
Finney knew he shouldn’t feed into this, but couldn’t help it. A dark part of him wanted the distraction. This was familiar. Whatever happened with Gwen and Terrence…wasn’t. “No you don’t. You literally just called me kid.”
“It’s a pet name. Lighten up…jeez. Don’t you have those with Donna?”
Finney ignored the taunting tone when her name was mentioned. “And you want to control where I go like they do, and you got this weird…naughty boy thing. The only adult thing you do with me is—is—what I told Dad earlier.”
Finney was aware he was stepping on a minefield and wondered if the Grabber would try to argue that what he did *wasn’t* rape. He knew the ghost fluctuated between delusional fantasy and reluctant acceptance (but never reluctant enough to stop, of course), and wasn’t sure what mood he was in today.
The Grabber decided to avoid it entirely. “Alright, maybe it wasn’t the best word choice….hmmm. Well, anyway, you won’t have to worry about them when you’re with me again, kiddo.”
“Could you stop calling me that?” he snapped, stopping to let a family of ducks waddle across the sidewalk. “If you saw that shitshow earlier, then you know damn well I’m not a kid anymore.”
Once he said it, he realized with annoyance that the Grabber was most likely calling him that just to get under his skin.
“That’s true. Your body’s changed,” The Grabber replied. He didn’t sound happy about it.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens. I’m not thirteen anymore,” Finney muttered, clutching the straps of his backpack tightly.
“No, you’re not,” the Grabber said quietly.
There was a brief moment of silence. “Guess you can let me go, then.”
“Nah.”
“Why not?” Finney asked, scowling. “I’m almost two years older than Vance was. Hypothetically, let’s say I wait to kill myself until I’m thirty—”
“You won’t.”
“But let’s pretend I did. Would you still be so”—Finney tried to find a nice word for ‘obsessed’—”focused on me then?”
“Yes! I told you, our bond is special. You took my life. It’s one of the most intimate experiences in existence, deeper than sex. Plus, you called to me and brought me back, remember?”
Don’t remind me. Finney opened his mouth to speak, but the ghost continued. “Besides, even if you were decades older, if you’re in the right mindset, that’ll be how you look. That’s why we’ve gotta work hard to get you there. It’ll be like old times.”
Finney stopped to wait for the cars to pass before crossing the street. “What do you mean?”
“The way people look here is how they view themselves. Or maybe how they feel, I dunno. Remember when you saw me in my old room? That wasn’t how I looked when I died.”
That was true. He recalled Griffin’s ghost, suspended in midair with his throat slit. Since the boys were unable to move on due to their desire for vengeance, it made sense that he would look how he did the moment of his death. Finney felt the hairs on his arms stand up as he realized what that would mean for him.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” he vowed. “I have other things I want to do with my life than spend time with a dead man.”
“I know I said this before, but seeing you all feisty does things to me,” the voice from his pocket said wistfully. “God, I wish you were here. You’re wound up so tight right now, and there are so many ways to—”
Ughh.Time to move you into the backpack. Finney tuned out the rest of the Grabber’s lurid description as he reached in his shorts to grab the Time-Out. But after giving the screen a quick glance, he froze.
Instead of the familiar silhouette, there were four letters scrawled in black pixels:
H E L P
Finney’s heart started to beat rapidly as he looked around, but saw nothing beyond a regular suburban neighborhood. He remembered the first day he saw the screen, how the ghost’s moods could affect what popped up on the screen. But The Grabber was chatting away happily, seemingly oblivious. Then who…?
Finney looked down again, but the words were gone, replaced by a familiar frowning shadow. “Hey, you know it’s not polite to ignore someone who's talking.”
Should he mention it? Could it be another ghost? If so, who?
Or was he going crazy and imagining his own feelings onto the screen?
“Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
In all the scenarios in his head, he could see no benefit in mentioning the message. He said the first thing that came to mind that might distract the spirit. “So, um, I heard you killed some hippies.” It was the right thing to say; the Grabber started laughing. “Is it true?”
“Heh. Do you really wanna know?”
Finney frowned. “I just think it’s weird you keep saying you’re being falsely accused when every day I find a new person who mysteriously died, and they all happen to know you. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“That is a funny coincidence, now that you mention it.”
The levity in the Grabber’s tone incensed Finney. “Could you be honest for once and tell me how many people died because of you? Before Griffin, I mean.”
There was a moment of silence where Finney didn’t think the Grabber was going to answer. Then, to his surprise, the Grabber spoke. “It depends. If you’re talking about people I killed directly? Two.”
“Two?” echoed Finney in disbelief.
“What, you wanted it to be more?”
“I don’t believe you. With that huge-ass list? Come on. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I told you, the list is bullshit,” the Grabber said, voice low. “But if you count luring someone into a trap as killing directly—which I don’t, by the way—then I guess it’s three. Hmmm, actually, four…yeah, four.”
“I didn’t know traps were a thing you did,” Finney muttered. “I mean, besides using them to kidnap us.”
“They’re usually not, but one was poetic justice. See, there was this washed-up has-been who was leeching my ideas but passing them off as his own. I just made sure the next trick he stole from me would, hahaha, well, I don’t want you to get all pouty, so I won’t tell you the details. But long story short, I ate popcorn while watching him die on stage.”
“Salvatore Bernardi?” Finney guessed, remembering the photo of Albert smirking with the magician’s hat.
“Yep. If he was soooooo brilliant like he said he was, he’d be able to get out of it easy-peasy. But he wasn’t.”
“What about the other trap?”
The humor in the ghost’s voice began to dissipate. “I don’t want to talk about that one.”
“What about the two people you killed directly?” Finney pressed.
“I don’t want to talk about them either,” the Grabber replied, voice lower and warning clear.
He knew he should stop, but Finney recalled the name Emma mentioned earlier and forged ahead. “Did Cindy die in the other trap?”
“Wha—no. No.”
“Was Cindy Max’s girlfriend?”
“Christ, what’s your obsession with Max’s girlfriend?” he snapped. “This is the second time you asked about her. Do you have a cuckolding fetish I don’t know about? You want to pretend you’re Max? Well, you’re in luck, kid.”
Finney got very still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll find out later,” the Grabber taunted, voice smug.
“Are you saying Donna’s cheating on me?” Finney watched as the shadowy figure shrugged. “She’s not. You’re such a liar!”
“I knew you’d say that,” he chuckled.
“You lied about Mr. Clarkson,” Finney accused. “Why should I believe you now?”
There was no way Donna was cheating; this was more of the ghost’s bullshit, like all that sweet talk of loving him.
“I didn’t lie. Anthony changed his last name because he’s a dramatic little shit who hates his dad.”
It took Finney a few seconds to piece it together. “Wait. So Mr. Clarkson was y—“
“Stop trying to change the subject. The harsh truth, Finney, is that someone’s buttering your girlfriend’s biscuit.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” He knew this had to be some kind of manipulation, but his heart throbbed against his chest anyway. “I know you’re just saying this to mess with me.”
Matt acted like he knew her secret, but if she was cheating, there’s no way he’d be able to resist throwing it in Finney’s face. And regardless, Donna wouldn’t cheat on him, he knew that. She had integrity. Sure, he had trouble with physical contact, and he could be closed off emotionally, and he was hiding secrets, and he beat the shit out of her ex-boyfriend, and he didn’t talk to her for a whole week after his house burned down, but….
Finney bit his lip.
“I get it. It’s hard to think about. But c’mon, Finney…can you really blame her?” the Grabber asked, as if reading Finney's thoughts. “You withhold affection, you’re not that charismatic or intelligent, you can’t come up with ideas on your own without someone holding your hand every step of the way…she’s probably dating you out of pity and views you as a charity case. Or maybe she wants the clout of saying she’s with the boy who killed the Grabber, who knows?”
Finney looked away from the screen. The words dripped, one by one, like poison, searing him to the bone. He knew he shouldn’t let anything the Grabber said get to him, but it was hard, especially since he knew, deep down, the ghost was right.
No, he’s not. He’s just trying to throw me off balance. He’s full of shit, like always. If you love someone, you don’t make them feel miserable like this. You don’t treat them like dirt.
Finney tried to shove Gwen’s wails and Terrence’s tears to the back of his mind.
“She liked me since before I met you,” Finney said quietly.
“Who told you that? Gwen? She was probably saying that to make you feel better. Fact is, most people want partners who reciprocate instead of turning into a quivering mess with every touch.”
Finney’s grip tightened so hard around the screen, he thought it might break. “I don’t quiver.”
“Uh-huh, sure…Look, I’m just saying. I made you reciprocate, but most people wouldn’t have the patience. And try to be a bit more empathetic. Poor Donna’s probably wondering why you were willing to fuck the big bad serial killer and not her. That’s gotta do a number on that girl’s confidence.”
Finney’s voice grew dry. “I wa–I wasn’t will—“ He swallowed. “I didn’t want any of that!”
He gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “Ohhh, Finney,” he chided condescendingly. “If you really didn’t want it, then why are you still here, hmm? I know what you said to your dad, but you and I both know you didn’t put up much of a fight. You chose to whore yourself out instead of getting your throat slit—safety over morals. I’m not judging, I’m just saying…But now Donna’s gotta deal with a boyfriend who keeps thinking of me whenever things get steamy. If you’re not giving her satisfaction, she’ll find it elsewhere. Of course, she’d feel bad about breaking your heart, so she’s keeping it quiet while you keep bleating after her like a cute, empty-headed little lamb, oblivious of the wolf lurking in the pen.”
A heavy fog of self-hate and hopelessness clouded his mind and his lungs. He couldn’t think straight or muster the willpower to argue against the Grabber. The brazen, outspoken young man from earlier seemed a distant memory, and in his place was an overpowered, overwhelmed child. It was this feeling that caused him to say something childish, yet true and cathartic.
“I hate you.” He meant to sound strong and forceful, but the words came out as a broken whisper.
The spirit didn’t seem perturbed. “Everyone hated Cassandra too. Us oracles never get any respect.”
“If I’m so terrible,” Finney said hoarsely, voice trembling with emotion against his will, “then just leave me alone.” Please…
“Aww, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just trying to help you understand because you're—shhh. Shhh. Oh, you sweet little thing…there’s no need to cry. I accept you for what you are. I’m the only one who does.”
Finney didn’t realize his cheeks were wet. Wiping them hastily with his sleeve, he looked up at the bright, cloudless sky. The sun was smiling down on the earth, a gentle summer breeze brushing against his cheeks. The smell of freshly cut grass and the chirping of birds helped paint a scene of beauty and serenity.
The world never stopped for him. It didn’t stop when Mom died, didn’t stop when he was taken into the basement, and wasn’t going to stop now. The world would keep turning, even when his own life was crashing to a halt. There was a cold comfort in that. Finney took a deep breath and tried to center himself.
“Stop prying into my past, okay?” the Grabber said gently. “If you want to know anything, you can ask me. We could even read the book together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Finney knew any “facts” would be hardly objective, but couldn’t care less. He shrugged, eyes gazing down at the sidewalk as he walked.
“Finney?” the Grabber said, a slight edge developing in his tone. “Don’t walk away from me. I asked you a question.”
“...Sure,” Finney mumbled, not fully certain what he was agreeing to.
“Great!” the ghost said happily. Finney felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up as he stood underneath a tall maple tree, waiting for the cars to pass. His fear abated somewhat when he noticed a robin chirping happily from one of the branches. It made him remember his dream, and being happy.
“You can’t tell right now, but I just kissed your forehead.”
Finney instinctively stumbled a few steps to the side, widening eyes darting back and forth. He saw a mailbox. The tree. The sidewalk. A fire hydrant. He knew the Grabber had to be nearby, but he had no idea where, and never would. The whole situation was hopeless, he was hopeless, he really should have died in that basement like Robin and Bruce and—
“Why are you looking at me like that?” the Grabber demanded. Finney froze, and when the Grabber continued to speak, his voice broke in a manner similar to Finney’s earlier in the day. “I’d give anything for someone to love me like this. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
There was no right response to that, so Finney said and did nothing beyond clutching the straps of his backpack so tightly, he thought they might fray. When a minute passed with no further comments, Finney tentatively stepped in the crosswalk.
The rest of the walk was silent.
Notes:
SO. We finally get to see what the Grabber claims is Donna’s secret.
But is it *true*? There are four possibilities:
1. Donna’s cheating and he’s being honest
2. There are small grains of truth, but the Grabber is twisting or misrepresenting what’s really happening
3. He’s lying and she’s bothered by something completely different
4. There is no big, dramatic secret, and this is all a bunch of smoke and mirrors for some nefarious purposeI’m interested in hearing your thoughts!!
(and like I said, I promise the next chapter is less angsty!!)
Chapter 11: Secrets
Notes:
-This is the longest chapter so far! I was tempted to split it up into two parts again, but I know a lot of you have been waiting patiently for Donna’s secret(s) and I told myself I would get to it in this chapter no matter what, lol
-The article about the slain woman in this chapter follows the template/format of a real-life 1976 article about a woman in Maine who was murdered. The “Ghosts and Poltergeists” book mentioned in this chapter is also a real book, as are all the books on Donna's shelf.
-Steve Yeager was a catcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers from 1972-1985. The name Rocky is a reference to Rocky Balboa and the 1976 movie.
-The age of consent in Colorado (where the movie takes place) is 17. A certain dialogue exchange in this chapter might seem confusing without that knowledge, so just keep it in mind.
Chapter Text
Finney wished he could say he enjoyed the reprieve from the Grabber’s taunts, but that would have been a lie. The silence from the screen was offset by the tumultuous whirlwind raging inside his mind: Could Donna be cheating? Was the Grabber telling the truth?
No, Finney decided, feeling a flutter as she waved him over to her locker, eyes and smile lighting up the hallway, It's a lie. It has to be.
Still….
The Grabber had a point. What would a girl like Donna want with a guy like him?
Doubt continued to gnaw at him throughout the day, and the teachers’ words barely registered.
Every small gesture or innocuous action stoked the fires of anxiety and sent him in an emotional tailspin.
Could it be Matt? he thought during science class, watching carefully as the black-haired boy’s eyes softened while Donna presented her project in the front of the room.
Could it be Buzz? Finney asked himself during math class, craning his neck to see the redhead sketching a dark-haired female figure in the corner of his notebook.
Could it be Danny? he wondered during lunch, feeling a twist in his stomach as Donna doubled over, cracking up at something Danny said.
During study hall, he pretended to be absorbed in his textbook but kept glancing up, watching Donna braid Megan Cook’s hair. Fuck. Could it be Megan?
By the end of the school day, he felt the slightest breeze could knock him over, and knowledge that the Grabber’s words were likely a manipulation tactic did nothing to abate his worry. For the past three years, Donna had been a safe harbor when he felt adrift in a sea of grief and loneliness. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing her. He already might have lost his family; he could not—would not—lose Donna as well.
Stop, you’re acting obsessed. Like him…
That thought was enough of a cold shower to keep him rooted to the spot after the final bell. Slowly and purposefully, he gathered his things, willing his heart to calm down. Was he being possessive, or was this normal behavior for a boyfriend? He had no frame of reference.
The Grabber once told him, long ago, that love makes a person do crazy things. Things that would seem abnormal suddenly seem very normal, and right and wrong gets flipped upside down and sideways. The only thing that matters is being with the person you love.
But Finney wasn’t like the Grabber. If he found proof Donna didn’t like him anymore, then he would accept it and move on like an adult. The thought of Donna slipping away made his heart ache, but that’s just part of life. Most people don’t end up with their high school sweethearts. Couples break up all the time.
So why did it have to hurt so much?
“Finn, we have extra copies of the homework up here.”
Finney gathered his books and trudged over to Mr. Clarkson’s desk to pick up the Humanities homework for Gwen (Ugh, how can I ever talk to her again? She hates me now, I know it). The questions on the worksheet looked as if they were written for sixth graders, but Finney knew several students in the class still wouldn’t complete them. Not for the first time, he felt a pang of annoyance. His guidance counselor was wrong—he shouldn’t be in this class.
Thinking of the reason for his placement reminded Finney of the new tidbit of information he received this morning. “Thanks,” he mumbled, shoving the sheet in his folder. Part of him wanted to ask more questions, but the other didn’t want to think about the Grabber at all, especially after their conversation earlier in the day.
Perhaps noticing his hesitation, Mr. Clarkson put an elbow on the desk and rested his chin in his hand. He peered at Finney with that analytical gaze that made Finney feel as though he was being dissected. “I know Gwen’s not feeling well today, but what about you, Finn? How are you holding up?”
Finney understood it was meant to be a vague, open-ended question that provided a door so Finney could discuss how much (or how little) he felt comfortable with. “I’m doing okay.” Then, after a pause, he decided to take the plunge. “It’s weird, being in, um—” He swallowed, then started up again. “Being in a new house. But I've met the new neighbors already, so…yeah. Things are getting back to normal. Sort of.”
Mr. Clarkson leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. A faint smile flickered across his face. “That’s encouraging to hear. Like I told you yesterday, if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. The staff is here to support you.”
“Thanks.” Finney knew that was the natural end to the conversation, but he wasn’t quite ready to move on now that he broached the topic. Studying Mr. Clarkson’s expression carefully, he said, “So, uh, one of my neighbors, Mrs. Baur”—Finney’s heart started to beat quicker at the flash of recognition in the man’s eyes—”mentioned you used to live in the house across the street.”
“Did she?” Mr. Clarkson replied, tilting his head to the side slightly. A neutral expression masked whatever feelings the teacher might be hiding. “It’s true, my family lived there when I was growing up. I hardly remember it, though.”
“Oh.” A few seconds of silence passed, and Finney realized he was going to have to be more direct if he wanted more information. He wasn’t sure how to do it subtly, so he opted for the blunt route. “She said your sister married the Grabber.”
After the words left his lips, he immediately wished he could take them back. It sounded confrontational, even though that wasn’t the intent. And he wasn’t sure if it was even true; despite what he told Mr. Clarkson, Emma only mentioned ‘the Sinclairs’ living across the street. All other information was provided by the Grabber, who was a dubious source at best.
To his credit, Mr. Clarkson did not seem surprised, though a wariness crossed his face. He glanced towards the open door, and the crowds of children laughing and making noise in the hallways.
“That’s correct,” Mr. Clarkson finally said. The confirmation still made Finney’s stomach drop. “I’d appreciate if you keep it between us. It’s not a secret, per say, but it’s not something I’d like to advertise for obvious reasons.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Finney asked. He tried not to sound whiny, though the betrayal slipped into his voice nonetheless. “You told me you didn’t know him.”
The mask slipped, and Finney saw Mr. Clarkson wince slightly and divert eye contact. “I didn’t know him, not really. Neither did my sister. We thought—well, we thought we did, but clearly that wasn’t the case.”
Finney followed Mr. Clarkson’s gaze to a framed picture on the desk. It was of Mr. Clarkson and a brown-haired man standing and smiling outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Mr. Clarkson looked happy and unguarded, and Finney was momentarily taken aback by the difference between the blonde man in the picture and Mr. Clarkson’s work persona. Then, a thought occurred to him, and before he could think twice about it, he blurted out, “I-is that him? From when he was younger?” He pointed to the picture.
Caught off guard, Mr. Clarkson’s head snapped up to look at Finney. He shook his head in bewilderment. “What? You think–no. Absolutely not. Why would I keep pictures of that man anywhere, let alone my desk? This was taken last month.”
Finney suddenly felt like an idiot. Upon closer inspection, it was clear the other man in the picture looked nothing like the Grabber; the only similarity being the brown hair. Eye color, facial features, height, style of clothing—everything was different. And if that wasn’t enough, posters in the background advertising the movie The Four Seasons corroborated the teacher’s story.
Finney bit his lip in frustration and felt heat rise up to his face. When was he going to stop seeing the Grabber in everything?
Mr. Clarkson’s eyes softened as he leaned forward, splaying his fingers outward in a pacifying gesture. “I realize this is a lot to process. But my intention wasn’t to deceive you, Finn. I just…didn’t see the point in mentioning it. School isn’t a place where you’re supposed to dwell on those topics. And perhaps it’s selfish, but I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me or my sister. Neither of us were involved with his crimes.”
Finney tentatively met Mr. Clarkson’s resolute gaze from behind the glasses. He wasn’t mad at his teacher; he never was, really. But he still had questions. “Why did she marry him?”
Mr. Clarkson’s eyes darkened as he adjusted his glasses. “Al always knew how to put on a good act. We’ll leave it at that. So tell me, Finn, how’s Mrs. Baur doing?”
Finney blinked, not expecting the sudden whiplash in conversation. He searched for a way to answer the question. “Um…”
Mr. Clarkson smiled wryly. “I’m assuming she still has her strong personality?”
That’s one way of putting it. “Yeah…” he said, and Mr. Clarkson chuckled.
Finney glanced at the clock and felt a stab of guilt as he clutched his books tighter to his chest. “Sorry for holding you up. I know you have play practice soon. So, thanks for answering my questions. I’ll get going.”
Mr. Clarkson waved the thought away. “It’s never a bother, Finn. And regardless, I canceled practice for today. Opening night’s on Friday. I wanted to give the cast one final break.”
FRIDAY?! Finney tried not to let the horror on his face show. It was coming up so fast, and he was still at a loss for what present to get Donna.
Donna…
Thinking of his girlfriend caused a new wave of anxiety to sweep over him. He knew what the Grabber said, but wasn’t sure if the ghost was telling the truth. For all he knew, it could be something entirely different. “Um, Mr. Clarkson? Donna’s been acting a bit…different, recently, so I was wondering”—How should he phrase this?—”was there anything that happened during play practice the week I was out?”
Mr. Clarkson’s brows furrowed. “Not that I know of. Did you ask her what was wrong?”
“Yeah, but she said it was nothing.”
Mr. Clarkson gave Finney a knowing smile that caused him to bristle. “Then it’s probably nothing. If she’s on edge, it could be nerves from the play, which is normal. Lead roles usually go to seniors. Playing Ophelia’s a wonderful opportunity, but it could also be overwhelming.”
Could it really be that mundane? Was he getting worked up and paranoid for nothing—again? “I guess it’s possible,” he muttered. “Bye, Mr. Clarkson.”
“Wait. Before you go, let me give back your creative writing assignment.” Mr. Clarkson began shuffling through the stack of papers on his desk, pulling out Finney’s when he found it. Finney couldn’t stop the smile when he saw the grade: 94. He was normally a B student when it came to English, so any garde higher than an 89 was cause for celebration. He flipped through the comments and markings in pen, which mostly related to grammar.
“I know you lean more towards math and science, but you have a talent for creative writing, Finn,” Mr. Clarkson smiled. “Your prose has elegance in its simplicity.” That’s a nice way of saying my writing’s basic. “I’m really going to miss reading about Taylor next year. Ms. Mori’s going to have to fill me in whenever I see her in the teacher’s lounge.”
“Who’s Taylor, Finney?” a curious voice interrupted.
Finney tensed and tried very, very hard not to instinctively look down at his pencil case. Of course that name would be enough bait to get the ghost to stop sulking.
Finney remembered that day he first saw the frowning mask: the day he lied about his name. He wasn’t sure why he lied, especially since the Grabber had just said the boys’ information was always posted in the newspaper (another reason I’m an idiot), but knew—in that moment—that he didn’t want the monster knowing his name. Giving up his identity felt like giving up a part of himself, and hadn’t he given up enough of himself already?
So Finney panicked, and defaulted to the first fake name that came to mind: Taylor Mullen.
Taylor Mullen was a character Finney created as wish fulfillment when he was nine and used as the protagonist for every creative writing assignment since. Over the years, an elaborate, continuous narrative was developed that put the radio serials of yesteryears to shame. Taylor had two happy, loving parents and stood up to bullies. Taylor could survive shipwrecks and being stranded in the jungle. Taylor had alien friends who could “beam him” into space whenever he wanted. Taylor was so amazing, President Ford made him the first ever “Vice-Vice President.”
Strong, brave Taylor Mullen didn’t exist, of course. The only one in that basement was weak, cowardly Finney Blake. Taylor would have stood up to the Grabber and fought him off instead of meekly accepting his fate. Taylor would have given sharp, witty retorts instead of blank stares and “ums.” Finney wasn’t Taylor, and never could be.
“I think that’s probably going to be the last story,” Finney told Mr. Clarkson, hastily shoving the paper in his folder—and out of sight–-as quickly as possible. Mr. Clarkson’s brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, but Finney cut him off before the topic dragged on any longer. “Does this mean I’m passing the marking period?”
Mr. Clarkson’s expression shifted from concerned to amused. “What makes you think you weren’t going to pass?”
“I didn’t do the Definitive Moments assignment.” In truth, he did. It was the longest narrative he’d ever written. But even if he didn’t decide to feed it to the paper shredder, he would never have shown it to Mr. Clarkson. And Finney didn’t want to even THINK about what he wrote now that he knew the Grabber was with them.
“It’s alright, I excused you from it.”
Finney gritted his teeth; he hated being viewed as ‘special.’ “I can make it u—”
“Hi! I just wanted to—”
Finney snapped his mouth shut and spun around to see Donna, who stopped mid-sentence, blinking in surprise to see Finney in the room. “Finn! I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Well, if it isn’t our Ophelia,” Mr. Clarkson smiled.
Donna giggled. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were busy.”
“That’s alright, we’re just wrapping up. What did you need?”
Donna held up her right arm and pointed to her wrist. “I wanted to see if you have my gold bracelet. I think I might have dropped it during play practice.”
Finney knew what bracelet she was talking about; it was a gift from her grandmother before she died. Could that be what was bothering Donna? Was it really something so simple?
Mr. Clarkson rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Did you check the lost-and-found?”
“I did, but it wasn’t there.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll keep an eye out and ask the custodians,” Mr. Clarkson said, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes if they find something expensive, they give it to the main office to see if anyone claims it.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling. Her hazel eyes then drifted over to Finney. “Finn, play practice was canceled. Wanna do something after school?”
“Y-yeah.” Okay, that’s a good sign…maybe she does still like me. “I’ll meet you at your locker.”
“Sounds good.” She waved to their teacher as she headed back out the door. “Bye, Mr. Clarkson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Donna.” Mr. Clarkson turned to look at Finney, eyes dancing with merriment. “See, that didn’t seem too bad? Like I said, it’s probably just nerves. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing.”
“Suuure,” the Grabber’s smug voice taunted. “She’s not looking so peppy in the hall right now. Just sayin.’”
Worry and doubt began to worm their way back into his mind again. Perhaps noticing this, Mr. Clarkson’s expression grew more serious. “If there’s more, then she’ll tell you when she’s ready.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” Finney asked, frustrated at the desperate edge bleeding into his voice. “What if she’s worried about how I’ll react, or what if she doesn't want to bother me, or what if she’s embarrassed, or….I dunno. There’s a lot of reasons why she might not say anything.”
Mr. Clarkson was quiet for a moment, steepling his hands and observing Finney with an unreadable expression. “That could be true,” he finally said. “But there’s no use speculating. She needs to be the one to speak with you.” Mr. Clarkson hesitated, as if inwardly debating something, before continuing. “I realize, in your own life, that there are many things you’d prefer not to discuss. Have you considered the possibility—and this is only a possibility, mind you—that you might be…projecting, somewhat, onto Donna? Seeing patterns that aren’t there and jumping to conclusions?”
“He’s saying you’re a nutcase,” the Grabber said, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Don’t dignify that with a response. Just walk out of here.”
Finney’s grip tightened around his books. Righteous indignation that Mr. Clarskon was wrong drowned out the feeble inner voice that admitted that maybe, just maybe, his teacher might have a point.
No! The other part of him snapped. You know your girlfriend better than he does. There is something wrong with her.
“I’ve gotta go,” Finney muttered, averting his gaze.
“Alright. But remember: Things can change fast.” He pointed to the smiling brown-haired man in the picture on his desk. “See him? A month ago he was feeling fine, but now he’s sick as a dog and nothing seems to be helping.” He frowned, shaking his head. “Life’s always unpredictable. Right now you might feel everything is going wrong, but in a month’s time, you might look back on this moment laughin—Finn?”
But Finney was already halfway through the door. “Igottagobye.”
Despite the crowds in the hallway, he felt very alone.
****
Like the Grabber predicted, Donna asked Finney if he wanted to come to her house after school. Finney had been to Donna’s house before, but his visits were few and far between. Mrs. Anderson disapproved of Finney for reasons unknown to him—and Donna, allegedly—though Finney had some suspicions. It could be that she didn’t want her daughter to date a celebrity. It could be that she didn’t want her daughter to date a murderer. It could be that she didn’t want her daughter to date someone unintelligent and uncharismatic. There were a lot of possibilities Finney considered.
Luckily, Donna’s mother would be away at her new job, and the only ones in the house would be Finney, Donna, and Jesse.
And the Grabber…I think.
After leaving the Humanities classroom, Finney expected the Grabber to start chiming in with more unwanted commentary and asking questions about Taylor, but he didn’t. Finney assumed he was there, but there was no guarantee.
“—don’t think there’s anything inherently un-American about wanting to see it. How many times will we get to see a prince get married on live TV? And Diana acts like a regular person. She worked in a nursery school and was a dance instructor, so I think that grounded perspective could be really helpful when—hey, are you okay?”
No. “I’m fine,” Finney said as they passed a woman sunbathing on her lawn. Emma was right—today was sweltering. He was glad he fixed her air conditioning, even if his dad didn’t appreciate it.
“You sure?” Donna questioned, tilting her head to the side. “This morning, you seemed kind of…out of it.”
Finney didn’t want to meet her gaze and chose to look at a flock of geese in the sky instead. He wasn’t about to mention the possibility of cheating, but there was something else that was on his mind. “I got into an argument with my dad and Gwen,” Finney said, a faint blush creeping up his neck that could hopefully be attributed to the heat. “They're just—I dunno. I think I overreacted.”
“...Do you want to talk about it?” she asked tentatively.
Did he? “Yeah,” he said, surprising himself. Donna beamed, which made him smile in return.
As they continued to walk down the next couple streets, Finney launched into the story of what happened. He explained how he went out to get the newspaper and ended up fixing his neighbor’s air conditioning. He confessed how his father grabbed his shoulder and he pushed him out of instinct, only to get slapped in return. He recalled how he accused his father of hypocrisy, and mocked Gwen’s pushiness.
He left out the specifics of what was said, confessing only that he made some comments that were below the belt. The thought of what came out of his mouth disgusted him too much to verbalize, and Donna would definitely leave him if she knew what a sick, twisted person he was.
But even so, Finney had a niggling suspicion that she knew, somehow. Of course, that couldn’t be true—she didn’t look horrified, and was walking alongside him instead of bolting in the opposite direction.
The heaviness from earlier became lighter the more he talked. He asked questions to her, and Donna asked questions to him and offered her opinion when asked. Being able to talk like this felt different, but in a good way.
“—just don’t know what I’m supposed to say when I get back. The stuff I said to them was pretty bad. If they kick me out, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”
“Finn, they’re not going to kick you out of the house,” Donna said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “They’re probably regretting what happened just as much as you are. I guarantee they wish they could change what they did and said.”
“Who do you think was right?” Finney asked hesitantly as they walked along the side of the river. The sunlight sparkled off its surface, making it look like there were flecks of gold floating on top of the water.
Donna twirled her hair absentmindedly. “I think this is one of those cases where everyone’s right and wrong. You’re almost seventeen, so the way you’re dad bugged out wasn’t right, but I also get why he and Gwen were worried. So I think the problem isn’t so much with how everyone felt, but how everyone reacted.”
“Yeah…” Finney agreed glumly. “But now what? I feel like everything’s just…broken.”
Donna reached out her hand, and Finney took it. “It can be fixed. My family was the same way last year. But then we had that big sitdown and things got better. The key’s being honest and open.”
“Then I'm screwed,” Finney replied automatically.
Donna laughed. “No, you’re not!” She then grew more serious. “From what you told me, part of the problem was that both you and your dad haven't been open with each other for years. There’s a lot of hurt and other feelings that both of you have been keeping inside.”
“I kept things in because of him,” Finney muttered. He remembered the fear of slurping his soup too loudly, and remembered Gwen apologizing for opening the breadbox with a clang. Remembered the sight of the belt in his father’s hands. “He used to scare the hell out of me. Even now, it's hard to just, like, talk to him normally.”
“I know.” Donna squeezed his hand lightly. “And if you ever decide it’s not worth it, then I’ll have your back. But if you want to fix things, then honesty is the first step. Have you ever considered that you might scare the hell out of him?”
What the fuck? “Um. No. Why would I?”
“Because he has no idea how to help or process what happened to you, and that makes him feel helpless. And when people feel helpless, they get scared.” That much was true; Finney knew that better than anyone. “I know he hasn’t always been there for you and Gwen, but if he really is trying to turn over a new leaf, then it must be frightening not to be able to help the person you love.”
Her eyes glazed over a bit, but came back into focus when something on the riverbank caught her eye. She slipped her hand out of Finney’s and rushed toward it. “Finn, this is the tree! The one Jesse and I used to climb when we were kids. C’mere, you can see our initials!”
Putting his hand down—her phantom touch still fresh in his mind–Finney followed Donna to the large Elm. Just as Donna said, Finney could see “JA” and “DA” scrawled into the bark. Before he knew it, Donna was in the branches climbing upward.
Finney was never much of a tree-climber when he was younger and wasn’t sure how high was normal, but seeing Donna up there caused his stomach to twist into knots. She kept crawling further and further up with the ease of a koala, eventually pushing herself onto a branch, dangling her legs over the side.
“Now I remember why I’d always climb up here whenever I felt sad. The view’s beautiful!” she called out. “God, I wish you could see it. Next time, I gotta bring a camera!”
The view was beautiful, but Finney didn’t need to climb a tree to see it. Up in that branch, Donna didn’t look like a girl with secrets, the lead actress in a play, or the girlfriend of a murderer. She was just Donna, happy and unguarded in a way Finney never could.
A sweet summer breeze caused the leaves to dance. Donna closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the smell of Elm mixed with the muddy flats and algae covering the rocks. Her black tresses billowed in the wind, and she smiled. There was a brightness in her, a love of the world and gratitude for being alive.
Finney felt a lump rise in his throat.
He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t think of anything besides, ”I love you.”
Eyes still closed, Donna tilted her head closer to the ground. “You need to speak louder. I can’t hear you from up here.”
He didn’t realize he said it out loud. He swallowed. Why was this sight making him so sad?
“I love you,” he repeated, much louder.
That got Donna’s eyes to open.
In that moment, Finney wasn’t afraid of rejection. He wasn’t afraid of the Grabber. The only thing he was afraid of was losing the courage to say it in the future.
Donna’s mouth hung slightly ajar, looking down at Finney in disbelief. Clarity was beginning to return to him, and he had a hard time believing his boldness. But that shock soon morphed to panic as he saw her wobble slightly on the branch. “D-donna, you’re about t—”
Before he finished, Donna steadied herself and regained balance. Finney took a deep breath to calm himself. Because of the height of the branch and position of the tree on the riverbank, even if she fell, she would at least have her fall broken by the water in the river. That could—
Oh no…
Finney suddenly became very cognizant of the screen in his backpack.
“Donna, come down from there,” he said, trying not to let the panic and what-ifs seep into his voice.
She blinked, startled. “Why?”
“Just do it,” he snapped. Donna frowned. Finney knew he was acting like a dick, but if that was what got her to move, then he didn’t care.
Donna couldn’t swim. And the Grabber knew this, because Finney just realized that—like an idiot—he mentioned it yesterday when Donna was talking about going to the beach. His palms began to sweat.
Donna moved her legs towards the trunk of the tree and began the descent downward. It was much slower and purposeful than her climb upward, and Finney wondered if it was because climbing down is harder, or if she was doing it as a fuck-you to him.
Once it became clear she wouldn’t fall into the water, a new fear gripped his throat: slipping and cracking her skull on the ground. Every step was torture. Would the Grabber cause a branch to crack? Would he cause Donna’s shoes to slip?
Part of Finney was horrified about what he told Donna, not because it wasn’t true, but because he was concerned he put her life at risk. What was he thinking?
He knew he wasn’t thinking, and that scared him, but at the same time, that same giddy, liberated feeling managed to poke its way inside him once again. He told Donna because he wanted to. The Grabber didn’t factor into his decision at all. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing in the long-term remained to be seen.
After finally reaching the ground, Donna dusted off her skort. “I’m more capable than you think. I’ve climbed that tree a dozen times before.”
Finney shifted uncomfortably. “I know. I was just worried, that’s all. Sorry if I sounded like an ass.”
Donna nodded, meeting Finney’s eyes for the first time since she touched the ground. “So...you love me?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling much more shy.
“Wow.” After a pause, her face broke into a grin, and Finney relaxed. “I–I love you too!”
He heard her voice say the words before, but now, the delivery was different and more ‘Donna-ish,’ brimming with glee instead of fraught with heavy emotion. He smiled.
“You do?”
“Mmhmm.”
His mind started to fritz due to the unfamiliar joy swimming through his system. “So, uh, I guess that means you’re not cheating on me then.”
…The river’s right there, Finney thought miserably, watching Donna’s mouth shift to an “o” shape. There’s still time to throw myself in…
“Why would you think I’m cheating on you?” she demanded, eyes flaring. “Who said that? Matt? He’s so full of crap…”
“M-matt didn’t say it,” Finney rushed to explain, but he felt he was digging the hole deeper. “I just…I dunno…I know you have a lot of options, and I’m not the most, um, well, I’m not exactly most girls’ first pick, so—”
Donna put her hands on her hips, but her eyes softened. “Then those girls are dumb, because you’re one of the best people in the school, hands down. You’re kind, courageous, smart, caring, resourceful, dedicated…any girl would be lucky to have you. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they're going to have to go through me.”
His insides were turning into mush, and the lump in his throat returned. “Thanks. I-it’s just that I thought you’ve been acting a bit different recently, and”—he swallowed, and tried to reign in his wild emotions—”Well, earlier you were talking about how it’s important to be open with people you care about. So…I wanted to know if there was something going on that’s bothering you.” He thought of his conversation with Mr. Clarkson. “If you say it’s nothing, then I’ll accept it and stop thinking about it.”
He was aware of the hypocrisy of asking Donna to be honest when he was hiding secrets from her, and knew the guilt inside would eventually compel him to say…something, at least.
But today wasn’t that day. He looked at Donna carefully, whose gaze fell to the ground. Her fingers started fidgeting with her mood ring, which was yellow. Finney tried to rack his brain for what emotion yellow corresponded with, but couldn’t remember.
“There is something that’s been on my mind,” Donna finally admitted after a tense, nerve-wracking pause. “I’m not cheating, though.” Her eyes met Finney’s again. “Can we wait until we get to my house? It’s better if I show you.”
That doesn’t sound ominous at all… “Um, sure.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Donna rushed to assure him, but her eyes seemed sharper and more alert, which did the opposite.
“Could I at least have a hint?” Finney asked, hoping he didn’t sound as whiny as he was feeling.
“It’s only a five minute walk.”
“Donna, you don’t know how much I've been thinking about this over the past couple days. Just give me a hint. Please.”
“Alright…” Donna huffed. She bit her lip in contemplation before finally settling on a suitable word. “Your hint is knife.”
Finney imagined the way he looked was similar to Donna’s expression when he said he loved her. “Wh–what the fuck?”
Donna crossed her arms. “You’re the one who wanted a hint!”
“Yeah, but c’mon….”
“What?” she asked, placing one hand on her hip.
“You can’t tell me ‘you don’t need to worry,’ when my hint is knife.”
Donna began to giggle, which slowly spiraled into a laughing fit. It proved to be contagious, as Finney’s dismay started to shift to amusement. “Hehe, okay, I get it. Alright, new word: Your hint is mom.”
“First knife, now mom.” A smile spread across Finney’s face as he shook his head. “You realize I’m worrying more now, right?”
Donna ran a hand through her hair, allowing Finney to catch a glimpse of the dark blue of her ring. “Consider this punishment for thinking I’m cheating on you,” she said with a wink.
“Fair enough.” Finney held out his hand, allowing her to lace her smooth, dainty fingers with his.
Despite the oddness of the situation, for the first time today he felt things were going to be okay.
****
The first thing Finney smelled when he walked into the Anderson home was paint. Jesse was standing next to a table which had a cover draped over it, squinting as he meticulously painted in the stitching of what looked like a bust of Christopher Lee in The Curse of Frankenstein.
“Oooh, it’s coming along nicely,” Donna cooed, looking at the sculpture in admiration.
“Thanks,” Jesse said, eyes remaining fixed on the bust. He dipped the brush back in the palette. “I know I said I would do Karloff next, but it feels wrong to have Cushing but not Lee.”
“You were able to get all that done in an hour?” Finney asked, slightly envious of Jesse’s talent and productivity.
Jesse looked up and blinked in surprise, noticing Finney was there for the first time. He smiled. “Never underestimate the power of obsession.” Trust me, I don’t… “So, not to sound like an ass, but what are you two doing here?”
“Play practice was canceled, and you drove away before I could find you to ask for a ride.”
Jesse laughed. “What, you expect me to stick around that place? No thanks.”
Finney heard a faint jingle, and Bella, the Andersons’ toy poodle, came prancing in, tail wagging. Bella was calm and mellow, and Finney was used to her, so he didn’t have the same kneejerk reaction he had towards other dogs. He hesitantly reached down and ruffled the white curls on the poodle’s head, who was trying to sniff his backpack.
“Jesse, you took Bella out when you got home, right?” Donna asked. Jesse’s guilty expression was enough of an answer. “Come on, you have to remember! Mom’s not staying home anymore.”
“I know, I know. But I can’t take her out like this,” he said, gesturing to his paint-stained smock.
Donna rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue, beckoning the poodle over. “C’mere, girl. We’re going outside because your brother doesn’t know how to be responsible.”
“Thanks,” Jesse grinned as Donna attached the silver leash to Bella’s collar and walked into the backyard. “Lemme guess, she wants you to be the new camera lackey.”
He gestured to the living room, where the camera equipment was stacked. He remembered Donna telling him yesterday that Jesse recorded her practices at home and looked over the footage. After Finney’s experience in the supply room, there was no way in hell he would ever do that again. “She didn’t mention anything about it.” Finney pointed to the bust, trying to change topics. “How many of those did you make?”
“I’ve got Lugosi, Chaney, Chaney Jr., Price, Cushing….hmm, what else…oh, I made a Michael Myers one. I also made Jason Voorhees, but don’t tell Donna—I’m gonna give it to her as a surprise on the day of the play. She loves that movie.”
That was news to Finney. “How? She hates blood. That’s the reason she decided not to go into nursing.”
“She doesn’t like real blood, but the stuff in movies is all fake. It’s hard to take it seriously if you know how it’s made. ”
“Oh.” That made sense. Given her interest in film and theater, she had more behind-the-scenes knowledge than the average viewer. And doesn’t Hamlet have a bunch of bloody scenes, too?
Still, the thought bothered Finney. It was a side to Donna that Finney didn’t know about and made him wonder: Did she feel she couldn’t be open about her interests because of him?
A wave of guilt washed through him. He remembered last year—before they officially started dating—when he and Donna went to see the first Friday the 13th movie. He was feeling overconfident since he managed to get through The Shining the week before with Danny (Granted, it was because he stared at the back of the head of the woman in front of him during the axe scene, but still). But when the commercials were over and the film began, the confidence soon proved to be woefully misplaced. He couldn’t make it through the opening scene of the camp counselors having sex and left to “go to the bathroom,” aka standing in the lobby hating himself. Donna realized something was up and came out fifteen minutes later, saying it was “too gory” and she didn’t want to see the rest.
He realized, in retrospect, that she probably went back to watch the first movie on a different day. And he didn’t know she even saw the second movie with Jason until today.
“I didn’t know she liked horror movies. I mean, I know you did, but…”
Jesse laughed. “Man, you have no idea. I think she saw Halloween, like, five times or something. Oh! And speaking of Halloween, when she was nine she dressed up as the Bride of Frankenstein, and when she was a freshman she was going to be Jess from Black Christmas, but then Mom said—”
The door to the backyard opened again, and Donna walked in, followed by Bella. She unhooked the poodle’s leash, and the dog darted towards the living room, pacing in a circle. “Finn, let’s head up to my room.”
“Ewwww,” Jesse said, scrunching his nose in mock disgust. “I didn’t need to hear that.”
Finney turned beet red. Donna rolled her eyes at her brother. “We’re going to talk. Jeez. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“You’re so lucky Mom isn’t here.” Jesse started laughing again. “She’d have a conniption and—”
Jesse was interrupted by a high-pitched yipping sound, and the three turned to look at the little poodle, who was standing alert in the living room. But instead of facing the door or window, Bella was looking inward, though in the opposite direction of Finney, Jesse, and Donna.
Finney wasn’t used to hearing Bella make any noise beyond happy whines and snores. “What’s she barking at?”
“Probably nothing. She’s been acting weird recently.” Jesse shrugged, going back to painting the bust. “We might have to take her to the vet or something. I dunno.”
A suspicion began to creep into Finney’s mind, but before he could dwell on it any longer, he felt Donna’s hand entwine with him. “C’mon, Finn, let’s go.”
As he followed Donna up the stairs, he turned to glance behind him. Bella was barking in their direction from the foot of the stairs.
****
Donna’s room looked largely the same as last time Finney was here, though there were a few minor changes. Her ballet shoes were still perched on top of the dresser. She had the same light purple walls and shag carpet, the same lava lamp on the nightstand, the same cat figurines decorating her overstuffed bookshelf. Some of the new books added were Firestarter, Jacob Have I Loved, The Bloody Chamber, Danse Macabre, Flowers in the Attic, The Bell Jar, and Sophie’s Choice. Finney didn’t know any of them. One new book that he did recognize was From Rape to Reverence: The Treatment of Women in the Movies (I knew that would be a book she’d like!), but thinking about that made him remember his library visit and he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
Small paintings of rainbows, forests, and waterfalls decorated the walls, along with a drawing of kaleidoscope art Finney remembered they had to make for art class in sophomore year. The posters of Audrey Hepburn, Vivian Leigh, and Grace Kelly were still up, and the stack of Ms. magazines could also be spotted underneath the bed. The record player remained perched in the corner, with records leaning up against it. Finney read the titles: ABBA, David Bowie, the Grease soundtrack, Simon & Garfunkel, Blondie…
He heard some movement and turned his head to see Luna, Donna’s white rabbit, pushing her head up against the cage bars of the rabbit hutch. Donna cooed when she saw the little bunny and opened the cage, allowing the rabbit to get a taste of freedom. She scooped Luna in her arms as she sat on the bed stroking the bunny’s ears. It reminded Finney of Angela and her stuffed rabbit.
Finney plopped down in a beanbag chair and looked at the windowsill. He smiled. “Rocky’s going strong, huh?”
Rocky the Boston Fern got its name from the amount of times Donna thought the plant died, only to be proven wrong: a true underdog story. “Yup. I’m pretty sure that thing’s going to outlive me.”
Finney frowned, plopping his backpack on the carpet. “Don’t say that.”
Guilt flickered across Donna’s face as Luna squiggled from her arms and hopped to the edge of the bed, sniffing the air. “Sorry.”
Finney realized that she probably thought he was thinking about Robin, when he was really concerned about her safety (especially since I’m a giant fucking idiot who pratically baited him earlier). “We need to at least get to 1984 to see if it’s like 1984.”
1984 was one of the few books read in English class that both of them liked. “Yeah,” Donna said, smiling. As her eyes shifted to the edge of the bed, her smile fell. Luna’s furry body was flattened against the bed, ears flat. Donna reached over and brought Luna back in her arms, and Finney saw the poor little thing was shaking. “Shhh,” she whispered, stroking the bunny’s fur.
Finney was almost certain the animals were acting up because they sensed the spirit's presence. He wished he could tell the ghost to fuck off, but knew there was no chance of that happening. The Grabber was no doubt watching them like a Victorian chaperone, waiting for Donna to “throw herself at Finney like a whore,” in his words.
He tried to spot anything else different from last time. There was a dreamcatcher in the window and—
Wow. “You have your own phone line?” It had its own answering machine, too. “Damn…”
Donna seemed taken aback for a moment, but recovered. She looked at the pink phone Finney was pointing to and shrugged. “Mom got it for me last week. I told her we shouldn’t be wasting money on stuff like that now, but she’s known I’ve wanted one for a while, and you know how Mom gets sometimes.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Here, I’ll write down the number.”
Hearing about her mom reminded Finney of one of Donna’s hints from earlier, and the question was one the tip of his tongue. But when Donna lifted the notebook on the nightstand to write her number, Finney saw what books were underneath it and the thought was shoved to the back of his mind.
One book was a copy of Hamlet, sticky notes popping out of the sides. The other had a bookmark poking out of the top (“Never dogear the pages!” Donna scolded him once in the past, acting as if Finney just committed a mortal sin). The book had a black background with a large circle on the cover, and the circle was split up into six different scenes. Each section had a different artistic rendering of spectral apparitions. Finney read the title: Ghosts and Poltergeists, by Frank Smyth.
Oh, fuuuuuuuck.
Finney felt a pit of dread in his stomach. Was that the secret? Was she being haunted by the Grabber’s ghost? That was Finney’s assumption when he spoke to Donna during his first night in 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. Could he have been right all along? Or was Donna reading the book because she was worried about him and the ghost rumors? Or could it be something as simple as Donna having an interest in the supernatural but not wanting to tell him about it, like how she didn’t tell him about her interest in horror movies?
Finney was so wrapped in his thoughts, he didn’t see Donna waving the paper in his face. He took it and shoved it into his pocket. He looked back at Donna, who was scratching Luna underneath her chin. The rabbit seemed more relaxed and content now.
“Does that book”—he pointed to ‘Ghosts and Poltergeists’—”say how to get rid of ghosts?”
Donna blinked, startled. “Um, not really…it says the hauntings stop when the ghost gets what it wants, or when it decides to stop on its own.” Great…. “Like in Hamlet, the ghost of Hamlet’s dad needs Hamlet to avenge him. He doesn’t want to move on when his wife is married to his brother.”
“So, anyone who’s haunted is basically screwed,” Finney tried to say lightly, flopping back onto the beanbag chair. “Awesome.”
Donna’s eyes narrowed. “Just because the author doesn’t know doesn’t mean there isn’t a way.” Her eyes then softened, and she asked, hesitantly, “Finn, do, um…do you think you're being haunted?”
For a few seconds, the only thing Finney heard was the tick of Donna’s yellow smiley-face clock. His mouth felt dry.
Deep down, he knew Donna was right when she said it was important to be honest with people he loved. And he did love Donna—despite his emotional tempest over the past week, that much remained constant. When he was confiding in her earlier, it felt like they truly were partners. He liked it. That’s how things should be.
But the words tumbled out of lips before he could stop them. “No. The Gra—him, he’s not haunting me. Did you get the book because you thought the rumors were true?” He tried to make out her expression, but was unsuccessful; a curtain of black hair obscured Donna’s face as she leaned down to kiss the top of the rabbit’s head. “All that shit’s in the past. Everything’s fine now. I’m fine.” Desperate to turn focus away from him, he said, “You said you wanted to show me something, right?
When she looked back up at him, she couldn’t make out her expression. It reminded him of Mr. Clarkson’s mask from earlier in the day. “Yeah.”
Wordlessly, she stood up and returned Luna to the hutch. She went over to her desk and pulled a newspaper clipping dated from 1966, which she gave to Finney. Swallowing, he read:
SLAIN CHERRY CREEK WOMAN IDENTIFIED
Police confirmed on Thursday that the body of a stabbing victim found buried in Cherry Creek Forest was that of Miss Ruth Evans, 24.
The woman, who had previously lived in a communal environment but had since moved to a Lakewood apartment independently, was buried in a shallow grave half a mile from the Pipeline trail. The body was discovered by a hiker and his dog, who had strayed from the trail. Police officers were called to the scene after the dog dug up the remains.
Evans was reported missing on August 20th, 1965. Based on the deterioration of the body, investigators believe Evans was murdered around the time she disappeared. An autopsy showed the woman died of an estimated 28 stab wounds. It is believed that some were inflicted post-mortem.
It has yet to be determined whether Evans’ murder has any link to the disappearance of Walter Kaminski, who was part of the same communal group and went missing two months before Evans. Police have taken several former acquaintances of Evans for questioning, but released them due to lack of evidence.
Police are seeking public assistance in creating a timeline regarding Evans’ whereabouts prior to the murder. Anyone who saw or spoke with her from June 17th, when she was last seen alive, or later, should contact the Criminal Division of the State Police. Police have noted that Evans assumed the alias ‘Meadow’ when living with her communal group.
28 stab wounds. That was only seven less than Vance. Finney skimmed the article a second time. Why did the name Ruth sound familiar? He looked up at Donna, who was fidgeting with the hem of her skort.
“Ruth is my mom,” Donna said, not meeting Finney's eye. “My birth mom, I mean. I knew what happened to her for a while, but I never told you that she was a murder victim because, well…I’m not sure. I guess it just felt weird to bring up something like that…”
The ‘with you’ at the end was silent, but understood. Finney couldn’t meet her eyes either, and looked at the dreamcatcher. “It’s okay. I get it.”
She bit her lip. “But then, on the night your house burned down, Chief Walker went on TV and said they might have figured out who did it.”
Suddenly, it dawned on him where he heard the name Ruth before. He felt cold. “The Grabber.”
“Yeah.” She winced. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but can’t talk to many people about it. The only ones who know are my parents, but it feels like they’re keeping stuff from me too. And Matt knows…I told him about Ruth and how she was murdered when we were dating, and when he heard her name on TV he got worried for me. So we’ve been talking more this past week, but we’re not cheating. It’s just as friends.”
Finney remembered his conversation with Jesse on the phone. “Jesse doesn’t know?”
Donna sighed. “He knows a little, but we don't really talk about it. It would be weird too, since…well, you remember what happened last year.” He did—he recalled the friction between Jesse and Donna regarding the disparity of information about their birth parents. Her eyes met his again. “Finn, I don’t want you to think that I didn’t trust you or anything, because it’s not that! But it’s like you said, that shit’s in the past. I know you have so many bad memories of him, and with you moving into his house and everything, it’s—it’s so messed up. You need a break from thinking about him.”
He wished he could go back in time and slap himself. “Donna, when I said that, I didn’t mean I didn’t want you to tell me things, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Donna reassured him. “But you get why I didn’t say anything earlier, right?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He began to read the article for a third time. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
Donna peered at him quizzically as she fed Luna some lettuce through the hutch. “What do you mean?”
“You said you wanted to talk about her but couldn’t. So let’s talk now. What questions were you thinking about?”
Donna sighed, shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Everything, I guess? If I had to pick one thing, it would be why she died. She’s not exactly in his target demographic.”
Finney remembered the Grabber’s claims that he only killed two people (or four, depending on if traps ‘counted’). Assuming he was telling the truth, it did seem odd that a twenty-four year old woman was part of that shortlist. “He might not have killed her. It could be police conjecture or—” He stopped abruptly as he reread the last sentence, Emma Baur’s mocking words reverberating in his head. “Donna, what do you know about your mom?”
“My birth mom,” Donna corrected, tone developing a steely edge as she walked back over to the bed.
“R-right, sorry.”
She leaned down on the bed, fiddling with the pillow’s tassel. “I don’t know much. My mom said she had issues with her parents and was a ‘drifter,’ which I’m guessing is a nice way to say unemployed. She joined this Charles Manson-y flower power thing, and had me out of wedlock sometime after that. And that’s pretty much it.”
Ruth—or ‘Meadow’—being a hippie suddenly raised her ‘killed-by-the-Grabber’ chances by a lot. “When I was talking to Mrs. Baur earlier today”—against his better judgment, Gwen’s talk of signs whispered in his ears—”she mentioned his brother inviting a bunch of, um, drifters, to stay with them. And he didn’t like that.”
Donna stopped twirling the tassel. “You think that’s why he killed her? He was fed up with her staying in his house?”
“I don’t know. It says here that she left and moved to Lakewod.” He pointed at the article. “So that couldn’t be it. But maybe there was some kind of problem before she left.”
Donna sighed and flopped over. “See, this is the kind of thing that drives me crazy. Every question leads to another. I think that’s why Mom got me that phone: it was meant to be some kind of sympathy gift.”
A smile began to tug at Finney’s lips as he remembered a memory from years ago. “Hey, at least you got a phone. All I got was a Floro Hardware Supply gift card.”
Donna erupted into a fit of giggles. “Oh my god, I remember that! Talk about tone-deaf…”
Despite everything going wrong in his life, Finney laughed. It felt nice. “‘Sorry our tools almost killed you. Here’s a twenty-dollar gift card.’ Yep.”
“Hahaha! Didn’t someone else give you a gift card too, when we were getting out from school? That old guy, back in eighth grade?”
“Yeah,” he grinned, thinking back. “He shook my hand and went ‘Thank you for your service’ like I came back from Vietnam. And then I opened the envelope—”
“— and it was a ten-dollar Office Depot gift card and Trader Joe coupons!” Donna finished, giggling through the fingers that covered her mouth. “Why would someone even give that to a kid? I mean, it’s nice, but it’s like…why?”
They were straying far from the topic of Ruth, but Finney didn’t mind. He liked feeling relaxed like this. “I have no idea. Gwen calls them ‘surviving-a-serial-killer’ perks, like when Steve Yeager showed up for that assembly on perseverance and gave me the signed mitt.” He still couldn’t believe that one happened, and realized with a stab of frustration that the only proof he met his idol was destroyed in the fire. He tried to think of more. “I’m also allowed one free milkshake at Baskin-Robbins and a ten percent discount at Burger Chef too. Everyone in my family also gets a five percent discount at Pizza Hut.” We should really be taking advantage of that now that we’re poor…
“I remember you telling me that.” She leaned over mischievously. “You know, when I was a freshman I was thiiiiiiis close”— she put her thumb and pointer finger together—”to going in and pretending I was Gwen to get the discount. Their breadsticks are so freakin’ good.”
“Go for it,” he laughed. “She’d get a kick out of that.”
“I know, but I’ve got these pesky little things called morals which won’t let me. I was literally standing right outside Pizza Hut, not even kidding.” she stretched her arms, grinning. “I should have written about that for my Definitive Moments essay.”
Thoughts of the essay due the week before his house burned down caused his elation to deflate a bit. “What did you write about?”
Donna’s smile faded slightly as she leaned over her nightstand and picked up the essay, handing it to Finney. “Charlie.”
The name sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he heard it from. Upon skimming through it, it all came rushing back to him: When Donna was eight, she found a lost Cocker Spaniel, which she brought to the Anderson home and named Charlie. For about a month, Charlie lived with Donna and her family, but Donna then began to spot ‘Lost Pet’ posters for a Buddy, a Cocker Spaniel that matched Charlie’s description.
—couldn’t say I was proud of myself. Whenever I’d see one of those flyers, I’d rip it down and pray no one saw me. I loved Charlie. I took care of him. I knew we were meant to be together. So why shouldn’t he belong to me?
My mind performed Olympic-level gymnastics in order to justify keeping him with me instead of his family. I was so deep in my delusions that I genuinely started to believe Charlie was a different dog than Buddy, and that there was no other family for him to return to.
But when I saw him sitting by the door one day, looking up at it with his big chocolate eyes, I knew then that he wasn’t thinking about me. He wanted his real family, and by keeping him from them, I proved that I didn’t deserve him. I was so focused on what I wanted, I stopped thinking about what would be best for Charlie.
I told my parents, and we returned Charlie—Buddy—to his rightful family. When I saw how happy he was, I knew I made the right choice, even if it killed me inside. But in the words of Richard Bach, “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was.”
There was a lot Finney wanted say, but he couldn’t find the language to articulate his thoughts properly. So instead, all that came out was: “You’re a good person, Donna.”
Despite the compliment, Donna’s shoulders slumped, and she regained that glazed over expression from earlier. “I try to be.”
Finney was quiet for a short moment before asking, gently, “I know you told me about Ruth, but was there…anything else? Anything that’s bothering you? Anything you want to talk about?”
It was temporary, lasting only for a brief second, but Finney saw Donna’s eyes glance at the pink phone before returning to him. “No.”
Donna’s tone had a note of finality to it, but Finney wasn’t certain. Was there a meaning to the glance he saw, or what he overanalyzing something innocuous? He bit his lip and searched Donna’s expression, but couldn't decipher what he was seeing. “Okay.”
Donna’s fingers wrapped around a hairbrush on the nightstand. She ran it through her black tresses that matched the stone on her ring. “Did you ever finish writing your essay, by the way?”
He did. Dr. Moore used to tell him writing could help, so he mustered the courage to write about the most definitive moment in his life: his kidnapping.
It was hard at first, and it took him a couple days to complete the first paragraph. But once that was done, the words seemed to flow smoother and faster. He wrote about more than just the kidnapping, wrote about his entire stay in the basement and every sick and twisted thing that transpired. His writing—which was normally fairly simplistic—started getting detailed, very detailed, Bound in Chains level of detail, then evolved (or devolved) to a level beyond even that. He wrote about his first time (he hated calling it that, it made it sound gentle when it wasn’t). He wrote about every thought and sensation that fluttered through in his head that he was too ashamed to acknowledge. He wanted to write the true story, not whatever refuse spewed out of Bound in Chains. Nothing was wrapped in euphemisms, and the grimy coarseness of his experiences bled through the pages like the blood of so many other boys before him.
He remembered stopping, like a man possessed, looking in horror at what he wrote. He didn’t even know why he wrote it. He knew from the second page that he had no intention of using it for the assignment. Was it even legal for him to write this? Momentary relief and liberation were reigned in as sense prevailed. He fed twelve pages to the paper shredder. The only page he held onto was the first one, which started with him seeing the black van and ended with him getting sprayed in the face. Then, he chickened out and shredded that one too. Abandoning his initial topic, he began writing about his mother’s death, but couldn’t get past the second paragraph. So in the end, he handed in nothing.
“No.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing mid-brush. ‘How much did that tank your grade?’ was an unspoken question heavy in the air.
“He said he would excuse me from the assignment.” A renewed rush of annoyance wafted through him. “But I’ll make it up. Maybe sometime this week.”
Donna put the brush back on the nightstand and folded her hands on her lap. “If you’re having trouble with the assignment,” she began, eyes shining with understanding that caused Finney to feel another stab of self-hate, “he might let you do something else. He likes it when students show initiative. You could propose an idea to him and see if—”
A flicker of….something…crossed her face, causing her to quickly turn away from Finney.
“You okay?” Finney asked, nerves climbing.
There was a pause before Donna answered. Her voice was unsteady and hitched, setting off alarm bells in Finney’s mind. “Y-yeah.”
“You don’t sound okay,” he said, trying to sound calm even though he felt anything but.
Her shoulders began to tremble, and Finney was a second away from getting up and going towards her. But then, she turned to look at Finney, causing him to freeze in his seat. She wasn’t crying, as Finney expected.
She was covering her mouth with her hands, trying to reign in an eruption of laughter. “I’m so sorry. I just—hahaha– it reminded me of s-something you said when you were in the hospital.”
Oh no. Memories of Gwen laughing at ‘something funny’ Finney said when he was drugged up in the hospital replayed in his mind. Now it was Finney’s turn to cover his face with his hands. “What did I say?” he groaned.
“It was nothing bad!” she said hurriedly. “They put you on some kind of drugs there and, uh, you weren’t thinking or talking straight. I don’t want you to feel embarrassed.”
Too late. “What did I say?”
Her lips kept twitching into a smile, despite her attempts to look serious. A blush started to spread across her neck and cheeks. “You proposed to me.” FUCK. “I think you thought you were holding a ring.”
“Oh wow.” He tried to force a chuckle and pretend he didn’t want the earth to swallow him whole. “That’s weird.”
“And then”—to Finney’s horror, she erupted into another giggling fit—”you tried to sing Unchained Melody.” FUUUUUUUUUUUCK. She then added quickly, “But that didn’t last long! Gwen said you needed your sleep and I left. I know you and her are fighting now, but she really does try to look after you, Finn.”
“…Yeah, she does,” he croaked out, because his mind blanked out on forming any coherent words about anything else she said.
The only thing Finney was grateful for is that Donna didn’t know the significance of what she just said. To her, it was a funny anecdote, but to Finney, it meant something more. Unchained Melody was the first song his parents danced to at their wedding. He had memories of watching them dancing slowly with one another to it at night when they thought Finney was asleep. He remembered, poking his head out from his vantage point behind the corner, seeing a sparkle and playfulness in his father’s eye that had long since vanished.
He watched as she shifted to a sitting position on the bed, eyes brimming with concern. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you upset…”
“I’m not,” he replied, and once he said it, he found it was true. The possibility of them actually getting married one day and being normal like his parents was a tantalizing thought, but brought the same pang of sadness he felt earlier when he was watching her on the tree. Without realizing it, he got off the beanbag chair and sat next to her on the bed.
She tilted her head at him, and he once again felt himself at a loss for words. So instead, he opted for action.
He leaned in and kissed her. At first their faces were awkwardly smushed together, but as the kiss deepened, it became smoother and more natural. When he pulled back, he felt the lingering sensation of Donna's strawberry chapstick on his lips. Her face was flushed but pleased, and he imagined he looked the same.
Her eyes drifted upward a bit and she smiled. “Your hair’s all messed up now. It’s cute.”
Donna reached her hand up toward his face, and Finney grew rigid. Noticing this, she paused, looking at Finney with a silent question in her eyes. After a brief moment of hesitation, he nodded. One of her hands cupped his cheek while the other moved upward. The hand he felt running through his auburn curls was smooth and delicate instead of rough and calloused. Finney liked it.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Donna immediately withdrew her hand as the fire alarms in the Anderson house started blaring. Finney’s eyes opened and narrowed, glaring at his backpack while Donna yelled for Jesse. Poor Luna was quivering, and Finney could hear faint traces of barking from downstairs.
What occurred over the next few minutes was a similar scene to what played out in the Blakes’ old home. Jesse came stumbling up the steps yelling that there was some kind of malfunction where all the fire alarms went off at the same time. And just as last time, turning them off wouldn’t work. After getting the alarms removed from the upstairs floor, Jesse and Donna set out on getting the rest, telling Finney to stay put while they handled it. Finney would normally insist on helping them, but knew that he might as well get a conversation over with that he couldn’t put off anymore.
Once Jesse and Donna were out of sight and earshot, Finney unzipped the backpack and took out the screen with the frowning silhouette.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?” the Grabber demanded. “It’s working. If I didn’t know how things are going to play out, I’d be really upset right now.”
“I’m not killing myself,” Finney repeated for the umpteenth time, rage and spite climbing. His time with Donna galvanized him, helped him remember what relationships should be, and made him furious at the thought of the Grabber trying to take that away. “If you were with us the whole time, you’d know that. I’d be an idiot if I left her for you, and I know you think I am, but I’m not.”
“Are you still whining about that?” the Grabber snapped. “You’re so damn sensitive. I was just being honest. It’s not my fault if you don’t like it.”
“‘Honest?’” Finney echoed incredulously. The vulnerability and insecurity he felt when talking to the Grabber earlier was a distant memory, a renewed sense of determination running through him. “Like you were ‘honest’ about her cheating? She’s not! In fact, you’re the reason for her problems. I knew it all along.”
“I never said I wasn’t. I killed her mom and she’s fucking someone else. Both can be true.”
Finney blinked, taken aback. He was expecting the Grabber to whine that he was being framed; he didn’t think he’d admit it. “You didn't just kill her, you overkilled her.” He was unsure if he was using the word properly, but plowed ahead anyway. “The article says you stabbed her twenty-eight times. Why?”
“I don’t like that word, ‘overkill.’ It’s so arbitrary. And as for the why…” He sighed. “Look, all I’m gonna say is she made me lose my temper. You know how that goes, right?” His voice lowered. “And right now my temper’s running very, very thin. If you want this house to go up in flames, then by all means, continue acting like a spiteful little shit. But hopefully you won’t. I don't want anything to happen to the bitch I actually like.”
It took Finney a few seconds to understand what he was referring to. “Bella was acting up because she was able to sense you somehow, right? I knew it—-you were haunting Donna.”
“I only came here in the first place because you made it seem like the sun shined out of her ass and I wanted to see what was so great about her. But it’s a good thing I did, because that’s how I found out she was shaking sheets with someone not named Finney Blake.”
“She said she’s not cheating,” Finney stubbornly insisted.
“Obviously she’s going to deny it!” The Grabber’s voice then became calmer, less aggressive. “Like I said yesterday, I have proof. See that phone? I want you to look at it carefully.”
Finney looked, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It was a normal pink phone. “I don’t get it. What proof am I supposed to be seeing?”
“The light!” The Grabber said impatiently. “There’s a message on it. Now check it quickly before she comes back.”
Upon closer inspection, he did see a green blinking light that he didn’t notice when Donna was there. “No way! I’m not snooping in her stuff! She told me she’s not cheating, and I believe her.”
“So you have no doubts whatsoever about Saint Donna?” the Grabber scoffed. “You think she’s being completely honest with you.”
Finney hesitated, remembering the glance she gave the phone and feeling as though something was off. But could that just be his paranoia? “It doesn’t matter. People in relationships are supposed to trust one another and—“
“We don’t have time for this crap. Check the voicemail or I’ll burn the house down. I’ll give you till the count of five.”
“Wha—“
“One.”
Finney froze like a deer in the headlights. Oh god what should I do I can’t break her trust but I can’t put her life at risk and—
“Two.”
He looked at the phone, green light blinking innocently.
“Three.”
His body made the decision before his mind did. Finney leaned over and pressed the button. He heard a voice he wasn’t expecting.
“Donnnnnna.” A smooth, silky voice reverberated through the room. The tone was smug, taunting, flirtatious—a stark difference from what Finney heard earlier in the day. “You left your bracelet with me last night. You’ve got to come back for it. Maybe next time you could leave a little something different, hmm?”
There was a beep after, signifying the end of the message. There were a few seconds of silence and then…
“This is so fake,” Finney decided, rolling his eyes. “Mr. Clarkson doesn’t talk like that.”
“No it’s not!” the Grabber insisted, indignant. “You don’t know him like I do. This is the real Anthony.”
“Bullshit. You pretended to be him, like you pretended to be Donna on the phone.”
“I told you, I can’t do that with everyone’s voice.”
“Then how’d you do it with Donna’s?” Finney asked. The Grabber was silent. “See? I think you're lying. I bet you really can mimic everyone’s voice. The way he talks in the message even sounds like you!”
“No it doesn’t! And it’s a bet you’d lose,” he snapped. “If I could, I’d be making a lot more calls to a bunch of different people.”
“Yeah, okay, sure. Speaking of calls, here’s another reason why I know you’re lying: Mr. Clarkson isn’t dumb enough to leave a message like that on voicemail, even if it’s her personal line.”
“He’s not as smart as he pretends to be. And like I told you before, love makes you do crazy things. Trust me, I know.”
“Why should I trust you on anything?” Finney spat. Several memories of broken promises played through his mind in quick succession. “Last time I trusted you, I got a can of wasp spray emptied into my face and spent two months in hell.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” the Grabber said scornfully. On the screen Finney could only see the gray space where the eyes should be, but assumed the ghost was rolling them. “I needed to do that to start our relationship.”
“There is no relationship!” Finney cried out, tugging at his hair in frustration. “I told you this before. What I have with Donna—that’s real. Were you watching us earlier?”
He was curious to see the Grabber’s response. There were so many times during his walk with Donna where he expected the Grabber to start talking, but the spirit—for whatever reason— remained silent up until now.
“Sadly, yes. When it comes to you, that girl’s like a cat in heat. So desperate for any scraps of affection.” He paused, then chuckled wryly. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Finney wondered if the Grabber was hoping Finney would press about Ruth, but he wasn’t about to be deterred or sidetracked. “If you were there, you would know why I like her. She’s kind, gentle, patient, understanding, honest—”
“Ha! If you think she’s honest, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.” His tone then dropped its mocking edge and a hint of vulnerability bled through. “And I can be all those things too, if you let me.”
Finney didn’t dignify the last sentence with a response. “Here’s another reason why you’re wrong: She acts normal around Mr. Clarkson.”
“She’s a good actress.”
Finney shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. The lengths you’re willing to go to are actually insane.”
“I don’t care if you believe me.” Yeah, right… “I’m just trying to spare you some guilt and heartbreak when you find her pretty corpse.”
Finney grew still. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Anthony’s got some interesting tastes. He likes his girls in red, if you catch my drift.”
Finney’s hands began to grow clammy. “You’re saying he’s like…you?”
“Yep. Remember one of the names on Walker’s list, Anna Lavigne? It’s not a coincidence she was a theater major. And he probably killed Eva too. He used to work with her father, before he became a teacher.”
“I thought you said the parents killed Eva!”
“I changed my mind. Isn’t it weird how he asked about her necklace? Why does he care that much, unless he’s got secrets to hide?”
Finney bit his lip. “You just happen to know another serial killer in Denver who happens to be your brother-in-law who you conveniently hate? Come on…”
The shadow on the screen shrugged. “Believe what you want. She’s your girlfriend, not mine.”
Finney shook his head. “No. My English teacher isn’t a serial killer. He’s too—” Finney was about to say the word ‘normal,’ but remembered Oscar’s claims of how normal Albert Shaw seemed. The words died on his throat. “Why is he letting her walk around free then? If he wants to kill her, why not kidnap her like you did?”
“Right now, he’s luring her in. I didn’t break into your house, you came up to me, remember?” Don’t remind me… “He lives in a shitty apartment and doesn’t have a nice setup like I had in the basement. So he’s treating her like a little princess until he decides to slice her up. He’ll probably take her to some remote location and then–” The Grabber mimicked slicing his throat.
“When did it start?” Once the question left his lips, he wanted to kick himself. There’s no ‘when.’ This is obviously fake!
“A few months ago, I think? Whenever they did the Hamlet auditions.”
That was before Finney and Donna formally started dating. “Even if what you said is true—which it isn’t—what you’re describing isn’t cheating. It’s totally different from what you made it out to be.”
“She’s fucking another man,” the Grabber said slowly, as if believing Finney to be mentally deficient.
Finney mimicked the Grabber’s slow tone. “She’s sixteen and he’s an adult.” He then began to talk at his normal pace. “That’s illegal. It’s statutory ra—” He couldn’t finish the sentence and swallowed. “Look, from what you’re telling me, he’s been manipulating her for months. If this is true, then she probably doesn’t want to do it.”
“Oh, please,” the Grabber chuckled. “She’s sixteen, not six. And in a month, she’ll be seventeen. She’s a big girl and can make her own choices.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Finney said, voice dripping with venom. “She might be going along with it because she’s afraid of what would happen if she says no. He could be hurting or scaring her. Maybe it’s blackmail. Or maybe she’s confused. Maybe he’s getting into her head and makes her feel like she wants what he’s doing and likes it and now she’s too embarrassed to bring it up to anyone. Maybe he’s forced her to rely on him somehow, I don’t know. But it’s not her fault. She’s a good person.”
There were a few seconds of silence where Finney wondered where the fuck that all came from, but then the Grabber replied, in a flat tone, “Whatever. The point is, she’s getting railed by Anthony and is thiiiiiiis close to having her insides become her outsides. If you want to expose him for what he is, you need to be willing to go into his apartment and—”
That snapped Finney back into reality. “No. Jesus Christ, no. I’m not breaking and entering because you want me to.”
“It’s the only way to save Donna!”
“No it’s not! I bet she’s not even in danger.”
“Fine. Continue being wrong, I don’t care. But I guarantee you’re going to be begging for my help soon. I hope you remember this.”
And with that, the shadow vanished, leaving Finney holding a blank screen. He shoved it into the backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
As he walked down the stairs, he grew more and more incensed at himself. He almost got sucked into believing Mr. Clarkson was a serial killer and a rapist.
Which he wasn’t. Sure, Finney would sometimes see them talking alone, but that’s normal, since she’s his student and the lead in the play. And yes, Donna came to Mr. Clarkson looking for her bracelet, but if she lost it on stage (which is what she said, despite the words on the voicemail), then that wouldn’t be unusual. And it’s true they both had acting backgrounds, but that doesn’t mean the platonic interactions Finney observed were a facade.
The stuff about Anna being a theater major and Mr. Clarkson knowing Eva’s parents could just be a coincidence, or a complete lie. And as for Donna glancing at the phone earlier? It could have been something completely unrelated.
There was one way to know for sure. As he was heading to the living room, he met a startled Donna, who was heading in the direction of the stairs. “Finn, are you leaving? Jesse and I just finished with the smoke detectors and—”
“Yeah,” Finney said. Looking at Donna, the question was on the tip of his tongue. He knew he should ask her. It’s important for people to be honest in relationships. It would be the mature thing to do.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Because part of him was screaming inside that if it was true, if Donna was being taken advantage of, then she wouldn’t tell him. No, that kind of experience was something that festered deep in one’s soul for years. She’d be far too humiliated to say anything. In fact, she’d probably freeze up if he asked her. That’s what he would do if someone asked him.
“I have a headache,” he lied.
“Oh, okay,” she said quietly, eyes downcast. “I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. And Donna?” She raised her head as he clenched his fingers around the brass doorknob. “I love you, okay. Nobody else. Just you.”
It was hard, but he resisted the urge to stick his middle finger in the air as he opened the door.
****
Finney enjoyed a Grabber-free walk home, where he tried to push thoughts of Donna and Mr. Clarkson to the back of his mind and focus on Gwen and Terrence. He had a speech planned out in his head and hoped he would be able to get through it without making an ass of himself.
When he got to the door of 7742 Meadowbrook Lane he paused, fighting off the urge to turn back and go somewhere, anywhere, else.
But he did what Taylor Mullen would do and took out his key, unlocking the door. “Gwen? I’m home,” he called out.
There was no answer. Finney felt his stomach twist to knots. He should have expected that response; why did he think Gwen would want to talk to him after what he said earlier?
Resisting the urge to turn around and walk out the door (again), he plopped his backpack on the ground, a symbol of finality. Alright, time to get this over with.
He could see she wasn’t in the kitchen, living room, or dining room. He turned down the hall to walk to her bedroom, which was shut. He knocked. “Gwen?”
Still, no response. He turned the knob to peer in, only to find the room empty.
Finney’s heart began to thump a bit quicker. Stop, she’s probably in the bathroom.
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t in Finney’s room, or Terrence’s. By the time Finney checked the backyard—to no avail—his fingers were twitching as he inwardly battled whether or not he should pull the screen out of his pocket and grovel for information.
She’s probably just at the store, Finney tried to assure himself, wiping the sweat from his palms on his shorts. I can’t freak out like they did earlier. Maybe she took a walk. Or maybe she’s talking to Sofia or—
Then, Finney heard a creaking sound.
From the backyard door, he followed the direction of the sound. But upon seeing the source, he froze, eyes widening and heart hammering against his ribcage.
The basement door was wide open.
Finney’s breathing started to hitch. “Gwen!” he called out again.
She didn’t respond. Finney didn’t expect her to.
His knees started to grow very weak.
“She’s downstairs,” the metallic voice said from his pocket, voice laden with amusement. “She’s waiting for you.”
Finney grabbed the screen from his pocket to see the ghost’s mocking, smiling visage. “Wh-what did you do?” he whispered hoarsely. “Is she okay?”
The Grabber chuckled. “I didn’t do anything.”
Finney remembered, in horror, the Grabber’s final words at the Anderson home. Is this what he meant? “Is she okay?”
“Oh, now you want my help?” he laughed. “Remember what I said yesterday: I don’t like spoiling surprises~”
Hate and despair boiled into a rage, and he no longer cared if what he said would offend. “Fuck you!” he spat.
“Later, kiddo. But for now, you’ve got other things to think about.”
Finney realized his free hand was tugging at his hair anxiously, and forced himself to remove it. He stared into the inky blackness, which reflected the state of his mind right now. There’s no way he could go into that basement. He was never going there again, he got out, he’s—
I’m going in, Finney decided dully, pushing down that part inside him that was screaming in anguish. I’ve got to. For Gwen.
There was no way he could ever be able to live with himself if something happened to his sister because of his cowardice. And the Grabber probably knew this, too.
Shoving the screen forcefully back in his pocket, he took an unsteady step forward. Then another, then another.
Then finally, he began to descend the stairs.
At first, the only sound to pierce the silence was the creaking of every step he took. One after another. He couldn’t stop himself from shivering. Then, he heard the mocking, metallic voice.
“There we go. That’s a good boy,” the Grabber purred. “See, it’s not so bad, right? The more times you do it, the easier it’ll become.”
The Grabber said the exact same words to him about something else, years ago. Finney clenched his fists, and stone-cold resolve began to mingle with fear and anticipation. He remembered what he saw in the mirror that morning. No matter what the Grabber believed, he wasn’t that thirteen-year old child anymore, and he wasn’t going to let himself be treated that way.
Perhaps sensing this, the Grabber took a different approach. “You know, maybe she’s fine and I'm being dramatic for no reason. What do you think?”
Finney ignored him and continued to say nothing as he approached the bottom. As his fingers touched the cool metallic handle, the voice interrupted his thoughts once again. “You gotta turn the light on, remember? That way she knows you’re coming.”
After a brief pause, Finney flipped the light switch. He couldn’t see anything from this side of the door, but knew what it would look like from the other side.
Or at least, he thought he did.
Slowly opening the door, he realized the light was about the only thing from his memory that remained consistent. The light, and the small window. Everything else was different.
The mattress was gone. The toilet was gone. The phone was gone. The broken wall was fixed and painted over. All the walls seemed painted over.
The basement was no longer empty. A maroon rug covered most of the floor, and a miniature television was perched on top of a small, worn coffee table. There were a few wooden chairs and a brown sofa, and a shelf littered with an assortment of random household items. A couple trash bags that were tied up and leaning against the walls, though Finney wasn’t sure what was inside. Tonka trucks and other children’s toys that Finney assumed belonged to the Williams family were scattered about, and a children’s play mat was off to the side. Propped against the wall was a chest and a half-empty bookshelf.
All in all, it looked as though someone made an effort to turn it into a den, but abandoned the plan midway. Finney wondered if this was the city’s attempts at making the famous “murder basement of Denver” look halfway hospitable.
Like Terrence said, it was just a regular basement now. Finney felt a lot of emotions swirling through him, but he couldn’t pinpoint any of them.
He was so mesmerized by the change that he almost forgot why he was here, until the Grabber’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I know, I know. They really fucked up the place.” Finney dug into his pockets and saw that the silhouette of the Grabber’s mask was frowning. “But on my end, it looks just like how it used to.”
Finney’s momentary amazement deflated like a popped balloon as he was shaken back to reality. Gwen. He needed to focus on Gwen. Where was she? He couldn’t see her? Could she be hidden? Finney’s stomach twisted at the thought of her being locked in the chest or trapped underneath the sofa. But she wasn’t in sight, so where—
Then Finney knew. The alcove where he trapped the Grabber was the only part of the basement that wasn’t visible from where he was standing.
“Gwen?” he whispered, only to be met with silence.
Clutching the screen tightly, Finney took a deep breath and hurried over to the spot where the Grabber died. Upon turning the corner, he immediately froze, eyes widening.
The screen dropped to the floor with a clatter.
Chapter 12: Gwen's World
Notes:
-This chapter and the next one are going to be from Gwen’s point of view! While Finney is the main viewpoint character throughout the story, there will occasionally be chapters where other characters get focused on.
-The sign-off mentioned in this chapter refers to how TV stations in the past would stop broadcasting at midnight. The sign-off was usually accompanied by the station playing the national anthem.
-Thank you everyone who's been reading/commenting/leaving kudos! I appreciate it so much.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ten hours before Finney descended the basement steps for the first time, Gwendolyn Blake watched through the blinds, teary eyes, as her brother stormed down the driveway and towards the sidewalk. Stifling another sob, she trudged back to the couch where her father was sitting, eyes hollow. She slumped down next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. They sat in silence for a very long time.
“He hates us,” Gwen whispered hoarsely.
Her father shifted his hand to rest over her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “He hates me, sweetheart. He’ll never hate you.”
Gwen wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She wasn’t sure if what her father said was true; she thought Finney would never hate her, but she was wrong about a lot of things over the past three years.
****
When her brother returned from The Basement, Gwen naively assumed everything would be fine. Finney was the underdog hero who vanquished the fearsome monster, avenged the lost boys of North Denver, and reunited with his family, a family that—for the first time in many years—was finally making strides in a positive direction. Finney was celebrated by the town that once ignored him. He gained the courage to talk to his crush, stood up to bullies, and was congratulated by the police for his “resilience in the face of adversity.” Whenever he received praise from friends or strangers, he would smile and offer a polite “thank you.”
It was a feel-good, picture-perfect ending. And if Finney’s life was a movie, it would have ended there.
Gwen believed baseball was the first domino, though–-in retrospect–there were likely hints before that she didn’t notice. She remembered Finney’s first game post-Grabber and the enormous crowd that showed up, turning what was supposed to be a casual game into a media circus. She remembered the cameras, the reporters, the screaming fans, the frowns and murmurs from Finney’s teammates, and the confusion and helplessness of the coaches and referee. And most of all, she remembered Finney’s eyes: how they froze in shock before morphing into dull resignation.
He quit the team shortly after.
The Breakfast Incident occurred about a month later. For the first time since Mom died, Terrence cooked breakfast for his children one Saturday morning, which would normally be a big deal given Terrence’s relative lack of experience. But once at the table, Finney was uncharacteristically snappish and got into an argument with Terrence about not wanting to eat, which culminated in their father demanding that Finney “sit your ass down, stop acting like a brat, and eat your goddamn breakfast.” Gwen remembered the nauseous expression on Finney’s face as he forced himself to swallow the milk. She remembered seeing her brother fling his plate of food against the wall, shattering it. She remembered Terrence’s face growing crimson and the sound of the belt buckle unclasping, remembered seeing Finney’s eyes glaze over numbly and realizing he was no longer with them, but was somewhere else, with someone else, instead.
She didn’t like to remember Finney’s reaction afterwards, what he said and did. It was the moment where Gwen pieced together what really happened in the basement, something that should have been obvious, but was admittedly not the first thing that would normally come to an eleven-year old’s mind. She and Terrence stood frozen like gaping idiots for a few moments. Then, Terrence threw the belt to the ground with a clatter and hurried into the next room to make several calls. Gwen stood off to the side awkwardly, yearning to help her brother but having no idea where to even begin—a feeling that would, unfortunately, multiply over the years. She stumbled back into her room after Finney snapped back to reality, yelling at her to go away. She would never forget the weirdness of later that day: Finney acted like nothing happened, and Terrence and Gwen went along with it, not knowing what else to do.
The following week, Finney met with a therapist for the first time. Although counseling was recommended by the police once Finney was rescued, Terrence laughed off the idea of sending his son to a ‘quack doctor.’ But after The Breakfast Incident, he was willing to do anything to fix the problem with Finney. It eventually came out during the sessions that the Grabber would feed him scrambled eggs and soda in the basement, and the therapist mentioned that seeing the egg on the plate likely put him in a vulnerable mindset that allowed him to flash back to other vulnerable moments upon seeing the belt removed. In a moment that would retroactively cause her to cringe, Gwen asked her father why Finney had trouble swallowing milk if he was given soda in the basement. She was bewildered why her father would blush and stammer at such a simple question, and was also bewildered why Finney would leave out information like this. If eating certain foods bothered him, why wouldn’t he tell them? It made no sense to keep it a secret, especially from Gwen. They used to tell each other everything, but after The Basement, something changed. He didn’t rely on Gwen anymore, and didn’t want to. He was determined to fight his battles alone.
Since she could no longer rely on Finney’s words, Gwen watched his behavior like a hawk. And she soon began to observe small things that piled up and painted a picture she didn’t like. Whereas Finney used to be a neat freak, there were now times where he’d forget to wash his hands, brush his teeth, or shower. She saw how he would scratch and pick at his skin absentmindedly, how he would zone out or get distracted during random times. She would sometimes hear him get up in the middle of the night and sit in front of the TV long after the sign-off. He would grow rigid when receiving hugs, hearing dogs bark, and when someone would turn on the lights. There were days when he could barely stop eating, and others where he wouldn’t have an appetite at all. He seemed incapable of doing basic tasks at times; during the first month of his return, Gwen recalled how Finney stared at her blankly after she retorted she wasn’t Finney’s maid when Finney told her he was hungry.
(‘You’ve made a gazillion sandwiches before! Don’t tell me you forgot already, haha!’
Why, oh why, was her eleven-year old self such an idiot?)
As the years went by, some things improved. It eventually clicked that he was allowed to do basic things on his own and stopped expecting others to do them for him. His personal hygiene got much better. He started wearing shorts and short-sleeves again instead of insisting on jeans and long-sleeves during the summer months.
But one thing that did not improve was Finney’s willingness to talk about his captivity. He never brought it up to his family, and the few times Gwen would hesitantly broach the topic, Finney would withdraw into his shell like a turtle. Terrence didn’t get any different results the couple times he would gruffly ask, “Anything you wanna talk about?” (Though Gwen wondered if Finney noticed Terrence’s perceptible relief when he replied, “no.”)
For three years, all three Blakes continued to ignore the tap-dancing elephant in the room. They got really good at pretending everything was normal, and if you pretend something that aggressively, then it’s easy to believe it’s true, especially if you want it to be.
But Gwen never stopped watching Finney, and because of that, she couldn’t be fooled. She didn’t know if Finney even noticed half the things he did that telegraphed to the world that he was Not Okay. She didn’t know if that’s what Terrence was thinking about when she would pass his closed bedroom door and hear her father’s muffled sobs. She didn’t know if there was ever a way to heal her family and make Finney truly happy again.
But one thing she knew without a doubt was that she’d never stop trying.
****
“What happened outside, Daddy?”
Terrence hesitated for a moment, then began to recount the events that transpired over the last ten minutes. He told her about how he frantically drove up and down the block in hopes of spotting Finney. He described how he pounded on the Smiths’ door, asking if they saw where he went. He explained how he found Finney at Emma’s house, and the argument that ensued. He told Gwen, without meeting her eyes, how Finney shoved him and how he smacked his son in return, causing Finney to storm back into the house.
“He should have known better than to go into a stranger’s house,” Terrence said, regaining his composure. The tears were gone, and a familiar hard edge was returning to them. “Especially one of the kooks on this street.”
Terrence, like Finney, had issues when it came to processing complicated feelings. Gwen knew her father was latching onto familiar anger in order to deal with the complexity of his emotions, but also knew she needed to nip it in the bud. “I think it’s more our fault than his. I think…well, we’ve been pretending everything was normal these past few years, like he said. So he’s acting like it.”
“Did he say that to you?” Terrence asked, massaging his temples. “That—that I haven’t been talking about”—he couldn’t say the word—”it and he’s pissed?”
“...No,” Gwen mumbled. “He doesn’t say anything to me either.”
And that stung like hell. He doesn’t trust me anymore…
“We’re not miracle workers, Gwennie.” Terrence sighed bitterly and shook his head, giving Gwen’s shoulder another squeeze. “It’s not your fault. How the hell are we supposed to know he wants to talk about that shit if he doesn’t say anything?”
“But we’re his family,” she sniffled, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. “We’re supposed to know. Wha–what if h-he can’t handle everything and ends up being like M-m-o–”
Gwen couldn’t finish the sentence, but the tears streaming down her cheeks finished it for her. Terrence pulled her into a tight hug, and she felt wetness leaking from his eyes on her shoulders.
Ever since Finney told her that the Grabber’s ghost contacted him, the possibility of Finney killing himself to escape the Grabber had been one of her biggest fears. Terrence’s words from three years ago played through her head on repeat: ‘Eventually they told her to do things, terrible things, until she took her own life.’
“He’s not going to end up like your mother,” Terrence said with a quiet intensity. “I’m not gonna let that happen.”
“But Mom acted like everything was normal,” Gwen whispered, burying her face in her father’s chest. “Right before she died, she even seemed happy. She wanted to die instead of staying here.” Gwen’s cries turned into sobs. “And I was so stupid! I didn’t notice anything was wrong! I–I s-saw her last when she dropped me off from school a-and—”
“Gwendolyn Susannah Blake, you sto—”
“I think w-we’re losing him and it was my f-fault with Mom and it’s going to be m-my fault too if F-f-finney—”
“Gwendolyn!” Terrence’s rough hand reached out and grabbed Gwen’s chin, yanking it up so her eyes had no choice but to be locked with her fathers. Upon seeing the fear in his daughter’s eyes, Terrence’s grip loosened considerably and a brief flicker of panic crossed his face. “Stop. “I’m the one who fucked up with Finney and your mother, not you. You’ve done nothing but help this family and your brother and we’d be lost without you. So I don’t want to hear this nonsense about how everything’s your fault.”
He let go, and Gwen massaged her chin. If I’m so great, why does Finney keep drifting farther and farther away?
Terrence reluctantly pushed himself off the couch and began gathering his belongings for work. “Finney’s just confused. He’ll come around, don’t worry.”
Would he though? Gwen thought of her dream, and felt nauseous. “Daddy, I woke up early because I didn’t feel well. Can I stay home today?”
In the past, Terrence would have made the Blake siblings go to school unless they either had a fever or looked as if they were on death’s doorstep. But after The Basement, he rarely asked questions and would almost always acquiesce. “Sure, sweetheart.”
As he headed out the door, Terrence gave Gwen one final look. “Remember what I said, Gwennie. All you’ve done is help. Don’t go beating yourself up over this, alright?”
Gwen nodded. After the door shut, Gwen immediately flopped down on the sofa, the enormity of her task ahead making her feel like David armed with a slingshot against Goliath.
Like Terrence said, she always tried to help. And Finney needed her help more than ever. But trying and doing were different things, all she could do was have stupid dreams. Dreams that were fucking useless three years ago, and might be now.
Gwen bit her lip as she recalled last night’s experience. Just as they did three years ago, the visions appeared as a series of disjointed images. The Grabber looked the same as he did before: wearing white facepaint, glasses, and that disgusting masked grin. She dreamed of the Grabber covering Finney’s eyes with his hands. She saw the basement door in the kitchen. She dreamed of Donna dressed as Ophelia, leaning against the trunk of an old Elm tree, crying. She saw Mr. Clarkson looking at a picture frame and frowning. She saw Donna clutching a pink phone, arguing with someone on the other end. And weirdly, she dreamed of what looked like the screen of a Time-Out (seriously, what the fuck?).
But the strangest, and by far the most unsettling, was an image she first thought was a repeat of a scene from her dreams three years ago. Just as before, The Grabber was standing in front of a house, holding black balloons in one hand, and the other on his hip. And just as before, the hand lifted, beckoning. While the dream ended there three years ago, this time, it didn’t.
But Gwen wished it did. Because if the dream ended there, Gwen wouldn’t have been forced to watch as Finney reached out and took the Grabber’s hand.
****
Gwen was never the best when it came to symbolism, but even she knew that the last image was Bad News. It also threw everything she knew into question. Again.
Her big fear was that Finney would kill himself to escape the Grabber, which was something she still thought was possible. But her dream last night stoked a new fear, something deep and dark that almost caused physical pain to imagine: that the Grabber’s teasing during the exorcism might not have been 100% bullshit.
After the cracks in Finney’s facade began showing three years ago, Gwen went to the library to research the effects of kidnapping or traumatic experiences; even if Finney didn’t want to talk to her, she wanted to be knowledgeable in case he ever did. While a lot of technical jargon went over her head, she was able to get the basic gist: that complex, contradictory emotions can arise, especially in situations where a victim is forced to rely and depend on their abuser. Gwen remembered closing the book, confident this didn’t apply to Finney.
But now, she wasn’t so sure. She knew Finney would never view the Grabber positively if he was in his right mind, but what if he was in his wrong mind? The vision of the Grabber covering Finney’s eyes suggested the ghost was interfering with how Finney saw the world. Could the intense psychological pressure coupled with his emotional withdrawal lead to a perfect shitstorm that would make a mental break possible? Or could Finney hate the Grabber but still choose him? Would a life with his abuser be preferable to living with Gwen and Terrence?
Gwen grabbed a pillow and covered her face with it, shaking slightly. She took a few deep breaths. No. This kiddiefucker destroyed my family once. I’m not letting that happen again.
Throwing the pillow off to the side, she sat up, eyes blazing with determination. If David could win, then so could she.
And she knew just the way to do it.
Dried tears remained streaked on her cheeks like war paint as she bounded into her room, ready to take the next steps in the battle for Finney’s soul.
****
While Gwen was adamant about her plan, she knew Finney was right when he mentioned how risky it was. That being said, she had no idea how to mitigate the prospect of peril in traversing the astral plane. The only thing she could think of was to wear the same communion medallion she wore the day of the exorcism, which she held onto despite its warped appearance. Putting the lumpy, misshapen necklace over her neck, she couldn’t help but think the medallion looked a bit similar to the clocks in The Persistence of Memory.
According to the library books, the first step of astral projection was creating the right atmosphere. The fact that she was in this fucking house made it a bit of a long-shot, but she figured her best bet was to lay down on the bed. “Cleansing her mind of negative thoughts” was another step that was much, much easier said than done.
And yet, Gwen tried. She flexed her muscles and loosened them. She breathed deeply: in and out, and in and out again. She tried to get her mind to achieve the “hypnotic state” that would allegedly allow her mind to move away from its body. She tried to imagine her mind leaving and entering the “state of spiritual vibration.”
She tried and tried and tried.
But it didn’t work.
Gwen wasn’t sure how long she was trying for, but her growling stomach suggested it was at least lunch time. Frustrated and discouraged by her lack of progress, she hastily fixed herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as she debated the next course of action.
The only two options she could think of were to keep trying or contact Father O’Brien. While Gwen believed the latter had a greater chance of success, Finney raised a good point that doing so could put the priest in the line of fire, so reluctantly conceded to Option #1. Mulling over ways to increase her admittedly-tiny odds, she concluded one of the contributing factors might be her emotional state, which was still on edge from the morning’s events. She needed something mindless and repetitive that could cause her brain to relax and go on autopilot.
And that was how Gwen found herself playing Space Invaders on the Atari at 1:00 PM. She hoped the game would take her mind off of Finney, and in a way, it did. She wasn’t thinking about the fight or astral projection anymore. She wasn’t thinking about much of anything, really. Just blasting aliens while a gulf of numbness continued to widen inside her.
The screen freezing was what finally shook her out of her hazy thoughts. Gwen squinted as the TV glitched before resuming. When it continued, the screen was marred by the presence of a dark, pixelated shadow in the shape of the person Gwen wanted to see the least.
“Hiya, Gwen.”
Her fingers clenched over the controller. “Hiya, Fuckface.”
The Grabber’s grinning silhouette unfortunately seemed impervious to the invasion in the background. His shadow was standing (floating? Whatever the fuck this is) in the middle of the television, blocking Gwen’s view. “Y’know, when most of the little ones find out I’m the Grabber, they try to get away from me. You’re the first who’s tried to get closer. You’ve got some guts on you, kid.”
“Too bad I can’t say the same,” Gwen replied. She started furiously button-mashing in hopes it could harm the apparition in the TV, though it didn’t seem to have any effect. “Considering you’re a cowardly shitheel. Now move your ass, you’re blocking my screen.”
The pixelated shadow obnoxiously moved closer, taking up even more space. “Nah. I wanna talk to you.”
“Cool. I don’t.”
The Grabber’s shadowy grin widened. “I know you’re concerned about Finney”—Gwen gritted her teeth at the audacity; don’t you dare say his name, you freak—“but you don’t have to worry. I’ll take good care of him. He’ll be happy with me. Happier than he is with you and your dad, anyway.”
Gwen knew she had a temper and the Grabber was expecting a reaction; she learned that the hard way during the exorcism. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and continued to push random buttons and jerk the joystick forcefully.
The Grabber tried again, this time sounding more serious. “I mean it, Gwen. Finney and I are bonded in a way you can never understand.”
Gwen’s eye twitched, but she continued to ignore him. After a few moments where the only sounds in the house were the Space Invaders music and the mashing of buttons. The Grabber finally broke the silence. “On the day you moved in, he told me he loved me.” Gwen’s fingers froze. He chuckled. “I know, right? Since when did the little guy get so forward? Guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder, huh. What do you think?”
She couldn’t keep it in any longer. “I’m thinking,” she said as she pulled at the joystick with all her might, “that if I rip this off the controller, it’ll be like tearing your dick off, right?”
“Maybe I like what you’re doing now. Pressing all the right buttons and jerking me around like this…it gets me energized.”
EWWWW!!! Gwen dropped the controller like it turned into a tarantula.
“Here’s a better idea to get you energized,” she fumed over the sound of the ghost's laughter. “Take a knife and stick it really far up your ass. Keep going until you can’t feel your legs anymore.”
The black silhouette on screen tapped a finger to its chin in mock contemplation. “It’s funny you should mention that. Reminds me of something similar that happened to a certain paperboy.” At Gwen’s horrified expression, the Grabber started laughing again. “It’s a joke! I’m joking. Relax, jeez. You’re so sensitive.”
Gwen glared at the screen, trying not to let her discomfort show. She knew from the moment his stupid-ass grin showed up on the screen that he would say gross, provocative things to elicit reactions. And she vowed that this would not be a repeat of the day of the exorcism, though that hope was becoming fainter the longer the conversation continued.
“Aaaaanyhow, I didn’t come here to start shit,” continued the Grabber. Gwen gave a derisive snort. “I didn’t!”
Gwen crossed her arms. “Alright. Then why am I looking at your ugly face right now? Did you get lost on your way to the kiddie pool?”
“Seeing your endless cycle of failures is starting to get to me. It’s like watching Tom and Jerry. At a certain point, it stops being funny and you start feeling sorry for Tom. So, what I’m trying to say is…I want to help you, Gwen.”
Now it was Gwen’s turn to laugh. She stuck up two middle fingers towards the TV. “Great. You can start by eating a glass sandwich.”
The Grabber ignored her. “The Theosophists would do their rituals in the basement. I’m not sure if there’s naturally a lot of energy there, or if they caused it to be like that or what, but it’s a special place. If you want to get to me, going there’s the first step.”
“Are you high?” Gwen asked, incredulous. “I’m not going into your little murder playpen. Hell no.”
“Suit yourself.” The figure on the screen shrugged. “You’re scared. I get it.”
“I’m not scared,” she instinctively shot back, even though it wasn’t true. “But I’m not dumb either. I know this is some evil plan to get me out of the way so you can sink your claws into Finney.”
The screen began to glitch, and when it resumed, the shadow changed. The bottom part of the mouth looked expressionless. “I don’t need you out of the way for that to happen. Have you ever considered that he wants to be with me?”
Yes. “Nope.”
“You should. Finney’s going to come to me on his own. It’s a done deal, whether you like it or not.”
The image of Finney placing his hand in the demon’s larger one flickered in her mind, and Gwen felt a lump form in the back of her throat. No, she would not let that happen. She couldn’t. “You’re full of shit.” She meant for the words to come out like daggers, but to her frustration, her voice cracked and wobbled. “This is you trying to fuck with my head, like you did during the exorcism when you said you knew me from somewhere.”
The screen flickered, and the shadow changed again, the silhouette of the mask reflecting a frown. “I knew your voice, not you. And I wasn’t lying then, and I’m not lying now.”
“Oh yeah?” She swallowed, willing herself to regain composure. To her relief, her next words came out steadier. “Then why don’t I remember it?”
“I don’t think it’s happened yet.”
“Gee, how convenient.” Gwen rolled her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. Finney’s going to choose me, and all you’re doing right now is interfering with his happiness.”
“I’m interfering with his happiness?” Gwen echoed, face growing red. Fury eclipsed any fear still inside her. “You kidnapped him, creeped on him when he’s sleeping, fucking raped him, tried to kill him… and you burned our house down, so fuck you sideways. People like you are the reason pepper spray exists.”
“Life isn’t meant to be easy,” the Grabber hissed. “Everyone struggles and suffers. My whole life was spent drifting without a purpose or lo—”
“Boo-hoo hoo.” Gwen pretended to wipe a tear from her dry eye. “Too bad I left my tiny violin in the house you burned down.”
The Grabber scoffed and shook his head. His tone regains his mocking edge. “Continue burying your head in the sand if you like, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve said what I needed to say. Bye, Gwen.”
Finally. “Bye, Enema Bag.”
Despite the Grabber’s promise to leave, he tilted his head and paused. The screen flickered, and the smiling shadow from earlier returned.
“I know you’re not into romance, Gwen, but take it from me—there’s something special about boys your age. So fresh and tasty…ah, well. You know what they say: Youth is wasted on the young.”
“Ewww, stop,” Gwen said, scrunching up her nose. “Do you even hear yourself? That shit’s not normal. You’re actually making me gag right now.”
“Hmmm. Guess it runs in the family. Your brother had a sensitive gag reflex too, at first.”
It took a couple seconds to process what was said, but when it clicked, Gwen grabbed the controller and flung it as hard as she could at the TV. Miraculously, neither broke, but Gwen felt as though her heart shattered in place of them. She stared at the black screen of the television, trembling, and ran into her room. After slamming the door shut, she allowed herself ten minutes to alternate between screaming and sobbing into her pillow.
Then, it was back to work.
****
For the next few hours, Gwen continued her attempts at astral projection with renewed vigor. Unfortunately, her attempts were as successful as they were in the morning. If anything, they seemed even worse; the Grabber’s words kept dangling and rotating her her mind like some kind of fucked up baby mobile: ‘At first at first at first.’ No matter how much she tried to clear her mind, frustration, panic, and despair continued to claw at her insides.
Gwen was angry. She was angry at the Grabber, for obvious reasons. She was angry at her father for bringing them to this house. She was angry at herself for being stupid and unable to help her brother. She was angry at Finney for not realizing how much she and Terrence loved him.
But most of all, she felt angry at God. She understood, conceptually, the reasoning behind allowing humans to act on their free will, both good and bad. But for someone that’s already dead? Why wasn’t the Grabber burning in Hell like he deserves? Why was he still causing their family problems?
It was easy to have faith when things were going well for her, but much harder when things seemed to be going well for the assholes, both in this world and the next.
There’s probably a bigger picture I’m not seeing, Gwen told herself glumly as she tore open the wrapping of a bag of Pop Rocks. She slumped down on her bed. Like with my dreams three years ago. Maybe He feels Hell isn’t bad enough. Yeah, maybe I have to kick the Grabber’s ass and then he can go to Hell.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to want people to go to Hell. She was supposed to be compassionate and forgiving and believe there’s the potential for goodness in everyone, deep down. That’s what Father O’Brien and Jesus would say.
But he deserves to suffer, damnit! I want him to suffer.
Thoughts of suffering were momentarily halted as one of her Pop Rocks dropped onto the floor. A fervent believer in the five second rule, Gwen sprung to action, diving after the candy which fell under the bed. But when her hand fumbled in darkness, it felt the Pop Rock, but also something large, smooth, and rectangular. She tried to pull it out, but whatever it was wouldn’t budge.
In the end, she needed to push the entire bed off to the side, which was no small task for a girl of her size. But doing so finally revealed the contents underneath.
It was another painting, except this one was nailed to the floor instead of the wall (What the fuck is wrong with this man?). In it, a girl wearing a faded pink dress was lying in a dry, grassy field. A farmhouse could be seen faintly in the distance. The view of the girl was from behind and looking towards the farmhouse, so Gwen couldn’t see what her face looked like. The sky was cloudy, and aside from the farmhouse, the rest of the landscape was barren.
At first Gwen thought the girl was resting, but the top half of her body seemed rigid and tense compared to the bottom. The impression Gwen got was that the girl was reaching towards the farmhouse, longing to go towards it but unable to because of her legs. Gwen looked at the placard to see if there might be any clues, but all it read was, Christina’s World.
Gwen looked at the painting for a little longer. While she had no problem mocking the others in the bedrooms, this one felt different. It wasn’t creepy so much as depressing. Gwen understood what it was like to have an idea of where she should be going, but no way to move forward. She understood the frustration of something being beyond her grasp. She–and Finney—knew what it was like to feel stuck and powerless.
Pushing the bed back into place, Gwen filed away the question of why the Grabber had that painting and why it was nailed to the floor. Astral projection seemed to be a no-go for today. Was there something else she could do that might help? Maybe go to the library? Check the yellow pages to see if there are any psychics or priests-for-hire that could come to the house? Destroy the paintings simply to say ‘fuck you’ to the Grabber?
Gwen heard a distant ringing sound coming from the kitchen. She scowled, debating whether to pick it up. On one hand, it could be the Grabber, but on the other hand, it might be Terrence or even Finney. She scooted over to the kitchen and, taking a breath, picked up the receiver. “...Hello?”
“Gwen?” A vaguely familiar voice asked. “Hey. Is your brother there? It’s Jesse.”
Gwen relaxed. She didn’t know Jesse that well, but knew enough to know he was a much better conversationalist than the Grabber. “Hi, Jesse. No, Finney’s not here. He’s at school.”
“School’s been out for a while.” Gwen spun around to look at the kitchen clock. Holy shit, he’s right. Did I really waste that much time? “Play practice was canceled, so he and Donna came here instead. But he left before I could ask him something.”
“How long ago did he leave?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Hmm, I dunno…maybe fifteen minutes ago?”
Gwen let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding; she was concerned Finney might have decided to run away somewhere to avoid seeing her and the house. “What did you want to ask him? I could give him the message.”
“It’s a question about the people who lived in the house before you.”
“The Shaws?” Gwen asked, gritting her teeth.
“No, not them. You know I’m into horror, right?” Jesse didn’t wait for a response. “There were these people here in the twenties who would do all sorts of freaky shit in that basement. Get their spirits to travel into the spectral world, things like that. I heard thirteen of them died down there, and was wondering if you’ve seen any ghosts.”
“No,” Gwen lied. Then, for the Grabber’s benefit, she added: “And if there are, I’ll kick their ass.”
Jesse laughed over the phone. “Good luck with that. If you really do want to find some ghosts though, your best bet would be in the basement.”
She felt a chill as she recalled the Grabber’s words from earlier. “Why did they do everything in the basement?”
“No clue. Maybe there’s stronger spirit energy there or something, I dunno. But they didn’t do that shit upstairs for a reason.”
If the Grabber wanted her in the basement, it was probably bad news. But if Jesse’s mentioning it now, could it be a sign? Does God want me to go there? “Okay. Well, I’ll give my brother your message.”
“Thanks. And tell Finney I said hi.”
“I will. Bye, Jesse.”
“Bye, Gwen.”
As she hung up the receiver, Gwen‘s eyes locked onto the simple brown door that caused her family so much misery.
Looks like her day wasn’t over just yet.
****
“Leap first, ask questions later” was the philosophy that guided Gwen’s life, and today was no different. Knowing that dwelling on the door too much would cause her to waffle and have a 100% chance of accomplishing nothing—as opposed to a 1% chance of accomplishing something—she took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and thundered down the stairs like a herd of elephants. The existence of a second door did nothing to deter her as she shoved through, but the sight she encountered upon opening it was striking enough to give her pause.
She’d seen photographs of what the Grabber’s basement looked like in the newspaper, and what she was looking at now was not it. This basement was cluttered, full of furniture, toys, books, bags, and shelves. The window was there, but the toilet and mattress were gone. If she didn’t know any better, she would have assumed it was a regular basement, and not six boys’ personal hell.
She recalled Chief Walker pointing to locations on a diagram during a press conference, and moved toward the area where Finney killed the Grabber. Sure enough, the floor in the alcove was painted a slightly different shade of gray. Feeling a surge of pride for her brother, Gwen knew right away that this would be the perfect spot. If she needed to feel “calm and tranquil,” what better place would there be than the place where her brother snapped his abuser’s neck?
Of course, she wasn’t about to sleep on cement. Gathering as many blankets she could find from the couch, she plopped them all down in the alcove and snuggled in. She closed her eyes and tried to do the deep breathing mentioned in the books.
Okay, this is fucking weird, she decided after a minute. She tried to focus on astral projection and not the fact that she was resting on blankets in the basement where her brother was tortured for two months.
‘At first at first at first at first.’
Eyes still closed, Gwen clenched her teeth and stuck up the middle finger for good measure, just in case the Grabber was watching. The teeny bit of emotional discomfort she was going through was nothing compared to the horrors Finney endured. Yes, being here was weird, and yes, it did seem—on the surface–like an obvious trap, but Jesse corroborated the Grabber’s story. If it was just the ghost then she might not have believed the importance of going into the basement, but when two different people said it, she had to be entering sign-territory.
Gwen continued the mental exercises, continued following what she remembered of the steps in the book, and continued finding herself deep in thought. Eventually, the fatigue and emotional exhaustion was too overpowering to ignore, and she opened her eyes. Inwardly groaning, she pushed herself up, grudgingly accepting that today was a wasted day. Worst. Sister. Ever.
But when she turned to pick up the blankets, she stopped.
Below, on the blankets, laid what appeared to be a sleeping Gwendolyn Blake.
It took a few seconds to process what she was seeing. Then, Gwen’s mouth dropped open. She held her hands up; she didn’t look see-through. She looked like her regular self. But there was no denying the identity of the girl on the blankets. Which could only mean one thing…
Holy shit…HOLY SHIT!! HOOOOOOOLY SHIT!!! I DID IT!!! YEEEEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!
Gwen’s mind was fritzing with joy, and she started jumping up and down in excitement. But after a couple jumps, she stopped.
Something felt…off.
I can’t hear my footsteps, she realized, looking down. And when she looked down, she saw another irregularity: her medallion, which was formerly melted and twisted by the fire, now looked just as it did on the day of the exorcism.
Gwen’s elation simmered into unease. She turned around and looked at the rest of the basement. It appeared similar to before, but she couldn’t shake the feeling something was different.
As it turns out, it wasn’t something: it was several things.
The first and most obvious change was that the window was gone. Cement completely covered the area where sun used to peek in. Upon inspecting the room closer, Gwen noticed one of the chairs in the basement had vanished, and the bookshelf seemed sparser than before. The trash bags that lined up against the walls were moved about two feet to the left. On the table was a bronze pocketwatch that wasn’t there before, which looked as though it was covered in tiny, moving black specks (ants?).
Gwen walked towards the center of the basement, grappling with this growing sense of wrongness. As she got closer to the table, the black mass glimmered away—if it was even there to begin with—leaving only the pocketwatch behind. She took it from the table (So I can touch things, but can’t make footsteps? Whaaaa?) and fiddled with the latch, but couldn’t open it. Before placing it back on the table, she hesitated, and slipped it into her pocket. Something inside her was whispering that this watch was important, though she had no idea why.
The more Gwen observed, the more tiny details she noticed. The top of the doorway she entered looked uneven, with one corner raised a bit higher than the other. The ceiling of the basement seemed slightly lower. And it was only when she started to wonder why her heart wasn’t hammering out of her chest that she realized she didn’t have a heartbeat anymore.
It was at this point that Gwen started to realize that coming here was, perhaps, not the greatest idea. There were two sides duking it out in the girl’s mind: the side that needed to keep searching for the Grabber, and the side that needed to get the hell out of there.
In the end, the latter won out on the basis that if anything were to happen to her, it would devastate her dad and Finney (if he doesn’t hate me, that is…). And the last thing she wanted to do was upset her brother even more.
At least I got here. Next time I'll come prepared and know what to expect.
Gwen turned from the doorway and was about to walk back to the alcove when her eyes widened.
The alcove was no longer there. In its place was a cement wall, rendering Gwen unable to see her body or the blankets, if they were even there anymore.
Despite not being able to feel her sweaty palms and heartbeat, Gwen knew she was in full-blown panic mode. She tried–and failed—to mimic the action of swallowing (saliva’s gone, too), as thoughts raced rapidly through her mind. But no matter how many different ways she thought about it, she came to the same conclusion. Her gaze drifted to the stairs.
There was nowhere to go but up.
****
Notes:
The painting featured is Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth
Chapter 13: The Labyrinth
Notes:
This chapter has a lot of 20th century slang from various decades (particularly the 50s), but here are the ones that stick out as ones that might cause some confusion. Let me know if there are others that are confusing! I might add them in here:
-tubular, rad: cool/awesome
-copacetic: excellent
-flip your lid: freak out
-Weirdsville: In the 50s/60s, the -ville suffix was sometimes used to describe what a place was like. Dullsville was a dull place, coolsville is a cool place, antsville is a densely populated area, etc.
-pad: home
-square: someone boring and uncool
-curtain crawler: little kid
-shiner: a black eye
-greaser: a subculture of teens and young adults that were typically associated with rebelliousness. If you've seen the movie Grease, John Travolta's character is a greaser.
Chapter Text
Gwen couldn’t hear her footsteps. She couldn’t feel her heartbeat. She couldn’t see the rise and fall of her chest, because she was no longer breathing.
But she could see the top of the staircase, which lured her forward despite her frayed nerves whispering to stop. She could feel the cold wooden texture as her fingers brushed against the railing. And she could hear the chaotic whirlwind of terror and anticipation that quickly demolished the towering bravado she erected earlier.
The stairway seemed longer going up than it did when Gwen descended it, though she wasn’t sure if that was the warped space of the astral plane or her own fears creating the illusion. Regardless, by the time she reached the top and rested her hand on the metal doorknob, her stomach knotted and she considered abandoning the plan altogether and scurrying back to the basement.
She shook her head and clenched the knob tighter. Fuck it, I’m going in.
So she swung the door open, and almost immediately fell backwards in surprise. Because whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t…that.
There were two boys in the kitchen, a brown-haired one around her age by the counter who was cutting a slice of Spam, and a smaller dark-haired boy, seated at a small table and swinging his feet underneath it.
“H-hi,” Gwen stammered.
The older boy placed a lock of unkempt hair behind his ear and said, without looking up, “You’re making a mistake.”
Gwen froze. “W-what?”
“You need to stop mentioning your dreams,” he continued, pouring a glass of orange juice. “They’re not real.”
Hearing that familiar accusation caused Gwen to bristle. “I’m sorry, but who the hell are you?”
“They are real!”
Surprised, Gwen turned to look at the younger boy, who was now leaning over the table and resting his head in his elbows, pouting.
The brown-haired boy picked up the plate and turned around, ignoring Gwen and looking directly at the younger child. “No, they’re not. Dreams are just dreams, they don't help you see the future or whatever you think is happening. Do you want to get sent to the looney bin like Mom?”
“N-no,” the smaller boy answered, voice wobbly.
“Good. So stop saying that shit in front of Dad,” the older boy snapped, placing the plate and juice in front of the child. Sulking, the black-haired boy hunched over and poked the Spam with a fork, while the other boy sat across from him without a plate of his own.
It was at this point that Gwen started to get her bearings, which was easier said than done. It was clear now that the boys couldn’t see her, which made her effectively a ghost. Looking around the kitchen, Gwen saw basic similarities between this one and the one she remembered.
But there were also key differences: The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and cups, and Cheerios and crumbs were scattered across the countertop. Upon closer inspection, Gwen noticed, to her horror, there were a couple black ants crawling over a ration card.
Gwen initially believed the weirdest part was how colors in the kitchen seemed washed out and dull compared to what she remembered. But then she looked up, and immediately retracted that thought; the clock in the kitchen appeared stretched and melted, as if it were left in the heat of a fire. Or a desert…
And then there were the boys…
Gwen didn’t know anyone else who had prophetic dreams but her, but her automatic kinship was quashed by the realization that she was likely looking at the Shaw brothers. It was a weird, uncomfortable feeling, seeing her brother’s tormenter looking her age, with bags under his eyes and a shabby-looking sweater that should have been either thrown out or cleaned a while ago. The younger one (Max…) didn’t seem much better off: his hair was similarly messy and overgrown, and he wore a shirt that was too loose for him.
“It’s not just my dreams,” Max mumbled, shoving a spoonful of Spam into his mouth. “I see weird things too. When I looked into the camera Mrs. Baur gave me, I saw the Gargoyle Man again.”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘Gargoyle Man,’” Albert scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And don’t talk when you chew.”
Max swallowed and took a sip or orange juice before he stubbornly insisted, “There is! I saw his horns.”
“If ghosts exist–which they don’t!–they’d look like normal people. What you’re seeing can’t be real. I bet you had a nightmare and didn’t realize it.”
“I didn’t!” Max whined, kicking his scrawny legs out for emphasis.
Albert crossed his arms, and Gwen noticed that his fingernails looked gnawed. “Alright. Then why haven’t I seen him?”
“Because he’s sneaky!” Max cried. “When he sees me look at him, he goes away. I think he wants to steal my comic books and eat me.”
Albert’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I think you’ll be fine. The only thing we actually have to worry about is getting bombed by the Axis.”
Despite the severity of Albert’s statement, Max brightened and clapped his hands together. “Nuh-uh! We collected soooooo much scrap metal in school. I bet the army’s going to use it to make a million planes and guns and ships and win the war forever. The British princesses might even come to our school and thank us, that’s what Howie said. Wouldn’t it be cool if one of them wants to marry me? I could be the first American King of England!”
“If that's the case, Deanna Durbin’s going to be upset,” Albert smiled, leaning back in his chair. His eyes softened, showing warmth and affection that seemed almost profane. “You had your eyes on her for a while.”
“I love Deanna, but I love Princess Elizabeth and Margaret Rose too! And—oh no, what if Judy Garland gets mad? I’ll have to let her down gently. Or what if—”
Gwen walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She did not want to think about the Grabber’s childhood, did not want to imagine him as being anything more than a satanic devil who sprung from the Earth for the sole purpose of tormenting boys. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only: find the Grabber.
Well, I did. Sort of. So new plan: Find the real Grabber!
Gwen had no idea where he would be, but decided leaving the house would be the best option.
But that was much easier said than done, considering the front door was gone. In its place was a wall, the same texture and color as the rest of the house. If she didn’t know a door was supposed to be there, she would have thought nothing was amiss. Trying to push aside the pit of dread beginning to form in her stomach, she peered through the blinds. It was a very odd experience; at first, the outside looked dark, but Gwen realized that she could make out everything, as if moonlight was shining down on the street.
But there’s no moon. There’s no stars in the sky, either…
It looked like her normal neighborhood, only devoid of people. Gwen tried to open the hatch to the window, but it wouldn't budge. Leaning her back against the wall, she mulled over her options. But while she was in the midst of deep thought, a familiar voice roused her from her imaginings. Finney?
Gwen practically sprinted down the hall, but stopped abruptly when she saw the source.
It was Finney, but it was also her. Gwen gaped as she watched herself eye the Son of Man painting with glee. “Haha, wow,” the other Gwen giggled. “I don’t know if yours is weirder than mine or not. The label underneath it says Son of Man, so that might be a—ooooh, did you see the camera on the nightstand? Quick, take my picture!”
Gwen watched as Finney sighed and reluctantly (jeez, I need to stop being so pushy) grabbed the camera from the nightstand. Gwen’s past self skipped over to the doorframe and did a Charlie’s Angels pose, causing Gwen to back up instinctively.
As Finney fumbled with the camera, a realization poured on her like a bucket of icy water: assuming ‘Gargoyle Man’ really was a ghost (and Gwen was inclined to think that it was, given what she knew about The Grabber), cameras acted as a medium to help psychics see spirits. Since Gwen was functioning as a ghost for the time being, if Finney looked into the camera, he would see her.
How the hell could she explain that?
As Finney lifted the camera to his eyes, Gwen immediately stepped to the side of the doorframe and out of sight. Just in time!
“Finney,” she heard her other self whine. “Staying like this is harder than it looks. Just take the picture!”
Gwen kept backing up down the hallway until her back hit the wall, watching as Finney pushed past the other Gwen and hesitantly called out, “Dad?”
Gwen didn’t hear her father respond, but remembered that he did in real life. After a pause where his response should be, Finney replied, “N-never mind.”
“Finney, are you okay?” the other Gwen asked from the room. God, this is so freaky…
“I thought I saw something, but it was probably my imagination or a trick of the light.”
“In a haunted house, is it ever actually a trick of the light? C’mon. It’s probably the Grabber being stupid again. Now quick, take the picture before he tries to ruin it.”
Okay, I’m getting the fuck out of here, Gwen decided as goosebumps began to creep down her arms. She pushed herself from the wall and hurried down the hallway, before stopping abruptly outside of Finney’s room.
From her vantage point, she was able to get a good view of the Son of Man painting, which looked the same as it did before, except with one glaring exception: The man’s head was tilted a couple millimeters to the left, one eye now peeking out at her from behind the apple. The past versions of Finney and Gwen remained innocently oblivious.
Okay, I’m definitely getting the fuck out of here.
Gwen sprinted back to the now-empty kitchen and thundered down the stairs, ignoring the nagging voice inside her which hissed there's no way out, and swung open the door.
Just as before, Gwen instinctively took a few steps back. But unlike before, Gwen’s tremulous nerves hardened into stone-cold fury.
The only objects in the basement were a filthy mattress, a rusty toilet, a couple rolled-up carpets, and a black rotary phone hooked to the wall. Inside the center of the basement was The Grabber, kneeling on the cement floor and cleaning a spot with a soapy washcloth. The bottom piece of his mask was missing, and he was the picture of ease and elation, humming a familiar tune that Gwen belatedly recognized as the song he played on the day of the exorcism.
You don’t get to be happy, you freak! Before Gwen knew it, she was charging towards the man like a speeding bullet. With all the strength she possessed, she swung out her right leg and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to the chest.
Which…did absolutely nothing. Once her foot made contact, she stumbled backward, feeling a static-y jolt run throughout her whole body. It didn’t hurt, but it felt…odd. Like there was this tingling numbness running throughout her whole body. The Grabber looked entirely unphased, continuing his song without skipping a beat. Gwen frowned and reached out, tentatively, toward his mask. Right when she was about to make contact with the horns, she felt the same debilitating, pins-and-needles sensation, rendering her unable to press forward.
Gwen stomped her foot and screamed, a howl which was the culmination of all the rage, despair, and anguish she felt over the past twenty-four hours. There was a very real, very palatable possibility that she would never leave this place. The fact that she wasn’t able to harm The Grabber (even a past version, she grudgingly realized) even now was almost too cruel. She needed to be able to look him in the eye, needed to force him to listen while she told him what a terrible person was. She needed to talk to him.
Then, the phone rang. The Grabber stopped abruptly, smile vanishing in an instant. His jaw clenched as he stood up, muscles tensing. After a brief moment of deliberation, he walked over to the phone and put the receiver to his ear. “...Griffin?”
Gwen couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the receiver, and from the looks of it, The Grabber couldn’t either. The bottom half of his face seemed to grow paler as he clutched the broken wire. “Is that you again? Baby, I told you, I didn’t mean to….you just made me so angry, is all. You said you’d be a good boy.”
There was another moment of silence, which caused The Grabber to frown as he looked at the phone skeptically before beginning to place it back on the base.
Then, everything clicked.
“W-wait!” Gwen shouted.
The Grabber quickly put the phone back up against his ear. “Who is this?”
She had nothing planned, so blurted the first insult that came to mind. “Someone who thinks people like you should be castrated.”
“Oh,” he said flatly. His voice dropped all pretense and theatrics, and Gwen was surprised to see how normal he sounded—and, retroactively, how performative his other interactions with her were. “It’s you. Jesus Christ, it goes in one ear and out the other with you, doesn’t it?”
Gwen blinked. “Wha–”
“I told you last time I don’t want to deal with your bullshit anymore. Stop calling me and fuck off to wherever you go when you’re not buzzing around me like the world’s most self-righteous bee.”
“H-hey!” Gwen stammered. This wasn’t going the way she expected. “I haven’t—”
“Bye, Carol.”
Before she could ask him who Carol was, The Grabber slammed the phone down and continued his earlier task, sans the humming.
“Well, fuck you too!” she spat, knowing but not caring that The Grabber couldn’t hear her.
Discouraged, Gwen peeked into the alcove, only to see that although it was there, her body wasn’t. How the hell am I supposed to get back?
The silent, internal ‘you’re not’ was ignored as she headed back up the stairs and to the kitchen. At the same time she walked through the door, a blonde couple in their twenties wearing modern clothing headed into the kitchen from the living room.
“—still can’t believe the rent is so cheap,” the woman giggled,looking around in awe. The counter was swarming with ants, even moreso than before, but the woman seemed oblivious. “D’you think they kept the same silverware he used, or did they replace it?”
“Pfft. If they replaced it, I want some of my money back,” the man chuckled. “The Grabber’s the whole reason we’re living in this shithole for the next month. How are we supposed to get the genuine experience if they replace everything? It’s like that old thought experiment from Intro to Philosophy, the Ship of Odysseus or Hercules or something.”
“Theseus,” the woman corrected, opening the drawers to admire the silverware. “Oh God, I’m getting Professor Anderson flashbacks…‘If you replace every part of the ship one at a time until nothing of the original remains, is it the same ship? And if it’s not, when does it become a different ship?’”
“Well, the city would looooove to tear down every damn brick of this place if they could. Typical reactive bureaucrats. Thankfully they ca—” The man grew silent as a grin stretched across his face. Gwen froze and first thought he was pointing at her, before realizing he was gesturing towards the basement door. “Holy shit, there it is! That’s where he would keep the kids!”
The woman has the audacity to squeal and clap her hands, and Gwen boiled with rage. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it. This is so creepy, Steve!”
This isn’t a fucking movie. Real people were killed, you bitch!
Steve laughed and Gwen immediately tried punching him in the face, only to be met with the same force field-like presence. It did nothing to abate Gwen’s mounting fury. “He would sit in a chair here and wait until they came up. Then he’d belt ‘em, pork ‘em, and—” Steve pantomimed stabbing himself in the stomach with exaggerated, cartoonish effect, causing the woman to double over in laughter and Gwen to tremble with anger.
“Aww, it’s so sad. Those poor boys…” the woman said, which was undermined by her giggles at Steve’s revolting display. “Do you think he might have used one of these knives to kill them?”
“I wish. But the police probably went through everything,” Steve said wistfully, pulling one of the glasses out of the cabinet. He turned on the faucet and filled it with water.“Imagine, Tammy, if we actually found something he used to torture the kids. We could sell it for a whole lotta dough and—”
The glass in Steve’s hands shattered. Gwen couldn’t enjoy the cuts in his hand or Tammy’s shriek; she was far too incensed.
How dare they?
How dare these people treat this house like entertainment instead of something that irrevocably destroyed the lives of six families?
Gwen knew people like this existed, but to see it flaunted so shamelessly—especially after the Grabber’s taunts earlier—was too much. She stomped her foot and let loose another loud scream .
“S-steve!” Tammy whimpered, “The dishes. Look!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve swore. Gwen glanced over to where Tammy was pointing and saw the dishes and the silverware trembling with Gwen’s rage.
Tammy grabbed Steve’s arm and rushed out of the kitchen, causing Gwen’s anger to recede slightly. The encounter with the couple drained Gwen, though she wasn’t sure if it was due to the emotional release or from exerting energy that affected the living world. She allowed herself a moment to grieve for the life her family had before the Grabber and felt wetness on her cheeks; spirits weren’t spared from tears, it seemed.
Gwen’s eyes drifted to the living room and narrowed. Peeking out from around the corner was a black-haired boy a few years older than herself. He was dressed like a quintessential greaser: black jacket with a white T-shirt, jeans, slicked-back hair and combat boots. He stared intently in her direction, so Gwen thought it would do no harm by asking, “Can you see me?”
“...N-no,” the greaser stammered. There was a beat of silence where both of their eyes widened. Then, he bolted down the hallway like a rabbit, Gwen in hot pursuit.
Gwen ran around the corner and cursed when she saw the boy was no longer in sight. She opened the door to the room at the very end of the corridor—Terrence’s room—and swung the door open…
….only to end up in the kitchen again, as if she just exited from the basement door. Gwen gaped, but jolted out of her confusion as she heard a door open and a girl’s voice say, “Hi, Mr. Shaw! Would you like to buy a box of Girl Scout cookies? They’re only $1.00.”
“Please please please buy the Tagalongs. It’s peanut butter and chocolate!”
“Angie, let him choose.”
Gwen hurried to the living room quick enough to get a glimpse of the greaser scooting past the girls and through the doorway. But once Gwen got closer, Albert Shaw leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, preventing her from exiting.
Without the mask he seemed so…normal. But Gwen didn’t want to think about that right now; her objective was getting out of the door. But considering how it was being blocked by Albert and the girls—and how earlier experience showed physical contact didn’t lead to good results–her prospects didn’t look good.
“Well, it looks like we’ve got some aspiring entrepreneurs on Meadowbrook!” The tone was much more playful and lilting compared to the coarseness of his insults to Gwen on the phone, and it was hard to believe the two men were one in the same. Albert rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a pen and five dollar bill. Fucking pay them and move your ass already! I need to get through. “Unfortunately, I spent all my money this week on groceries, but there is this one bill I was saving for a special occasion. I’d be happy to—oh no!”
While Gwen was trying to figure out the best way to maneuver her way through (Ugh, it’s like a game of Operation), she spared a glance out of the corner of her eye and winced as the girls witnessed the pen slice into their prospective sale. “Gosh, I’m such a klutz!”
Gwen tried to squeeze her way past but knocked into Sofia’s arm by accident, buzzing sensation causing her to fall backwards. Damnit, he’s getting away…
Angela’s bottom lip wobbled and Sofia smiled weakly. “That’s okay, Mr. Shaw. Thanks anyway!”
Albert brought a hand to his chest in mock surprise as Gwen stood on her tiptoes to see if she could spot the greaser.“‘Thanks anyway?’ Now, hold your horses! A little wound like that is nothing for an expert magician.”
“What are you going to do?” whispered Angela in awe, eyes sparkling.
Albert winked and waved his hands over the bill with the pen jutting out. “Abracadabra, Alakazam, let this bill be fixed in the palm of my hand!”
He yanked the pen out, and when he did, he held up the now-pristine five-dollar bill for the girls to see, leaving no evidence of any tears or punctures. They began clapping and cheering and even Gwen had to admit the trick was…okay.
“Oh, girls, I’m sorry. But I’m realizing now that I won’t be buying one box after all,” Albert said sadly. “Y’see, you mentioned before that each box cost one dollar, and this is a fiver, so…” He held up his hands, shrugged, and smiled. “Looks like I have no choice but to buy five!”
Sofia and Angela cheered even louder than before, and when Albert leaned forward to fill out the order card, Gwen finally had enough space to squeeze through without touching anyone. She had no idea whether Albert bought the Tagalongs or not, because her ass was out of that hellhole so fast and she had no desire to look back.
****
When she peered through the windows earlier, Gwen saw how the astral plane seemed to be in a world of perpetual evening. But stepping outside also brought attention to how colors had the same washed out appearance that they had in the house. She couldn’t discern whether the temperature was warm or cold—it just Was. She felt no breeze, heard no sounds, saw no animals. It was a dead world, in all ways.
She walked to the street and peered down the street. Everything looked relatively normal. She didn’t see the greaser at first glance.
But because the world was so silent, it was very noticeable when she heard a door creak. Gwen whipped her head around to see the boy slip into the Baur home. Gwen immediately sprinted back towards it, but when she opened it, she was met with a blank wall.
Not to be deterred, Gwen rushed to the garage and yanked it open. “Hello?” she called out. No answer. Through the clutter, she spotted the stairs and bounded upwards.
But when she opened the upstairs door, she found herself in the garage again, similar to how opening her father’s bedroom led her to the basement. “Fuck whoever designed this place!” Gwen yelled, clenching her fists against her sides. The fuse box next to her sparked, and after a few seconds, she heard a faint creaking sound and Emma Baur hollering, “Goddamn air conditioning!”
Gwen sprinted back up the stairs, narrowly avoiding Emma as she hobbled downward, and passed through the open door.
“Stop!” Gwen shouted, catching a glimpse of the greaser pushing through the living room and squeezing past a younger woman holding a bowl of candy for a group of trick-or-treaters. Gwen followed his path, startled by the realization that the smiling woman was a younger version of Emma Baur. It was a jarring juxtaposition, seeing the crotchety woman cheerful and not yet weathered by the world.
“Oh, what lovely costumes!” Gwen heard as she delicately tiptoed around a girl dressed as an angel. “I wish I had your mother’s sewing talent. And Russ, you’re an adorable little clown! Did your mother or sister do your facepaint?”
Whatever else she said was tuned out once Gwen spotted the greaser. Seeing him in her line of sight gave Gwen the rush of adrenaline she needed to shoot ahead like a cheetah and do a running tackle, causing the boy to fall flat on his face. Grabbing him in a headlock, she snarled, “Who are you?”
Gwen belatedly realized that she probably should have started off differently, but she was tired, damn it. She was about to repeat the question before realizing that the boy was in a headlock and couldn’t answer. She removed her arm from around his neck but made sure to grab on to his arms, ensuring he couldn’t go anywhere.
“I–I don’t know!” the boy sputtered.
Gwen scoffed.“How do you not know?”
“H-hey now, don’t flip your lid! I just don’t, alright?”
Gwen’s temper receded as she recalled Finney’s words from three years ago. He only spoke to Gwen once about it, but mentioned how the ghosts he contacted didn’t remember anything about their identities at first. Feeling like an ass, Gwen loosened her grip.
Although the greaser rubbed his arms, he didn’t bolt off again. “I don’t know who I am, or where I came from,” he rambled. “I’ve been in that pad”—he pointed to 7742—”as long as I can remember, but most of the time, no one notices me, so I got spooked when you did.” He looked at Gwen warily. “You’re not gonna give me a shiner, are you?”
Gwen shook her head. “No. Sorry I got a little…intense before. I just really, really need to find someone, and I thought..I dunno. I thought you might know something, since you’re also a ghost.”
“I’m a…ghost?” The greaser looked queasy, and Gwen felt guilty. “Oh man, oh man, oh man…that explains so much. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before.”
Gwen racked her brain to figure out who this guy could be. Based on the outfit, he was probably someone who died in the 1950s, but that was when the Shaws had the house. Could this boy be some previously-unknown victim of the Grabber’s? He seemed older than the Grabber’s typical demographic, but then again, so was Finney.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said lamely. She had no idea what words of comfort should be given to a ghost in this situation, and she couldn’t help him move on without knowing his identity. When I get home, I’ll do some sleuthing and try to find out who he is. Thinking of home reminded Gwen of her mission. “Listen, the reason I went after you so hard was because I thought you might know something about a person I’m looking for. A man wearing a gray mask with horns. Have you seen him?”
The greaser paled. “The Gargoyle Man?” Gwen’s eyes lit up, and she nodded. “Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…you’re in some deep shit, kid.”
“He’s in deep shit,” Gwen corrected, “for screwing with me and my family. And he’s called The Grabber.”
The boy didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know where he is now. Last time I saw him, he was leeching off some kid in there”—he jerked his thumb towards 7742 again—”before I woke him up.”
Gwen felt like her head was spinning. “Wait, what?”
“There was a kid sleeping in one of the bedrooms. Reddish-brown hair. The Gar—uh, The Grabber—had his hand on the kid’s head and you could tell there was some…I really don’t know how to describe it without you seeing it…but it’s like there was some kind of energy transfer happening. Long story short, when I saw that I started bugging out and yelled at the kid to wake up, and then he did, and then I raced out of there like a bat out of hell before The Grabber could go after me too.”
It has to be Finney. “What do you mean, ‘energy transfer’?” Gwen asked, a note of panic climbing into her voice. “What was he trying to do?”
The greaser shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I-it’s hard to describe…there was like this white glow around his hands and I thought he was sucking the kid's energy when he put his hands on the kid’s forehead, but he might have been giving something to the kid, I don’t know. Never seen anything like that before.”
Whatever it was, Gwen knew it was bad news. “That boy was my brother,” she whispered hoarsely. “The Grabber’s been making his life hell for the past three years. I need to find him. Do you have any idea where he could be?”
The greaser rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. If he’s not in the house, he’s probably somewhere outside.”
Gwen’s temper started to rise. “‘Outside?’ Can you be a little more specific?”
“Ehhh, not really.” The greaser shrugged again and winced. “This place is Weirdsville, kid. I’ve been out sometimes, tried to get away from here for good, but I always end up back at the house one way or another.” He paused, then added, “I can show you around if you want.”
He looked at her with these puppy dog eyes, and Gwen could tell he didn’t want to be alone any more than she did. “My name’s Gwen. And yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Thanks.”
The greaser beamed and gave her the thumbs up. “Copacetic!”
And so the duo made their way across Mrs. Baur’s lawn and began their quest. It was a bit awkward; Gwen had no idea what to say, and the feeling was mutual. As they passed the Smith house, the greaser chimed, “I’m ninety-nine percent sure the couple who live in that house are Soviet spies.”
It was so absurd, Gwen laughed. It felt like eons since that last happened. “The Smiths?”
“Yep! And it makes sense, don’t laugh! They try way too hard to seem like normal Americans. The husband said his favorite animal was the bald eagle, Gwen. The bald eagle! Aaaaaand, they’ve got a dog named Rover! It’s the perfect cover.”
Gwen was still giggling, the ice fully broken now. “Can’t you go into their house and see for sure?”
“I tried, but whenever I open one of their doors, this place sends me back to good ol’ 7742. Like I said, it’s Weirdsville.”
“They could also be aliens,” Gwen suggested as they crossed the street.
“That’s my back-up theory,” the greaser nodded. “Or they’re some government-sponsored social experiment that's meant to analyze the concept of normalcy and how we react to things that are ‘normal’ and—and— ahhh, rats, that made a lot more sense in my head. I promise I was going somewhere with that.”
For next minutes, hours, or even days (if time could be measured in such a place), the two laughed and chatted about various topics as they made their way in this strange new world. She brought him up to speed on what caused her to travel to the astral plane, and he gave basic information about his ghostly existence. Gwen was grateful for the company and—as much as she hated to admit it—knew she likely wouldn’t have had the courage to stray as far from the house as she currently was. It was only after being here that Gwen realized there were so many things in the living world she took for granted.
The further and further she got from the house, the more maze-like the world became. Roads she knew led to certain locations either led to nowhere, or led to different places. Some were unfinished. Bridges would be broken, and when they turned around, they would be looking at a completely unfamiliar location. Gwen couldn’t help but be reminded of her mother’s story of Theseus and the Labyrinth.
There were also some sights that seemed…off. When passing a movie theater, Gwen saw a poster advertising Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, but she could have sworn the movie coming out on Friday was called the Raiders of something. Sometimes, buildings would appear smaller or larger than she remembered them being, even if only by a foot or two, or older or newer. When she passed the spot when the Dollar Tree normally stood, the building was completely gone. In its place was a tree, but when she got closer she saw that instead of leaves, there were dollar bills hanging from it. Despite knowing she probably wouldn’t be able to take them home, Gwen leaped and grabbed one, only to drop it with a shriek once she noticed the Eye of Providence blinking.
“What the hell is wrong with this place?” Gwen huffed as she hurried back to the road, giving the tree one last withering look. “Seriously…”
“What happened?”
“The eye on the dollar bill blinked at me!”
The greaser brought his knuckles to his chin. “Hmm. Maybe it was winking. ‘Hang in there, kid, you’re doing great!’ That kind of thing.”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
“I think this place is partly sentient,” the greaser mused as Gwen stepped over a row of ants marching across the sidewalk. “And time and distance get weird and wobbly. But I also think part of it reacts to our thoughts, in some way at least.”
Is that why the tree was there? The ghost world reacted to her family’s money problems? She bristled at the thought. “Are we the only ones here, besides The Grabber?”
“Nope. There’s loads of people, they’re just not easy to see. There’s this nifty trick that can get you to see them if you focus really hard. But aside from you and The Grabber, no one realizes I'm here. Everyone’s off in their own little world. It’s a bit of a self-esteem killer, to tell you the truth.”
Gwen stopped and squinted at a post office across the street. C’mon. Focus focus focus…I want to see people…people…people…
At first she thought it was another pointless waste of time, but then the air began to appear wavy and distorted, as if emanating from a grill. Then, she saw a woman wearing tight jeans and a halter top. She was holding a small rectangle up to her ear like some kind of walkie-talkie. Gwen watched as she entered one of the shops, and also saw a red haired teenager on a skateboard. His baseball cap was on backwards and he was wearing baggy jeans that seemed ridiculously low.
“How do you know these are ghosts and not living people wh—” she stopped as a man in a suit with half his lower jaw missing exited a restaurant. “Never mind...”
And then she started seeing more. A woman wearing an ankle-length dress and feathery hat. A man in a bowler hat and cane strolling jauntily, unbothered by the entrails hanging out of his stomach. A young woman in an evening gown with dark bruises on her throat. And many, many more.
There was no acknowledgement of the others’ presences. So many people, all alone.
She closed her eyes, and turned around, opening them to follow the greaser as he continued walking down the street with his hands in his pockets. When she gathered enough courage to glance backward, the spirits were no longer visible.
****
She tried to fish for more information that could help unearth the greaser’s identity or any information in general, but wasn’t able to discern much. He didn’t know anything about Carol (“Carol Lawrence? Carol Channing? Carol Burnett? Carole King? Carole Lombar—ohhh, that’s a good one. Maybe he thought you were the ghost of Carol Lombard!”). He had vague ‘feelings’ about his past, but couldn’t pinpoint anything specific (“I know I had parents and a sibling. I think I had an uncle…no, scratch that. I was an uncle…or maybe I had an uncle and was an uncle. Or maybe I just had an uncle. Hmmm…”).
Some information the girl did glean was that a significant chunk of the hauntings the renters experienced was likely due to the greaser.
“—know they can’t hear me,” he said as they crossed the bridge,“but I want to help them. I try to, if I can. Like one time, there was this tiny little curtain crawler who almost had a bookshelf fall on him when his parents weren’t looking. So I start making some noise—rattle some cabinets, make stuff tremble, the usual—and they notice and get him right in the nick of time. But then they thought I was the one who caused it and go zipping out in the middle of the night with only the clothes on their backs! That’s what always happens. It’s unfair, I tell ya. It’s like—wait…oh shit. I think that’s him.”
She looked in the direction the greaser was pointing. Leaning against the bark of a towering Elm tree was a man in a gray horned mask with a twisted, grotesque sculpted grin. The girl felt rage rippling through her as he pushed himself away from the tree and stepped lazily towards them, tilting his head.
“Looks like a couple of chickens strayed far from the coop,” he giggled. “And your outfit…yeesh.” She looked down at her totally tubular neon orange off-the-shoulder T-shirt, the yellow tank top underneath, and acid wash denim skirt. “If I never had to see you in that stupid jacket again, it would’ve been too soon.”
The girl glanced up in confusion before realizing he was talking to the greaser, whose brows were deeply furrowed. She put her hands on her hips and snapped, “He looks rad! You’re wearing a short-sleeve turtleneck and look dumb! And you shouldn’t be acting like a smug jackass anyway because we’re here to—to…”
Wait…
Why were they here again?
She looked up at the greaser in alarm, who held up his hands. “You wanted to find him, not me! Something about your brother.”
Right! My brother…This man did something to her brother. But what? “You did something…bad. We’re here to get even.” I think…
The man chuckled, and she burned with anger. “This is too precious. Why don’t you tell me your name first, sweetie?”
The girl opened her mouth, but froze.
What was her name?
Why can’t I remember my fucking name?
Anger vanished, making way for fear and panic. She racked her brain trying to remember who she was, who her family was, but all she could recall were vague shapes and disjointed phrases. Tears began to pool in her eyes.
“Oh my, are we having some trouble?” the masked man giggled.
Who was he? Who was she? Why was she here? The girl wanted to say something, anything, but the greaser put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.
“Your name’s Jen…no, Gwen! Yeah, it’s Gwen.” The greaser sighed. “Jeez, I knew I was forgetting something. Turns out, I was forgetting to tell you about how you start forgetting things if you spend a long time here. You gotta keep repeating stuff in your head if you want to remember it.”
Upon hearing her name, it was like a closet door unlocked and every lost memory inside came tumbling out. Gwen glared at The Grabber with newfound fury. “He’s right, I’m Gwen Blake,” she snarled. “And you’re the bastard who kidnapped and tortured my brother. And you’re also going to pay.”
The Grabber threw back his head and laughed. “How? You’re about as threatening as a Chihuahua.” He turned around, and Gwen noticed that the buckles of his mask were melded to the back of his head. “This place’ll take care of you on its own. I’m not going to waste my time with you idiots when I’d rather be with—”
He didn’t finish his sentence, because Gwen decided to use the world’s lack of sound to her advantage. She shot at him like a cannonball and—grabbing a large stone from the ground with one hand—jumped up, slamming it against the back of his head with all her strength.
Unlike her failed attempt earlier, the surprise attack caused The Grabber to stumble over, giving Gwen the opportunity to bash it against his head a second and third time.
If I die or lose my memories, it’s totally worth it now, she thought as a fourth blow caused blood to ooze from the back of his head.
But as she raised her arm for a fifth try, The Grabber recovered. Snarling, he grabbed her face with his hand and yanked her down, slammed her skull against the stone pathway. Once. Twice. (She heard something crack)Three times. Four times. Five times. (her vision was getting blurred and spotty) Six times.
She had no doubt he was using his full strength, and he was much stronger than she was. The only reason the impact hadn‘t killed her yet was because right now she was—technically—a ghost. He was shouting something in her ear, but she couldn’t make out the harsh words. Despite her whole world being discombobulated, she fought. She kicked and squirmed and tried to pry his fingers off, albeit unsuccessfully.
Her struggle proved to be unnecessary, however, as she soon felt the heavy weight lift off her. Muffled voices argued, but Gwen couldn’t make them out. She lifted her hand to the back of her head and felt warm liquid and something squishy that made her want to hurl.
But eventually, her vision started to clear and she blinked rapidly, turning to see The Grabber and…someone else. Not the greaser, but a man that appeared to be in his forties, with black hair, a mustache, and a white zip-up jacket with colorful numbers on it. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but all that came out was a pained whimper. The man spun around and beamed.
“Gwen, I remembered who I am! I’m Max! When I saw him pummeling you, I knew I had to protect you like how I couldn’t protect the other kids, and then I thought to myself, ‘Wait, what kids?’ And then it hit me: ‘Those kids.’ The missing boys! Then, once I remembered that, one thing led to another, and then—”
“B-behind you!” she wheezed. While Max was rambling and distracted, The Grabber picked up the rock Gwen used and lifted his arm to bring it down hard on his brother’s head.
But unlike the last time something similar happened, Max heeded the advice and dodged. “Ha! You thought you could do that a second time? Wroooooooong, Al. You’re not as—”
A very faint, very distant rumbling round caused Max to snap his mouth shut, and the Grabber to grow rigid, dropping the stone. Aside from voices and doorways, the astral plane was devoid of all sounds. So what the hell is that? Gwen’s immediate thought was that it sounded like a bull, but that couldn’t be right.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Max muttered, looking pale.
“W-what is it?” Gwen asked, still slightly disoriented, but alert enough that her skin began to prickle. She raised her hand to the back of her head; the warm liquid was still there, but her skull was now intact.
“It's like an immune system response,” the Grabber said smugly. He pointed to Gwen. “You’re the bad bacteria. This world knows you’re not supposed to be here, and now it’s going to sort out the problem.”
Oh, fuck. “I don’t get it. Is it some kind of animal?” she asked, a note of panic escaping into her voice. “It sounds like a bull.”
Max finally looked back at her curiously. “Really? For me it sounds totally different. But it’s never good. It’s going to keep getting closer until it gets what it wants. Which is, uh, you..."
“Well, it’s a good thing Gwenny came with a well-thought out plan to return to the living world,” The Grabber said lightly, eyes dancing with merriment. “I’m sure she has nothing to worry about.”
The roar echoed throughout the astral world again. This time, it seemed a tiny bit louder. A tiny bit closer.
Oh fuuuuuuuuck. “M-max, I think I—I’m in trouble. How do I get back?”
Max looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “I, um, I really don’t know, Gwen…I never came here when I wasn’t dead. I guess try to go back to where you were when you got here? That could work. Maybe.”
Gwen remembered how the labyrinthine structure of the house caused Gwen’s body to vanish when she tried looking for it. Her body went cold with dread.
She didn’t know why, but she looked at The Grabber. She searched his eyes for some semblance of humanity, but found nothing but sadistic glee. “There is a way to get back, Gwen. And I would have told you, buuuuuuuut you hit me with a rock. So…nah.”
Gwen stuck up her middle finger. “And I’d do it again, dickweed. I don’t care if I get eaten or whatever.”
She knew The Grabber knew the latter statement was bullshit, given the terror that was no doubt evident on her face as she heard another ear-splitting roar.
“You’ve gotta run, kid,” Max whispered, looking fearfully in the direction of the noise.
Gwen didn’t need to be told twice.
****
If she thought finding The Grabber was difficult, that was nothing compared to getting back to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. In the living world, she would know where to go easily, but the distortion and mazelike structure of the astral world impeded such confidence. Just as before, roads that should lead one place led to somewhere else, and the fact that she was sprinting, alone, in full-fledged panic over the Minotaur (that’s what she’d taken to calling it in her mind—no other name seemed appropriate) finding her and doing…something…didn’t help.
And even if I get to the house, what am I supposed to do? She clenched her fists, pushing herself to run even faster. No, I can't worry about that now. One thing at a time.
As she was nearing the street that should have led to the neighborhood development, she saw someone that caused her skid to an abrupt halt.
It was Finney. He was walking down the street, clutching onto a metal square tightly. It looked like a Time-Out, which didn’t seem possible because Finney didn’t have one. Maybe this is in the future? But Gwen remembered seeing one in her dream; was the dream trying to tell her something about what she should be doing now? The Time-Out was an electronic, so maybe—
Mimicking the feeling of taking a deep breath, she yelled, “Help!”
She saw Finney look down at the screen and frown, then look up and glance around him. When his gaze locked onto her direction she jumped up and waved her arms, but naturally, he couldn’t see her. But he was able to hear me, maybe, so…
She was about to shout again, but when she heard another loud rumble, she needed to make a split decision and took off into a sprint. But after turning the corner after running two blocks, she stopped again.
She was back at the Elm tree by the river.
Max and the Grabber were gone, but this was no doubt the same place. Gwen collapsed to the ground and let out a howl of anguish that caused the lamppost nearby to flicker and break. This is it, I'm going to die. Like Leona Parsons and the other Theosophists, Gwen fucked with things humans weren’t meant to fuck with and was now about to pay the price.
She thought of her brother and felt a stab of guilt. Without her keeping him grounded, would Finney choose to be with The Grabber like she saw in her dream? What would happen to her dad?
What would happen to her?
Did God want this to happen? Was He even real? If the Minotaur caught Gwen, would she go to Heaven, stay a ghost, or be sent to some dark, meaningless void? Or would she just…not exist? Would everything that used to be Gwen Blake be gone in an instant, not even a whisper in the wind? And if that was the fate of everyone, what’s the point of even fighting now?
Despair and doubt devoured her heart like a starving beast as Gwen cradled her head in her hands and began to weep. She continued even through the panic of hearing another roar. Eventually, she wiped her face and stood up on shaky feet.
If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it standing.
She braced herself in the direction of the noise and buried her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt. When she did, her fingers felt a smooth, round object. She pulled out the orange copper pocketwatch that she felt compelled to pick up earlier, and looked it over warily. Last time the latch was stuck, but this time…
Gwen fiddled with the top: this time, it unlocked easily. The hour, minute, and second hands were all pointed at the number 3. A possibility began to build in her mind as she took a few steps in the direction, then started walking briskly, then started sprinting.
As expected, the hands on the watch changed as she reached a certain distance. Whenever the hands moved, Gwen would follow the direction they pointed to. In a place where time held no meaning, it was no longer a watch at all, but rather a compass. Hopefully one that guides me to the house, and not the Minotaur.
Following the compass’s guidance allowed her to bypass the fractured, fragmented roads and the ones that led her to places she didn’t want to go. Determined not to forget her mission, Gwen repeated key phrases in her head: My name is Gwendolyn Blake. I have a brother named Finney, a father named Terrence, and a mother named Susannah. My favorite show is Happy Days. I have the high score on Pac-Man at the arcade. My friends are Susie, Millie, Amy….and so on.
The journey back was much easier this time around, and when she found herself on Meadowbrook—fully aware of who she was and why she was here—she barely restrained herself from bursting into cheers.
She opened the front door and walked into the living room, ignoring the pretty woman with long wavy, black hair arguing with a brown-haired man in a trilby and overcoat.
“And why is that, hmm? I made you into what you are. You’d be nothing without me, kitten,” the man taunted. Gwen threw a pillow at him to get him to shut up, but predictably, it bounced off. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse on the sofa, but knew she needed to keep moving. “A bored farmer’s wife wondering about life’s couldas, wouldas, and shouldas.”
“You used me to make yourself rich,” the woman hissed, thrusting a finger into his chest. Gwen looked at the pocketwatch, but saw the hour, minute, and second hands had vanished. Of course. That’d be too easy. “I was fourteen when you convinced me to leave. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
“Well, I ain’t rollin’ in dough anymore, I’ll tell ya that much. And everyone uses everyone, sweetheart. We just both happened to get something outta it.”
Gwen put the coppery circle back in her pocket. Guess I’ll try the basement…
The woman laughed scornfully and flicked her hair from behind her shoulder. “Oh, please. A violent, philandering drunk? Whatta prize.”
Gwen didn’t hear how the man responded, because by that point she was in the kitchen, heading down to the basement. She blinked when got to the bottom: it was devoid of people, but set up to look like some kind of gambling den, with names and numbers on chalkboards and chips, cards, and roulette wheels set up on various tables. She went to the alcove which, unsurprisingly, didn’t have her body.
What exactly am I expecting to happen, anyway? Gwen thought bitterly as she trudged up the stairs. If I find my body, will I float into it?
She stepped over a Gumby toy lying on the floor in the kitchen and turned right into the hallway with the bedrooms. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly, but since the roaring stopped once she arrived on Meadowbrook, she believed she was safe—for now, at least.
Gwen poked her head into her bedroom. No one was in there (thankfully) but the painting was. Like the Son of Man painting in Finney’s room, this one changed. It was still a desert landscape, but the clocks were missing. And while there was only one fly in the painting earlier, there were eight flying around the desert in the new image.
Gwen took out her pocketwatch and held it up to the painting. Like the clocks, the watch that used to be in the painting had vanished, and the one in her hands looked identical to it. But she couldn’t make heads or tails of the significance (if any) and put it back in her pocket, leaving the room and returning to the hallway.
Gwen shuddered as she recalled the eye peeking out from behind the apple in Finney’s room (Yeahhhh, I’ll pass) and went straight to Terrence’s. Last time it brought her back to the kitchen—could there be some secret in there? Maybe the cannibal from the painting’s going to jump out and kill me.
But when she opened the door, there was no cannibal. There was no painting at all. Instead, she saw a red-haired woman in a flapper dress, cradling a framed photograph on the bed and sobbing. An open bottle of alcohol was on the nightstand next to her. “Oh, Alan….my dear, sweet, Alan,” she hiccuped through tears. “I’ll be with you soon, my darling.”
Gwen bit her lip and turned around, but when she left the room, she wasn’t in the hallway with the bedrooms anymore. Instead, she was in the doorway that led from the backyard and towards the dining room. Groaning, she passed the dining table but paused.
The Saturn Devouring His Son painting was now hanging in the dining room like Finney joked about days ago. The good (?) news was that it didn’t look any different. The ghost world probably thinks it’s freaky enough already.
One thing that was different was that the dining table was covered in ants. “Okay, you little fuckers. What’s your deal? Are you spying on me?”
The ants didn’t answer, but they did move further away from Gwen once she started talking. Yeah, you better run.
She made her way to the living room and felt a spark of hope when she heard Max’s voice. She rushed ahead but jolted to a stop once it became apparent this wasn’t the Max she knew.
Max was older than he was as a greaser, but younger than when she saw him arguing with The Grabber. He was wearing a long-sleeved tie-dye shirt, a brown fringe vest, and denim jeans. Next to him was a young woman in a beaded headband who was twirling her long black tresses. Gwen was struck by how similar she looked to Donna and thought she had to be an older version of her, before quickly dismissing that thought as impossible. Besides, Donna’s fashion sense was totally different: this woman was wearing a knotted white crop top with bell sleeves and a denim miniskirt with suede trim. Donna would never be caught dead in that.
“—through a bit of a rough time, but he’s basically harmless,” Max explained to the woman. Overstuffed travel bags were plopped next to the couple, and a few opened bottles of brandy were perched on the table.“You know what? Once we explain to him about the alignment of Mercury, he’ll understand.”
“I don’t know, Leaf. I wasn’t sensing good vibrations before,” she mused airily, though she didn’t seem upset by the thought.
Max (Leaf?) put his hand on the back of his neck and winced. “Yeahhhh, that was my fault, babe. I didn’t call him ahead of time and probably shouldn’t have sent you in while I was unloading the car. But I know one way to cheer you up.” He raised his hands and began to strum on an air guitar as he sang, “It’s the hammer of justice, it’s the bell of freedom. It’s a song about love between my brothers and my sisters~”
The woman clapped and laughed while Max went a few more bars into "If I Had a Hammer."
“What the hell is this?” Max, Gwen, and the woman all snapped their heads around to see Albert Shaw crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. His hair was disheveled, and dark circles hung underneath his cold, piercing eyes. His shirt was lazily thrown on and unbuttoned, and his pants looked worn and dirty.
“Oh wow. You look, uh,” Max stuttered. “Can you—er, could you at least button your shirt, man? You’re bothering Meadow.”
From the way Meadow was eyeing Albert’s open chest appreciatively (Girl, noooo!), Gwen didn’t think she was the one who was bothered. But Max’s claim of Albert going through a rough time certainly seemed true—the man did not look good.
“I’m not doing shit,” Albert said flatly. “You’re the ones who came barging into my home.”
“‘Barging?’” Max echoed in disbelief. “C’mon, Al. I’m your brother. It’s my home too.”
“Legally, it’s not,” Albert snapped. “And my brother’s Max, not Tree or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself now.”
“It’s ‘Leaf,’” Max whined. “And, Al, listen….this was a last-minute thing. I thought—”
Albert thrusted a finger towards the door while Meadow knelt down and began rummaging through one of the bags. “Out!”
“But—”
“Out!”
“Y-you're such a square!”
“It’s better than being a doped out, unemployed—”
But Albert didn’t finish his sentence. As the brothers were talking, Meadow found what she was looking for and strolled confidently towards Albert, slipping a necklace with a quartz crystal over his neck. For the first time since he came into the room, he looked directly at her.
“Honey, is that…?” Max breathed in awe.
“Mmhmm,” Meadow confirmed. She smiled at Albert, who was staring into her eyes with a mixture of disbelief and outrage. “We got this necklace from a shaman in New Mexico. It opens your chakras and soaks up negative emotions.” Her smile faded as she reached out and gently touched Albert’s cheek. Max’s mouth opened slightly. “Leaf told me about your recent tragedies, and I'm sorry you had to endure such hardships.” She lifted her hand and smiled again. “The quartz’s vibrations can channel the earth’s healing energy. Your soul can heal, Albert, if you open yourself to the universe’s love and guidance.”
Albert slowly lifted the necklace off his neck. Without breaking eye contact with Meadow, he walked to the window, opened it, and chucked the necklace out with all his might.
“D-didn’t you hear what she said?!” Max sputtered. “We got that from a shaman in New Mexico!”
To her credit, Meadow looked completely nonplussed. If anything, her smile grew wider.
Albert pointed to the door. “I’m not going to ask again.”
“Hold on, Al,” Max said, biting his lip. He turned to Meadow and asked, “Babe, can you wait in the car for a sec? I’ll be out soon.”
“Of course,” Meadow said, smile never leaving her face. As she headed to the door, she glanced back and waved.
Donna’s eyes were warm. So were Meadow’s, but there was something else lurking behind them that wasn’t present in Donna’s, something that Gwen couldn’t pinpoint. Something sharp and analytical.
Once the door was shut, Albert said, “You realize she’s going to screw you over, right? Either by squeezing you for money or fucking other men. Probably both.”
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone loves me?” Max asked tersely, slumping down in a chair. “We belong together, okay? Her name’s Meadow. We live on Meadowbrook Lane. The signs are all there. I never felt like this with anyone before. It’s true love, man…”
Albert sat in the chair across from him, looking wearier but less agitated than he was before. “Max, I don’t trust her. I don’t like her. I guarantee you this is going to end the same way as the rockabilly girl.”
“No it won’t!” Max insisted.
“She got you hooked on all these drugs”—Max scoffed and Albert frowned—”She did. It was never this bad before her. And in the five minutes I spoke with her before you came in, I could tell all that earth-child shit is an act. She’s bad news.” He held up a hand to stop Max from protesting. “I know she’s bad news because she’s got you thinking it’s okay to make my house into some kind of inn for degenerates. This girl’s got problems, and I don’t want you starting a family with her and then her problems become your problems.”
Max’s face started to grow red. “You don’t know shit! You’re just jealous because that’s something you’ll never have!” Albert’s eyes grew more distant and guilt flickered on Max’s face. “Al, I’m sorry, that was below the belt. I j-just meant that, um, ahh fuck, I can’t believe I said that…”
“It’s fine,” Albert said brusquely.
There was a moment of tense silence and Gwen was about to continue her search, before Max spoke up. “I know how, uh, devastating it must have been to lose both of them, and you probably think I’m a coward for leaving when I did. And you’re right. I am a total coward. I didn't know what to say, or what to do to make things better after Cindy died, so I didn’t even try. I’m so sorry, Al. You’ve done so much for me, and I treated you like crap.”
There was a moment of silence. Then: “I wasn’t devastated when it happened.”
Max looked up, startled. Albert’s eyes grew hollow and his fingers began to flex and contract. His voice was hoarse. “I know everyone expected me to be, but I wasn’t. You know what I thought when I looked down at Cindy’s body? ‘I’m finally free.’ Isn’t that sick?”
Max’s mouth opened and closed, and Gwen saw his eyes flicker towards the door. “That's just the grief talking,” he croaked out.
“No it’s not,” Albert whispered, burying his head in his hands. “I-it was my fault. I–I don’t know why I—” His voice started wavering. “God, I wish I didn’t. I didn’t mean to. It was like I was someone else, or maybe I was always that person, I don’t know…” He raised his head, revealing a tear-stained visage. “There’s something’s wrong with me, Max. I think I need…I need help. Please…”
Max paled and froze, eyes darting around wildly. An extremely weak chuckle escaped his lips. “Wh-what are you talking about, Al? Are y—um, the doctors said she…uh…” He trailed off and scratched the back of his neck. “Is there something you…want? I don’t get it…”
Did he not get it, or not want to get it? There was another moment of silence, this one much, much longer than the last. When Albert raised his head, the tears were gone and he smirked, taking a swig of brandy from the table.
“I wanted to see if my brother was still a gullible idiot.” He grinned like a wolf, but it didn’t fully meet his eyes. “Looks like I was right.”
It took a moment for it to register, but once it did, the tension broke and Max broke into a grin. “Oh fuck you!” Max started laughing, “Jesus Christ, man, I thought….damn. You are one cold-hearted bastard, you know that?”
“Yep,” Albert agreed, taking another swig. “But not that cold-hearted. You know what, Max?” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ll let you and Meadow stay for one week. One. And just the two of you. Your other flower child friends will have to get real jobs and stay at a hotel.”
Max leapt up and hugged his brother, who grew rigid at the contact. “Yes yes yes! Thank you so much, You won’t regret this–”
A sudden, thunderous bellow caused the girl to jump while the men remained oblivious and continued their conversation. There was something outside that sounded as if it was a few blocks away. But what?
And why was it after her? Why was it here? She knew it was important, whatever it was.
The girl tried to remember but couldn’t. Still, she remembered enough to know she was experiencing deja vu. What do I do, what do I do?
Then, the spirit heard a faint voice, a boy’s voice: “Gwen…”
Gwen. That was it. That was her name. But where was it coming from? Gwen Blake shook her head as she walked towards the kitchen, a lifetime of memories crashing into her again. She tried to smother the growing sense of panic and make sense of the last few moments: apparently, she was so caught up in watching the memory that she lost sense of her own identity. This is so fucked up…
“Gwen…”
There it was again, the voice. Finney’s voice! Hope welled in her—was he coming to save her, like he did during the fire? She was tempted to head to the basement, but the voice wasn’t coming from the basement: it was coming from the hallway with the bedrooms. Should she trust the voice, or go into the basement where she started her journey?
The whole house began to tremble and Gwen felt another surge of panic run through here. Shit.
She didn’t have time to think. Gwen rushed back to the hallway, following the voice as it got louder. As she ran, the length of the hallway seemed to stretch and the walls moved slightly, in and out, in and out, as if they were breathing. Gwen clumsily yanked the doorknob to her room open and ran in, slamming the door shut as if it would make a difference.
The voice was definitely coming from here, but she couldn’t see anyone. The dresser, nightstand, and bed were all trembling, the walls breathing in more noticeably. The amount of flies in the painting doubled.
“Gwen!” Finney’s voice called.
“Finney, where are you?” Gwen cried out. But all she heard was another echo of her name.
Still, it provided Gwen with enough information to discern that the voice was coming from underneath the bed. With all her might, Gwen pushed it to the side.
Underneath the bed was the painting she found earlier, except just like with Son of Man, there were slight differences with Christina’s World. The brown-haired girl laying on the ground was wearing a denim skirt and neon orange off-the-shoulder shirt, hair pulled back in a scrunchie. And instead of a farmhouse, it was 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, with a tiny auburn-haired figure standing outside in the distance.
At that moment, Gwen heard the loudest bellow yet, and the entire structure of the house began to rattle like an earthquake. Whatever it was seemed to be right outside the house. The walls inhaled and exhaled deeper and faster now. Gwen choked back a sob as she looked at the picture, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Could Finney overcome The Grabber without her? Would him and Terrence be able to coexist on their own?
Did the boys experience this same terror and dread when they faced The Grabber’s knife for the final time?
“Gwen!”
“Finney…” she wept. Closing her eyes, she placed her palm atop her brother’s figure in the painting. God, please let my family be okay…please…
Then, she exhaled.
****
“GWEN!!”
Gwen’s eyes shot open as firm fingers grasped her shoulders. Kneeling on the ground in front of her was Finney, wide-eyed and pale.
“Gwen! Thank God. It looked like you were unconscious so I—”
Eyes blurring with tears, Gwen launched herself into her brother’s arms and squeezed tightly. After a second, it was reciprocated.
Gwen closed her eyes and hugged him tightly for the next minute, thanking God for the comforting thump of her heartbeat.
Chapter 14: The Worst Day of His Life
Notes:
-There are going to be five Albert POV chapters placed sporadically throughout the story, each one taking place during a different decade of his life (30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s). Out of all the chapters I've written so far, this one might hold the crown for being the most emotionally challenging to write (or at the very least, it’s tied with ch. 10). Story elements were alluded to in earlier chapters so the content shouldn’t come as a big surprise, but please be mindful of the tags, especially the “implied/referenced” ones. Next chapter, we're finally going back to Finney's POV!
-If the part about Cheesman Park sounds like it was ripped from the movie Poltergeist, that’s because it’s actually the other way around: the real-world history of Cheesman Park was one of the inspirations for the movie. Also, the line from Thurston in this chapter is not my own creation, but was instead a real line he spoke during one of his shows. The line about “seeing if Evelyn floats” is a reference to how in the past (but far before the events of the chapter), suspected witches were thrown into bodies of water. If they sank, they were believed to be regular humans. If they floated, they were thought to be witches.
-Since this chapter takes place in 1935-1936, there are some slang terms that aren't commonly used nowadays.
Swell: great
Gum it up: mess it up
Saved my bacon: to get someone out of a dangerous or difficult situation
Hogwash: nonsense
Dame: woman
The pictures: movies
The clink: prison
Coppers: the cops-And finally, I’m going to go back to old chapters and change/retcon the duration of time Finney spent in the basement. Before I said it was a month, but now I’m making it two months. The Missing poster in the movie said Finney was taken on November 24th, and a month later would be…Christmas. And it’s clearly not the Christmas season in the movie, lol. So I’m going to have Finney escape during the final week of January instead. When I was making the timeline for this fic, for some reason my mind completely failed to put two and two together and recognize that December 24th was Christmas Eve.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“But I don’t wanna be a ghost!”
The seven-year old buried his head in his scrawny arms, kitchen table stifling his sobs. He heard a light sigh and felt the vibrations as the pumpkin landed on the table with a thud. “I gave you another option, Bertie. You said you didn’t want me to finish the old costume, so a ghost is all we can manage on such short notice.”
“But I can’t be a devil, Mama.” Albert Shaw lifted his tear-streaked face from his hands and turned to look at the raven-haired woman next to him. She remained fixated on carving the grin onto her pumpkin, not sparing her son a single glance. Why doesn’t she understand how important this is? “Anthony’s going as one, and if I go as one too, then everyone’s going to think I’m a copycat!”
Evelyn Shaw reached over to the counter and handed her son a tissue, which he blew into loudly. “I started making that costume in August, honey. How could you be the copycat?”
“Because I didn’t tell anyone that was my costume idea!” Albert sniffled. “Anthony called dibs first. And the reason I didn’t tell anyone because we saw Mr. Thurston last month and that’s when I decided to change ideas and go as a m-ma-mag—”
Albert couldn’t finish his sentence; the memory of this morning’s incident was too tragic. He erupted into a fresh set of wails.
Evelyn finally put the knife down and crossed her arms. As usual, her eyes were weary and distant. I bet she doesn’t even care that this is the worst day of my life. “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, Bertie. You don’t want me to finish the devil costume. You can’t go as a magician because you spilled your drink all over—”
“It’s not my fault! It’s Leona’s!” He thrusted a finger towards the radio with righteous indignation. Albert bitterly recalled the events of this morning, where he sipped his cup while listening to Dick Tracy’s latest excursion. During the part where the detective explained how he knew the identity of the black market dealer, Leona Parson’s haughty voice took over the radio and startled Albert, causing him to jump and knock Kool-Aid all over his costume. “Mama, you need to make her go away, like you did with the others!”
Evelyn shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Leona’s latched onto you, and once a spirit forms a connection like this, it’s difficult to break. She needs to either decide to leave on her own, or you can—”
In a moment he would greatly regret forty-six years from now, Albert interrupted his mother, never hearing the other way to free oneself from an overly-attached spirit. “Tell all the ghosts in Colorado to turn off the power to everything. If there’s no lamps, there’s no Trick-or-Treating. Then everyone’s Halloween is ruined, not just mine.”
Evelyn’s mouth twitched upward for a moment. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
It’s not funny! Albert glared, anger bubbling.
He should have expected this—his mother never understood him. She’d scrunch up her nose at his insect collection, muttered how pointless it was to “run around hitting a ball with a stick,” always wanted to change the good radio shows to the boring ones, and preferred cats to dogs. Aside from their cloudy blue eyes, she didn’t even look like him. They were nothing alike.
Except, of course, in the one area Albert hated to think about.
“Why don’t we head to Cheesman Park, like we did last Halloween?” Evelyn suggested, as if reading his mind. “We had a nice time there, Bertie.”
Albert groaned and buried his head in his arms again. Cheesman Park used to be a cemetery before the city made plans to develop it into a park. The contractor in charge moved the headstones but not the bodies, leaving behind several disgruntled ghosts. Evelyn might have had a positive view of the night spent teaching her son about the spirit realm, but Albert—who spent the night pretending there were no ghosts and tuning out every single thing she had to say about them—felt differently.
It was as though his mother had no idea how to talk to him about anything besides ghosts. He hated it.
“That place is stupid and I don’t want to go there,” he said, voice muffled. He raised his head to look at Evelyn. “And Mama, I told you before, my new name is Al.”
Evelyn’s lips thinned. “The children at school can call you what they like, but I will not be calling you that, Ber—Albert. I explained why.” The name Al immediately evoked Al Capone, which was the reason Evelyn hated it and Albert loved it. “And I understand you would prefer things to be…different, but like it or not, you do have a special gift. You need to stop worrying about what people think and go for what you want, even if it’s not the most popular.”
Albert scowled and kicked his feet out from underneath the table. Of course she wouldn’t care about being normal.
In the Sparks Circus, she was shipwrecked as a child on an island, only to be raised by the natives and learn the “secrets of the third eye” before returning to civilization. In the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, she descended from an Eastern European coven of witches and contacted the spirits through a magical grimoire passed down from generations.
In reality, she was born Evelyn James, a bored, unhappy farm girl from Kansas who was cajoled by a big-city talent scout and had dreams of making it big—dreams that crashed with the stock market. Evelyn never talked about her old life, and Albert didn’t know if his grandparents were still alive. He didn’t even know if his father was still alive. Normal things that normal people had and took for granted were missing in the Shaw household.
“I don’t want to hear weird voices. I want my magician costume,” he sulked, crossing his arms.
“Go for what you want within reason,” she amended.
“Fine!” Albert threw up his arms in frustration. “I guess I’ll just die of sadness then.”
The corner of Evelyn’s mouth turned upward again, and Albert felt like breaking something. “You’re not going to die.”
“Yes I am! You don’t understand how important this is!”
“I understand you’re upset and—”
A ringing sound interrupted Evelyn, and Albert huffed as his mother paced to the living room and lifted the receiver to her ears. She tilted her head, brows furrowed and gaze drifting to Albert. She beckoned her son with a finger, causing him to reluctantly trudge over.
“It’s for you,” she said quietly, handing the receiver to Albert. The only person who ever called him was Russ, but Evelyn’s solemn expression indicated this wasn’t the case. Curious, Albert pressed it against his ear. On the other end he heard quiet sobs.
“...Hello?” he whispered, hairs on the back of his arms standing up.
He heard a sniffle, and then a girl’s voice, weak and frail: “...is this the first time you’re hearing my voice?”
Albert racked his brain trying to figure out if she sounded familiar; he didn’t talk to many girls besides Kathy and his mother. “I think. Who are you?”
The girl didn’t answer his question. When she spoke, her voice was dull and dry. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s pointless, especially with you like….this. B-But still, I just—” She sniffed again. “It’s not fair…”
Was she mad at him? He looked at his mother, who was inspecting him carefully. “Are you a ghost?”
“Sort of…”
“Then I hate you.”
“Albert!” scolded Evelyn, eyes narrowing. “Be polite!”
But it’s true!
The girl chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Feeling’s mutual, buddy.”
“Then why did you call me?” Albert demanded, clenching his free hand. “I’m having the worst day of my life right now, and you’re making it worser.”
“Things always get worse.” The girl’s voice started to tremble once more with emotion. “You might think they can’t, but they always do. My b-brother…” The girl started crying again, and Albert felt a pang of guilt at his harsh words from earlier. “Things change fast. So, so fast. Y-You don’t even see it coming and i-it’s…” She took a deep breath, and when she continued, her voice was a broken whisper. “...please—my brother—I–I just… I love him so much and it’s not fair.”
“I still don’t understand what you want me to do,” Albert mumbled, looking down at his scuffed-up shoes. Why were ghosts always so creepy and weird?
The girl made a sound that was either a laugh or a sob. “T-That’s the worst part. I—I know you c-can’t do anything now…but still, just…just let him go, please. Leave him alone…He’s going to—t-to–”
Albert couldn’t make out the rest of what the girl said; she began weeping uncontrollably. Alarmed, he looked up at Evelyn, who nodded and pointed to the base. Albert couldn’t hang up fast enough.
He wasn’t sure why, but tears prickled in his eyes. “She was really upset, Mama. At me. I didn’t know who she was.”
Evelyn brought her knuckles to her chin and looked at the phone thoughtfully. “The minds of spirits are often muddled. It’s likely she was likely confusing you for someone else or creating patterns, similar to how Leona connects you with her son. I know it’s upsetting, sweetheart, but it’s important you develop a thick skin for these sorts of things.”
The urge to cry became more overwhelming at the prospect of hearing calls like this for the rest of his life. Perhaps sensing this, Evelyn pointed to the kitchen. “The Sinclairs won’t be here for another hour. I have a couple more pumpkins I want to put outside, but I’m afraid my hands will get dirty. Unless….” She looked at Albert with mock surprise, as if noticing him for the first time. “There’s someone willing to help?”
Albert perked up slightly. Scooping the pulp from the pumpkin was his favorite part, but his mother usually didn’t let him because he always made a big mess. He nodded eagerly, following his mother to the kitchen.
Over the next few days, the girl’s voice became a distant memory as other matters easily eclipsed this moment in significance. He wouldn’t hear the girl’s voice again for another eight years.
****
As Evelyn anticipated, the doorbell rang an hour later. She wiped her hands, removed her apron, and walked to the front door, her son shuffling awkwardly behind her.
Seeing the Sinclairs standing at their front steps was always unnatural; unlike the Shaws, the Sinclairs looked and acted like the picture-perfect American family, and because of this, they did a far better job ingratiating themselves with the community than the psychic and her son ever did. Unlike Albert, the Sinclair twins knew where their father was: working for President Roosevelt’s new Works Progress Administration and reliably sending money to his family every month. And unlike Evelyn, Mrs. Sinclair had a respectable job as a seamstress and always took the utmost care to make sure her children’s clothes didn’t reflect their economic station.
Looking at the twins’ costumes, Albert reluctantly concluded that Anthony’s outfit looked much better than his old devil costume did. It was also thematically appropriate when paired with Kathy’s angel outfit. Their costumes even reflected what they were like on the inside.
Kathy waved and smiled, rosy cheeks and blonde curls enhancing her angelic appearance. Anthony stuck his nose up like the snob he was.
“Hello, Evelyn,” Mrs. Sinclair said with a strained smile. All adults except Mrs. Baur acted a bit standoffish when talking to his mother, though it never stopped them from wanting her to contact relatives who died during the Great War, illness, or other misfortunes. “And hello to you too, Albert.”
Albert began wringing his hands and looked down at her feet. “H-h-hi..”
Inwardly, he punched himself. Why can’t I be normal?
For as long as he could remember, Albert had difficulty talking to peers and adults—anyone besides his mother, really. He wasn’t sure why, but his insides would sometimes twist and he’d start to get out of breath. It didn’t happen with Russ and Kathy anymore, but Anthony’s smug, judgemental attitude sometimes caused the butterflies to come back.
“I know what you said last time, Evelyn, but since it’s Halloween, I thought…” Mrs. Sinclair trailed off.
Evelyn looked wary, and Albert knew why: Mrs. Sinclair asked her to contact the spirit of her brother before, and wouldn’t accept Evelyn’s blunt response that his ghost had already moved on. Still, his mother said, “Albert, why don’t you take Kathy and Anthony downstairs?”
Albert turned to look at the twins, whose faces lit up. They’d never been downstairs to the basement before.
“B-but…” He didn’t want to take them downstairs. That was his special place, darn it! Kathy, maybe eventually, but Anthony? No way. “They m-might fall down the stairs…”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow and turned to Mrs. Sinclair, ignoring her son. “Martha, I’ll get some tea ready. You can sit right there.”
This is so unfair!!!
“What’s downstairs, Albert?” Kathy asked breathlessly, bouncing on the heels of her feet.
“Probably something dumb,” sneered Anthony, quiet enough so the adults couldn’t hear.
Well, now Albert had no choice but to prove him wrong. “Come on…”
He walked through the kitchen—Kathy and Anthony trailing behind—and opened the basement door. Ignoring Anthony’s speculation of the “stupid” things inside, he trudged down the steps and flickered the light before opening the second door.
When Evelyn and Albert first moved to Meadowbrook, the basement was large, yet dull and barren. It was originally constructed to aid in an amateur bootlegging operation, and when Leona Parsons bought the house in the late ‘20s, it became the last place thirteen truth-seekers would ever see.
But now, the basement was a kaleidoscope of color. Evelyn gave him free reign to decorate, which he used to his full advantage. Blanket forts stood sentinel throughout the floor. Posters lined the walls, and toys and games were strewn on the ground. Although Albert had a bedroom on the upper floor, this place was truly His. He could and did spend hours drawing, reading, imagining, giggling, and playing board games against himself in this basement. It was his little oasis from the realities of the Depression, a land where nothing bad could ever happen.
“Gosh, this place is swell,” Kathy exclaimed, eyes sparkling as she looked at the Buck Rogers poster on the wall.
“It’s not terrible,” Anthony grudgingly agreed, which was the best Albert could hope for. He pointed to a white sheet hanging from a rack in the corner. “Is that your costume?”
“Y-yeah,” Albert admitted. He dragged his feet over to the rack and yanked off the stupid cloth. It was the worst costume he ever had—just a plain white sheet with holes for eyes cut out. This is the worst Halloween ever! God should just kill me and put me out of my misery…
Still, his mother was right about one thing: there were no alternatives. Reluctantly, he tugged the sheet over his head. In an instant, he felt a sense of calmness and confidence flow through him; he was no longer Albert “The Shrimp” Shaw. Now, he was a ghost who didn’t care about puny mortal concerns like Anthony’s bossiness.
Kathy scampered to one of the walls and pointed. “You’re so lucky, Albert,” she sighed dreamily. “I wish I could have seen Mr. Thurston.”
Fixed to one of the walls was a poster of Howard Thurston, the greatest magician in the world. After a lot of begging from Albert, Evelyn framed it so it wouldn't get wrinkled, and every day for the last month when he’d come down here, he’d always get butterflies seeing it. It was almost as if he were the one standing on stage. (Though he was glad he wasn’t—he had no idea how the man stood up in front of everyone without getting stage fright.)
He could remember the magician’s words as if they were yesterday: "In all our lives there are certain events that stand out that cannot be forgotten. I am going to show you something now, ladies and gentlemen, you will remember as long as you live. Behold the impossible."
Truer words were never spoken. Nothing could come close to the sense of wonder Albert felt while watching the Levitation of Princess Karnac and the Rising Cards trick. He felt a thrill just thinking about it. When he was in the audience, he forgot about the Depression, forgot about his missing father, forgot about how much of a weirdo he was. He was in a world where the impossible was possible, a world of magic and enchantment.
What was most magical, however, wasn’t the tricks themselves (though they were phenomenal), but the way the magic transformed Thurston. Although he was in his sixties, on stage he moved with the energy and grace of the younger man depicted in his promotional poster. He had full control not just of the stage, but also the audience. Albert caught a glimpse of him afterwards with his wife and daughter, looking more his age, but with a youthful gleam still dancing in his eyes.
“Forget Thurston,” Anthony scoffed, plucking a book from the shelf and opening it. Albert narrowed his eyes. “Look at all these books.”
Evelyn purchased a set of encyclopedias when the salesman came to the door, and Albert practically devoured them. He spent many nights curled up in the blankets, happily perusing through the books while his mother had gentlemen friends over upstairs.
“Kaaaathy,” Anthony called, a mischievous smirk growing on his face. “Look at this.” He held up the open book.
Kathy let the sock monkey drop from her hand and squinted. She moved a little closer to see, and then…“Ewwwww! Put that away, you jerk!”
Anthony laughed in a manner befitting his costume as Albert snatched the book away from him. He looked at the page and brightened. “Oh, that’s the dewdrop spider! They’re really neat and not that scary. They take over the webs of other spiders, and at first it seems like they’re helping by eating the smaller prey stuck in the web, but then they sometimes eat the other spider too and end up having the whole web to themselves so—”
“Stopstopstopstopstop! I’m not listening!” Kathy said loudly, stomping her foot and putting her hands over her ears. Albert decided he wouldn't be showing Kathy his bug collection anytime soon.
Anthony already lost interest in the encyclopedias and started rummaging through a pile of photos and papers on the shelf. He unwrinkled a poster of “The Enchanting Evelyn,” which depicted Albert’s mother gazing into a crystal ball with the words “She sees all, hears all, knows all” beneath it. She looked so theatrical in the poster that Albert could almost hear the low vocal intonation and see the gestures and makeup she would use when working. A far cry from the weary, put-upon (boring) woman he knew.
“Where did you find this?” Anthony asked, pointing to the picture. “This picture’s old. She looks like a flapper with that headband.”
“It was in her room.” Two months ago, Albert did some unsanctioned exploring while she was away. If Evelyn ever ventured down here, she might be upset that she had them. Or not. She rarely disciplined him, and he never lived in fear of her punishments like his friends did with their parents. Another thing that makes me weird.
A lot of times it felt like she wasn’t really his parent, but rather someone he simply happened to live with.
Kathy clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s such a lovely headband.” Then, a thought occurred to her and she grew more serious. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked, “Albert, is your mom going to the Witches’ Sabbath tonight? Since it’s Halloween and all.”
Albert had no idea what that was, but knew that over half of Denver seemed to be under the impression his mother was an actual witch instead of someone playing up the aesthetic for business. Anthony had enough sense to know it wasn’t true, but after reading ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,’ Kathy was dead set on the idea that Evelyn was a “good witch.”
In addition to his stutter and overall scrawniness, kids at school would make fun of him for having a “witch mom,” and two weeks ago, a fifth grader laughed and said how “someone should throw her into Ferril Lake and see if she floats.” In what was perhaps the biggest upset in Mark Twain Elementary history, Albert launched himself at the other boy and—somehow—successfully beat the shit out of him through a combination of fighting dirty and having the element of surprise. “No. She’s just giving out candy.”
‘Candy’ was a reminder of why they were here, and all three of them sobered. “I don’t want to go to the haunted house,” Kathy whimpered, tugging at the end of one of her blonde curls. “I want caramel pops and Three Musketeers bars.”
“We have to,” insisted Anthony as he inspected an array of different rocks Albert collected. “Otherwise, Bobby and the other kids will think we’re chicken.”
Bobby Baur somehow got roped by his mother into taking the younger neighborhood kids trick-or-treating, and he was not happy about it. He let the third-graders know, in no uncertain terms, that they will be going into the McDougal Haunted House, which was the biggest Halloween attraction in North Denver. Him and his friend Raymond snickered when they mentioned how the younger kids could stay outside and wait for them, but that would be proof the third-graders were wusses, and Albert hoodwinked the school into thinking he was tough by beating up the fifth-grader.
But he did not want to go to the McDougal House, no siree. He heard four separate instances of classmates recounting their near-death experiences, and knowing his luck, he’d definitely get eaten by the werewolf or bitten by the vampire.
“Hmph. I don’t care what they think,” pouted Kathy, crossing her arms and plopping herself down forcefully on the ottoman. “I’m. Not. Going.”
Static sputtered from the radio and a coy, syrupy woman’s voice said, “Alan, dear, you really should listen to your little friend. You have nothing to prove to those other fools.”
Albert gritted his teeth. He became, unfortunately, accustomed to Leona Person’s honeyed yet condescending tones over the past two years.
According to Evelyn, Leona latched onto Albert because she conflated the boy with her dead son Alan. A day didn’t go by where he didn’t hear her voice in some capacity. He knew Leona knew Albert wasn’t really Alan, but it didn’t seem to deter her from pretending.
At first, Albert thought having a ghost watching out for him was really neat, but it quickly became annoying. Her butting in when he was trying to talk to living people and couldn’t respond was definitely one of those times.
“We have to go in,” Albert said, for Leona’s benefit moreso than Kathy’s. “They’ll only think we’re chicken if we stay outside. If we don’t go near the house, then we won’t be. Maybe we could skip going to that street.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Anthony, who flopped down on the ottoman next to his sister. “Bobby said we’re definitely going. He said ‘definitely.’”
“What iffff….” Leona mused, “you and your friends separate yourselves from those little hellions? You don’t need their boorish ways plaguing your favorite holiday, do you?”
It was a simple solution, but one Albert wasn’t sure would work. Bobby was eleven and knew his way around the neighboring streets better than any other kid on Meadowbrook. Going with him would guarantee they would hit up the best houses for candy.
But it would also guarantee going to McDougal’s. Hmm…
“Maybe the three of us and Russ can go trick-or-treating on our own,” Albert suggested, ignoring the smugness that was emanating from the radio.
Anthony adjusted his glasses and looked at Albert condescendingly. “You know the best route?”
“Yeah,” Albert lied. It shouldn’t be that hard. “I’m an expert. We can tell the others we want to split up, maybe after we start and get some candy.” Or get closer to the McDougal House…
Kathy clasped her hands together and squealed, “Yay!”
Anthony wasn’t convinced. “I think you’re going to gum this up, somehow.”
“Take the radio in your room and prove that little shit wrong,” Leona advised. “I can direct you back once you finish your fun.”
Albert was glad Kathy and Anthony couldn't see his face right now. “I won’t,” Albert snapped. The ghost costume gave him courage he usually wouldn’t have. “By the time Halloween’s over, we’re going to have more candy than Bobby Baur!” From underneath the sheet, he bit his thumb hard and held out from underneath the sheets so the twins could see the faint traces of red. “See? I’m making a blood promise.”
He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, but said it with such unwarranted conviction that both Kathy and Anthony’s eyes lit up.
Albert already decided he wouldn’t bring the radio, though. There was no way he was lugging that stupid thing around. It was already the worst day ever, and he didn’t want Leona ruining trick-or-treating.
Besides, he didn’t need it, anyway. He lived on Meadowbrook longer than the Sinclairs and Russ combined. He’d be able to navigate their way home, easy-peasy.
****
“Oh, what lovely costumes!” Mrs. Baur cooed as she placed the Snickers bar in Kathy’s pail. “I wish I had your mother’s sewing talent. And Russ, you’re an adorable little clown! Did your mother or sister do your facepaint?”
“My sister!” Russ replied happily, admiring the latest addition to his stash. Russ was the type of person who always seemed content with the most basic of things, something Albert could never replicate.
“And I take it this one”—she gestured in Albert’s direction—”must be our very own Albert Shaw.” He nodded, sheets flapping up and down. Mrs. Baur beamed and dropped the Snickers into his pail. “Your mom’s very thrifty, Albert.”
“Thank you,” Albert said politely, counting the candy. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve….I’m getting closer to a hundred.
Mrs. Baur squinted as she looked behind them. “Where’s my Bobby? And Dorothy Morelli and Raymond Klein—weren’t they supposed to be with you too? I thought you all were supposed to meet up at the Morelli house.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me Bobby’s run off to go to the Halloween party with Carl. He’s far too young for that sort of thing.”
Albert hoped Mrs. Baur didn’t notice the look Kathy and Russ were giving him. The four third-graders did meet up in the designated spot, but after Dorothy’s mom took a picture of all of them, Albert told Bobby the plan to separate from the group (“We’re afraid you’ll slow us down,” Albert bravely explained, “Sorry, but it’s the truth”). While Albert knew Bobby’s older brother Carl would try to understand why the younger kids wanted to leave and be more concerned about their well-being, Bobby was relieved to get rid of the “midgets” and high-fived Raymond and Dorothy as they rushed off to start their own trick-or-treating.
“We split up to cover more ground,” Albert said. Once he started lying, the rest came out smoothly. “We’re going to put our candies together in the end and divide them evenly.”
“Smart thinking,” Emma said, eyes glimmering. “Well, I wish you folks the best of luck.” She gave a mock salute. “Happy hunting!”
Albert waved goodbye as he walked down the driveway. He liked Mrs. Baur. It was really sad when her husband killed himself because he was so ashamed of getting fired.
For the next hour and a half, the quartet made their way to the different houses, accumulating a respectable stash. Albert thought his pail would be overflowing by now, but he underestimated how many families could only afford to give out sparse offerings, as well as how many homes were foreclosed in the neighboring areas. Every time he would pass a yard sign, Russ’s shoulders would droop, no doubt remembering how he lost his own home. Which was bad for the Rusnak family, but good for Albert because it meant the Rusnaks had to move in with Russ’s grandparents who lived on Meadowbrook.
Eventually, it got darker, which made it much more difficult to determine where they were. Like a captain in a storm at sea, it was up to Albert to guide the group back to Meadowbrook.
So naturally, within thirty minutes, they were somehow in the downtown area of Galesburg.
“I don’t think this is the right way,” Russ said unhelpfully as they passed Hortfords.
“Aha! I knew it!” cried Anthony, in a mix of triumph and anger. He thrusted a finger in Albert’s direction. “I said he’d gum it up, and I was right!”
Albert realized he had no clue where they were a while ago, but was in too deep to admit it. “I know what to do,” he lied. “We just need to follow the North Star and we’ll get home.”
Kathy began to cry and held up her right foot. “My soles can’t take this anymore! I’m not going to have shoes, and it’s going to be all your fault, Albert!”
“I–I was–no, it’s not!” he sputtered. But on the inside, he knew they were right—he really did gum everything up. Why did he think he could do anything right? “We’re only five minutes away from home!”
“If we’re stranded forever and eat all the candy, we might have to resort to cannibalism, like the Donner Party,” Anthony said gravely. “I say we eat Al first.”
“Yeah,” Kathy agreed, nodding sadly. “Sorry Albert, but you’re a shoe-ruiner.”
He looked at Russ helplessly, who bit his lip but said nothing. Traitor!!
“It’s not my fault!” Albert argued. He grabbed a Zagnut bar from his pail and flung it at Anthony’s head. “You didn’t have to listen to me, but you did. It’s your fault!”
“No, it’s your fault!” Anthony yelled, face growing red and fingers curling into a fist. He grabbed the Zagnut bar and flung it back at Albert, hitting him in the eye.
“I already said it’s your fault!” Albert roared, digging his hands into the pail to grab a fistful of candy.
“We might not have to eat anyone if the soup kitchens are open,” Russ interrupted weakly. “See?”
Albert followed where Russ was pointing to and saw a line that seemed as long as a train trailing outside the buildings. His grip loosened, causing the candy to slip between his fingers and back into the pail.
Kathy began to cry again. “It’ll take forever to get inside…”
For some reason, the sight surprised Albert, though he wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t as if holidays made the Depression stop. He tried not to stare as he looked at the forlorn faces of the men. Assuming he could convince Kathy and Russ to eat Anthony instead, would he look like that when he was older? Or would he be able to find a job? His mother said the Depression would be over by the time he was a grown-up, but it already lasted his whole life. What’s twelve more years?
Forget twelve more years! If I find my way back home, what if that’s me next year? What if people stop visiting Mama and we lose our house, like Russ’s family? What if—
His thoughts were interrupted as the door to the soup kitchen swung open, and a worker shoved a disheveled man in an overcoat and trilby hat out onto the sidewalk. The man banged on the door that was quickly slammed shut, hollering how the workers there were “goddamn bastards” and “oversensitive Indian-givers.” A jagged scar ran down the man’s face, next to his ear. And his eyes reflected a bestial, yet familiar, rage.
Something about that voice, that posture, that scar, seemed familiar.
Albert opened his mouth, which suddenly felt dry. Still, he was able to muster one word:
“...Papa?”
The man blinked and lowered his fist. He looked in the direction of the four children, who were standing frozen like deer in the headlights. “Albie? That you, kiddo?”
Albert took the sheet off his head and dropped it on the ground. Without thinking, he sprinted towards his father, but hesitated after getting closer to the man. With the removal of the sheet came vulnerability. “Y-yes, it’s m-me. I–”
In an instant, the man’s demeanor changed, and Albert felt warm, firm arms scoop him into a hug. He smelled alcohol on his father’s breath and felt the stubble as the older man’s lips pressed against his forehead for a kiss. The man left out a hearty laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned! Look at you. You’re almost as tall as me now!”
That wasn’t anywhere close to being true, but it filled Albert’s heart with butterflies all the same. Albert’s mouth opened, then closed. He had no idea what to say, or how to respond.
Albert last saw Henry Shaw when he was four years old. He had vague recollections and could remember his father's appearance and voice, especially with how loud and scary he used to get.
But now, Albert only wanted to remember the positive. He leaned into the touch and buried his head in his father’s chest. “I t-thought y-you weren’t c-coming back.”
Henry sighed and ruffled Albert’s hair. “Trust me, kid, I wanted to. But your mama—well, she’s a real shrew. I made a couple mistakes, and now she’s holding it against me.”
Albert’s grip on his father’s overcoat tightened. “S-she said you did some bad things…”
“I did, but nobody’s perfect, son. She’s gotta forgive me. That’s what people do in relationships. In fact, I think—” Henry stopped suddenly, and Albert craned his neck upward to see his father’s puzzled expression. “Are these your friends, Albie?”
Albert turned around to see a gaping Kathy, confused Russ, and skeptical Anthony. “Yeah…”
“We’re trick-or-treating,” Anthony said. The frown never left his face. “C’mon, Al, let’s go.”
Was Anthony stupid or something? He clenched his arms around his father tighter. “No! I just found my papa.” Thoughts of trick-or-treating and the costume drama of earlier seemed so childish. A thought then occurred to him. “He could show us how to get to Meadowbrook Lane!”
“That’s a great idea, Albert!” Kathy beamed. Russ nodded along happily, but Anthony didn’t look too enthused.
Luckily, Henry was, and he and the four children set forth on their way back to Meadowbrook. Albert agreed with Russ’s assessment that this was a “Halloween miracle”—the timing was nothing less than perfect. Albert didn’t say much throughout the walk and remained content with listening to his father talk. He didn’t know what to say, first off, and second, he was in awe—and envy— of how his father could weave these marvelous tales. Henry’s diction was powerful and he had a way of captivating an audience, albeit a young one. He told them about how he rode the rails, spoke with Clark Gable in an elevator when he was “passing through” Hollywood, rescued an Oklahoma family’s prized donkey during a dust storm, and provided the police a key tip on where to find Bonnie and Clyde after the couple robbed a bank he happened to be in at the same time. When Henry described how he socked Herbert Hoover in the jaw and said, “This is for all the Americans you left out to dry,” Albert began to doubt his stories were true. But it didn’t matter if they were real or not; they were good stories all the same.
While Kathy and Russ latched onto every word of a dubious account on how Joan Crawford and Bette Davis came to blows over Henry (only for him to reluctantly tell the actresses, “Sorry ladies. I’m a married man”), Anthony yanked Albert a few steps back and whispered into his ear. “This is a bad idea, Al. Your dad’s a lush.”
That much was obvious from the alcohol on Henry's breath, but still, Albert bristled. “So what? Grown-ups drink all the time. That’s not weird. ”
“It’s weird that your mom doesn't want him back. Maybe that’s the reason. Drinks make people act different. Or maybe it’s something worse.”
Albert didn’t want to hear it, even though there was a small—small—part of him that knew Anthony was right. “You’re just jealous my papa came back and yours didn’t,” he snapped.
“At least mine’s doing real work for the President instead of getting plastered and picking fights!” Anthony hissed in return.
The urge to yank Anthony’s pail out of his hands and beat him with it was strong, but he stopped when he saw his father eyeing them curiously. “We’re getting close to where you kids live, yeah?”
Albet looked at the street numbers, noticing for the first time that they were back in the familiar neighborhood. Within a few minutes, Russ went off to his grandparents’ home and Anthony–who sulked for the rest of the walk—grabbed Kathy’s hand as they made their way to their home (“Bye, Albert! Bye Mr. Shaw!” she waved happily, the state of her shoes completely forgotten). 7742 was now within eyesight, which caused Albert to feel a mixture of emotions.
“I d-don’t want you to go,” he said softly.
“I don’t want to either, Albie,” Henry sighed, ruffling his son’s hair. Albert felt warm again at the touch. “But like I was saying before, it’s up to your mama, not me. If only there was someone to vouch for me…”
Albert tricked to rack his brain for someone who could, then his eyes widened. “I could do it!”
Henry put his hands to his chest and gasped. “Really? You’d do that for me?” Albert nodded so forcefully he thought his neck might snap. “Awww, shucks, kid! You really saved my bacon. Looks like you’re growing up after all.”
Feeling of pride and importance swelled up in him, which gave him enough courage to say, “Papa, kids in school call me Al, not Albie or Bertie.”
Henry took off his trilby and gave a mock bow. “Pleasure to meet you Al.” Albert giggled as Henry put his hat back on and winked. “Now, let’s not keep your mother waiting.”
****
When Evelyn laid eyes on Henry, she swore in a way that would cause Mrs. Baur to nod her head in approval. Grabbing the same knife she used to carve the pumpkin, she held it up and pointed it in Henry's direction. “Get out.”
Albert looked up at his father with wide wide eyes, but Henry didn’t seem concerned. A lazy smirk spread across his face, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Hiya, Evelyn.”
“Out.”
“Mama!” Albert cried out, aghast. This is going all wrong… “We’re supposed to be a family!”
Evelyn lowered the knife slightly and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her other hands. “Bertie, please. Not now.”
“‘Bertie’?” Henry echoed. He raised an eyebrow. “This little guy’s a man now. He’s Al.”
“Yeah!” Albert added, nodding vigorously.
Evelyn closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, and Albert imagined she was counting to five like she told him to do when he gets angry. When her eyes finally opened, they locked fiercely onto Henry. “If you don’t leave this home in thirty seconds,” she began, using the “Enchanting Evelyn” inflection, “I will summon the spirits of every chump you cheated and swindled and watch as they rip apart your soul.”
Albert didn’t think she could actually do that, but Henry raised his hands up nonetheless. “Hey, hey, c’mon now, Evie. I just wanna talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
Albert felt the nails of his fingers digging into his palms. Why did his mother have to be so weird all the time? Why couldn’t she be like other moms? Mrs. Sinclair would have cried tears of happiness if her husband came back from the WPA. Mrs. Baur would probably do the same if her husband came back from the dead.
“Look, I made some mistakes. I said some things to you I shouldn’t’ve said, and there was that fling with Edith and Helen–”
“–and Florence and Gladys and—”
“Right, right.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “I ain’t perfect. I’ll be the first to admit that. But a boy needs his father.”
“What Bertie”—Al, Mama, Al!—”needs is a calm, peaceful home.”
Henry laughed, but it sounded sharp and mean, not like his laugh earlier. “Oh, and you’re the one to give it to him?” He turned his head and pointed to the jagged scar that ran down the side. “You almost sliced off my ear, you crazy bitch.” Albert froze at the B word. “But y’know what? I won’t hold that against you. We’ll call it even stevens for the shit I pulled, yeah? Because Al comes first. Isn’t that right, son?”
Albert slouched his shoulders; he didn’t feel as confident as he did before. “U-um…”
“He’s not your pawn, Henry,” Evelyn snapped. She turned to her son, eyes softening. “Bertie, go to bed please. Your father and I need to have a grown-up conversation.”
Albert’s eyes welled with tears—was he really going to lose his father again, after finally reuniting? Was his mother really this cruel?
I hate her!!
Albert’s face was like a thundercloud, but he did as his mother asked, giving his father one last pitiful look before stomping down the hall and into his room. Henry winked at him, easing his turmoil a little. But just a little.
He kept his door open slightly and strained to listen.
“You think these folks are gonna want a dame like you living on Meadowbrook? ” he heard his father murmur. “C’mon. I hear the things they say in the bars. I’ve only been here a month, but I make friends.”
Evelyn laughed bitterly. “‘Friends’? You mean your bookies? What hogwash…regardless of what they think, they pay me.”
“And why is that, hmm? I made you into what you are. You’d be nothing without me, kitten. A bored farmer’s wife wondering about life’s couldas, wouldas, and shouldas.”
“You used me to make yourself rich,” Evelyn hissed. “I was fourteen when you convinced me to leave. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
“Well, I ain’t rollin’ in dough anymore, I’ll tell ya that much. And everyone uses everyone, sweetheart. We just both happened to get something outta it.”
Evelyn laughed scornfully. “Oh, please. A violent, philandering drunk? Whatta prize.”
Henry’s tone grew colder. “I don’t remember you complaining back then. You were so damn obsessed, I could barely take a piss without you clinging to me.”
“That’s because I was deluded enough to think you were my knight in shining armor instead of a two-bit grifter. But I wised up, and Bertie and I have been perfectly fine on our own.”
“Oh, please…the kid’s why I need to be here,” Henry said. Albert’s heart leapt. “You’ve seen the way he looks at me compared to you.”
Albert bit his lip, and his heart sank as quickly as it lifted. His father wasn’t wrong, but hearing it said out loud made Albert feel weird and uncomfortable. He loved his mother, he just didn’t think she liked him back.
“He’s so young he barely remembers. But soon the novelty will wear off. I know you, Henry. You won't be able to control your temper.”
“I’m a changed man,” Henry insisted. “And you and him need me, Evie. You know what the rubes are saying out there?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “This Depression’s the Lord’s punishment for all the gin and sin and Hollywood decadence of the last decade.” He chuckled. “There’s a moral resurgence brewing in this country, and a witch-bitch abandoning her husband ain’t a good look. And what’re they gonna think of poor lil’ Albie, with you as his mama? You need me, Evelyn. You always have.”
“I don’t…oh!”
Evelyn let out a small, startled gasp while Henry chuckled. “You missed that right? C’mon, babe. No one will love you like I do.”
“Henry, stop. I—”
“Shh, shh.”
Albert could make out a few sounds, but couldn’t distinguish their voices anymore. He crept away from the doorframe, carefully closed the door, and slipped into bed. Despite his mother wanting him to go to sleep, he couldn’t—his mind was racing at the possibility of losing his father. Again. And so he stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours until he heard the door creak open.
His mother stepped gently over a toy airplane and hovered by Albert’s bedspread. He turned and stared at her, eyes pleading.
She looked tired and broken in a way she never did before. “You really want him to stay, don’t you?”
Albert nodded, eyes wide. A flicker of hurt appeared in Evelyn’s eye before she sighed, eyes regaining their glassy coolness. “I figured as much. He’s gone to the motel, and he’ll be getting his belongings and coming back here to—”
Albert flung himself out of bed and hugged his mother’s waist. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!!”
As expected, his mother grew rigid at the touch, but Albert didn’t care for once. He was going to get real hugs all the time now that Henry’s back.
She awkwardly placed a hand atop his head as if he were a dog, and Albert noticed her wrist had a bruise that wasn’t there before. “This is only for a few days. And if there are any problems, let me know, okay?”
Albert nodded and scooted back into bed, snuggling in and fluffing his pillow. What ‘problems’? This is going to be the swell-est thing that’s ever happened! Even better than seeing Mr. Thurston!
Still, seeing Evelyn’s pained expression when leaving the room stirred something in Albert. He wasn’t sure why Evelyn didn’t like Henry, and hearing the snippets of conversation made him even more confused, and slightly uneasy.
So he pushed the thought away and focused on the positive: His father was back!! He was going to be like a normal kid with two parents living together. He smiled and shut his eyes as he shifted over to his side.
The hole in his life felt like it was finally being filled. What started out as the worst day of his life ended up becoming his best. It was like the girl on the phone said: change happens quickly.
“Hmph. Evelyn’s making a mistake with that one. Coitus on the dinner table–honestly! How gauche. It appears my house is now a barn.”
Albert opened his eyes and clenched his jaw. It was the best day ever, until now.
Leona’s voice was coming from the radio set Albert left in his room earlier. “It’s not a mistake. My papa’s finally back.”
“Alan, darling, I’m no stranger to fools like him. He’s trying to take your mother’s money and will take advantage of you to do it.”
Rage began to boil. “I’m not Alan,” Albert hissed. “And Papa’s not trying to steal Mama’s money. He’s here because he loves and misses me.”
Leona chuckled. “Oh, you sweet dear. I wish I could bottle up your innocence.”
“At least I want him here!” he snapped. “I don’t want you or any other dead person, so beat it!”
Leona tsk-ed. “All I’m trying to do is help you, love. Saving you from the inevitable crushing disappointment.”
Albert tried not to let the words get under his skin, but they wormed their way there anyway. His anger receded and a whiny tone emerged from his throat. “Stop saying that! Everything's going to be perfect now. I’ll be just like everyone else.”
“Oh, but you’re not like everyone else. Talking to me proves that.”
Albert rolled over to his side and shut his eyes tight. Tears welled up all the same. “Papa knows I'm practically a grown-up now. You and Mama don’t. You w-want me to stay a kid forever”—now the tears started leaking—”and now you’re r-ruining the best day of my life!”
“You’re seven, dearie. Those years will fade quickly, but you’re still a long ways off from adulthood.”
“N-no I’m not! I already know what I’m going to be. In–in ten years I’m going t-to be a pilot and have five dogs. Shirley Temple’s going to be my wife. I already started planning for it, so that’s proof I'm growing up. Kids don’t plan stuff like that.”
Leona chuckled over the radio, and Albert bristled, remembering how his mother found humor in his agony earlier in the day. “Alan—my Alan—always used to say I hovered. But the one time I didn’t, my poor little lamb fell into the river and—”
Her voice broke, and Albert’s anger dissipated, guilt beginning to push in. “I’m not like Alan. I can swim. Also, I won’t die until I’m at least ninety, so you don’t have to worry.”
Leona chuckled again, a mixture of laughter and tears. “Oh, how I wish that were true.”
“It is. Both my parents are going to watch over me and everything’s going to be just like in the pictures.” His voice became smaller, vulnerable. “I want to at least try.”
There was a long silence where Albert thought Leona left. But when he shifted his position to fall asleep, he heard a quiet voice, barely perceptible over the static. “Will me leaving truly make you happy?”
Albert clutched the sheets. Of all the things he expected Leona to say, that wasn’t it. “Y-yes.”
There was another pause that lasted several seconds before Leona sighed. But this time, it didn’t sound sad. It sounded wistful. “I never meant you to feel trapped with me, darling. I just wanted”— She sighed again— “I wanted a second chance. I wanted happiness. But I made a fine mess of things, haven't I?”
A twinge of regret started to slip into Albert. “Talking to you is okay…sometimes. Maybe ten percent.”
“But it never should have happened at all. I understand that now. You need your freedom. You need chances to succeed, and chances to fail. So, I'll be taking my leave now, love.”
It was as though a bucket of ice water was poured on him. Albert sat upright, staring at the radio with wide eyes. Although he wanted this to happen for a long time, he didn’t feel as eager as he thought he would. It was so sudden. “R-really?”
“Yes.”
Albert swallowed. What does one say to a ghost like this? He had a small urge to tell her that he wanted her to stay, but the part that wanted him to live the normal life eclipsed those feelings. “Bye, Leona.” Then, quieter: “I’ll miss you…”
“Goodbye, Albert. And good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
There was a burst of static from the radio, and then it was dead. Albert stared at the radio for a while before closing his eyes, though he wasn’t able to sleep for the rest of the night.
****
Albert had greater difficulty adapting to a Leona-less life than he thought. There were times when he'd say something and expect her to respond, or times where he’d cry and expect her to comfort him. But she never did. It seemed as though Leona Parsons was well and truly gone, off to whatever greener pastures awaited her.
But he didn’t have too much time to dwell on it, because there was someone else who occupied his thoughts far more often.
Despite Evelyn’s claim that Henry would only be staying a few days, those days turned into weeks, and those weeks turned into months. And with Henry Shaw’s reintroduction into their lives came a slew of changes.
At first, it was the tiny things. Telling Albert to spend less time playing in the streets, telling Evelyn what to make for dinner, telling Mrs. Baur (who was no fan of Henry and wasn’t shy to express it) how she needed to put mesh wire over her backyard chicken coop so the chickens wouldn’t scoot under the fence and into the Shaws’ property.
Those tiny things started to snowball into medium-sized things, then larger things, and soon, Henry held onto his family with the powerful grip that was expected of a father. He set the rules Evelyn and Albert were expected to follow, and Albert quickly learned the hard way that it was not wise to stray from his wishes. Even though getting punished hurt something awful, having a father who wanted the best for him was, in Albert’s mind, well worth it. Albert’s father also gave him a level of affection his mother never did. Henry would hug and kiss him, take him to movies and parks, play catch and other types of games with him. And if he’d get hurt or really sad, his father would sometimes give him candy or soda pop to make him feel better.
Something else Albert quickly learned was how Henry felt it was important to maintain an “image.” Whereas Evelyn was never concerned about community perception, Henry was shrewd and calculating, buttering up all the important individuals. He put a stop to Evelyn’s business and had them regularly go to church. He told Evelyn and Albert what they could wear and not wear, how they were supposed to talk and act in public. Like normal families, Henry became the breadwinner. Albert had no idea what Henry’s job was, or how he was raking in so much dough. But he knew whatever he was doing was enough to get him on the good side of the mayor, the police chief, an editor of the town’s newspaper, and a couple local doctors. Whereas Evelyn was like a gentle and reclusive moon, Henry basked in attention like the sun.
Yet despite Henry’s superficial openness, there were certain secrets Albert needed to keep, like the lady friends his father would sometimes bring over when Evelyn was out of the house. Still, keeping the different secrets locked in his heart was well worth it if it meant his father would stay. Even though he often felt like the secrets were trying to claw their way out of his chest, he shoved them back in and stayed the course.
Albert tried not to glance at his mother too much, or he’d feel the traitorous wavering of doubt. Because the longer Henry stayed, the more lethargic and detached Evelyn became. While Albert originally told himself it was because she needed time to get used to having her husband back, he soon accepted that having his mother love his father as much as he did was unlikely at best, delusional at worst. And as much as he tried to deny it, he knew why: At times, it felt like Evelyn and Albert were being pushed out of their own home.
Albert knew that the man was supposed to be the head of the household, but sometimes it was…difficult. The biggest challenge being the basement.
When Albert grabbed Henry’s hand and led him downstairs for the first time, Henry whistled in admiration, laughing about how it was “almost too big a spot for a little kid.” The next day, Albert saw Henry head downstairs with measuring tape and a notepad. About a week after that, Albert was told he needed to empty out his belongings from the basement and put them somewhere else, because Henry was going to be using the basement from now on.
“This is gonna be temporary, is all,” Albert remembered Henry saying over the sound of his heartbreak. “I need a spot where me and the boys can discuss business. You can put your things back soon, don’t worry.”
Except “soon” never came.
For Albert’s eighth birthday, Henry walked his son down the stairs to show him one of his presents. Ever since Henry took over, the rare times he needed to descend the stairs would fill him with misery, but he was determined not to let his discomfort show at the dull, sterile atmosphere of his (and it’ll always be mine, no matter what Papa says) basement. Whereas colorful blanket forts, encyclopedias, and toy cars once littered the floor, tables with chips and stacks of money, chairs, and a chalkboard with names and numbers now populated the area. His gift was hooked onto the back wall.
“Well, whaddya think? It’s the latest model.”
What did his father want him to say? It was a simple black rotary phone: bulky, ugly, and unwelcome. Even at eight years old, Albert was smart enough to realize it was a present for Henry, not him. “Thank you.”
Then Henry ruffled his hair, and Albert’s discomfort began to fade. So when Evelyn asked how he was feeling with Henry back–as she did every week—he said he was thrilled to have his father in his life again.
Albert knew that Evelyn was disappointed whenever he answered that way, but he never answered any differently, even during times when he really felt otherwise. So she acquiesced to Henry’s control over the household and surrendered her source of income and independence in silence.
In addition to Albert’s words, there was something else that solidified Henry’s presence in their household: something growing inside Evelyn.
Nine months after Henry’s arrival, Maxwell James Shaw was born. He was a chubby, babbling little slug who sucked his toes as if they were jawbreakers. Albert was prepared to loathe him, but the giggles and gurgles and ungraceful (yet enthusiastic) hand-clapping melted his icy heart, and Albert was tentatively ready to be a big brother.
He also felt a sense of camaraderie with the baby; upon his birth, Evelyn seemed as detached as ever—perhaps even more so. While Albert always questioned whether Evelyn truly cared for him, he really got the impression she didn’t care for the baby. She was going through the motions, feeding and changing and rocking him. But there was a numbness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. She spent most days in her room and never spoke to Albert about ghosts anymore, which was something he always used to want, but now that it was actually happening, he missed those conversations.
Overall, Albert was happy to have his father back, though Anthony’s words were prophetic in the sense that Albert soon understood why Evelyn left him. Henry could be mean, selfish, and violent. Sometimes, Albert was afraid of him. Sometimes, Albert couldn't sleep and would feel sad and anxious for no reason. Sometimes, he would experience headaches and stomach aches with no clear cause. Sometimes, he would have trouble focusing and lose his appetite. Sometimes, he’d twist, bite, and scratch at his skin throughout the school day. Sometimes, he spent a lot of time thinking about death and dying.
But that was only sometimes. Most of the time, everything was peachy-keen.
****
A couple days after Max started to crawl, the phone rang during breakfast. It was a weekend, and Henry left to meet with some “work friends” (it’s probably a lady), leaving Evelyn alone with her two sons. If Max wasn’t squealing in his high chair, it could have been like old times.
Evelyn answered the call, and Albert strained to hear from the other room. “Hello? Yes, this is Evelyn. Oh, hello, Agata.” Albert froze; Agata was Russ’s sister in high school who would often translate for his Mrs. Rusnak. Oh crap. “No, I—” She paused. “What? No, that can’t be right. Are you sure it’s him? My son Albert has brown hair, a bit above his shoulder. I don’t—” She paused again and Albert considered bolting out the front door. “What? C-can you explain—” She then lowered her voice and Albert couldn’t make out the rest of what she was saying. She spoke with Agata for the next five minutes, every second feeling like an eternity. Albert stared intently at his plate, prodding his biscuit with his fork.
Evelyn placed the receiver back on the phone, he heard the clicking of heels get closer, and then: “I received a concerning call from Agata.”
Russ! You little snitch! He fumed, ignoring the guilt welling up inside him. He stabbed at his biscuit, causing the tomato gravy to bleed through the punctures.
“Albert, look at me.”
Her tone held no room for discussion, and Albert reluctantly lifted his gaze. He expected his mother to look at him with disgust and hatred, but instead all he saw was worry. He fought off the urge to run into her arms.
“Why did you do that to your friend? And don’t tell me ‘what?’ You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“I didn’t know he would get upset,” Albert mumbled. Despite his mother’s insistence, he was unable to maintain eye contact and his gaze drifted to Max, who was clapping his hands and gurgling from his high chair. Albert was envious of the child’s obliviousness. “I was trying to make him feel good as a thank-you for giving me the Hank Greenberg baseball card.”
After Russ’s reaction he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the card without feeling gross and embarrassed, but he didn’t mention that. Evelyn sat herself in the chair across from him, so there was no escaping her sight. “Did Russ seem happy?”
Albert paused and shook his head, wishing he could teleport himself anywhere but here. Evelyn sighed and placed her hands over her temples. “Bertie, that behavior is for adults, not children.”
“I’m almost a grown-up,” he murmured, starting to unconsciously kick his legs back and forth.
“No, you’re not. Where did you learn about those things?” she asked, desperation breaking into her voice. Albert curled his toes and looked down at his biscuit again. He wasn’t hungry anymore. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know…” he said, tears started to prickle in his eyes.
“Yes you do. You’ve been acting differently these past few months, and I thought it was because of the baby, but…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes gained a fierce intensity. “Bertie, did someone tell you about those things? Or did they show you?”
Albert wanted to crawl into a hole and hide forever. He wasn’t going to be a snitch like Russ. “I–I can’t…it’s a secret.”
“Was it your father?” Upon seeing Albert’s alarmed expression, Evelyn's eyes flamed with fury. I knew it. She’s going to be mad at me…Papa’s going to be mad at me too…
The emotional intensity caused tears to escape his eyes, his father’s taunts of him being a crybaby echoing in his head like drumbeats. Evelyn stood up suddenly, and Albert wasn’t sure if he wanted to be hugged or hit or both. But Evelyn did neither. Instead, she scooped up Max and said quietly—though her voice trembled with…something—and without making eye contact, “Pack up your essential belongings. We’re going to be staying a motel for a few days.”
The ocean of sadness turned into a tsunami of anger and horror. “No, I don’t want to leave!”
“You can bring your bugs. Now, hurry. This isn’t up for discussion.”
The fact that Evelyn didn’t know all the insects in his collection died months ago was minor—all things considered—but it irrationally incited him enough to wipe away his tears and spit out, “I’m not going!”
Max started to cry, and Evelyn rubbed circles on the baby’s back as her patience frayed. “Yes, you are,” she snapped. “I’ve been the one slaving away for the past few years making sure we have food on our table and a roof over our heads. He’s a miserable lout who’d slit both our throats for a quarter! When you’re older, you’ll understand his affection’s all an act.” Her voice lost its edge and grew softer as she buried her face into Max’s neck. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, but he’s not a good man. What he did to you proves that. That type of behavior is…wrong.”
Albert knew, deep down, what Evelyn said was right, but he wasn’t about to admit it. It’s not true, it’s not. “At least he loves me. You don’t!”
That finally caused Evelyn to look at him, startled and wounded. She shifted Max to her other shoulder and opened her mouth before closing it. Then, she opened it again and stammered, “Of course I l-love you.” ‘Of course.’ Sure…This was the first time he remembered her ever saying it. “I'm just not good with…” She trailed off again, before sighing and redirecting. “Albert, this isn’t an appropriate time for this conversation. Get your things. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
There would never be an ‘appropriate’ time for that conversation. Still, hearing that his mom loved him (even if it’s fake) mollified him enough to wipe his tears with his sleeve, scamper to his room, and pack his belongings. Within a half-hour, they were gone.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They stayed at the motel for four days. Evelyn cooked Albert’s favorite food for breakfast and dinner, so it wasn’t all bad. His mother was lost in her own thoughts and even more reticent than usual. At times, she would look at him as though she wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. Albert felt the same way. He had a lot of big feelings churning inside him, but wouldn’t know where to even begin.
Albert was too afraid to ask what was going to happen to them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen, but he certainly didn’t want to live a life without affection. The good news was even if Evelyn left Henry again, Albert thought that he might, might, have someone who would love him unconditionally: Max. The baby’s face always broke into a grin whenever he saw Albert, which made the boy melt like butter. The two of them had each other, if nothing else.
Albert hoped his mother wouldn’t make him go to school, but the motel was closer to Twain Elementary than his house was, and she sent him there the following day with a rare kiss on the forehead. “Things’ll go back to the way they used to be, sweetie. Don’t worry.”
Albert huffed and pouted as he left the motel and wandered down the street, making a turn at the corner. As he continued walking in the direction of the school, he admitted to himself that his mother was right. Going to school wasn’t so bad. It was normal, and the past few days were decisively abnormal.
But Albert’s life was about to get very abnormal, very quickly.
“Albie!” a voice hissed. Albert spun around to see his father from across the street, beckoning him. Albert clutched his book strap and swallowed.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Albert mumbled, hoping his voice carried over across the street. He also had a deep fear of what his father might do, but Henry didn’t seem angry—just skittish.
“I’m up shit creek without a paddle, kid. I’ve got friends in this town, but I didn’t count on that Baur bitch having more. You gotta help me out here. Don’t you care what happens to me?”
He beckoned Albert over again. Albert bit his lip, but crossed the street towards him. “I didn’t mean t-to say anything, I—”
“Forget about it,” Henry said, eyes darting frantically down the street. “Point is, it happened. And since you blabbed, I’m gonna get sent to the clink.”
Albert’s eyes widened as panic gripped his throat. “I didn’t think it was bad! You told me it wasn’t!”
“It’s not, but sometimes laws are stupid, like when they banned alcohol.” Henry took off his trilby and ran a hand through his brown hair. “Your mama’s making a mountain out of a molehill. I barely even did anything!” His eyes drifted downward towards his son, who was looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. “The coppers are going to wanna talk to you, Albie. You’re gonna have to bend the truth a bit for me.”
“But I can’t lie to the police!” Albert exclaimed, alarmed. “I’ll get in trouble.”
“Not lie, just leave out a few things…”
“I–I c-can’t…”
Henry gripped him by the arm, causing him to cry out. “If you don't, then we’ll both get in trouble,” he snarled. “How do you think a little kid like you’s gonna fare in the clink, huh?”
“I didn’t think they sent kids to jail,” Albert whimpered. Worst-case scenarios flickered through his mind.
“They can, and they do,” Henry said gravely. “You might even get sent to Alcatraz.”
The thought of the island prison made Albert’s stomach churn and tears pool into his eyes. “I c-can’t—no, I don’t wanna go to jail!!”
“Me neither,” said Henry, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “So this is what you gotta say…”
And Henry told him. He mentioned possible questions, and ways to respond. He walked Albert through what might possibly happen, and by the time it was over, Albert’s mind was spinning.
“It’s really important that you remember all that. If you don’t, we’ll never see each other again, and you don’t want that, right?”
Henry was right; Albert didn’t want that. He loved Henry, and Henry loved him back. So Albert shook his head. “But what about Mama?”
“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
He winked, and Albert felt a familiar sense of unease.
****
The next few days were a blur. Like Henry predicted, the police came and wanted to speak with Albert. And like Henry asked, Albert answered their questions in a way that obscured the reality of what happened.
Albert tried to forget his mother frantically demanding to know why Albert lied, tried to forget her driving to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane and banging on the door, yelling at Henry to get the hell out of her house. Tried to forget that awkward night, and tried to forget the next day, when Henry, the police, and some men in white showed up at the door.
He didn’t remember much, but he did remember the shock in Evelyn’s eyes as she was escorted to a car. Remembered her insistence that there was nothing wrong with her, remembered the look of anguish as her eyes met his for the last time. He remembered the car driving down Meadowbrook and the neighbors peeking through their windows, trying not to stare.
He didn’t fully understand what his father and the other men were talking about: “My Condolences,” “Institution,” “Delusions,” “Hysterical,” “Auditory Hallucinations,” “Witchcraft,” “Lobotomy.”
“The Depression hit her hard, and she went batty,” Henry said solemnly, shaking the hands of one of the men as they piled back into their cars. He placed a hand on his heart. “But thankfully, my son can grow up and live a normal life.”
After they left, Henry started grinning like a shark.
“Where did Mama go?” Albert asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. “And when’s she coming back?”
“She’s sick right now, so the doctors are gonna try to fix her.”
Evelyn didn’t seem sick at all. Albert started to feel goosebumps creeping over him. “When’s she coming back? What about Max?”
Henry waved the thought away. “She’ll be home soon, kid. And don’t worry about Maxie. You remember Mildred?” Mildred was one of Henry's lady friends who would sometimes come over when Evelyn was away. “She’s going to be living with us from now on. She’ll take care of your brother and do the rest of the women’s work.”
Albert opened his mouth in protest—he did not want Mildred. But the protest died on his tongue when he saw his father’s expression. He was still smiling, but there was something off about his eyes. Something greedy, calculating, and ambitious.
Henry reached out and gave Albert’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “That's twice you’ve saved my neck. You’re a special kid, Albie.”
Albert smiled weakly as his father winked. He wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, he thought of the dewdrop spider.
Notes:
-Just to clarify: No, this chapter is NOT meant to “explain” why Al has a sexual interest in boys during the events of the film. That’s something that will not have a clear answer in this story, just like how in real life there is no agreed-upon consensus as to what drives some people to have pedophilic tendencies. Although the percentage of male pedophiles and sex offenders who report childhood SA is much higher than reported CSA of males in the general population, the vast majority of male SA victims do not go on to become offenders. What this chapter *is* meant to do is lay some groundwork for Al’s warped view of what he considers to be “love.”
-And on that note, his own experiences do not invalidate, mitigate, or excuse the trauma he caused Finney and his other victims. Plenty of serial killers like John Wayne Gacy, Albert Fish, Albert DeSalvo (wtf is up with the Alberts?!), and Donald Henry Gaskins were abused as children, but plenty of regular people were too. The decision to harm others is a choice.
-Henry is a sex offender, but despite his actions, he’s not sexually attracted to children (unlike Al). There’s often overlap between the two categories, but not always. During my research for this story, one thing I found surprising was that the majority of men who abused boys were in relationships with adults and identified as heterosexual. Henry’s actions were motivated by power, desire for control, and amusement as opposed to genuine sexual interest. The relationships he had with the women mentioned in this chapter were genuine.
–What happened to Evelyn is sadly based on real-life accounts of women being institutionalized by husbands in the 19th and early 20th centuries.
Chapter 15: Look Before You Leap
Notes:
-Finally, we're back to Finney's POV!
-The lines Gwen uses for her “announcer-voice” in this chapter are the real lines of dialogue from the Time-Out commercial in 1980.
Chapter Text
“And then I took a rock and smashed it against the back of his stupid head! Four times, Finney. Four! It was like when I brained Matt, only better. Going there was worth it, just for that.”
While he couldn’t deny the mental image was cathartic, any satisfaction was infinitesimal compared to the gargantuan shadow of worry now plaguing Finney’s mind. “No, it wasn’t,” he grumbled, rummaging through the refrigerator. His hand settled on an ice-cold water bottle. “Now he’s going to be pissed.”
Gwen shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s already pissed. So what?”
Gwen’s ignorance was both a blessing and a curse. “He doesn’t let that kind of thing go,” Finney recalled, closing the door. Memories of various perceived transgressions throughout his captivity—and the Grabber’s subsequent, inevitable rage— flitted through his mind like a reel of film. His fingers curled over the bottle. “He’s going to get back at you somehow, and—wait.” Finney’s eyes narrowed at Gwen, who had an innocent expression on her face. Too innocent… “Did he do something already?”
“No,” she replied, far quicker than normal.
Does she want me to have gray hairs by the time I’m seventeen? “Gwen. Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing!” she huffed, crossing her arms. But a few seconds of Finney’s glare wore her down enough to admit, “Okay, fine. He hit me in the head, too. But I’m better now!” She turned around and pointed to the back of her head. “See? No brains.”
Brains? “What the fu—goddamnit, Gwen!” he cried, aghast. “This is why I said don’t antagonize him.”
“Worth it,” she repeated smugly. Finney closed his eyes and mentally counted to five.
For the past thirty minutes, Gwen had been telling her brother a jumbled, disjointed account of her voyage into the land of the dead. If Finney didn’t see Gwen’s unconscious body and how rattled she looked when she woke up, he wouldn’t have believed it. He didn’t want to believe it. What she described was nothing less than horrifying, and Finney felt sick to his stomach imagining Robin or any of the boys trapped in that twisted hellscape.
With a sigh, Finney opened his eyes and headed towards the couch where his sister was laying. “Gwen, he began, voice much calmer this time. He passed her the water bottle. “He was trying to lure you into a trap, like he did with me. I bet he knew the bull was wai—”
“It wasn’t a bull,” Gwen interjected, unscrewing the cap, “It just seemed that way to me, I think.”
“Fine, whatever. Point is, he knew you would do something stupid like this.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration as Gwen started gulping from the bottle. “I told you it was a bad idea. What if I showed up ten minutes later, then what? For all we know, you could have died like those people from the twenties.”
“Good thing I had someone watching out for me,” she said lightly, holding up the burnt medallion. But upon seeing Finney’s incensed expression, she sobered. “Look, I know it was really stupid, and I’m sorry. You were right. It was dangerous and dumb. But I just saw his stupid face and—argh!!” She kicked empty air. “I knew he was leading me into a trap, but I couldn’t help it….”
“Why not?” Finney asked in exasperation, throwing himself down on the chair across from her. “If you know he can’t be trusted, then why the hell would you listen to him?” He then sat straighter, leaning forward. “Gwen, what did he say?”
“N-nothing,” she mumbled, blushing and avoiding eye contact. Butterflies began to flutter inside his stomach. “When I first saw him, I told myself I wasn’t going to fall for it. It was only when Jesse—wait.” She abruptly sat up. “Finney, was Jesse at Donna’s house?”
Where’s she going with this? “Yeah…”
“Okay, good,” she said, slumping back into the couch in relief. “Because I just remembered you saying he pretended to be Donna and was wondering if he did the same with Jesse. Jesse told me the Theosophists used the basement too, and I just—I felt like I had to try. I was really worried, especially after this morning…”
“I know…” Finney winced. He was dreading this moment, but knew they’d have to have this conversation at some point. ”I’m glad you’re okay. And I'm sorry I said those things earlier. I don’t know why I did…that wasn’t me.”
“I’m sorry, too. I think…” Gwen ventured carefully, eyes analyzing every facet of his expression, “the three of us need to have a talk. To clear the air, but also to talk about everything that’s been going on the past three—”
“No,” interrupted Finney. No fucking way. “I don’t need to deal with that on top of everything else. I’ll apologize to Dad when he gets home, then that shit’ll be in the past and we can move on with our lives.”
Finney could tell Gwen wanted to protest, but she must have seen something in his expression that gave her pause because she shrank away. “Okay…” she mumbled. There was a long, awkward pause. Right before Finney planned to excuse himself, Gwen perked up. “It was cool seeing Max. Now that we’re got a ghost on our side, maybe we can even the playing field. He could keep the Grabber distracted. Like, maybe they could fight like Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots or—ohhh!” She smacked her forehead. “I forgot to thank him for trying to help you and the other kids. Shit. I’ll have to do it next time.”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” he snapped. That being said, he wanted to thank Max, too. “Now that Max has his memories back, maybe he could communicate with us in this world, like the Grabber does.”
“Yeah…you know, maybe I could get a cassette player and he could talk through that. Or maybe—ooooh, I know. Maybe a Time-Out!” Finney felt his heart stop. “Like in the commercial.” She did her best announcer-voice. “‘All tell time and are so slim, you’ll play them anywhere! Basketball threw your back out? Take Time-Out!’”
“W-what…?” he croaked, mind racing. “What makes you think of, um, why…?”
Gwen shrugged. “When I was getting chased by the Minotaur, I saw you looking at a Time-Out and screamed for help. I think you heard me since you looked around, and if I can communicate with you, then so should Max.” Gwen started to chew on a strand of her hair absentmindedly. “You know, you were wearing the same outfit then that you are right now, But you don’t have a Time-Out, so that’s gotta be something in the future, right?”
“Um.” Finney needed to make a split second decision. “I have one, yeah. I found it in the dresser in my room.”
Gwen beamed. “Well, don’t hold out on me! Which one? Toss-Up? Exterminator? Flag Man? Fireman, Fireman?”
“Flag Man…”
“I’m borrowing it,” she announced gleefully.
“You can’t.”
Gwen frowned.
What the hell should I say?
Finney didn’t want to lie to his sister, especially after she literally went to the afterlife for him. But admitting the Grabber had been in perpetual contact with him through the screen was out of the question.
The thought of Gwen knowing he was talking to the Grabber consistently, and in secret, bothered him tremendously. He feared the assumptions she’d make, and it didn’t help that his mental scrambling to hide it made him feel like Juliet trying to shove Romeo off the balcony before her parents noticed, if Romeo happened to be a child-killing blackmailer with a one-sided obsession with Juliet, that is. (And wasn’t she thirteen, too? Why the hell is it considered a great love story??) “I, um, I need it. It helps me calm down.”
As Gwen’s eyes shone sympathetically, Finney felt himself wilt on the inside. Not just because of the perceived vulnerability, but because the idea of using his…issues…to his advantage rubbed him the wrong way. This seemed a lot different from getting a free sandwich at Sambo’s.
“That makes sense,” Gwen nodded, looking at Finney hopefully. “In my dreams I saw the Time-Out. Maybe that could be the key to helping you feel better?”
Her last sentence was so preciously naive, Finney didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But he did neither, because there was another, more pressing matter. “What dreams?”
Gwen sank a bit in her seat, looking guilty. “I had some dreams last night…”
Finney bit back the natural retort of, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He had no high ground when it came to being open, but it stung all the same. “About what?”
Gwen shifted in her seat and stared at her hands while she mumbled, “The Grabber. The top half of his face had the white face paint and the bottom half had that freaky mask grin. He was, um, covering your eyes.”
Finney grew still. “Did I look like I do now, or when I was thirteen?” It came out sharper than he intended.
“Now…”
Finney relaxed. In the past, there were times where the Grabber would close his eyes with either a blindfold or his hands, and Finney was grateful his privacy wasn’t broached in that regard.
Gwen continued to rattle on: “I saw the basement door, I saw Donna crying underneath a tree, wearing a white dress.” The Ophelia costume? “I saw the Time-Out, which I mentioned. I also saw Mr. Clarkson looking at a picture frame, which was weird. Oh, and Donna was on a pink phone arguing with someone.”
Finney felt his stomach drop. He tried to keep his voice even as he asked, “Anything else?”
Gwen hesitated, then shook her head. The dark pit inside him seemed to grow wider with his unease. But before he could say any more, the siblings heard the jingle of the lock, and the door creaked open.
Terrence looked taken aback at seeing both his children in the living room. Finney grew keenly aware of Gwen’s gaze locked onto him and tried his best to look calm and composed, despite feeling anything but.
“Hi, Dad…” he muttered. Would Terrence hate him now? The perverse things Finney said earlier reverberated in his head, and his cheeks grew warm.
“Hey, Finney.” The stiffness in Terrence’s posture lessened, but Finney had no idea what Terrence’s face looked like since Finney couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. “You good now?”
No. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” There was a thick, awkward pause. Then: “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
Terrence hesitated by the door for a few more seconds before the heavy thudding of boots indicated he left to go down the hallway to his room. Finney glanced up in time to see Gwen roll her eyes at him, sighing in exasperation.
“Ughh. Boys.”
****
Despite breaking the ice with Gwen, the presence of Terrence caused the tension from earlier in the day to return, exacerbated by the knowledge Gwen was hiding something from him. He knew there had to be more to her dream, but she was adamant “that was it.”
It clearly wasn’t. So what was she hiding?
Finney's immediate assumption was, of course, Donna. As much as he hated to admit it, Gwen’s dreams lined up with the Grabber’s accusations from earlier. Yes, the man was a habitual liar, and yes, he had a habit of bending the truth or leaving out important details, but did that mean everything coming out of his mouth was a lie or exaggeration? Finney knew from past experience that was not the case. There were times he was honest. The possibility of this bening one of those times caused his heart to lurch.
Something else he found unsettling were the hushed conversations between Gwen and Terrence that they thought he was too stupid to notice. He was unsure what they were saying, but they’d clam up whenever he’d get closer, giving him enough of a guess. Once again, Finney found himself standing across a chasm from the rest of his family, though the untamed wildfire raging in his heart from earlier had dimmed to a mere spark.
Dinner was a quiet, stilted affair, made possible by scrounging up pasta from the cabinets and some of the vegetables the Williams’ left in the downstairs freezer. To the surprise of no one, Gwen carried the conversation, the contents of which Finney largely tuned out as he sipped his water. He tried not to squirm while his father’s brown eyes roved over him carefully. But whenever Finney would glance up, Terrence would look away. It stung, and he wasn’t sure why.
No, I know why: He hates me, that’s why.
But he had no time to dwell on that now. After the Blakes finished and Gwen went into the shower, Finney scooted to his room and closed the door. He grabbed the screen from his pocket and scowled. “You tried to kill Gwen.”
Sure enough, the grinning silhouette graced the screen with its presence. “No I didn’t. That’s just how the world works. It was her choice to come.”
I don’t have time for this shit. “What did you say to get her to go into the basement?”
“Ohh, I don’t know if it was one thing that set her off. That girl’s a little spitfire.”
“What was the last thing you said to her, then?”
He sighed. “All I told her was that you’re able to handle more than you think you can, and she didn’t like hearing that. But I get it. She made her whole existence revolve around babying you, so it must be a tough pill to swallow, realizing you don’t need it.”
Finney bristled. “She doesn’t baby me. She’s my little sister.”
“You’re so cute when you get all grumpy like this,” the Grabber giggled. Finney tried hard to look stoic. “Finney, I was there for your big blowup earlier, remember? Whether you want to admit or not, your sister and father’s lives revolve around you now.”
“No they don’t,” Finney asserted, trying to convince himself more than anything else.
“You can’t see half of what I see. They do. The only way they won’t is if you finally get away from them and force them to put themselves first.”
He wanted—needed—to change topics desperately. “Is Max with you?”
The grin flickered to a frown. “Not anymore. It’s easy to shake off that idiot. I told him I thought I saw Jayne Mansfield outside and he believed me.” Another flicker, and the grin returned. “But enough about that! Now do you finally believe me about Donna?”
Yes. He didn’t want to come right out and say it, though. “You could be trying to trick me. This could be a lie, like when you told me you’d take me home.”
“Or I could be telling the truth, like when I said the basement was soundproof, or”—his voice grew softer—“when I said I love you. And I do, Finney. Even when you’re acting ungrateful and—“
“I don’t want to hear this now,” Finney interrupted. “Especially after whatever you did to Gwen. Did you do something to her head?”
“It was self-defense!” Finney put the device on the dresser in disgust. “I was trying to be a good person and help her out. She was the one who attacked me first like a rabid dog.”
Finney wasn’t in the mood to entertain this bullshit. He laid down on the bed and was about to turn off the lamp when the Grabber’s voice returned, albeit colder. “Alright. Well, if you want to take the risk with Donna, fine. She’s your girlfriend, not mine. But if I were you, I would think on it. But not too long, otherwise it’ll be too late.”
And with that, the screen turned off.
****
The next day at school, Finney’s mind wouldn’t stop screaming at him to do something. What he wanted to do, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t just sit back and let Donna endure the same hell he did.
She might not be, his conscience whispered. Mr. Clarkson could be innocent. But that voice was easily drowned out by the whirlwind of “what-ifs.” What he wasn’t? What if the Grabber was telling the truth? What if Finney looked the other way and her insides really did become her outsides?
He didn’t want to believe Clarkson was capable of such brutality. Then again, when Finney picked up Albert Shaw’s hat three years ago, he didn’t believe the nice, clumsy magician wanted to keep him as a sex slave, either. There was no way to know someone’s true intentions until it was too late.
“—eft it at home, but I’ll bring it tomor—oh, hello, Finn.”
Despite the crowds in the hallway, Finney felt as though Donna, Mr. Clarkson, and himself were the only three present.
“Hi, Mr. Clarkson.” Finney strained a smile while observing Donna carefully. She seemed alright, but wasn’t that the same way he looked for the past three years? “Hey, Donna.”
“Hi, Finn.” Her smile was soft and warm, but he did notice a slight dimness in her eyes that would have been imperceptible to an outsider. “Everything alright?”
He remembered her sitting in the Elm tree, remembered their laughter, their kiss. He would have given anything in the world to ensure she would never suffer in silence as he did, that she would never feel that unending shame, the dirtiness that could never be washed off. He couldn’t bear to have her shy from touch the way he did, jump at sudden movements, spend some nights crying and some days feeling nothing at all.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Without realizing it, he made his decision.
****
“—cops were busy looking for the boys’ things and were too stupid to make the connection. If I was a suspect back then, they would have known to take the necklace and—wait. This is it.”
Finney stopped, looking upward at the looming apartment building in front of him. He shivered and added, half-heartedly, “I still think you’re wrong. Mr. Clarkson’s not a killer.”
“Wellll, if you don’t believe me, feel free to turn around.” Finney scowled, but remained stationary. “That’s what I thought,” the Grabber teased. “His room’s 235. Hurry before he gets back.”
“What if someone sees?” Finney whispered, despite nobody else being around. His skin started to prickle—thinking about it was one thing, but actually taking the plunge was another. "Will I get arrested?"
“They won’t, and you won't. I’ll make sure of it.”
On that dubious note, Finney pushed open the door. The first floor was devoid of people, but Finney tried his best to appear nonchalant while trying to quell his inner tempest. A quick glance of the floor map pinned to the bulletin board showed the way to Room 235. He held his breath the entire time he crept up the stairwell, but like the Grabber predicted, there was no one else.
Eventually, he found himself outside of Room 235. With sweaty, trembling hands, he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and used it to twist the doorknob. It was locked.
“I can open it,” the Grabber explained, “Buuuuuut….I’ll need a favor.”
“What the hell?” Finney suddenly felt like a massive idiot. He originally suspected there was a hidden agenda, and he was right. “You’re the one who wanted me to come here!”
“Because I knew you were in a tizzy over Donna. It’s no skin off my back if she gets sliced up by Anthony.”
Finney pulled the screen from his pocket, glaring at the smiling shadow. “I already gave you a favor. This”—he shook the Time-Out—“is it.”
“That was for something different. I need another one, Finney, especially since you acted like such a brat yesterday.”
Finney felt his mouth grow dry. The smart thing would be to go back down the stairwell and return home.
But Donna…goddamnit.
He bit his lip. “...What do you want?”
“Hmmm…good question. What should it be? Decisions, decisions…” Finney fought off the impulse to fling the screen at the wall. “I think…hmm, no. Oh, I’ve got it! In exchange for opening this door, I’ll settle with you turning the lights off at night.”
“Why do you want that?” he prodded, trying to inwardly quell the rising panic inside him.
The shadow shrugged. “I just do.”
“But, I–” His throat tightened, and he swallowed. He suspected full well why the Grabber wanted the lights off, given the conclusion he made the first night he moved into 7742 Meadowbrook Lane. “I ca–no. No. I don’t want you to—I don’t want you t-touching me.”
The brief touches he occasionally felt since the Grabber returned were light, airy, and barely-perceptible, a far cry from the reality of his memories of the basement. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t want any of it, never again.
“I never said I would. All I said was that you need to keep the lights off. You’re the one jumping to conclusions.”
Finney didn’t trust himself to say anymore. He just shook his head as his body went cold with dread.
“Poor Donna,” the Grabber sighed. “A princess waiting for her knight, who’s a no-show. I gotta say, I’m surprised. With all your moral grandstanding, I thought saving your girlfriend would be a no-brainer.” He chuckled. “Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time you threw morals to the wayside to save your neck.”
Finney’s fingers clenched. It was a horrible point, but it was a point nonetheless: if he was willing to debase himself to save his own life, how could he refuse to do the same for Donna? He could barely look at himself in a mirror now. What life would he live, knowing he willingly let Donna’s life be in danger?
“...Fine.” There it was again, that seeping, overwhelming numbness. “I’ll do it.”
“Good boy.”
The lock clicked, and Finney shoved down his terror and tried to focus on what was important: Donna. Using his shirt to turn the knob, he pushed the door open.
Unlike the Blake household—both past and present–the interior of Mr. Clarkson’s apartment looked immaculate. Items and furniture were meticulously organized and neat, books stacked up properly, and counters and tables cleared of all debris. A muted color palette and abundance of square and rectangle shapes enhanced the minimalist aesthetic pervasive throughout most of the apartment.
“This place is disgusting,” the Grabber jeered while Finney quietly closed the door. “It looks like the waiting room of a doctor’s office.”
“What are we supposed to be looking for?” Finney whispered, glancing at a painting of what looked like random geometric shapes. Even though the door was shut, he still was paranoid of others overhearing. This is such a bad idea.
“We’re here to get proof. There’s a safe in the corner of his bedroom.”
Finney swallowed and willed himself to move forward, but two black-and-white framed photos sitting on the mantelpiece caught his attention. Picture Frames…could this be what Mr. Clarkson was looking at?
Finney rushed over and grabbed the closest one. It showed two light-haired children: a boy in a devil’s costume with glasses, and a girl in an angel’s costume. They were laughing and hugging.
“Are these kids he’s into?”—the thought made him sick to verbalize—”Or are they his kids?” Finney didn’t think Mr. Clarkson was married, but he could be wrong.
“Neither. Now stop getting distracted. We don’t have much time.”
Finney returned the photo into position, but couldn’t help but snatch up the other. It showed a light-haired girl with a headband sitting underneath a tree, book open on her lap. She smiled hesitantly at the camera, and Finney tried to figure out what seemed familiar about her. At first he thought she was the same girl in the other picture–albeit a few years older—but their facial features were different.
“Put that down!” the Grabber snapped with enough force that Finney almost dropped the frame. “You want to save Donna, right?”
Finney winced and nodded, placing the frame back on the mantelpiece. He crept around the corner, willing his tremulus nerves to quiet as he opened the door to Mr. Clarkson’s room. It had a similar vibe to the rest of the apartment, though it contained a bit more color. A small sculpture of a nude man sitting hunched over, chin resting on his knuckles, was on one side of the dresser, with a small, opened box placed on the opposite side.
“Andy Warhol’s a fucking hack,” the Grabber declared as Finney glanced up a painting of a Campbell’s Soup Can in confusion. “I’m not surprised Anthony would ha—hmm.” He paused. Finney glanced down at the screen, which now reflected the neutral mask. “That’s one of mine.”
“You made that?” Finney pointed to the painting of the can.
“Don’t be stupid. I made the sculpture.” Finney’s eyes drifted towards the hunched man. “Finney, that’s The Thinker! Jesus, you really don’t know anything about art, do you?”
“That’s the only sculpture I see!” he replied defensively.
“Mine’s in the box.”
Finney peeked into the brown box and tentatively reached in, pulling out clay carving inside. When he did, he almost dropped it back inside on instinct. The way the clay was formed created the illusion that the upper-half of man was trapped and suffocating inside the grayness, struggling to push against it and escape. The eyes were empty sockets while the mouth twisted in a frozen scream. It reminded him vaguely of Han Solo trapped in carbonite, albeit smaller and creepier.
“Sooo…..what do you think?” the Grabber asked, somewhat bashfully.
“It’s”—disturbing—“uh, creative.”
“I made it decades ago, back when sculpting was a hobby instead of my job,” the Grabber said, pleased by Finney’s answer. At one point during his time in the basement, Finney worked up the courage to ask him about the marble mask, which the Grabber happily revealed he crafted himself. That was when the Grabber decided to regale Finney with an unwanted tale of how he used to have a ‘mind-numbing’ job at Floros Hardware before he quit years ago in order to return to his prematurely-ended magic career and ‘pursue his passions.’ Sculpting and magician work combined made enough to maintain two houses, apparently. “A bit rough and lacking in detail, but the texture and form were on point. Before Griffin, I considered making an updated version of the same concept, but…wait. Finney, what does the note at the bottom say?”
Finney carefully placed the sculpture on the dresser and removed the note that was folded inside. Unfolding it, he read:
Hi Norman,
In accordance with the conditions agreed upon in our last meeting, I’ve received a Certificate of Authenticity that confirms Albert Shaw as the creator of the piece, “1953.” Given the value of the sculpture and unpredictability of the USPS, I’d prefer dropping both off in person. Let me know a day and time that works best—my schedule’s flexible from the end of June to August.
In regards to your question, the word to best describe the experience would have to be “liberating.” For the past few decades it’s been sitting in my closet collecting dust, and I’ve been meaning to get rid of it for a while. Given the recent revelations about its creator, I can finally do so without guilt.
Thank you for your extremely generous offer, and for helping me close a sordid chapter in my family’s history. While it being dumped unceremoniously in a landfill might be what it deserves, I’m glad the piece will find a home in The Seventh Circle and hopefully provide some insight into the twisted rabbit hole that was Albert Shaw’s mind.
Regards,
Anthony
“Ungrateful bastard,” the Grabber seethed. Finney didn’t have to check the screen to see he was frowning. “But that’s okay. He’ll get what’s coming to him in the end.”
Finney was only half-listening as he reread the last paragraph, stomach tightening. The Seventh Circle was a museum of serial killer memorabilia, and he had vivid recollections of Terrence cursing out a representative on the phone who wanted to make an offer for the outfit Finney wore during his captivity. The idea of Mr. Clarkson selling anything to them felt like a betrayal, even though he knew–logically–it wasn’t.
Maybe he really needs the money, like my family…
But still…
Finney returned the sculpture to the box and turned towards the safe, but as he started to move, a glimmer on the nightstand caught his eye. “This is Donna’s bracelet!” Finney exclaimed. He made a beeline towards it and lifted the trinket, running his fingers over the turquoise gems. “The one her grandma gave her!”
“See? And to think you doubted me,” the Grabber purred.
Finney put the bracelet in his pocket, which gave him a view of the papers beneath it. One was a sheet of numbers that reminded Finney of the list of expenses Terrence left on the kitchen table. Another listed medical information for a person named Glenn Walsh. While Finney always considered himself above-average when it came to science, the medical jargon seemed like a foreign language and he only picked up bits and pieces: cellular immune deficiency, lymph nodes, fever, pneumonia. Attached to the top of the paper was a sticky note written in Mr. Clarkson’s handwriting: June 5, 1981—Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. Underneath it, Mr. Clarkson wrote in bigger letters, Pneumocystis Pneumonia–Los Angeles. There was a question mark next to it.
“Who’s Glenn?” Finney asked, placing the papers back in position. “And why does he have her medical information? Is she one of his”—he hesitated—”victims?”
“Could be. If Anthony gets caught now, maybe Glenn could be saved. Now hurry up, the safe’s right there.”
Finney went over to the safe, which had a lock that reminded him of Griffin’s. He shuddered involuntarily. “What’s the combination?”
“‘Combination.’ Pfft.” The lock clicked and unlocked, as if by magic. “Ta-da. I bet you wish you could have done that at my house.”
Gritting his teeth, Finney opened the safe. The inside was sparse, with only a wad of cash and a sealed manilla envelope. He grabbed the envelope and was about to open the seal when—
“Stop! You can’t tamper with the seal, otherwise it won’t count as reliable evidence.”
Finney frowned. “What’s inside?”
“Something that’ll make it so he never sets foot in a classroom again.” The smugness in his voice was almost tangible. “Now, let’s get out of this shithole.”
****
After locking the safe, leaving Room 235, and walking briskly yet surreptitiously down the stairs and out the front door, Finney finally let himself take a deep breath. His nerves were tingling with holy-shit-I-just-did-that energy.
“So we deliver this to the police station now?” Finney asked, voice light as he strode down the street.
“No, this needs to be given to the Board of Education. They have a meeting today.”
Finney stopped. “What? Why?”
“Finney, by breaking into his apartment and stealing this, you just committed a felony. Which is another thing we have in common now. But because you obtained this illegally, the police can’t use it.”
“Wait, what?” Was this really all for nothing? “Is that real, or are you just saying that?”
“It’s real. You think I don’t know the law?”
“Then why the hell did you ask me to break in?” snarled Finney.
“Because this is the only way that will work, trust me. There wouldn’t be enough for the police to arrest him. But the Board of Ed will put a bunch of pressure on him to resign, and he won’t be able to show his face if this gets made public.”
Losing a job and being embarrassed was nothing compared to the pain Donna and those girls suffered. He needed there to be legal consequences, legal consequences the Grabber would never be able to get. “The whole reason I did this was so we could have proof of his crime!”
“I thought you did it to save Donna?”
“They’re the same thing,” argued Finney. “If he’s not arrested, what’s to stop him from moving to a different state and harming other kids?”
“He won’t,” the Grabber snapped impatiently. “Time’s weird here, remember? I know what’s going to happen, and Anthony won’t be fucking any kids. You won’t get your arrest, but this is the best we can do.”
“So why did you keep that part a secret then, huh? This whole thing seems shady.” Nerves began to churn. “I bet you’ve got some kind of hidden agenda. I mean, why do you even care what happens to Donna if you killed her mom?”
“It was complicated. But this has nothing to do with how I feel about Donna or Meadow. It’s how I feel about you. I want you to be happy, and this will make you happy. Remember the dream, Finney! Donna’s in danger.”
Those were the magic words. Finney sighed but continued walking, albeit tepidly. “Okay. So now what do I do? I drop this off at the Board office before the meeting? Do they even have an office?” What the hell does the Board of Education even do, anyway?
“No, they’ll never look at it unless it’s on their agenda. We need to force a confrontation. You need to head downtown and go to the Channel 7 building. Give this envelope to a woman named Gabby Fernandez and—”
“No.”
The Grabber paused. “Why not?”
Finney said nothing.
Gabriela Fernandez was a news anchor and talk show host from Channel 7 who hounded him and his family for interviews months after his escape from the basement. The only reason she stopped was because Terrence threatened legal action and cursed her out to a rival news station. During the week of hotel-hopping, Gwen whispered that she tried to visit him in the hospital when he was unconscious. Finney figured it would be only a matter of time before she tried again; Gabby Fernandez was nothing if not persistent.
After it was clear Finney wouldn’t say any more, the Grabber continued. “She interviewed me when she first started out. It was supposed to be a puff piece on my business, but ended up being all about Sal and how oddly coincidental it was that I benefited the most from his death. That woman’s like a pitbull. She’s the only news anchor who’ll take the envelope without questions and attend the meeting.” Finney continued to say nothing, but kicked a pebble out of the way. “This could be the key to Donna’s freedom, Finney!”
Finney sighed and closed his eyes. Goddamnit.
****
Forty-five minutes later, Finney was standing in the Channel 7 lobby, trying not to wilt under the piercing stare of the receptionist. Behind the woman at the desk was a big poster for Gabby’s talk show, “What's the Gab? With Gabby Fernandez.” The picture showed a brown-haired woman in her late twenties with a well-practiced grin that made Finney shudder. She wore her shoulder pads like armor, pen brandished like a sword.
“I have an anonymous drop-off for Gabby Fernandez,” Finney said, trying to appear more confident than he felt. Then, he remembered he was Finney Blake, Grabber-killer and Colorado’s most famous minor, and his cheeks heated up.
“Oh, Finney, you’re too precious,” cooed the Grabber.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow over cat-rimmed glasses, but took the envelope with two fingers.
“Well, bye…” Finney muttered, eager to get the hell out of dodge.
Either God or the Devil was looking out for him, because as Finney turned to make his way across the lobby, he heard the sound of doors slamming open and a woman’s voice.
“Finney!”
Oh fuckfuckfuck. Finney took a breath to steady himself as he turned. Gabby’s wavy brown locks bounced against her shoulders as she hurried towards him. The hungry glint in her eyes reminded Finney of a cat cornering a mouse.
“I’m so glad you came,” she gushed. “I tried visiting you in the hospital. Is that why you’re here? Did your dad relay my message?”
“Um, no, I just, uh…”
Gabby continued as if Finney said nothing. “I can’t imagine the rough couple weeks you’ve had. Especially with your current…accommodations.” Gabby’s voice sounded sympathetic, but her eyes were dancing with glee. “Would you like to talk about it? We’d pay you, of course.”
“No,” Finney answered automatically, though a quiet voice inside whispered he could use the money. Gabby was frothing at the mouth to be the first to get an interview with the elusive Finney Blakes, and he could—theoretically—negotiate a decent sum. He shoved that thought to the side. For the first time, Finney noticed her coat and blurted, “Are you leaving?”
She blinked. “Well, it is six, and it’s a slow night. Unless you’d like to talk…or perhaps know some interesting information?”
“There’s a Board of Ed meeting.” Finney’s palms began to sweat. “In the Galesburg district. In two hours.”
Gabby brought a well-manicured finger to her chin. “Gym renovations are a bit below my caliber of news.”
The receptionist cleared her throat. “He dropped this off.”
I said it was anonymous!!!
“What’s in that?” Gabby questioned, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“NothingIgottagobye.”
Finney spun around and practically bolted out the door. A minute later the clicking of rapidly-approaching heels zoned in on him like music from Jaws. “Finney!” she cried breathlessly. “Where did you get…that?”
“It was supposed to be anonymous…” To Finney’s annoyance, it came out like a whine.
“You’re right, I won’t ask questions,” Gabby agreed solemnly, eyes gleaming. “This man’s currently employed by Northwest High School, yes?” Finney nodded. Her lips curled upward in a smile. “Well. In that case, I certainly understand why you, or all people, would want this to be brought to the media’s attention. To think he’d have access to so many children…my goodness. The parents of Galesburg will have a lot to say about this, I’m sure.”
Finney was dying to ask what was inside, but that would be insanely suspicious. “So….are you going to the meeting?”
“Of course. Concerned parents need to know what their tax dollars are going towards. The superintendent’s decision to hire this man was ignorant at best, malicious at worst.” She shook her head. “How appallingly insensitive of him, especially given the tragedy this community has endured. You did the right thing bringing this to me, Finney.”
He hoped so, but couldn’t help but feel a niggling whisper of worry. It’s just anxiety, like Dr. Moore said. I can’t overthink everything. “I doubt the superintendent knew.”
“I hope you’re right,” she remarked, but Finney could tell from her eyes that she would love to pounce on a possible conspiracy. “Regardless, this’ll be quite the meeting to end the school year. Goodbye, Finney. And if you ever change your mind…”
Gabby fiddled through her purse and handed Finney a business card with her contact information.
Long after she was gone and he was on the way home, he passed a trash can. Despite considering otherwise, the card remained in his pocket.
****
“Of course, at that age, I had no understanding of the feelings I would sometimes experience. A mere flip of her luscious ebony tresses would spark something deep and nameless. Without realizing it, my gaze would drift to the windows as Al and I played catch, hoping to catch a glimpse of her—um, I’m just reading what it says here–shapely leg or curved derri–derry something? I don’t know—and when she sighed, her breasts would heave—”
“Alright, stop,” the Grabber demanded. “What the fuck is this?”
“I’m reading what it says, like you told me to,” Finney reminded him, inwardly praying this would finally put the plans of finishing My Pal Al to rest.
Today was their first day of reading the book together, which was something Finney only had a vague recollection of promising to do. It was going about as well as expected. “Reading” essentially meant Finney would read a few paragraphs, the Grabber would get bored, and they’d skip around randomly to different parts of the book.
The disjointed manner of gathering information made it difficult to glean anything worthwhile. Finney learned about how Albert somehow kicked the shit out of a fifth-grader when he was in third grade, how Russ and him stole cigarettes from Hortfords when they were in seventh grade, and how Evelyn Shaw brought meals to the Rusnaks the first week they were evicted from their home. Nothing substantial. Nothing that could help him get out of this hell.
“It’s borderline pornography, that’s what it is. I can’t believe this trash was in a library.”
Although Finney was grateful for the reprieve, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to throw the Grabber’s favorite insult back at him. “I didn’t realize you were such a prude.”
“You know I’m not. But that’s my mom he’s talking about!” the Grabber said, indignant. He tsk-ed from Finney’s pocket. “Russ always acted so high-and-mighty. But I knew there was a secret freak waiting to claw its way to the surface. Clearly, I was right.”
“This is probably a good stopping point,” suggested Finney, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
“No, I want to keep going.” Offfff course you do… “Skip.”
Finney sighed and grabbed a chunk of pages to flip away. He started to read from the top of the page: “I was paralyzed. My whole understanding of the world flipped upside down, and I was in a situation with no point of reference. The boy I thought to be my best friend had now become a stranger, a foreign entity whose mission was to initiate me into the ways of adults, ways that were completely inappropriate for children our—”
“Christ, what a crybaby,” scoffed the Grabber. Finney snapped his mouth shut and quickly skimmed the rest of the page, feeling sick. “He’s goddamn lucky, that’s what he is. I can count on one hand the amount of people I offered that to. Oh, well. His loss. You remember how nice it felt, didn’t you?”
Finney’s cheeks burned; that was definitely not a topic he wanted to think about now, or ever. And he also wasn’t about to take the obvious bait. “He says in here that you were eight.”
“So?”
“So, it’s not….”—was there a way to make this sound inoffensive?—”it’s….unusual…to know about those kinds of things at that age.” Finney was aware he was broaching a potential minefield. “All of us were older than that when you”—kidnapped us, you sick fuck—”brought us into the basement.”
It was the Grabber’s turn to sigh. “I know it’s a bit on the younger side. If it makes you feel better, I didn't lose my virginity until I was twelve.” No, it does not. “But I mean, I guess it comes down to how you define it, so maybe from a certain perspective I alr—”
“Do you want me to skip?” Finney blurted. This conversation was going someplace he never wanted.
“Yup.”
Finney did as he asked. “Agata had the same reservations as my mother. There was something about Henry Shaw that—”
“Ugh. Skiiiiiip.”
Finney’s fingers lingered on the page. He frowned.
Despite his strong aversion to thinking about the Grabber’s childhood, he couldn’t deny he had a slight, slight, curiosity regarding Albert Shaw’s father. He knew the Grabber had some scars on his body—some mild, some nasty—but wasn’t sure if they were inflicted by that person, Albert himself, or someone else.
Was the Grabber’s father the key to everything? Could Finney use that information, somehow, to get the ghost to leave him alone? Or would this be another dead end?
“Why?” Finney asked. He was aware this could go very poorly, but needed to try. “Is he your dad?”
He expected a “never mind why,” but instead, the Grabber confirmed his suspicions. “Yeah, but I don’t like thinking about him. Lot of mixed feelings. Sometimes I loved him, sometimes I hated him. Kind of like you and your dad.”
Oh hell no. If what Finney suspected was true, his issues with Terrence were in a completely different ballpark. “Did he, um, show you those…things. With Russ?”
“Mhmm.”
“Oh.” Finney was taken aback by the bluntness and nonchalance of the response. “That’s, um— sorry…”
It felt strange and uncomfortable, offering sympathy to the man responsible for causing so much pain in his life. But if there was one thing Finney understood, it was that unique brand of suffering. And it wasn’t so much the man Finney felt pity for, but rather the timid boy on the cover of the book.
“Why?”
Finney blinked. “You just said—”
“Oh, my dear, sweet little thing, I think you’re getting the wrong impression. I’m not upset because of that. He didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want. It’s just….hmm, how should I put this….he was my first love, but also my first heartbreak. Sadly, not the last. I guess what it comes down to was that I loved too much and he loved too little. He toyed with my feelings and I was too dumb to realize it.” His voice grew lower, more solemn. “That’s the key difference between me and him: When I say I love you, I mean it. If you don’t believe anything else I say, at least believe that. In my eyes, you’re my whole world. Nothing else matters to me as much as you.”
“That last part I believe,” Finney replied honestly. The Grabber chuckled. “So...what happened to him?”
There was a pause, then: “He bit off more than he could chew. As you’re well aware, I sometimes get…jealous.”
Finney waited for the Grabber to continue, but he didn’t. “Did you kill him?”
“Technically, no.”
That answer didn’t inspire much confidence. Finney opened his mouth to ask if Henry was the other person the Grabber lured to his death, but remembered the ghost’s abrasive reaction when pressed the previous day. The question died on his tongue. But another one emerged, one that could potentially piss off the Grabber even more, but one Finney needed to know. “Is he the reason you’re into, uh…is he why you like…kids?”
“I’m not sure. I thought about it, but I don’t think so. Could be wrong, though.” Finney didn’t know how to respond, so remained quiet. “I know what you’re thinking, love. You’re doing what the people who found the Black Paintings did.”
“W-wait, what?” Finney asked, startled. The Grabber’s tone was calm, not aggressive or accusatory. Still, Finney felt himself go on the defensive.
“You’re trying to find sense in something that’s probably senseless. Saying it’s all because of my dad would be easy, right? A nice, neat reason that wraps everything up with a bow. Because if it’s not, then what does it say about me? What does it say about humanity, knowing someone like me could exist with no rhyme or reason?”
So today was one of his philosophical days. Great. “I wasn’t trying to sound rude…” Finney mumbled.
“You weren’t. I’m not angry.” Another pause. “It wasn’t always like this. I remember at one point wanting to be with people my age, but the older I got, the younger I wanted to go. I don’t know why, but I’m glad. Being with you boys in the basement, or even just being with you now, feels right in a way nothing else in my life ever did. It’s as though everything I’ve ever experienced led up to that one, divine moment when I first laid eyes on Griffin.” There was another moment of silence, where Finney felt his skin crawl. “I think we’re done reading for tonight.”
OhthankGod.
Finney practically slammed the book shut, though his eyes remained fixated on the class photo on the cover. It occurred to him why the blonde girl with the headband seemed familiar—he recognized the same expression in the younger Al. Unconsciously, he moved his thumb toward the picture of the young boy with the skittish eyes and nervous grin. It was hard to believe this child was the same man who held him in a chokehold, plying him with a can of wasp spray.
He placed the book on the dresser and took a deep breath. The urge to be away from this room and purge thoughts from his head was suddenly very, very strong. “I’m going to check to see if they have anything about Mr. Clarkson on TV.”
“It’s still too early,” the Grabber complained. But Finney already opened the door and was on his way to the living room.
Besides the persistent, unwelcome presence of the Grabber, Finney was alone in the house. Gwen was over at Millie’s and his father was working late that night, which Finney was sure had absolutely no connection to the blowup that happened the previous morning.
Sighing, he plopped down on the couch and turned on the television to Channel 7. But what he saw caused him to sit up almost immediately. He was greeted by the sight of police cars with flashing lights, and a picture of a grinning girl with short brown hair in the upper-right corner.
“—which led to the arrest of Lina and Emil Fischer. Authorities have confirmed the remains they found under the patio belong to Eva, and the Fischers now face charges for not only withholding information from law enforcement, but also for the murder of their daughter.”
The pundits on screen continued talking, but Finney was no longer paying attention. He pulled the screen out of his pocket, only to be met with the shadow of the neutral mask.
“Huh. Guess I was right the first time.”
“Mr. Clarkson wasn’t the killer?” echoed Finney, incredulous.
“Apparently not.”
Finney leaned back against the couch and tried to look–and feel—casual, despite his stomach twisting into knots. “I thought Mr. Clarkson worked with Eva’s dad.”
“He did. Sort of. They worked in the same office building.”
Finney’s lips tightened as his gaze drifted to the screen. The Fischers looked blank and emotionless, much like the mask below. “I don’t get it. How could they kill their own kid?”
“Like I said before, a lot of people just aren’t cut out to be parents. People have kids because that’s what everyone expects, but they don’t realize how soul-sucking it can—oh, they’ve got something on Walter, too.”
It’s alright, Finney thought, nails digging into his palms. Just because he didn’t kill Eva doesn’t mean Mr. Clarkson isn’t a killer.
“—other update involves the whereabouts of Walter Kaminski. Authorities have confirmed Kaminski is alive and well—”
“Ha! See, I told you it wasn’t me.”
“—in California. While details are sparse due to the interest of privacy, authorities confirmed Kaminski voluntarily adopted a new alias and came forward for the purpose of offering up information regarding the death of Ruth Evans. Back to you, Randy.”
The screen flickered to a man with dark, curly hair. “Thanks, Cheryl. Our final update is on Anna Lavigne, student at the University of Denver. Police established a link between Albert Shaw and Lavigne through frequent visits to The Cat’s Cradle”–that was a local bar–”and reported intimate contact.”
“Don’t be jealous, Finney,” soothed the Grabber. “It was only four times, and I was at a low point of my life then.” What, as opposed to your ‘high point’ of kidnapping kids?
“Police received a confession from Stanley Hodgson, an on-and-off paramour of Lavigne’s, claiming responsibility for the 1963 murder. Witnesses corroborate that Hodgson and Lavigne experienced friction in their relationship when Lavigne changed her major from Theater to Economics and—”
Finney stopped paying attention as he slowly looked downward at the screen again. “I thought you said it was ‘no coincidence’ Anna was a Theater major.”
“Well, I never said her and Anthony definitely knew each other. Just that it’s no coincidence she happened to be one. At one point in her life, anyway.”
There was a long pause. Finney’s palms started to sweat. “But it says this other guy killed her?”
“Yeah…” The television screen flickered off on its own. “That’s odd.”
A thick, heavy silence descended on the room. It lasted for a very long time.
“Did Mr. Clarkson even do anything?” Finney whispered.
The Grabber said nothing.
Rage and self-hatred began to mix with mounting panic. “You said it was him. Y-you told me to trust you and I–I—”
Finney closed his mouth, unable to finish the sentence.
“...Remember when I said it’s sometimes okay for adults to lie, if it’s for a good reason?”
In an instant, Finney felt his heart stop.
Oh, fuck.
“Wh-what did you—”
A ringing sound jolted Finney out of his mental hysterics. Swallowing, he made his way towards the kitchen and answered the phone with clammy hands. “...Hello?”
“Finney?” Mr. Clarkson’s sharp, accusatory tone voice caused Finney’s panic to go into overdrive. “Did you break into my apartment?”
“Um,” Finney began, voice cracking. What the hell should he even say? Play dumb or be honest? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Clarkson, I—y-yes, it was me. I did it, and I totally understand if you press charges. It was really stupid and—”
“Yes. It really was.” The sharpness in the teacher’s voice receded, making way for disappointment, which made Finney feel even worse. “To be honest, I’m astounded you would do something like this. It seems so wildly uncharacteristic, I suppose everyone—no matter how good—has their breaking point, eventually. ”
Finney closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. ‘Breaking point.’ Everyone really did think he was some kind of volatile, loose cannon.
And clearly, he was.
He opened his eyes and stared numbly at the basement door. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, knowing nothing he said would make any difference, but needed Mr. Clarkson to know his remorse was sincere. “The only reason I did it was because I was told Donna might be in danger.”
Before Mr. Clarkson had the chance to protest, Finney launched into a rambling, abridged version of what led him to make the ill-advised burglary: “Someone” told him Donna was being abused by the teacher, and he broke in to get evidence on this person’s advice. Mr. Clarkson listened as his student babbled, and Finney realized midway that his “explanation” likely made him seem even more unhinged. But he didn’t care. At that point, he was driven by pure adrenaline and desire to prove–perhaps futilely– he wasn’t emotionally broken.
After Finney finished his disjointed tale, there was a moment of silence. Then, finally: “I understand.”
The words were like magic. Finney took an unsteady breath and tightened his grip over the receiver. He felt a rush of affection for his teacher and another wave of guilt at having ever thought Mr. Clarkson could have been capable of such evil deeds. “You do?”
“I do. I know that when you really love someone, you sometimes need to do things without telling them. You might have to, for their own good. ”
Finney stopped fiddling with the cord. “Thanks for being so understanding,” he replied, stiffly. After a moment of silence, he added. “I know I definitely don’t deserve it.”
“Maybe not, but I forgive you anyway. I always will.” He chuckled lightly. “I can’t help it!”
Finney leaned back against the wall and said, nonchalantly as possible, “I was an idiot for trusting that person. He lies to me all the time, and I never learn.”
“Hmm.” A pause. “Why do you think he wanted you to do it? He must have had his reasons.”
“He was jealous, I think,” Finney concluded, a steel edge poking through his voice. He began twisting the cord. “Can’t stand the idea of me being happy with anyone else.” The next lines were practically snarled into the phone. “Wants me to be as obsessed with him as he is with me. Which will never happen, by the way!”
As expected, ‘Mr. Clarkson’ laughed. “If he’s willing to go through all that trouble, he must really love you.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Finney spat into the phone, consequences be damned. “God, I’m such an idiot…I should have trusted my gut. I knew it was you on the phone at Donna’s house!”
“That’s true, you have only yourself to blame.”
Finney was about to hang up and frantically brainstorm ways to mitigate whatever shitstorm was brewing, but needed to throw in one final snipe. “I thought you said you couldn’t change into everyone’s voice. But that was another lie. Shocker.”
“No, it’s not. Like I said before, my voice doesn’t change, but the sound that comes out of the phone does. From my perspective, I sound like myself. And I can’t do it to everyone’s.”
“So how do—” Finney stopped abruptly. The topic was driving him crazy for days, and he dismissed several possibilities. It always felt like he was missing a key piece.
But today, as if by providence, something in Finney’s mind clicked.
“You can only mimic the voices of people who use the phone in this house.” Once he said it, he knew he was on the right track. “Because of your emotional or spiritual connection to it, or something like that. Mr. Clarkson left a voicemail on our first day. And I’m ninety percent sure the ‘Jesse’ Gwen talked to was you, which would make sense since he picked up the phone when I called Donna.”
“It’s so cute, watching you play Sherlock,” he cooed. “But you’re missing something.”
Donna. The Grabber mimicked her voice before she called the house. His heart fell.
But then, a light bulb went on. “Donna called my house on the day you came back, to ask about the homework. Since you came back because of our…connection”—he didn’t try to hide his discomfort at the thought—“you might have been able to take advantage of my connection to my old house. Or maybe you were able to mimic her because I spoke with her on the phone after Jesse, and time works weird where you are. I don’t know. It’s one of those two.”
He felt like someone should be clapping for him, but all he heard was a validating silence on the other end. Then, finally: “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
A rush of triumph raced through Finney; the Grabber was using the same pouty, put-out tone he would use in the basement if Finney guessed the secret to one of his magic tricks. Before he could be petty and rub it in, the Grabber pressed forward. “It’s true that we are linked, my little lovely. No matter what happens, you’ll have me.”
“So what’s going to happen?” asked Finney, dread twisting in his gut. “If it’s not proof of murder, then what’s in the envelope? Is it still going to ruin Mr. Clarkson’s life?”
“Yes, but he deserves it, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
But Finney was worrying. He was worrying a lot. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“Because he’s a self-righteous asshole, that’s why. And I’m not doing it because I hate him, that’s just a nice bonus. I’m doing it for us. This’ll show you how shallow and fragile your relationships with your school friends are.”
Finney started to grow faint as horror began flooding into his veins. “But Donna, she—“
“Haha! I’ll be shocked if she doesn’t dump you after this.”
Oh fuuuuuck. “What the hell’s in the envelope?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
Finney’s hands grew pale as he clutched the phone cord. “Was she ever in any danger? At I thought I saw—she looked at the pink phone and—Gwen said….“
The Grabber paused for a moment. “There was something else bothering her, but it wasn’t Anthony. You don’t need to worry about it anymore, though. Everything’ll sort itself out soon.”
Finney thought of the social life he slowly built over the past three years, toppling like a house of cards. He thought of Mr. Clarkson, the teacher who only had his best interests at heart, suffering because of something he did. A tidal wave of self-loathing washed over him.
He brought the phone closer to his mouth with shaky hands and whispered,. “Please, don’t don’t do this. You want me to be happy, right?”
“Ohhh, Finney,” the Grabber sighed wistfully. “God, that expression of yours does so many things to me.”
Worst-case scenarios rotated in his mind like a carousel. Mr. Clarkson was going to hate him. Donna was going to hate him. The whole school was going to hate him.
An innocent man’s life was going to go up in flames because of him.
After a brief, panicked moment of deliberation, Finney threw dignity to the wayside.
“If you stop this from happening, I’ll do another favor.” He hesitated, then gestured toward the lower half of his body. “Do you want me to do s-something…to myself? I c-can—”
He couldn’t bring himself to finish; the words tasted like ash in his mouth. The Grabber’s taunts earlier this morning of Finney ‘whoring himself out’ echoed in his mind, but he was too exhausted and numbed and self-hating to care. It was like asking for soap or a blanket, that’s all.
He couldn’t have a man lose his career because of him. He couldn’t go back to being the school’s punching bag. He couldn’t have the girl he loved hate him. He just couldn’t.
Tears pooled in his eyes. It was his fault everything was happening. No one else’s.
Why didn’t he die in that basement?
Finney expected the Grabber’s response to be lusty or mocking, but it was surprisingly gentle. “When you’re here with me, I’ll spoil you so much, you’ll never have to cry again, little one. But I can’t do that unless this happens.”
Embarrassment made way for prickling rage as Finney said, with more force, “I don’t want you to do this. If you love me like you’re saying you do, you’d listen to me.”
“What we need might be different from what we want. I give you what you need, but not always what you want. We talked about this before, remember?”
When the pause made it clear this wasn’t a rhetorical question, Finney swallowed, fighting through bitterness and tears. “Yeah…”
“Good. Now get some rest, my love. And don’t forget, lights off.”
Finney stared at the phone long after it went dead. There was a hurricane of emotions and thoughts churning within him, one standing leagues above the rest.
What the hell was in the envelope?
Chapter 16: You Always Hurt the Ones You Love
Notes:
-Like Gwen’s chapters, this is yet another chapter that I needed to split into two because it ended up being so long. I’m posting the first half today, and if all goes well, the next half should be up next week. It’s also from a surprise character’s POV that most people don’t like, lol. After both halves of this chapter are posted, we’re going to have a long stretch of Finney POV until the next Al flashback.
-The NRC is the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. EPA stands for the Environmental Protection Agency.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Blake? Pearson wants you in his office.”
With a heavy breath, Terrence Blake slammed the shovel into the dirt, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Despite the harsh sunlight and suffocating humidity, working outside was still preferable to seeing his boss.
“What does that jackass want now?” he grumbled, gesturing towards his half-finished handiwork. “I’m busy.”
Terrence was the unfortunate soul tasked this week with digging several holes of dubious legality for Rocky Flats. He wasn’t sure if his holes would be used for burying plutonium, americium, uranium, or other waste, but that was something for the anti-nuclear idiots to wring their hands over.
A long time ago when youthful idealism clouded his head, he might have spoken out against it on principle. But that boy inside him was long gone, and had been for some time. He was a man now, with a duty to feed his family, not care about the flowers.
“I can see that,” Jerry murmured, his voice laced with amusement and a hint of concern. Jerry joined the Rocky Flats “family” only five years ago but was already as cynical as Terrence, which was no small feat. “Why are they giving you the shit jobs?”
Terrence had a few guesses, none of them good. He shrugged. “What does he want?” Terrence repeated.
“There was a phone call for you,” Jerry replied, using his hand as a makeshift fan in a futile attempt to ward away the heat.
For a brief moment, hope surged in Terrence’s heart. “From Apex?”
For over a week, Terrence had been waiting for a call from Apex Home Insurance regarding the results of the fire investigation. They called the house two days ago when he was at work, and they’d been playing phone tag since.
“Nah, that’d be too easy. Said he got a phone call from your kids’ school.”
Terrence grew still, knuckles tightening around the shovel. “About what?”
“Didn’t ask. You know I don’t spend a second with that douchebag unless I have to.” Then, Jerry added as an afterthought: “Hope everything’s okay.”
Terrence gritted his teeth as he tossed his shovel into the hole and headed towards the manufacturing plant.
In the Blake family, were things ever okay?
****
Once upon a time, Terrence Blake’s life seemed like a fairy tale: A youth leaving the shadows of a dead older brother and spiteful father to go out and seek his fortune, finding his princess in a bubbly, auburn-haired waitress in roller skates at the local carhop. And although he never became rich in coin, he gained two priceless, precious treasures that made him happier than the wealthiest of men.
It was an idyllic chapter in his life where his children thought the world of him, when the whole family would snuggle on the couch to watch The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. A time when they’d go on trips to Disneyland, Yellowstone, and the Grand Canyon, laughing and snapping photos without a second thought about finances. A bygone era where he’d play catch with Finney in the yard, grinning and cheering as his son bumbled around with an oversized mit, dramatically diving after lowballs and jumping up and down whenever he caught them. Where he’d help Gwen with her homework and reward her with ice cream later, trying to appear as solemn as his daughter when she proclaimed he was her “favorite boy parent.” Where he’d curl up next to his wife in bed, lips brushing against her smooth, soft skin. A time when everything was perfect.
Naturally, it was too good to last.
When Susannah died, something in Terrence died with her. The part that connected him to the world, the part that wanted to connect, shattered like his heart upon seeing the deep gashes in Susannah’s arms. He couldn’t bear the thought of spending days and nights thinking about how he’ll never see her smile again, or obsessing over his children’s future and the crushing weight thrusted upon his shoulders. He wanted to forget.
And what better way to forget than alcohol?
Driving from Boulder to North Denver for a fresh start at the age of eighteen, Terrence promised himself he’d never turn to the bottle as a panacea. Memories of alcohol were entwined with memories of his own father, a surly, shadow of a man fixed in time, forever mourning the loss of his eldest son who died during the Battle of Normandy. A man who withdrew into the bottle, leaving his only living son alone and unloved.
He broke that promise long before he had kids, but prior to Susannah’s death, it was manageable. A glass during his wedding, a few sips with colleagues after work. Always in moderation. Always the amount expected of an adult.
But Susannah’s death upended everything. The bottle quickly became an inviting friend, keeping him warm on nights he felt lonely. A balm on days the wound from Susannah’s loss pounded, throbbed, and ached. It coaxed him into doing and saying things that would otherwise give him pause, and there was freedom in his surrender, peace in allowing his mind to take a backseat while unrestrained emotions reigned free.
Every fairy tale has its villain, and Terrence’s story was no exception. He became the monster. Not the big bad wolf lurking in the black van, licking his lips and waiting for unsuspecting boys, but an enemy more personal to his children and more heartbreaking. A monster who terrorized the two precious treasures he vowed to love, protect, and cherish.
The belt would have come with or without Susannah—it was the way both of them grew up, and why change what’s worked for generations? But Terrence imagined it wouldn’t have been used as often or as forcefully, and the way it was introduced would certainly have been different.
The events leading up to it were hazy due to his throbbing hangover, but one image carved in Terrence’s mind was the way Finney’s eyes sparkled with delight as he bounded through the front door. Seeing such unbridled joy while Terence’s own eyes were despondent and miserable was unacceptable—how dare Finney be happy while his mother’s corpse rots deep within the earth? How could anyone be happy anymore?
Terrence demanded to know why Finney didn’t finish his chores and was so damn late. His son’s expression faltered. Finney apologized and mumbled a story that became stronger as he continued, going on about how he saw a bunch of ducks at the pond and stopped to feed them, then when he was about to leave another duck with ducklings showed up and he couldn’t go without feeding them too, and then two swans showed up and it was so cool, Dad, really, and then when I was walking home I saw this Miniature Schnauzer and the owner said I could pet it and rub its belly, and can we please get a dog, Dad? I’ll feed it and walk and and take care of it and blah blah blah blah.
Throughout Finney’s rambling tale, a dull thought pulsed in Terence’s mind: How the hell is this kid going to survive?
Finney was what Susannah described as a “sensitive soul” (sissy, that’s what the kids in school are gonna call him) and didn’t let things roll off his back like Terrence and Gwen did. Like his mother, Finney had a habit of overthinking and would let worries eat away at him on the inside. He didn’t act like other boys. He shied away from typical elementary school roughhousing, spent an inordinate amount of time washing his hands, and only started calling Terrence ‘Dad’ instead of ‘Daddy’ because Terrence snapped at him that he was too old for such childishness.
Susannah was content to keep Finney’s innocence in a bubble, but she was gone. Finney was in the double digits now; it was time for him to face the real world and start acting like a man.
Something snapped inside Terrence, seeing his son’s eyes regain their spark. He snarled at Finney that he was going to get it, and the brightness vanished, replaced with fear and tears. This quickly morphed to confusion when he told his son to lean over the counter. In the past, Terrence would pull his children over his knee and spank with his hand, and this new physical distance echoed the widening emotional gulf. Terrence used to comfort Finney afterwards, ruffling his hair or squeezing his shoulders, telling him he took it like a champ (even if he didn’t) and saying everything’s forgiven, go get some ice and you’ll be fine in an hour.
But that was in the past.
Finney’s first time with the belt didn’t go smoothly. He wasn’t used to the burning sensation, and screamed and wailed and couldn’t stay still and the familiar, nagging voice that wormed its way into Terrence’s ear even when he spanked with his hand whispered maybe, just maybe, there might be another way. But if there was, Terrence didn’t know how.
Midway, Finney spun around and launched himself at Terrence, wrapping his arms around his father in a tight hug, apologizing and begging him to stop. To say Terrence was taken aback would be an understatement. Doubt crept into his heart, wondering if he’d gone too far. Briefly, he considered doing what Finney asked.
But only briefly. He grabbed Finney by his shirt and shoved him down over the counter, yelling at him to take it like a man and ignoring the sobs and pleas. When Terrence continued, he made sure to hit twice as hard and kept going until his son no longer had the will to cry.
After his first experience with the belt, the ten-year-old acted shy and skittish the next few days, though Terrence barely noticed at the time. One night after a long shift, Finney tiptoed into his father’s room, and mumbled, “Dad, do you hate me now?”
Terrence wasn’t sure what he was talking about at the time, but regardless of context, the answer was always ‘no.’ He should have answered ‘no.’ But instead, he snapped, “You know the answer to that. Don’t bother me with stupid questions when I get back from work.”
Finney’s shoulders slumped, and he quietly crept out of the room with a whispered, “Sorry.”
He never asked again.
Looking back at those moments with distance and clarity, Terrence wished he could say it wasn’t him. Wished he could say it was someone else, a demon who took control of his body. But it wasn't. It was always him. Him and the alcohol, which he chose to consume, repeatedly, despite the harm it caused to his children. It would be a sin he would carry with him until the day he died.
In the months and years that followed, Terrence stopped attending Finney’s baseball games. Gwen’s grades started to slip. The television acted as their babysitter. Finney and Gwen learned the art of walking on minefields, and while Gwen would sometimes plow ahead anyway like a bowling ball, Finney was more cautious and tried his best to avoid punishments, internalizing them in a way his sister never did. Breakfasts that used to be full of chatting, giggling, and rambling were now dead silent. Finney learned to take the belt stoically, quietly, the way Terrence wanted him to—-in fact, he became more quiet all-around. Terrence didn’t realize the cost until it was too late.
When his own father died shortly after his engagement to Susannah, the first thing Terrence said was, “Oh.” It was a heart attack: sudden, unexpected, and unresolved. There was no closure, no hidden wills or letters, only confusion. Terrence hadn’t talked to his father in person since he left Boulder, had no desire to talk to him. And why would he? The man chose alcohol over his son, and Terrence responded accordingly.
It was only months later that tears caught up to Terrence one night, and he allowed himself to weep in Susannah’s arms over the what-could-have-beens and words left unsaid.
Terrence never wanted that same dynamic with his own son, but reluctantly admitted he had no one to blame but himself. He remembered the icy horror when the police informed him his son was taken, the hurricane of regret and self-loathing that raged every day since Finney was taken, a hurricane that never died. He recalled pushing past the police barrier and towards the ambulance, Finney and Gwen bundled in blankets. He would never be able to forget the surprised (nervous) look in Finney’s eyes, how his son froze when he hugged him, how Gwen and Finney remained silent and leaned into each other for comfort while he rambled his apologies to Finney. Finney would never come to him for comfort the same way, and for good reason.
There was no way to turn back the clock, but God gave him a second chance with his kids most parents don’t have. He wanted to be better. He had to be, for the sake of his kids.
For some unfathomable reason, Gwen was happy to keep a relationship with him, which he cherished and felt was more than he deserved. But Finney hated him, Terrence could tell. He knew the chance of rekindling his relationship with Finney was over, but he still wanted, needed, his son to have a normal life, even one without him.
And God help anyone who’d stop him from making that a reality.
****
“Finney? Finney said that to a teacher?”
“That’s correct.”
Terrence rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I’m having a hard time believin’ this is true…you sure you’re not getting confused with my daughter, Gwen?”
“I can assure you, Mr. Blake, we’re surprised as well.” Despite this claim, Principal Warren’s voice sounded calm and even-tempered over the phone. “But Finney’s been under a tremendous amount of stress recently, which sometimes manifests in unusual ways.”
Terrence coughed through the haze of smoke emanating from Gene Pearson's cigar, eyes darting towards his boss before returning to the oft-ignored workplace safety poster he’d been glued to since the start of the conversation. “Can you—can you explain more about what happened?” Terrence asked weakly. “Which class was this?”
“History. Mr. McKay was in the front of the room lecturing when your son reportedly yelled, ‘Will you shut the eff up?’”
Christ, we’re both adults. You can say ‘fuck.’ “That doesn’t sound like Finney,” repeated Terrence, twisting the phone cord. “You sure he wasn’t talking to someone else?”
“According to Finney he was,” Principal Warren admitted, “but neither Mr. McKay nor any of the other students heard anyone else’s voice.”
“My son’s no liar,” Terrence loyally insisted, keenly aware of his boss’s calculating gaze. “Kids can be sneaky little shits. I bet one of ‘em was bugging him and no one wants to snitch.”
The principal sighed from the other end. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Blake. But a situation happened afterwards that leads us to believe Finney is experiencing…extreme emotional stress.”
“What?” Terrence clenched the phone tighter. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Pearson resting his chin on his knuckles, leaning back in the plush chair with the undeserved regality of a king. He couldn’t see the man’s expression and hoped with all his might that he couldn't overhear what the principal was saying. The last thing his family needed was more stigma and rumors.
“After leaving the classroom, he stopped off in the bathroom before arriving in the office. One of the stalls was occupied at the time, and the student inside said he heard Finney talking to himself by the sinks. This student claimed Finney sounded very agitated, and mentioned killing himself.”
Terrence’s heart stopped. Flashes of a bloody bathtub, Susannah’s glassy eyes, and his conversation with Gwen the previous morning barraged his mind. “Wh-what? I don’t understand. What did he say?”
“We don’t know the exact context since–-according to the student— it sounded rambling and disjointed, but the student was adamant it seemed like Finney was threatening to commit suicide.”
“To who?” Terrence demanded, voice growing progressively louder. “My son doesn’t talk to voices that don’t exist. There had to be someone else there.”
A second after it left his mouth, Terrence remembered Pearson was in the room, but didn’t care. He was too worried, too exhausted.
There was a brief pause before the principal spoke again. “Mr. Blake, I realize this might be difficult to hear, but we’re concerned your son might be experiencing some kind of nervous break. In the interest of his safety, and the safety of those around him, we’re asking you to come to Lincoln High and pick him up. Once you arrive, we’ll discuss possible options.”
Terrence pulled his eyes away from the workplace safety poster and looked numbly at Gene Pearson, who gave his employee a clenched half-smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t get why this is happening now,” Terrence mumbled, more to himself than anything. The principal responded anyway.
“Really?” Terrence’s eyes narrowed instinctively; he thought he heard a slight edge developing in the principal’s tone, but could that be his imagination? “I would assume the recent news had something to do with it. Your son has a personal vested interest in it, yes?”
“We’ve been living on Meadowbrook for days now.” During the first few days Terrence noticed Finney kept the lights on in his new room, but last night he saw—with relief—they were off. Is Finney backsliding? “This is the first time anything like this has happened.”
There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. “I see.” The tone lost its edge, sounding confused. “When can we expect you by, Mr. Blake?”
Terrence glanced at the clock. “An hour.”
“Good. We look forward to speaking with you.”
After hearing the click, Terrence hung up the phone with shaking fingers. He took a deep breath, aware of the uphill battle he was about to fight. “That was my son’s school. Something happened and I gotta pick him up.”
“Really?” Pearson said lightly. Too lightly. He smoothed back some gray strands from his temples and placed his cigar on the ashtray. “That’s a shame. Who’s covering your shift?”
They both knew the answer to that question. “I can work double this weekend.”
“Ah.” Pearson drummed his fingers against the desk. “Terrence, don’t misunderstand. I have tremendous sympathy for your situation, but surely you understand my predicament? You keep taking days off willy-nilly, and soon the other men are going to want to do the same.”
Do you think I wanted my house to burn down, you miserable old bastard?
The urge to wrap the phone cord around Pearson’s neck and pull was strong, but given his family’s financial situation, he couldn’t afford to rock the boat. He needed to kiss ass, even if it killed him. “I hate asking for favors like this, Mr. Pearson. But I have obligations to my family. My kids—they don’t have a mother or grandparents that could help them out. All they got is me.” Unfortunately.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Pearson nodded in a show of sympathy. “But you also have obligations to the Rocky Flats family, correct?”
The Rocky Flats “family” would replace him with another warm body in a heartbeat, but Terrence feigned agreement. “Right, which is why I’ll work extra hours on the weekend.”
Pearson gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “I wish that were possible, but as you’re aware, overtime hours are especially coveted now due to the economy being what it is. I’ve received multiple requests from different workers and can’t, in good conscience, give them to you.” He leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “To be perfectly frank, Terrence, the higher-ups have discussed cutting back your hours for a while now, and I’m inclined to agree.”
Terrence’s heart dropped. Part of him knew this was coming, but it didn’t do anything to relieve the sting. “Mr. Pearson, I’ve worked here for years! Things are rough right now because of the fire, but—”
Pearson opened a manilla folder on his desk, plucked out a paper with his index finger and thumb, and delicately handed it to his employee. Terrence snatched it and looked it over. It was his list of accumulated absences and half-days, which were…a lot more than he remembered. He needed to drive Finney to that stupid therapist, pick up the kids from school if they were sick, and meet with the police and lawyers on-and-off for the past three years due to various circumstances related to his son’s captivity. What else was he supposed to do?
“This has been an issue since before the fire. I’m aware your son is…troubled and requires atten—”
Terrence bristled. “He’s not. Finney’s a regular kid”—hearing voices—”going through some tough times. That’s all.”
“Well, regardless, we need reliable, dependable workers. If you show me over the next few months your situation is stable, we might consider extending your hours again. That sounds like a good deal to me. What do you say to that?
Shove it up you ass and fuck Rocky Flats, that’s what I say. But instead, he gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and muttered, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Good, good. Now, if you happen to pass a gentleman in the hallway when you leave, you can tell him to come on in, alright?”
Terrence nodded stiffly, chest tightening and nostrils flaring as he shoved open the door with a clang. Thoughts of bills, expenses, Finney, and Susannah poured through him, fear, rage, and grief flooding his veins as he walked through the hallway in a daze.
He almost forgot Pearson’s final request until a voice that was simultaneously smooth and grating interrupted his trance.
“Well, if it isn’t Meadowbrook’s new ray of sunshine!”
Terrence’s head snapped to the right, taking a few seconds to process what he was seeing. A cheerful brown-haired man wearing a safety reflective vest was sitting in a chair, folding a newspaper which he used to wave at Terrence. After a moment, it clicked.
“You’re the neighbor.” Terrence fished for the name. “Oscar?”
The man’s grin faltered for a moment, but smoothed out quickly. “John.”
“Right.” Fucking weirdo. “What are you doing here?”
Even back when Terrence used to give a shit about others’ opinions, Susannah would laugh and tell him he had the uncanny ability to make the most basic questions sound rude without meaning to. Luckily, John remained unperturbed, gesturing to his safety vest. “I work for the good ol’ NRC. Just doing a routine safety inspection, nothing to worry about.”
Fuck. In Rocky Flats, there was a lot to worry about. Terrence was genuinely shocked the Plant hadn’t been shut down yet due to the numerous safety violations and cut corners.
“Well, you can head in. I’ve gotta go.” Memories of Finney imploring him to be nice to the neighbors pushed to the forefront of Terrence’s mind, causing him to grudgingly add, “See you.”
“Just one moment, Terry.”
Terrence gritted his teeth. “Terrence.”
“Of course, of course.” John strode closer, placing—to Terrence’s irritation—a hand on his shoulder. The smile morphed into a look of concern. “Listen, Ken Yamada’s a good friend of mine.” Shit. “We’re getting drinks at the Cat’s Cradle around eight tonight, and you’re more than welcome to join us. I know there was a spat between you and his wife, but he’s willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”
Ken worked for the EPA, so it wasn’t surprising his paths crossed with John. It did come as a surprise that Ken was willing to be anywhere in Terrence’s vicinity after the shitshow last week, though.
A vein in his neck throbbed at the memory of June Yamada’s harsh accusations and his own venomous retorts. She was clearly a troubled woman and—like many times in his life—he acted impulsively when he should have taken a step back.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink.” Not anymore, and never again.
“Really?” John’s eyebrows shot up so high, they almost touched his hairline. “Even after today’s news? I thought you, of all people, would want to paint the town red. Hmm, well, I suppose you could get a Coke or—”
“...What news?”
John gestured innocently to the copy of Rocky Mountain News folded on the chair. After picking it up and skimming through the first page, Terrence’s world skidded to a halt. His fingers clenched, crushing the edges of the paper as fury pulsed through his veins. He spun around and stalked out of the room, barely hearing John’s final words.
“Remember: Eight o’clock!”
****
“What the hell is this?”
The secretary’s eyes widened in alarm as Terrence rattled the newspaper in front of her face. He thrusted a finger to the article at the bottom. “My taxes are paying for a queer’s salary, is that it?”
“M-mr. Blake, I know you’re upset, but—”
“Damn right I’m upset! My son was in a room with him every damn day, and none of you people felt—”
“Mr. Blake, that’s enough.”
Terrence spun around to face Principal Warren’s sharp eyes and austere expression. He was flanked by a man Terrence vaguely recognized as the guidance counselor (Mr. Garcia?), a fake smile plastered onto the younger man’s face.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” the principal suggested, gesturing towards a door. Terrence followed, steaming.
Once the door was shut, Terrence resumed his warpath. “Do you realize what my son went through, because of people like him?”
Principal Warren waited until he sat behind his desk before responding, Mr. Garcia standing next to him like a sentinel in sideburns. “Mr. Blake—”
“And it says here he’s got the gay plague, and you’re putting him in a class fulla kids! You idiots should be charged for child endangerment.”
Mr. Garcia’s eyes clouded, but Principal Warren remained calm and composed. “As per the article, the letters indicated Mr. Clarkson’s….companion, Glenn Walsh, is the one currently afflicted with illness. Not him.”
Jesus, how stupid were these people? “‘Companion.’ Come off it. If that guy’s got it, then so does he.”
Principal Warren steepled his fingers together and eyed Terrence with a piercing gaze, which he matched in turn. “I’d caution against jumping to conclusions. These rumors of a homosexual cancer are just that: rumors. There’s nothing substantial that would lead one to believe it’s anything other than mass hysteria driven from fear of— ”
“They’re not rumors,” Terrence insisted, blood boiling. He threw the newspaper onto Principal Warren’s desk in disgust. “Guy I work with has a brother-in-law who’s a doctor in LA, and he says they’re seeing this shit there too. Not only are they sick in the head, but now they’re spreading their—”
“Actually,” Mr. Garcia interrupted, hardened eyes belying his conversational tone, “The American Psychiatric Association doesn’t consider it a mental illness. Hasn’t been that way for eight years now.”
Terrence scoffed. “Goes to show you can get a PhD and still be a dumbass. Normal men don’t get off on kidnapping little boys.”
“That’s not what—”
Principal Warren cleared his throat, causing Mr. Garcia’s jaw to snap shut. “We’re not here to debate homosexuality, or the APA’s decision, or Mr. Clarkson. To answer your first question, Mr. Blake: yes, we are well aware of your son’s involvement with Albert Shaw, as I’m sure you know. Our main concern is moving forward with Finney.”
“Right,” Mr. Garcia nodded, shoulders slumping. He finally took a seat in a nearby chair and crossed his legs, gesturing for Terrence to sit as well. Terrence remained standing, and Mr. Garcia let out a small sigh before continuing. “In regards to the events of this morning, Finney is—”
“Is he suspended for what he said to the teacher?” Terrence asked bluntly.
“In any other circumstances he would be, but given the…irregularities of the situation, we’re willing to let it slide, providing proper regulations are in place to ensure it doesn’t happen again,” Principal Warren said, adjusting his spectacles. “The more pressing matter is what was said in the bathroom.”
“This kid could be talking out of his ass. Did Finney tell you he said this?”
Principal Warren paused for a moment. “No. He denied saying it, but—”
“Well, there you go,” Terrence proclaimed triumphantly, relief seeping through his body. “The kid was making shit up. Do you know how many fake rumors and gossip my son’s had to deal with in the past three years?”
Mr. Garcia bit his lip. “That could be true, but to be on the safe side, you might consider having Finney spend a few days in a psychiatric hospital so they can monitor—”
“My son is not staying in a fucking psych ward!” Terrence snarled, fury rising inside him like a tidal wave. “He’s a normal kid. People like you are the reason he can’t have a normal life.”
Mr. Garcia opened his mouth ready to argue, but Principal Warren cut in. “Perhaps it was a preemptive suggestion, since it rests on hearsay. Let’s put that to the side for the moment and focus on next year, shall we? Mr. Garcia, could you tell Mr. Blake your plans on helping Finney have a successful school year?”
Mr. Garcia’s lips thinned, and he waited a few seconds before responding. “I make it a habit to check in with certain students occasionally, and as Principal Warren explained to you on the phone, Finney’s going through a lot of emotional stress that’s affecting his judgment. I know we’re nearing the end of the school year, but starting next year, I was hoping we could make the check-ins regular. Maybe on a weekly basis.”
“No,” Terrence replied immediately. “Finney’s got friends now. He doesn’t need that stigma, otherwise everyone in the school’s gonna think he’s weak and make fun of him. He’ll tough it out.” He needs to. We’ve all need to.
Mr. Garcia’s fingers twitched. “With all due respect, Mr. Blake,” he said in a tone that indicated the opposite, “your son is floundering. I’m aware this might not be ideal, but it would be in Finney’s best interests for you to do something instead of pretending these problems don’t exist.”
Principal Warren glared at Mr. Garcia and opened his mouth to smooth things over, but the damage was done. Terrence exploded.
“I tried everything!” For a brief second, he debated how much to reveal before throwing caution to the wind. “I even sent him to a goddamn shrink. My own son!”
He remembered getting a phone call from Karen Moore, a name and face he vaguely recognized from magazine and newspaper articles. A pioneer in the new field of cognitive behavior therapy, who claimed she was uniquely qualified to help Finney navigate through the aftershocks of an experience that would rattle the strongest of adults. Terrence originally told her to take a long walk off a short pier, but sheer desperation following the horror show at breakfast one morning caused him to come crawling back.
“You know what happened?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Nothing. A waste of time and money, and what’s worse, it was all a scam. She didn’t care about Finney, she only cared about selling a goddamn book.”
Granted, he didn’t know that for sure, but after finding out she wrote about previous patients (all of whom happened to be victims of high-profile, publicized cases), it seemed likely, and Terrence was determined to keep Finney blissfully ignorant of that. The poor kid’s trust had broken too many times already. “So don’t go acting all high-and-mighty on me, saying I don’t care about my son. Because I do.”
“No one is saying you don’t, Mr. Blake,” Principal Warren emphasized, shooting Mr. Garcia a withering glare.
“R-right,” Mr. Garcia agreed, traces of pink appearing on his cheeks. “I’m not a certified therapist, just a counselor. Our sessions would be free and private. There’s no hidden agenda here. It’s just important for Finney to know there are people he can trust and rely on.”
“At the end of the day, he can only rely on himself. That’s how he got out of Shaw’s basement. No one swooped in and rescued him.” But I should have tried, instead of getting drunk off my ass. “All these problems he’s having…it’s because he doesn’t trust or have any confidence in himself.” Since I beat it out of him. “He doesn’t realize how strong he is, and he needs to if he’s to survive in the real world. All this touchy-feely horsecrap is going to make everything worse.”
Mr. Garcia shifted his position, hands rubbing against his beard absentmindedly. “We’re not your enemies, Mr. Blake. Our goal is to help Finney grow and succeed, but in order to—“
“‘Help’ him? Like you helped by hiring a queer?” A fresh wave of bitterness surged through Terrence.
“The Board was unaware of Mr. Clarkson’s preferences when hiring him,” the principal cut in. “That being said, we believe the fear of Mr. Clarkson is causing Finney to behave erratically. That, compounded with the rumors of his involvement, likely amplified his stress and led to this breakdown.”
Terrence opened his mouth, then closed it. He recalled Finney’s harsh words and claims of being a fag, and his stomach dropped. “W-what rumors?”
Principal Warren leaded over and fiddled with the name plate on his desk, without making eye contact. “Did you read the article fully, Mr. Blake?”
“I skimmed,” Terrence muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I know enough!”
Mr. Garcia snapped his gaze towards the principal, who continued to stare at Terrence with a neutral expression. Principal Warren sighed and leaned back. “Yesterday at the Board meeting, Gabriela Fernandez of Channel 7 arrived with a manilla envelope. Inside, there were letters of a romantic nature written from Mr. Walsh to Mr. Clarkson, along with several photographs that indicated a relationship beyond the platonic. Ms. Fernandez claimed the envelope was the result of an anonymous dropoff. She also claimed that the individual who dropped them off was a”—he grabbed the newspaper with knitted eyebrows, reading her exact words—”‘youth who attends Lincoln High School and lives in fear of homosexuals due to a horrific past experience with one.’”
Terrence’s mouth grew dry. “That doesn’t mean it was Finney!”
“She said this source had difficult experiences with the media in the past and wishes to remain anonymous because of it.”
“It still might not be Finney,” Terrence said, more weakly than he wanted. “She didn’t say it was.”
“That’s true,” Principal Warren replied diplomatically. “And we’re not saying he did. Merely suggesting why these rumors exist.”
Terrence’s mind raced. “Where’d the envelope come from?”
“In a safe in Mr. Clarkson’s apartment. He might press charges.”
“Wha—” Terrence suddenly felt very lightheaded. “My son didn’t break into this man’s house. He doesn’t do things like that.”
“It’s uncharacteristic, but fear can sometimes lead to unusual behaviors. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“You th—no. No, my son didn’t do this.” Uncertainty made way for familiar, comforting rage. “I’m not spending another second here without a lawyer!”
“We’re not accusing Finney,” Principal Warren placated. But from his and Mr. Garcia’s expressions, Terrence could tell they believed his son was the culprit. Terrence’s temper flared.
“You think the worst of my son, like how you thought the worst of me,” accused Terrence. He strode to the door and wrapped his hands tightly around the knob. “I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t been the perfect parent, but not about to stand by while this—this witch hunt happens. Finney’s coming home with me. Now.”
There were a few seconds of silence, but before Terrence could start yelling again, Principal Warren asked warily, “Will you be picking Gwen up, too?”
Terrence hesitated, pulling the door open with a creak. He wanted to get both his kids away from the school, but knew he needed to talk to Finney one-on-one. In the car, there’d be nowhere to go, and Finney’d have no choice but to listen. “No. You can tell her to walk home.”
The principal tapped his chin and nodded, but Mr. Garcia leaned forward in his seat. Lurking behind the guidance counselor’s eyes was an emotion Terrence couldn’t identify.
“We’re aware this is a stressful situation for Finney. But as a parent, this can’t be easy for you either. Although we’ve been emphasizing the importance of allowing Finney to express these feelings, it might be beneficial for you to consider speaking with a—”
Terrence slammed the door in his face.
****
As much as Terrence hated to entertain the notion of Finney having a nervous breakdown, he couldn't deny his son looked…unwell. He kept rubbing his arms, sweat glistening on his brow and avoiding eye contact with Terrence even more than usual. What’s worse was the dull, empty expression in his eyes, a look that was all-too common before and after his sessions with the belt. Terrence didn’t like seeing it again.
A thick and heavy silence hung in the air like a fog as Terrence drove the Ford Pinto out of the school parking lot. Several different thoughts swam frantically through his mind as Terrence fished for the best way to start before settling on the one that could get them in legal hot water.
“Did you break into this guy’s house?”
Terrence glanced in the rearview mirrors to see Finney’s face crumble in the backseat. He looked thirteen again, not sixteen. “Yeah…”
Fuck. A whirlwind of questions and fears raged through Terrence’s mind, but all he could think to ask was, “Did you tell anyone?”
“Just Donna…but everyone else knows it’s me, especially after what Gabby said.”
Terrence’s fingers grew white as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Don’t tell anyone else. Unless you’re named, you have”—he tried to remember the right word–“plausible deniability. Your girl knows not to blab, right?”
“I don’t know if she’s even ‘my girl’ anymore.” Finney’s openness was another alarming sign, as Finney wouldn’t be anywhere near as forthcoming on a normal day. “W-we got into this huge fight. It was—it was really bad. The whole reason I did it was because I—” His son’s breath hitched. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”
Terrence looked up sharply. Finney was gazing numbly out the window, but his hands were tugging at the edges of his hair. Seemingly innocuous, but Terrence knew from past experience that when Finney got into these moods, hair pulling could spiral into pinching, then scratching at the skin, then piercing, then cutting “accidentally,” and so on.
“Knock it off,” he snapped. Finney’s hands stalled, but didn’t drop. Should he direct the topic to something else, or continue his line of questioning? “Why’s she mad at you? I thought she was smart.”
If Terrence was a betting man, he would never have wagered that the daughter of a college professor in the more affluent part of town would be Finney’s first girlfriend. They were an odd combination, but it was clear Finney adored her, and in the couple times Terrence caught a glimpse of her, it seemed mutual. Until today, apparently.
“She is,” Finney defended, the insult to Donna sparking his resolve. Seeing that reminded Terrence of how he would loyally rush to Susannah’s defense, and witnessing his son replicate that behavior left him with mixed emotions. “I’m the dumb one. She’s mad because I thought Mr. Clarkson was, like,”—his voice trailed off and his face flushed—“doing….stuff with her. Uh, you know?”
I’m fifty-three and have two kids. For fuck’s sake, yes, ‘I know.’ “Was he?”
“No. Someone told me they were and I was stupid enough to believe him even though”—Finney’s voice raised—”he lies allllll the time and can’t be trusted with anything ever again. And he said there was proof in an envelope in Mr. Clarkson’s safe, so I went there and…yeah. And then he told me I couldn’t open it or give it to the police so I gave it to Gabby and the whole thing exploded.”
Terrence opened his mouth, then closed it again. There were a lot of gaps in this story, but Terrence knew he was lucky enough to get the barebones. “Is it the Perez kid?”
Finney snorted. “No.”
“Then wh—”
“I really don’t want to talk about him,” Finney snapped. Anger’s better than hopelessness. That’s progress. “But the reason Donna’s upset is because I did it for her. So she blames herself for what happened to Mr. Clarkson.”
“Did you ask her if it was true?”
“Sort of. I asked her if anything was wrong and she said no.” Terrence’s eyes snapped from the road to look at his son in disbelief. “I know I’m an idiot, okay?”
Terrence didn’t think his son was an idiot, but holy shit, what a terrible judgment call. Must get it from his old man.
While a bitter smile slipped its way onto Terrence’s face, unease crept inside his heart. Why would this ‘someone’ have such an influence on Finney? Why was the boy so quick to believe his girlfriend was being—
Then, it clicked. Terrence glanced in the rearview mirror again, assessing the sadness and vulnerability reflected in his son's eyes, eyes which have seen more horrors in two months than most adults have in their entire lifetime.
He took a breath, trying to gather his thoughts. Terrence was an impulsive person by nature, a trait his daughter unfortunately inherited. But interacting with Finney when his son was in an emotionally raw state post-Grabber was like handing a grenade. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened two days ago.
In the end, he decided to shift the conversation from Finney’s reasoning to the aftereffects.
“This is gonna blow over in a few days,” bluffed Terrence.
“No it won’t!” Finney insisted. “Dad, everyone’s talking about this! It’s in the newspaper.”
“So then take off the rest of the school year.” Terrence made a vague hand gesture. “It’s the second week of June. Doubt you kids are learning anything anyway. It’ll be an early summer vacation.”
“I have a math final on Monday,” Finney mumbled.
“Then go in for that day. And when you go back in September, this’ll be old news. Everyone’ll be talking about disco or pet rocks or whatever else you kids think is groovy.”
He heard a quiet groan from the backseat. “Dad, you’re so—no one says groovy anymore.”
Terrence frowned. “Your sister does.”
“Yeah, but that’s because she’s…Gwen.”
“And you’re Finney Blake. You’re one of the best damn kids in this entire town, and everyone knows it. You might’ve made a mistake, but so does everyone. You’ll bounce back.”
“Dad, you don’t get it. No one likes me anymore,” Finney whimpered. “The only ones who don’t are the ones who wanted Mr. Clarkson fired because they hate gay people, or are pissed they got a bad grade or detention or something. Everyone else either hates me for getting him fired, or thinks I’m a psycho stalker who c-can’t get over what happened to me three years ago, and—and the worst are the ones who feel sorry for me, or act like I’m a walking timebomb. I was able to fit in before, but now everyone knows I’m a freak with hangups. And they’re right.” Finney gave a hollow chuckle that collapsed into a sob. “I wish I died in the basement…”
Terrence’s heart ached while his temper flared. “Don’t say that! You did a good thing.”
“No I didn’t!”
“People like him,” Terrence practically spat, “shouldn’t be allowed near kids. Far as I’m concerned, this is the second time you’re the town hero. You should be damn proud.”
“I’m not a hero, Dad. I never was, and I don’t know why you keep trying to make me into one.”
Terrence wished Finney could see the value and strength Terrence saw in him. “You fought. You came up with ideas and shit. You didn’t go screaming and running like that ditz from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Give yourself some credit.”
A fog of silence descended upon the car once again, Terrence mentally kicking himself for bringing up The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He had vague recollections of Finney tentatively asking to see it shortly before his abduction, which Terrence immediately shot down. It was the last movie he and Susannah saw in theaters and Finney was obviously too young to go with them, so the comparison to Sally would have flown over his head.
He heard a sniff, and glanced up into the rearview mirror, noting with alarm that Finney’s eyes glistened with tears. “What now?”
He winced at how the words came out, not intending to sound so brusque. Finney didn’t seem to mind and muttered, barely audible: “The plan wasn’t mine, and I didn’t fight hard enough. In the beginning and end yeah, but in the middle I–he–it was…I don’t know. I should have done more.”
Finney slumped his head against the window, and Terrence was aware they were stepping into minefield territory. What was he supposed to say? What could he say?
Still, he wasn’t about to let this go. What part did his son not get? “You stopped a man from hurting kids. Twice. That’s somethin’ commendable.”
“Mr. Clarkson wasn’t hurting anyone!” Finney’s voice became stronger. “He might have liked men, but he didn’t do anything weird to me or anyone I know.”
“Yet,” Terrence insisted stubbornly. “Because you stopped him.”
Finney made a scornful noise and Terrence opened his mouth but stopped, recalling Finney’s claims from two days ago. His stomach twisted into knots. “You—you don’t have to protect him. If he did something to you, you can tell me.”
“No,” Finney responded immediately. “He didn’t.”
Terrence’s fingers flexed over the wheel. “Well, two days ago, you told me you thought you were—” He swallowed. “You said you liked boys.”
Finney shifted in his seat. “I just—forget it. I don’t know why I said that.”
It would be so easy for Terrence to take the out and switch topics, and he desperately wanted to. But he couldn’t forget the blush on Finney’s cheeks as his eyes roved over John Travolta’s picture on the cover of Rolling Stone, or the way he stared a bit too intently at Michael Landon chopping wood on Little House on the Prairie.
But Finney’s affection towards Donna seemed genuine, and he’d sometimes get flustered around women and girls. When Terrence thought Finney was gone for good and went into his son’s room to mourn, he spotted a hidden poster underneath the bed of Farrah Fawcett in her iconic red swimsuit.
It had to be Shaw that screwed with his mind. What else could it be?
Terrence took a deep breath. “It’s alright, you can tell me.” For several seconds, there was nothing but the hum of the engine. Terrence's heart started to sink, and what he said next escaped his mouth without thinking. “We used to talk about anything. I miss that.”
The words from the back seat were so quiet, Terrence wondered if he imagined them. “...Me too.”
There was another long stretch of silence where Terrence mourned the loss of a bygone era. They stopped at a red light where–-as if by providence—a father was playing catch with his Kindergarten-age son on the lawn next to them. The child’s fumbling and giggling summoned a wave of nostalgia. A ghost of a smile flickered across Terrence’s lips, heart heavy with sadness.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to see Finney eyeing the father-son duo with an indecipherable expression. Then, Finney mumbled: “That kid’s wearing a Dodgers shirt. Remember that one time we saw them when I was eight? When they were up against the Padres?”
Terrence smiled at the memory of the thunderous stadium, the smell of popcorn and hotdogs wafting in the air, Finney with ketchup on his face, and the two of them erupting into cheers as they watched Davey Lopes run like a cheetah through the bases. “How could I forget?”
“It was the best early Christmas present ever.” For the first time in the conversation, the corners of Finney’s mouth flicked upward. “How were you able to get those tickets?”
A shit-ton of money I wish I had now. “I think you mean, ‘How did Santa get those tickets?’”
There was a small, unfamiliar noise from the backseat that might have been a stifled laugh. If it was, it would be the first time Finney laughed at something Terrence said in years. An unfamiliar grin pushed its way onto Terrence's face. He didn't want to say anything to ruin the moment, so he kept his mouth shut.
This time, the silence was companionable instead of tense. Terrence fully expected the ride to be quiet, but a feeble voice from the backseat spoke up. “Dad…I want to talk about what I said earlier. About being—you know…”
Terrence started to sweat, but tried to maintain an outer composure. “Alright. Shoot.”
Finney’s voice grew so soft, Terrence had to strain to hear. “Seeing everyone turn on Mr. Clarkson so fast bothered me a lot, and I think part of it’s because, well, I think…I think I like both.” Goddamnit. “I know what you said about people like that, but I love Donna.” He started to talk faster. “As a girl, not just as a friend. But I also sometimes feel stuff towards boys, and it feels the same, so…yeah. I think I like both, and I wish I didn’t. I’m really sorry, Dad…”
Terrence took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think,” Terrence said finally, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, “you’re confused. Shaw got into your head, and all your wires are crossed. Give it time, and everything’ll go back to normal.”
There were a few beats of silence, then: “Dad”—Terrence hated how wounded Finney sounded—”I felt this way before I met him. W-with Robin…”
Terrence took a deep breath to reign in his racing mind. “No you didn’t. Look, Finney, he was a kid you admired, and it’s easy to mistake that for roma—”
“I think I know more about my feelings than you do.”
Finney’s words were sharp, powerful, and defensive, much like how they were the morning Terrence found him with Emma Baur.
“Alright, fine,” Terrence said, desperate to go back to that one minute where things seemed peaceful between them. He could humor him, if necessary. “Let’s say you like both. But what you should do is obvious, innit?”
“....No….”
His son was the smartest kid he knew, but good Lord, he could be dense sometimes. “Just focus on girls. No one has to know about the other stuff.”
Terrence dared to glance up at the mirror, watching as Finney’s lips thinned and his fingers twitched. Terrence’s anxiety spiked. Why the hell was Finney upset? “What’s with that look?”
“What look?” Finney responded after a few seconds.
“Like someone pissed in your cornflakes. I’m giving you a good idea here, and you’re giving me grief.” Finney said nothing, and Terrence’s temper began to rise. “You know about Stonewall, yeah? Don’t you know how hard your life’s gonna be if you don’t do what I'm tellin’ you? Wouldn’t you rather be normal?”
Don’t you want to get away from what Shaw did to you?
Finney scowled and turned his face towards the window. Terrence’s eyes darted back to the road, and he clenched his jaw. He could feel himself about to shout and tried to reign in his temper like Father O’Brien advised, counting to ten in his head.
This conversation wasn’t leading to anything productive. It needed to be dropped.
“The play’s tomorrow, right?” Terrence asked, stopping at another red light. “What’s going to happen?”
There was another pause where Terrence wasn’t sure if Finney would reply. “I don’t know. Friday’s show got canceled, but I don't know about the weekend.”
Finney’s words were cold and terse, leaving no room for additional conversation. The earlier tension returned, and there was another long stretch of silence.
Unable to take it any longer, Terrence turned on the radio and flipped to the news. “—of the exposure and influence of militant homosexuals on adolescent development. Parents of Lincoln High School have also expressed concerns that Anthony Clar—”
Terrence couldn’t switch the station fast enough. Flickers of static made it hard to decipher the next song, but eventually it smoothed out to a hauntingly familiar tune. “Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea. Lonely rivers sigh, ‘Wait for me, wait for me. I’ll be coming home, wait for me.”
Tears began to prickle in his eyes as they often did whenever he heard “Unchained Melody.” God, he missed his wife so much.
Finney whispered something in the backseat, but Terrence couldn’t hear what it was. A sweaty pointer finger flipped the station again. “—new member of the family at Happy Hearts Animal Rescue! Located at the corner of Lipan Street and El Paso Boulevard, our workers will ensure your family will be paired with a furry friend who—”
“We should get a dog,” Terrence decided impulsively. “We’ve got a big enough yard for it now. Might be good for a change of pace.”
When Terrence was young, he and his brother Paul had a Boxer named Roscoe who was on the shortlist of living beings Terrence loved throughout his life. He always wanted to replicate that experience with his own family, but Susannah’s allergies put an unfortunate halt to that idea.
“I don’t want a dog,” Finney grumbled from the backseat.
“Since when?” Terrence asked, aghast. “You love dogs. I remember that big sticker book you had with all the different breeds. After I told you about Roscoe, you begged me for weeks to get a pup.”
“That was when I was six. I don’t like them anymore.”
“A dog could’ve stopped that kook from looking into our windows and taking pictures.” His grip over the wheel tightened as he remembered the ‘superfan’ Finney acquired two years ago. Was it any wonder his son had issues? “We should get a mastiff like Roscoe. They make good guard dogs.”
“I said I don’t want one!” Finney kicked Terrence’s seat for emphasis. “Are you listening to anything I'm saying? Are you deaf?”
A volcano erupted inside Terrence, tension and stress accumulated throughout the day heating his blood. “How dare you talk to me that way?!” he snarled, reaching back and jabbing Finney’s chest with his pointer finger. “You’re damn lucky I don’t throw you over the trunk and beat your ass on the side of the road. That’s what my old man would have done. That’s what I should do.”
Several different emotions flickered on Finney’s face, but before guilt and common sense took hold of Terrence, Finney replied, “Whatever. Wouldn’t bother me.” He shrugged in a show of faux nonchalance, betrayed by his hardened, spiteful eyes. “I’m used to crusty old men touching my ass.”
Terrence’s jaw dropped, heat rising in his cheeks. Before the car behind them honked and Terrence swiveled his head towards the road, he caught a glimpse of Finney’s triumphant smirk.
He knew his son was being deliberately provocative to gain a reaction, much like two days ago. He just couldn’t understand what Finney got out of this. Was the temporary high of seeing his father unbalanced and uncomfortable worth the inevitable mortification that would come hours later, rendering Finney unable to meet Terrence’s eye? Was this some warped cry for help? Did he want to get hit or punished, perhaps unconsciously? Was this an attempt to feed into the self-loathing the stupid shrink claimed lurked underneath the surface?
“First off, I don’t touch it,” Terrence finally began, trying to steady his breath. “Second, I’m not having this conversation until you cool your jets.”
Terrence was sure Finney would back down, but he underestimated how worked up the conversation—and events of the day—made him. Finney was itching for a fight, and would not settle for anything less than scorched earth. “C’mon, do it. Go ahead.”
Lord, give me strength. “I said I should, not that I was going to.”
“Why not?” he taunted, testing the waters by pushing the back of Terrence’s seat again with his feet. “You never stopped before.”
Terrence’s jaw clenched, blood pressure spiking. “You know damn well why.”
“No I don’t.”
Was he that delusional? Did he really forget? Or was this more intentional provocation? Temper fraying, he snapped. “I don’t want you thinking I’m Shaw and saying weird shit to me again. That’s why.”
It was the wrong thing to say, even if it was true. Finney’s face flushed crimson, though his feet, at least, were no longer pushing into Terrence’s seat. “I didn’t think you w-were him!” he stammered. “I know you’re not.”
“Well, I sure as shit hope you didn’t think it was me.” Memories of what Finney said and did made him nauseous and furious at Albert Shaw.
“I didn’t! I barely even remem—I don’t know why it happened, I just… ”
I’ve gotta de-escalate this. Terrence counted to five in his head and attempted to approach the topic in a more conciliatory manner. “It’s alright. Eventually you’ll stop thinking about him all the time and things’ll go back to nor—”
“I don’t think about him all the time!!”
“Okay, fine, you’re right,” Terrence placated. Christ, why do I fuck everything up? “You don’t think about him.”
“I don’t…” Finney whispered pitifully, and Terrence’s throat thickened. He lowered the window so Finney could get some fresh summer air.
Silence reigned once more, and Terrence lifted an unsteady finger to change the station again.
“—sale on liquor at—”
Nope. Although he desperately longed for a bottle right now, he flipped the station, relaxing to the chorus of “Bette Davis Eyes.” A soft, almost-inaudible whisper caused Terrence’s eyes to snap up to the rearview mirror. Finney was hunched over a small metal square he clutched in his hands, face pale. Terrence vaguely remembered seeing something similar on television—one of those brain-rotting video games. Was that how Finney wasted his thirty dollars of spending money?
He opened his mouth to ask, but the song ended and switched to “Celebration,” a song Terrence loathed but Gwen adored and would always dance to in the back of the car. Basking in the opportunity to change the station without her complaining, he flipped the button.
“—criticized the appeal, reiterating the similarities in appearance, background, interests, and personalities of the victims. The controversial-yet-bestselling novel was the frequent subject of debates regarding its inclusion in bookstores and libraries, opponents citing ethical considerations while proponents emphasized concerns over censorship and the precedent of libraries imposing moral standards on books within their catalogs. Beverly Bowen of the University of Denver has this to say.” A different voice with a staticy background responded to an unheard question. “It’s a library. If I wanted to check out Mein Kampf, I could. I don’t see why Bound in Chains should be any different. It’s–”
A vein on Terrence’s neck throbbed as he smacked the button with such intensity, he was surprised it didn’t break. Listening to the news anchor droning on about the weather, his fingers couldn’t stop twitching. If there was anything that got his blood pressure going, it was that fucking book.
“It’s nothing,” Finney hissed from the back seat, so quiet Terrence could barely hear, despite the palpable panic seeping through his son’s voice. “Someone wrote a stupid book.”
Fuck. Is he talking to himself?
Terrence’s fingers curled over the wheel. Within a few seconds, the radio turned static again, as though he was driving underneath a tunnel.
When it resumed, Terrence was no longer listening to the weather.
“—Described by the Los Angeles Times as ‘uncomfortably speculative at best, salaciously exploitative at worst,’ Bound in Chains contains several scenes of a debatably pornographic nature—”
“Stop it!” Finney cried out in frustration.
Terrence jammed the button, to no avail. “I didn’t change it! This radio’s crap.”
“—involving minors engaging in sexual activity with an adult character resembling the Galesburg Grabber–”
“If you don’t stop, I’ll jump out of the car right now and die, and you’ll never be with me!”
“What the fuck?”
Finney’s eyes jerked upward, as if just realizing Terrence was in the car. “Dad—”
Terrence’s heart was practically hammering out of his chest. He didn’t think they were going fast enough to result in death, but still. Holy shit.
“You need to see a shrink.” As much as he loathed to admit it, Mr. Garcia may have had a point. Terrence was completely out of his depth here. “Or someone. I don’t know. I hated her, but this shit wasn’t happening then.”
“No I don’t!” Finney protested. Strands of auburn stuck to his sweaty brow. His pupils darted around the car, agitated and unfocused. “I was fine until a couple weeks ago.”
No, you weren’t. Finney could hide it better then, but Terrence wasn’t an idiot. “Doesn’t matter. You threatened to off yourself! Twice in one day!”
“I wasn’t talking to you…” Finney murmured sadly.
“You’re talking to voices in your head?” Terrence demanded. Finney was silent and Terrence’s stomach plummeted. “Normal people don’t do this.”
“I know…” whispered Finney, voice wobbly. “I’m sorry…”
There was nothing to say to that. White-knuckled, Terrence flipped to the next station, which played “Jessie’s Girl.” Terrence knew Finney liked the song and bought the record, which burned with the rest of the house. He hoped the upbeat tune would calm Finney down, but a glance at the rearview mirror revealed that was not the case. Finney was still clutching onto that stupid screen, eyes narrowed.
“This isn’t how people act if they love someone,” he heard his son whisper.
Rick Springfield’s voice dissolved into static and when the station regained clarity, dulcet tones from a song Terrence hadn’t heard on the radio in years came on: “You Always Hurt the One You Love” by the Mills Brothers. “You always take the sweetest rose, and crush it till the petals fall~”
Terrence heard a scoffing sound from the backseat and felt a sharp pang of sadness and guilt. Finney was thinking about him, no doubt. After all, how many times had Terrence hurt the two people on this earth he loved more than anything? Not just physically, but also emotionally? Hell, over the course of this one single car ride, he already succeeded in making Finney miserable.
“Finney, I’m sorry…” Terrence admitted quietly, hoping his son could hear him over the sound of the music. “I was wound up earlier, and I shouldn’t have said—”
“Shut up…”
Terrence blinked, taken aback. “Wha–”
Despite keeping his hands on the steering wheel, the volume of the music grew louder. “So, if I broke your heart last night, it’s because I love you most of all~”
“I don’t give a fuck what you say! You ruined my life.”
The steering wheel jerked out of his hands, causing the car to swerve and almost veer into the left lane. Terrence hastily course-corrected with shaky hands, heart rate climbing quickly. He didn’t think he loosened his grip from the wheel, but what else could it be?
Clearly, it wasn’t safe to drive like this. His mind was jumbled, he couldn’t think straight, and they were nearing a busy intersection.
Father O’Brien always told Terrence the reason he should change was because he wanted to change, because it was the right thing to do. Not just to alleviate his conscience. No one’s obligated to forgive, and Terrence didn’t blame his son for not wanting to.
Still, it hurt. It hurt a lot.
Terrence worked up the courage to look upward in the mirror, but Finney wasn’t looking at him. Instead of meeting his father’s eyes, he glowered at the screen in hand, trembling with rage.
Terrence’s heart was pounding. “Finney, I—”
“You’re the reason I can’t be normal.” Finney’s voice broke, along with Terrence’s heart. The engine made a loud sputtering sound.
“I know I haven’t been the best dad,” he began, looking for a place to pull over, “but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Don’t think you can’t—”
“I said, shut up!”
Terrence saw an open lot to the right and pushed his foot on the brake to slow down. But the car wouldn’t slow. If anything, it picked up speed.
Terrence’s heart stopped. “Finney—”
“I don’t care! I hate you!”
In one fluid motion, Finney flung the metal screen out the open window and onto the pavement of the sidewalk. Over the honking of the cars, Terrence heard a faint clatter.
Then, everything stopped.
With a loud groan of the engine, the car sputtered to a sudden, abrupt halt in the busiest intersection in Galesburg. The crash occurred a second later.
Notes:
-I would like to give a massive CONGRATS to everyone who guessed Mr. Clarkson's secret! The “gay plague” mentioned in this chapter is a reference to AIDS, which didn’t get its name until 1982. But cases existed earlier than that, with the first documented report being in June of 1981.
-The next Finney chapter will overlap with the events of this one. We’ll see some of the parts mentioned (him at school, the argument with Donna, his perspective on the car scene) from his POV, and we’ll also see what happens to him after the events of this chapter. Also, more details about the contents of the envelope.
-The next Finney POV chapter is going to show that the Grabber knows about Finney's feelings for Robin, since he looked into Finney's dreams in one of the previous chapters. That discussion happened at the school before Terrence picked him up, which is why he's not cautious about mentioning it in the car.
Chapter 17: Just One Sip
Notes:
The Moral Majority mentioned in this chapter was a “moral values” advocacy group active in the 80s.
Next chapter we’re going back to Finney’s POV!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
We’re fine, Terrence repeated to himself for the tenth time, watching numbly as the workers hooked the crushed remains of his Ford Pinto to the back of the tow truck. That’s all that matters. A car’s just a car—it can be replaced.
The fact that he needed the car for work and wouldn’t be able to afford a new one with their current finances lurked at the back of his mind, objecting loudly despite Terrence’s determination to ignore it. Concern regarding prices of rental cars did the same.
Instead, Terrence chose to focus on the positive, borderline miraculous: Aside from a few minor cuts and bruises, Finney and him were safe, and so were the passengers in the semi-truck that crashed into them from behind, and the passengers of the Porsche 930 Turbo the Ford Pinto rammed into. The accident scene looked so devastating, a bystander immediately called an ambulance, and when the police and EMTs arrived, they expressed shock that Finney and Terrence still lived. According to the police, the father and son would have, should have, been dead, if not for the Ford Pinto’s small, unexplained shift in angle right before it hit the Porsche.
“You folks must have an angel looking out for you,” the police officer laughed, scribbling his report on his clipboard as he walked back to his vehicle.
Finney sniffled but didn’t say anything, continuing the pattern of silence he maintained since being pulled from the car. Terrence’s eyes instinctively snapped towards his son, whose eyes looked as hopeless as his father’s.
Immediately after exiting the vehicle, Finney rushed to the sidewalk and picked up that fucking video game, which—despite the crack in the screen and scuff marks littering the exterior—was in much better condition than the Ford Pinto. He couldn’t muster the energy for anger, not even when one of the passengers from the Porsche asked for Finney’s autograph. Instead, all he felt was a numb, detached sensation that might be a result of Finney’s skewed priorities, the crash, Finney’s rant towards him, or a combination of all three.
He was too exhausted and too old for this shit.
As they waited for roadside assistance, Terrence spoke to his son for the first time since checking his injuries. “Once we get back on our feet, we’ll move out of state. Star over at a new school. The Showalters had the right idea.”
The crash extinguished the previous flames in Finney’s eyes, making way for dull resignation. “He’ll never let me go, Dad. Doesn’t matter where I am.”
Terrence’s heart tightened at Finney’s words and haunted expression. “Shaw’s dead, you hear me? He can't hurt you anymore.”
Finney’s shoulders slumped as the roadside assistance driver pulled over. Neither Blake spoke to each other for the remainder of the car ride.
****
Upon entering the house, Terrence groaned with the realization he didn’t put the air conditioning on in the morning. The house was sweltering. Sweltering and silent, with the ticking of the clock being the only noise piercing through the blanket of quiet.
Terrence knew he should say something but didn’t know what, Finney’s harsh words echoing through his head like drumbeats. His son—pale and sweaty—sat hunched over on the sofa, clutching his stomach.
“Dad, I don’t feel good,” he whispered, unfocused eyes blinking rapidly.
After a moment of hesitation, Terrence sat on the sofa next to him. Sweat beaded on Finney’s brow, causing a few messy strands of auburn to stick. Terrence reached out and brushed Finney’s hair back into place. The sudden, frozen terror in Finney’s eyes caused Terrence’s heart to break.
Is he always going to be afraid of me?
Without thinking, he scooped his son into a hug. Much like three years ago, Finney remained tense and rigid, a stark reminder of the distance between them despite physical closeness.
He wasn’t sure how long it lasted for, but at a certain point he felt Finney lean into the touch, which had to be a good sign. After breaking the hug, Terrence asked, slightly hesitant, “Do you want me to go or stay?”
“Stay.” Finney’s face tilted to the side, a curtain of a reddish-brown obscuring his expression. Terrence blinked in surprise and swallowed, shifting his position on the sofa. Before he could think of something to say, Finney’s fingers laced into his and gave a light squeeze. “I’m hungry. I need food. Please…”
Terrence blinked, not used to the sudden mood whiplash, or Finney initiating contact. “Sure I can get you some—”
“And blankets. I’m freezing.”
Terrence’s brows furrowed and opened his mouth, but the words died on his tongue when Finney raised his head. Terrence yanked his hand away, heart pounding, leaving Finney’s fingers to grasp for the open air.
He’d seen this before. Finney was no longer in the living room with Terrence. His mind was in another place, another time.
Shit shit shit shit shit
Panic surged throughout his body. The last time something like this happened, Finney cradled himself on the floor for ten minutes before he snapped out of it. According to Moore, episodes like this could last seconds, minutes, hours, or (God forbid) more than a day.
One of the first clues that led Terrence to believe she was full of crap was when she said Finney needed to be the one to manage these occurrences, and there wasn’t much Terrence could do beyond preventative measures.
But there had to be something he could do. He wasn’t about to sit by uselessly, like he did when Finney was kidnapped. Like he did every year since Susannah’s death.
Terrence grasped Finney’s other wrist to stop it from tugging at the collar of his shirt. “C’mon, kid,” begged Terrence, shaking Finney’s shoulder slightly. “You gotta snap out of it!”
But Finney wasn’t listening. His eyes glazed over and he mouthed silent, indecipherable words.
Terrence had no idea what to do. Should he call the hospital? 911? The police?
When Finney’s body began to tremble and his breathing grew heavier and faster paced, panic tore through Terrence like a lightning bolt.
Fuck. He needed to do something, now.
Without thinking, he took his palm and swung it hard against Finney’s cheek, the sharp crack reverberating throughout the room.
It didn’t work. If anything, it made things worse, tears leaking from his son's eyes as he pulled away from Terrence and huddled in the corner of the couch, mumbling incoherently, eyes still elsewhere.
Terrence rushed to the kitchen, mind frantic, and grasped the side of his head to convince himself he was in control. Breathe. Breathe.
He recalled Moore saying something about the five senses—something about using them to feel grounded to reality. Maybe. His eyes flickered around helplessly.
Taste? Forcing Finney to ingest anything was out. Smell? Terrence frantically opened the cabinets, fridge, and freezer, but couldn’t find anything with a distinctive odor. Sight and sound? Finney was off in his own little world and oblivious to what Terrence was doing or saying (maybe I can bang the pans? Turn on the TV? Would that make it worse?) He bit his lip. Touch? Smacking him didn’t work, but—wait, this might.
Terrence grabbed two ice cubes from the freezer and rushed back to the living room, hoping the texture would be jarring enough to jolt him back to reality. When he returned, Finney was curled up near the edge of the sofa, but the tears and shivering stopped. Finney’s eyes darted in his direction, weary but alert.
“Finney?” he began cautiously.
“Yeah…” muttered Finney.
Oh thank God.
A wave of relief washed over him, and he fought off the impulse to hug Finney again. His eyes darted to the clock; though it seemed like an eternity, the regression only lasted five minutes. “You back to normal?” Finney looked away and shrugged, and Terrence swallowed. “I want you to hold this.”
“...why?”
He recognized Terrence’s questions. That was a good sign. “Because I don’t want you bugging out like you did a minute ago.”
“I won’t!” Finney’s eyes hardened. “I’m fine. I don’t need a stupid ice cube! What the hell is that supposed to do anyway?”
“You’re not fine! You–” Stop, deep breaths. “Alright, I’ll put it back.” Terrence wasn’t sure why he took it either, but it made sense a minute ago when his mind fritzed from panic. Now he felt like an idiot. “But do not leave that couch.”
After returning the ice to the freezer, Terrence was relieved to see Finney rooted in the spot, though his lips twisted into a scowl when Terrence sat on the opposite side of the sofa. There was a long, uncomfortable silence where a lot to say was left unsaid. Finney’s rigid posture gradually morphed into a defeated, embarrassed slump.
“Did I say or do anything…weird?” whispered Finney, clutching his arms closer to his body, an unconscious shield.
They both knew ‘weird’ was code for sexual.
“No.” In truth, Terrence wasn’t sure what Finney was thinking about five minutes ago, but he thanked God, Mary, and all the saints up in Heaven that he didn’t have to endure any unwanted sexual advances like he did during Finney’s first flashback.
“Then why’d you hit me?” Finney asked quietly, gesturing to his cheek. It was bright red, brighter than when Terrence hit him two days ago. He prayed it wouldn’t leave a bruise.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Terrence replied hoarsely. Story of my life.
Finney nodded, accepting the answer, though his eyes clouded over. He pushed himself off the couch and turned towards the direction of the hallway leading to his room.
“Finney, wait. We need to talk about this.”
A redness crept across Finney’s cheeks that wasn’t solely caused by the slap. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced towards the kitchen. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mumbled.
Terrence didn’t know either. He put his elbow on the armrest and leaned his head into his fingertips. “This is the second time this has happened. Because something I did reminded you of him. Do you—” To his annoyance, his eyes misted over and his voice began to crack. “Do you think I’m as bad as him?”
“No.” Finney’s voice was immediate and firm. But after a pause he added, hesitantly, “I mean, there’s like a couple similarities, but you’re different, you don’t…I don’t know. It's different.”
“What similarities?” he questioned, despite knowing he would regret asking.
Finney looked down at his shoes. “I don’t know. You’re both kinda old, I guess,” he began, voice so quiet Terrence could barely hear. “I’d never know if it was going to be a good or bad day, or what would make him mad. He hit me if I did something bad and also, y’know”—he gestured to the belt around Terrence’s waist vaguely—”That. And this is going to sound stupid, but when he was asleep and I was trying to get past him, I kept thinking how I always used to be afraid of making too much noise, especially when I saw what he was holding. I just—I don’t know, it’s weird.” Finney’s gaze dared to venture upward, and whatever he saw in Terrence’s eyes caused him to backtrack. “B-but there were some good similarities too.”
Terrence tried very, very hard to keep his tone flat and emotionless when he asked, “What ‘good similarities’?”
Finney clutched onto the bottoms of his elbows. “I–I don’t mean like ‘good’ good, but—well—he did a lot of normal dad stuff, even the things you haven’t done since I was little. He gave me a place to live and blankets and cooked food and—and we’d talk a lot. And there was other stuff like ba—” Finney flushed, snapping his mouth shut. After a few seconds, his eyes began to water. “Dad, he really messed up my head. I’m not thinking right anymore.”
Not for the first time, Terrence felt an overwhelming wave of hatred, both for the Grabber and himself. He wasn’t expecting Finney to be this forthcoming, but given the emotional wound and experience relived ten minutes ago, perhaps it was inevitable.
Trying not to show how shaken he was, Terrence responded, “I don’t want you to die. That’s a big difference between me and him. You dying would destroy your sister and me. So when I heard what you said in the car—”
“I won’t do it,” Finney interrupted, eyes flashing with determination. “I didn’t mean it. I know it would upset you and Gwen.”
Terrence wished he was telling the truth, but wasn’t sure. “Is that the only reason you don’t? Because it’ll upset me and Gwen?” He sighed and ran his hands through his dark brown hair. “Finney, what if we weren’t here? Then what?”
Finney looked taken aback. “I—” He hesitated, and Terrence’s heart sank. “I don’t want to die,” he finally said, quieter. “But sometimes I think it might be nice to just…not exist. Not having to deal with all the shit that comes with being alive. Especially today.” Finney looked up at him, eyes shining with trepidation. The heavy memory of Susannah whispering similar words burned into his heart, and Terrence swallowed back a sob. “This is going to make me sound like a wuss, but it’s hard to do normal things like go to school without thin—”
The sharp ringing of the kitchen telephone caused Terrence and Finney to jump. Terrence steadied his breathing, turning his head towards the kitchen. Was it Apex? Would the insurance money be able to get them the fuck out of here?
“I gotta get that,” Terrence blathered as he rushed to the kitchen, Finney’s eyes drilling holes into his back. “Give me a minute, Finney.”
Terrence grabbed the receiver and held it up to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mr. Blake? Hi, this is Roger Daly of Apex Home Insurance. How are you today?”
Terrence didn’t have time for bullshit pleasantries. “How much am I getting?”
Roger cleared throat. “Well, I see about a year ago, you switched from premium coverage to basic coverage.”
Terrence heard the faint creaking sound of a bedroom door being shut. I didn’t say to leave yet, kid!
“Yes, because premium coverage is a money sink and you jackasses haven’t lowered your prices. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a recession. Last time I called, you people told me the basic plan was good enough.”
“The basic plan provides excellent coverage under certain conditions. However, we’ve been in contact with the Galesburg Fire Department, and they concluded their investigation. We also sent our own investigation team, and both reports concluded the cause was not faulty wiring as expected.”
Terrence frowned. “So what was it?”
There was a pause on the other end. “The Galesburg Fire Department—which Apex’s own team agreed with— believes this was a case of arson.”
The world scratched to a halt. Was it one of Finney’s looney fans? Or one of Shaw’s? “W-who was it? Do the police have any leads?”
Roger paused again. “We believe the fire originated from the many candles set up around the house.”
“What candles?” Terrence didn’t remember the Blakes using candles for anything besides birthday cakes.
“From what we can tell, there were several candles set up in multiple locations throughout the home. Instead of one source of flames, it appears as though multiple candles were knocked over in each location at roughly the same time, allowing the fire to spread quickly.”
“Knocked over?” The implication hit Terrence like a truck. “Are you saying my kids did this? They could have fallen over by accident.”
Roger Daly was silent on the other end for a moment while Terrence's heart rate climbed. “All of them?”
“It’s possible!”
“The batteries were removed from all the smoke detectors, Mr. Blake, which suggests some degree of premeditation.”
Terrence froze, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. No, my kids didn’t do this. There’s no way.
Roger continued, “Furthermore, there were remnants of an Ouija Board, and various herbs spread out throughout the home, along with signs of intentional destruction, such as shattered glasses, vases, and picture frames. We’re not prone to speculation or the context behind what led to the fire, but we are aware your household has suffered….hardships over the past few years, which can lead to children expressing disturb—”.
“My kids didn’t do this!” Terrence shouted, twisting the phone cord tightly. “Th-that’s their home!”
“If it’s any consolation, the city of Galesburg has decided they will not be pursuing the matter any further. Unfortunately, Apex has determined there’s enough evidence that points to arson, which is only covered by premium. Since you switched to the basic plan, you are unfortunately ineligible for coverage, meaning you will not receive reimbursement for any damaged property, personal possessions, as well as the cost of lodging or food while—”
Roger continued to drone on about the legalities and Terrence’s “options,” which he only vaguely paid attention to. He remembered Gwen’s eager eyes when she spoke of ghosts and people who would communicate with them during breakfast on the day of the fire. Picking up donations from the church a few days later, Terrence recalled Father O’Brien mentioning that Finney and Gwen visited him the day of the fire, which he didn’t think twice about at the time but now held greater significance.
Now it made sense why his kids appeared uncomfortable whenever Terrence spoke of finding the source of the fire. He channeled his rage by cursing out Roger Daly and Apex Home Insurance, and by the time he slammed the receiver on the phone, his hands were shaking.
Finney or Gwen couldn’t have started the fire intentionally. No way.
But, hypothetically, he could envision Gwen coming up with a stupid idea of a seance and Finney going along with it. Maybe Finney missed Robin or Shaw and wanted to reach out to the spirit world. Hypothetically, it could be possible for candles in different rooms to fall at the same time if they were perched in a precarious position, right? Maybe they removed the smoke detector batteries because they were afraid the incense would set them off. Maybe they kept the lights off and clumsy Gwen knocked into and destroyed all the objects by accident.
Maybe.
Or….
Maybe I’m wrong.
Terrence ran his hands through his hair and took a few deep breaths. How much did he know about what his kids were thinking anymore? Finney was deeply traumatized, and Gwen was too, albeit in a different way. Lord knows they wouldn’t tell Terrence the truth, and for good reason. They didn’t trust him. Maybe Finney had some kind of psychotic break during the seance and Gwen covered for him. Or maybe Gwen was in on it too. Maybe it was meant to be some kind of fuck-you to Terrence for being a shitty father. Maybe—
Stop, get a hold of yourself!
Before he knew it, he was standing outside Finney’s room. He flexed his fingers and knocked.
“What?” His son’s voice was colder, firmer, vulnerability from earlier vanished completely.
Despite the anger and fear pulsating through him, Terrence hesitated. If he confronted Finney now, it would lead to another argument. He needed to calm down first. Especially after everything that happened in school, that conversation could wait another day.
“Nothing. I jus–” Terrence stopped. In the chaos, he almost forgot about what they were talking about before he got the call. “I’m off the phone. We can—”
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Finney interrupted sharply. “I’m really tired. I just want to sleep.”
“Oh.” He paused, mulling his options. “Well, let me know if anything changes.”
“Okay.”
Still, Terrence lingered at the door. He was ready to talk a few minutes ago? What changed? “I know things seem rough at school, but you could handle more than you think. Remember that.”
Terrence heard a bitter, muffled sound that might have been a chuckle or sob. “You know, he said the same thing to me.”
Terrence furrowed his brow, but after a few moments, a wave of nausea hit him once the pieces came together.
“I didn’t know,” Terrence replied lamely. There was silence on the other end. “I—I’m going to call a taxi and get a rental car. Should be back in a few hours. Bye, Finney…”
Terrence waited to hear the muffled “Bye, Dad…” before he left.
****
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Susannah was always a good listener, even in death. After getting the rental car, Terrence couldn’t bring himself to return home. Instead, he chose to visit the one place he felt fully comfortable.
Kneeling down, he traced the letters on the gravestone with the reverence often reserved for the cross.
Susannah Carolyn Blake
Beloved Wife and Mother
1933-1974
1 Corinthians 16:14
“I swear I’m trying, but I’m flying blind here. Everything I do makes things worse.” He sighed, listening to the melody of the sparrows’ chirips, warm summer breeze kissing his cheeks. “You were right, Annie. We never should have had kids. But I was a stubborn, pigheaded bastard who thought I knew best, like always.”
He let out a hollow chuckle and imagined the playful giggle that would escape her lips if she was here. “‘Was’? Sweetie, you still are. And let’s not take all the credit here. I went along with it.”
The corners of his lips turned upward. “I don’t know why I sprung that on you after ten years of marriage. I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I wanted to prove something to myself, or my old man. I don’t know. We brought these two babies into the world, and they’ve suffered through most of it. It’s not right. They shouldn’t have had us as parents. They shouldn’t have had me.”
“There you go again, with that self pity. Terry, have you ever considered I was more at fault for the way things turned out?”
In 1964, she tapped her head before firmly declaring, “All this ends with me.” In 1974, her body laid in a pool of blood of her own making.
“I thought about it, but you’re wrong. It’s me. It’s always been me. You asked me before why I cried when Finney was born, and I think I said some bullshit about hospital chemicals. But when I saw our baby, well…remember what my father said about me and Paul?”
“Ugh. That miserable old coot. How could I forget?”
“For the longest time, I believed him. But when I saw our son, this little thing that was so pure and good, it was the first time I thought he was wrong.” Tears trickled onto the headstone like raindrops. “But I ruined his life, Annie, like how I ruined yours. I was supposed to be someone he trusted, and he’s afraid of me. I have no one to blame but myself.”
“You didn’t ruin my life, Terry.”
“I did. You were hurting so bad, darling, and I didn’t listen to you. I told you it wasn’t real, I told you to ignore it, I made you feel like a goddamn lunatic, and that’s why you did what you did. I always thought, maybe, if you had someone besides me, things could’ve been different. That’s why I set Finney up with that dumbass shrink. But it’s not helping him, Annie. Nothing’s helping.”
“Are you afraid he’ll end up like me?”
Terrence plucked a blade of grass and fiddled with it absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I am. Remember how the doctor said he wouldn’t make it when he was born? He proved them wrong. He’s a fighter.” Terrence smiled wistfully at the memory. “He tried so hard to live, but now…” The smile fell. “You know, when I was a kid, I saw a rat chew its own goddamn leg off to escape a trap. That’s how much the little bastard wanted to live. Survival instincts are a part of every living creature, I think. So for someone to choose to die…”
“Stop acting like he’s gone, dear. There’s still time.”
“Right.” Terrence took a shaky breath. “Listen. I know you struggled a lot being a mom. There was a lot the kids didn't see, and a lot I’ll never tell them. But I wish you could have seen that we loved you as much as you loved us.”
“I did, sweetie.”
It would have been nice if that was actually Susannah’s voice and not Terrence’s imagination. Not knowing how she truly felt was one of the biggest what-ifs in his life. “I don't know if I’m going to see you again, Annie. Maybe this whole afterlife business is a scam, like therapy. I mean, I guess there’s gotta be something real, something more, if Gwen had those visions. But if there is another place, I don't think I'm going where you are.”
Terrence stood up, shaking himself back to reality before “Susannah” could respond. He chuckled. “Look at me, talkin’ to a rock. Guess Finney takes after me more than I thought.”
He closed his eyes as memories washed over him with the wind. Memories of an auburn haired waitress constantly screwing up his order, her shrieks of glee when he proposed, her exhausted yet joyous expression when she held Finney John Blake for the first time, and her soft blue eyes tearing at Gwen’s first word of “Mama.”
Her frantic whispers about ghosts. Her gentle, kind eyes growing hollow and haunted. Those same eyes crumbling with hurt when he told her to ignore it. The breakdowns, the bathtub overflowing with red.
He opened his eyes.
“Bye, Susannah. I love you.”
The only sound he heard was the whistling of the wind.
****
After leaving the cemetery, Terrence drove around aimlessly for a while until the lowering fuel gauge pestered him to return home. Sighing, Terrence made a U-Turn in the rental car and stopped at a red light. The sun was setting, and the buildings were beginning to light up in preparation for the nightlife. Terrence’s gaze drifted to the right and froze. One of the buildings featured a neon cat playing with a string, winking at the passerbys.
He glanced at the time. 8:10.
Nah. I shouldn’t.
But did he really want to go home already?
Terrence bit his lip. John looked like a guy who had his shit together. And he’d been meaning to reach out to the Yamadas to apologize.
But there’s alcohol. Not the cheap swill, but the good shit. It’ll be too tempting.
Well, he didn’t need to drink. He’d been sober for three years. He had good self-control. He could get a Coke or something.
No.
When the light flicked green, Terrence drove past the building, mentally patting himself on the back.
Then, a couple blocks later, he spotted a fire truck, which unleashed a fresh wave of bitterness and resentment.
He made another U-Turn.
****
The Cat’s Cradle was much like Terrence remembered; the smoke of drink, snacks, and cigarettes wafting through the air, the thunderous laughter of rowdy men, the dim lighting, the picture frames cluttering the walls. The television hanging above the counter was new, but for the most part, it was as if the bar stood frozen in time, waiting for him.
John and Ken perched themselves on stools near the counter, chatting and laughing.
There’s still time. I can turn around and leave.
But before Terrence got cold feet, Ken’s eyes glanced in his direction and flashed in recognition. He tapped John on the shoulder, causing the man to swivel his head and beam. “Terrence! You came! I didn’t think you’d show." John gestured toward the stool next to him.
“Me neither,” Terrence responded. He paused and sat down, aware of Ken Yamada’s curious eyes on him. “Ken,” he said, nodding stiffly in greeting.
“Terrence.” Ken nodded back, straining a smile. “I wanted to apologize for my wife. She’s had a very difficult time…with Bruce and everything. I’m sure it’s been difficult for your family, too. Those comments she made weren’t appropriate, even if she believed them to be true.”
Terrence blinked. He didn’t expect or deserve an apology. But it made it easier for him to reply, “I’m the one who should apologize. I couldn’t control my damn temper. I had no right to say the things I did, especially since you were nice enough to invite my family into your home.”
John clasped his hands together. “Spiffy! We can let bygones be bygones, yeah?”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ken laughed, holding up his Negroni. He gestured for the bartender to come closer. “Terrence, what would you like? Drink’s on me.”
Terrence’s mouth grew dry. John coughed awkwardly. “Terrence doesn’t drink.”
“Ah.” Ken looked embarrassed. Probably wondering what the hell I’m doing at a bar. “My apologies.”
Terrence eyed John’s Moscow Mule covetously, the perfect drink for a hot summer day. Or any day, really. Any day, but especially days where one discovers they’re getting less shifts at work, their suicidal child committed a felony, their car got destroyed, they won’t be getting insurance payouts because their children burned their house down, and their son had traumatic flashbacks because they remind him of the pedophilic serial killer that abused him. Those days.
Terrence bit his lip.
“One sip won’t kill me,” he said, before he could stop himself. “But I’ll pay.”
“No, no, that won’t do.” John waved the thought away and fished out a few dollars in his pocket. “I invited you here, Terrence. I’ll pay.”
The bartender mixed and poured the concoction in a familiar copper mug. Nerves and anticipation churned inside him.
John raised his glass in a toast. “To new friendships and a brighter future.”
“To Bruce and Finney,” Ken added, lifting his own.
“To Albert Shaw’s rotting corpse.”
If you weren’t dead I’d do it myself, motherfucker.
John let out a hearty laugh, and Ken smiled.
And with that, Terrence tasted his first sip of alcohol in three years, savoring the heavenly mix of vodka, ginger beer, and lime juice swimming down his throat. It was just as good as he remembered.
But that’s it. No more.
The next hour seemed like a blur. John and Ken downed drink after drink while Terrence restrained himself from doing the same. They talked about work, the economy, Reagan, the Pope, taxes, and marriage. It was a long time since Terrence relaxed like this. It felt nice.
It was interesting, the disparity in how alcohol affects the body. Whereas John grew more bombastic and energetic, the more Ken drank, the quieter he became.
And when I drink I get pissed or weepy or both, which is why one sip is the limit. Absolutely no more.
“I’ve gotta question for both’a youuu,” John slurred, pointing to Ken and Terrence. “If you could do anything different in your life, what would it be?”
“I’d pay more attention to my wife,” Terrence responded immediately, tracing the rim of the mug. “Listen to her. She’s dead because I didn’t, and now everything’s gone to shit.”
“I’d tell my son I loved him every morning and evening,” Ken murmured, eyes glistening. “He knew, but they’re three words a parent could never say enough.”
When was the last time Terrence told either of his children that he loved them? He always thought they knew, but…
‘I hate you!’
Terrence took another long sip of his drink, the shame of hearing those words out of his son’s mouth clouding his thoughts. He couldn’t blame Finney, not after everything he put him through. Still, it stung.
“Saaaay, isn’t that Gloria Arellano?” John nudged Terrence’s shoulders. Terrence glanced up at the television screen. Mrs. Arellano was giving an impassioned speech about ‘protecting family values and ensuring the safety of children in the Galesburg school district.’ “From druggie to Moral Majority spokesperson.” He hiccuped and giggled, downing the rest of his glass. “Quite the trajectory, eh?”
Terrence only spoke with her once or twice, but felt compelled to defend her nonetheless. “Well, who can blame her? The drugs were the reason her son lived with her brother-in-law. She barely saw her kid, now she’ll never get the chance.”
Ken slumped his shoulders, and Terrence was reminded of how lucky he was to have a second chance with Finney. He took another swig of his Moscow Mule. While he typically wasn’t one for physical gestures of affection, he reached over and awkwardly patted Ken’s shoulder. “Y’know what, Ken? Part of me wishes your wife was right, so I could punch that bastard in the face.”
John drummed his fingers on the counter, squinting intently at one of the bottles behind the counter as if he held the answers to the universe. “It’s an interestin’ question, right? How’d you hurt a ghost?” He turned his head and raised his palms before Terrence could say anything. “Now, now, nooooow. ’m not sayin’ there is, buuuuuuuut it’s an interesting hypo—hypo—hyposomething. From an outside perspective, your misfortune seems odd. But maybe there’s a more mundane answer. An ancestor cheesing off a witch doctor, perhaps?” He laughed, wobbling so much he would have fallen off his chair if Ken didn’t steady him.
Terrence instinctively glanced downward at his mug, noticing with a pang that it was empty. When did he drink so much? He only wanted one sip! “I’d get a priest, I guess.”
The thought of going to Father O’Brien and admitting he never had the heart-to-heart the priest kept encouraging him to have with Finney, again, was not an appealing thought. But the thought of a ghost existing was even worse.
That idea spurred unwelcome thoughts of the Ouija Board and the fire. “Bartender, I’ll take another.”
About an hour later, John and Ken stumbled out of the bar, babbling and waving goodbye to Terrence. Terrence stayed, peering into his near-empty glass which he savored for the past hour.
He didn’t want to drive the rental car back to Shaw’s house and try to pretend his son didn’t shy away from his gaze. He didn’t want to look over the bills and expenses, didn’t want to lie in bed with that creepy-ass painting hanging across from him, thinking about how his family will never escape this shithole. He didn’t want to think about how they could have, if his kids didn’t screw everything up with the insurance.
He ordered a third drink.
No, it’s not them. I fucked it up, he reminded himself, taking a sip. I switched insurance plans. If I kept Premium, I could have got something, at least.
But how was he supposed to know his kids would burn down the fucking house? And now, because of it, his son might kill himself. And who could blame him? He had to not only live with Terrence, but also live in the house of the man who molested him. A man whom Terrence reminds him of.
A wave of despair, frustration, and helplessness washed through him as another swig of mixture dripped down his throat.
His father was right. He should have died instead of Paul. His own son hated his guts and couldn’t stand to be around him.
And he was also a failure, because why the fuck would his kids ever think what they did was okay?
His fingers clenched around the mug, which he realized was empty. So he ordered another.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Notes:
Next chapter won't be uploaded as quickly as this one was. Realistically, it'll probably be 3 weeks, but hopefully sooner!
Chapter 18: The Scorpion and the Frog
Chapter Text
“Finn! You’re here. Finally,” Donna greeted breathlessly as the boy in question closed the supply room door. His eyes drifted numbly toward the projector, memories of his last visit here playing in his mind like a film reel. “I didn’t know if you’d get my note in time. Megan said you weren’t in homeroom, but Gary and Kim said they saw you in the hallways so I didn’t know who to believe.”
“I came in late,” Finney mumbled. And I wish I didn’t come to school at all… “I was helping a neighbor."
Last night, the combined anxiety over keeping the lights off and uncertainty regarding Mr. Clarkson prevented him from getting a wink of sleep. He trudged to breakfast exhausted yet restless, keenly aware of Gwen’s concerned eyes on him during breakfast, but grateful she didn’t say anything.
On the way to school, Emma Baur wasn’t nearly as tactful, bluntly asking why Finney looked like someone on the executioner’s block. When Finney claimed it was nothing, Emma said the fuse in her garage tripped again and asked if he could fix it (“as long as your father won’t blow another gasket”), which Finney agreed to while trying not to glare at Gwen, bitterness about his family’s previous freakout fresh in his mind. While he fixed the fuse, Gwen guiltily took the rolled-up newspaper from the driveway and tossed it into the house without looking at it.
This was a mistake.
Once at school, it was clear something was going on. His classmates would stop talking when he got close to them and he could feel their varying gazes of curiosity, scorn, pity, confusion, or amusement. Even his teacher seemed coolly receptive when taking Finney’s late pass. He heard snippets of conversation: “Board of Ed,” “Gabby Fernandez,” “Finn Blake,” Mr. Clarkson.” He couldn't work up the courage to ask and every second lasted an eternity. But he remained ignorant until the bell rang, until Danny Perez pulled a crumpled newspaper article out of his pocket, waved it in front of Finney, and said, “Yooooo, Finn! This you, man?”
His heart dropped through his stomach as he read the paper, bolting off before giving Danny a response.
His prediction the night before was right: he ruined an innocent man’s life, and he had no one to blame but himself. The school either hated him, pitied him, thought he was crazy, or all three. The Grabber at least knew enough to steer clear from Finney while he was in the throes of his current misery, though he suspected it wouldn’t remain that way for long.
Between third and fourth period, Finney opened his locker to find two notes: one with Donna’s neat cursive urging him to meet her in the supply room at 11:00—the time when Donna had Home Economics and Finney had woodshop and neither teacher gave a shit if their students spent an inordinate amount of time “in the bathroom.” The other note had Gwen’s chicken scrawl, saying they needed to speak “ASAP.” There was no time or location listed on the paper, so Finney didn’t know what she expected and ignored it.
Which brought him to Donna. He had no idea what to say or how to make any of this right. But she didn’t seem angry, which was a good—albeit surprising—sign.
“First of all: Are you okay?” Donna questioned, eyes brimming with softness.
No. “I’m alive,” he replied diplomatically.
Donna sighed and started playing with the edges of her black tresses. “There are so many rumors flying around, it’s insane. You have no idea how much respect I’ve lost for people I thought were my friends. Like Megan Cook? She thinks you did it. Megan.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s so messed up. I keep telling people not to jump to conclusions, but I think they want to believe it. No one can resist end-of-the-year drama.” She rolled her eyes and sighed.
Who knew a rush of affection could be so painful? Part of him wanted to spin around and rush back to woodshop, preserving the illusion that he was a morally upright individual instead of a jumpy, reactive moron. But he couldn’t do that. He owed her to be honest
“Donna, they’re–” His mouth grew dry, and he swallowed. This conversation was more daunting than breaking into Mr. Clarkson’s apartment. “They’re right.”
He said it so quietly, he wasn’t sure if she’d hear. But she did. Donna’s mouth opened slightly, and several different emotions flickered on her face, the most piercing being betrayal.
God, I hate myself.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, frowning. “W-why would you do something like this? Mr. Clarkson’s life is—Finn, I never thought you—” She stopped and took a breath, trying to appear calm, though her eyes told a different story. “Did he—did he do…something to you? Is that why…?”
“No,” insisted Finney, realizing with dawning horror that this was going to be a common conclusion from his classmates. “It’s nothing like that.”
Donna’s expression shifted into a neutral mask. “Is it because you don’t trust gay men?”
‘Because of what happened to you?’ was the silent addendum, and Finney bristled, despite the logical conclusion. “No.”
Donna knitted her brows. “Then…why?”
Finney threw caution to the wind and decided to be honest. “I didn’t mean to out him, i-it just kinda happened. The reason I went to his apartment was because”—You know what? Fuck it—”well, this is going to sound stupid, but—I thought he was having sex with you.”
Donna’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. “What the fu–why would you think that? I said I wasn’t cheating!”
Looking back on it objectively, Finney didn’t know why he was so convinced. It was a lot of disjointed things he forced himself to attribute meaning to. And he couldn’t tell her the two biggest pieces of “evidence”: “a ghost pretended to be Mr. Clarkson” or "My sister had psychic dreams of you.”
“I don’t know,” muttered Finney, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. “I just had a feeling.”
“A feeling,” she repeated slowly. “A feeling led you to break into our teacher’s house and publicly out him? What?” She paused, looking for Finney to clarify, but he just stared at his shoes. Donna’s eyes hardened, and a hard edge crept into her voice. “It makes no sense. If you went to his apartment and got the letters and photos, that should be enough proof he’s not into girls. You’re leaving something out. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Finney rushed to assure her. He also felt compelled to shed some light on his faulty reasoning. “And I did see something, kinda, that made me think that. He had your bracelet.”
“Yes, because he found it on stage when he was leaving! He told me yesterday. He said he didn’t bring it back to his desk because it’s on the opposite side of the school, then forgot it at home.” Donna’s eyes narrowed; Finney didn’t like being the recipient of that look. “But even if you saw the bracelet, you still went to the media with proof he has a boyfriend! And then you tell me it’s not because you hate gay men? And how did you even know he was gay, anyway? How did you know where to find those pictures and letters?” Her eyes softened again. “If he did something to you, you can tell me.”
“He didn’t do anything to me,” snapped Finney, and Donna’s eyes hardened. Finney felt a surge of panic. “S-someone told me he was doing stuff to you, and that there was a safe with an envelope that had proof of it, so I went into his house and he helped me and—and yeah, I gave it to Gabby, but I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t look in the envelope before I gave it to her because they said it would disturb the evidence.”
“‘Protecting me?’” she echoed, incredulous. “How would—okay, you know what? Let’s focus on the first point. Who’s this ‘someone’? Matt?”
“No! He—I can’t say who they are. Please don’t ask why,” he begged.
A lot of times Donna would take his word for it, but not today, for understandable reasons. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “So this mystery ‘person’ tells you Mr. Clarkson and I are having some kind of secret affair, and instead of, I dunno, asking me if it’s true, you take his word for it, break into our teacher’s apartment, steal a secret envelope and then give it to the media without even looking at it. Finn, why?”
Why indeed. Finney threw his hands up in the air. “Because I’m a fucking moron, obviously.”
Donna didn’t deny it. “Finn, nothing about your story makes sense. It kills me to say this, but I don’t think this person even exists.”
Finney didn’t blame her, but it stung all the same. “They do. Just trust me on this, please…”
Donna’s lips thinned. “I told you I wasn’t cheating. You chose not to believe me.”
“W-well, it might not have been, like, cheating cheating. He could have pressured you into it.”
She tilted her head. “A few days ago you asked me if anything was bothering me and I told you that stuff about my mom. We even had that nice little talk about the importance of honesty, remember?” The last sentence dripped with venom. “If he was doing something to me, why wouldn’t I tell you then?” ”
“Because it’s embarrassing to talk about!” Donna’s eyes softened, and Finney went on the defensive. “Stop looking at me like that!”
The coldness of earlier came back. “Like what?”
“Like I’m weak and pathetic!” It was only after he said it that he realized he was almost shouting. His eyes darted to the door.
“You’re not weak or pathetic!” Donna insisted. “But you obviously need…”—she bit her lip—”help with, um, this stuff.”
“No I dont. I made a really, really stupid decision, but I’m not the ticking time bomb people say I am.”
“Finn, you just ruined a man’s life. He’ll never be able to teach again, at least not in Colorado. Things are so hard for gay men right now, especially with what’s happening—I mean, I don't believe there’s a plague, but people are talking…”
“I know.” After escaping the basement, Finney was taken to the hospital where they put him on a special diet to combat malnutrition and examined him for any other diseases. They said he was cleared, but that was before this new mystery illness, and Finney didn’t know how long it could incubate for. Yet another thing to worry about. “But that’s not—it’s not because of what I went through. I wasn’t”—he tried to remember the word Mr. Clarkson used—”projecting.”
Donna’s sympathetic gaze caused Finney’s temper to flare. He had the sudden, irrational impulse to make her upset like how he made his family upset and gain control of an uncontrollable situation. “You know what? Maybe we shouldn’t even be together then. Considering I’ve got all this ‘stuff’ to deal with.”
Immediately after it left his mouth, he felt like jumping out the second-floor window.
Donna’s looked rattled for a second, but her expression quickly smoothed into a neutral mask. “You know full well I don’t mind your ‘stuff.’ I’m not going to sit here and pretend it’s easy all the time. But it’s worth it, because I love you.” In spite of everything, the familiar butterflies fluttered in Finney’s stomach. “Having ‘stuff’ isn’t the problem. Pretending it doesn’t exist and putting your pride before the safety of other people and yourself, though? That’s a problem. We’re supposed to be a couple, but at this point it’s more like we’re just two people hiding things from one another.”
“‘Two people’ hiding things?” echoed Finney. A mix of triumph and dread churned inside him, along with deja vu of the times he caught the Grabber slipping up. “Hmmm. I thought you said honesty is important.”
Donna flushed, eyes darting to the side. “I-it’s nothing big. I’ve been—I’ve been getting prank calls, that’s all. I didn’t want to add another thing for you to worry about.”
Too late. “What did they say? Do you know who’s doing it?”
Donna gestured vaguely, not meeting Finney’s eyes. “I don’t know. Some guy who wants to be Billy from Black Christmas so badly, it’s pathetic. Not sure how he got my number.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Donna hesitated, and Finney’s anxiety spiked. “You can’t get mad at me for not telling you things if you’re doing the same thing.”
“I didn’t say anything because this guy, he’s, um,”—she started tugging at the edges of her long locks—”he’s pretending to be the Grabber. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Oh.” The Blakes received a couple prank calls from different “soulless psychos” (in Detective Miller’s words) doing the same thing back in their old house, and needed to change their phone number because of it. In the wake of those calls, Gwen and Terrence acted like they expected Finney to turn into a quivering mess at any moment, much to his annoyance. In reality, the calls didn’t bother Finney beyond the general discomfort in knowing there was someone crazy enough to call in the first place. The Grabber possessed a distinctive voice and inflection, and Finney never mistook a prank call for the real thing. “I don’t turn into mush every time someone mentions him. You and my family, all of you act like you need to walk on eggshells around me, and I’m tired of it.”
“It’s because we care about you, Finn,” defended Donna.
Her eyes contained that sympathetic glint, inciting another wave of irritation. “I’m just like everyone else!”
“No, you’re not.” Before Finney argued, Donna rushed on. “Even before your house burned down, you always kept me distant from so many things going on in your life. It made me wonder if you were into me because you actually liked me as a person and thought we could have a future together, or if you just wanted to date me because you thought I was pretty.”
This came completely out of the left field. “Of course I like you for more than just looks!” The reasons he liked her were so obvious; why couldn’t Donna see that? “If I don’t tell you everything, or try to keep you separate from some stuff, it’s not because I don’t like or respect you. It’s just that there’s no use bothering you with that crap. It’s stuff I gotta deal with on my own.”
“But that’s the thing: you’re not dealing with it. I’m already doing a lot you don’t see to help you, and if you would just talk to me for once, we could—”
“I don’t want your help!” It sounded far worse out loud than in his head. “I–I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, I’ll handle it on my own.”
“Okay, fine. I guess you will.” Donna’ face was a cold, impenetrable mask as she placed her hand on the doorknob to the supply room. “I’m not sure if you realize this, but whoever this mystery person is who told you about Mr. Clarkson…you’re choosing them over me right now.”
Finney was horrified at the massive ego boost the Grabber no doubt experienced from that comment. “That’s not true!”
“You trust them, but not me. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t trust them. I just—I just made a mistake, okay?”
Finney felt like a specimen under the microscope as Donna’s eyes settled on him. “Who is it, Finn?”
Finney remained silent, and Donna’s mask fell. “That’s what I thought,” she mumbled. He heard a sniffle before the door shut.
Drained, Finney sat down on one of the chairs before running his hands through his hairs, sighing. He hoped the ghost wasn’t listening in, but given his streak of shitty luck, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest when the projector reeled up on its own and flickered.
The movie on the screen was the 1956 movie adaptation of 1984. Julia and Winston exchanged loving words while the Grabber’s ghost stood a few feet away from them, crossing his arms and leaning against the picture of Big Brother fixated to the side of the building. The only spot of color in a sea of gray.
“I hope you’re happy,” snapped Finney.
“I am,” he replied, tilting his head to the side.
Finney rolled his eyes. “Awesome. I’m leaving.”
“Wait.” The ghost pushed himself away from the wall and sat down on the picnic table next to Winston. “I know you’re upset right now, but you don’t have to be. Remember what I told you before: I love you, mistakes and all. And you never have to worry about being lonely, because I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you.”
It was presumably meant to sound comforting, but it made Finney’s skin crawl. “‘Kay. I’m still leaving.”
“I think I know why you’re being so stubborn,” the Grabber said, placing one elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm. Finney didn’t like the hint of triumph in the man's eyes.
Oh, this should be good. There were a lot of things Finney could have said, but he settled on the most obvious. “It can’t possibly be the fact that you tried to kill me.”
The Grabber wagged his finger playfully. “I doubt it. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your masochistic tendencies.”
“I don’t have—”
The Grabber ignored him. “No, this is something no one else knows about. Well, except me.” He leaned forward. “You’re upset about what happened to a certain birdie.”
Finney grew rigid. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he teased. “Robin. My little hellcat.”
“Don’t say his name,” whispered Finney, clenching his fists. Don’t you dare fucking say it.
“I took a peek in one of your dreams, and Roooobin,” he drawled for emphasis, “was the star of the show. See, the nifty little thing about looking in dreams is that I can tell what you’re feeling, and your affection towards my birdie goes far beyond friendship. It was a pretty big nostalgia wave, actually, seeing him and feeling those emotions again. Is that why you’re so stubborn, Finney? Are you jealous because I was his first and only? If you’re sad he died, don’t be. He lived the rest of his life loved and—”
Finney didn’t hear the rest of what the Grabber said, because he exited the room almost as fast as when he ran from the Grabber three years ago.
****
Finney thought the Grabber would keep hounding him, but instead, English granted him a temporary reprieve from thinking about the Grabber and Robin. Predictably, Mr. Clarkson was absent, and the substitute had them write two paragraphs analyzing a fable from the list. Usually students talked during a sub, and today was no exception, but no one talked to Finney. They talked about him, of course, but he only heard snippets of conversation due to the volume in the room.
“—y dad said Blake would crack one day, and he was right,” Buzz smirked, doodling a picture of a woman in his notebook that was definitely not school appropriate.
Matt—who surprisingly didn’t start any shit with Finney that day—leaned closer to his friend, and Finney had to strain to hear. “—still hate him, but now I almost feel sorry for him. Reminds me of this old pitbull we fostered that had shitty owners and tried to bite everyone. I’m worried he’s gonna go psycho on Donna—“
Snap
Finney looked down at the broken pencil tip. Matt’s implication was so offensive he was tempted to storm over there and set the record straight, but doing that would make him look more unhinged.
He peered down at the story in front of him and tried to focus. The one he chose was “The Scorpion and the Frog,” a tale he remembered his mother reading to him as a child. Back then, he thought the frog was an idiot for agreeing to help the scorpion. Apparently, Finney was more intelligent at six than sixteen.
He reached into his pencil case for his mini-sharpener. Why was he stupid enough to trust the Grabber? The man couldn’t resist the urge to harm Finney, even if it seemed counterproductive to his goal of making Finney want to be with him. It was simply part of his nature, just like the scorpion. He probably got off on seeing Finney miserable again.
At the end of the period, he handed his hastily-written paragraphs to the sub and headed to History. Mr. McKay’s smile was strained and reserved as he greeted the students and began class Finney realizing with a pang that he’d often see him and Mr. Clarkson together. Was he upset Finney outed Mr. Clarkson, or upset and betrayed that Mr. Clarkson was a fag?
Finney noticed himself unconsciously scratching at his wrist and curled his fingers inward. I need to calm down. Taking a few deep breaths, he reached towards his brow and caressed some locks near his forehead in an attempt to soothe himself. Just a couple more hours. Then I can get on a bus and get the fuck away from here.
He tried to focus on the positive: Mr. McKay was talking about the Apollo 11 spaceflight, which was one of his favorite topics. He tried to ignore how much he yearned for his rocket pen, which burned up in the fire.
Focus on the positive, focus on the positive, focus on the positive…
“Pffft. The lies they teach in this school.”
Finney gritted his teeth at the sneer in the Grabber’s voice. Of course, he would have to ruin this. What doesn’t he ruin?
“Clearly, they pluck anyone off the streets to teach. First Anthony, then this clown.” When examining Finney’s rocket pen in the basement years ago, the Grabber claimed the moon landing was “obviously” fake, citing dubious evidence Finney had to use all his willpower to resist contradicting. Another reason to hate him. “Trust me, you’ll miss out on nothing important if we talk now. So, are you in a better mood now that you’re finally away from that slattern?”
Finney’s eyes narrowed and fists clenched. He subtly shook his head, allowing only his middle to escape the fist resting on his desk. The Grabber gave another one of his drawn-out sighs. “Oh, Finney, Finney, Finney…when will you learn I’m not the enemy? I wasn’t trying to upset you by mentioning Robin. I was just saying he died loved, that’s all. That kind of thing is rarer than you think. I thought you'd be happy.”
A vein throbbed as Finney glared daggers in the direction of Mr. McKay, though his ire was reserved exclusively for the asshole in his pencil case. Oblivious, the Grabber continued to wax nostalgia, voice brimming with affection. “I miss that little spitfire. He had this adorable pout and tried so hard not to cry. It’s a shame, really. I think he would have had a much better time if he let those emotions loose. Sometimes boys need a good cry to let it all out, you know?”
Finney’s eye twitched; he suspected the Grabber waited for this exact moment where he couldn’t talk back or leave.
“He was a clever one, too. Even got the jump on me a couple times. This one time we were getting dressed, he actually tried to choke me with his belt!” ” He chuckled fondly. “That little scamp…welp, he wasn’t a happy camper afterwards, I’ll tell ya that much. And of course, I couldn’t let him keep it. Ohh, he wasn’t happy about that, but really, he should’ve been grateful I didn’t slice him up on the spot.”
Focus on moon landing, focus on moon landing…
He looked at his classmates, trying to focus on details to distract him: Matt sneaking gum into his mouth while the teacher’s back was turned, Buzz using paper to wrap two pencils together like a Chinese finger trap, Danny twirling the bathroom pass in his hands as he waltzed out the room, the scraping of chalk on the chalkboard, the “Believe in Yourself” poster, which never felt less relevant.
The Grabber’s voice took on a more serious, contemplative note as he pushed forward: “I got the last laugh in the end though, since I beat that naughty boy with the very same belt he tried to strangle me with. That’s what they call poetic justice.”
Finney dug his hands deep within his hair, clawing his scalp. His eyes locked onto the clock, which seemed to be moving slower than normal.
“What did Anthony call the things I took? Trophies? I prefer mementos, but anyway…I’m not sure if you realize this, but I wore it sometimes, when I was with you.”
Finney stilled. He did recall, vaguely, how the Grabber would occasionally wear a belt that looked similar to Robin’s. But it was a common style, so he didn’t think much of it at the time. Finney bit his lip so hard he tasted the coppery tang of blood.
“So in a weird way, it’s kind of like you and Robin were together again. You touched and kissed him and he hugged your arms and neck and hit you if you deserved it and…hmm, you know what? Forget it. It sounded a lot better in my head, but now I’m getting jealous of a piece of clothing…”
Unable to take it any longer, Finney scribbled STOP on the top of his notebook paper and circled it. If anything, this goaded the Grabber on even more. “There’s a point to this, Finney, and the point is that me and you have something in common: We both loved Robin. Don’t give me that look, it’s true. But I moved on from him, and so can you. And it was hard, let me tell ya. I was so upset when he died, probably more than you were—”
“Will you shut the fuck up?”
Finney didn’t realize he was standing or shouting. His heart pounded like he ran a marathon, face hot, palms sweaty, mind racing a million miles a minute. A second later he became keenly aware of twenty-four pairs of eyes glued to him.
****
Despite his rambling, disjointed apology and stammering claims that he was talking to “someone else,” not the teacher, Finney was, understandably, sent to Mr. Garcia’s office immediately. He grabbed his schoolbooks and pushed his way past the door amidst a chorus of whispers.
He didn’t go straight to Mr. Garcia. Instead, Finney slammed open the door of the nearest bathroom and rushed toward the sink, dropping his books and causing them to scatter. With trembling fingers, he splashed water on his face, trying to steady his breathing.
“Just leave me alone,” he begged. “If you don't I’ll—I’ll kill myself right now. Swear to God, I will.”
The Grabber was unimpressed. “With what?”
Finney’s eyes scanned the bathroom, quick and desperate. He couldn’t find anything that could be used for an effective threat. “I don’t know. I’ll run into traffic or jump out the window on the second floor or something.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, pumpkin,” the Grabber chided. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”
Finney laughed, but there was no humor to it. “Bullshit. You do. All the time.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do!” Finney shouted, fighting off an impulse to punch the mirror. “I mean it: Stop talking to me.”
“Why? You don’t have anyone else.”
It was true, but holy hell, did that sting. Finney blinked back tears. “Now, now, don’t cry,” the Grabber soothed. “You don’t need any of those fools. You have me, remember? And our bond is special. I’ll always love you and never leave you, even when you’re acting like a stubborn brat. Don’t you want that?”
Finney shivered and shook his head. “No, I don’t fucking want that,” he whispered. Then, louder: “The only thing I want is to fling myself into the nearest wood chopper.”
“What the fuck, dude?”
Finney’s head snapped towards the stalls, stomach dropping as Danny Perez’s nervous eyes peeked out from a slightly-ajar stall. Oh, shit.
“Um, hey Danny…” he muttered. What else could he say? “W-what are you doing here?”
‘What are you doing here?’ REALLY? Why do I say dumb shit all the time?
“He’s your friend, right?” Smugness dripped off the Grabber’s words and Finney belatedly realized the ghost probably knew Danny was in here the whole time. “I’m sure he won’t think you’re crazy.”
Looking into Danny’s panicked eyes, Finney doubted that very much.
Last night the Grabber described Finney’s friendships as being shallow, and as much as Finney hated to admit it, there was some degree of truth to that. He never spoke with any of his classmates—aside from Donna—about the basement, his troubles at home, and anxiety about the future. Instead, they talked about movies, music, games: typical teenage shit. This was by choice, a purposeful attempt at constructing a “normal teenager” persona that was quickly unraveling.
He didn’t start “making friends” until after the basement, anyway. If he never killed the Grabber, he suspected people like Danny wouldn’t have given him a second glance. Why would they? There was nothing appealing about him.
“History. Megan. Remember?” Danny strained a smile.
It took Finney a moment to put it together, but Danny’s words from the day he first saw the Grabber in the supply room came flooding back to him. “Oh, yeah.” Finney forced a chuckle.
Danny rubbed the back of his neck. “But this was a boner-killer, so now I’ve got a massive case of blue balls.”
Finney didn’t know what to say. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He finally met his eyes again, reflecting worry and a hint of fear. “So, uh, about what you said…if you walk into traffic or something me and Donna and a buncha other people would be pretty bummed, and Robin would kick your ass in Heaven and stuff. So, like, I think you shouldn’t do it.”
Whereas Finney was always somewhat of a loner, Robin had a friend group before he was abducted, which Danny was a part of. Danny gravitated towards Finney after he escaped the basement and struck up a friendship with the boy, but despite their mutual connection with Robin, they never spoke much about him beyond the superficial.
“So if no one cared, then it’d be okay, right?”
Finney didn’t know why he said that; he had a sinking suspicion the Someone Else who snapped at Donna might be rearing his ugly head again.
Danny looked like a deer caught in headlights. “N-no! That’s not what I’m saying. I…shit, I’m not good with heavy stuff.” He sighed. “ Look, I know you’re stressed out with all the rumors and shit, but soon they’ll find out who really did it and everyone’ll forget they thought it was you.”
Finney was tempted to confess it was him, but bit his tongue. Instead, he asked, “What if I did do it? Would it change anything?”
Danny’s face grew weary. “I mean, yeah, but I still wouldn’t want you to die either way. I think you need to try to, like, cheer up and focus on good stuff. Everyone’s got crappy days and the world sucks a lot of times, but there’s still a lot of good things and good people in it.”
Finney knew, logically, Danny meant well, but the platitude seemed condescending and grated on him to the point where he didn’t feel bad about saying, “Yeah, I’ll go home and just ‘decide’ to feel better. That’ll work for sure. Good plan, Danny.”
Danny didn’t know what to say to that, and Finney didn’t know what to say either, so he gathered his books and headed out, ignoring the self-satisfied chuckle coming from the pencil case.
****
Finney waited in Mr. Garcia’s room for about an hour before his father arrived. Terrence’s face was a thundercloud, causing Finney no small amount of anxiety as he shuffled into the car. Guilt gnawed at him and he couldn’t meet Terrence’s eye; his father was angry at him no doubt, for making him leave work early for something stupid. Again.
But although Finney was expecting it, Terrence didn’t yell. Instead, Terrence asked him about what happened, and the truth spilled out of Finney's mouth like a dam breaking. Normally Finney wouldn’t be this forthcoming, but for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, the words just wouldn’t stop. They spoke for a long time, and Finney gradually felt at ease.
Terrence eventually mentioned a topic that reminded Finney of his outburst a few days ago and caused his cheeks to heat up: liking boys. Finney tried to brush it off at first, but—to Finney’s surprise–Terrence continued to push instead of avoiding it. “It’s alright, you can tell me,” Terrence murmured, voice softer than Finney heard in a while. “We used to talk about anything. I miss that.”
Finney’s eyes drifted out the window as he shifted his seat. Those words caused a fresh wave of grief to churn inside him.
He could easily remember a time when Terrence was his hero, a time when Terrence would listen attentively as Finney would ramble about various elementary-age problems: fears about getting coal for Christmas, embarrassment that he cried during a duck-and-cover drill at school, curiosity over why his parents argued about President Nixon, wondering what would happen if there was an alien invasion, debate over which was the best DisneyLand ride, etc. That easy, casual conversation where he could babble on to his father without fear seemed like a lifetime ago. “...Me too.”
They stopped at a light, and Finney watched a father and son playing catch on a lawn. The kid looked about five, which was the age Terrence gave him his first baseball mitt. A rush of nostalgia and fondness bubbled in Finney’s heart. He remembered his father clapping and cheering him on during his baseball games, even back when Finney sucked at the sport. The boy’s shirt also elicited another memory. “That kid’s wearing a Dodgers shirt. Remember that one time we saw them when I was eight? When they were up against the Padres?”
Finney saw the edge of Terrence's lip curl into a smile upward. “How could I forget?”
Maybe Terrence still kinda liked him? The thought was encouraging. “It was the best early Christmas present ever. How were you able to get those tickets?”
“I think you mean, ‘How did Santa get those tickets?’”
A soft laugh escaped Finney’s throat, and for the first time today, he gave a genuine smile.
Even before Mom died, Terrence was frequently a source of pain, but he was also a source of comfort and stability. Finney never feared him the way he did after Mom died.
As they continued to drive through the neighborhoods, a slightly crazy idea took root in his head, and Finney couldn’t push it out. Perhaps it was due to today’s emotional turmoil, but he needed comfort, needed someone to tell him that he was okay, that everything would be okay. The kids at school might not accept him, but maybe his father could? Before he could talk himself out of it, he took the plunge. “Dad…I want to talk about what I said earlier. About being—you know…”
Oh god what am I doing this is going to backfire I know it
His father, surprisingly, didn’t avoid the topic. “Alright. Shoot.”
Hope flickered in Finney's heart and he swallowed, mentally preparing himself.“Seeing everyone turn on Mr. Clarkson so fast bothered me a lot, and I think part of it’s because, well, I think…I think I like both.” Oh my god I actually said it. “I know what you said about people like that, but I love Donna. As a girl, not just as a friend. But I also sometimes feel stuff towards boys, and it feels the same, so…yeah. I think I like both, and I wish I didn’t. I’m really sorry, Dad…”
The anticipation was unbearable. In many ways, Finney felt similar to how he did three years ago: laid out and exposed, stomach twisting in fear of what’s to come.
Stop this is my dad he loves me alright? It’ll be fine fine everything’s fine
His toes curled and he swallowed again, biting his lip, fingers fidgeting.
“I think,” Terrence slowly began, “you’re confused. Shaw got into your head, and all your wires are crossed. Give it time, and everything’ll go back to normal.”
Normal. Nothing about him was normal. If he was normal, memories of Robin wouldn’t cause his heart to flutter. If he was normal, he would have lost his virginity to a pretty girl in a nice bedroom instead of a masked old man on a cold mattress bolted to the floor.
He wanted to be normal so badly, but he wasn’t. He wanted someone his father could be proud of, but he wasn’t.
At least he’s not mad, Finney thought, trying to encourage himself. But it did little good against the tidal wave of grief and despair that swallowed his heart.
The rest of the conversation was unproductive, making Finney bitter that he was so hopeful before. Hope was cruel. Hope allowed him to pretend Terrence would listen instead of reject him. Heartbreak and sorrow twisted into anger, a cold comfort that stabilized his mood.
A sudden burst of static on the radio signaled the Grabber’s interference, and Finney’s jaw clenched. There was no doubt in Finney’s mind that he chose “Unchained Melody” to taunt Finney with memories of his argument with Donna.
“You know, Finney,” the Grabber’s voice piped from Finney’s pocket, “your dad's wrong. Sort of. Your feelings for Robin and what we shared were real. Your feelings for Donna though—well, I know you think you like her, but I’ve got a pretty good reason to believe that’s the result of crossed wires, or just good ol’ social pressure. I know a thing or two about that.”
“Shut up,” Finney whispered, trying very, very hard not to let his father hear and misinterpret.
“Nah, this pity party’s gone on long enough. I’m bored and want to talk.”
If I jump out of the car at this speed, would it kill me? Finney thought dully, watching the moving cars out the window.
Terrence shook Finney out of his misery with a thought that was equal parts random and horrifying. “We should get a dog. We’ve got a big enough yard for it now. Might be good for a change of pace.”
“Ooooh, that’s a good idea,” the Grabber cooed, voice brimming with happiness. “Me, you, and a dog. It’ll be like old times.”
“I don’t want a dog,” Finney said through gritted teeth.
“Since when?” Was his father really this dense? “You love dogs. I remember that big sticker book you had with all the different breeds. After I told you about Roscoe, you begged me for weeks to get a pup.”
Of course he doesn't know about Samson, Finney reasoned with himself. I didn’t tell him.
But if Terrence asked about his time in the basement, it might have come up. But Terrence never asked. “That was when I was six. I don’t like them anymore.”
“A dog could’ve stopped that kook from looking into our windows and taking pictures.”
“You had another stalker?” the Grabber asked gleefully. “Can’t say I blame him. You’re irresistible, after all.”
Finney closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before opening them. Calm, calm, I need to be calm...
“We should get a mastiff like Roscoe. They make good guard dogs.”
The Grabber laughed. “Don’t I know it!”
Something in Finney snapped. The stress, compounded with the Grabber’s taunts, unleashed a volcano of emotion, causing him to kick Terrence’s seat and shout, “I said I don’t want one! Are you listening to anything I'm saying? Are you deaf?”
Immediately after the words left his mouth, Finney knew it was a Big Mistake. Terrence spun around and jabbed Finney’s chest with his pointer finger. “How dare you talk to me that way?! You’re damn lucky I don’t throw you over the trunk and beat your ass on the side of the road. That’s what my old man would have done. That’s what I should do.”
“That’s what I’d do too, if I could,” the Grabber said wistfully. “You’ve been a naughty boy this whole ride.”
But Finney barely heard the Grabber; he was focused on his father.
Terrence’s words brought him back to his childhood, where the threat of the belt made him scared, emotional, vulnerable, and–of course— ashamed. Ashamed he was such a bad kid, his own father wanted to hurt him until he cried or screamed enough to his satisfaction. Or until Terrence felt the lesson was learned. Or until Terrence burnt up all his rage. Or until Terrence simply got tired of hitting his son. There was never any consistency.
But I’m not a child anymore.
And he was sick of being pushed around like one, by both Terrence and the Grabber. A cold fury pulsed within him, and Someone Else took control. “Whatever. Wouldn’t bother me,” he lied. “I’m used to crusty old men touching my ass.”
I wish I had a camera right now, Finney thought with smug satisfaction as Terrence’s jaw dropped.
He heard a sharp intake of breath from his pocket. “Finney!” the Grabber scolded. “You're being awfully sassy today, and I do not appreciate it. Age is just a number, remember? I might be on the older side physically, but mentally I'm young.”
Getting under the skin of the two most powerful people he knew was a thrill like no other. Finney smirked.
Terrence finally responded. “First off, I don’t touch it,” Finney opened his mouth, about to remind him of all the times Terrence used his hand to spank him when he was in elementary school, but didn’t get the chance because Terrence continued. “Second, I’m not having this conversation until you cool your jets.”
Finney knew he should back off. He didn’t know why he didn’t back off. The last sentence felt patronizing, lighting the fire of Finey’s ire. “C’mon, do it. Go ahead.”
“I said I should, not that I was going to.”
“Why not?” Finney pushed against the back of Terrence’s seat with his feet, the allure of the forbidden fruit overriding any sense of guilt or self-preservation.“You never stopped before.”
“Finney, the next time you try to say you’re not a masochist, I’m going to remind you of this moment.” The Grabber's voice no longer sounded angry, but was instead light with amusement.
Perhaps the ghost was on to something. As much as he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t: He wanted Terrence to lose control, to tear into him, though he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint why. He didn’t enjoy the feeling of pain—or at least, he thought he didn’t. But there was a bizarre, inexplicable thought running throughout his body, telling him that Terrence losing control would somehow give Finney control, though objectively Finney knew that made no sense.
But if Terrence lost it on him, at least some things in his life would go back to normal. And if anyone deserved to be hurt today, it was him.
“You know damn well why,” Terrence muttered.
Three years ago he would have been over the trunk by now, for sure. So why wasn’t that happening now? “No I don’t.”
“I don’t want you thinking I’m Shaw and saying weird shit to me again. That’s why.”
Finney’s face heated as events that fateful breakfast three years ago bombarded him. He knew that was why Terrence stopped initially, but the fact his father still thought about it years later bothered him. Finney thought Terrence might have stopped because he was concerned it might not have the same effect now that his kids were older, or that he had some kind of moral crisis that discouraged him from harming children, or because he was worried it would irreparably damage the relationship between parent and child.
But the reason he stopped was because he thought Finney was weak? That he couldn’t handle it without turning into a quivering mess?
“I didn’t think you w-were him!” he stammered, self-loathing pouring through him. “I know you’re not.”
“Well, I sure as shit hope you didn’t think it was me.”
Oh God, he thinks I'm disgusting…
“You missed me so much you started imagining me? ” the Grabber teased. “Looks like our love isn’t as one-sided as you say it is.”
“I didn’t!” insisted Finney, voice dry, mind frantic. “I barely even remem—I don’t know why it happened, I just… ”
“It’s alright. Eventually you’ll stop thinking about him all the time and things’ll go back to nor—”
“I don’t think about him all the time!!” yelled Finney, the Grabber’s raucous laughter echoing throughout the car.
“Okay, fine, you’re right,” placated Terrence, like Finney was five again. “You don’t think about him.”
“I don’t…” mumbled Finney. Terrence lowered the back window, but the breeze did nothing to alleviate Finney’s mental turmoil. He tuned out the drones of the announcer, numbness enveloping his body like a blanket.
He wished Terrence beat him instead. Those words had a greater sting than the belt did, which was probably on purpose. Terrence wanted Finney to feel humiliated and put in his place.
No, that’s not it. He doesn’t know the Grabber’s here.
Regardless, the previous, temporary sense of power vanished. Finney felt like a child again.
“Finney.” The Grabber’s tone was gentler now. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
Finney pulled the screen out of his pocket, watching the shadow of the Grabber’s neutral mask. “I’m not,” he whispered back. “What Dad said wasn’t true.”
“Mhmm. Sure.”
“It wasn’t,” Finney hissed, tuning out the announcer discussing a book controversy. “He—”
Finney stopped suddenly, blood running cold as the announcer mentioned Bound in Chains. Terrence slammed the button on the radio, changing the station to the weather. He hoped the Grabber didn’t notice, but luck wasn’t on Finney’s side, and hadn’t been for some time.
“What’s this about, Finney?” the Grabber inquired. “The other station mentioned victims. They aren’t talking about my naughty boys, are they?”
“It’s nothing,” Finney hissed, heart thumping wildly. “Someone wrote a stupid book.”
“About me?”
Finney paled, but said nothing.
“About…us?” the Grabber guessed. Finney’s poker face apparently wasn’t effective. In response, there was another burst of static, returning to the previous channel.
“—Described by the Los Angeles Times as ‘uncomfortably speculative at best, salaciously exploitative at worst,’ Bound in Chains contains several scenes of a debatably pornographic nature—”
Finney clenched his hair with his fists. “Stop it!”
“—involving minors engaging in sexual activity with an adult character resembling the Galesburg Grabber–”
“Oh my,” the Grabber purred. “After we finish Russ’s book, maybe that’ll be our next bedtime reading.”
Finney shut his eyes tightly. He hated himself, and his life. “If you don’t stop, I’ll jump out of the car right now and die, and you’ll never be with me!”
“What the fuck?”
Finney’s eyes jerked upward, remembering Terrence was in the car. “Dad—”
“You need to see a shrink.” Terrence’s eyes were wide and frantic, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Or someone. I don’t know. I hated her, but this shit wasn’t happening then.”
“No I don’t!” Finney protested. Why can’t I just be normal? “I was fine until a couple weeks ago.”
Sweat beaded on Terrence’s brow. “Doesn’t matter. You threatened to off yourself! Twice in one day!”
Finney could never say thoughts of suicide didn’t occasionally drift into his head. Before he was taken, he liked to imagine his father wailing over him like he did Susannah, lamenting how he should have treated his son better. After escaping from the basement, the possibility would pop into his head during nights he couldn’t fall asleep due to painful memories. But those thoughts were always a passing fancy, gone as quickly as they came. He never seriously considered the idea.
But after the events of today, a deep dark part of him whispered that he couldn’t deny the thought was appealing.
“I wasn’t talking to you…” Finney mumbled, an admittedly weak defense.
“You’re talking to voices in your head?” Terrence growled. Finney tried to find an excuse that didn’t make him look crazy, but couldn’t. “Normal people don’t do this.”
He hates me, I know he does. He wants a normal son.
“I know…” whispered Finney, eyes growing blurry with tears. “I’m sorry…”
“Forget him, Finney,” the Grabber chided. “I accept you for who you are. That’s what they call ‘unconditional love.’”
Finney’s fingers curled around the Time-Out as he whispered, “This isn’t how people act if they love someone.”
“Of course it is.” There was another burst of static, and the dulcet tones of “You Always Hurt the Ones You Love” filled the car. Finney rolled his eyes and scoffed.
“It’s true, Finney,” the Grabber insisted. “People always hurt the one they love. You did it a few days ago with your family. But that’s okay. It’s not the kind of thing you can help, not when passion’s involved. The songwriters knew that, and you should, too. I mean, just look at your dad.”
Terrence was saying something, but Finney couldn’t hear, completely transfixed on the screen in front of him. He wanted to reach into it and strangle the Grabber like he did three years ago. “Shut up…”
The song’s volume raised. “Parents hit their kids out of love, and it’s the same with me. I do things you think are cruel because I know what’s best for you. I mean, just think: They wrote a story about us! Everyone can see how special our bond is, except you.” He sighed. “Buuuut that’s okay. I still love you. Always will.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you say! You ruined my life.”
The car jerked and the screen flickered. The Grabber was no longer smiling. “I don’t like it when you get nasty," he growled. "You should be grateful. At least I have the patience to deal with you. Donna doesn’t. She wants a normal boyfriend. The only reason she stuck around for so long is because she feels sorry for you.”
The sheer audacity was overwhelming. “You’re the reason I can’t be normal.”
“You don’t need to be normal, you just need me to guide you. Haven’t you seen what doing things on your own leads to?” he mocked. “You might pretend to be an adult, but you’re just a bratty, stubborn boy in need of correction. Good thing I’m here to do just that.”
Finney didn’t know how things worked in the spirit world, but hoped the Grabber would be able to sense the aura of pure, raw hatred emanating from him. “I said, shut up!”
“You shut up!” the Grabber snarled. Black blotches appeared on the screen, fading in and out. “Ungrateful little shit. Are you this stupid? Don’t you realize no one else will love you but me?”
“I don’t care! I hate you!”
In a fit of rage, Finney flung the screen, out the window, hitting the sidewalk with a clatter. The car stalled, and a second later, another car slammed into them from behind.
****
The next couple hours were a daze, but not enough of a daze that Finney didn’t recognize the importance of reclaiming the Time-Out. Scuff marks littered the sides and a crack ran down the screen, but there was no way in hell it would stay on the sidewalk after that horrifying reminder of the Grabber’s power.
As his father spoke with the police officers and passengers from the other cars, a weird sensation enveloped Finney. Nothing felt real anymore. It was as though he was a spectator watching a film instead of a character personally involved in the actions. The more he stared at certain people or objects, the fuzzier they became. A pressure weighed against his chest, and he began to sweat more profusely than the June heat warranted.
After roadside assistance dropped them off at the house—I’ll never escape this place—his stomach started to ache with nausea. Trudging over to the sofa, he leaned over, blinking rapidly as the room spun. “Dad, I don’t feel good.”
But what good would it do to call out to him? He always made things hurt more, not less.
Finney closed his eyes, begging the silent inner voice to go away. After feeling the mattress dip, he blinked his eyes open groggily as the fuzzy shape of the larger man next to him reached out and gently caressed Finney’s hair. He froze.
The man leaned in and embraced him, Finney feeling like a rabbit in the jaws of a fox, waiting for the predator to clamp down. But those calloused fingers didn’t trail down his back or below his waist, which was a good sign.
He relaxed, leaning into the touch. Maybe today would be one of those days where nothing happened. It was so fucking cold down here, after all, so he really shouldn’t be ungrateful. Some warmth was better than no warmth, even if how he got it made him sick to his stomach.
Besides, it’s been a long time since someone hugged him like this. As long as it didn’t go further than this, he could pretend he was with Dad.
The Grabber finally pulled away. “Do you want me to go or stay?”
Good question. He loathed himself for this, but…“Stay.”
He didn’t know why, when given the option, he almost always made this choice, especially since he almost always ended up regretting it. But the logical part of his brain broke sometime after the fifteenth moon.
Was he a bad person for reaching out to a demon instead of being eaten away by the lonely abyss? No, that was called an intrusive thought, like Dr. Moore said. Plus, he was hungry. He couldn’t get nice things unless the Grabber was happy. And he was grinning now, which was a good sign.
Finney reached out and squeezed the Grabber’s hand; he knew the man liked that, the self-satisfied sigh serving as corroboration. “I’m hungry. I need food. Please…”
“Awww, poor little pumpkin.” He giggled and Finney bristled. He hated those fucking pet names. “Sure, I can get you something nice to eat…iiiiif you do a little favor for me.”
Finney shivered. Was he going to need to do favors for food now? He didn’t before, but the rules and expectations were constantly in flux. The first time he needed to “earn” a basic necessity, he cried for at least an hour after the Grabber left, and carried the shame for weeks later. What did it say about his life now if the thought made him feel nothing but emptiness? A hollow pit where his feelings should be.
Well, if he was going to lose his dignity anyway, might as well shoot for the moon. “And blankets. I’m freezing.”
The Grabber pulled his hand away, and Finney’s heart dropped. “My, aren’t we a greedy boy today?”
The tone was less jovial, and dread constricted Finney’s throat. Anxiety spiked through him, and a flash of heat spread throughout his body. He tugged at the collar of his shirt in futile hopes it would help his breathing. The Grabber leaned toward him, grasping his wrist and digging the other hand into his shoulder like talons. “C’mon, kid…” he breathed, leaning the mask close to Finney’s face that the cold marble nose brushed against the side of his neck. Goosbumps crawled over his skin, and the whole room grew fuzzy. “Show me how thankful you are. I’m a nice guy, right? Giving you this stuff. Most people won’t, but I always take care of my little sweetheart.”
I gotta snap out of it!
Snap out what, though? The room started shaking with the intensity of an earthquake. But the Grabber wasn’t perturbed. He never was. He reached out to touch the boy’s chest, those cruel hands roving over the white-and-blue fabric with reverence. “I–I changed my mind.”
You know what? Fuck it. He could starve. He should starve. It couldn’t be more agonizing than dealing with…this.
The Grabber giggled. “You can’t change your mind, you silly thing. I decide when we stop.” He ran his pointer finger down Finney’s side, hovering at the waist and tapping it playfully.
The pressure in Finney’s chest grew even heavier, heartbeat pounding. He wished God would strike him down with a lightning bolt, or a sinkhole would form underneath him and drag him into the earth, burying him forever like an Egyptian tomb.
He never should have picked up that stupid hat.
A sudden, searing pain blossomed on Finney’s cheek; did the Grabber hit him? His eyes welled with tears as he pushed himself towards the opposite end of the mattress.
He didn’t want to be a crybaby, but tears pushed their way out anyway. The pain reminded him of his father’s slaps. He missed Dad. But Dad was probably glad he was gone, so he wouldn’t have to have a pain in the ass for a son anymore. That thought caused more tears to spill.
‘I’m going to give you a pain in the ass because you’re being a pain in the ass.' Dad said that to him once, when he was eleven. He wished he could remember what he did to deserve it, so he wouldn’t do the same thing and accidentally piss the Grabber off.
Finney’s eyes drifted back to the end of the mattress, but the Grabber wasn’t there. He blinked again, and then he was, wearing the frowning mask. “Finney, stop being a brat and get over here. This can feel nice for the both of us, or just me. It’s your choice.”
Finney brought his knuckles up to his face, partially obscuring it from the man. When he did so, his knuckles brushed up against a….chin hair? What?
He blinked some more, trying to gain focus in the spinning room. A lot of things were weird, the more he thought of it. Since when was there a television? When did the mattress become a sofa?
Finney closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and opened them. The room was regaining focus, and he wasn’t in the basement anymore. He was upstairs. He was—
Not thirteen anymore….
The reality of what happened dawned on him: He had another flashback.
Finney tugged the ends of his hairs and shoved himself back against the headrest. After escaping the basement, there were times he’d think he was back in the basement, where the events occurring around him were a weird amalgamation of specific memories, events occurring around him, and vague, general feelings. Normally they’d only last a few seconds and his family remained blissfully unaware.
But his cheek still stung. That could only mean—oh no.
Finney buried his head in his hands. Last time he had a long flashback like this was when the way Terrence acted brought Finney back to one of his most shameful moments, where he tried
to bargain with the Grabber in an attempt to avoid or mitigate the promise of severe pain. It was always in Finney’s best interest when the Grabber was happy, and the Grabber was not happy with Finney that day. Terrence and Gwen remained tightlipped about what Finney did and said in the real world, but if it was anything like what was going on in his head—or the memory that inspired the flashback–then Finney knew enough.
It was a gross feeling, having his family know he acted like the whore the Grabber claimed he was. And that was what he was, despite Dr. Moore saying how he needed to “reframe his thinking” about the incident.
Dad thinks I’m sick in the head. That’s why he hit me, and that’s why he left.
But Terrence came back, harried, frantic, and holding an ice cube. He grilled Finney with questions, and despite yearning for his father’s return, that same arrival erected a wall of stone around Finney’s heart for reasons he couldn’t identify. Much like when he kept pushing his feet against Terrence’s seat, he inexplicably lashed out, though his father didn’t snap back this time.
The longer he stayed with his father, the more embarrassed he became, to the point where the defiant spark dimmed completely. Why can’t I get over this? Why am I so damn weak?
“Did I say or do anything…weird?” whispered Finney, clutching his arms closer to his body.
“No.”
Oh thank God. “Then why’d you hit me?” he couldn’t help but ask, gesturing to his cheek. Now that he wasn’t in the basement anymore and knew Terrence wasn’t going to go off on him, he could focus on the pain. And it hurt. A lot.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Terrence replied hoarsely.
“The Scorpion and the Frog” popped into Finney’s mind. Maybe—like the Grabber–Terrence couldn’t stop his urge for violence either. That could be why he threatened Finney in the car, too. Violence was simply his nature.
But was that a bad thing? The Grabber’s claim of people being compelled to hurt the ones they love echoed through his head, and he stood up, drained. He needed to lie down.
“Finney, wait. We need to talk about this.”
Finney’s face flushed as he glanced towards the kitchen leading to the basement. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“This is the second time this has happened. Because something I did reminded you of him. Do you—” Finney felt a wave of guilt as Terrence’s eyes began to mist. “Do you think I’m as bad as him?”
“No.” There was no question—the Grabber brought sexual, physical, and emotional pain to Finney, whereas Terrence only brought the latter two.
Still, there was this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that whispered maybe, just maybe, if he mentioned to Terrence why he conflated them, his father might feel less awkward. Terrence was trying to be a better person; he hadn’t drank in a while. Finney didn’t want him feeling like crap. “I mean, there’s like a couple similarities, but you’re different, you don’t…I don’t know. It's different.”
“What similarities?” he asked, face clouding over.
Finney looked down at his shoes, wishing he didn’t say anything. Digging into a well of courage he thought extinguished, Finney stammered as he mentioned the things they had in common: age, unpredictability, use of the belt, etc. But when his gaze ventured upward and saw the devastation in Terrence’s eyes, he made sure to identify some ‘good similarities' that didn’t make Terrence seem like a horrible person.
“I–I don’t mean like ‘good’ good, but—well—he did a lot of normal dad stuff, even the things you haven’t done since I was little. He gave me a place to live and blankets and cooked food and—and we’d talk a lot. And there was other stuff like ba—” Finney stopped.
What the fuck am I saying?
There were no ‘good similarities.’ All the Grabber’s actions were carefully calculated to create a sense of dependency. Finney knew that, yet still fell into the trap of viewing certain actions as more benevolent than others, when the whole thing was a ruse to begin with. Finney’s eyes welled with tears. “Dad, he really messed up my head. I’m not thinking right anymore.”
Terrence looked pale and shaken, yet sounded strong when he responded, “I don’t want you to die. That’s a big difference between me and him. You dying would destroy your sister and me. So when I heard what you said in the car—”
“I won’t do it.” He couldn’t. He wasn’t going to fall into the Grabber’s trap, not again. “I didn’t mean it. I know it would upset you and Gwen.”
“Is that the only reason you don’t? Because it’ll upset me and Gwen?” Terrence sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Finney, what if we weren’t here? Then what?”
“I—” Finney hesitated. Terrence’s question mirrored what he asked Danny in the bathroom. Danny didn’t have a good answer then, and Finney didn’t have one now. There were a lot of complicated feelings to untangle, and Finney tried to verbalize his thoughts to the best of his ability. “I don’t want to die. But sometimes I think it might be nice to just…not exist. Not having to deal with all the shit that comes with being alive. Especially today.” Would his father think he was a wimp? Finney tentatively looked up. Please just listen and don’t get mad…“This is going to make me sound like a wuss, but it’s hard to do normal things like go to school without thin—”
A shrill, piecing ring cut through the weight of the conversation, causing both Blakes to jump.
Terrence took a breath and headed to the kitchen. “I gotta get that. Give me a minute, Finney.”
Finney just stared, a dull, empty numbness creeping through him. He should have expected this, really. Terrence always left when things got tough. Six years ago, he retreated into drinks to avoid thinking about his wife. And for the past three years, he said nothing about Finney’s experience in the basement. And even today, he dismissed Finney’s concerns about school and his confession of sexuality.
The numbness dissipated as bitterness wormed its way into his heart. He returned to his room and shut the door tightly before curling up on the bed. He didn’t open the door even when his father returned, claiming they could continue the conversation. Not even when Terrence’s word choice drew forth another painful memory and tears began to leak. Not even when Terrence said goodbye.
It was only fitting that the door remained shut. After all, there was always a barrier between him and Terrence.
And now, apparently, a barrier between him and the world.
Chapter 19: Two Steps Back
Chapter Text
After his father left, Finney laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for a very long time. He wasn’t sure for how long—it could have been one hour or several—but he didn’t care either way. A sudden rush of restlessness swept through him and he sat up, possessed by the urge to retreat to his usual respite: television.
Entering the living room caused the dizzy, stifling feeling to return, though whether it was due to the summer heat or stress from the day, he wasn’t sure. He opened a window and spotted Angela and Sofia standing on their front lawn, Angela clasping and staring down at Sofia’s hands.
Kids are so weird…Finney thought, eyes softening. He remembered when he and Gwen were that carefree.
The open window allowed their voices to carry and it appeared they were arguing about something, but Finney had no interest in schoolgirl drama. He flopped down on the couch and turned on a rerun of M*A*S*H, though despite his urge to watch, his mind barely comprehended the events onscreen.
The theme song’s called “Suicide is Painless,” Finney remembered with a wry smile. Then, the smile faded. He didn’t want to die, but like he told his father, it was sometimes difficult dealing with the pain that comes with being alive. The pain that comes with being Finney Blake.
A few years ago when he tried to research why his mother did what she did, he stumbled across a phrase that stuck in his mind: “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” But what happened to him wasn’t temporary. Even if everyone forgot about what happened with Mr. Clarkson, he still would be the boy in the basement. The Grabber would still have done those things to him.
Enough with the self-pity, he thought bitterly, turning off the television and heading toward the window to close it. Plenty of people have it worse than you. And you should be grateful! Robin, Bruce, and the others wouldn’t be thinking about this. They’d probably give anything to be alive right now and—
His hand froze on the window frame. Sofia wasn’t on the lawn anymore. Outside, he could see Angela, speaking to a stranger. A stranger standing outside a white van.
Without thinking, Finney slammed the door open and rushed outside. Before Finney could get a look at him, the stranger jumped back in the van and drove off. Heart thumping wildly, he ran towards the Romano house, sputtering, “D-did he—what happened? Are you okay?”
Angela gave him a smoldering glare and folded her arms. The stuffed bunny wasn’t there, thankfully, but she said nothing. Finney’s temper rose. “Did that man hurt you?”
“No.”
Finney relaxed slightly, but only slightly. “Then what did he want?”
“To see if Daddy was home. That man worked for a magazine and wanted to ask him questions. Probably about you.” She pointed at Finney, nose scrunched as if smelling something rotten. Of course. I can never shake those loonies. “Why are you acting weird and creepy?”
Finney’s heartbeat slowed, guilt and embarrassment taking root in him. “I don’t know. I just…” He swallowed, then stood up straighter, acting more confident than he felt. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
Something flickered in her eyes, and Finney could tell she was putting the pieces together. “No one would ever want to kidnap me.”
“I thought no one would want to kidnap me either, but I was wrong.” He put his hand in his pockets, flinching as his left fingers touched cracked metal. “Where’s your sister?”
“Inside.” The mention of Sofia summoned a slew of emotions out of the youngest Romano, her eyes shining with tears. “She’s no help at all! She said she would help me but she’s a liar because she said it’s taking too long but she said she would help me!”
Finney knew he would regret asking, but did so anyway. “Help with what?”
Angela wiped her eyes, and when she did, her expression was cold again. “The invisible bubble trick.”
That explained why she was grabbing Sofia’s hands earlier. Finney sighed. The chirping of birds and gentle summer breeze seemed at odds with the torrent of memories in his head. “I’ll show you how to do it. Put both your hands together like you’re praying.”
Angela’s eyes bulged in surprise, but she did as Finney asked. Finney held his hands in a similar position, palms inward and around her fingers. “Now, try to push your hands outward, like you’re trying to break free, as hard as you can.”
Angie did, but frowned. “When I tried doing it with Sofia, it didn’t work.”
“That’s because you need to push your hands against hers while she’s doing it,” Finney explained, following his own instructions. “And you need to keep it going like this for about a minute.”
“Okie-dokie,” replied Angela, eyes flashing with determination.
Finney didn’t have a watch on him, but neither did the Grabber when he showed Finney this trick years ago. The Grabber also hammed it up by chanting “magic words” during the wait, but no way in hell was Finney doing that. So instead, he counted to sixty in his head before saying, “Alright, you can stop pushing.”
Finney removed his hands, and when he did, a wide grin spread across Angela’s face. He’d never seen her smile before, and he couldn’t help but smile, too. “Feel anything?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
“It’s the bubble!” she beamed. “I feel the bubble! H-how did you…”
“Magic.”
Her eyes sparkled with awe. “I didn’t know you were a magician.”
His smile dropped. “I’m not. I just know the trick, that’s all.”
“How?” she pressed, still feeling the ‘bubble.’
“Never mind how,” snapped Finney. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “I’ve gotta go now. Bye, Angie.”
“Bye…”
Her curious eyes followed him while he walked back to 7742 and opened the front door. Exhaustion quickly overpowered Finney after returning to his room. Whether it was from the physical exertion of running or the emotional challenge of performing the trick, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t fight when sleep overtook him.
****
As Finney blinked groggily, his first thought was, Deja vu.
It took him a few seconds to realize why. But when he did, he sprang up and raced out of the room, heart pounding.
Gwen’s cries, Terrence’s yells, and even—he could have sworn—the sound of a harsh impact, all painted a familiar, dreaded picture. One that was reinforced when he saw Gwen with her face in her hands, sobbing, as Terrence shouted, waving a folded belt in front of her.
The last time this happened, Finney was thirteen. His shouts of protests fell on deaf ears as his sister sobbed in pain while Terrence ranted and raved about dreams. Back then, he wanted nothing more than to rush in and help her, but his legs remained frozen in fear. It was a regret that kept him awake while trying to fall asleep in that cold, damp basement.
But this time, Finney didn’t freeze.
This time, Finney saw red.
He lunged towards his father and grabbed him by the lapels, slamming his back into a nearby cabinet with a clatter. Before he gave it a second’s thought, Finney’s knuckles clenched and he pulled back, right before swinging his fist straight into Terrence’s jaw.
It was very cathartic.
Terrence hunched over and cradled his mouth, eyes widening in shock. Several competing feelings battled for dominance as Finney used the same fist to strike Terrence in the gut. He then used his other hand to strike the opposite side. He did it a second time, then a third time. And then—
And then, Finney wasn’t sure what happened. But something snapped.
When Finney reflected on this moment an hour later, the entire experience seemed like a blur. It was as though he was outside of his body, watching someone else take control. Again. Someone else unable to tolerate another second of Terrence’s bullshit.
He recalled vaguely, the image of his father stumbling onto the linoleum floor, guarding his face with his arms but unable or unwilling to fight back. He recalled kicking into his side, stomping his ankles, scratching, wrestling the belt from his arms before slamming it across his arms. He remembered, vaguely, Gwen’s shrieks and the thump of her fists against his back and cries for him to stop. But he vividly remembered the smug satisfaction in seeing the first speck of blood.
At a certain point it stopped being about protecting Gwen and passed the threshold of reasonable retaliation. Even in the moment, Finney knew that. Instead, it morphed into a deep desire to make his father hurt like how he hurt. He wanted revenge.
No, not revenge—retribution. For falling off the wagon after promising never to drink again. For taking a stupid phone call instead of listening to him. For dismissing his feelings towards Robin. For saying he’s a hero instead of a dumb kid who got lucky. For never talking to him after the basement. For not rescuing him from the Grabber. For getting angry when his children made too much noise. For every night Finney needed to sleep on his stomach because the burn was so painful. For choosing to drink in the first place. For hating his son.
During Finney’s first conversation with the Grabber in the supply room, the ghost insisted Finney enjoyed the feeling of violence. And in this moment, he wasn't wrong. There was freedom in unrestrained anger, and the more he indulged, the stronger it became. It felt good. Intoxicating.
Until it wasn’t.
Eventually, Gwen's shrieks pierced through the clouded haze, and Finney’s mind came crashing back to Earth. He spun around; Gwen’s eyes were wide and frantic with panic and fear.
But not fear of Terrence. Fear of him.
Memories of Donna’s horrified expression when Finney pulled himself off Matt swam through his head as his gaze drifted numbly to the floor. His father laid crumpled on the ground, bruised and battered in a manner reminiscent of Matt. But unlike Matt, Terrence’s eyes reflected a dull, hollowness that Finney had never seen aside from looking in a mirror. He murmured something so soft Finney had to strain to hear, but even then, the boy only made out a few words: “your mother,” “house,” “pictures.”
Any rising guilt was immediately offset by another wave of fury, and he spat out nine ugly words that had been festering for a while: “I don’t give a shit about Mom anymore, okay?”
Finney heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him, which riled him even more. And he wasn’t the only one— a flash of rage sparked in Terrence’s eyes, and the man pushed himself upward, growling, “You dunno halfa what she—”
“I know she chose to leave us,” Finney snarled, bracing himself in case Terrence decided to fight back. “And that’s enough. I’m not going to act like she’s a saint just because she’s dead.”
“Finney…” he heard Gwen sniffle. He didn’t look back.
If Mom stayed, she could have comforted him on nights he spent crying after returning from the basement. She could have helped him and Gwen understand their powers. She could have done something instead of shattering the happy family that now existed only in memories.
“Don’ you go disrespectin’ your mother like that!” Terrerence slurred, wobbling slightly, though Finney wasn’t sure if it was due to injuries or intoxication. His father’s face flushed and a vein throbbed in his neck. “Just ‘cause she’s not here doesn’ give you the goddamn right!”
“You care more about a dead person’s memory than your own kids,” accused Finney. A dampness trickled down his cheek, and he realized he was crying. “Dad, you said you wouldn’t drink anymore! You promised!”
That knocked some of the fight out of Terrence. He leaned against the cabinet and clutched his bleeding face, eyes laden with regret instead of anger. His next words were much weaker: “I know I did. I fucked up.”
Finney waited a few seconds for elaboration, but when he heard none, he wiped his eyes and steeled himself. “Every fucking time. We’ll always be second to her, or alcohol, and I’m sick of it. All I want is just one adult who won’t leave me when things get rough, that’s it.”
Us. I meant to say ‘us.’
But once the words left his mouth, he knew they were true anyway. His mother chose death over staying with him. His father chose a bottle over talking with him. Everyone leaves him in the end.
Well, almost everyone.
Finney squeezed his eyes shut, which did nothing to stop the tear dripping down his face. Whether it was from grief for his parents or disgust at the thought that just flashed through his mind, he wasn’t sure.
Finney’s words managed to do what his fists didn’t, and Terrence paled. “That’s not true. I–I wouldn’t—”
“It is! You just proved—”
“Finney, please,” whispered Gwen. “Just stop…”
Gwen’s voice no longer held fear, but there wasn’t any anger or sadness, either. Just a drained, despondent tone that seemed so wrong coming from Gwen, and her eyes reflected the same uncharacteristic lack of energy.
But perhaps this wasn’t uncharacteristic at all. Perhaps Gwen was putting on an act and pretending everything was normal the past three years, like he was. The thought was unsettling.
Glancing back and forth between Gwen and Terrence, Finney felt like an intruder, an alien who didn't belong, much like he did on the day he first helped Emma Baur. He wasn’t Finney Blake anymore, merely a creature wearing his skin.
I need to get out of here.
Finney’s eyes latched onto the basement door before he spun around and stormed away, a cold sweat breaking out all over his skin. He rushed out of the kitchen and into his room, slamming the bedroom door tight. He stood there until his heart slowed to a reasonable pace. Then, his fingers drifted to the light switch, hesitating before pressing it.
A blanket of black enveloped the room. Finney felt his way back to the bed and laid down on top, curling himself in a ball. For the past three years, he hadn’t been able to sleep in a closed room with the lights off without having a panic attack. He always needed the door ajar, to see the sliver of light and comfort in knowing he wasn’t trapped.
But today, he didn’t feel much of anything. A month ago it might have been lauded as progress, but Finney suspected that was no longer the case.
Being in the bedroom reminded Finney of a simpler time. A time that had its own set of struggles and challenges, but at least Finney knew how to handle those problems. They were familiar. Expected. Not like….whatever this was.
Finney shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but after a minute or two, discordant beeps grated against Finney’s ears. His eyes flung open and he gritted his teeth.
“What?” he snarled, grabbing the Time-Out from his pocket.
But the screen didn’t show a taunting silhouette. Instead, spots and random shapes dotted the screen, as if someone dipped a brush into ink and splattered it. The beeping intensified in speed and volume.
Finney’s fury dimmed, replaced with confusion. He hated using the man’s name, but…“Al?”
The audio sputtered and screeched, causing Finney to wince. But then, a voice replied. “...You hear me?”
Finney blinked. Whereas the Grabber’s voice always had a slight metallic echo when speaking through the Time-Out, this voice sounded fully distorted, more like a robot than a human, fading in and out. “...a lot harder than it looks….trying to….don’t know how he—oh, here we go! Think I got it now. Can you hear me, kid?”
Over the course of fifteen seconds, the voice shifted to sound like a real person, albeit with the familiar echo. It wasn’t the Grabber’s voice though, that was for sure. Finney’s fingers curled. “Who’s this?”
“You don’t recognize me?” the voice whined, sounded pained. “C’mon man. I almost rescued you.”
Finney’s brows furrowed. There wasn’t anyone who came close to rescuing him. The only living person he saw in the basement besides the Grabber was—
Oh…
“...Max?”
“The one and only,” he said proudly. “I saw Al talking you through this thing earlier…or later….time’s weird as shit so I’m not really sure, but anyway—”
“How do I know it’s you?”
“Wh-what?”
“How do I know it’s you?” repeated Finney, narrowing his eyes. He was not going to be fooled a third time. “Your brother can change his voice to sound like people who called the house. And I know you called him three years ago, so how do I know I'm talking to you and not him?”
Finney wasn’t sure if the vocal mimicry could even happen on other forms of audio besides the phone, or if the only people he could mimic were those who called after Finney established the link with the Grabber’s spirit (bleh). Either way, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“He can do that?” Max sounded genuinely baffled, but the Grabber was a good actor. “Wow. How does he know how to do all this shit and I don’t? That’s not fair…”
Finney waited patiently. Taking the hint, Max plowed ahead. “Hmmm….I’m trying to think of how to prove it’s me, but I’m coming up blank here. I think—wait no—actually, yeah. Yeah, I've got a good one. So, you know how everyone’s got their own thing? Like, this thing that you get obsessed, but when other people hear about it they just roll their eyes and go, ‘Ughhh, what a loser?’”
There was a pause, and Finney realized he was expected to respond. “I guess…”
“Sooo, I had a pretty big treasure trove of magazines, and I’m not exaggerating when I say I know everything about every single Playboy Playmate since 1970. Everything. And I doubt he does ‘cause…y’know. So go ahead. Quiz me!”
Now it was Finney’s turn to come up blank. This whole conversation was surreal, but as long as it distracted him from having to think about the recent outback, he’d take it. “Um…who was on the cover of the November, 1978 issue?”
“Monique St. Pierre.”
Finney didn’t know that; he remembered seeing the cover on the magazine racks shortly before he was kidnapped, but the woman’s mouth was covered by her turtleneck. He picked a random date. “October, 1971?”
“Darine Stern. But c’mon, man! That one made history. Give me something tougher.”
“October, 1977?”
“How can anyone forget Barbara Streisand?”
“October 1978?”
Max sighed affectionately. “Dolly Parton…”
Finney had no clue whether Max’s answers for the last three were right or not, but recalled with a jolt there was one cover he knew. “July, 1978?”
“Pamela Sue Martin. Sexiest. Detective. Ever.”
Finney could never forget that cover due to the circumstances in which he first saw it at Hortfords. It was on a rack standing next to the newspaper announcing Bruce Yamada’s disappearance, which was how Finney learned the baseball player he almost struck out the day before had been taken. He fought off a wave of nausea and fleeting impulse to ask the owner to move the magazine. The cover depicted a skimpily-dressed “detective,” and putting it next to an article of a missing boy whose fate most people believed would remain unsolved seemed like a cruel jest.
“I believe you,” admitted Finney, though he told himself to remain on guard in case he was wrong. “So, um, why are you here?”
There were a couple seconds of silence, and when Max responded, his voice was less bombastic. “This sounded a lot better in my head, but I wanted to check and see if you were, like, okay. I only caught the tail end of that shindig, but whew! That was some heavy stuff.”
Finney’s first instinct was to snap, ‘I’m fine!’ like always. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the stress of the day, but he wanted—needed—someone to talk to.
“No,” confessed Finney, throat dry. “I’m not. My dad hates me and my sister’s scared of me.”
“Nahhh. If your dad hates you, would he be crying and mumbling your name in the other room right now? C’mon. You don’t need to feel bad about that.”
It had the opposite effect. Finney buried his head in his hands.
Max continued, oblivious, though his voice took on a more solemn tone. “And Gwen’s not scared of you, she’s scared of what you did. Scared of knowing you’re capable of doing that. But still, you're her brother. She could never be scared of you, even if you give her reason to be.”
Finney opened his mouth, but closed it when he realized Max was likely speaking from personal experience. But the thought of Al brought up another question. “Is he still in the house? Your brother?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. I mean, he might be here and trying to avoid me like he normally does, but I’m 90% sure he’s not. Still, I doubt he’d stay away for too long. He’s like a boomerang when it comes to you.” Finney shifted while Max sighed, and the amount of splotches on the screen intensified. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’ve been trying to follow Al to stop him from bothering you, but obviously that hasn’t been working. He’s a sneaky bastard.”
“I know,” Finney replied glumly.
“I just—argh! I can’t believe I fell for it. Y’see, he told me he saw Jayne Mansfield outside, and I knew it had to be bullshit and told him that, but then I kept thinking well, what if. You know? ‘What if I’m wrong?’ You know how that goes, right? I mean, it’s not just anyone. It’s Jayne, man. Jayne.”
Finney thought about how the “what-ifs” led to his current predicament of breaking into Mr. Clarkson’s house. “Yeah…”
“I didn’t want to miss a chance, but it turned out my hunch was right. She wasn’t there, and getting back to the house was a pain in the neck. All the roads kept looping and then I ended up at the Phoenix Theater and got distracted—pretty sure that place’s designed to be a ghost magnet—and by the time I get back, I see you whaling on your old man.”
Finney didn’t want to think about that, though he knew he had to eventually. Desperate for another distraction, he asked, “So normally you’re with me?”
“No,” Max admitted miserably. “I told you, Al’s a sneaky bastard. I watch you maybe, like, 20% of the time.” That was even worse than Finney thought. “But it’s harder than it looks! I go in one room and you’re there, but then I turn my head back and when I do I see someone different. And time’s all mushy here so I guess it’s a miracle I can do even that. No idea how Al’s able to track you all the time…”
Finney suspected it had something to do with their link, but wasn’t about to bring that up. “Who else do you see?”
“Who don’t I see? I saw myself as a kid and my uncle, which was weird as fuck. A couple families who I think were renters. This guy named Steve and his hot girlfriend, the Williams family, this girl named Amanda and her sister, this little black-haired kid who threw up on my old bed. Some of the missing boys—-yeah, I know it’s weird—and the cops investigating the house. Aaaand”—his voice adopted a wistful tone, the blobs on the screen shifting in and out of size—“Not to sound like a stalker or anything, but I keep watching Meadow, aka the love of my life, aka the girl Al stole from me.”
Finney frowned. The name Meadow rang a bell, but he was too exhausted to remember why. Before he could ask, Max pressed on. “And…and I also got to see my mom. I don’t remember anything about her so it was nice, but also weird. Not sure if you knew this, but she had these creepy powers like we do. I almost contacted her, but chickened out.” He sighed, then his voice then grew harder. “I also saw Al—the old one, not the ghost. Sometimes he looks normal or sometimes he’s got that freaky mask, and sometimes I see him as a kid before he went batshit. And my dad, too. Him and Al, it’s–” Max stopped abruptly. “Well, shit’s fucked up. That’s all I’m going to say. I keep wondering if there’s something I could have done to make Al not want to touch and kill kids. Then you could be safe. I don’t know...I wish I had more answers.”
“Do you know why he did it?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“Why he, uh, killed kids or—”
“Why me?” Finney’s fingers squeezed the blanket. “Out of all the kids in Galesburg, why did he choose me specifically?”
Max’s answer was predictable. “God, I wish I knew, kid. I didn’t see anything about that. Maybe he just—ughh, I hate saying this, but—maybe he just liked how you looked? Or maybe he thinks you’re kinda like him? He used to like baseball a lot when he was younger, and you’re both quiet and awkward, no offense, and—ohhhh, and you both got a temper. You know, seeing you before reminded me of this one time Al snapped and lost it our our dad and, well, that didn’t end the same way but—”
“Okay,” interrupted Finney, nauseous. He wished he could go back in time and stop himself from asking the question. “Thanks for answering. I’m, uh, feeling a bit tired, so—”
“Wait wait wait,” protested Max. “Before you go, I just wanted to say…I’m sorry, Finney.” Finney looked down at the black lines darting across the screen. “For not being able to help you back then, and for not noticing anything weird. What you went through, it—it’s not right and—ahh, I was such a moron! Two months I was there!”
Finney’s grip tightened around the device as darkness enveloped the screen. “It’s okay. I never bla—”
“No, it’s not okay!” The voice became disjointed, flipping between Max’s regular voice and the robotic droning. “It feels like I’m in this weird nightmare, like everything I knew was fake. Even now it still doesn’t seem real. I mean, he killed me. Me. I thought—well, we’d fight sometimes, but I never thought he’d ever want me dead.”
Though he knew Max wouldn’t want him to feel this way, guilt gnawed at his heart. “H-he felt bad about it, at least…” That’s more than he could say for the other boys.
“That’s no excuse!” Max’s voice stabilized, but broke due to emotion. “Oh man, Finney…God, I just—I’m so sorry. I never thought he’d do those things to kids. I mean, I knew he liked kids, but not, y’know, like like. He had a wife and—and—” Max sniffled and restarted. “I keep wondering how many other kids he’s hurt…killed or worse. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness or anything, but—”
“I forgive you. I never blamed you,” Finney consoled, firm and honest. “Listen, I know he’s a good liar. He can be persuasive and make you doubt everything. That doesn’t mean you’re dumb, it just means he’s smart. You don’t need to be so hard on yourself because you did all you could.”
Max was quiet for a moment. “You’re a good kid, Finney. You should keep what you just said in mind.” The blackness receded, showing the moving blotches again. “Gwen’s heading over here, so I’m gonna give you kids some privacy and look for Al. But before I go…” He sighed again. “I know you’re bummed about everything, but you gotta remember, you’re not alone in this. You’ve got your sis, and at least one ghost who’s ready to help.”
Finney privately suspected Max would be as much of a “help” as he was three years ago, but he did find the thought touching. “Thanks,” he replied, and for the first time since he woke up, he smiled.
The screen of the Time-Out shifted to two dots and an uneven U shape, which might have been an attempt at a crude smiley face. It then flickered off.
Finney swallowed, mentally steeling himself for Gwen’s arrival. After a few moments, he heard a tentative knock. “...Finney?”
Trying to push her wide-eyed terror out of his mind, he took a breath. “Gwen. Are you okay? Can you sit?”
Sometimes in the past, it would hurt so badly they wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for hours, or even a few days. If Terrence was stupid enough to forbid her from getting ice, Finney realized he didn’t have qualms about going back for Round 2.
“Yeah…um, Finney—”
“I can’t believe he did that,” he blabbered. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I guess I thought because he wouldn’t do it to me, he wouldn’t do it to you. But I should have known better. Even when he pretends to be nice, he can’t resist hurting kids. I bet he gets off on it and—”
“Finney, what the fuck?” Gwen cried, aghast. “No. No, he doesn’t. He’s our dad. Good grief.”
Finney closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. Why can’t I be normal?
“And, um, anyway…” An awkward, palpable tension spread across both sides of the door. “He didn’t hit me.” Finney opened his eyes, hands halting their movements. “He said”—she lowered her voice in a crude imitation of Terrence’s—“‘I outta beat your ass for what you did! Any other parent would!’ Stuff like that.”
“I heard hitting,” Finney scowled. “I know what it sounds like. You don’t have to protect him, Gwen.”
“I’m not,” Gwen replied firmly. “He smacked the counter a couple times, like how he sometimes used to do if he wanted to scare us.” Anger boiled at the memories of the intimidation tactic. Like the Grabber’s masks... “M-maybe if it went on for longer, he might have done it to me, too. I don’t know…he was really angry.”
“Oh.” Finney’s eyes drifted towards the Son of Man painting. The more he thought about everything that happened today, the more he wished he could hide his face for eternity, like the man behind the apple. “Well, it doesn’t matter. He still drank.”
“I know.” Gwen sighed, and there was a light thump on the door, signaling how she was leaning against it. “It was scary seeing him like this again, losing control. Yelling and hitting stuff. You never know what’s going to happen.”
Memories of the Grabber’s temper filled Finney’s mind, though he wasn’t sure how much was actual loss of control as opposed to a purposeful choice to indulge in his darker impulses.
“But Finney…” continued Gwen, voice lowering into a whisper Finney needed to strain to hear. “I—I’m used to him flipping out like that. But you…”
“I’d never hurt you, Gwen.” Physically, he mentally added, biting his lip as he recalled her wails a few days ago.
“I know. But seeing it was—-” she sighed. “The way you acted reminded me of him. You just rushed in without waiting for an explanation and—”
“I’m not like him. I was trying to help you!”
“I didn’t need help because he wasn’t hitting me!”
“Well, I didn’t know that.” Finney sat up, fingers clenched. “And he was still acting violent. It could have escalated.”
“I kept telling you to stop, but you wouldn’t listen. That was the scariest part.” Gwen was quiet for a moment while Finney battled several conflicting emotions. “But Finney, he….he had good reason to be angry and—well, I don’t want to say ‘a good reason to fall off the wagon,’ but—”
“So don’t,” replied Finney, voice sharpening. “You don’t need to keep making excuses for him all the time.”
“Finney, just listen,” pleaded Gwen. “Please. He talked to the insurance people on the phone, and they said—they said we’re not getting any money from the fire. And the reason why is because they think we started it on purpose.”
A cold chill swept over him. “How could—why would they think we started it? It’s our house!”
Gwen sniffled. “The fire department found the candles and smoke detectors, and they saw we took the batteries out of every one, which looks like we knew about it ahead of time. And Daddy…” Her voice grew wobbly. “Daddy came home from the bar, and asked me questions about the fire. And I was scared because he was obviously wasted, but he talked normally at first so it didn’t seem that bad. But I obviously couldn’t tell him the truth and—well, I’m not a good liar, so—so he knew I was hiding something and it seemed really suspicious and the more lies I made the angrier he got and then he started yelling and I started crying and that’s when you walked in. But that’s the reason he was so upset, Finney. He thinks we started the fire on purpose, so I wouldn’t blame him if I did get the belt. All of Mom’s things were—”
She snapped her mouth shut, no doubt recalling Finney’s harsh words from earlier. Mom was a subject that needed to be broached eventually, but neither sibling had the stamina to discuss it today.
“Where is he now?” Finney asked hoarsely.
“In his room. He needed to get gauze and ice and stuff and—and it looks really bad, Finney.”
Two warring thoughts battled in Finney’s mind: I’m an awful person and Good, he deserves it.
“Do you think…” she began tentatively, “we should tell Daddy about…everything?” She rushed on before Finney could speak. “I know we said we weren’t going to, but considering everything that’s happened…I don’t know. I think we should. This affects him, too.”
Finney shook his head. “Are you kidding? He wouldn't believe us. And if he did, he wouldn’t be able to see or hear the Grabber so it’d be pointless. And I don’t want to talk about this with him. I don’t want to talk to him about anything again, ever.”
“Alright,” Gwen muttered, but knew enough not to press. She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “Do you want to talk about Mr. Clarkson?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, but he grudgingly realized he owed his sister some explanation. “Basically, the Grabber tricked me. A few days ago he said Donna was in danger and there was an envelope that proved it, and I needed to give it to the media. So I broke into Mr. Clarkson’s apartment and got the envelope, but I didn’t look at it before handing it in. I didn’t mean to out him. And yes, the whole thing sounds stupid because it was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gwen’s voice quavered in disbelief. “This was going on for days? You—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” snapped Finney, cheeks flaming. He grabbed a pillow and buried it over his head. “It was stupid to take his word for it. I know.”
The silence lasted for so long Finney thought Gwen left. “What about the ugly AMC Gremlin in the driveway? Do you want to talk about that?”
Finney blinked before realizing the AMC Gremlin must be the rental car. “I made him mad and he crashed our car.”
“What the fuck?!” she cried. “Did—”
“No one died or was seriously injured.” He didn’t appreciate it enough at the time, but it truly was a miracle given the extent of the crash.
“Finney, this is why we need to tell Daddy.”
His grip on the pillow tightened. “No.”
“But he might be able to—”
“No. He might pretend he’s different, but he’s the same person deep down. Today proves it.” A stab of longing pierced Finney’s heart as he recalled the boy playing catch with his father from earlier, and tears prickled in his eyes. Then he whispered, so softly didn’t think Gwen would hear: “I hate him.”
There was another long silence on the other side of the door. “Okay. It’s your call.” Her voice sounded the same as it did earlier: dull and lethargic. “Night, Finney…”
He wanted to say something else, but didn’t know what. “Goodnight…”
But he didn’t hear her footsteps yet. Instead, Gwen mumbled, “I loved Mom the way she was, and I love you the way you are too, okay?”
He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear that until now. “Thanks, Gwen.”
He waited until he couldn’t hear his sister’s footsteps anymore before resting his head on the pillow. He successfully blinked back the tears, but as the minutes passed after his sister’s departure, the events of the day played in his mind in a loop.
The last time he recalled feeling this lost, overwhelmed, and humiliated was the day he lost his virginity. But at least back then, his violation remained private, only between himself and the Grabber (and possibly the boys, which was a subject he did not like thinking about). But everything today was public. He was exposed and vulnerable much like before, except instead of one man leering at him, it was the whole town.
And who could blame them? From an outside perspective, Finney was either the biggest idiot or the biggest nutcase. Even after his fuckup yesterday, he rushed into situations without thinking it through: once with Angela, and once with Gwen. Did he develop a savior complex as a result of not being able to save Robin? Did he subconsciously want to put himself in risky situations?
A couple weeks ago, he accused Gwen of overcompensating. Maybe I should have looked in a mirror…
Finney began scratching his arm. What was wrong with him? Some days he’d feel nothing, while other days elicited overload of every emotion imaginable. It reminded him of a Taylor Mullen story he wrote last year, where Taylor was dragged into a portal to Hell and had to escape. But before he did, Satan cursed him so when he returned to Earth, all his emotions went haywire. Sometimes he’d get angry or sad for no reason, or experience that same detachment Finney was feeling now. It made it almost impossible to do daily tasks like go to school until Taylor’s father created a special potion that broke his curse. Finney, unfortunately, would not be so lucky.
He closed his eyes and turned over to his side. It was only for two months. That’s all. I shouldn’t still have problems because of it.
Thinking of the basement made him feel a pang of…something, and a wave of guilt washed over him. Maybe he shouldn’t have attacked his father like that. What Terrence said to Gwen was right—if any other parent thought their child burned the house down, they’d get their ass beat for sure. Gwen didn’t deserve it, though. It wasn’t her fault it happened.
It was his.
He deserved to be punished. For attacking his father, for being disrespectful in the car, for being an idiot in general. He didn’t want to get hit, but sometimes that’s what he needed. That was one difference between Terrence and Al. In the past few years Terrence would tiptoe around Finney’s feelings and allow him to be an ungrateful brat, but Al would always give him what he needed, even if it wasn’t always what he wanted. And at least Al would cradle him and kiss his forehead afterwards and say he wished he didn’t have to do that, compared to Terrence, who never cared how Finney felt and probably enjoyed venting his frustrations. Though instead of not wanting it, maybe he should, since he deserved it and—
Finney's eyes shot open. His heart pounded and his breathing grew quicker as he gazed into the dark abyss in front of him.
Holy shit. The Grabber does not fucking care. The only thing he cares about is himself and his dick.
The previous train of thought whistling through his mind was perhaps the most frightening moment of the day, even more so than the car crash. Logically, he knew he knew any declarations of “love” were bullshit, so what the fuck was that?
Finney gritted his teeth. He wasn’t thinking straight. The events of the day did a number on him and his mind was fried. That’s it. Everything was back to normal now.
He tried to steady his breathing. The Grabber wanted—needed—him to fall into that helpless, hopeless, self-hating mindset. The ghost’s plan couldn’t work without it.
But Finney wasn’t going to give in. He couldn’t give in. He came so far within the past three years.
No I didn’t.
Finney took another deep breath and ran his fingers across his hairline. Yes, he did come far. He wasn’t the same thirteen year old child, quivering whenever the lights unexpectedly turned on. He started wearing short-sleeves and could take baths without imagining phantom touches. He made progress.
I’m not a kid anymore. I’m almost an adult. I deserve to be treated better.
He repeated those words in his head over and over like a mantra until he drifted to sleep. By the time he did, he almost believed them.
Chapter 20: I'm Not Fine
Notes:
"Sim sala bim" was a catchphrase of Dante the Magician, who was one of Howard Thurston's apprentices. It doesn't actually mean anything, but he claimed it meant "a thousand thanks."
Chapter Text
Drip, drip, drip….
Finney curled into himself as rain pitter-pattered against the window. Usually imaging the cool wetness on his skin would grant an imaginary reprieve from the cement walls of the basement, but not today. Another loud rumble in his stomach caused the boy to bite his lip and shift to his side, hoping the change in position might placate his hunger pains.
Finney made the mistake of provoking the Grabber’s ire, and as a result, hadn’t eaten for three days. Or at least, he thought it was three days. Time was meaningless down here.
As he curled up tighter, his breathing grew more shallow, and Finney forced himself to exhale slowly. He stroked his sleeve like one would a cat and continued to do so long after his mind stopped racing. In addition to calming him down, the motions also provided a small degree of necessary warmth. When the Grabber threw his hissy fit, he took the blanket and all other valuables Finney earned with him, and it was fucking cold.
How many days had it been since he was taken? It was cold enough to be December by this point. Did he miss Christmas? That horrifying possibility opened a fresh wound in his heart. Every time he thought himself numb, something new would happen to make him feel again. Finney wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
A faint buzzing caused him to sit upright. Sure enough, the tiny fly whizzed by Finney’s head, oblivious to the attachment the pale-faced boy felt towards it. “Hey, Buzz.”
Buzz the fly—whom Finney named after the sound it made and Buzz Aldrin, as well as a fuck-you to one of Finney’s schoolyard bullies—was the other inhabitant of the basement for the past three days. It zipped in stealthily during the Grabber’s last visit, and alternated between crawling on walls and flying in random circular motions, lost and confused as Finney was.
From what Finney could remember reading, flies only lasted two or three days without food, so Buzz’s life was likely coming to an end. Another pang of sadness pinched Finney’s heart. Unlike Finney, Buzz hadn’t given up hope and continued his valiant quest for an exit.
Finney gritted his teeth while his eyes followed Buzz bouncing against the rainy window. No, he did have hope. Bruce and Billy. Sure, it’s been a while since they called, but that didn’t mean they’d forgotten about him. He had no idea how the ghost world worked, but he doubted they could contact him all the time. Maybe there was a reason why they couldn’t talk to him now, maybe the same reason Robin wasn’t—
Nope, not thinking about that now.
Finney shut his eyes tightly in an attempt to push away questions of why certain victims chose to stay silent. Instead, he tried to remember where he last left off in Taylor Mullen’s adventures. Taylor was spelunking in a cave and ended up trapped in a vast, uncharted underground cave system. Now he had to either find an exit or dig his way out, but he kept glimpsing a growling, mysterious shadowy figure out of the corner of his eyes which followed him from the depths of the caves, hastening the need to escape.
But was it really a monster, or simply a figment of Taylor’s imagination? Finney hadn’t decided that particular plot point yet.
He took a breath, and began to weave the tale together in his mind.
“Oh jeez, maybe this is all in my head,” muttered Taylor. He shivered as he looked at the spot his flashlight pointed to. There was nothing there but he felt something, so what could it be? Was it a monster….or a ghost….or nothing??? Once he turned around, he heard heavy breathing and felt a gross touch on the back of his neck, and then his heart started beating super-fast like a jackhammer.
Finney frowned. No, that didn’t sound right. Taylor doesn’t get this scared. He needed to try again.
“Haha! You ACTUALLY thought I was afraid of you?” laughed Taylor. He held his flashlight like a lightsaber, causing the shadow to cower back into the darkness. “It’s called acting! The map my mom gave me said the water from the last cavern grants intangibility powers. You can’t touch me, monster!”
No, that was too corny. He wasn’t nine anymore. He needed to find a way to make the threat seem real without Taylor seeming like a wuss.
Taylor stopped once he heard the scary breathing behind him. Was he going crazy, or was there really a shadow-monster stalking him? He looked down at the compass President Ford gave him when he became Vice-Vice President. The President said the compass could always point him to his family, but now it was going haywire in different directions. Did that mean his parents and sister were separated? Or maybe Wendy finally joined the Justice Revengers and brought Mom and Dad on a trip to a parallel universe that overlapped with this one, causing the compass to malfunction.
“Oh man, I hope not. That would suck if they went without me,” thought Taylor. He sighed and said out loud, “Mom, Dad, Wendy…I wish you guys were here with me now. I could sure use your help. Junior FBI training did not prepare me for this.”
Then, the shadow finally spoke. Its voice kept switching between high and low when it hissed, “Your parents can’t help you, little boy.”
Taylor wanted to look back, but something deep in his soul told him he couldn’t. “Yes they can.”
“No they can’t. They left you down here with me. But that’s okay. I’ll take good care of you.”
Finney opened his eyes; maybe thinking about Taylor right now wasn’t a good idea.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the rocketship flashlight, batting the urge to stab it into his neck flick it on. The last thing he needed was to use up the battery.
Instead, Finney’s thumb pressed against the grooves and edges, trying to find comfort. He enjoyed remembering how he fought back with it the first time the Grabber locked him in a chokehold. Why couldn’t he be that courageous now?
What happened to him?
Unable to contain his frustration Finney forcefully pressed his thumb against the sharp edge, letting out a low hiss of pain. His grip immediately loosened and the pen clattered to the floor.
I shouldn’t have done that, Finney thought dully, pocketing the pen as a red dot blossomed on his pale skin. Now he’s going to take it away.
Maybe. Then again, he hadn’t taken it before, despite having firsthand experience of the pain it could inflict. Finney had a creeping suspicion the Grabber wanted Finney to use it against him and revel in the inevitable punishment Finney would endure afterwards. Finney shivered at the thought, rubbing his sleeves once more.
Buzz zipped by again, buzzing in greeting while Finney’s stomach rumbled.
“Come on, Finney! You gotta be strong!”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a fly.”
Finney slumped down on the mattress. He just talked to a bug, a clear sign that isolation was driving him crazy. He needed to get out, or at least needed someone to talk to, even someone as crazy as him.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Finney, clutching his stomach. He used to dread the Grabber entering the basement, but now learned the possibility of him never returning was worse.
But speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Finney’s heart skipped a beat as the basement lights flickered on, and sat up straight as the door creaked open.
“Are we in a better mood now, kiddo?” the Grabber inquired with a giggle. He sported the grinning bottom piece and left the top part of the mask upstairs, which meant he wasn’t angry. An even better sign was the tray of food he carried, which included Finney’s favorite drink: grape soda.
Finney hated how happy he was to see him. “Y-yes,”he answered, eyes locking onto the drink. He mentioned he liked grape soda a while ago, but never thought there was a chance in hell the man would actually get it for him.
“I’m glad.” The Grabber placed the tray on the ground near the entrance, the same spot he placed it on the first day he left the door unlocked. Why wasn’t he coming to the mattress? “I don’t like it when you get fresh like that.”
That had to be a lie, considering the glee in the Grabber’s eyes whenever Finney received his punishment. Nevertheless, Finney winced. Normally he could keep it together fairly well, but for some reason everything came to a head the last time they were intimate. A tidal wave of emotions crashed into him and he felt as though he was drowning in anxiety and panic. He fidgeted and cried and squirmed, trying futilely to pull away from the weight against him. But what really set the Grabber off was when Finney cried and yelled for him to stop. No one was supposed to tell him to stop. Ever.
And he didn’t. He got angry and rougher and made everything hurt worse, the worst it's been in a long time. He then yelled at Finney and grabbed all the valuables before stalking towards the door and slamming it shut.
“Sorry,” murmured Finney.
“I forgive you,” the Grabber sighed theatrically. “How am I supposed to stay mad when you’re so damn cute?”
Then, he turned around and strolled towards the door, causing Finney’s fingers to curl expectedly. “W-wait!”
The Grabber’s hand lingered on the handle. “Yes?”
There was a slight, taunting undercurrent in the Grabber’s voice, and a spike of hate rushed through Finney. Still, he could help but ask, “Are you…leaving?”
“Why?” The Grabber tilted his head and asked the question he did so many times before. “Do you want me to go or stay?”
Finney wasn’t sure. But he knew he didn’t want to be alone anymore, with only a fly for company. So he bit his lip and, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.
The triumph in the Grabber’s eyes was unmistakable. “Then say it.”
No matter what he said, he would regret it. “Stay,” he mumbled, hating himself.
Despite the mask, Finney could tell the Grabber was beaming underneath. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said lightly, picking up the tray and moving towards Finney. “I know you’re shy, but it’s important to be open with each other.”
Already, Finney was starting to regret it.
The tray had no utensils; it never did. At first Finney found eating with his hands demeaning, but that was another thing he got used to. The Grabber seemed to enjoy watching him eat, perhaps getting some gratification from Finney’s degradation. Was it good or bad that Finney stopped caring?
The scent of eggs summoned Buzz, who landed on the rim of the plate. Finney continued to eat unbothered, but the Grabber shooed the fly away with his hands.
“Guess I have to be more careful opening that door,” the Grabber chuckled.
“It’s fine,” murmured Finney, savoring every sip. It was pure bliss; he wanted it again but knew it wouldn’t happen without some buttering up. “Thanks for the soda.”
“Mhmm.”
For the next couple minutes, Finney ate in silence, trying to ignore his captor’s lascivious gaze. He tried to keep a neutral expression when Buzz landed on the floor and the Grabber smashed the insect underneath his boot. When he raised his left hand to wipe his chin and the Grabber’s hand wrapped around his, the expression remained.
“Poor little thing,” the Grabber cooed, tracing his fingers over Finney’s wound. It wasn’t deep or big, but still noticeable. “What happened?”
Finney didn’t want to tell the truth and have his pen taken away, but the Grabber always seemed to know when he was lying. “My pen, i-it poked me…”
That was the truth, kinda. Finney wasn’t sure if the Grabber bought it fully, but the man’s eyes glimmered with amusement as he ruffled Finney’s hair. “Clumsy~”
Finney wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead took another nibble of eggs and repeated, “Sorry.”
“You don’t want that cut to be infected, do you?” the Grabber chided. “It needs to be washed.”
Was this some kind of test? When the Grabber stormed away, he took the soap and the bowl of dirty water Finney had been using as a sink. “I don’t have any soap.”
Once he said it, he realized with dread that this might be a way to segway into a bath. Fuck.
But instead, the Grabber shrugged and said, “I’ll bring you some, later. In the meantime, I’ve got a fun idea that’ll take your mind off of it.”
The eggs in his stomach churned in revulsion. This is my fault. I asked him to stay. “It doesn’t hurt…” he murmured truthfully.
The Grabber pretended not to hear him. "How’d you like to see another magic trick, hmm?”
Finney nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. Some days Finney got lucky and their interactions remained platonic. He hoped today would be one of those days.
The Grabber clasped his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Peachy! Now, the first step is to put your hands together, just like this.”
His captor pressed his palms together; a devil mimicking prayer. Finney followed suit, trying not to tense as the Grabber’s calloused hands enveloped his smaller ones. “Next, you need to push your hands out as hard as you can.”
Finney tried, but the Grabber’s hands kept him trapped despite his struggle. Typical. The Grabber winked, as if sensing Finney’s train of thought. “And finally, I need to chant the magic words. When I say stop, you’ll feel the bubble I conjured.”
“Okay,” muttered Finney, pushing with all his might to no avail.
For about a minute, Finney continued to struggle against the Grabber’s strength while the magician chanted “Sim sala bim” over and over. Just when he was about to stop, the Grabber immediately removed his hands. Finney was taken aback by the sudden change, but a second later he became distracted by a new sensation in his hands.
“Holy shit,” blurted Finney. It really did feel like he was somehow holding a bubble.
He looked up at the Grabber, who regarded Finney with a mix of affection and sadness. Finney’s face felt a bit strange, and he realized he was smiling. He hadn’t done that in a long time, and the realization that it was even happening now horrified him on some level. But that didn’t stop him from asking about it. “This is a psychological illusion, right? Or something with the muscles? Or–”
“It’s magic,” the Grabber said proudly, with a flourish of his hands. “One of the first tricks I ever learned, in fact. And no, I won’t tell you how I did it. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
Finney fluctuated between curiosity of the man’s past and fear of knowing it. In hopes of keeping today’s interactions platonic, he questioned, “Did you always want to be a magician?”
“No. When I was your age—hmm, or maybe a bit younger—I wanted to be a pilot.” The thought was bizarre and ridiculous, but the Grabber’s next line sobered him. “What about you? What did you want to be?”
‘Did.’ Past tense. Finney had no future, not outside of these walls. His eyes began to mist. “A-astronaut…”
“Ohhh, you sweet little thing, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” the Grabber soothed, stroking Finney's arm. The boy couldn’t help it; tears leaked out of his eyes and trickled down his cheeks like raindrops down a window. “There, there. No need for tears.”
The Grabber’s arms wrapped around him like a python enveloping its prey, pulling the boy closer to his chest. He rested his chin above Finney’s head, the cool gray of the marble pressing against the boy’s scalp. This position gave him no comfort—the opposite, in fact—but he slumped against the Grabber anyway as the man traced circles on his back. His ear was pressed up against the Grabber’s chest, and he heard a soft thumping.
The only proof he has a heart…
Finney gazed numbly at the rainy window while those rough hands gently wiped his tears. Being held like this reminded him of Mom, or even how Dad used to, long ago. He closed his eyes and pretended his father was hugging him instead of the Grabber, an illusion quickly dispelled once the Grabber’s hand crept underneath Finney’s shirt.
“What are you thinking about now?” the Grabber murmured, running his fingernails up and down Finney’s spine.
Finney suppressed a shiver and glanced at Buzz’s smeared remains. Being honest could easily backfire, but so could lying. “You’ll get mad.”
“No I won’t.” The Grabber held two fingers up with his free hand, much like how he did during Finney’s first day in the basement. “Scout’s honor.”
The man’s words meant nothing, but refusing to play along wouldn’t end well. “...My dad,” Finney muttered, embarrassed. Terrence would be disgusted if he could see him right now, laying against his captor’s chest instead of punching and kicking.
“Oh Finney, you don’t have to worry about him.” The hand that wasn’t rubbing against his back started caressing his hair. “I feel kinda bad telling you this, but I haven’t seen him put up a single poster for you. Billy and Brucey’s dads I saw, but yours…I haven’t seen him anywhere, which says a lot.”
That’s what he figured, but it still stung. Unconsciously, Finney leaned deeper into the touch.
“He doesn’t care about you. Not like me,” the Grabber proclaimed, exhaling while nuzzling Finney’s neck. "But that’s okay. I’ll give you all the love and attention he should have.”
Nausea stirred within Finney, and he shifted position in a futile attempt to loosen himself somewhat from his captor’s embrace. The Grabber said something similar in the hallways after Mr. Clarkson told the class about the ghost in the machine concept, grossing out Finney. He forgot the Grabber said something similar back when he was in the basement and—
Wait, what?
Finney blinked. Who was Mr. Clarkson? What’s this about hallways?
He turned his head in the direction of the door, but the Grabber’s fingers tightened around the bottom of his chin. The Grabber yanked Finney’s head back towards the man with the twisted grin, whose eyes suddenly grew cool. “Wouldn’t it be better to stay here where you’re taken care of?”
When Finney didn’t respond, the Grabber’s fingernails dug deeper into his chin, causing Finney to wince. “Y-yes.”
The Grabber’s posture relaxed. “Good.” He released Finney’s chin—the boy fighting off the urge to rub it—and his voice grew lighter when he added, “Y’know, pumpkin, we’ve got a special bond. I was your first, and when someone loses their virginity for the first time, they’ll always be connected to the person who took it. It’s biology or spiritual or something—I don’t know—but no matter what happens, you never forget them. ”
Was that why the Grabber went after kids? To guarantee he could be his victims’ ‘first’? Desperate to veer into a different topic, he broached something else he was curious about, but never worked up the courage to ask. “Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
You know what. “Pumpkin.”
The Grabber counted the reasons with his fingers. “Your hair color, I was in the holiday spirit, but most of all, it’s because you’re sooooo delicious,” he purred, winking playfully.
The disgust at the Grabber’s words was overpowered by the stab of longing for his family; did he really miss Thanksgiving? “Oh.”
The skin around the Grabber’s eye crinkled, and he tapped Finney’s nose. “Now, enough chit-chat. Take off your shirt and lie down on your back—I’m going to make you feel nice.”
A cold, familiar dread washed over Finney, but he did as the Grabber asked, sending a silent prayer he knew would go unanswered. The chilly basement air and knowledge of what’s to come caused goosebumps to erupt over Finney’s skin. While the man’s greedy hands roved eagerly across his upper body, Finney craned his neck to stare at the window drenched in rain, like he always did when he was on his back. Anything to avoid looking at the man on top of him.
I’m not here. This isn’t happening to me. I’m somewhere else.
The Grabber let out a pleasurable moan which caused Finney's face to blush, interrupting the fantasy. “I missed this…”
Why did I ask him to stay? Finney thought bitterly, shifting uncomfortably as the Grabber unbuttoned his jeans and fondled the area below his waist. Was he really that lonely? Were ghosts watching him now? What would they think of him?
Through the rain, Finney spotted a small, brown and red blurred figure perched outside the glass. A robin.
Robin…what would Robin say to him now? He told Finney he’d been with him this whole time. Did that include moments like this?
Unwanted warmth and tension started to build throughout his body, and Finney closed his eyes as the Grabber continued to prove the aptness of his name. Then, they immediately shot open, heart hammering. The Grabber’s hands pinned his wrists down, preventing him from squirming away.
“Wait,” protested Finney, eyes darting around the room rapidly. It looked and smelled exactly like the basement, and there was no doubt this was the Grabber’s touch. What he thought a second ago couldn’t be true. Still…“T-this isn’t—something’s wrong.”
The Grabber’s eyes hardened. “Nothing’s wrong. The only thing wrong is you acting like a naughty boy. If you hate me so much, maybe I’ll leave you alone for a week and see how you like that.”
“No!” Finney hated how the word came out as a plea. “I’m sorry.”
“Show me.” One hand let go of Finney’s wrist and caressed his cheek. “Close your eyes. And do not open them until I tell you.”
Finney obeyed, the growl in the Grabber’s last sentence leaving no room for dispute. A second later, Finney heard a clinking sound, and a wet, warm something pressing against his lips. Finney opened his mouth, startled, and it pushed inward. Finney’s fingers curled against the mattress; in the past he tried pretending Donna was kissing him instead, but it never worked. The Grabber's tongue was too forceful and rough, whereas Donna’s kiss was sweet and gentle.
Finney realized two things at that moment. The first was that the Grabber must be without his mask. Although he saw what the Graber looked like without the top and bottom parts and could piece together a rough estimate of his face, the curiosity and urge to open his eyes was overpowering.
The second was that he somehow had memories of kissing Donna Anderson.
What the fuck?
“Do not open your eyes,” the Grabber hissed, hand wrapping against Finney’s neck in warning, breathing softly against his ear. “You want to be a good boy, don’t you?”
“I don’t get what’s happening,” whispered Finney, eyes glued shut. “E-everything’s all mixed up, and I–I—”
One of the Grabber’s hands suddenly pressed over Finney’s eyes, the other delivering a sharp slap that echoed throughout the basement. Pain erupted in his cheek; the ring likely left a small cut, as it usually did regardless of which part of his body the hand slapped.
“Now look what you made me do,” the Grabber sighed unhappily.
“I’m sorry…” mumbled Finney. Why did he ever think he was strong enough to leave the basement?
“You had some silly dreams and now you’re confused, that’s all,” the Grabber soothed, leaning down to stroke the neck he choked a few seconds ago. “On the count of three, your eyes need to be closed again. One…two….three.”
The Grabber’s palm lifted, but it didn’t make a difference; Finney’s eyes remained shut the whole time.
The Grabber laced his fingers into Finney’s as he kissed him on the mouth again, then trailed down to the collarbone, then chest, then stomach, down, down, until he reached—
Finney and the Grabber both let out a small gasp, albeit for different reasons. He heard a faint tapping—no, a pecking—from the window, which pierced through the cloudy haze of Finney’s mind and gave him the courage he needed, the courage Robin gave him three years ago.
“They’re not dreams!” insisted Finney with rising panic as the Grabber’s hands slipped under the waistband of his underwear. “I don’t think—no. No, they can’t be. Y-you’re doing something, somehow, and—”
“I’m not doing anything you don’t like.” The Grabber’s voice was superficially confident, but Finney knew him well enough to identify the subtle plea beneath it. “Don’t ruin this, Finney. Don’t open your eyes.”
Finney hesitated. Then, he did what Robin would do and took the plunge. He opened his eyes and stared at the door in front of him. The basement door.
Finney blinked, not registering what he was seeing. Then, a hundred thoughts barraged him all at once, and a tightness constricting his throat.
He was standing in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, looking at that stupid fucking door. Did he sleepwalk? He must have, but he’s never done it before, so why—
The lights, Finney thought with dawning, horrified realization. He fell asleep with the lights off for the first time. And, then, and then—
Finney’s breather grew rapid and shallow, and his vision started to spin. He raised his hand to his cheek and felt the small indentation of a cut.
Nonononono
Finney wanted to run, but his legs couldn’t move. It couldn’t just be a dream; it was too real. It was real. Somehow, his past became his present.
During his flashbacks, Finney relived experiences to a certain extent, but never like this. This mirrored a specific moment exactly: his thought process, the words he and the Grabber said, the actions they did. The only difference was that Finney’s thoughts would occasionally drift off-script to things he wouldn’t have known about at thirteen, leading to a crescendo of full awareness.
Another difference was that three years ago, events in the memory didn’t end where they did in the dream.
Finney dug into his scalp with trembling hands and pulled at his hair, eyes growing blurry with tears.
He’d been molested, again.
And why the hell was he in the kitchen?
Beads of sweat dripped down his neck, nausea churning in his stomach. Part of him wanted to grab the Time-Out to demand to know what happened and yell at the Grabber in a way he never could three years ago. But Finney was too disoriented and—more importantly—too afraid. Much too afraid.
I’m sixteen, not thirteen. I’m upstairs, not downstairs. I’m free, not imprisoned.
No, no he wasn’t. He'd never be free.
“Finney? You alright?”
Finney jumped and spun around. Terrence stood in the entrance of the kitchen, face and arms littered with small cuts, bruises, and bandages.
‘I’m fine’ almost came out of his mouth automatically, but something stopped him. Despite the physical weakness of his father’s current condition, the child-part of him still viewed Terrence as the strong presence who would check underneath his bed for monsters.
“N-no.”
If the words surprised Finney, what he did next surprised him even more. His arms raised and hands splayed outward—lost, yearning, and unsure. Terrence’s brows knitted at first, then understanding dawned in his eyes.
Finney hadn’t initiated a hug in six years. The last time he did, the shame and pain of rejection lasted long after the physical pain faded. It also reminded him of his own inadequacies and the event that led up to it: How he sobbed at father’s yells, and how Terrence yelled at him to stop crying, which made him cry even harder. It was the first time he ever felt unloved.
Christ, I was such a wuss back then Still am, I guess…
The latter thought caused Finney’s face to flush and arms to lower, but his father rushed toward him faster than he thought possible, pulling Finney into an embrace with a tenderness Finney didn’t think Terrence capable of.
In an attempt to prevent another flashback, Finney focused on sights, smells, and sounds of the room around him: The freezer magnets shaped like different fruits, the faint, dissipating smell of quiche Gwen had for dinner, the slow ticking of the clock and humming of the refrigerator. The only downside was concentrating on those details prevented him from focusing on the novelty of being hugged by his father.
Still, it felt nice. At one point Terrence’s hand hovered as if to push away Finney’s hair, but thought better of it.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” murmured Finney, poking his head upward and wincing at the scrapes on Terrence’s chin. “I didn’t mean to do all that before.”
Terrence made a noise that could have been a sigh or a chuckle. “Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.”
Finney didn’t know what else to say, so he kept quiet. Eventually, his senses started coming together and the emotional fragility from the dream-memory wasn’t as fresh as it was a minute ago. Embarrassed at his weakness, Finney broke the hug.
Disappointment flickered in Terrence’s eyes before he cleared his throat. “Let’s go to the living room and talk.”
This impending conversation seemed almost as intimidating as his encounter with the Grabber. Finney reluctantly trailed behind his father and sank down into one of the plush chairs, cautious, as Terrence did the same.
There was a tense moment of silence before Terrence spoke. “I’m sorry, too, Finney. I should never have gone to the bar. It was a stupid decision.”
Finney tentatively glanced up from the frayed fiber of the pillow he was fidgeting with. Terrence looked sober, but Finney’s eyes fell all the same. “It’s fine…” he mumbled.
“No it’s not. I went back on my promise and scared you kids, and—” Terrence cupped his forehead in his hands and took a deep breath. “Listen, Finney. I haven’t told you and your sister this nearly enough times, but…I love you.“ Finney’s head jolted upward, startled. “I’m so sorry it’s gotten to the point where hearing me say this is a surprise. And I’m also sorry if anything I did or said made you think otherwise. I know I can’t erase the things I did, but I want you to know that.”
Though there was no way for Terrence to know this, the words reminded Finney of something Grabber said when he pretended to be Donna on the phone. It brought forth a fresh wave of volatile, contradictory emotions, and Finney mentally curled up into a ball like a hedgehog unable to control its spikes. “He told me he loved me more times than you did.”
Terrence slumped down in the chair, looking much older than he was. “That wasn’t love, son."
“…Yeah. I know,” Finney agreed, eyes prickling with tears.
It was obsession. A dark, unholy red string coiling around and connecting the two of them. An obsession that had to be mutual on some level, as much as he loathed to admit it.
“Dad, remember what I said before, about not thinking about him all the time?” Terrence nodded cautiously. “Well, that’s not true. I do think about him a lot, and—and the stuff he did—and I don't know why. It makes me sick every time, but I can’t stop. It’s like he—“ Finney couldn’t bring himself to finish; he was about to say “owns me or something” but verbalizing that thought terrified him.
He glanced upward but didn’t see the disgust or shock he expected; just a neutral, weary expression. Clearly, Terrence didn’t view this confession as the big bombshell Finney thought it was. “You’ve been through a lot, Finney. This isn’t something that’s going to go away quickly. It’ll take some time, but me and Gwen are here and—”
“But what if it doesn’t go away?” A tear trickled down his cheek, voice cracking. “He said—he said because he was”—Finney’s face heated underneath the tears—”my first person who—you know—he said…he said we’re going to be connected forever. A-and I think that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.”
Terrence ran a hand through his brown hair, eyes shining with sympathy. “Finney, you’re not going to be ‘connected forever.’ I mean, Christ, I don’t even remember who the hell I lost mine to. Betty or Doris from math class, maybe. None of them ever held a candle to your mom, and I haven’t thought of them in years.”
“But that’s different!” protested Finney, fingers flexing inward. “You weren’t like—you weren’t like the woman. That changes it, I think.”
It was a poor and ungraceful comparison, but Finney didn’t know how else to phrase it. Terrence, unperturbed, leaned forward in his seat. “I wasn’t your mother’s first either. Look, Finney, I know you've got a lot of…mixed-up feelings running through your head, but that bullshit about some special connection is just that: bullshit. He said that to get under your skin and fuck with your head. If you think you’ve got some…connection, it’s for a bunch of different reasons, I’m guessing. But it’s nothing that can’t be broken.”
A silence descended in the living room. Finney wanted to believe his father, but it was hard. He stared numbly at the rug, emotions draining and leaving behind an empty shell.
“I don't think any less of you for what happened,” Terrence said gently. “Sometimes I think you think I do, but I don’t.”
“Well, I think less of me,” Finney replied in a broken whisper.
Terrence’s eyes flashed. “You shouldn’t.”
“I can’t help it. I did—Dad, I did really bad and embarrassing stuff…” He swallowed at the neverending well of memories. Then, a sudden realization hit him. “But what I said earlier, about killing myself…when I told you I didn’t want to, that was true. I could never leave you and Gwen, especially after what Mom did to us.”
Terrence shifted in position; Finney could tell Terrence wanted to press on the topic of Susannah and Finney’s spiteful words about her earlier that night, but had enough awareness to know this wasn’t the time.
“...Okay.” Terrence replied. There was another tense, awkward period of silence before Terrence breached the topic he was dreading, “Finney, we need to talk about what happened on the day of the fire. You can tell me the truth.”
Finney bit the inside of his cheek. He opened his mouth, but the lie he had on the tip of his tongue dissipated. “You’ll get mad.”
If part of the Grabber’s plan was to drive him towards isolation, digging himself into a hole of lies played right into that monster’s hands. He needed to behave unpredictably and keep the Grabber guessing.
And also, on a more emotional level, he needed his father to tell him everything was okay.
“No I won’t,” Terrence said, though his rigid posture betrayed a tension in his body. “I’m not like how I was earlier. I’m thinking straight again.”
Was he really going to do this? There were so many ways this could go wrong.
Finney hesitated, but before he could mentally talk himself out of it, he took the plunge.
“...The Grabber. It—it’s because of him. He’s haunting me, and I told Gwen it was a stupid idea, but we tried to do an exorcism to make him go away,” Finney murmured. No one was more surprised than he was when he said it, especially after adamantly insisting against the idea before. “He kept making the smoke detectors go off so we removed the batteries, but then he knocked the candles over and—and he’s the reason we kept having those hotel problems, and he told me to go to Mr. Clarkson’s apartment, and why we got into the crash. So, um, yeah…that’s why I’ve been a little on edge…sorry.”
There was a moment of thick, heavy silence. Just as the “what the fuck did I do?” realization began to creep in, Terrence stood up. Although Finney was disappointed, he wasn’t surprised when his father left the living room and made his way to the bedroom hallway.
He was surprised, however, when Terrence paused, then turned back and returned to his spot in the chair, face pale but expression indecipherable.
“...You believe me?” Finney asked quietly, hope and fear mingling into one.
“I believe,” Terrence began carefully, “you believe you’re being haunted.”
“Oh.”
Finney’s hope dimmed, though he had to admit that from an objective standpoint, it seemed as though he was undergoing some kind of mental regression as a result of his trauma, and was now attributing every misfortune and uncomfortable feeling to this imaginary ‘friend.’
“You don’t want to go to school tomorrow, right?” Finney shook his head. “Then we’ll head to St. Luke’s and talk to Father O’Brien about getting a real exorcism done. Then you won’t have to worry about that ghost anymore.”
“Okay…”
While his father didn’t believe him, he was at least willing to placate him in an attempt to ease his nerves.
His feelings regarding the prospect of a real exorcism were mixed. It might be their best shot at success, but Finney was cautious about the idea of getting more individuals involved and suspected the professional exorcism would be just as eventful as the amateur one.
He’s not going to go down quietly, that’s for sure.
Then, a sudden thought sliced through Finney’s mind. “Wait, you have work. Dad, you don’t need to take off just for this.”
Terrence shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not scheduled to work tomorrow,” he said gruffly. “My hours got cut.”
“Oh,” repeated Finney. That was…bad. He tried to think of something encouraging to say, but couldn’t. Not wanting to fuck this up any more, Finney stood and peered in the direction of the bedroom hallway, wondering what to do.
There wasn’t a chance in hell he was sleeping again, not with the lights off.
But if I keep them on, he’s going to say I broke the deal. He’ll get mad and punish me.
Finney bit his lip; not for the first time, he wished the earth would swallow him whole.
“I think being in this house might be causing some of these problems,” Terrence said, trying to sound casual. “Maybe we can try living out of the car for a while.”
The Grabber had a stronger influence in the house, but as Finney knew from personal experience, he was more than capable of causing destruction elsewhere. “It won’t work dad,” Finney whispered. “He follows me wherever I go, and nothing can keep him away.”
“Hmph. Like some fucked up Peggy March song.”
For the first time since he woke up, the corners of Finney’s lips flickered upward. “Yeah, I guess.”
When Finney was younger and upset about something, Terrence would often try to make the subject of Finney’s worry seem lighter and less intimidating, to varying degrees of success. He wasn’t expecting that to happen now.
Of course, Finney’s unease was far from abated, and Terrence could tell. “Finney, you’re a strong kid. I know you think you’re not, but you are.”
He didn’t believe it, but it was a kind gesture all the same. “Thanks, Dad.”
Finney wasn’t sure if his relationship with Terrence could ever go back to the way it was in elementary school. Probably not—they both changed too much, and Finney wasn’t like Gwen. He wasn’t able to ignore the years of fear and hurt Terrence instilled in him.
But even if things weren’t the same, they might be able to make something new, and just as worthwhile.
****
Gwen vibrated with happiness when Finney told her how he told Terrence about the ghost. The knowledge that Terrence didn’t believe it did nothing to dampen her spirits; as far as Gwen was concerned, Terrence’s suggestion to go to the church was a “sign” that her plan to get Father O’Brien involved was the right one. Finney also got the impression there was another reason for her excitement, but couldn’t figure it out.
He didn’t mention his horrific dream—another thing added to the already-ample list of secrets— though the dark circles under his eyes and constant yawning no doubt indicated a poor night’s sleep. Terrence seemed equally exhausted, remaining quiet through breakfast while Gwen maintained a one-sided conversation. If an outsider observed their interactions at breakfast, they never would have known Gwen cried in fear of her father the previous night, something that served as a source of annoyance and envy for Finney.
The Grabber hadn’t contacted him the previous night, and although Finney wanted to chew the ghost out for what he did, reliving the memory was like picking a scab and reopening an old wound. He felt thirteen again. He also suspected the Grabber would play dumb, pretending any memories were wishful thinking on the part of Finney’s subconscious. The darkest part of Finney wondered if it was.
He also wondered if Terrence would back out from his plan to go to St. Luke’s, but to his credit, the eldest Blake seemed willing to follow through. Nerves gnawed at Finney’s brain as they exited the house. Were they really going to do this?
“Morning, Terrence! Great night yesterday, right?” Finney snapped his head in time to see John heading down 7743’s driveway, holding the leash of his yellow labrador in one hand and waving with the other. “Next time we should probably make it a Saturday since—” John stopped after getting a look at Terrence’s face. “Ahhh, I should’ve warned you about Norman. Usually he comes out later. Now, I’m usually very sympathetic to the plight of our veterans, but a man like that should have been picked up for loitering ages ago. Sadly, you’re not the first man who's gotten a knuckle sandwich from him.”
Finney’s eyes didn’t break from the labrador, who was happily wagging its tail. At least it’s not barking.
Terrence strained a smile that came out more like a grimace. “Don’t worry about it. But there’s not going to be a next time, John. Sorry. I’m staying away from alcohol.”
John’s brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to protest, but a second later, his face smoothed into a smile.
“Suit yourself. If you ever change your mind, let me know.” He looked down at the dog. “C’mon, Rover! Let’s go.”
As Finney buckled himself into the car, unease weighed down his heart as he peered through the back window, watching John and Rover start their morning walk. Terrence didn’t have many friends—or any, as far as Finney was aware. And adults usually drank when they got together. Was it unreasonable to expect him to quit drinking?
Gwen scrunched up her nose and interrupted Finney's thoughts. “Rental car smell….yuck!”
Finney shushed her as Terrence piled into the car, dejected.
****
The car ride to the church was largely uneventful, aside from a brief moment when Peggy March’s “I Will Follow Him” came on the radio. Since there was no accompanying static Finney suspected it was a coincidence, but Terrence slammed his palm on the “off” button all the same. For the majority of the ride, Gwen jabbered about how gnarly it would be to see a real exorcism, Finney trying to fight off a mounting dread.
When they drove past the comic shop, Terrence glanced in the rearview mirror and asked his daughter, “Want me to stop here? I’ve got some extra money so you can buy more Wonder Womans and Marvel Girls or whatever.”
Finney looked sharply at Terrence; wondering why he was offering to give “extra money” he didn’t have for something trivial before realizing it was likely residual guilt from yesterday.
Gwen sighed and explained patiently, “Ms. Marvel, not Marvel Girl. Marvel Girl’s a separate character and she’s called Phoenix now, and there’s a long story of how she became called that. It has to do with—”
Finney stopped listening and looked back at the shop with a pang in his heart. It felt like only yesterday he was waiting for Gwen outside, reading My Pal Al and arguing with Matt. So much had changed since then.
Eventually, they drove into the church parking lot. Terrence’s face was ashen and Finney thought he would get cold feet and drive around, but with a deep breath, he opened the car door and the Blakes headed up into the church. One of the placards near the entrance quoted Psalms 56:8-9: “You number my wanderings, put my tears into Your bottle; Are they not in Your book? When I cry out to You, then my enemies will turn back; This I know because God is for me.”
Bet my bottle’s big enough to hold a small lake, Finney thought bitterly as Terrence pushed open the front doors.
The incense, quiet, and stuffiness calmed him slightly, reminding him of memories when Mom was alive and all four Blakes came here as a family. He also recalled Gwen’s assertion that the Grabber wouldn’t be able to follow them into the church. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but hoped it was.
Unfortunately, the sense of calm lasted about three seconds.
“—only a few minutes after mass. Holy Cross agreed. By making this decision, you could be putting children’s lives in danger!” a forceful, female voice echoed throughout the church.
Father O’Brien’s voice was even-tempered but firm when he replied, “I understand your reasoning, but we’re not Holy Cross. Our parishioners have a variety of political beliefs and I don’t feel it’s appropriate to use the church as a—ah, it seems we have guests. I’m sorry, Mrs. Arellano, but I must be going.”
Shiiiiiiit.
The black-haired woman in the skirt and blazer spun around, confirming Finney’s suspicions. When she saw Finney, her lips curled downward into a slight frown before flickering into a smile. “Finney, it’s great to see you again. Hello, Terrence. Gwen.”
“H-hi,” Finney mumbled, redirecting his gaze to the large crucifix hanging from the ceiling. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with Gloria Arellano.
Finney only met Gloria twice. The first was after an interview with the detectives, when he was leaving the police station. He saw a weeping, shrieking woman in the lobby, mascara running down her face and impervious to the consolation and de-escalation techniques of staff. Though Terrence ushered him out quickly, he’ll never forget the words ricocheting through the lobby. “It’s not fair!! Why was my baby killed? How did he survive?”
There was no question who the ‘he’ referred to. The venom dripping from that one small word cut deeper than anything the Grabber said.
The second time occurred a few months later. She showed up at the Blakes’ doorstep with a fruit basket, apologizing profusely for her ‘misdirected anger.’ Although her words sounded kind, her eyes were broken. Afterwards, Terrence had them throw out the fruit, paranoid she put poison or razor blades inside.
That was the last time he saw her in person, but from what Finney heard, Gloria had been busy since then. She abandoned heroin and cocaine in favor of a new addiction: outrage and righteous anger. Joining the Moral Majority, she pushed for causes such as prayer in public school and advocated banning school library books that could “normalize degeneracy.” She was also very outspoken anti-gay activist, so Finney didn’t need to guess the reason she was here.
“You’re a brave person to do what you did, Finney. I was horrified when I listened to Gabby Fernandez at the Board meeting,” she said, eyes shimmering with sympathy Finney didn’t think was fake. “But your quick thinking saved countless others.”
Finney’s face heated up as he became aware of Father O’Brien’s inquisitive gaze resting upon him. “Uh…” He shut his mouth, not knowing what to say.
Luckily, Gwen did. “Mr. Clarkson didn’t hurt any kids,” she interrupted, hands on her hips.
“That we know of. Homosexuals recruit children because they can’t reproduce.” She shook her head, thinning her lips. “They specifically target places that give them easy access. Wouldn’t it be a good idea for schools to implement more thorough background checks for teachers, to get real insight into who America’s children will be exposed to?”
Before Finney could reply, Terrence did. “Don’t see why not.”
Triumph sparked in Gloria’s eyes. “Exactly. I hoped St. Luke’s would allow myself or another Moral Majority member to speak after Communion on Sunday in order to encourage parishioners to write letters to the state legislators demanding change, but unfortunately, Father O’Brien felt it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Yes, though I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors,” Father O’Brien said politely.
Gloria chose to ignore the hint, eyes growing hard. “Father, Jesus was willing to speak up and fight for what’s right instead of worrying about rocking the boat.”
Father O’Brien’s smile didn’t falter, but a chilliness descended upon the church. “I’m well aware of scripture, Mrs. Arellano.”
“Clearly not as much as Holy Cross. See, they’re actually willing to protect the lives of children, which is more than I can say for you.”
Father O’Brien didn’t take the bait. “I will not change my mind, Mrs. Arellano. Good day.”
Gloria’s eyes clouded and Finney thought she would start yelling, but instead turned around and stormed out the doors, closing them with a loud thump.
“Wow,” said Gwen, wide-eyed. “What a bitch.”
“Gwenny,” Terrence scolded gruffly.
Father O’Brien sighed. “Mrs. Arellano’s speaking from a place of grief. It clouds emotions and causes people to speak freely, for better or for worse.” I know what that’s like...”So, on a more cheerful note, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
His eyes scanned Terrence’s bruises and weary eyes, but had too much tact to say anything. Gwen was the first to respond. “It’s about the exorcism. You said we needed an adult’s permission, and now we’ve got one!”
Now that the possibility of having this conversation was a reality, Finney froze like a deer in the headlights. Thankfully, he noticed a miracle that could grant him temporary reprieve. “I’m going outside to give Mrs. Arellano her purse.”
Father O’Brien blinked in surprise, just noticing the shoulder bag resting on the pew. “Finney, I was hoping I could speak to you about—”
“I’ll be back soon,” claimed Finney as he rushed towards the doors, leaving Terrence with the unenviable task of dealing with Gwen’s enthusiasm and discussing exorcism logistics.
He feared Mrs. Arellano would be gone, but she was sitting on the steps, hunched over. When he called out her name, she spun around, mascara staining her face like it did three years ago.
“Finney,” she exclaimed, dusting off her skirt as she stood up hurriedly. “Th-thank you so much for getting my purse. I realized I didn't have it when I went to get my keys, but going in would look—” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I—I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t professional.”
Now that he was face-to-face with Mrs. Arellano, he suddenly realized his decision to go to her instead of talk about the exorcism was perhaps the more daunting of the options. “I think Father O’Brien understands that you, um, were talking from a place of grief. It clouds emotions and stuff.” He paused, then added, “It happens to me too, sometimes. Getting mad easily.”
“Of course.” Her eyes softened as she took the bag from Finney’s hands. “Manuel”—Robin’s uncle—“told me the two of you were friends.”
“Yeah. We were.” It still hurt so much, using past tense.
“Did he ever say anything about me?” she asked hesitantly, clutching the straps of her purse tightly against her shoulder.
Finney thought carefully about how to respond. Robin rarely mentioned his mother, but the few times he did, the bitterness was tangible: When Finney told him how he and Susannah would go stargazing outside and point out constellations, Robin muttered “must’ve been nice” and stayed quiet the rest of the day. When he laughed about how Susannah made a homemade lava lamp with a plastic bottle, vegetable oil, baking soda, and food coloring, Robin chuckled and said the only thing his mother would ever make was crystal meth. Finney quickly got the hint and stopped mentioning mothers around him.
But Finney knew what Robin’s words really meant; he didn’t say them on his lips, but in his heart. “He missed you.”
A tear rolled down Gloria’s chin, and another wave of hate for the Grabber washed over Finney. It wasn’t fair that Robin’s life was cut short and Gloria never had the chance to show her son how much she loved him.
And despite how much Finney disagreed with her crusade against “immorality,” he knew why she fought so strongly, like her son.
“Oh, mijo,” she whispered, wiping another tear. “My sweet baby boy.”
For once, Finney hoped the Grabber was watching now, to see if any drops of guilt could be squeezed out of the man’s cold, dead heart.
Birds chirped and a cool breeze tickled his face. “Robin fought for what he thought was right, like you. And when I was down there, thinking about him made me feel happy. I think…I think if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have had the courage to make it.”
Gloria smiled gently. “He’d be happy to hear that, and glad you survived. My Robin was a loyal friend, just like his papa.” A few children on bicycles cycled past, chatting and laughing. Her smile faded, yearning in her eyes. “I know I'll see Robin again in Heaven, but I’d give anything to turn back the clock and see him now, on Earth.”
“Me too,” Finney said quietly.
He wasn’t lying when he told Gloria Robin gave him strength. Lord knows he could use some of that now.
The church bells clanged, startling them both. They shook Gloria out of her reverie and she straightened up, once again looking like the confident, regal woman inside the church instead of the heartbroken, mourning mother. “It was nice speaking with you, Finney. I wish it was under better circumstances, and I’m sorry that man at your school had to bring forth all those awful memories.”
Finney privately suspected it was Gloria who had ‘awful memories’ dug up. He opened his mouth to defend him, but couldn’t think of a good way to do so without revealing too much. Instead, he merely nodded and muttered, “Goodbye.”
As he watched Mrs. Arellano descend the steps of the church, an aching numbness filled his heart.
Then, a sudden, crazy idea sprang into his mind as if divinely inspired. The gears in his head began to spin.
Gloria didn’t have a way to turn back the clock and see Robin again.
But he did.
Chapter 21: Lengthening Shadows
Notes:
A wet rag is slang for someone who takes the fun out of everything
Chapter Text
“But what if we lose our memories?”
Finney dug into his pocket and yanked out a crumpled piece of paper, waving it in the air. “That’s why we made these. Something on here’s bound to trigger our memories. And besides, we’re not staying long. Once we see Robin, we’re heading back ASAP.”
Finney shoved the paper inside his pocket and continued tossing blankets into the basement alcove while Gwen sat on the plush sofa, biting her lip.
It was an odd feeling, being reckless while Gwen acted as the voice of reason. But if there was anything that warranted being reckless, it was this.
After three years, Finney was going to see Robin again. Or some past version of him, anyway…
“What if we can’t get back?” she asked, tugging the ends of her pigtails forcefully.
“That’s what the yarn’s for,” he said, gesturing to the two red balls sitting in Gwen’s lap. “And you don’t have to come. I told you it’d be better if I go alone.”
Gwen’s eyes flashed. “No way. We’re in this together.”
Finney stifled a sigh, affection and worry tugging at his heart. Risking himself for this crazy plan was one thing, but getting Gwen involved was the only thing giving him pause.
Then again, it’s not like he had a choice. When Finney first came up with the plan, he stealthily grabbed the astral projection books out of her bedroom when she was in the shower, but Max called the house to snitch on him.
Finney knew, objectively, that Gwen’s concerns about Finney going had merit. But he didn’t care. He wanted to see Robin, he was going to see Robin, if that resulted in the Grabber getting his dirty hands on him, then so be it.
And after much arguing, discussing, and tears, the siblings came to a compromise. They would both go to the astral world and Max, supposedly, would be on Grabber-patrol, letting them know through the Time-Out if anything was amiss and following them once they arrived.
“I’m just worried because everything there’s so unpredictable,” grumbled Gwen. “The yarn could turn to, like, silly string or something. And I don’t even know if returning to our bodies would help us get back. I don't even know if going through the painting would work another time. There’s a lot we don’t know and are leaving up to chance.”
“Guess we’ll just have to trust God’s on our side,” Finney said lightly, fluffing one of the pillows. “That’s what you said, right? Trust the signs. And all the signs are pointing to Robin.”
“Finney. Even if He wants us to succeed, that doesn’t mean we’re going to. Bad things happen to good people all the time. We have free will, and that means if we make stupid choices––”
“What about Plan C?” interrupted Finney.
Finney had no idea what Plan C actually was; Gwen claimed it was a “failsafe,” but remained tight-lipped whenever Finney prodded. “It’s still too much of a risk. And besides, this whole thing could set things back with Dad.”
Finney’s lips twisted at the mention of Terrence. Their fight and subsequent heart-to-heart two nights ago felt like something out of a weird fever dream. He knew he needed to think more about it eventually, but today was not that day. “No it won’t. He’s at work and doesn’t know we’re doing this.”
“Exactly. You told him about the ghosts, but you’re not telling him something as big as this.”
“Because he doesn’t need to know. So, are we doing this now, or what?”
Gwen groaned. Finney walked over to the table and skimmed over the dog-eared page (sorry, Donna…) of instructions he poured over the previous night.
“Not. We need to triple-check that Max is waiting for us.”
Finney pulled out the Time-Out. Though he was contacting Max and not the Grabber, using it in the same room as Gwen felt taboo. “Max, are you there?”
The screen remained unresponsive.
Finney tried again, frustration and nerves drumming inside him. “Max?”
“He’s not there,” whispered Gwen, paling. “What if he found the Grabber?”
“We just talked to him five minutes ago,” protested Finney.
“Yeah, but time’s all freaky there. Finney, we have to wait.”
“No,” snapped Finney with more force than was required. “I’m doing this now. You can wait if you want.”
“But Finney!”
He laid down on the sheets and closed his eyes, trying not to feel guilty as she laid down next to him, sniffling.
“We’re going to be fine,” assured Finney after a minute. Whether his words were the result of wishful thinking, mania from a sleepless night, or something else, he wasn’t sure. “In and out, that’s it. It’ll be quick. We don’t need Max for this.”
“But why didn’t he pick up?” she sniffled.
“Maybe he got lost in the house or something. He told me it was easy to do.” Finney moved to his side, shutting his eyes tighter. “We’re fine. Everything’ll be fine. Just remember what the book said.”
There was a very long pause. “...Okay,” she finally mumbled.
And with that, their journey began.
****
It wasn’t hard for Finney to drift into the content, relaxed state necessary for the astral projection to occur. Part of him screamed it shouldn’t be this easy, that his nerves should be buzzing with terror, sleeping here of all places. But it was easy, and what that said about him, Finney wasn’t sure. But nevertheless, Finney’s spirit soon crossed the threshold into the ghostly netherworld.
His first emotion was elation at succeeding in the first step of the plan. The second, which he felt upon looking down at his sleeping visage, couldn’t be identified. His sleeping form looked so innocent, like the Grabber always said he did. As a spirit—a soul, a mind—Finney allowed the sleeping boy to obtain elusive peace while he shouldered the burden of pain and grief.
Before he could forget, Finney took the red thread out of his pocket and wrapped the end around his sleeping-self’s wrist. The plan was to follow the thread back to their bodies, and the fact that he was able to touch his other self without feeling the static Gwen told him about encouraged him.
Gwen hadn’t achieved the meditative state necessary to astral project yet. Her eyes opened every few seconds to look at the sleeping Finney, and she kept fidgeting and shifting position.
Finney thought of communicating through the Time-Out to let Gwen know he got there safely, but when he tried to take a deep breath, something felt…odd.
Right, no breathing. And no sounds beyond people talking, either…
Or, at least, there shouldn’t be sound. That’s what it was like when Gwen traveled here.
So when Finney heard the clashing of a metal can falling over, he froze. Taking a few tentative steps forward (which, like Gwen’s, were strangely silent), Finney peeked past the alcove wall.
A thin, wiry man in a waistcoat with slicked-back hair and glasses counted the number of cans lined on wooden shelves. He muttered to himself, occasionally jotting something on a clipboard or scratching behind his ears with a pen.
A quick glance revealed a startling departure from the basement of Finney’s memories: two makeshift cots rested in the center of the room, with a folding table in between. Another connection of shelves consisted solely of bottled water. Cardboard boxes were stacked nearby a burgundy sofa, which was pushed against the wall with the window. Several rolled-up carpets leaned against the opposite side of the basement, and Finney recognized them as the same carpets from his imprisonment. A small bookshelf stood next to the sofa, overflowing with books. As Finney mustered the courage to walk closer to the mystery man, he read off some of the titles stuffing the shelf: Doctor Faustus, The Catcher in the Rye, Animal Farm, The Fountainhead, Hiroshima, 1984, The Story of Arthur Gordan Pimm of Nantucket, Hamlet, The King in Yellow, The Stranger…
“Good, good…hmmm…” the man muttered, tapping his pen against his chin. He scribbled something down on his clipboard. “Alright. This should be enough to last us two months.”
“I can’t eat canned food for a month,” a young voice whined. Finney spun around. A black-haired boy in a sweater vest sulked on the basement steps, arms crossed. He looked about twelve or thirteen. “And where are we supposed to pee?”
The man gestured to an area of the basement Finney knew well. “I’m going to call the plumber and have him install a toilet over there. We can attach a bar and curtain for privacy.”
The boy groaned and buried his head into his knees. “But I don’t want to live down here, Uncle Eddie.”
Eddie adjusted his glasses and frowned. “I don’t either, but it’s better than dying of radiation. Remember those Hiroshima pictures I showed you? You want that to be you?”
The boy shook his head quickly, but stubbornness did not leave his eyes. “Howie said none of that’s gonna happen. He said the commies won’t be dumb enough to bomb us after seeing what happened to Japan. His dad said so.”
“Pfft.” Eddie rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “‘His dad’ said so…who the hell is ‘his dad,’ huh? Some milkman. I read the papers, and mark my words, Maxie, in a couple years the government’ll be tellin’ every American to do what we’re doing. The Soviets just had their first successful nuclear test. And you know what that means?”
“They got nukes too,” mumbled Max.
“Damn straight. And they’d love to use it against us. So quit your bellyaching and help me lift these carpets to the right. We need this space to stack the dried goods.”
Max trudged over, lower lip wobbling. He picked up the bottom end of one of the carpets and began carrying it with his uncle. “What about Al? What’s going to happen to him if we get nuked?”
Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been warning him for weeks now, but you can’t squeeze blood out of a stone. He’ll have to find out the hard way, I guess.”
Max was quiet for a moment while they placed the carpet against the wall. Then, with sudden, surprising vehemence, he exclaimed, “Good. I hope he dies!”
Eddie’s surprise mirrored Finney’s. “Why’s that, Maxie?”
“Because he’s a jerk and doesn’t care about me.” Max’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes. “That’s why.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and sighed. “Not this shit again…c’mon, Maxie, we’ve been through this…”
Max flopped down on one of the cots and buried his head in the pillow. Eddie glanced longingly at the stairs before putting his hands in his pockets and shuffling closer to his nephew.
“I hate him,” he mumbled. “If he cared about me, he would’ve stayed. Or let me live with him, at least.”
“Max, he’s got his own family now. When you get married, you move out. It's normal.”
“I’m his family!” protested Max, kicking his legs out for emphasis like Finney did in the car. Though Finney suspected that Max, unlike him, didn’t intend to actually kick his uncle.
But he did. And much like Terrence, Eddie’s face flushed and his lips twisted into a snarl. He yanked the clipboard from the table and slammed it hard against his back end, causing a startled cry to escape Max’s lips. He jolted upright into a sitting position, hand moving backward.
On instinct, Finney grabbed Eddie’s forearm to pull him back, only to be met with a static-like shock he belatedly recalled Gwen mentioning.
“Watch it,” Eddie threatened.
“Sorry,” mumbled Max, shrinking down. His eyes darted towards the stairs. "I didn’t mean to kick you.”
The fury dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving vague traces of guilt on Eddie’s face. “Al’s right across the street,” he muttered. “You can visit him whenever you want.”
Max’s lips shifted into a pout. “But he always says, ‘I’m busy, go bother Uncle Eddie.’”
Eddie was quiet for a moment, shoulders slumping. His expression morphed into one of weariness. “Sometimes spending time away from an older brother can be a good thing.”
Max’s gaze flickered towards Eddie, but his uncle didn’t say anymore. Biting his lip, Max’s head turned back towards the shelves of cans. “They took Mom away, and then Dad…y’know…a-all that stuff happened, and I know Al leaving is normal, but I miss him a lot and now it’s like I don't have anyone left.”
Max’s eyes hesitantly drifted back towards his uncle, who suddenly found the shelf of water bottles fascinating. Finney had been in this position many times throughout his life in relation to his own father, and he knew what Max wanted Eddie to say. He wanted his uncle to console him, to tell him, ‘You’re not alone. You’ve got me.’
But instead, all Eddie muttered was, “You can start your own family one day.”
Max’s eyes grew moist. “No one would want me.”
Then, in one swift motion, he pushed himself off the cot and bounded up the stairs. Eddie rested his elbows on his knees and buried his forehead in his hands, taking a few deep breaths. “Goddamnit, Henry…”
When Eddie’s head lifted, Finney was startled to see the man looked almost as wounded as Max did. Eddie dug into his inner waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small bag of white powder, scattering it into a line on the folding table. He dug into his pants pocket and rolled up a dollar bill. He leaned down closer to the powder, brought the bill to his nose, and inhaled.
Despite being a spirit, Finney still–apparently—had the capacity to feel sick. Giving one last look at Gwen (and double-checking to make sure his yarn was securely fastened), he headed up the steps in search of Max, either younger or older. Halfway up the stairs, he paused, sniffing. That smell…is it…?
His hands remained clenched tightly on the ball of string as he creaked the door open.
Finney immediately grew rigid and backed up. He knew his heart would be, should be, hammering now.
In front of him stood the Grabber, stirring scrambled eggs with a spatula. He lowered the frying pan on the stove and retreated to the table, where a plate of half-eaten toast, bacon and a warm mug of coffee waited. He set the timer and munched on the crust of toast while reading a newspaper with the headline: Search for Lawyer's Son Continues.
What struck Finney most wasn’t necessarily the banality of the situation (though it looked so ridiculously mundane, he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time), but rather the Grabber’s face. Though Finney had seen him without the mask or facepaint once before, he didn’t get a good look due to the chaos, and couldn’t bring himself to look at the man’s corpse. And after his rescue, he avoided television programs and newspapers that covered any mention of him.
The Grabber looked like a normal man. Somewhat handsome, Finney supposed, in an older-person kind of way. Gentle. Relaxed. Unassuming.
The only clue to his true nature was the gray, infernal mask hanging on the hook a few feet away.
“Finney, thank God! I was—”
Finney spun around. Gwen stood frozen on the steps behind him, eyes narrowing as she spotted the Grabber. Then, she leapt forward and punched Finney’s tormentor in the face.
Or tried to, anyway. As expected, the jolt of energy pushed her backwards. “I think this is one of those time echoes you were talking about,” Finney said, unhelpfully.
“I know. Still worth it.” Now that she got her frustration out of her system, panic set in on her face once more. “Finney, I was worried the Grabber would get you, and I think that’s why it took forever to get here. Did you see Robin yet?”
“No. But it’s only been five minutes.” Finney eyes the rest of the kitchen. Like the Blakes, the Grabber was apparently a slob. And while it was hard to tell in the basement, being in the kitchen made the dull, washed-out color palette of the netherworld more pronounced. The exception being the color yellow, which seemed as bright as it was in the earthly plane. Brighter, even, if the blinds, eggs, and fruit resting on the counter were any indication.
“No it hasn’t!” Gwen’s hands kneaded her ball of string. “I’ve been trying to get here for hours. Literally, hours. I checked the clock.”
A chill crept its way into Finney’s mind, but he pushed it aside. “Well, time works differently here, so it’s fine.”
“You’re being way too casual about this,” muttered Gwen, eyeing the rest of the room. Finney knew she was right. “At least the clocks look normal, and there’s no freaky ants. Only weird thing is the colors.”
“Why does yellow look normal, but everything else looks weird?” he asked.
Gwen’s eyebrows scrunched. “Yellow doesn’t look normal…” her eyes widened. The timer rang and the Grabber stood up and stretched his arms. “Finney,” she breathed, “are we seeing different things?”
Fuck. The chill shifted into a full-fledged blizzard of worry. “N-no, I don’t think so…”
Gwen put her hands on her hips.
“Okay, so it’s one color.” And the sounds, and smells…. “What’s the big deal?” Finney threw his hands up. The Grabber removed the eggs from the frying pan onto the plate, and searched the cabinets for a familiar tray. “We need to focus on finding Robin.”
“It is a big deal, because it might have some kind of special significance. Did you see Max?”
“I saw him as a kid,” admitted Finney, “but I didn’t see the Max we know.”
She bit her lip. The Grabber yanked the grinning mask from the hook and strapped it on. “We shouldn’t go any further until we find him.”
“All we have to do is keep going up and down the stairs until we see Robin, right? That was the plan. We don’t need Max for this.”
Finney stepped aside as the Grabber descended down the steps with the tray. Finney tried not to think about what would happen to Billy.
“He could be in danger!”
“But he’s a ghost. Nothing bad can actually happen to him.” Once he said it, Finney’s tongue weighed heavy with guilt. What a selfish ass he was being right now, especially after Max tried to help him. There were fates worse than death—Finney had firsthand experience with that.
But what if they wasted precious time looking for Max, and everything really was fine? After all, didn’t he tell Finney how the Grabber kept tricking him? What if the Grabber wanted to use him as a lure? Or what if it was as simple as Max getting distracted or lost in the house on his own?
“I still think we should find him,” Gwen insisted. “Without him, we might get lost or lose our memories or something.”
“That’s what we’ve got the papers for. And if we don't see him before we leave, we can come back again.”
Finney wondered if he’d still feel the same reckless mania then or if he’d be more cautious. Either way, Gwen relented, but not before saying, “Okay. But let’s double-check the papers to be on the safe side.”
Finney dug into his pocket, unfolded the scrap paper, and read:
Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.
Finney blinked.
“Ahem,” Gwen said, waving her paper in front of Finney's face. It listed her name, family members, key memories, and other important things they agreed could help trigger memories. Finney, reluctantly, did the same. Her eyes bulged. “That’s your handwriting! Did you forget to—”
“I didn’t write this!” insisted Finney. “I’m not that stupid. I don’t know how the paper got like this.”
“This place sucks,” declared Gwen. “I bet it’s fucking with you on purpose. But this might be a sign we should go back.”
“No way,” argued Finney. “We’ve still got the yarn.”
“Finney, if we don’t have the papers, and we don’t have Max, then—”
“No.” Finney turned and started descending the stairs before she could protest. “We’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
But when he reached the bottom of the steps, he didn’t feel fine. Not at all.
****
The sight that greeted Finney was equal parts familiar and horrifying. Everything was as he remembered it: The mattress, the rolled-up carpets, the run-down toilet in the corner, the bars on the windows, the lights, the faded tiles. The only thing missing was a boy. And…
“The ceiling’s lower,” muttered Finney. He lifted his hands and jumped, fingers brushing against the cold ceiling.
“Sometimes places look like how they did in real life, other times there’s something…different,” Gwen said, rubbing her arms and glancing around warily. “It’s like this whole world pretends to be normal but can’t. It’s creepy. Let’s go back up.”
Upstairs, the kitchen looked identical to how the Blakes saw it in the morning, but flipped around, as though being viewed through a mirror.
“Yeah,” Finney said, after a short pause. “I get what you mean.”
Downstairs, the room was teeming with law enforcement officials talking, taking pictures, and placing numbered placards in different sections of the basement.
“I’ll be damned. That kid actually knew what she was talking about,” Detective Miller murmured, shaking his head with a half-smile. “You can add ‘judge granting a search warrant based on the words of a psychic child’ to the list of unbelievable shit I experienced since getting transferred to this precinct. Only in Galesburg…”
Detective Wright chuckled. “The only reason it happened in the first place was because of the mom. Rich, it’s one of those things that needed to be seen to be believed…that woman knew shit.”
“Like Loony Louise,” Detective Miller snorted.
Detective Wright gave a patient, knowing smile. “Not a chance. You see, when she called—and she did, a lot—all our boys knew there had to be something really fucking rotten going on in the state of Denmark.”
“And look where she ended up,” Detective Miller said, shaking his head. “That kinda thing’s gotta take its toll on a person.”
“Absolutely.” Detective Wright was quiet for a moment. “Gwen’s got a good head on her shoulders. I think she’ll be all right. Her brother, though…damn. Poor kid. That’s the kind of thing that could fuck someone up for life.”
Detective Miller exhaled and scratched behind his ear. “Jesus, it’s horrible. And him and Arellano were friends, right?” Detective Wright nodded. “Awful. Albert Shaw’s got a special seat in Hell for all the shit he pulled. Least the Blake boy was able to snap that fucker’s neck. No better medicine than that.”
“Let’s go,” Finney murmured to Gwen.
But Gwen remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide and face pale. “Finney, what they said about Mom…”
“We can’t waste time talking about it now. Come on.”
“But–”
Finney, purposely, started climbing the steps, Gwen trailing behind shortly after. The kitchen was positioned the right way this time, albeit with walls painted yellow instead of white.
“We have to talk about—-”
“Later.”
Finney descended the steps once more, ignoring Gwen’s grumbles and protests. He blinked a few times to get his bearings; the basement looked like a child’s playroom, and not the half-assed attempt the Williams family tried. Even through the faded lens of the spectral world, the brightness and color was evident. Toys, games, books, and blanket forts strewed the basement floor, and the floor tiles looked fresh and polished instead of faded and worn. The familiar framed Howard Thurston poster hung on the basement wall instead of in Finney’s closet, and his skin erupted into goosebumps.
“Let’s go back.”
Their fourth venture upstairs caused Finney’s insides to freeze. The Grabber sat in a chair in the center of the room, shirtless, with the frowning mask on and folded leather belt in hand.
“...Dickface? Is that you?” Gwen asked cautiously. The Grabber said nothing, but continued staring in their direction.
“I think this is when he was waiting for me to come upstairs,” said Finney, after finally finding his voice. “Or one of the others. To play, um..” He couldn’t finish.
“Let’s go.” Gwen shuddered. “This is fucking gross. The only thing worse than a normal Grabber is a shirtless Grabber.”
“Y-yeah,” agreed Finney.
Finney wasn’t sure if Gwen was aware of the implication of her words. It was a chest he’d seen more times than he’d care to, and this brought back a lot of emotions, possibly even more than the dream-memory.
“He’s weirdly jacked though,” added Gwen as they continued down the stairs, “Like, seriously. How does a magician get—”
Her mouth snapped shut as they entered the basement. Attached to the back wall was the familiar black phone, but other than that, everything else was different. There was no mattress, rolled-up carpets, or toilet. The chalkboard, tables, and overall setup reminded Finney of a gambling den, with two prominent exceptions.
Objects and furniture lay haphazardly on the floor, victims or casualties of someone’s panic or rage, and the yellow wallpaper was torn in several places. The corpse of a brown-haired man Finney initially thought was Albert laid in the center of the basement. Several scratches bit into the man’s neck and there was some minor bruising around the head and hands, but aside from that, Finney didn’t notice any major injuries.
“Who the hell is he?” Gwen asked, stepping over a discarded trilby to get a closer look. “Did the Grabber kill him?”
“Not sure. But it doesn’t look like he’s been stabbed or anything.”
“This is creepy. Let’s go back up.”
Finney couldn’t agree more. As they walked up the steps, the faint tune of the Beatles grew louder and louder. Finney considered asking Gwen if she could hear it, but bit his tongue.
Max, wearing jeans and a loose-fitting tie-dye shirt, belted out the lyrics of “A Hard Day’s Night” to an accompanying record in the living room while flipping pancakes in a frying pan. An attempt at a dance move gone awry caused the pancake to fall onto the floor.
Wordlessly, they returned to the basement, but didn’t get far. A jagged crevasse ran from the right of the door to the back wall, extremely thin yet suspiciously long. Approaching the crevasse filled both Blakes with a primal terror and dread that was sufficiently ominous and warranted a retreat.
“Guess we’re going up. Again,” Finney said, trying to leave the bite out of his voice but not fully succeeding.
“Well, yeah,” she muttered as they did just that, “Our great plan is to keep going up and down stairs on the off-chance we get to see Robin. Sun Tzu would be proud of our forward-thinking.”
Annoyance nipped at Finney’s heart, both at their lack of progress and the growing recognition that this plan was—in fact—as terrible as Gwen claimed. But he didn’t want to snap, so remained silent as they entered the kitchen for the seventh time.
Tiny cracks splayed across the walls like spiderwebs. A scrawny boy with unkempt brown hair dug his fingers deep into the pulp of a pumpkin on the kitchen table, biting his lip but smiling despite the faint traces of red around his eyes. Next to him stood a pretty woman whose black hair was pulled back into a messy bun. She scraped up pumpkin debris and put it in a tin can while the boy brought a fistful to his mouth. “Look, Mama, I’m eating the pumpkin’s brains!”
“Not too much, Ber–Albert. We need to keep some to reuse, and besides, you want to leave some room for candy.”
“Holy shit.” Gwen exclaimed. “That’s the Grabber! I saw him when he was young before, but this is, like, super-young.”
Indeed it was. It was hard to imagine the doe-eyed, pigeon-toed child could grow up and become a coldblooded killer.
“But it’s Halloween!” whined Albert. "I need to eat braaaaaaainnnnsss!”
Maybe not.
“You can,” his mother explained patiently, “Just not as much as you want. And if you truly want something that resembles the texture, I have some Jell-O in the icebox from yesterday. But you won’t have it until aft—” The chiming of a doorbell interrupted Evelyn Shaw’s thoughts. “Oh, that’s the Sinclairs.”
A sudden change descended over Albert. He shrank into himself, earlier confidence vanishing. Evelyn wiped her hands, removed her apron, and strolled to the front door. Finney knew he should go back to the basement, but the pull of seeing Mr. Clarkson and the mysterious Kathy was too great. He followed.
Two children flanked a blonde woman, the girl dressed as an angel, and the boy a devil. While the girl appeared eager and chipper, the boy looked exceptionally haughty for a seven-year old.
“That’s Mr. Clarskon,” Finney said, pointing. “He used to live in the house across the street.”
“Wh-how do you know that?” demanded Gwen over the exchange of pleasantries between the two women. Finney felt a pang of empathy for the young Albert, who stuttered a greeting. “And how long were you planning to sit on that?”
“The Grabber mentioned it when all that stuff with Mr. Clarkson happened.” Finney now regretted mentioning this. “I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just forgot.”
Gwen’s lips thinned. “Any other truth bombs you ‘forgot’?”
Finney hesitated, then, “He married Mr. Clarkson’s sister. I think she was his beard or something, I don’t know…but anyway, she died a long time ago from a drug overdose.”
Gwen gaped for a few seconds before snapping her jaw shut. Eventually, she settled on, “This is like a soap opera.”
“Yeah.”
Finney knew there was bad blood between the Grabber and Mr. Clarkson, and from observing this one snippet of their interaction as children, Anthony certainly seemed the judgmental ass Albert claimed. But if the Grabber changed from a shy (albeit slightly whiny) kid to a sadistic murderer, it stood to reason that Mr. Clarkson could change from arrogant brat to the teacher Finney knew and admired.
The children descending into the basement snapped Finney out of his trance. “C’mon, let’s keep looking.”
But Gwen didn't budge. “Finney, this isn’t working. We still haven’t seen Max yet, and…I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about this whole thing. I think we should call it quits and try again tomorrow or something, before the Minoatur or the real Grabber finds us, or we lose our memories.”
Finney opened his mouth to argue, but spotted something that made him stop dead in his tracks. Through the open door, 7741 Meadowbrook Lane stood, lit up brightly and inviting. “See those windows? The lights are on!”
Finney gestured for Gwen to come closer, and when she did, she groaned. “Please don’t tell me you want to go in there.” Finney remained silent. “Finney! It’s obviously a trap! Like that fish with the light that lures in other fish and eats them.”
“This could be a sign,” argued Finney. “Robin might be there.”
“How would he possibly be in that house? The only living people we see are these echoes, and Robin never went there. You’d only see his dead body.”
Her bluntness stung. “The Grabber might have taken him there alive for some reason, then brought him back. Just because I never went there doesn’t mean none of the others did.”
“What could he do at that house that he couldn’t in the basement?”
Finney didn’t have an answer, and knew there was a 99% chance she was right.
But what if this is the 1%?
“I just want to check.”
Before Gwen could respond, he raced through the doorway and into the street. It reminded Finney of his first escape attempt: quiet, dark, and lonely, though the temperature was comfortable compared to the January cold. He followed the light of the opposite house like a moth being drawn to a flame. He tugged the door, and entered.
Given the purpose the Grabber used it for, Finey expected an old, abandoned, and decrepit interior. Instead, the insides looked warm and welcoming, freshly dusted, clutter-free, the furniture and decoration evocative of the 1950s. The sounds of Lassie playing from the black-and-white living room television corroborated this belief. Across from the television sat a blonde girl (the one from the picture in Mr. Clarkson’s house, Finney realized) wearing a pink-and-white pinafore dress over a white blouse. She had a sad, faraway look in her eyes and didn’t smile or react to any of the cheerful, comedic antics on the screen, perhaps the result of the brace around her leg, or crutches leaning against the couch.
“Who’s that?” whispered Gwen from behind him.
“Doesn’t matter.” Finney’s mind was wandering towards conclusions he didn’t want to think about. “Let’s keep going.”
Due to their unfamiliarity with this house, the process of traversing it was much more nerve-wracking than 7742. As with the other house, room aesthetics and objects would occasionally change, reflecting temporal shifts ranging from the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Some rooms were completely barren and dusty. Hands of clocks rotated backwards in a spinning loop. They didn’t see any other people besides the girl, though they did hear the faint echo of a woman’s lullaby. But when they traveled closer, the sound faded.
“You know, I’m actually somewhat disappointed. I thought for sure we’d be seeing more weird shit.” Despite her proclaimed ‘disappointment,’ Finney could tell Gwen was relieved. “By ghost world standards, this is tame.”
He forced a smile. “Y-yeah.”
But the truth was, he didn’t agree. Because for whatever reason, he could hear and smell things Gwen couldn’t.
In the bathroom, he heard the faint rumble of a lawnmower. In a dusty, abandoned kitchen, a woman hummed and the aroma of freshly-baked cherry angel food cake tickled his nose. In one of the bedrooms, a man’s cries were drowned out by the song from the radio on the day of the exorcism, blaring so loudly, Finney struggled to keep his hands to his sides and not cover his ears. In another bedroom, a baby gurgled. Walking through the hallway, Finney was greeted by the laughter of a boy and girl mingling with a screeching, scraping sound.
If there was rhyme or reason to why he heard and smelled certain things, Finney was unaware. He didn’t hear things he thought he would, like the sound of the Grabber paging through the newspaper or the man’s footsteps when traveling downward to Billy. He didn’t smell the pumpkin pulp Albert ate. It seemed very selective, and some of the sounds and smells didn’t match up with what Finney saw around him, or even make sense for the location. Finney wasn’t even sure if the sounds and smells were real remnants of the past, or if they were simply fabrications, manufactured by the spectral world itself.
Finding themselves back in the kitchen, a pungent stench of rotting meat underlyed by a vague fruitiness was so overpowering, Finney had no choice but to cover his nose.
“What is it?” asked Gwen, alarmed.
“I smell something,” admitted Finney. Gwen opened her mouth, but Finney continued before she could speak. “It’s coming from over there.”
Finney followed the odor to a door, one which he realized must lead to the basement.
“I really don’t think we should go there, Finney,” pleaded Gwen, squeezing her ball of yarn. “What if we run out of string?”
“We haven’t so far.” Finney held up his ball, which didn’t appear daunted in the slightest. “Rules are different in this world. Maybe the string’s unlimited, or has some other special power, like the compass you had last time.”
“But the monster…and the smell…come on, Finney. It can’t be anything good.”
“This is the only place we haven’t tried. If we see the slightest hint of danger, we’ll go back.” Before he could let reason reign him in, he opened the basement door and tiptoed down the steps.
There was nothing in the basement except for sand, a large tarp wrapped around something, and the Grabber, digging a grave with a shovel and without the bottom part of his mask.
During his stay in the hospital after his return, Finney recalled nurses whispering to each other when they thought he was asleep. That was how he learned the Grabber dug a grave for him before even trying to kill him. An odd, small detail, but one that remained etched in his mind years later.
Satisfied with his work, the Grabber threw his shovel to the side and gently unwrapped the colorless corpse from the tarp. Billy Showalter.
The Grabber caressed the boy’s blonde locks, sighing. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way, buttercup, but you were a naughty boy.” He scooped the corpse into his arms and carried Billy’s bloody body like a bride into the grave. But before he withdrew after placing him down, he leaned over, grabbed Billy’s ashen jaw in his palms, and gave him a deep, lustful kiss.
“EWWEWWEWWEWWEWW!!! That’s fucking nasty!” Gwen thundered up the stairs, Finney following. “Ok, I’m done…that’s my limit. We need to go back.”
Finney gritted his teeth, but couldn't argue anymore. He might be used to the Grabber’s degeneracy, but it wasn’t fair to subject his sister to it. “Fine. But I’m trying again tomorrow. ”
As they retreated back through the kitchen, a young, vibrant man’s voice echoed faintly through the halls. “Yessir, Mr. Bernardi! You have no idea how much I—yes, mhmm. Well, my father-in-law wants me to keep working at his hardware store, but—no, I didn’t mean to impl—yes. We dropped out of high school to…I know, we were young but it wasn’t—I don’t—yes! Yes, exactly.”
Finney knew who it was and wanted to ignore it, but the voice came from the direction they needed to go in order to leave. Grudgingly, he moved forward, passing the source of the noise. An attractive blonde woman in a polka-dot swing dress and heels stood with her hands clasped, watching eagerly as a brown-haired man clutched a rotary phone, eyes brimming with unbridled joy. Seeing an Albert Shaw that looked much closer to him in age was more upsetting than seeing his tormentor without a mask, for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. He tried to focus on the woman’s pearl necklace instead. “I won’t let you down, sir. Saturday, ten o’clock? Yes, of course. No problem at all. I—thank you. Truly. Goodbye.”
He hung up and grinned as Kathy clapped her hands, curls bouncing against her shoulders as she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. He grabbed by the waist and spun her around while she giggled. “Oh, Albert, this is wonderful!” she gushed. “I know how much you wanted this. This will be great for you.”
“Not just me, kitten.” He kissed her on the forehead. “It’ll be great for all three of us.”
“C’mon,” muttered Finney, beckoning Gwen forward. But she was rooted in the spot, eyes wide.
“When you said he was married, I didn’t think she’d be this hot! Why’d she pick a murdering pedo?”
“Well, I’m assuming he didn’t murder or do anything to kids at this point. And if he did, she probably didn’t know about it. Gacy’s wives didn’t.”
Gwen’s fingers dug into the shirt fabric near her elbows. “But when he mentioned three—”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he had a kid.”
Gwen looked as sick as Finney felt. “Eww…what if it’s a boy? You think—”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s the girl from the living room. When I went to Mr. Clarkson’s apartment, there was a picture of the same girl, and if she’s his niece it would make sense.”
A spark lit in Gwen’s eyes. “Finney, I just thought of a good idea. If she’s still alive, do you think she’d help us fight the Grabber? Assuming she didn’t inherit his evil, I mean. Because she’d have powers, too, and having three of us working together instead of two could increase our chances of success.”
Gwen looked so excited, Finney didn’t have the heart to rain on her parade. “Maybe. If she’s alive.”
Which she’s not…
Entering the living room, they witnessed another echo from the past. Kathy, looking slightly older, sat in a chair, wearing a bathrobe and glaring at the door. She brought a cigarette to her lips, eyes flashing between worry and anger and back again. Just as Finney was about to open the door, Albert entered.
Brief panic soon made way to a smiling mask. “Hi, honey. I thought you’d—”
“Where were you?” she demanded, extinguishing the cigarette in the nearby ashtray. “And don’t tell me ‘work,’ because I know that’s a lie.”
Albert hung his hat on the hook. “At the Cat’s Cradle. Just wanted to clear my head a bit. Didn’t think a man needs his wife’s permission to do that.”
“Every couple days?”
Faint traces of unfamiliar guilt flickered across his face. “Kathy, you’re paranoid. What happened to the baby made y—”
“Stephanie,” she interrupted, eyes narrowing. ”God, could you at least pretend to care?”
“I do care,” Albert protested, taking off his jacket. “I just don’t see the point of dwelling on it. It was an accident, and we’re not the only family to deal with this sort of thing. At least we’ve got one kid. Emma Baur lost both.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just tell me the truth, Albert: Are you happy? Being here, with me?”
If Albert felt any differently, the mask didn’t fall. “Of course I am, darling. Why do you think I’m not?”
“Because I see that restless gleam in your eyes you sometimes get, the one you try to hide. Like you’re some damned circus lion on a chain.” She rested her feet on a nearby footstool. “And you’ve been avoiding me and Cindy for the past couple months. Even she’s noticed it.”
“I’m not avoiding anyone!”
“Is it another woman?” Kathy asked bluntly.
“No.” For the first time, his voice sounded firm and confident. “It’s not. You’re the only girl for me, Kath.”
Kathy’s posture relaxed slightly, but only slightly. “Then why can’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s—” he sighed. “Look, sweetheart, no one’s happy all the time. You’re not either, and don’t pretend otherwise.” Kathy folded her arms, but didn’t say anything. “But that’s life, and you gotta suck it up and find ways to deal with it. So what I’m doing out there makes those nasty feelings go away. That’s it. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you or Cindy, just that I don’t want you to feel like you’re married to a wet rag.”
“Must be nice, being a man. You never hear of any married women being able to go ‘out there’ doing God-knows-what whenever they damn well please.” Albert was smart enough not to say anything to that. Kathy shook her head and sighed. “Fine, I’ll let it go for now. But only because you somehow roped my brother into covering for you. If it wasn’t for that, we’d be having a different conversation, mister.”
Albert wrapped his hands around her waist and drew him closer, nuzzling his face into her shoulder. It was odd, seeing the gesture used on a willing adult woman instead of him. “Trust me, dove, it’s nothing to worry about. Out of all the girls in the world, I picked you.”
Kathy scoffed, but eased into the embrace. “Because of Cindy.”
“It might have been an unconventional start, but I stayed, hmm? Took responsibility.”
That word shattered the happy scene. With a frown, Kathy wiggled out of the embrace and put her hands on her hips. “You were hardly responsible when you pawned her off on Max because you were ‘busy.’ And really, Albert—the lake? Of all the places, you told him to take her there?”
“Is that what this is about? You’re still sore about that?”
“Of course I am! You know how dangerous pools and lakes can be.”
“If there’s another outbreak, they’d close them, like they did in Breckenridge. I didn’t think it was a big deal to have Max spend some time with his niece.”
“First of all, it should have been you spending time with her, and second, that could have happened anywhere besides the lake! I told you, multiple times, I don’t want her in public water. If it’s closed because of an outbreak, that means too many kids have already gotten polio, and I don't want ours to be one of them. Remember when Raymond Klein needed to be put in an iron lung?”
“Oh, come on, you’re being unreasonable. The chances of that happening are—”
“I’m unreasonable?!” She laughed in disbelief. “There might be a vaccine coming out soon. I don’t get why you can’t just wait until—”
Finney didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, deciding at that moment to leave through the door. “Guess that confirms it,” Finney said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No sons, just daughters. Thank God. I mean, it would be better if he didn't have any kids, but still.”
Gwen was silent. Finney frowned and turned around. His eyes immediately widened, panic gripping his throat.
The door and windows to 7741 had vanished.
“GWEN?!” he yelled, hoping she’d hear and respond from inside the house. He pushed his ear up to where the door used to be. No response.
An insurmountable dread weighed on him as he raced around the house a couple times, hoping to find an open window or something he could use to gain entry. But every possible entrance had either disappeared or was blocked.
NononononononotGwen…
Finney swallowed nonexistent saliva and began scratching his forearms. This couldn’t be happening. This was all his fault. She wanted to leave earlier. He should have listened.
Finney closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them, hoping the house would materialize when he did. It didn’t. But it did provide him with the clarity needed to think of where to go from here.
Finney dug into his pocket for the paper; since the Blake siblings couldn't rely on each other to trigger their memories, he needed to keep reminding himself of who he is.And although the paper was useless last time, if the house changed, maybe the paper changed, too.
Instead of containing information about himself, it said, in Finney's handwriting: Did you find what you’re looking for?
What the hell that meant, Finney wasn’t sure. He spent what felt like minutes staring at the paper, hoping to reach some kind of epiphany, or decide if this was meant to be a helpful tip or some entity fucking with him. Then, the rumbling of a vehicle caused Finney’s head to snap up, just in time to see that familiar, godforsaken black van heading down the street and parking into the driveway of 7742.
Finney’s hands clenched around the paper as he shoved it into his pocket, fighting the urge to run away. As expected, Albert Shaw emerged wearing white facepaint and glasses, but also a black cape and red shirt with a questionable neckline. He looked up and down the street before opening the back door of the van carrying the unconscious black-haired boy further into the garage.
Robin.
Finney glanced back at the still-impenetrable 7741and bit his lip. Remembering the message in his pocket–while also worrying this would be a huge mistake—he sprinted across the street and slipped inside the garage before the door shut. He yanked the inner door open and rushed his way through the halls, passing a redhaired woman in flapper headband, chatting into the telephone while a young boy tugged at her evening gown. “The woman next door is simply ghastly, Irene. Certainly there must be a location where ley lines converge without being surrounded by riffraff who—not now, Alan!”
As Finney stumbled through the house, he thought he heard the faint, inexplicable rumbling of ocean waves. But he didn’t give it any thought as he tugged the basement door open and thundered downstairs.
But he didn’t see Robin.
He saw himself and the Grabber.
He could see faded bruises on his past self’s wrists and face, and the dried, rust-colored substance staining the mattress. Near the wall lay scrambled eggs and shattered pieces of ceramic. One of the Grabber’s hands dug deeply into Finney’s scalp, ignoring the boy’s grimace. The other hand held a folded belt.
Finney knew what this was. It happened fairly early in his captivity, during a time when Finney still hoped for rescue, a time before he fully numbed himself to the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain that accompanied his continued survival. A time when sexual contact was rare instead of the daily inevitability it would eventually become.
So when Finney felt the man’s fingers drift between his legs that morning, he panicked. The previous day was rough, and the thought of doing it again so soon sent him into an emotional tailspin. So he flung the plate against the wall. He wasn’t sure why, really—perhaps a desire to see something besides himself break, or perhaps the fear and despair bubbling inside him couldn’t be contained, like a steaming pot overflowing onto the stove.
The Grabber’s eyes were cold and harsh despite the lilting disappointment in his tone. “I want to be nice. I want to make you feel good. Why won’t you let me?”
“I’m sorry,” the thirteen-year old said, voice wobbly, though a note of anger seeped through.
Looking back on those moments at sixteen, he easily remembered the fear, the shame, the dissociation. But anger…yes, he was angry, even as a child. It was easy to forget, sometimes.
“Sorry, kiddo, but I don’t believe you.”The Grabber’s tone dropped into a low growl. “You will be, though. I’m not going to stop until I see tears streaming down your face like a waterfall. And that's before we get to this.” He waved the belt in front of Finney’s face.
It was a cruel but effective promise; Finney was used to dealing with pain stoically at home, and even with this new type of pain, he usually managed to wait until the Grabber left before breaking down into sobs.
Unable to watch anymore, Finney turned around and rushed up the stairs. But midway, he stopped, a pit of cold dread tearing his insides open.
The stairway now led to an empty wall. With no sign of the door anywhere, he had no choice but to retreat back down.
“I didn’t mean to,” his younger self pleaded.
“Aww, poor baby,” the Grabber mocked, and another spike of hatred flared within Finney. “You should have made better choices.”
I need to get out of here.
That was the only clear thought guiding Finney’s mind as he rushed to the alcove. All the rest were jumbled, screeching, rattling, begging. Like Atlas holding the world on his back, the sheer weight was too much for one person to handle. He needed to get out of here.
But he couldn’t. Because instead of his body resting in the alcove, a deep, dark hole was there instead. And there was only one string leading up from the abyss—the one leading to Finney’s hand. Gwen’s was missing.
Gwen, Finney thought, revulsion and self-hatred coiling inside him. For a few seconds, he completely forgot about Gwen. He was ready to leave without her, because he was a goddamn coward.
He didn’t deserve to leave. He deserved to be here, forever.
“I—I’m still bleeding,” the younger Finney mumbled. His face flushed, and his eyes darted everywhere in the room except the man in front of him. “It still hurts. Everything does. I just—c-can it wait until tomorrow? I promise I won’t do anything like this again…”
The apparent audacity of such a request caused fury to blaze in his captor’s eyes, any traces of levity plummeting off a steep cliff. “Wait? Why should I wait? I want this to hurt. When I’m pounding into you like the whore you are, I want you to remember it could have been good for the both of us instead of just me, but you had to go and act like a little brat.”
Finney didn’t realize his hands were shaking until the ball of yarn fumbled out of his hands and plummeted into the dark abyss.
With one final squeeze of his hair, the Grabber threw his captive onto the mattress like a discarded rag. The belt fell to the floor with a clatter, and Finney relived the terror in his younger counterpart’s eyes. The younger boy shrank into himself for a few seconds before doing what either showed tremendous courage, or complete lack thereof.
“I’m sorry. I really am.” The younger boy pushed himself forward, kneeling on the cold, hard floor in front of his captor. The Grabber tilted his head as small, trembling fingers unclasped the button of his pants. “I’ll show you…I—I can…um, please…just don’t…”
Both the younger and older Blake’s eyes filled with tears. With nowhere to go, Finney huddled down in a ball, faced the cement wall, and covered his ears. He stayed in this position for a long time.
The Grabber was right; he was a whore. Selling him body, his dignity, in hopes the devil could be placated into sparing him from harsh treatment. A scarlet letter his father and sister knew about.
And in this particular instance, it didn’t even work. He ended up getting all the pain promised to him, and more.
Finney buried his head into his knees. Three years hadn’t maken him any less pathetic. Now, his sister might be gone forever because of his idiocy. He should have made better choices.
Finney wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but it felt like a very long time. He would have stayed like that forever if he could, if not for the feeling of someone else’s spine pressed up against his own. “Go away….”
The Grabber reached out and gently tugged Finney’s hands, pulling them away from his ears. Finney lifted his head, though his gaze remained numbly fixed to the wall. “You know I can never leave you. Not for good.”
“I said everything I wanted to say in the car,” Finney said hoarsely. “You ruined my life. You ruined me. Everyone thinks I’m gross and disgusting because of you. Even my family. They don’t say it, but I know that’s what they think.”
“Forget about them, love. You have me. I’ll never tease or laugh or think any less of you. I’m the only one who won’t.”
“Bullshit. You like hurting me. You always did.” He gestured backward with his thumb towards the display the Grabber must be witnessing. “You wanted me to feel like shit and—and you tried to fucking kill me!”
“I wasn’t trying to. The car reacted to my emotions, so—”
“I meant before. In the basement.”
“Oh. Well, that was a mistake. That was before I realized we were soul mates.”
Finney wanted to slam himself backwards and hit the Grabber’s shoulders with his skull, but lacked the courage. Instead, he did the second-best thing. He jerked his hands out of the Grabber’s grasp and stood up, squeezing his eyes shut. In darkness, he attempted to find his way back to the stairway, but stumbled. Fury poured through him as the Grabber pulled him up from the ground and drew him closer to his chest. “Open your eyes, Finney,” he crooned.
“No.” Finney’s back was against the Grabber, and his head was facing the direction of their past selves. He struggled, but the man was too strong, and he was too weak. Again.
The Grabber nuzzled his masked nose into the crevice of Finney’s neck, causing his eyes to jolt open from the surprise of the texture. He tried to turn away, but the Grabber’s fingers gripped his chin, gentle but firm, redirecting towards the mattress.
The past echo of the Grabber hugged Finney by the waist, the younger boy’s face buried into the chest of the monster. They were both clothed (thank God) and the posture evoked the memory of Albert and Kathy in the doorway of 7741. Of course, Kathy’s eyes weren’t hollow and empty like Finney’s, and Albert’s weren’t shut in peaceful contentment like the Grabber’s.
“Look how calm you were,” the Grabber murmured, observing their past counterparts. “Isn’t that better than fighting all the time?”
“That’s not me,” whispered Finney. “My mind wasn’t there. It was someplace else.”
To Finney’s annoyance, a couple tears escaped his eyes, trickling down his cheek. He tried to wipe them away, but the Grabber’s arms kept him locked in place like a straightjacket. Finney twisted his head back to look at the Grabber; he wore the grinning bottom piece but no top part, granting Finney an easier view of the softly nostalgic expression. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The Grabber allowed Finney to loosen himself from his grip, but still kept one hand wrapped around Finney's wrist as they ascended the steps. When they reached the kitchen, the Grabber wiped Finney’s tears away with a rough, calloused finger.
“Why did you come here?” he asked gently.
Finney debated lying, but he had nothing else to lose. “I wanted to see Robin. Gwen told me it was a bad idea and I didn't listen, and now she’s gone.”
“Nothing’s gone for good. Not in this place, I don’t think. Show me where you saw her last.”
Making their way through the kitchen and past the bedrooms, Finney ignored the salty scent of ocean water the Grabber either didn’t smell, or chose to ignore. When they exited through the front door, Finney’s heart plummeted.
“Now the whole fucking house is gone,” he said, desperation and hysteria taking root in his voice. He pointed across the street.
“Hmm…”
Finney glanced back towards the Grabber, gaze hardening. “Did you do this? Is Gwen gone because of you? And do something to Max? He was supposed to meet us but—”
The Grabber held up his hand and tsk-ed. “I’m not responsible for every little thing that goes wrong in your life, Finney.”
“Well, do you know where they are?”
The Grabber tapped his chin. “I might.” Finney’s lips thinned, waiting for the inevitable. “And I’ll show you where, if you do a little something for me.”
“Fuck no.” Despair clawed at his insides, thinking of the dream-memory. “I can’t. I—no. No, I’m not doing it. You’re going to trick me, like last time. Now I can’t even sleep because of you! You’re not getting a single goddamn thing from me, now or ever!”
The Grabber caressed Finney’s hair. “I didn’t mean to scare you, pumpkin. I just wanted to remind you of what we had, how things are supposed to be.”
“I’m not doing another favor,” repeated Finney, voice cracking. Especially if you can touch me, you freak. “What part don’t you get? I hate you!”
He pulled back from the Grabber’s touch, ignoring the sadness in the man’s eyes. Tears were beginning to prickle in his own, and he didn’t want the Grabber to wipe them away again. “It’s not what you think it’s going to be.”
“I don’t care. I’m still not doing it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the Grabber decided. “If you do this for me, I’ll not only lead you to Gwen and Max, but also I’ll cancel out your previous favor. So, what do you say? Does that sweeten the deal enough?”
Finney looked back at the empty lot. Everything inside him screamed no, but without the string and paper, as well as Gwen and Max, he was at a massive disadvantage. He would have no idea where to start looking, or how to avoid the creature. “...What is it?”
Faint traces of red appeared from above the mask, and the Grabber started wringing his hands and diverted his eyes from Finney. “So, um, I was thinking….if you don’t want to think about old memories, why don’t we go out and make new memories?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We should go out, do something fun, y’know…go on a date.”
...
Oh, hell no.
Finney blinked, incredulous, while the Grabber’s eyes pleaded silently. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again before finally regaining his mental bearings. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The Grabber’s shoulders slumped, eyes watering. “Is that a no?”
There were a lot of things Finney wanted to say, “Get bent” being the most prominent, “I’d rather jump into that giant hole in the basement” coming in close second. And if Gwen’s safety wasn’t at risk, he might have. But the empty lot in the corner of his eye caused the words to die on his tongue.
Hating himself with every fiber of his being, he gritted his teeth as he said, “...Okay. I’ll do it.”
Guess I'm moving up in the world, Finney thought bitterly as the Grabber clasped his hands together, eyes glimmering with happiness. Going from personal whore to escort.
“You won’t regret this, Finney!” the Grabber gushed. “Now, I could drive us, but I think it’s more romantic to go the scenic route. What do you think?”
Barring the question of what in this dark, fucked-up ghost world of perpetual nighttime could possibly be described as scenic, Finney had strong repulsion to anything the Grabber perceived as remotely “romantic.” But he couldn’t stomach the idea of being in cramped quarters with the Grabber, especially in the van that brought him into this hell. If they walked, Finney could, theoretically, escape if needed. “We’ll walk.”
“Isn’t that peachy~”
Finney stifled a groan as the Grabber’s arms slipped into his, a perverted pantomime of Donna. After an agonizing, seemingly endless walk down the street, a sobering realization hit Finney. He pulled himself from the Grabber’s grasp.
“My shirt,” Finney said, running his hand down the blue sleeve. “This is—this isn’t the shirt I wore when I came here. It’s what I had back when—”
He clenched his fingers together, unable to finish.
When did his shirt change? And how long did it look like this?
The Grabber took a few steps forward and shrugged. “Well, it’s not the exact same shirt, otherwise it wouldn’t fit with that growth spurt of yours.”
“But I wasn’t wearing it before! Why am I wearing it now?”
“Like I told you, the way we look here depends on what you’re thinking. Seeing us in the basement might’ve brought back some memories. Who knows?”
It did match what Gwen said about minds affecting appearance, but…
The Grabber continued forward, but after seeing that Finney wasn’t following, he sighed. “It’s not a big deal, Finney. It’s just a shirt. Let’s go.”
The devil reached out his hand. Biting his lip and pushing reservations to the side, Finney took it.
Chapter 22: Linked
Notes:
“Friends of Dorothy” was a slang term used to refer to gay men in the early 20th century, as a reference to The Wizard of Oz.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before Finney’s first official date with Donna, he spent a week struggling over what outfit to wear, obsessing over worst-case scenarios, and planning the perfect picnic date down to the minute. When the sky became overcast and rain drizzled down, he almost cried. But by the end of the day, Finney was floating on Cloud 9 and could barely remember being upset. The simple act of being together—of talking and laughing and living and loving—filled him with a pure, earnest bliss he didn’t think he was still capable of. She was a beacon of light, guiding him out of a foggy haze of sorrow and memory throughout the duration of their relationship.
And then he had to ruin everything by being an idiot.
“What are you thinking about?”
Finney gritted his teeth and stared ahead, even as the Grabber’s fingers wrapped around his smaller ones like worms. Whether the gesture was done out of a misguided sense of romance or a desire to prevent him from bolting, Finney wasn’t sure. Probably both.
“Donna.”
It might not have been the wisest decision, but it was a cathartic one, especially since the bitterness of the memory witnessed in the basement was still fresh in Finney’s mind. The Grabber’s eyes hardened, but his voice was light when he said, “Don’t let her twist your mind into knots. You know you’re supposed to be here, with me, not with that cheap knockoff.”
Finney opened his mouth to protest the absurdity and inaccuracy of that comparison, but the Grabber plowed on ahead. “I’m thinking we should start by taking a nice walk around the pond. There’s something there I think you’d find reallllly interesting.” He paused, waiting for Finney to press. When he didn’t, the Grabber continued, enthusiasm dampened yet still annoyingly persistent. “Then, we’ll head downtown, get a quick bite to eat, then watch a movie. Just like I promised, remember?”
Finney vaguely recalled him mentioning something about a movie during the exorcism. “I’m doing this because you said you’d take me to Gwen. She said after she stayed here a while, a monster started coming after her, and that can’t happen. To me, or to her.”
“‘Monster,’” the Grabber echoed, chuckling. “You’re so cute, pumpkin.”
Finney bristled at the condescension. Walking side-by-side with the Grabber made Finney conscious of how much he grew in three years, and despite what the Grabber wanted to believe, Finney was not a child anymore. “Are you going to answer me or not?”
“I’ve got ways to protect you, so don’t you worry about that.” He gently squeezed Finney’s hand. “Oh, Finney, this date’s going to be so much fun. You won’t regret it.”
Help.
****
It was fun for the Grabber. Finney, not so much.
As they strolled through the developments leading towards the pond, Finney endured mostly one-sided conversations where the Grabber mused about how much Lincoln High changed since the 1940s, gleeful speculation regarding Mr. Clarkson torpedoed career, and complaints about changes to the interior design of 7742. Much to Finney’s dismay, their hands remained locked together the entire time.
At a certain point, the conversation lulled, and Finney knew he needed to find some way to keep it going. Lulls were dangerous. Lulls could lead to sex or discussions about sex, neither of which Finney wanted. But what could he say? Despite having a deeper understanding of the Grabber than perhaps any person alive, the man was still, in many ways, a stranger. Unlike Donna, “normal” conversations with the Grabber felt stilted and uncomfortable, a far cry from the friendly, easy banter with his girlfriend. Even without the history and pain that weighed down on Finney every time he glanced in the Grabber’s direction, it would be difficult for a teenager to think of topics a teenager and fifty-year old man had in common.
In the end, Finney decided to focus on the ghost world. “How did you change the paper?”
The Grabber gave another irritating tilt of the head. “What paper?”
“The one I wrote my name and memories on. If you knew I was coming here, you knew I had it.”
“Ohhh, thaaaaat paper?” Finney rolled his eyes. “I didn’t do anything to it. How could I?”
“Well, when I took it out of my pocket after coming here, there was a poem on it.” Finney dug into his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper, which was now—to his frustration—blank. “Alright, it’s gone now, but it was there. And it looked like it was my handwriting, but I didn’t write it.”
“What did it say?”
“Something about waves and sun and this place called Carossca or Carcoa or something.”
“Carcosa?”
Finney snapped his head in the Grabber’s direction. “See? I was right. You do know about the poem.”
“Not to be pedantic, but it’s a song, not a poem. And I didn't write it. It’s from a book called The King in Yellow, about a play with the same name. In the story, anyone who reads the play goes off the deep end because they can’t handle the truths it reveals. The book’s a bit above your reading level, so I’m not surprised you don’t know it.”
Finney ignored the dig and focused on the most concerning part. “But why was it in my handwriting?”
“Maybe you’re not as sane as you think you are?” He giggled. “Aww, don’t pout like that.”
“I bet you wrote the poem, and this book isn’t real,” Finney decided. “You lie about everything else.”
The glimmer of mirth in the Grabber’s eyes faded. “Not everything. And not this. I used to read a lot, but writing was never one of my talents. Though from what Anthony said, it’s one of yours.”
Finney’s insides coiled. “Not really. I just wrote some stories for school.”
“Tell me about them.”
Finney couldn’t pinpoint why, but the thought of the Grabber knowing about his stories made him feel as vulnerable and exposed as Taylor did when Dr. Death tied him to the operating table and opened up his insides. Luckily, Taylor took regeneration pills beforehand and was able to return to the land of the living with no memory of being sliced by the mad scientist’s blade. Finney wasn’t so lucky.
Forcing a shrug, he said, “Not much to tell. I created this character when I was in fourth grade and used him for every creative writing assignment since.”
“Taylor?”
Finney hated how he knew that. “Yeah.”
“Why did you pick that name?”
“I don’t know, I just thought it sounded cool. Like the name of an action hero.”
“I meant back then,” he prodded. “When I had you in my basement.”
“I don’t know. I just felt like—” Finney tried to find a way to verbalize ‘you already took everything else from me, and I wanted to keep my name’ without sounding weak. “I dunno. I wanted to keep my name private.”
The Grabber squeezed his hands. “There’s no need for us to keep secrets from each other, not anymore.”
A spark of irritation flickered inside Finney, spurred by the sheer audacity and hypocrisy of that statement. Attempting to control the conversation for once, Finney said, “Okay. Then who’s that dead man in the basement?”
“What man?”
“There was a dead guy in the basement. Brown hair, suit and hat…Stuff was knocked over, and he had scratch marks on his neck.”
The Grabber sighed. “Oh, him…”
“Was he your dad?” guessed Finney. The Grabber nodded. Despite the potential minefield, Finney couldn’t help but ask, “How’d he die?”
“Dehydration.”
After a moment of confusion, Finney pieced it together. The skin near the Grabber’s eyes crinkled at Finney's horrified realization, but before Finney could muster the words, the Grabber veered the conversation in a different direction. “I know about Max being part of your little cabal. Gotta say, Finney, I’m surprised you’re so willing to trust him.”
“Why?” Finney asked, recovering. “He tried to rescue me.”
“Yes, but he’s still a Shaw. It’s in our blood to be a bit…” The Grabber looked down at Finney as chortled at some hidden secret. “Well, I thought you’d be cautious, that’s all. He says he wants to help, but can you really trust him? Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. You don’t always have the best judgment, unfortunately.”
Finney glared. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“I’m not ‘trying’ to do anything but help you, kiddo. Speaking from personal experience, Max will always let you down in the end.”
Finney was taken aback by the sadness in the Grabber’s voice. “He thinks you let him down and abandoned him with your uncle.”
The Grabber rolled his eyes. “Eddie wasn’t bad. Maxie’s just a wuss. And I don't know what he expected. I moved on with my life and had my own family. That’s how it goes.”
“I know. I saw you, younger.” Finney hesitated. “And your family. Your wife and daughter.”
Now that he said it, there was no going back. Finney’s palms started to sweat, but the Grabber didn't seem angry. There was, however, a long pause until the man finally said, “What did you think of me?”
Finney blinked at the sudden conversation whiplash. “What?”
“Back then, when I was married. Not to sound full of myself, but I thought I was quite the looker. But with age and alcohol and nicotine, well…” He sighed sadly. “I guess I don’t blame you for trying to run away.”
“That had nothing to do with it,” protested Finney. “You look good—fine. You look fine. It was what you did and your pers—”
But by that point, the damage was done. “You think I’m good-looking?” crooned the Grabber. “Oh, Finney…”
Finney’s lips thinned as he stared straight ahead, mentally kicking himself for falling into the trap.
“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” the Grabber chuckled. “I already knew you did. I can take a peek into your dreams, remember? I learn aaaallll kinds of things there, even the things you want to stay hidden. But like I said, there's no reason for secrets.”
If the Grabber thought his words were comforting, he was sorely mistaken. The volcano inside Finney had been trembling for hours, and he was one snide comment away from eruption.
He hated thinking about this topic, he really did. Every time he thought he couldn’t feel any lower, this memory would creep into his head and he’d sink further into the ocean of self-loathing. It was a thought that kept him up many nights in the past three years, wondering what it said about him.
Because he couldn’t deny that when he spotted the playful magician that fateful afternoon, his heart skipped a beat, like how it sometimes did when Robin leaned back and stretched his arm during class, or when Donna’s shoulders brushed against his in the hallway. It might have been something about those unusually-toned arms, or perhaps the magician’s silly, carefree nature and disregard for normalcy. Either way, Finney felt the stirrings of attraction.
That feeling lasted for less than a minute. Those strong arms gripped his neck, the mask of playfulness dropped, and the demon with the painted face of an angel dragged him into Hell.
Finney often wondered if stopping to help the magician was some great cosmic test he failed, and his captivity was divine punishment for his unnatural feelings. There was something wrong with him, there had to be, because even knowing the true nature of the monster, even with tears streaming down his face and his body aching and bleeding, he still sometimes felt those pangs of physical attraction.
Maybe Descartes and Ryle were right. Maybe the mind and body were separate entities.
Or maybe they weren’t, and Finney was just fucked in the head.
“It doesn’t matter. It didn’t give you the right to do those things to me.”
The Grabber blinked, eyes mirroring Finney’s surprise. Since when did he grow a spine?
“It means I know what’s best for you,” the Grabber said carefully. The grip over Finney’s hand grew tighter. “I knew you wanted me, just like how I wanted you.”
Although it was difficult, Finney stuck his chin up and met the Grabber’s deep blue eyes. “Liking how someone looks doesn’t mean you automatically want to have sex with them. And having sex with someone doesn’t mean you have to love them.”
And not having sex with someone doesn’t always mean you don’t love them. Like me and Donna…
“They’re all linked,” the Grabber argued. “You’re just too young and immature to realize it.”
“Then what about you and Kathy?”
That finally got the Grabber to break his gaze, and Finney cheered inwardly at the small victory. “That’s a completely different situation.”
“How?” pressed Finney, not willing to give up the advantage.
“It just is,” the Grabber snapped. Then, after a moment of silence, added. “I did love her, just in a different way than I do with you. We never should have married, but I was young and stupid, and this was before the pill, and, well, let’s just say mistakes were made and leave it at that.”
“...Cindy?” Finney guessed, hesitant.
The Grabber sighed unhappily. “Yeah.”
“I saw her with a leg brace and crutches.” They were approaching the pond, and Finney couldn’t see anything ‘reallllly interesting.’
“She had polio. Some kids bounce back, but she never did, not fully.”
“Oh.” In retrospect, it should have been obvious, but Finney assumed she was simply a victim of the Grabber’s rage. “What happened to her?”
“She died.”
‘Sorry,’ was on the tip of Finney’s tongue despite the Grabber’s nonchalance, but what slipped out instead was, “Did you kill her?”
The Grabber’s hand finally withdrew. “Just because I killed other kids, you’re assuming I killed my own?”
He was in dangerous waters, but curiosity steered his mind as they started walking around the pond. “Did you?”
“That's none of your business,” the Grabber snapped. Finney took that as a ‘yes,’ though whether the death was intentional or simply a byproduct of negligence, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t care what you, Gwen, and the police say—I was a good father. Better than your dad, at any rate.”
Finney knew the last line was an attempt to regain control of the situation and put Finney back on the defensive. He wouldn’t fall for the bait, but knew it was in his best interest to defuse the situation. “I was just curious. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
The Grabber’s posture relaxed slightly, but only slightly. “I’m not.” Bullshit. “I just don’t want to talk about them now. This isn’t what normal people talk about on dates.”
Finney stifled a laugh of disbelief. Absolutely nothing about this situation was normal. The Grabber’s attempt at normalcy reminded Finney of the ghost world’s attempts to replicate the earthly realm. There was something fundamentally off and artificial about it, like watching actors in a play instead of regular people. “It’s not’s not weird to ask about”—wait, what were they? Not partners, not boyfriends, not lovers, so what could he call them?—”a person’s family on a date.”
“Not if it makes everything gloomy,” he grumbled childishly.
“...Did you really hate marriage that much?” Finney asked, slightly hesitant. “One time I saw you, you seemed upset, but the other time, you seemed happy.”
The Grabber was quiet for a moment, looking at two swans drifting across the lake. “I was happy, sometimes. Especially in the beginning. I thought everything in my life was coming together. But life has a habit of pulling the rug when you least expect it.” Don’t I know it… “If Cindy lived, she’d be in her thirties now.” He paused, likely realizing he could have theoretically been a grandfather. “Fuck, I really am old.”
That thought took the wind out of the Grabber’s sails, and the loop around the lake was generally quiet. Finney didn’t want to play into the Grabber’s hand by asking what they were looking for, but he didn’t have to. He saw it soon enough.
Far off in the distance, standing next to the pond was…himself. Himself as he looked at age ten, with sloppy curls and an oversized white T-shirt, hands stuffed with the remains of a bread roll from the Grab’N’Go. He broke the bread into tiny pieces, a grin spreading across his face as ducks waddled towards him.
The younger Finney was no stranger to loss or sadness even back then, but he still managed to look so…unguarded. So innocent. So oblivious to the pain that would await him an hour later, let alone what he would endure in the coming years.
Finney hated him.
“That’s what I’ve been waiting for,” the Grabber murmured, lecherous eyes sparkling with fondness as he strolled closer to the younger boy. Finney trailed after him. “I see you here a lot. Sometimes you’re by yourself, sometimes with Gwenny, sometimes with your mom, or the whole family…But you’re always happy. I love hearing you laugh, and seeing your beautiful smile.”
Such expressions of happiness were a novelty coming from Finney—at least to the Grabber. But Finney was only half-paying attention as he watched his younger counterpart fidget in excitement as a mother duck and ducklings glided across the water in formation to reach him. He remembered this day, how he had a bunch of chores but couldn’t focus because he kept thinking about Mom, and abandoned them in favor of going to his and Mom’s “favorite spot.” It was stupid, selfish decision, and Terrence was right to take him to task for it. He should have been doing something productive, instead of attracting animals like a Disney princess.
But when the Grabber stood next to the younger Finney, the older one’s stomach lurched at how tiny he looked compared to the towering man. “You’re so precious, Finney~”
The Grabber reached out to caress the oblivious boy’s hair.
“Stop it.”
The Grabber glanced up with a jolt before making contact. The sheer venom in Finney’s voice surprised both of them.
“...Alright,” the Grabber agreed, after a pause. He curled his fingers inward, one-by-one, before reluctantly heading back towards the street.
Finney didn’t look back as he followed, leaving the younger boy in the distant memory where he belonged.
****
The second stop on the list was the downtown area of Galesburg to “get a bite to eat.” Fruit stalls and vendors weren’t an unusual sight, but nothing came close to the sheer extent of them during the Galesburg Summer and Winter Fairs. Finney wondered if it was coincidence, or if the Grabber purposely managed to bring him to a shadow of Galesburg’s busiest times of the year. Regardless, viewing the fairs through the lens of the ghost world was an odd experience.
For one, the mixing scents of strawberries, gingerbread, cherries, cinnamon, and tangerines indicated he was in the midst of both seasonal festivals, a conclusion quickly confirmed by a woman and children applying suntan lotion while standing next to a stall selling Christmas ornaments.
The second irregularity was the lack of sound. Before the Grabber, Galesburg was considered a generally peaceful and quiet town, with the fairs being the most eventful parts of the year. Music, laughter, squeals, and chatter always reverberated throughout the streets, and seeing phantom figures move their mouths with no sounds contributed to the overwhelming sense of wrongness.
And then there were the colors. The first thing that always came to Finney’s mind when thinking about the fairs was brightness, the bright colors of fruit, baked goods, crafts, embroidery, collectibles, artwork, and anything else being sold, even in the chill of December. But now, aside from the (“overpriced,” in Terrence’s opinion) lemons, bananas, and pineapples, the fair lacked the same zest with these muted, washed-out colors.
And finally, there was the man next to him, whose presence always made everything seem different and wrong.
“I have a story about this place I think you’ll like~” The Grabber’s tone was lilting, mischievous, and it took all Finney’s willpower not to roll his eyes.
“I doubt it.”
The Grabber continued on as if he didn’t hear him. “It’s about your friend Matt. But I know him as Matty.”
Finney’s posture grew rigid.“He’s not my friend.” But then, after a pause, asked, “How did you know him?”
“I came here to get your Christmas present. Remember that?”
“Yeah.” Finney recalled the deep, dark blue fleece blanket with a moon and star patterns weaved into the fabric. It was warm and soft and he spent two weeks snuggling into it before the Grabber snatched it away for some perceived slight Finney couldn’t remember. I wonder if it’s still somewhere in the house…
“His mom was working some kind of adoption event for the local animal shelter, and Matty was helping her out. I went over to donate, and when I did, that little minx wouldn’t stop flirting with me. And, well, I can’t say I wasn’t charmed. He had me wrapped around his little finger. It’s true!” the Grabber insisted after looking at Finney’s expression. “To be honest, Finney, I didn’t think it was going to work out between us. I hoped it would, but after five false-hopes I was a tad pessimistic. And I was so smitten by little Matty that I planned on taking him into my basement after you.”
Two thoughts sprang into Finney's mind in quick succession. The first was disappointment it didn’t happen and bitterness that Matt would never know what Finney’s suffering felt like. The second was pure horror and self-loathing that he was an awful enough person to think that.
The Grabber misinterpreted Finney’s expression. “Aww, I didn’t mean to make you jealous. He’s old news, pumpkin. The only reason I thought about him was because I saw him in your school.”
“I’m not jealous,” Finney said as evenly as possible, knowing the more he protested, the more rooted in delusions the Grabber would become.
“Whatever you say, kiddo.” He winked, but Finney didn’t take the bait and continued onward.
Finney normally enjoyed the fair, but this warped reflection unnerved him so much, he wanted to get the fuck out as soon as possible. Memories of the last time he came here—with Donna—gave him a stab of longing that was apparent on his face. When the Grabber inquired what was wrong, Finney answered honestly, leaving his captor miffed.
Perhaps for this reason, the Grabber decided they should pick something to eat now, before they headed to the movie. He dipped his hand into one of the fruit bins and held out a pomegranate. “Here. We can’t go to a restaurant, so this might be the next best thing.”
Finney took the fruit and ran his fingers along the bumpy, dark red skin. The fruity aroma tickled his nose, and while he wasn’t particularly hungry, he wasn’t full either. He didn’t think about eating until the Grabber mentioned it. “How can we eat if we’re ghosts?”
“I don’t know,” the Grabber replied through a mouthful of chews. Finney looked up, surprised to see the Grabber wearing only the top part of his mask as dug his hands into the bin and brought another cherry to his lips. “Maybe we’re not eating anything. But it feels like we are. Either way, it tastes good. A lot of food here tastes like shit, but fruits are the few things that stay the same.”
“If we take the fruits, does that mean they disappear in the real world?” asked Finney, fingers curling over the pomegranate as the Grabber devoured another cherry.
“No. This world exists on top of the other one, I think. What we’re seeing here reflects what’s happening there, but they’re the same thing. So you can stop philosophizing and start eating.”
Finney brought the pomegranate to his mouth, then paused. Faint memories of a myth his mother told him years ago whispered at the back of his mind, a story of how the god of the dead grew infatuated with a young goddess and abducted her, dragging her down to his underground kingdom and forcing her to be his wife. When she finally escaped, she was doomed to return to the underworld every year since she ate the fruit of the underworld—six pomegranate seeds. Reunions with her family were bittersweet, as the inevitability of her fate—and eventual reunion with her captor—haunted her mind even in the warm summer months.
“I’m not hungry,” Finney murmured, placing the fruit back in its bin. When Finney’s gaze returned back to the Grabber, the man’s mask returned to how it looked before: grinning bottom piece with no top. The Grabber tilted his head.
“There’s no trick to this, Finney,” he said softly. “I don’t need to do that. You’ll be with me, anyway. I just want you to eat and feel good. That’s all.”
“I just want to go,” said Finney tersely. Recalling myths about the underworld reminded him of Cerberus, the three-headed monstrous guardian dog, and the river of lost memories. Though the goal of Finney’s date was to find Gwen and Max, he was keenly aware that every minute increased his chances of danger. He needed to get out of here.
The Grabber was quiet for a moment, then gestured to the streets on the left. “Fine. We’ll go.”
“The theater’s the other way,” protested Finney.
But the Grabber was already walking in the other direction. “We’re taking a little detour first.”
“I’m sorry,” said Finney, shivering at the cold chill in the Grabber’s tone.
He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just sucked it up until the Grabber brought him to Gwen.
“I know. I’m not mad.” Despite the claim, he didn’t sound happy, either. “But there’s something I want to show you.”
On that suitably ominous note, they continued walking down the street until they reached an area with picnic benches. The Grabber pointed to a table, and Finney froze.
He saw Donna. Or at least, he thought it was her. She had the same long black hair and hazel eyes, and Finney’s first assumption was he was seeing a scene from the future. But the suede-knee high boots and denim miniskirt, combined with a peasant blouse and floral circlet indicated a bygone era. The auburn-haired woman across from her was similarly dressed and slurping a milkshake.
“Meet Meadow, the slut Donna spawned from.”
Fighting the impulse to tell him off, Finney moved closer, and the words on their lips reached Finney's ears.
“—us stay?” the copper-haired woman with the braided hair asked, eyes gleaming. “Me, River, and Starshine, and then Aster when he gets out of jail.”
Meadow traced the tip of her cup with her finger absentmindedly. “Leaf isn’t the problem. It’s his brother, Al.” (“Leaf was Max’s dumb hippie name,” the Grabber murmured before Finney could ask) “He’s already ticked off that we’re crashing and he’s about as welcoming as a rattlesnake. It’ll take a bit of time to wear him down. You should see it, Harmony. He despises me.”
The words were at odds with her gleeful tone and growing smirk. Harmony shook her head, looking as perturbed as Finney felt. “Don’t push it, Meadow. Men are nuttier than fruitcakes, especially when it comes to girls.”
She smiled and brought the glass of water to her lips. “I like danger. It’s kind of thrilling, playing around with a man who could do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”
Finney’s eyes unconsciously drifted towards the Grabber, who—for once—wasn’t looking at Finney. Instead, his eyes locked onto Meadow with an indecipherable expression. Harmony’s next words echoed what Finney wished he could say to her. “Imagining something in your mind is different from it happening in real life. You’re not going to be happy when—”
Meadow rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop being such a killjoy,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. “I can handle it.”
Harmony rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She took a sip of her milkshake. “I just don’t get why your mind’s in la-la land over him. Isn’t he gay? You said he had gay vibes.”
“Aren't you straight?” said Meadow, wagging her eyebrows flirtatiously.
Harmony blushed and laughed. “Oh my god, that was one time. It doesn’t count.”
“Well. I assumed he was since I saw him leaving the Cat’s Cradle with a man. Plus, I haven’t caught him staring at these beauties”—she pointed to her breasts—”but then I saw a picture of his wife, and that girl was stacked like Marilyn. So he might just be immune at this point.”
“And God forbid a man doesn’t want to fuck Ruth Evans,” chuckled Harmony, shaking her head. “He must be either gay or tit-immune. That’s the only explanation.”
“It’s Meadow now,” she corrected, pouting. “And listen, I’m not saying he isn’t a friend of Dorothy, just that he’s willing to straddle the fence. I know for a fact he boiled this college girl’s cabbage, the one who was killed by her boyfriend. Anna something.”
“Jesus. You think that’s why he’s all bitter and weird?”
“Doubt it. He doesn’t seem to care about anything. Not in a positive way, at least. He looks at me with this intense, smoldering gaze and I just…” She sighed dreamily, causing Harmony to roll her eyes and Finney to die on the inside. “Like I said, he hates me. And you can’t have hate without passion.”
“Is Leaf okay with this?” Harmony asked bluntly. “You wanting to fuck his brother? Does he even know?”
Meadow’s lips pursed. “Does it matter? He doesn’t own me. I told him from the start that free love means free love. If he doesn’t want to dip his dick in anyone else then it’s his choice, but that doesn’t mean I have to do the same. I’m not some dull little housewife.”
“Welllll, I wouldn’t speak too soon,” Harmony smirked. “I heard from River that Leaf wants to marry you.”
That finally cracked the facade of self-confidence. Meadow shrank into her seat slightly, tiny splotches of red appearing on her cheeks. She fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “Leaf’s impulsive and isn’t thinking things through. I’m not the kind of girl someone picks for a wife,” she mumbled. “He’s going to realize that soon and abandon me, so why shouldn’t I spread my net in the meantime?”
“You know what I think?” mused Harmony. “I think you’re scared of commitment and are purposely trying to sabotage your relationship. That’s why you’re getting hot and heavy over a man who’s objectively a worse fit for you in every conceivable area.”
The flush on her face grew brighter. “That’s not why.”
“It’s either that, or your daddy issues acting up again. Or a combination of both.”
“Oh my god, Al’s not even old enough to be my dad,” she groaned. “I mean, technically yes, but he’d have to have me super young. We’re talking middle school, like—”
“Alright, Finney, we’ve seen enough of this degeneracy.”
The Grabber took Finney’s wrist and guided him back to the main street before asking, “Do you know why I wanted you to see her?”
He did. Throughout the course of the conversation, pieces of information that he knew of individually came together, and he felt like an idiot for not piecing them together before.
Meadow was Donna’s mother.
According to Max, Meadow was the love of his life.
But Meadow was interested in Al.
And Donna didn’t know who her father was.
But she heard a voice on the phone claiming to be the Grabber.
And if it really was the Grabber, then that narrowed the pool of potential fathers tremendously.
“A-are you her—” Finney swallowed; it was tremendously difficult to verbalize thus thought—”...father?”
The Grabber was quiet for a moment, and Finney couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes. “I might be.” Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. “Or it might be Max. Either way, it’s one of us. Probably.”
To Finney’s credit, the tears in his eyes didn’t fall. But his feelings must be evident on his face, because the Grabber’s eyes softened. “I know you think you love her, Finney. But you don’t. You love me, deep down, even if you don’t want to admit it. I know you more than you know yourself.”
“You don’t know shit,” Finney spat, impact diminished somewhat by the tears leaking from his eyes. “Everything in your mind gets twisted. Matt never flirted with you. I—I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. You—you—hurt me and Donna n-never—no. She’s not your kid. There’s no way. She’s nothing like you.”
“She’s more of a chip off the ol’ block than you think. But there’s no need to be embarrassed, sweet thing,” The Grabber walked closer and caressed Finney’s hair, causing more tears to fall. “Didn’t you admit you liked the way I looked?”
“That’s not the same as liking you!” shouted Finney in frustration. He fought the urge to start scratching his arms. “I don’t—I don’t get why…why do you think what I feel for Donna is fake?”
“Because what you feel for me is real. Y’see, after I died, all your feelings had to go somewhere, and since I wasn’t around and she reminded you of me, your feelings got displaced onto her.”
“There’s so much wrong with that, I d—okay, first off, she doesn’t remind me of you,” Finney argued, wiping his eyes. “And I liked her before I even knew who you were.”
“Did you want to have sex with her back then?”
Although Finney was accustomed to invasive questions, this one made him flush. “...No.”
When he was thirteen, he thought about cuddling, handholding, and kissing. And, admittedly, Donna in a swimsuit. But he never really thought about genuinely having sex. That was always some nebulous concept of what adults and older kids did, at least until he was forced to grow up too early.
“Exactly. But you want to have sex with her now, right?”
Finney bit his lip. “Sometimes,” he answered truthfully. “It’s hard to say, because whenever I think about it, I always think about u—”
Shame and self-loathing took possession of him. “It’s alright, love,” the Grabber soothed, cupping Finney’s cheek. “Everything keeps coming back to me for a reason. Your mouth might’ve said no, but your heart and this”—his hand drifted lower and lower until it reached between Finney’s legs, and an explosion of terror and memories shot through Finney as the man began to caress—”always said yes.”
The Grabber’s other hand gripped his shoulder, preventing movement. But even without it, Finney couldn't have run. His mind sputtered and froze, reminiscent of how the car stopped abruptly before the accident. The warm, throbbing sensation developing was enough to shake him to reality. “I never liked any of it!”
“Hmm, looks like part of you doesn’t agree...”
A fresh wave of tears began to trickle. He didn’t know why he acted so combative earlier. The Grabber looked just as tall and imposing as he did three years ago, and Finney felt just as weak. “Just stop….please…”
“Now you want me to stop? That’s interesting. You know, despite your whining, I distinctly recall you telling me you liked it.”
Finney knew what he was referring to, and a lump grew in his throat. The Grabber purposely left out key bits of context, but the memory of that degradation was seared into his mind. “You made me say it. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Of course you did. You said it because you wanted me to give you that sweet release. You could have chosen not to.”
“I was thirteen,” he whispered. “I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t want any of this.”
“But you understand now.” The sensation grew more pleasurable, more intense as the Grabber’s fingers kept busy. “Say it, Finney.”
Finney felt himself being dragged to the precipice, but bit his lip.
“You’re the only one losing out.”
God, this was difficult.
“Saaay it~”
“I—”
“Hmm? You need to be louder.”
“I—”
“Louder!”
“I hate you.”
Then, with all his strength, Finney brought back his fist and punched the Grabber square in the nuts. He sprinted as fast as he could, howls of rage echoing through the streets.
****
Finney did not get far before the Grabber found him.
“I outta kill you for that,” he snarled, grasping the boy’s throat in a headlock. The bottom piece of his mask was frowning. “Gut you like a fish, again and again and again, ‘till you’re begging me to stop like the whiny little shit you are.”
If he wanted to talk, he couldn’t. But despite the fears brewing in him and instinctive disappointment regarding his lost pleasure, he felt a swelling of pride at the rare victory over his captor.
Mistaking his inability to talk as compliance, the Grabber loosened his grip, allowing the child to collapse on the ground.
“But I get it,” the Grabber continued, voice less venomous but still cold. “Big news and all. Could be tough to handle.”
“What news?”
The Grabber cocked his head to the side and was quiet for a moment. “Do you remember why you’re here?”
Finney went over events from earlier that he could recall. “To see a movie?”
He knew there had to be more to it, that there was something important he should be doing, but whatever it was eluded him.
Despite the frown, the Grabber’s eyes lit up. “Exactly. Good boy, Finney.”
Hearing the praise made him feel proud and undeserving, but also irritated. He was a thirteen-year old boy, not a dog.
He followed the Grabber as the man strode in greater spirit towards the direction of the Phoenix Theater, smaller legs struggling to keep up.
“Before you took off, I was going to end my speech by saying that you must have liked it. If you didn’t, then I wouldn’t be here. But you called to me. We’re linked, forever, and always will be.”
He tried not to look as confused as he felt. What did the man mean by ‘calling?’ Was he talking about the black phone?
As far as Finney could recall, the Grabber kept him in the sparsely-decorated basement for his whole life. He wasn’t sure if the man was his father, or if Finney had real parents who gave him up to the Grabber, perhaps the price of some sort of bargain like in the fairy tale “Rapunzel.” But like the maiden in the tower, Finney chafed against his captivity, longing for freedom.
Which is why it was odd that the Grabber was letting him walk on the streets now.
“Are you listening to me?” his captor demanded, grabbing and squeezing Finney’s forearm with more force than required. Finney nodded rapidly, biting his lip to prevent a cry of pain from escaping. “I don’t think you are.”
With his other hand, The Grabber delivered a sharp smack on Finney’s backside, and the cry slipped out. “I am listening! I–I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About why you’re letting me leave the basement,” he mumbled, silently praying this wouldn’t go any further. “You never did that before.”
After a pause, the Grabber released his grip, and Finney rubbed his shoulder and scooted a few inches away. “Because there’s nowhere for you to run. This is the afterlife. Wherever you go, I can always find you.”
Right, the Grabber was dead. Finney twisted the cord around his neck and snapped. The memory filled him with several conflicting emotions.
The Grabber peered at him curiously. “...Why did you kill me?”
“Because I wanted to leave,” Finney answered honestly.
“But why?” The Grabber’s wounded, vulnerable expression served a sharp contrast with earlier brutality. “I took care of you. I gave you everything you needed.”
Finney’s gaze fell to his sneakers, and he buried his hands inside his pockets. “The stuff we did made me feel bad,” he mumbled. Then, to stave off the inevitable rebuttal, quickly added, “Not always with my body, but inside. In my…feelings, I guess. In my heart.” And soul, he wanted to add, but that sounded too corny.
Finney was glad he couldn’t see the Grabber’s expression, but heard the pain in the man’s voice when he lamented, “It’s because of that girl. She messed with your head and now you’re all confused. But we’ll fix that. I promise. You’re going to be happy with me, I know it."
Part of him wanted to ask who the girl was, but before he did, his fingers brushed against something in his pockets. He pulled his hand out and furrowed his brows: it was a small, folded piece of paper.
But before he could read it, the Grabber snatched it from his hands and shoved it into his black trousers. “Enough distractions. We have a movie to see.”
When he dared glance up at the Grabber again, the upper-half of the man’s face was still unobscured, but the smiling bottom-piece replaced the frown. That was a good sign.
Still, Finney didn’t ask for the paper back. He’d been hurt enough already.
****
“Do you have a ticket?”
The man at the ticket counter glanced between Finney and the Grabber, grumpy yet expectant.
Unlike Finney, the Grabber seemed nonplussed by someone addressing them. “No.”
The man sighed. “To the left.”
The Grabber followed the instructions, and though Finney felt the impulse to do…something (ask for help? Ask how he could see them?) the possibility of being lost caused Finney to trail after his captor like a duckling.
“Who was that?” hissed Finney as they passed various posters. Some he recognized, others he didn’t. “Is he another ghost?”
“Probably. Poor fella has to deal with the double-punch of looking unremarkable and spending his afterlife working this minimum wage job.”
Now that the Grabber mentioned it, Finney couldn’t recall any particular details of the man’s appearance. White skin with brown hair? Or maybe the hair had a reddish tint?
“I didn’t see a path to the right,” mused Finney. “Just a blank wall.”
“Sometimes ghosts go through the motions of their old life and don’t realize they’re dead. Like that guy. Every damn time I come here he always bitches about tickets, and I ignore him.”
“Like Bruce,” Finney remembered. The Grabber looked down on him curiously, and Finney instantly regretted saying anything.
“What do you mean?”
“When Bruce called in the, um, basement, he kept repeating something he said when he was alive,” Finney murmured, diverting eye contact to a poster for London After Midnight.
What Bruce said though, Finney couldn’t recall.
“...Oh.” The Grabber didn’t say anymore else as they entered one of the theaters. Finney’s gaze was on the floor so he didn’t see the name of the movie playing. It was only after they sat in the empty theater that Finney belatedly realized this might be some kind of porno.
“What movie are we watching?”
“It’s a silent film,” the Grabber said. “You’re going to need to read the title cards. I know literature isn’t your forte, but I'll explain anything you don’t understand.”
Finney clenched his jaw, but didn’t argue. “...Okay.”
“Popcorn tastes like shit here, otherwise I'd get you some. But we c—oh, it’s starting.”
Finney peered behind him to see if the grumpy young man from earlier was setting up the film reel, but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. When the title card appeared, Finney stifled a groan. The King in Yellow. No doubt a result of the Grabber’s twisted sense of humor.
Finney had no preconceptions about the story beyond the Grabber’s vague summary and distant memories of a poem. But as the film unfolded, Finney was able to piece together some semblance of a plot. The story took place during the final days of the kingdom Carcosa, the two protagonists being sister-princesses named Camilla and Cassilda. They feared the arrival of an entity called the King in Yellow, but planned a masquerade ball for…reasons. As the Grabber expected, Finney had difficulty following along, though there was no way he’d ever admit it out loud. It wasn’t his fault really—sometimes the title cards would show up on the screen with no text, and there were scenes where the characters would stand still for extended periods of time, causing Finney to wonder if there was a problem with the film reel. Music was conspicuously absent, which was unusual for a silent film where music played a role in establishing ambiance. What was more unusual was that with every scene change, Finney quickly began to forget what happened in the previous one, as though his mind were a bowl unable to contain the amount of water poured into it.
Though the plot was near-incomprehensible, the special effects were surprisingly decent for the time period. Black stars hung in the sky, shadows lengthened during tense scenes, and the twin suns reminded Finney of a desert planet in a galaxy far, far away.
Getting lost in the world of Carcosa granted Finney a momentary reprieve from thinking about his captivity, the mysterious girl, whatever important thing he forgot, and the demon sitting next to him. A knot in his stomach tightened as he followed the characters on screen, battling an overwhelming sense of disquiet as though the fears of the characters transferred into him.
These feelings crescendoed during the masquerade ball scene, where Camilla’s hands weaved into those of a Stranger in a pallid mask. “You, sir, should unmask.”
The Stranger cocked his head to the side. Finney studied the mask, transfixed; despite its simplicity, every time he focused on it, he noticed something new. And whenever the camera focused on another character, all those details would vanish from his mind. “Indeed?”
Cassilda pushed her way through the crowds to join her sister and the Stranger. “Indeed it's time. We have all laid aside disguise but you".
The camera lingered on the crowd for a solid minute, and Finney clutched the fabric of his shirt. Then, the camera zoomed in on the Stranger and another title card popped up. “I wear no mask.”
There was a close-up of Camilla’s eyes, radiating terror. She whispered into the ear of her dark-haired sister, “No mask? No mask!”
Both girls clutched each other’s hands and cried. They cried for a long, long time before turning in the direction of the audience.
At first their eyes were blank and empty. Then, a few seconds later, their lips contorted into a smile. But it wasn’t a natural smile—it was forced, as though mimicked by someone incapable of making the expression. “You, sir, should unmask,” Camilla echoed.
“Indeed it’s time,” Cassilda agreed, holding out her palms.
The title card flickered blank for several seconds before switching to one with text. “Remember who you love. Remember you are loved.”
When the card dropped, the ballroom appeared ancient, abandoned, and decrepit. There were only three people remaining: the Stranger, flanked by the two princesses, each holding one of his hands and looking in Finney’s direction.
Or at least, Finney thought they were holding hands with the Stranger. He knew, logically, he was watching the movie, but couldn’t process any of it. He didn’t know what the mask looked like, didn’t know how tall he was or what outfit he wore. He only knew there was something on that screen, something his mind refused to allow in.
Finney assumed his tolerance for creepy shit was higher than the average person’s. But even he had his limits, and right now the line had been crossed. Leaning over, he mumbled, “I want to go.”
“Why? Is this too much for you?”
There was a slight taunt in the Grabber’s voice, but Finney didn’t care. Even though the person next to him was—in many ways—scarier, he said, “Yeah.”
The Grabber sighed theatrically, but stood up. “Fine. Let’s get you out of here.”
Finney felt the eyes of a masked figure boring into his back as they left. But which masked figure it was, he couldn’t tell.
****
“Being dead has its perks. We never would’ve been able to see that film otherwise.”
“What a shame that would have been,” grumbled Finney as they continued walking…somewhere. Where they were going, the Grabber wouldn’t say.
Despite the jittery restlessness drumming inside him, Finney regained a slight confidence boost seeing the theater worker tipping his hat towards Finney as they left. He wasn’t as cantankerous as he seemed, really. It reminded Finney that there were other people out there besides himself and the Grabber.
It also reignited the belief that there was something—no, someone, or a couple of someones—that he should be remembering.
“I don’t appreciate your sass, but yes, it would have been. The last copy was burned up in that MGM vault fire in the sixties, and not many copies existed to begin with, given the controversy.” Finney did not know, and didn’t care enough to ask, but the Grabber supplied that information anyway. “Offing yourself was a taboo topic back in the ‘20s.”
Finney’s brows furrowed. He didn’t recall any mentions of suicide in the movie, but then again, he couldn’t focus. “What was the other reason?”
The Grabber’s eyes glimmered with glee. “A guy in London killed a woman and said it was because he saw Burke standing in the corner, speaking to him. He said Burke possessed him to commit the act.”
“Who’s Burke?”
The Grabber shook his head, disappointed. “Finney, you really didn’t pay attention at all, did you? Burke was Lon Chaney’s character, the detective investigating Belfour’s murder. He was the one who dressed in the top hat and hypnotized Sir James into reenacting the crime.”
None of these characters or events sounded familiar. Goosebumps crept over Finney’s skin. “I thought you wanted me to see The King in Yellow? The characters and Carcosa and the two suns and everything…”
“Is that why you’re so grouchy right now?” Finney nodded, tentatively hoping to make some sense of what was happening. “Awww, sorry kiddo, but there’s no movie. There can’t be. In the book, it’s a fictional play. That means it doesn’t really exist.”
“I know what the word fiction means!” snapped Finney, trying to reign in his wild thoughts and stave off the growing panic. Assuming the Grabber wasn’t bullshitting (which was a likely possibility), whatever Finney saw on the screen was different from what the Grabber saw. Similar to how he smelled things and heard things that Gwen didn’t.
Wait, who’s Gwen?
Misreading Finney’s contemplative expression, the Grabber said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
That would be interesting, because Finney had no idea what the hell he was thinking. His mind felt like pudding. “What?”
“You’re wondering if this”—he pointed to his sculpted grin—”was inspired by London After Midnight. But it wasn’t. I was actually thinking of this movie called The Man Who Laughs. Maybe I’ll show it to you next time.”
‘Next time.’ Ugh…
Finney couldn’t let that slide. “There’s no next time. I only came with you to...to save someone. I think. I didn’t want to come.”
If the Grabber was perturbed by Finney’s minor memory reclamation, he didn’t let it show.
“Still, you came. Not that I expected otherwise. I can always get you to come.” He winked.
God, just kill me now.
Finney glared and tried to ignore the blush heating his cheeks. “Who’s Gwen? Is she the person I wanted to save?”
“You don’t remember?” the Grabber taunted smugly. “Guess she’s not that important. You remember everything about me though, right? Everything about us?”
“I just w—”
Finney snapped his mouth shut as low, rumbling guttural growl echoed in the distance, terror piercing through Finney’s heart.
He knew that sound.
“Looks like our old friend’s back,” the Grabber hummed cheerfully.
“W-why…How is your dog here?”
The Grabber eyed Finney curiously. “Samson? Is that what you hear?”
A bark, faint but deep, caused Finney to jump. Yes, there was no doubt this was the sound that plagued his dreams. Samson. Cerberus. Guardians of dark, underground kingdoms preventing the escape of lost souls. Whatever it was, it was coming after him. “Is he going to bite me?”
The Grabber’s eyes softened at the childlike innocence of the question. Finney didn’t think it was that unreasonable—he couldn’t die twice, right?
(Did I even die once?)
“No,” the Grabber said, hand resting on the silver bracelet embracing his wrist. He slipped it off. “I don’t know if you remember this, but I told you a while ago that we’re linked, like a pair of handcuffs.”
Finney stared at the bracelet in the man’s hands. Then, he realized with dawning horror what the Grabber expected him to do.
“I-I’m not putting that on,” sputtered Finney, taking a few steps back. No. No fucking way.
“You have to, if you want to stay safe,” the Grabber explained. “I’m one of the dead, but you aren’t. Wearing this can mask the scent, so to speak.”
“I’m not doing it,” Finney repeated, mind fritzing. Though he knew, logically, he’d done far more intimate things, the idea of wearing the Grabber’s bracelet bothered him on a different level. He didn’t want to feel…claimed. Didn’t want to wear a symbol of their ‘bond,’ like some profane wedding ring.
“Finney—”
“No,” yelled Finney, another spike of terror stabbing him as the doglike growl reverberated in the distance, a tad louder than last time. “I bet this won’t even help. This is just you wanting an ego trip.”
The Grabber pinched and twisted Finney’s tricep, ignoring Finney’s cry of protest. “This will help, naughty boy. Don’t be stubborn.”
“No,” he whispered, voice breaking and eyes falling downwards. “I won’t do it. I can’t.”
“You said earlier that I’m always on your mind, that you can’t forget me. What does that say about us? About you?” He tilted Finney’s chin up, and the boy saw the older man’s blue eyes shining with adoration. “I love you, Finney. No one else does. And no one loves me either, except you. We’re meant for one another. Remember that.”
It sounded so pure, so romantic, when he said it.
But was it true?
Did the Grabber really love him? Did he love the Grabber?
‘Remember who you love. Remember you are loved.’
Words from the play pushed to the forefront of his mind. Like a dam breaking, a torrent of memories flooded into Finney’s mind.
He remembered who he loved. He remembered who loved him.
From the way the Grabber’s eyes narrowed, he knew it too.
Another bark, this time much louder, reverberated through the empty town. Finney took a few steps like a lost, ungainly fawn, then found his footing and began to run.
“No matter where you go, I'll always find you,” the Grabber drawled, voice fading. “You can never leave me behind.”
Finney didn't doubt it, but didn’t stop running.
****
Notes:
Big shout-out to taytayloulou, who somehow managed to guess that Donna was (possibly) Al’s daughter waaaay back in Chapter 8! Congrats!
And the picture at the end of the chapter is a drawing of the King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers.
Chapter 23: Sisyphus
Notes:
TW: There’s a mention of implied abortion in this chapter, and a scene of domestic violence.
Chapter Text
Much like three years ago, Finney sprinted as fast as his feeble legs could take him. He had no idea where he was going, adrenaline and hysteria piloting him through the inky depths of unfamiliar streets as he fled from his pursuer. He passed stores, trees, and houses. Lots and lots of houses. More houses than existed in Galesburg.
Several thoughts pulsed in Finney’s mind as he darted down the streets. Why was he weak enough to let the Grabber touch him again? Why did he still look and feel thirteen, even after regaining his memories? Why could he see things in this world that others couldn’t? Were his feelings for Donna real, or were they simply the result of a poisoned mind? Did his stupidity doom Gwen? Would he ever see any of his loved ones again?
Eventually, Finney’s legs slowed to a walk. Despite the loudening howls and growls of Cerberus, the panic drumming inside burst and dissipated into a dull, familiar lethargy that spread throughout his body. Though he knew he should care what happened to him, he couldn’t. It was as though he was disconnected from his body, an outsider observing a performance in a play.
He felt much like how he did in the basement and many nights after: a spirit inhabiting a hollow shell. Or ‘ghost in the machine,’ as Mr. Clarkson called it. And in this moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to fade away.
“‘Atta boy, Finney! You’re doing great.”
Terrence’s voice sliced through Finney’s misery like a knife. Jerking his head upright, Finney spotted Terrence on the opposite side of the street—younger, fresh-faced, and clean-shaven, sporting an encouraging grin that existed only in memories. Next to him on a tiny bicycle was five-year old Finney, pedaling furiously as sloppy red curls bounced against his shoulders. Terrence’s face lacked the age lines etched by life’s burdens, and the light in Finney’s eyes had not yet been extinguished.
The bike began to wobble and within a couple seconds, the younger boy toppled over, scraping his knees on the cement. His bottom lip trembled while Terrence jogged over to him. “Daaadddyyy….it hurts really bad.”
“That’s just a little scratch, kiddo. We’ll wash it out and put on a Band-Aid when we get home. C’mon, hold those tears in….pick yourself up…. and—there we go! Good boy, Finney.” Terrence reached out and ruffled Finney’s hair, and the younger boy smiled in spite of his teary eyes and shaky posture. “That's my tough little man. See? Everything’s fine.”
Determined to prove Terrence’s confidence was not misplaced, the younger Finney’s eyes blazed with determination, repositioning himself on the bike. As the child resumed pedaling, Finney noticed the subtle wince on his face and nervous glance at the “little scratch.” Terrence didn’t.
Finney looked away, wishing he could go back to the time when scraped knees were his biggest concern. But upon averting his gaze, he reached a startling realization:
He was home.
Not 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, but his real home—2333 Newark Street.
Joy leapt into his heart. Finney raced across the street and clutched the doorknob with trembling hands. Another harsh growl couldn’t put a damper on his enthusiasm, feeling the illogical notion that the house could, somehow, protect him from the monster.
Opening the door, Finney was met with the sweet, sugary aroma of gingerbread wafting through the air and Dean Martin’s crooning through the radio. Finney took a few tentative steps forward and peeked into a scene from the past. Stockings hung over the fireplace, a miniature train circled the bottom of the well-decorated Christmas tree, a nativity scene perched atop the highest shelf, and A Charlie Brown Christmas played on the television.
“I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus,” Charlie Brown lamented. “Christmas is coming, but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel. I just don’t understand Christmas, I guess. I like getting presents, and sending Christmas cards, and decorating trees and all that. But I’m still not happy. I always end up feeling depressed.”
Though Finney could relate to the perpetual feeling of alienation, the children sitting cross-legged near the Christmas tree could not. Their focus was on playing with their toys while Terrence and Susannah nestled on the couch, smiling.
Finney sat down on a nearby chair and watched the scene with an aching fondness. God, how he missed Christmas with Mom. The holidays had a magic Terrence made no effort to recapture in the wake of her death. Gwen always tried to pick up the slack, which went into manic territory after Finney’s return from the basement. Gwen insisted on having a “make-up” Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years celebrations for the holidays Finney missed in captivity, and Terrence actually attempted cooking the food.
Thinking of Gwen was a cold reminder of his objective. Gwen. He needed to find Gwen.
He pushed himself off the couch and headed towards the bedrooms on the off-chance Gwen’s room might hold some kind of clue. Excitement fluttered inside when he heard her voice, but fell upon realizing it was another memory. Opening the door a sliver, he peered into the room and saw Gwen kneeling in front of her dollhouse, hands clasped together and gazing upward imploringly. “—the fuck? I mean, what the fuck? I asked you for help and you give me these clues that don’t mean anything. And now this morning I wake up without any dream at all? Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? You let the Grabber take Finney, right?”
Finney creaked the door shut. Frustrated and anxious at his lack of progress, he rushed back to the living room.
Terrence was sprawled out on the couch, lifting his head as Gwen creaked the front door open. She wore a white dress and cardigan, and dropped her satchel on the ground. “Hi, Dad…”
His eyes widened and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Gwenny, that was today?” Terrence exhaled and brought his palm to his forehead. “Shit…I’m sorry, sweetie.”
Gwen shrugged and kicked off her heels. “It’s fine, no big deal. Having a ceremony for eighth-graders is stupid, anyway. It’s not like we’re graduating high school.”
“No, it’s not fine,” insisted Terrence. “I should have remembered. All the shit that happened over the weekend with your brother…”
Vague memories nipped at Finney's mind, and his face flushed.
“How is he?” Gwen asked, flopping down on the couch next to Terrence.
“He’s been in his room all day, not that I blame him.Two stalkers in one year, Jesus…” Terrence sighed and shook his head. “Kid’s a magnet for crazies. I’ve been at the police station since nine in the morning and only just got home. Trying to see if we can get extra police protection on this block.”
“I’m not mad. I know that stuff’s more important,” said Gwen flippantly, clicking the remote and flipping through the television channels. “I’m just glad the police caught that loser, but I wish I had the chance to try out my pepper spr—oooh, Dallas is on! Dad, wanna watch?”
Dallas was one of the few shows Terrence enjoyed. A flash of uncertainty flickered across Terrence’s face, as though there was more to say on the tip of his tongue, more he wanted to say to his daughter.
But in the end, all he said was, “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
But as Finney’s eyes drifted from his family and towards the screen and froze. He didn’t see Dallas—he saw Gwen and Max.
They were in what Finney belatedly recognized as the cellar of 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, where Terrence took him to wash laundry long ago. Gwen was pounding on the cellar door while Max slumped against the wall, fiddling absentmindedly with a small cord.
“Gwen? Max?” called Finney, inching closer to the television. But neither showed any sign of hearing him. And to Finney’s immense relief, neither looked injured, either.
Occasionally one would gesture to items in the cellar and say something to the other, but the only sound emanating from the television was silence, and Finney couldn’t read their lips. He did, however, hear Terrence shift his position and stand up. “Crap, I forgot I was supposed to call that shrink. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes, Gwenny. Let me know what happens.”
“...Okay,” muttered Gwen as Terrence retreated to the next room. The glazed over look in Gwen’s eyes reminded him of Cindy.
Finney bit his lip. He always knew he and his problems pulled down the rest of his family like quicksand, but knowing and witnessing it firsthand were different experiences. Gwen always maintained a chipper demeanor and he was too self-absorbed to consider it might, at times, be performative.
And now she might die because of me…
That sobering realization snapped him back to action. He needed to get to the cellar.
But opening the front door now led to nothing but a brick wall. Finney groaned as he inspected the windows, which yielded the same result.
Finney hurried to his room; he had a window there, the same window the aforementioned stalker peered through when he was changing. The smell of burning ash assaulted his nose as stood outside the door, pale fingers gripping the doorknob tightly. Through the door, Finney heard the sound of muffled crying—his crying. Lord knows he’d done it enough times to recognize it. Mentally readying himself, Finney yanked open the doorknob.
But he didn’t see a window, or his bedroom at all.
Instead he saw The Basement.
Finney’s instinctive impulse was to dart backwards, but he took the creaky trek downward, invigorated by the chance to get closer to Gwen and Max. The basement looked different from all the times Finney had seen it in the past. This time, it looked neat yet lived-in, as though someone actually used the basement for its intended purpose. Tables, shelves, a television, and dusty toys peppered the room, meticulously arranged in a purposeful manner that provided a sharp contrast with the whirlwind left in the wake of the Williams’ departure. The Son of Man painting hung on the wall, though the man in the picture was absent, leaving only a floating apple behind. The only irregularities were several unlit candles on one of the tables, and a dark blue blanket placed in the center by a girl with dark hair.
This girl’s favorite color was apparently black. She wore a black shirt, choker, and boots, along with a black-and-white pleated plaid skirt and fishnet stockings. From the back, the length and color of her hair made him think of Donna, but when she tilted her head to the side that thought vanished. Panic constricted Finney’s throat as he backed up a few steps.
The dark eyeshadow and lipstick made it difficult to tell at first, but he recognized her: Cassilda, from The King in Yellow.
But how the fuck was she in this house?
The sound of someone thundering down the steps behind him caused Finney to push himself against the wall, narrowly avoiding a girl in an oversized pink sweatshirt and black leggings boundering past. Camilla. “Amaaaaandddaaaa! You need to delete some shit from the DVR. It’s almost full and I’m leaving in ten minutes and can’t miss Gossip Gi–what are you doing?”
Her copper-hair ponytail swayed side to side rhythmically as she tilted her head back and forth. Cassilda (Amanda?) sighed theatrically and folded her arms, subtly positioning herself in front of the candles. “Mom wants me to organize some stuff. I’ll be up in five minutes. You don’t want to keep Zach waiting, do you?”
Camilla ignored the taunt in Amanda’s voice and took a few curious steps forward before stepping on something. Lifting her cushy tan boots revealed a quartz crystal, and a Cheshire Cat grin spread across her face. “Oh my god, is this a seance? Did you get this idea from Supernatural?”
Amanda’s face flushed despite the heavy makeup. “No. T-this is a real-life thing people do.”
“But why?” Camilla’s grin faded, and worry shined in her eyes. It was disconcerting, seeing them act like lively, animated teenagers instead of poised, controlled princesses. “Mandy, you know what happened here, with the Grabber. Are you—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Ohhhhhh, shiiiiiiit. Please don’t tell me you want to contact him.”
Amanda put a few loose strands of black behind her ear in an attempt to regain composure and control of the conversation. “First off, we don’t know if this house actually is haunted. I’ve yet to see a single ghost, and I’ve been looking for months. Months.”
“But what if it is?” whispered Camilla, tugging the end strands of her ponytail. “Trying to contact spirits can be dangerous. Remember that TV special? That one guy said him and his girlfriend saw cups and knives being thrown around in the air, and that mom said a ghost almost killed her kid, and then someone actually did die!”
Finney suddenly felt very, very faint.
Amanda sighed in exasperation. “Brittany, I’m not an idiot. I’m taking precautions.”
Finney didn’t hear Brittany’s reply, because his legs took control once more, propelling him up the stairs despite his fritzing, faltering thoughts.
Max told him of ‘a girl named Amanda and her sister,’ and Finney assumed they were renters from before Terence bought the house. But now Finney realized they were something much worse—inhabitants from the future. And they knew someone died in this house. Something which had to happen after the Blakes bought it.
And the Grabber already told him who that person would be.
He wasn’t surprised when he saw the man from his nightmares in the living room, fingers steepled and legs crossed as he leaned back on the couch. His eyes didn’t reflect anger or smugness—only sadness.
“Am I really going to die?”
Finney’s voice was a broken whisper. The Grabber’s eyes were not without sympathy when he replied, “Yes.”
“I can’t. I—I love my sister and dad and Donna and–and I don’t want to be with you forever.” His voice cracked and trembled, but his eyes remained dry, exhausted of tears. “P-please don’t make me.”
“I can’t make you do anything, little one. And I never did, despite what you think.”
Finney closed his eyes and shook his head, numbness creeping in. “I hate you.”
When he opened them, he hoped the Grabber would have vanished, but luck wasn’t on his side and hadn’t been for a while. The Grabber stood right next to him now, eyes wounded and teary. “I know you don’t mean that. You’re upset, and when people get upset, they say things they don’t mean.”
“I do mean it. But your mind is so twisted that nothing I say will ever convince you, so this whole conversation is pointless.” Finney swallowed and turned towards the direction of the cellar, but before he made more than a few steps, the Grabber reached out and grasped his arm. The normal urge to struggle was absent; only dull resignation remained.
“You don’t mean it,” the Grabber pleaded. “And I’m the one with proof.”
Finney looked questioningly at him, and the Grabber pushed Finney’s sleeve up with his thumb. He grew still upon seeing the silver bracelet trapping his wrist. “How did—when did you put that on?”
“I didn’t need to. You put it on, or your mind did, anyway.” He placed a hand on Finney’s shoulder and used the other to lift the boy’s chin forcing Finney to make eye contact. “We’re meant to be together. You know that, deep down. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you have my bracelet. You know everything will be easier if you stop struggling, but you’re a stubborn little boy.” He caressed Finney’s chin with the pad of his thumb. “Trying to prove something to yourself, I suppose. You feel you should have fought more, so you’re overcompensating now.” Finney opened his mouth slightly to protest, but snapped it shut once the Grabber’s thumb pressed against it. “Yes, you are. It’s exhausting and unnecessary. But that’s alright. You’ll tire yourself out soon and end the act. And then, I’ll be waiting.”
The Grabber lifted his thumb from Finney’s lips, but Finney remained silent. When it became clear Finney wasn’t going to speak, the Grabber continued. “I know your visit’s been a bit…rough. Probably a lot you need to think about. Let’s find Gwen and my idiot brother and send you back. You’d like that, right?”
After a pause, Finney nodded, though he didn’t feel any joy despite the news. He didn’t feel much of anything now.
He followed the Grabber to the opposite side of the house. As they walked, they passed Finney’s room, which had the door ajar. He peeked briefly inside before immediately averting his eyes. The dead man from the basement was there, tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned. Straddling his lap was a brown-haired boy of about twelve, which Finney assumed was Albert.
“First love’s a beautiful thing,” the Grabber said wistfully, glancing at the scene. “But what we have is even stronger.”
Finney wondered if the Grabber recognized the expression in his younger counterpart’s eyes, an expression he must have seen in Finney’s countless times. But despite what the Grabber believed, Finney was not suicidal. So he kept his mouth shut and continued walking until they reached the cellar door. Banging could be heard from the other side, and when the Grabber tugged the knob, Gwen tumbled out. Aside from her incensed expression, the girl didn’t seem any worse for wear, thankfully. And as expected, Max trailed after her.
“You! Fuck you, you demented bas—” Her eyes widened up seeing her brother, and she shrieked. “Finney! What happened?”
“Holy shit, kid,” Max exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up as high as they could go. “You look like you deaged or something. Like how you looked when…y’know.”
“When I was thirteen,” Finney finished for him. He was equal parts proud and horrified by how emotionless he sounded.
“It’s alright,” the Grabber hummed, squeezing Finney's shoulder. “This is the way things should be.”
“Al, knock it off,” said Max, glancing nervously at Gwen, who trembled with silent rage. “This isn’t normal. You gotta know that, right?”
Finney felt fingernails dig deeper into his shoulder, though the Grabber’s tone was light when he said, “Finney’s mature for his age.”
Perhaps knowing the futility of arguing a line from the pedophile’s handbook, Max tried a different approach that Finney knew would be equally ineffective. “Come on. The kid’s miserable. I mean, just look at him! It’s like all the hope and happiness vanished from his life.”
“That’s because It did,” Finney couldn’t help but answer, Amanda and Brittany’s conversation reverberating through his mind.
The Grabber finally drew his hand away from Finney’s shoulder. “So dramatic,” he sighed. “Maybe you should be part of the play.”
The implied threat to Donna that slithered its way inside did not go unnoticed by the Blakes. Finney stared down at his shoes while Gwen’s chin jutted upward, eyes hardening. “Maybe you should stop touching little boys.”
“Gwen,” hissed Finney, the same time the Grabber let out a low chuckle.
“Nahhh. But you, missy, need to stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Gwen took a few steps forward, hands on her hips. “I will once you stop sticking your dick where it doesn’t belong.”
“It belongs inside your br—”
“Max, now!”
Several things happened in quick succession. Max reached into his pocket and pulled out the cord from earlier, tugging it around his brother’s neck in a manner similar to what Finney did three years ago. Gwen’s hand slipped from her hips to her pocket and yanked out the garden shears Finney saw when he visited the cellar with Terrance. She plunged them into the Grabber’s neck multiple times, screaming profanities. Once blood began spurting, Max tightened his grip as the Grabber started bucking furiously.
“Go!” Max yelled as the Grabber’s fingers twisted around the cord.
The shears clattered to the ground as Gwen grabbed a dazed Finney’s hand, pulling him through the house. Instead of darting to the basement, she sped towards the front door.
But it didn’t lead them outside. Instead, it led them to the interior of an apartment complex, a dimly-lit hallway with faded yellow wallpaper and frayed brown carpet. Gwen slammed the door behind them.
“Okay,” she said shakily. “I think we’re good for now.”
Finney eyes the numbered placards and hallway which seemed to stretch longer the more he looked at the end. “Where are we?”
“No idea,” Gwen said, leaning against the wall, face pale. “But at least we’re away from that freak.”
“For now,” murmured Finney. Then his gaze hardened. “Gwen, what you and Max did was dangerous. You could have gotten hurt.”
“I could have gotten hurt?” echoed Gwen in disbelief. “Finney, Max and I came up with the plan knowing the risks. But we didn’t care because we knew you were in more danger than anyone.”
Finney rattled the doorknob they just entered from, but it was locked. Damn it. “Nothing happened. I’m fine. Let’s focus on getting out of here.”
Gwen remained motionless as Finney continued to knock on doors and tug doorknobs of the various rooms. “Finney, you’re thirteen! Obviously something happened.”
“I only look thirteen, but when we go back I’ll be in my normal body. C’mon, you try opening the doors on the right while I take the left side.”
Gwen folded her arms. “Finney, I’m literally in the afterlife right now because I want to help you. You need to stop shu—wait.” Her voice raised in panic. “What’s that on your arm?”
Finney immediately lowered his hand from the doorknob, but the damage was done. “Nothing. He said it could protect me against the monster and—”
“Finney.”
“Will you drop it already?” he snapped. He knew he was being unfair, but stress and shame burned through him, turning logic to ash. “Can you take the hint for once? I don’t want to talk about any of this.”
He spun around so he wouldn’t see Gwen’s expression and continued down the hall before guilt could set in. All doors continued to be locked except one near the end of the hall with muffled voices coming from it. Finney opened the door and froze.
“—doesn’t matter how I know, but I know!”
The apartment was small but abundantly-decorated, sunlight peeking around the edges of the drawn curtains. A man’s brown overcoat was thrown haphazardly over a chair, and a bowl of barely-touched fruit and a clean handkerchief remained perched on the nightstand. Meadow, wearing a lace nightgown, sat atop a push stool and brushed her hair in front of a vanity table, scowling. A past version of Albert Shaw paced like a restless jaguar, glaring at the young woman. He looked younger than when Finney knew him, but older than with Kathy.
“I saw her before,” Gwen hissed into Finney's ear. “She’s Max’s girlfriend.”
And Donna’s mom.
“What do you want me to say, Al?” she said, placing the hairbrush down on the vanity. She looked at him wearily through the reflection in the mirror. “I loved Max, and this whole thing with us was a mistake.”
Albert stopped his pacing. “Is it Max’s or mine?”
Her gaze lowered. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I got rid of it.”
Several emotions flickered on Albet’s face: confusion, rage, disbelief, and disappointment. “W-why?”
“Because it’s my life and I don’t want one.” Meadow stood up, eyes hardening with resolve. “Now, you got your answer. Goodbye.”
But Albert didn’t move. “Is it because of what happened to Cindy?” He ran both his hands through his untamed brown mane. “I didn’t do anything. And if it did, it wasn’t my fault.”
Wariness crossed Meadow’s face. “That’s not—look, Al. If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”
“I already disconnected the phone while you were in the bathroom.” In the few seconds it took Meadow to process that information, Albert grabbed her by the forearms and pulled her towards him, trapping her in a loathsome embrace. She fought furiously, to little effect. “Meadow, honey,” he pleaded. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I just want to talk.”
“Bullshit,” she snarled. “Y-you’re insane! Fucked in the head!”
“Probably,” he agreed, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I must be, if I love you.”
Her panic subsided, making way for a glower. “You don’t love me. You love hurting me, and I was the only sap dumb enough to put up with it. But not anymore, buster.”
With a well-placed elbow to the groin, Meadow slipped free. But freedom was temporary. Albert grabbed her arm with a growl and threw her on the bed before pinning her down with his body.
“You know, I tried to be nice.” The tone of voice was one Finney knew well, and he felt as though bugs were crawling underneath his skin. “But here you go, acting like a bitch again.”
“Get. Off,” she growled.
“You were so quick to throw yourself at me before.” He ran his fingers through her long black tresses. “Can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
“Gwen, let’s go,” Finney muttered, tugging at his sister’s hand. But she didn’t move, transfixed in horror at the scene.
“This isn’t even about sex,” said Meadow, paling as he started to grind against her hips. “With you, it never was. It was–it was something else.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a silk black cloth, which he used to bind her wrists. Meadow stopped struggling at this point, though her clenched jaw indicated discomfort.
“I thought you’d be glad I got rid of it,” she babbled as his hand began squeezing her breasts before trailing downward and slipping under the nightgown.“You don’t want any more kids, do you?”
“Gwen,” repeated Finney, heat rising in his cheeks. Gwen ignored him, electing to throw a nearby radio at Albert. But like Finney expected, it had no effect.
“Fuck no,” Albert replied instantly, pausing the motions of his hands briefly before resuming. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Then what?” Meadow murmured, back arching and toes curling as he hit a sweet spot. The corners of Albert’s mouth flickering upward at the reaction.
“I don’t know,” he mused, unbuckling his belt and tossing it to the side. “I guess…I guess I really am fucked up in the head.”
“Clearly,” she retorted, rolling her eyes. Albert smiled in a way Finney didn’t like. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the handkerchief, wrapping it around her mouth. She glared but didn’t protest.
Not at first.
But when Albert reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade, the muffled protests and tears began, and Finney realized in horror what they were about to witness.
“I know we used this before, but not like this,” he hummed, tracing the inside of her thigh with his blade. Finney’s fingers curled. “Do you want to know a secret, Ruthie?” Despite her frantic headshakes, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I killed someone before. But this is the first time I'm going to enjoy it.”
This time, Finney didn’t give Gwen a choice. Grabbing her hand, he turned towards the door and ran before slamming it shut. Though he knew it must be a phantom sensation, the scar inside his own thigh carved by the Grabber’s knife seemed to throb. “Gwen, are you okay?”
She didn’t look okay. She clutched the bottom of her elbows, white as a sheet. “No,” she confessed. “T-the way he just—I—I don’t know. I knew he did those things, but seeing it was—it was messed up. He was mean and then nice and then mean again and then he took the knife and–and poor Meadow…poor Max…”
Gwen never saw how quickly the Grabber’s honeyed words and actions could turn to poison, never saw the primal thrill of the hunt in his eye, that of a predator about to devour his prey. Never saw the quivering helplessness and terror of his victims.
Until now.
Sadness and jealousy enveloped Finney’s heart.
“Remember how Meadow said she was pregnant?” Gwen babbled while turning the knobs of various doors to no avail. “I know his other kids are dead, but do you think she was lying when she said she got ri–Finney? Finney, are you okay?”
He wasn’t. The sight of intimate violence coupled with the memory of recent revelations pushed down on him, and he suddenly felt like Atlas supporting the weight of the world.
And it was too much for one person. He was about to break.
The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them: “She did have a kid. Donna.”
Once it was out, there was no going back. He told her about Meadow and Harmony’s conversation, and the subsequent revelation. Gwen’s face flickered through several different expressions before settling on indignation. “The Grabber’s a liar! You can’t believe everything he says. I mean, yeah, they look alike, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
”In school, she told me she’d been getting prank calls from someone pretending to be the Grabber,” Finney said numbly. “But if it really is him, then that would mean—”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” interrupted Gwen, eyes flashing with resolve. “It could be a real prank call.”
“But what if it’s not?”
“...Well, maybe her dad’s just some random guy who also happens to be psychic.”
Finney forced out a laugh. ”Gwen….c’mon. What are the chances of that? Seriously.”
“It’s possible!” she countered. “How are the chances of that any smaller than the chance of her being the Grabber’s kid?”
“Because in case you haven’t noticed,” Finney said, voice cracking with emotion. “God hates me.”
“No he doesn’t.” Finney wished he felt as confident as Gwen sounded. “It might not even be the Grabber. It could be Max. Donna doesn’t have the psycho gene, and neither does he…but then again, even if it was the Grabber, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with Donna. Like, you know how Luke is Darth Vader’s kid but acts normal? Donna could be like that.”
Finney leaned his back against the wall and buried his head in his hands. “Donna’s not supposed to be involved with any of this. She was one of the few good things in my life.”
“She still is, Finney!” insisted Gwen. “The Grabber’s trying to scoot between you and Donna because he’s afraid of you and her living happily ever after!"
Her declaration summoned a new wave of emotions that crashed into Finney, causing the boy to sink to the floor in despair. “I’m not getting that ending, Gwen. I–I’m going to die.”
“No you’re not!” She rushed over and clasped her hands with his. “We’re getting out of here.”
“You don’t get it.” Don’t tell her don’t tell her don’t…. “Before I found you in the cellar, I saw these two girls from the future.” DON’T. “They said someone died in the house.” Gwen opened her mouth to interrupt. “AFTER the Grabber did.”
Goddamnit.
Despite the gravity of his words, the burden felt somewhat abated, though Finney regretted his selfishness almost instantaneously.
“It could be someone after us,” she said weakly, face pale. “After we leave.”
Finney made a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. “When are we ever that lucky?”
Gwen bit her lip. “Did they say your name?”
“No, but—”
“See? It could be someone random, or me, or—”
Finney shook his head. “I’m going to die in this house, Gwen. He’s mad I ran away three years ago and wants to do things the right way. That’s what he told me. He wants me to choose to be with him. He…he wants me to kill myself, Gwen. To be with him forever.”
If possible, Gwen grew even paler. Familiar numbness seeped through him, an anesthetic to the pain Gwen’s expression could inflict. Her gaze darted to Finney’s bracelet and she opened her mouth, then shut it, then opened it again and asked, voice quivering, “Is that what you want? I w-won’t judge or—”
“Fuck no.” The firmness of Finney’s voice eased Gwen’s worries slightly. Finney could practically hear the gears in his sister’s head turn as she searched for the right words.
She settled on a simple hug, which said all that needed to be said.
“Sorry I was a dick earlier,” he murmured, squeezing her tightly. “I don’t mean to be, it’s just—it’s hard to talk about this shit. I know you’re just trying to help.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Her tears dampened his neck. “You’ve said that before but I keep butting in. I know I shouldn’t, but he can be sneaky and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“I know.” Standing and embracing his sister, he couldn’t recall why he used to be terrified of telling her the Grabber’s plan. It felt nice, being honest. Like how they used to be.
Finney was the first to break the hug. “We really should focus on getting out of here. I know those”—he gestured towards the doors on Meadow’s side of the hall—”don’t open, but let’s try this side. Unless you want to use Plan C?”
He hoped she would tell him what Plan C was, but instead, she started pulling the doorknobs. “It’s not something I can make happen. But you’ll know when you hear it.”
“Could you be any more cryptic?”
Gwen smiled guiltily and moved on to the next door.
Just as before, all the apartment doors were locked. But unlike before, the door the Blakes entered from was open. Once they passed through the door frame, Finney groaned. Instead of the door bringing them through the front door of 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, it took them straight to the basement.
The Blakes descended the steps reluctantly and paused once they reached the bottom. The overall layout looked similar to how it did when Eddie and Max were here, only much sparser. The cans, water, and books were removed, leaving the skeleton of the basement behind. A dingy curtain hung down from a metal bar, shielding the toilet from sight. A brown overcoat was folded neatly on the couch. And in the center was Albert Shaw, shoving items into several black garbage bags, jaw clenched and fingers twitching.
“Let’s go back,” muttered Finney. But Gwen wasn’t paying attention. Her narrowed eyes remained fixated on Albert Shaw.
Then, the phone rang.
Finney’s kneejerk reaction was that it was one of the boys, and joy leapt in his heart. Then, he belatedly realized what was really happening.
“Don’t say anything,” Finney warned her as Albert reached for the phone.
“Hello?” he asked, twirling the phone cord.
Finey looked imploringly at Gwen, who—to his frustration—replied, “...Hi.”
“Gwen!” Finney groaned. “Stop it!”
“Carol?”
Uncertainty flickered on Gwen’s face before smoothing into fierce determination. “Yup, that’s me…”
“Hmph.” Albert leaned against the wall near the phone. “I thought you weren’t going to call again after last time. You said you weren’t going to. I distinctly recall you saying I was sick in the head.”
“Well, was I wrong?” Gwen challenged, ignoring Finney’s pleas to get off the phone. The annoying thing about using the phone as a conduit was that there was nothing Finney could wrestle away from Gwen.
“I guess not,” sighed Albert. “So why are you calling? Life Advice? Bad news? Demands? Criticism? What?”
“The last one,” Gwen snapped. “We’re going to have a little chat about Meadow.”
Albert looked weary. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘I’m a massive pile of shit’?”
An unfamiliar expression crossed Albert’s face: guilt. “I know what I did was wrong. I don’t know why I—well, I guess at first I just hated her, but then things got…complicated. It’s like an addiction, Carol. I know it’s wrong, but I liked the struggle, liked causing it, and when she got upset it was a goddamn rush and I really did think I loved her. Maybe I still do. And maybe this doesn’t make sense, but there’s nothing in my life that’s felt this good. I know everyone says it’s wrong to hurt people you love, but maybe I loved her because I hurt her…I don’t know. I never did that to anyone before. Not like this.”
Aside from the odd circumstances of Albert being upfront with Gwen about these feelings, Finney didn’t find any part of Albert’s monologue as being particularly surprising. Still, Gwen did a slow clap. “Woooooow. Congrats. I didn’t think you could get any more creepy, but you continue to prove me wrong.”
Albert scowled. “Are you done?”
“No.” Gwen’s eyes flared. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? That woman had your maybe-baby and you go and—”
Albert pushed himself off the wall, gravely serious. “What baby?”
“Um…” Her eyes darted to Finney nervously, who put a hand over his face. “Nothing…”
“She had a baby? My baby?”
“Erm, possibly?” She started to talk faster. “But I think it’s probably some random dude’s, so don’t worry about it.”
“Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Goddamnit. No wonder she bolted.”
“Maybe it's a sign you should stay apart,” Gwen argued feebly. “She can have a fresh start…you can have a fresh start…everyone’s got a fresh start! So let’s not do anything that—”
“Look, you helped me out in the past, but whatever ‘this’ is, I'm too old for it,” interjected Albert. “Stop calling me.”
Before Gwen could reply, he slammed the phone onto the receiver and picked up his overcoat, hastily tossing it on before thundering up the steps.
Gwen looked nauseous. “D-did Donna’s mom die because of me?”
“Um.” Yes. “I doubt it. The only person who should be blamed is the Grabber. Even if you didn’t make the call, he’d probably figure it out on his own, somehow.”
“Oh man. Oh man, oh man, oh man…”
An “I-told-you-so” was on the tip of his tongue, but he fought the impulse. “Gwen, you gotta snap out of it. You can’t change what happened, so we just have to focus on what’s going to happen, alright?”
“But—”
“I know it’s hard,” admitted Finney. “I think about these things all the time. But like I said, once something happens, it’s pointless to dwell on it.”
He realized it was a lot easier said than done, especially since he’d never been able to fully escape the quicksand of past memories. But mentioning his own struggles allowed a small spark to return to Gwen’s eyes. “I just feel so bad. It’s not fair to Donna that—”
Gwen’s jaw snapped shut as both Blakes craned their necks to hear a distant yet familiar sound. “Gwen, is that…Dad?”
“It is,” she confirmed, rushing up the basement steps with Finney trailing behind. “Plan C. I called his work and left a message saying that if I didn’t call by seven, that means he needs to come back home ASAP because something bad might have happened. So that means we’ve been in this place for hours.”
There was no guarantee of that, especially since Finney knew Terrence would have bolted home immediately after hearing the message, even if it was earlier than the designated time. “Gwen, that’s a terrible idea. He’s already on thin ice at work, and now he’s probably going to get fired!”
She winced. “Yeah, well, that’s why it’s Plan C. The backup in case the backup goes wrong…”
Reaching the top of the stairs, Terrence’s frantic pleas grew louder. But it didn’t come from the direction of the rooms with the paintings. Instead, it came from the television. Finney could see, through the static of the television, Terrence crouching over and shaking the bodies of Finney and Gwen, face ashen in terror. The words “I love you Finney” from a couple nights earlier echoed over and over like a merry-go-round, though it didn’t match up with the mouth movements Terrence made on the screen.
“Last time, I touched my picture in the painting and woke up,” murmured Gwen. “Let’s see if the same thing happens now.”
She knelt by the screen and placed her hand over her body. The space around her blurred and rippled like air during a fire, and in an instant, she was gone. Inside the TV, Gwen stirred, and Terrence scooped her into a hug. The two Blakes spoke rapidly to one another, though Finney couldn’t hear anything besides, “I love you Finney.”
Watching Terrence and Gwen interact, Finney felt a pang of jealousy. Gwen spoke so openly with Terrence, even after being on the receiving end of his anger. And Terrence spoke easily to her, not tiptoeing and choosing his words like she was a bomb about to explode.
Finney raised a trembling hand to the screen, but just as he was about to press against it, the screen turned off.
Swallowing, Finney twisted the knob multiple times to no avail. Shit.
It wasn’t working, so what now?
Finney clutched his sleeves and ran his fingers up and down the fabric in a futile attempt to collect himself. Eventually, his fingers lingered on smooth silver.
He needed to find the Grabber; he might know what to do. Finney didn’t. Finney was stupid and just fucked up his chances.
Of course, finding him was easier said than done in a maze like this. But there was one place where the chances became significantly greater.
Willing himself to move forward, Finney turned and headed down the basement steps.
And when he reached the bottom, he found his reason for coming here in the first place.
Robin, battered and bruised, struggled valiantly despite being pinned to the mattress. Small cuts and lash marks littered his face, arms, and shoulders, and Finney had no doubt there were more underneath his clothing. Still, his eyes remained hard as he snarled, “Get offa me!”
“No, I like you better down here.” Despite the frown on the mask, the Grabber’s tone was light. But Finney knew the man enough to recognize the slight edge to his tone. Robin got under his skin, even if he didn’t realize it. “I gotta say, kid, that took some balls, what you did.” He gestured his head in the direction of two belts laying next to the mattress like entwined snakes. “Problem is, you never know when to call it quits. Even my little puppy Vance knew when enough was enough. He’d lick his wounds and try again another day. But you…you just keep going. Like Sisyphus. Know who he is?”
Robin continued struggling. “Fuck you, hijo de puta! Stupid-ass motherfucker—fucking old man.”
The Grabber pressed down on a fresh open wound, causing Robin to hiss in pain. “He had to roll a boulder up a hill in the underworld, but the boulder was enchanted, so every time he got close to the top, it would roll away and he’d have to do the same thing again and again. He could have stopped. It could have been a lot easier. But he was stubborn and thought he knew best, so kept wasting time and energy doing something futile and depressing. Sound familiar?”
“No,” snapped Robin. “Because I'm getting out.”
The Grabber chuckled. “You’re so precious, tiger. Now, let’s put away those claws and—”
Robin headbutted him, causing the Grabber to loosen his grip and pull back in surprise. Robin wiggled himself free and made it a few steps before the Grabber lunged and threw him back down onto the mattress.
“It’s like talking to a goddamn wall,” he snarled. “No wonder your grades are shit. Fucking dumbass…”
Robin stilled, and uncertainty flickered on his face. Whether it was out of confusion of how the Grabber knew that or something else, Finney wasn’t sure.
The Grabber sighed and ran his finger through Robin’s black locks. “Say you’re sorry, birdie.”
Robin tossed his head back and forth in a futile attempt to avoid the touch. “Fuck off.”
Anger flashed in the Grabber’s eyes. He dug his hand between Robin’s legs and gave a hard squeeze. “Say it.”
“Stop it!” shouted Finney. His plea fell upon deaf ears, as he knew it would.
Robin’s eyes watered with tears of pain and frustration, but they didn’t spill. “N-n-no…f-fuck you, bastard.”
The Grabber’s eyes hardened, then, after a moment, released his grip. Robin took a shaky breath as the Grabber stood up, surveying his captive with disdain. “Looks like I’m going to have to get a bit more creative. You”—the Grabber kicked Robin hard in the side, causing the boy to double over and hiss out in pain again—“stay put. I’ll be back soon.”
“‘Stay put’? I can’t go anywhere, dipshit!” Robin spat.
“I know.” The Grabber picked both belts from the ground and made a show of examining Robin’s.
“That’s mine!” shouted Robin, pushing himself to a sitting position.
“Not anymore,” the Grabber hummed, pulling it through his belt loops. “It suits me. I’m gonna keep it.”
“Fuck you,” growled Robin, clenching his fists. “How ‘bout you show me another magic trick and make your pedo ass disappear?”
The Grabber surveyed his captive with an indecipherable expression. “Really, Robin...it’s just a belt. You should be grateful I let you wear anything after the stunt you pulled. I’d say you got off lightly.” He paused, then chuckled. “Well, for now. In ten minutes, probably not.”
How was Robin so brave? With his chin up, the boy shot back. “Do your worst, you freak.”
“Oh, I fully intend to~”
Finney gave the Grabber a wide berth as the man approached the door, eyes clouded but brimming with eagerness and anticipation.
Robin continued to glare until the door slammed shut. He remained like that for a few seconds.
Then, the tears came.
Collapsing into the mattress, Robin curled himself into a ball. One by one they fell, and it wasn’t long before they started streaming like a river, body wracked by sobs.
There was something fundamentally wrong with seeing Robin so vulnerable. Though Finney knew, logically, Robin suffered the same way he did, seeing it first hand shook him in a way nothing else did. In Finney’s memories, Robin was always confident, always proud, always someone who knew exactly what to do. But above all else, he was a thirteen-year old boy. A boy with normal feelings and emotions, not the deified figure of Finney’s dreams.
The Robin weeping in front of him—this was his friend. Not the one-dimensional superhero he flattened Robin’s memory into.
Guilt seeped into Finney’s heart as he knelt down beside his friend. He wanted desperately to assuage the torrent of emotions Robin was experiencing. He needed to let Robin know it was okay to cry and feel helpless, sad, and afraid. Needed to tell him what the Grabber did wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t weak, despite what he might think now. And above all, he needed to convince him he wasn’t a lesser person because of it.
The phone rang in accordance with Finney’s yearning. Robin continued sobbing, and Finney recalled what Bruce said about the other boys not hearing the phone.
Finney powerless, a victim of the Grabber despite being nowhere near the man. But he couldn’t sit there and do nothing while Robin suffered.
Without thinking, Finney wrapped his arms around Robin. He felt Robin’s heartbeat next to the empty cavity where Finney’s own heart should be and recognized, belatedly, that this shouldn’t be possible. He should feel static.
Maybe God didn’t hate him as much as he thought.
Finney leaned over and whispered into Robin’s ear, much like how the Grabber did to Donna weeks ago. “You’re the strongest person I know, Robin. I know you probably don’t feel like it now, but you are. Don’t make him let you feel like you’re not.”
The sobs subsided to sniffles, but the hollow emptiness in Robin's eyes remained. Finney hesitated, then reached out and placed his hands around Robin’s, squeezing gently. “I wish you got out of here. I wish we saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre together. I’ve been trying to bring myself to watch it, but I just can’t. It doesn’t feel right without you.”
Finney’s gaze drifted towards the sunlit window, which looked exactly as Finney remembered it. “It’s hard getting up every day, knowing I lived and you didn’t. You didn’t deserve to die. You deserved to feel sunlight and rain and eat ice cream and go to high school and see your family and—” Finney swallowed. “It’s not fair. But most things in life aren’t.”
They sat together for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, ruminating over what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. “I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re gone and I’m still here, so I gotta plow through. That’s what you’d say if you could hear me. But I didn’t know how hard it would be, and I’m not sure I can do it. The Grabber says I won't.”
A sudden motion caused Finney to glance down sharply; Robin’s fingers clenched around his own.
Finney wasn’t naive enough to think Robin was consciously responding to anything Finney said. He couldn’t. But that, coupled with Robin’s eyes regaining their steely determination, prompted Finney to do something he never had the courage to do before.
“Goodbye, Robin,” he murmured, brushing his lips against Robin’s damp cheek. “I love you. I wish I told you when you were alive.”
And with that, a weight fluttered off Finney’s chest. Face flushed, he pushed himself from the ground the same time Robin did. Walking to the door, Finney observed Robin from the corner of his eye. His friend bobbed in place, practicing footwork and punches.
Raise a fist, take a fast step back. Step forward, step back, and swing.
****
Finney hoped he would hear his father’s voice again when he returned upstairs, and he did. But he also heard something else, the loud, rumbling sound of crashing waves that almost drowned Terrence’s “I love you.” He followed it to his bedroom, and when he opened the door, sea-salt air and the ocean’s cries swallowed Terrence’s voice completely.
The bedroom looked identical to when Finney left it last, the only irregularity being the painting.
The apple hovered in the air much like before, but instead of a bowler hat, the person behind the apple was an auburn-haired youth with a white-and-blue shirt.
Finney couldn't see the facial features and tell if the figure was meant to represent himself at thirteen or sixteen. Disconcerted, Finney pressed his hand against the chest of the figure in the painting, much like how Gwen did.
But nothing happened. Why?
Camilla and Cresilda’s words echoed in his mind: He needed to remove the mask.
Finney’s fingers hovered above the apple.
But he didn’t want to.
He didn’t want to look at himself. He was afraid of what he might see, staring into those dark brown eyes that contained so many emotions, so many thoughts Finney pretended didn’t exist. He hated looking at himself, and today was no exception.
But he couldn’t stay here. He didn’t want to stay here.
If he could easily extend grace and compassion to others, why was it so difficult to do the same for himself?
As Finney reached out to touch the smooth, cool texture of the apple, the glint of silver around his wrist gave him pause.
But if Robin could persevere, so could he.
Finney tightened his grip around the apple and pulled, returning to the land of the living with a smile.
Chapter 24: You Made Me Love You
Notes:
-It’s been a while since I last updated! Part of the reason why is because the 40s flashback chapter ended up being ridiculously long. So what I decided to do is split it up into two parts, one I’m posting today and the other part I’m posting next week. After that, we go back to Finney’s POV.
-One bad part of having loads and loads of characters in a story is that sometimes I give a minor character a name and then forget that I already used it. So in the 30s flashback chapter, Anthony and Kathy’s mother’s name was Mary, and Emma Baur’s oldest son was named Charlie. I already used those names for Mary Smith (Finney’s neighbor) and the dog Donna looked after when she was younger, so I changed Mrs. Sinclair’s first name to Martha and Emma Baur’s oldest son to Carl.
-as with the previous flashback chapter, this chapter discusses/references incestuous sexual abuse, though none of it is depicted
-The CEC mentioned here refers to the Council for Exceptional Children, which was an advocacy group for disabled children formed in the 1920s
Here are some slang terms common in the 40s that show up in this chapter:
beeswax: business
Picture: can mean an actual picture or photograph, but was commonly used to refer to the movies
Blew a gasket: to get very angry or upset
Scram: go away
Kick the bucket: died
Bug house: asylum
Dish: attractive person
Criminy: a general expression meant to express disbelief or anger
Batty: crazy
Doll dizzy: girl-crazy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“What do you want for your birthday, Maxie?”
Albert subtly shook his head, but Kathy’s eyes were glued to the small seven-year old. Max’s eyes lit up as he bounced on the balls of his feet, schoolbooks jostling in his arms. “A birthday cake! Vanilla on the inside with chocolate frosting on the outside, and rainbow sprinkles on top!”
“Which he knows is impossible,” Albert reminded him with a bit more bite than necessary, “because there’s a war going on and sugar’s rationed. I told you before: You have to pick something else, Max.”
“But Howie had a real cake at his party!” complained Max. “He said his mom saved up on sugar. Why couldn’t you do that, Al?”
Because Dad took the sugar I saved and sold it to some saps for triple the price. “Maybe I won’t get you anything, if you’re going to be such a brat about it.”
He maintained his glare despite his gut twisting in guilt at Max’s crestfallen expression. His brother—much like Albert—had lived his life largely without any birthday celebrations, but Albert always tried to do something special on that day, much like his mother
(stop)
used to do for him. Last year they spent the day at an indoor pool and Albert intended to do the same this year, but a recent polio outbreak quashed those plans.
“What about more comic books?” suggest Albert, adjusting his book strap. That was something he could easily buy with money from his old paper route.
Max shrugged, bottom lip quivering. Kathy put a hand on his shoulder. “How about I knit you a nice, warm sweater? Would you like that?” Max nodded feebly. The frayed, worn sweater Max had on currently did little to protect him from the February chill. “Or would you rather have a stuffed animal?”
Max opened his mouth to speak, but Albert cut him off. “The sweater. Thanks, Kathy.”
Max’s face crumpled, but Albert remained firm. Clothing they needed; toys were superfluous, and interest in one would be as fleeting as the “invisible dog” he gave Max on his sixth birthday.
“I think,” she hummed, twirling one her blonde locks around her finger in contemplation, “I could make a stuffed animal and a piece of clothing in time for your birthday. It’ll have to be a small one, though!”
Max threw his arms around Kathy’s waist and jumped for joy, causing his books to scatter on the ground. Sighing, Albert leaned down and collected them while Max gave Kathy a million thank yous. Not for the first time, he wondered how her and Anthony came from the same gene pool.
“Thanks,” he said after Max finally let go. “I know it’s going to be hard to make two. So Max should be extremely grateful.”
“I am!”
She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at the older Shaw. “Are you doubting my sewing talents, mister? This is child’s play.”
He knew that wasn’t the case based on his own ill-fated attempt at making a sock. “If you say so.”
“I know so. Don’t you remember that giant quilt I made for the soldiers at Christmas? That took two weeks. Not that it’s a competition, but Josephine De Luca needed three weeks. Don’t bet against Katherine Sinclair.”
Albert’s lips cracked into a smile; Kathy was one of the few people who could drag one out of him. “I’m not, I just—”He snapped his mouth shut as he bumped into Max. “Jeez! You’re supposed to walk in a straight line. It’s not that hard. We can literally see our house.”
But Max didn’t seem as though he heard his brother. Stony-faced, he pointed in the direction he was staring. Albert followed his gaze and froze. Kathy gasped softly.
Hanging in Emma Baur’s window was a second gold star.
“Oh no,” whimpered Kathy. She started running towards the Baur house. “Come on, we have to say something.”
“It’s just like in my dream,” breathed Max.
“Do not mention your dreams to Mrs. Baur, alright?” hissed Albert, slowly walking forward. “Just talk normally.”
“I don’t know how to talk normal when someone’s dead,” mumbled Max. Eyes glued to the star, he reached out for Albert’s hand.
“Just follow my lead,” Albert instructed with a faux confidence, giving Max’s hand a gentle squeeze. His brother was right, though.
What do you say to a woman who lost two children?
****
Albert expected Emma Baur to have tears streaming down her face, with unkempt hair and red-rimmed eyes like she did when Carl died at the Battle of Midway. But what he saw was even more disconcerting: the once-indomitable woman looked as though all the energy had been sucked out of her. She listened to the trio babble their condolences with a glazed-over expression, and her voice, usually so clear and powerful, sounded dull and hollow when she asked if they’d like to come inside. Kathy answered for all three of them before Albert could politely refuse, so he reluctantly sat in the plush armchair as Mrs. Baur got them drinks and snacks.
He tried not to stare at the trash bin overflowing with crumpled tissues, or the curtains blocking the windows and creating a room of shadow. Instead, he focused on the quiet, melancholy tune playing on the radio. “You Made Me Love You” was a song that reminded Albert of his mother sitting in a chair, knitting by the radio times from the past, something familiar and nostalgic. Even the mounting static brought to mind all the times when it was difficult to get a clear signal.
“Thanks for visiting Mom. She doesn’t have any family left, and is awfully lonely with Bobby and me gone.”
Albert grew rigid. Max looked at him, pale and imploring, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
Radios pick up signals from different stations all the time. It wasn’t a big deal.
The static faded, and the lyrics resumed in time for Mrs. Baur to return with the apple slices. Albert relaxed as he began to nibble and listen to his neighbor’s lamentations.
Bobby Baur was a jerk when he was younger, and although he mellowed with age, Albert and him were never particularly close. But he liked Mrs. Baur and didn’t didn’t enjoy seeing her upset, so he half-listened as she launched into an uncomfortable monologue about her sons’ childhood memories, talents, and how happy they must be with their father in Heaven. The conversation then shifted to Albert, Max, and Kathy’s own lives, much to Albert’s alarm. She expressed disbelief that Kathy and he were already sophomores, since it seemed like it was “just yesterday” that they showed up in Halloween costumes. Max babbled about blackout drills, scrap collecting, and his future wife Wonder Woman, while Kathy painted a rosy picture of her home life Albert—and probably Mrs. Baur—knew wasn’t true; it wasn’t unusual to hear shouting matches between Anthony and Mr. Sinclair. She explained that Anthony wasn’t walking home with them because he was cast as Hamlet in the school play and needed to practice (good riddance). When Mrs. Baur inquired how Russ was doing, Albert forced himself to speak. The Rusnaks moved to a different section of town two years ago, but even before then, things weren’t the same since
(STOP. Don’t think about it.)
even if they remained cordial. He told Mrs. Baur that Russ was on the baseball team now and was able to avoid answering why Albert never tried out for the team when Martha Sinclair arrived with a casserole for Mrs. Baur.
After Kathy left with her mother, Albert and Max took it as their cue to leave, but Mrs. Baur reached out and gently touched Albert’s shoulders. “One moment, hun.”
“Yes, Mrs. Baur?” he asked politely.
“How are things at home?”
“Um”—he glared at Max, who was staring at him wide-eyed—”Swell.”
Mrs. Baur wasn't convinced. A familiar spark returned to her eyes, and she began to vaguely resemble the woman Albert knew in his youth. “Pearl Jameson volunteers with me in the YWCA. She’s been asking about you, you know. Says some concerning things.”
“...Like what?” he asked, though he could imagine his teacher’s response.
“You don’t turn in assignments and your grades are plummeting,” she said bluntly. “You wear the same few outfits again and again, and some days you show up with cuts and bruises. Some of which, she thinks, are from these schoolyard scraps you keep getting into. And she says you stole food from the cafeteria. I know your mama wouldn’t want this for you.”
“It doesn’t matter what she wants, she’s a nut,” he snapped, despite trying to keep his temper in check. “And school’s a waste of time, anyway. When I’m sixteen, I’m going to drop out and get a real job.”
Mrs. Baur shook her head disdainfully. “Don’t tell me that’s another one of your father’s bright ideas.”
Albert bristled, but before he could respond, Max chimed in. “It is! Papa said Al’s gonna work at a store or in a factory.”
“Figures.” Mrs. Baur sighed. “Albert, honey, you got a lot of brains, and I don't want you squandering away your future because you've got the misfortune of having that charlatan for a father. But you’re gonna need some help. I can knit you and Maxie a couple new outfits, and maybe cook up some grub for you two every three days. But only for you two. Your louse of a father will have to feed himself for once.”
Max beamed like Christmas came early, and while Albert couldn’t deny he’d enjoy the reprieve from cooking, the agitation churning inside overpowered any positive feelings. “No thanks. The three of us are a family and we’re fine on our own.”
“But Miss Parker says we gotta help each other out in wartime,” whined Max. “She said it’s not bad to give or receive. And Mrs. Baur cooks better than you! I want to eat her cooking instead.”
Ungrateful little shit. Albert shook his head forcefully. “I’m not accepting help from anyone who insults Dad.”
Mrs. Baur massaged her temples. “I’ll tell ya what. If he apologizes for poisoning my rosebush—and yes, I know it was him; I don’t give a damn if it went a inch into his property—if he does that, then I’ll cook something for him…once a week. How’s that?”
Max looked at Albert with puppy dog eyes, and residual guilt about the cake seeped through him. “...okay.”
She flashed a small, brief smile. “Good. I’ll start making some meatloaf.”
Max cheered, but Albert’s scowl deepend. His gaze drifted to a nearby mirror and saw what Mrs. Baur saw: a sullen fifteen-year old with dark circles under his eyes, unkempt, uneven hair, wearing a shabby coat with two buttons missing. No wonder she wants to help. I look like a hobo.
Max, bouncing on the balls of his feet in elation, snapped Albert out of his reverie. “Thank you Mrs. Baur! And just so you know, Bobby’s really sorry about saying mean things to you before he got shipped out. He wrote an apology letter but felt too embarrassed to give it to you so he stuck it in a loose floorboard under his bed. And Carl cheered up his platoon by telling them that funny story about when you punched a clown in the face. So even though they’re dead now, they still love you and are kinda happy.”
“ThanksMrsBaurwehavetogonowbye.”
Albert tore his gaze from the mirror and grabbed Max by the wrist, slamming the front door shut before stalking down the driveway. Once they reached the street, Albert smacked the back of Max’s head.
“Owww!” his brother cried, rubbing his black strands.
“I told you not to say anything!” fumed Albert. “You heard her. Everyone already looks down on us. You don’t need to add freakish powers on top of all that.”
“B-but hearing about my dream made her happy,” Max whimpered. “I think.”
“I don’t care! Your dumb dreams aren’t real!”
“They are real,” insisted Max, bottom lip wobbling. Albert grasped his brother’s forearm so tightly, a cry escaped.
“You better hope they aren’t, ‘cause if they are, the government’s gonna want to experiment on you. Or maybe you’ll get sent to a freak show or the nuthouse. Is that what you want?”
“N-no,” mumbled Max, tears dripping down his face. Albert released his grip.
“Good.”
He felt like he should say something else, but his mouth grew dry and they made the rest of the short walk home in silence. Taking his own advice, he pushed away the thought of what he glimpsed thought he glimpsed in the mirror: the ghostly visage of Bobby Baur, smiling and saluting despite his gunshot wounds and spilling entrails.
Just a trick of the light, nothing more.
****
The next week was particularly dull and soulsucking, even by Lincoln High standards. Anthony achieving the coveted lead role made him even more insufferable, and seeing him smiling and surrounded by dozens of classmates highlighted Albert’s own social ineptitude.
His inability to solve Max’s birthday dilemma weighed his mind down even further. Between classes, he stole some metal from the school scrap drive and attempted to create a toy train later that night. It ended up looking so janky that even Max wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.
The only solace Albert found during those long school days was his notebook, filled to the brim with sketches, rants, musings, ideas for magic tricks, and—occasionally—actual school notes. His pencil brushed against the page in fluid motions as he tuned out the ringing of the bell and mindless droning of his classmates. He didn’t belong with them—more often than not, he felt like he and his classmates operated in separate worlds that only intersected on rare occasions.
Like today.
A pale hand snatching the notebook out of his hands, and Albert’s jaw clenched. “You know, Al,” Anthony drawled, flipping through the book, “in a world so unpredictable, it’s comforting to know there are so many things that remain entirely predictable.” He held up the sketch of the phantasm with sunken eyes. “I could have bet every cent in my piggy bank that you’d draw something like this. Who’s the poor fella?”
Albert yanked the notebook out of Anthony’s hands. “It’s supposed to be the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”
“Looks friendlier than my old man,” laughed Anthony. “Is this why you’re always running out of pencils so fast?”
“Sometimes. Did Francis tell you what I did with his hand and a pencil?”
“Yes.” Anthony grinned. “He had it coming.”
Albert’s lips twitched upward in a smile. “Did you just come here to steal my notebook, or was there another reason you left your followers?”
“They’re called friends, not that you’d know.” Anthony’s expression sobered, and he exhaled as he ran a hand through his sleek blonde locks. “Did my sister ask you about the Colorado Springs cabin?”
“No.” Is he wearing new glasses? “Why?”
“Okay, good. If she does, tell her no. I’m going to be meeting someone…important, and if you’re there things are going to get weird. No offense.”
“Alright,” said Albert, unsure what exactly he was agreeing to. “Who are you meeting?”
“None of your beeswax.” Anthony slung his bookstrap over his shoulder and was about to turn around, but hesitated. “Your drawings aren’t terrible.”
“Yeah, but yours are.”
Anthony rolled his eyes and left. Albert returned to the page, but couldn’t muster the will to concentrate. His stomach felt a bit weird, but he wasn’t sure why.
****
When Albert made his way to Kathy’s locker as usual, he felt a spark of panic upon seeing it surrounded by a gaggle of girls, who giggled and scattered upon seeing him. Kathy blushed and gave him a crooked smile. “H-Hi, Albert.”
He began to sweat. Was there something on his face? Did his hair look greasy? It was a couple of days since he last washed it, but it shouldn’t be that noticeable. “Hi, Kathy. Did you put new pencils inside my desk?”
She shook her head, blonde ponytail swinging back and forth. He didn’t think he mentioned it to her, but sometimes Kathy had a sixth sense to know if he needed something. If it’s not her, then it’s probably Mrs. Jameson. He caught her putting an apple inside his desk once.
“Do you think it might have been Josephine?” she squeaked, voice higher than normal. “Or Barbara?”
“Why would they give me free pencils?” Kathy shrugged, shoulder stiff. He liked her, but sometimes she could be strange. “Speaking of Josephine, what happened between you and her during gym? I heard you sent her to the nurse.”
“It’s not my fault,” she giggled smugly. “She got in the way of my spike. And she deserves it. Remember when she tried to get me kicked off the cheerleading squad?”
He remembered. Kathy’s skills as a cheerleader were a bit lacking and Albert didn’t fault Josephine, but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shut.
Conversation drifted to homework (which Albert didn’t do), Shadow of a Doubt, how annoying brothers were, and the sinking of the USS Chicago. Kathy mentioned how bored she was on weekends, and how she’d just love it if someone were to invite her somewhere nice so she could have some fun.
Albert agreed that would be nice. He understood her desire; after all, his weekends usually focused around taking care of Max, cooking (though Mrs. Baur’s help relieved him somewhat), and completing whatever errands his father assigned. Him and Henry sometimes had fun, but not as much as they used to. Especially since his father’s been occupied with that dumb slut Alice.
Albert’s fingers clenched involuntarily. If his father was so damn ‘busy,’ maybe he didn’t need Albert at all. Maybe Albert could fuck off and do God-knows-what while Henry pulled his own weight for once.
Maybe just one day away would be enough to show Henry not to take his eldest son for granted.
“Hey, Kath?” Why does it look like she’s steaming? “You free on Sunday?”
Her expression changed so quickly, Albert wondered if the anger was simply a trick of his imagination. “Th-this Sunday?”
There it was, that squeak again. “Yes? If that’s not good for—”
“It is!” she blurted, twirling her ponytail around her finger. “W-where did you have in mind?”
“The fair,” he replied, gears in his mind turning. The more he mulled over it, the more confident he became. “We can see Sal Bernadi perform. And then go on rides and eat food.”
“What kind of rides?” she breathed. Her eyelids started fluttering. Is it allergy season already?
“Umm…I think there’s a Ferris Wheel and some kind of boat. Tunnel of something.”
Kathy made the same squealing sound she made when Mickey Rooney responded to her fan letter. Before he could ask her what's wrong, she began babbling. “Oh, Albert, you sure took your sweet time asking. Gosh!”
“Sorry. I figured you’d be busy with your other friends on weekends.”
“Is that why it took so long?” She giggled and skipped a few feet forward. “Well, better late than—” She stopped abruptly, face turning as white as a ghost. “Oh, no. Ohnononono…”
The hair on the back of Albert’s neck stood up. “What?”
“Argh!.” She kicked the air in frustration, and when her gaze found its way back to Albert, he was alarmed to find her eyes watery. “I didn’t think anyone was going to ask me out on Sunday, so I got all depressed and made plans to go with Anthony to Colorado Springs next week! Sunday’s when we’re leaving…”
“That’s alright, we can go some other time.”
“But Sunday’s…” Her whine trailed off to a whisper.
“Like I said, it’s fine. And you’re lucky to get to go,” Albert said wistfully. A whole week’s vacation sounded like paradise. Hell, one day away from his responsibilities would be close enough. “I wish I could. It sounds really”—he recalled Anthony’s cryptic talk of ‘someone important’—”romantic.”
Who was foolish enough to date Anthony? What kind of shenanigans would the two lovebirds get up to in Colorado Springs? How differently would that asshole act around someone he loved?
Kathy’s face turned as red as the Soviet flag. “W-well, if your dad is okay with it, maybe, um, maybe you can…come with us?”
“Sure.” He relished in imagining the horror in Anthony’s face at the possibility. “I’ll ask.”
He already knew what Henry’s answer would be, but it was nice to pretend otherwise, even if only for a day.
****
Albert tossed and turned that night in bed, mulling over the best possible way to approach the topic with his father. Eventually, exhaustion and slumber finally overtook him, but it was short lived.
“Al? Al, are you up?”
“I am now, Max,” grumbled Albert, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t tell me this about your dumb comic books. If you can’t read all the words, I’m going to stop buying them for you.” His glare morphed into concern once he saw the hallway light illuminating Max’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
The youngest Shaw shuffled into the room quietly, creaking the door shut. Albert scooched over and gestured to the bed, allowing Max to snuggle next to him.
“Mama’s dead,” whispered Max. He pressed his head against his brother’s chest.
Albert froze, a chasm of dread forming inside him. “How do you know?”
“My dreams.” Max quickly shielded his head with his hands. “Please don’t be mad!”
“It’s alright. I’m not.” Albert wrapped his arms around Max in a show of good faith, and felt his brother’s breath stabilize. “Do you know how she died?”
“She was on this bed, and there was this thing attached to her head, and then it started shocking her and there were all these doctors around and then one said there was something wrong with her heart, but then they kept shocking her and she died. It was scary.”
“I’ll bet.” Tears prickled in Albert’s eyes, but he blinked them back. “You know what, Maxie? She’s better off dead than in this shitty world. You shouldn’t feel sad.”
Max sniffled. “But I never got a chance to say hi. Or say anything besides baby talk.”
“You can talk to her when you’re dead,” Albert assured him, stroking his hair gently.
“Do you think she’s saying hi to Carole Lombard and Jesus and Papa’s parents and George Wa—” Max’s eyes bulged. “Al, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays are coming up! Do you think they’ll invite her to their birthday parties in Heaven?”
It took all of Albert’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “Sure.”
Satisfied, Max drifted into slumber. It took Albert much longer, memories, sorrow, and regret rotating in his mind like a ferris wheel. But eventually he too fell into a deep sleep, only to be jolted awake two hours later by a random yet earth-shattering thought.
Next Sunday was Valentine’s Day.
Albert, you fucking moron.
****
He woke up the next morning determined not to think—let alone mention—Evelyn Shaw. She was placed in a dusty box in the darkest corner of his mind, like she had been for the past seven years.
Instead, he chose to focus on someone more pertinent to his everyday life: Katherine Elizabeth Sinclair.
On one hand, the possibility she had feelings for him beyond friendship was difficult to believe. She was pretty, sweet, and popular; he was sloppy, short-tempered, and a social pariah. Part of him suspected the only reason they were still friends was because Kathy pitied him. Then again, many of their interactions within the past two years could—in retrospect—possibly be perceived as romantic. If their life was a movie and he was an objective viewer, he’d groan and complain that the male lead was unrealistically dense.
Romance was always something he secretly yearned for: the tender kisses, passionate declarations, constant faithfulness instead of being discarded after sex like a defective toy. And for once, it was—possibly—in reach. For once, he’d be normal like his classmates. For once, he might get the happily ever after with the perfect girl, like something out of a Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland picture.
So why did something feel off?
Albert knew he liked Kathy. Excluding family members, she was the person he cared about most in the world. Yet the thought of kissing didn’t fill him with that fabled spark. The thought of kissing Josephine or Barbara or any of his other classmates provided the same amount of enthusiasm as sharpening pencils. Did Anthony feel the same way when he thought of his girlfriend? Was this normal?
Doubt it, Albert concluded glumly as he and Max crossed the street to the Sinclairs’ house.
There was one glaring difference between him and the rest of his classmates. One glaring difference that Albert knew, deep down, would prevent his relationship with Kathy from being anything more than a daydream.
After all, a person can’t be in love with two people.
So it was heartbreaking to see Kathy radiate happiness and walk with an extra bounce in her step when she and Anthony joined the Shaws on the sidewalk. Neither of them discussed yesterday’s conversation, though Anthony’s glares let him know something was discussed in the Sinclair house. Max, to Albert’s relief, stuck with the ‘I got a bad grade’ lie Albert instructed him to do when Kathy inquired about Max’s unusually-quiet mood.
The school day unfolded normally, and Albert let out a sigh of relief when Kathy finally bounded up the steps of her house. But such relief was short-lived. Upon opening the front door to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, Albert took a startled step backward as a pretty brown-haired woman exited the house at the same time. Aside from mirroring the surprise of the boys, she paid the brothers no mind as she strode past and entered the Pontiac Streamliner parked on the street. When Albert pushed his way in, the house smelled of cigarette smoke, as usual.
“Who was that, Papa?” questioned Max as he plopped his schoolbooks on the coffee table overflowing with junk.
This was one of the rare times when Henry was upstairs instead of in the basement. He leaned lazily against the wall as he pried open the cap of Brandy with the blade of his pocketknife. “That’s Ginny. Vir-gin-ia,” he smirked, drawing out each syllable of her full name as though he could taste it. “Not like the name suits her anymore.”
“What happened to Alice?” Albert queried, trying to sound casual as he checked the refrigerator. Okay, we still have some broccoli and carrots…and some leftover meat…but we’re running low on milk and eggs.
“Ehh. Her husband found out and blew a gasket. Now they’re moving to Durango. Ah well, more fish and the sea and all that.”
Albert’s lips thinned. Over the years, the novelty of being an out-of-towner faded, and the citizens of Galesburg finally started seeing the conman behind the curtain. Any women attracted now, Albert suspected, were either too afraid to reject him due to the powerful reputation, or turned on by sleazy, two-timing extortionists.
“You don’t need her,” Albert said, so quiet he didn’t think Henry would hear.
“Oh Christ, not this shit again.” Henry exhaled and took a swig from the bottle. “We’ve got the fucking kid here.”
“Max, scram.”
“Not yet. There’s something I gotta tell both of you.” He gestured to the kitchen phone. “One of those bug house doctors called today and said your mama’s kicked the bucket. Something about the electroshock therapy being fucked. Sorry to have to break the news to you, kids. It’s some shit luck.”
Albert’s expression was stony and controlled, but Max’s lips still wobbled despite having the foreknowledge. “I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye…”
“If it makes you feel any better, she wouldn’t have recognized you.” Henry placed the bottle on the counter and lit another cigarette. “They did that thing with her head years ago. She couldn’t recognize anybody.”
“Why’d they do that?” cried Max.
“Because that’s what happens when you’re crazy. And you're not crazy, right, Maxie?” Max shook his head rapidly. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“B-b-but it’s not fair!” Max’s hand searched for Albert’s, but Albert pulled it away. “I only got to s-see her in photos! Not in r-real life!”
“Life isn’t fair.” Henry exhaled a ring of smoke, eyes hardening. “Look, I didn’t even wanna bring this up in the first place. But I didn’t want you to keep asking about her like you did after seeing that deer movie.”
The fragile dam broke, and Max burst into sobs. “I want my mom!”
Henry’s expression darkened as he slowly stood, towering over his youngest son. “Enough of this shit. People die every damn day, and I don’t need you cryin’ about it like some sissy. Look at your brother. You hear him whining?”
Max turned towards Albert and frowned, hurt and betrayal belying his stubborn glare. “N-no.”
“I’m not sayin’ you can’t be upset, but you gotta be a man about it. And men don’t cry over dead kooks. Got it?”
After a pause, Max nodded reluctantly. “Thatta boy. Now, you heard your brother: scram.” Max sniffled, but hurried towards his room. “And if I hear you crying, I'm gonna come over there and give you something to cry about!” Henry hollered after him.
Once they heard the faint sound of Max’s door shut, a lazy, wolfish grin spread across Henry’s face. “Gotta say, Albie, you surprised me. Thought you’d be weepin’ alongside him, given your tendency for drama and making mountains outta molehills.”
Henry expected him to shrink away, but Albert—emboldened by the thoughts of Kathy and Evelyn—slipped into the chair opposite him. His father raised an eyebrow.
“Next week, I'm going somewhere with Kathy. I think she likes me. ”
“Kathy Sinclair?” he echoed, grin spreading. “About time you greased her oven.”
“You’re not upset.” Though he tried to make it a question, it came out flat and deflated, a statement engraving what he knew and feared to be true.
“Why would I be upset? That girl’s a dish. Good for you, kid.”
Anger flared up in him. He tried not to show it and knew his father liked getting him riled up. “Well, I’m glad, because it’s going to be for a week.”
That finally got his father’s smile to fade. “You’ve got school.”
Henry pretending to care about school was laughable. “They’re closing the school during Presidents' week because of the gym construction. We start up again on the 23rd”
Henry brought the glass to his lips and there was a moment of thick, heavy silence. “Sorry, kiddo, but that’s not gonna work. I’m not dealing with Max by myself for a week. Hell no.”
If Henry said anything about missing Albert, then he would have gone along with his father’s wishes without a second thought. Instead, another rush of anger spiked through him.“What if he comes with me?”
“Tempting, but no. I might need you for something..”
“For what?” snapped Albert. “Clearly it doesn’t matter if I’m here or not.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Henry chided, though the ends of his lips tugged upwards in a smirk. “Are you still sore about your ma?” Albert said nothing, but remained tense and rigid.
“Something else on your mind then, Albie?” he asked, leaning back and stretching in his chair.
“Yes.” He didn’t care if he sounded pathetic now. He wanted his father to understand—no, care, what he was feeling. “I don’t like Virginia, or Alice, or any of the other bitches you bring here.”
“This ain’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, kiddo. For the past seven years I’ve been sticking my dick in pussy and I made it very clear I have no intention of quitin’ anytime soon. ”
“I know that,” Albert scowled. “But things seem kind of…different. When we’re together it feels different. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t know when it started, but I think it was sometime within the past few months.”
Three years ago, his father initiated him into a world of magic, fear, pain, and pleasure. ‘This is what people want to do if they love each other,’ he said.
So what did it mean now, if his father wanted it less, and seemed to be going through the motions the few times they did?
Henry didn’t say anything for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table in contemplation. Albert’s heart started hammering; his father usually didn’t shirk on his words.
“Get yourself a glass, Albie,” Henry sighed, holding up his bottle of brandy. Albert reluctantly did as his father asked. He took a drink and let the sweet liquid run down his throat. He wished he was swallowing something else right now. Something that would make his father happy.
“Did I do something wrong?” he murmured.
“It’s a bit complicated, and I’m gonna try and be nice about this.” Oh, fuck. “See, the thing is, you’re growing up now. And we had a lot of fun in the past, but soon you’re going to be getting a job and moving out of here. But—”
“I don’t want to go,” Albert responded immediately. “I want to stay here.”
“Okay, see, this is the problem. You need to go. It’s not right of you to impose on my house.”
“You mean Mom’s house,” Albert couldn’t help but snap. Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Dad, I can get a job and stay here! I’ll help pay the bills. I had my paper route. It wasn’t my fault they fir–.”
“No,” Henry said flatly. “Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here: I want you to leave.”
“...Oh.” Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.
Henry sighed. “Don’t give me that look, like I’m the bad guy. I’m doing this for your benefit. You gotta start thinking about girls now, and you can’t do that if you’re so damn clingy.”
“I am thinking about girls,” Albert lied hollowly. “You’re the one who didn’t want me going to Colorado Springs. Because you need me here! I make the food, I take care of Max, I buy your alcohol and other shit. I do everything you want me to. And I never complain.”
“Ginny’s going to be moving in soon, so—”
“None of these cunts last!” Albert exploded. “First it was Mildred, then Vera, then Stella, then Lois. And that’s not counting all the girls like Alice who never even moved in. If they loved you, they would have stayed. But they didn’t. And the one person who does want to stay, you want to kick him out.”
“Christ on a cracker.” Henry massaged his temples with his fingers. “Kid, you don’t get it. I don’t give a shit if they leave. Have you seen me worked up over any of these dames?”
Albert’s gaze lowered to the brown liquid in his glass. What Henry said was true, though Albert never understood how. His father’s feelings were always fleeting and fair-weathered, a sharp contrast to Albert’s deep and constant devotion. He just never considered that Henry’s interest in him might be fleeting.
Or maybe it never existed at all.
”It’s not serious. Just a bit of fun, that’s all. When you start dati—oh, criminy. C’mon, Albie, we don’t need these waterworks.” Albert wiped his eyes, and spotted a flicker of what might possibly be sympathy in Henry’s eyes. “Look, you and me…I didn’t think you’d get all fixated and shit, but I guess I should’ve known, considerin’ you got half of Evelyn in you.” He peered at Albert curiously. “Tell me something: Does that bother you more than your mama’s death.”
Albert swallowed. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Heh. Batty as all hell.” Henry chuckled affectionately. “Listen, I've got something that’ll cheer you up. You ever hear of Sal Bernardi?”
Albert nodded cautiously. His father always mocked his interest in magic, and Albert hadn’t mentioned it in years. Henry gestured to a sealed envelope on the table. “Tomorrow, you’re going to ask him for my money and give him that letter. Meet him at the Galesburg community center after his shows; he can’t go hiding in his home then. And then you can ask him about magic crap if you want. But do not open that envelope. It’s for Bernardi’s eyes only, capiche?”
“…Okay.” A month ago, he would have been excited at the possibility of meeting the famous magician, but now all he felt was crushing apathy.
“Wanna do something else that’ll make me happy?” Albert looked up hopefully and nodded. Henry stood up and stretched his arms. “Me and Ginny made a bit of a mess downstairs, but I’m tired and wanna hit the sack. Think you can be a champ and clean it up for me?”
“...Sure.” How did my life get to this point?
Henry winked. “Good boy.”
Albert hated how that made his heart flutter.
An hour later, Albert sat on one of the basement chairs, a pail of dirty water and soapy washcloth next to him. The conversation with Henry still echoed in his mind, and the one silver lining is that it numbed him to the degradation of his task. But now that he finally finished, he couldn’t bring himself to go upstairs.
Eight years ago, the basement used to be his little kingdom, a retreat from the outside world. Looking at it now, with its pool tables and chips and chalkboards, it seemed like the memory was nothing more than an imaginary fabrication, like Bobby Baur in the mirror.
A sharp ring cut through the thick silence of the basement, causing Albert to jump. His neck snapped in the direction of the black phone, one of his ‘presents’ from years past. Probably one of Dad’s ‘business partners.’
Part of him wanted to ignore the phone out of spite, but the fantasy that his father would be impressed with Albert’s responsibility and backtrack on his earlier words compelled him to pick up the receiver. “Hello, this is Albert Shaw speaking. Who is this?”
Through the static on the other end, Albert could make out what he thought sounded like a woman’s voice. His hands clenched tighter around the receiver. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
The static subsided, and Albert could hear clearly, for the first time, what the woman was saying.
“Bertie?”
Albert froze, a torrent of emotions raining down on him. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he slammed the phone down on the receiver before rushing up to his bedroom.
He didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.
****
“I’m sorry—who the hell are you?”
Albert tried not to stare, tightening his grip around the bag in his arms. The Salvatore Bernardi whose suave grin decorated the front cover of last week’s Rocky Mountain News seemed like a different person from the snappish cigar-smoker in front of him.
One of the few Galesburg natives who managed to achieve some degree of fame and fortune, Salvatore Bernardi was once a small-time magician before ending up in Vegas and having his face plastered in magazines and newspapers. His tenure ended abruptly, with rumors and whispers ranging from mob dealings, sleeping with the wrong person, being a secret spy, and having an emotional breakdown. Regardless, he fell from grace and landed back in Galesburg, to Albert’s elation and Bernardi’s presumed horror.
“I’m A-Albert,” he stammered, inwardly cursing himself. Though he overcame his stutter in past years, it had a nasty habit of rearing its head when Albert was exceptionally nervous. And today, he certainly had reason to be.
Much like how he refused to think about Evelyn’s passing, the phone call imaginary phone call was something he buried deep inside. Whatever he thought he heard was a momentary lapse in sanity induced by stress and heartbreak. Nothing more.
Bernardi rolled his eyes and returned to the task of delicately removing his white facepaint with a handkerchief. “A ‘fan,’ I presume?”
Damn. This man is sophisticated. From the classy mid-atlantic accent to the silky cape adorning his shoulders, the magician emanated theatricality in spite of his mundane actions, reminding Albert of how his father captivated him on that fateful Halloween all those years ago.
The thought reminded him of why he was here, and he sobered. “No. Well, I mean, y-yes, because I am a fan even though I n-never got a chance to see you in p-p-person. But I r-r-read about you a-and my d-d-dad w—”
NO. NOT NOW!
Bernardi squinted at a mortified Albert through the mirror, then asked, kinder and slower, “Say, is your father one of those CEC folks?”
“No!” Calmer, calmer. “There’s n—n-nothing wrong w-with me. I’m just n-nervous…”
“Then I must ask you to leave. If you go through the doors and to your left, then—” he stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing at the goods peeking out of the bags in Albert’s arms. “Hell’s bells, are those my groceries? What did you do to Clarence?”
“N-nothing! I have a message to give you from my f-father.” Albert took a deep breath and focused on the details of the room to ground him: the majestic suits and capes hanging from the clothes rack, the props littered throughout the room, and Bernardi’s signature black top hat perched on the dresser, beckoning him. It had the desired effect of calming his nerves, but led him to him babbling. “I came right h-here after school but you were in the middle of a show, so I stayed behind and watched. By the way, you were amazing! My favorite was the vanishing ball trick, but I thought I saw Howard Thurston do the same thing in one of his sh—”
“For the love of Christ, child, just tell me why you stole my groceries.”
“I didn’t steal them,” Albert insisted, clutching the bag tighter. “After the show I tried going to your dressing room, but the guard stopped me and wouldn’t let me in even though I told him I had a message, but I couldn’t go home without speaking to you, otherwise my dad would get…mad. So I stood around a bit and then I saw someone who was about to go into the hallway. He said he was an errand boy for the community center and I asked to take them to you and he said sure.”
Albert finally took a breath. Bernardi massaged his brows, grimacing. “Goddamnit, Clarence.”
Albert swallowed and placed the grocery bag on the dressing table and dug out the envelope from his jacket pocket. “This is from my father. He wants, um, money. I think you borrowed some from him.”
Bernardi’s face paled as he unfolded the letter. “You’re Shaw’s boy?”
“One of them.” As Bernardi read, Albert’s eyes traversed the room again, soaking in every detail. The wonder and majesty was almost enough to erase memories of yesterday.
Almost.
When Bernardis eyes lifted from the page, the man looked nauseous. He opened the dresser drawer and unlocked a secret compartment near the back. Grabbing a stack of bills, he shoved them into the envelope before sealing it and thrusting it back into Albert’s hands. “Erm, could you tell your father I’ll have the rest of the money next week? I’d normally have it, but with tax season and all…”
“Okay.” His father would not like that. “I’ll let him know.”
Albert turned around but paused, a sudden thought striking him like a lightning bolt. “Wait. Mr. Bernardi, how much money do you owe him?” Bernardi reluctantly told him, and Albert bit his lip. If Henry sold sugar for triple the price, what Bernardi owed would be about nine times that amount. Still…
“Mr. Bernardi, I noticed you had sugar in your grocery bags.” Because I thought about stealing it. “If you give it to us, it could cover the rest of the debt.”
The magician looked understandably skeptical, so Albert volunteered to write and sign a note as part of the exchange. For Bernardi, there was no downside to accepting beside the loss of the sugar, whereas there would be much for serious consequences for Albert. After they both signed, Bernardi looked in much higher spirits, giving Albert the courage to ask his next question. “What do you like best about being a magician?”
“The power.” At Albert’s curious expression, Bernardi elaborated. “On stage, a magician has complete control of the audience. He decides what they see, what they think, what they believe. He is the master of their reality.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind, but based on Bernardi’s own performance and Albert’s memory of Thurston’s, he couldn’t deny the truth in that statement.
“You expressed an interest in magic before, young man. Am I right in assuming you want to become one?”
“No,” Albert replied immediately. He toyed with the idea sometimes, but it was never anything more than a passing fancy. After all, he lacked the necessary confidence and stage presence, and how was he supposed to control an entire crowd’s feelings if he couldn’t even control his dad’s? “There’s no way I could do one of those flashy jobs, it’s impossible. I’ll probably end up working at a store or something.” He hoped he didn’t sound as dejected as he felt. “But I shouldn’t be thinking much about that, anyway. If the Axis wins, none of this is going to matter.”
“If there’s one thing you should have learned from my show, it’s that the impossible has a habit of becoming possible.” He gave Albert a small smile before returning to his chair. “I wish you the best of luck, young Albert, wherever the future takes you.”
****
As expected, Henry was furious. He didn’t care about Albert’s reasoning and dragged him down the basement steps, pinning him against the table before unhooking his leather belt. He brought it down on Albert’s shoulders and back in addition to the usual spots, a sign he was truly livid.
But Albert knew he deserved every second of it and couldn’t complain. His gaze rested dully on the spot it normally did: the wall with the black phone attached, and as the burning lashes mounted again and again and again, he retreated into himself, imagining he was carving pumpkins with Evelyn. His body began to feel as heavy as his head felt light, and the objects around him drifted in and out of focus.
I’m going to pass out, he realized. It happened a couple times in the past, the last time being when he was thirteen. Self-hatred seeped into his heart, and his fingers curled instinctively.
He just didn’t understand why his body was taking so long, besides some subconscious urge to endure the full extent of his punishment. He already started seeing delusions; phones certainly couldn’t breathe.
But miraculously, Henry stopped, and the world gradually grew into focus despite a lingering dizziness. His body still ached, but Albert had long grown accustomed to the pain by this point. Regardless, memories of the previous day’s conversation made it feel as though the wounds cut deeper than normal.
Those feelings were magnified when Henry made no attempt to touch him afterwards. Trying to numb himself to the physical and emotional soreness, he sucked in a breath and picked up the sugar with shaky hands.
“Hey!” Henry smacked the center of Albert’s back, and a cry escaped his lips. The bag dropped to the floor. “Where do you get off on taking this after your stupidity cost me cash?”
“I told you, Max’s birthday—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. We’re gonna resell this and get something back.”
Albert wasn’t sure if his recklessness was spurred by his lightheadedness or something else, but he wasn’t going to accept that for an answer. “But now he doesn’t have a present, and he wanted cake. That could have been his present. Unless you got him something?”
Albert fully expected the answer to be negative, but a smirk spread across Henry’s face. “‘Course I’m gonna give him something. Same thing I gave you on your eighth birthday.”
Eighth birth, eighth birthday…Henry gave him the phone, and later that night he—
Albert’s eyes widened.
No…
Albert’s mouth felt dry; there were so many things he wanted to say, but they all died on his tongue.
“What’s the second gift?” Albert finally asked weakly. “You also gave me the phone.”
Henry adjusted his trilby and shrugged, disappointed by the lack of visible reaction. “Didn’t get one. But you know how things are during wartime…he’ll understand.”
Henry began ascending the steps, but not before issuing one final command. “Make sure to give him a talk ahead of time. I don’t want him squirming around like you did.”
Albert nodded, barely registering when the door clanked shut. None of this felt real.
Much like the previous day, Albert had no desire to go upstairs. He had no desire to do much of anything, really. But he had to start getting dinner ready, otherwise he’d end up back here for a second round.
Exhaling, he forced himself to the door and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
Ring, ring…
Albert closed his eyes. It wasn’t real. It was static electricity or something.
Ring ring…
Or maybe one of his father’s business partners or whores he slept with…
Ring, ring…
It couldn’t be a ghost. Ghosts weren’t real so Albert had no reason to—
He wasn’t sure when he ended up across the basement with the receiver pressed up against his ear, but he did.
“Bertie, please don’t hang up.”
His fingers were so sweaty, he thought the phone would slip out of his grasp. “There’s nothing to say, Mama—um, Mom…”
That wasn’t true; there was a lot to say, but Albert couldn’t bring himself to say it. How could he, when he didn’t even understand his own emotions? He felt love and regret and sadness and bitterness, hope and confusion, embarrassment, anger, comfort. He felt lost, but also found.
For the past seven years, the name Evelyn Shaw was strictly off-limits, and the few times Henry voluntarily mentioned her was usually accompanied by mocking derision. The opinions of the public—aside from Emma Baur—weren’t any more charitable.
It was easier to believe Henry’s lies (and Albert knew they were lies, despite everything) that Evelyn was simply a whackjob, or the public narrative that Evelyn was dabbling in some sort of Satanic witchcraft. Believing otherwise would mean Albert lost someone invaluable. Believing otherwise would mean Henry didn’t rescue him like the knight in shining armor he pretended to be. Believing otherwise would mean Albert was a terrible son who ignored his mother’s seven years of hell. Years of hell that he created.
“You know that’s not true,” Evelyn whispered gently. “There’s a lot I want to say, if you’ll let me.” Albert remained silent, fingers twisting around the cord. “I never blamed you for what happened, not once. I love you and your brother, and my biggest regret was not telling you enough.”
Albert finally found his voice. “That’s alright. You don’t have to. He tells me enough.” Not recently, but still…
“He says all the right things, doesn’t he? Did the same to me, once upon a time.” She chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “But I soon learned his interests and whims change like the weather. He sees the people around him as toys and the world as his playground. You’ll learn too, if you haven’t already.”
Albert opened his mouth and closed it before opening it again. “You’re really not angry?”
“Of course not. Henry’s to blame, not you.”
“So why are you still here?” he challenged. “Why didn’t you move on like L-Leona?”
It was a name he hadn’t mentioned in years, a name of someone he convinced himself was a figment of his imagination. But like Salvatore Bernardi said, there are ways to make the impossible possible.
“Because I don’t want to. I can’t, not until you and your brother are safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Evelyn was quiet for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, her voice was so heavy with sorrow that Albert’s eyes blurred with tears. “Albert, what your father did to you—does to you—isn’t right.” Albert opened his mouth to protest, but his mother hurried on. “It’s a twisted desire that comes from a dark, unhealthy place, and t’s wrong. I know you believe otherwise right now, but if you search deep within yourself, you can find the truth in my words.”
“It’s not true,” he hissed. “You’re a liar like he says.”
“Think about when this all started. Did you think you enjoyed it then?”
“...I don’t know.” he muttered, after a pause. “Some days I remember it differently.”
“He gets in your head, changes how you think. That’s what men like him do.”
“Like a magician.”
“Hmm?”
Bernardi’s words danced in his mind, invigorating his confidence. “Why are you calling me, Mom? If you want me to leave him, it’s not happening. I want to stay, and even if I didn’t, it’s not like I can pick up and move…wherever you wanted us to go.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere. This should be your house, not his.”
“Well, he’s going to leave.”
“I know. That’s why he needs to be forcibly removed.”
“How?” There was silence on the other end, until Albert finally put two and two together and almost fainted. “Wait, you want to kill him?”
“Technically, no.”
His head grew even lighter. “Then…m-me? You want me to murder my own father?”
“Goodness, no! I couldn’t ask that of you. I’ll handle most of the work. I simply need your assistance in bringing him into a specific situation, and everything after that will play out naturally.”
Albert squinted. “So I won't be a murderer, just an accomplice to a murder.”
“It’s not really a murder, per say.”
“Dad was right,” Albert said, swallowing. “You are nuts.”
“Bertie, please,” she begged. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless it was absolutely necessary. You and your brother cannot stay with Henry. He’s a wicked man and I will not allow him to continue harming you.”
“I’m not being harmed!”
“The fact that you’re saying that proves this needs to happen! I need to give you and Max the best possible chance.”
“I love my father,” he declared, tears finally slipping down his face. “When you love a person, you do anything for them. Even if they don’t want you anymore.”
“Albert, he’s—”
“Shut up! You don’t know anything about me or him! You don’t know what love is! You—you’re just jealous he likes me more than you.”
“Please lis—”
“Just leave me alone. You’re good at that.”
Albert slammed the phone on the receiver, ignoring the relentless ringing as he thundered up the stairs.
****
The following day, Kathy mentioned Albert could use honey, maple syrup, or corn syrup as a sugar substitute, though she warned they wouldn’t taste “exactly the same” as sugar. The Shaws only had a jar of honey from last year, so Albert sent Max to bed early and attempted making a cake. Upon careful inspection, Albert felt torn. It looked like a normal cake; he was even able to use cocoa and margarine in order to make chocolate frosting. But would it taste like a normal cake?
Probably not, Albert grudgingly concluded as he placed the cake in the refrigerator. But it didn’t matter. Max wouldn’t have much time to dwell on it anyway.
Fighting down his bitterness, Albert creaked open Max’s bedroom door. His younger brother was snuggled in bed, blankets wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon. Waiting for the next day when he’d shed the skin of his childhood and transform into something greater.
Albert leaned against the doorframe. He should tell Max about what was going to happen. His father would be happy that way, and Max deserved to know. It was the right thing to do.
But no one gave Albert a heads up, so why should his younger brother get one? And he didn’t want his father to be happy, not with Max. Albert was the special one. That’s what Henry said all those years ago.
But as Albert watched Max’s sleeping visage—a picture of angelic innocence—guilt and despair coiled around him like twin serpents. He wanted to wake Max and leave with him in the middle of the night, traveling across the country to a place where Henry could never twist the small boy’s mind like he did Albert’s. A place where Max could remain eternally pure and untouched.
He also wanted to yank the pillow from underneath Max’s head and smother him with it, squeezing until every drop of life left his tiny body. He fantasized of a life where he remained the apple of Henry’s eye, a life where he could enjoy what little remained of his childhood and not worry about playing nursemaid.
Another thought, intrusive and uncomfortable, flitted through his mind briefly. One where he was the one to initiate Max into the world of adults, where he would be the recipient of Max’s undying love and devotion, where he controlled Max like a puppet on a string.
The thought sickened him.
As if sensing his brother’s discomfort, one of Max’s eyelids fluttered open, and he shifted beneath his cocoon and yawned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing”—everything—“is wrong.”
Max tilted his head. “If nothing’s wrong, why’d you come in here?”
“Just to look at you.”
Had there ever been a time when Albert looked so innocent, so trusting, so pure? Or was he simply born broken?
“I just wanted to look at you.”
****
“Yes! Yes! Yessss! I’m so excited! Thank you, Al! Thank you!”
Albert sliced the cake down the center, smiling thinly while his insides thrashed nervously. Max was practically bouncing out of his seat in the new white sweater Kathy knit for him. Sitting next to Max in a chair of its own was Woofy, a tiny stuffed stuffed dog that was yet another example of Kathy’s generosity. Seeing it made Albert feel horrible—yet again— for telling her he couldn’t go on the trip.
Across from Max sat Henry, leafing through the newspaper. Albert didn’t think his eyes left it once throughout dinner.
“This is the best birthday ever!” effused Max, holding up his fork with anticipation. “Kathy gave me a sweater and Woofy, and Anthony gave me a high-five, and Miss Parker and some of the kids in school told me happy birthday! And you gave me the best comics and Mrs. Baur made the best dinner and now I’m going to eat the best dessert ever!”
The saddest part was that Max wasn’t exaggerating; compared to years past, today probably was, in fact, his best birthday ever.
“Glad to hear it, kid,” Henry chuckled. “Albie, pull up a chair so we can get this show on the road.”
Albert reluctantly did as he asked. It still hurt to sit, something Henry clearly knew from the smirk. As Max’s spoon dug greedily into the soft interior of the cake, Albert’s palms began to sweat. Max lifted the spoon and shoved it into his mouth.
Albert could tell how Max felt before he said anything.
“Hey, this isn’t real cake.” He took another bite and added through a mouthful of chews, “It tastes like a sponge with honey inside.”
Henry laughed. “Guess this counts as another meal your brother botched, eh Maxie?”
Albert said nothing, but the fury boiling inside must have been evident. Max shrank into his seat.
“A-Actually, I like it,” he stammered, shoving another spoonful in his mouth. “The more I eat, the less bad it tastes.”
Henry’s raucous laughter caused something in Albert to snap. He grabbed Max’s plate and flung it against the wall, shattered pieces of ceramic and cake debris covering the floor. ‘Why do I bother doing anything for you?” he snarled, yanking him up by the forearm.
Max’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to ma—”
A sharp crack echoed throughout the house. Max covered his cheek and cowered, but that wasn’t enough. The kitchen phone began ringing, but no one attempted to pick it up. “Do you realize how much time in my life I wasted because I have to look after your sorry ass?”
Faint memories of His Basement taunted him, memories of encyclopedias, toys, and posters strewn about for him and him alone. When was the last time Albert read a book for his own pleasure? Whatever happened to his dream of joining the baseball team? How many hours did he spend bandaging Max’s wounds, reading to him, helping with his homework, cooking him food?
Max’s weeping triggered another rush of anger, and soon the pain in Max’s left cheek matched the one in his right. “You’re so damn happy all the time because you don’t have to do shit around here! I’m the one doing all the work!”
“I’m s-sorry!” he wailed, tears streaming down his face.
“You should be. You—”
“Alright, enough,” Henry finally interjected. Albert’s gaze finally shifted to his father, who was leaning back in his seat with a cigarette in one hand, entirely unperturbed. Aside from the newly lit cigarette, there were no signs he did anything else than enjoy the show. “I want this crap off the floor.”
“Max, get a rag and—”
“No. It’s your bitchfit, you’re going to clean it up. Max, head to your room. I’m gonna give you a present later that’ll make you feel better.”
Max wiped his eyes on his sweater sleeve—now damp with tears—and nodded, bottom lip wobbling. Albert seethed as he wet the rag and began cleaning up. Once Max was out of sight, Henry let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Well, that’s no way to treat a boy on his birthday.”
Albert barely noticed that the phone finally stopped ringing. An internal debate raged within him before finally making his decision. “I don’t want you having sex with him.”
“You know that doesn’t come until later.” Henry shot Albert a look of disgust. “If I do it now, the poor kid’ll break in half!”
“I don’t want you touching him at all. I don’t want him touching you. I don’t want you fucking his mouth, or showing him those photos, or playing any of our games. Leave. Him. Alone.”
A coldness descended upon the room. “That’s funny, Al. Real funny. You thinking you can tell me what to do.”
“You don’t need him,” pleaded Albert, eyes moist. Why won’t he understand? “You have me.” Henry’s eyeroll added more kindling to the fire. “Why aren’t I good enough? Why can’t I stay in the house?”
“You know what? Fine. I’ll tell you why.” He extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray, eyes hardening. “It’s because you’re fucking creepy. When you were a kid the clinginess was cute, but now…goddamnit, Al, you’re fifteen. You should be doll dizzy instead of obsessing over your old man. Something’s gotta be wrong with your head.”
“I-It’s not my fault.” A trembling finger pointed at Henry. “You d-d-did something to my h-head. You m-made me love you.”
“D-D-Did I?” he mocked. Then, more seriously, added, “Did something, awakened something—who the hell knows? Like I told you earlier in the week, you gotta drop this baggage and move on with your life.”
“Like you’re going to move on with M-Max?”
Wariness spread across Henry’s face, accompanied by something else, something Albert was used to seeing in other people, but never Henry.
Is that…pity?
“Aww, don’t be like that. You can still visit. Maybe once a month, or every two months. Hell, if you wanna be a real adult and make it twice a year, that’s—”
Albert grabbed the cake knife and lunged, plunging it deep into Henry’s shoulder. A raging howl echoed throughout the house, but before Henry could recover, Albert leapt up and dug his fingernails into his father’s neck. He slammed his fists against his Henry head and body, again and again, kicking, screaming, flailing like a man possessed.
It lasted only a few seconds. Henry quickly overpowered him, slamming him onto the linoleum and screaming obscenities as he punched, kicked, slapped, and lashed the boy on the ground. Albert kicked and struggled valiantly until Henry bent his fingers so far back, they felt numb. That numbness spread throughout his body and heart, the impulse to fight dissipating as quickly as it came. He laid limp as blow after blow rained down on him, venomous words and resumed ringing blending together in an infernal lullaby.
Henry only stopped when a sudden burst of static on the radio caught his attention. He didn’t lift his weight from Albert, but his breathing regained an even pace. This finally allowed Albert the chance to get a good look at his father; his hair was mussed and his eyes looked as animalistic as Albert’s must have been a few minutes ago. The blood from his shoulder wound dripped into a small pool on the floor, next to the trilby which fell to the ground in the scuffle.
Henry dug into his pocket and flicked open his pocketknife. “I outta take out one of these,” he breathed, pointing the blade towards Albert’s iris. “You don’t need two. Anytime you look in the mirror, you’ll think of me, or some sappy shit.”
The lights flickered, and Henry frowned. He slowly lifted his weight, though Albert made no attempt to get up.
“But I got a better idea,” he declared, calmer and controlled. He gestured to his wound. “First, I gotta get cleaned up. Then, I’m gonna see Maxie. And when I do,” he continued, trailing the blade along Albert’s clenched jaw, “you’re going to watch.”
Notes:
In the next chapter we'll see:
-whether Max gets the 'present' or if something else happens instead
-"Carol"
-mother-son murder plot
-Al goes on the trip after all :D
Chapter 25: The Great Big Unknown
Notes:
The word dough is slang for money, and sauced is slang for intoxicated. Souse is someone who is habitually drunk. Galveston is a reference to the Galveston hurricane, which was the deadliest natural disaster in U.S History.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Max hesitantly creaked the door to Henry’s room open, his father was already sitting on the bed, much like he did seven years ago. Albert was relieved to see that aside from his red-rimmed eyes, Max didn’t look much worse for wear. No signs of bruising, thankfully. Unlike him.
Henry smiled and gestured for Max to sit next to him. Max obliged, though his fearful eyes remained glued on Albert. “Why’s he tied up?” he whimpered.
“So he doesn’t attack us like a rabid dog,” Henry responded lazily. He wrapped his arm around Max’s shoulders, and resentment boiled within Albert. “Your brother was naughty earlier. He even laid his hands on me—see?”
Henry gestured to his own scratched-up neck. Not for the first time, Albert struggled against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. The only result was more chafing against his skin. He hated ropes and being bound, even back when things were better between him and Henry.
Max’s eyes bore into him, silently pleading. But Albert just glared. Guilt from his earlier altercation with Max was heavy and present, but so was lingering envy. “Why does he look like that?” mumbled Max.
“Karma for roughing you up earlier. You like that, right?”
Max shook his head feebly. Of course Max wouldn’t agree. He wasn’t a bitter and vindictive asshole like Albert.
“See, that’s what I like about you, Maxie. Your sweet”—he began tracing circles into Max’s shoulders—”gentle. Good-natured. Not like your brother over there. So I’m gonna give you something nice today.”
“What?” Max asked hopefully.
“C’mere and sit on my lap.”
Puzzlement crossed his features, but Max obeyed. Henry shot Albert a smirk of triumph before brushing his lips against Max’s neck. “Good boy.”
“Is this the present?” Max questioned, disappointment seeping into his voice.
“Not yet. See what I’m doing with my hands?” One hand held Max in place while the other traced over his back and chest in stroking motions. “Doesn’t this make you feel good?”
“Y-Yeah…”
Henry continued for a minute until Max gradually relaxed. “Now, there’s this special part that makes a real nice feeling if I touch it. I’m going to do it to you, then you’re going to do it to me.”
The lamp flickered. “But if I do it to you, then it’s not a present!” objected Max.
Henry’s grin strained. “Consider it advanced payment for the future, kid.”
Albert wanted to look away, but like a trainwreck, he was drawn to the lurid scene. He watched, gut twisting into a knot, as Henry’s hand descended lower and lower until it rested between Max’s legs.
But before he could create the ‘nice feeling,’ the piercing shriek of an air raid siren blared from the street.
“Blackout drill! Woohoo!” exclaimed Max. He leapt from Henry’s lap and raced towards the basement.
Rare uncertainty flickered across Henry’s face, the same uncertainty taking root in Albert’s heart. They just had a blackout drill the previous week, and there had never been two so close together. Could this be the real thing?
No, decided Albert. The timing was too coincidental. There was another force at play, one determined to protect her sons by any means necessary.
Henry regarded him scornfully, but used the pocket knife to cut through Albert’s restraints. Wordlessly, they followed the usual procedures: shutting off all appliances, turning off the water and gas valves, and closing the blackout curtains before joining Max in the basement.
When the youngest Shaw spotted Albert, he stopped his dancing and slouched into the corner. Albert sat across from him in silence, guilt gnawing at him.
“Al, I’m really sorry I said your cake tasted weird,” Max mumbled, face crumpling in the dim lamplight. “It wasn’t that bad, it just tasted different from Howie’s.”
“That’s alright.” Then, after a pause, added stiffly, “I’m sorry, too.”
Max’s face lit up; Albert rarely apologized for hitting him. “Swell,” he exhaled. “Then this still has a chance of being my favorite birthday. Papa, did you ask the government to have a blackout drill today?”
“Yep,” lied Henry.
“Golly, this really is the best birthday ever.”
The blackout drill lasted far longer than normal. If Albert’s suspicions were correct and the blackout was a result of Evelyn’s interference, the Civil Defense workers were likely in a panic trying to figure out who set off the siren, and whether or not there was a real attack. Despite his excitement, the stress of the day dragged Max into an early slumber. Albert could hear the light snore of the brother curled up beside him and gently stroked his hair.
So sweet and innocent…
He was glad Max stayed that way tonight. His eyes drifted toward his father, whose expression was unreadable in the lamplight. “Things got a bit heated today,” Henry began, quiet but gruff. “Maybe we can let bygones be bygones, yeah?”
Albert was silent for a moment. “Did you mean what you said before, about me being creepy?”
Henry sighed and reclined in his chair, crossing his legs over the coffee table that separated them. “Maybe creepy wasn’t the best word for it. More like you come off a bit…strong, which makes it creepy. Sometimes.”
“Of course it’s strong,” hissed Albert, careful not to wake Max. “It’s love.”
“Jeez kid, now you’re making me feel bad.”
“Was there ever a time when you felt that way for me? Anytime at all?”
The fact that Henry paused caused Albert’s heart to plummet. “I always liked you, Albie. You’re a funny kid.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Henry exhaled and took his hat off, fiddling with the brim. “Listen, it’s like—it’s like this. I’ve never been good with…love, or the idea of it. Some people got this thing inside them that lets them connect with others and shit, but I’m not like that. It’s missing in me, and as far as I can tell, I’ve always been like this. Nothing personal, kid.”
Albert continued to stare at the shadows created by the lamp; he was surprised at how unsurprised he was by this revelation. The only thing he felt was numbness.
When Henry saw Albert wasn’t going to say anything, he shifted position and let out an awkward cough. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll hold off on Maxie until you go off on your own. How ‘bout that?”
He still didn’t feel the emotions he thought he would. It was as though all this was happening to another boy in another universe. “...Alright.”
Misinterpreting Albert’s lack of enthusiasm, Henry said, “I know you don’t want to, but everyone’s gotta grow up and face the real world sometime. The only ones who don’t are the ones who die young, like my kid sister.”
This was the first time Albert heard about Henry ever having a sister. Another reminder that he didn’t know much about Henry at all, despite their physical intimacy.
“I don’t know how,” Albert whispered hollowly.
“You’ll figure it out. Everyone does.”
Henry stood up and moved over to Albert, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. Albert tensed.
“Y’know, this blackout might last a while. Why don’t we have some fun in the meantime?”
Earlier today Albert would have jumped at the chance, but all he felt now was lethargy. “You just said you didn’t love me.”
“Well, now, I didn’t say that. I just said I’m not good with it. And besides, you don’t need love to have good sex. Just look at me an’ Ginny.”
Albert’s gaze hardened, and Henry ruffled his hair. “C’mon, Albie, for old time’s sake?”
Fucking unbelievable.
How could this man have had such control over his life? Henry really was the charlatan everyone said he was, and Albert was just another easy mark.
How could he have been so stupid?
“We’ll wake up Max,” he mumbled, pulling away from his grip.
But Henry reached out again and squeezed Albert’s shoulder, causing the boy to wince. “Not if we’re quiet and do it against the pool table.”
He looked down at his shoes and slumped against the headrest. Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to say no to Henry, like a puppet on a string. With a sigh, he gently placed a pillow under Max’s head and followed his father to begin their ‘fun.’
But it was different than normal. The only sensation Albert felt inside him was entrenched emptiness. A feeling like his mind wasn’t fully present, but instead drifting someplace far away.
The last time he felt this way, he was thirteen.
Strange….
****
Albert awoke to piercing ringing, the morning daybreak greeting him through the small basement window. Max and Henry were both gone, deeping Albert’s despondency. He groggily pushed himself off the sofa and toward the phone.
Before picking up, his hands hesitated over the black receiver. What the fuck could he even say? What did he want to say?
In the end all he settled on was, “Mom?”
“Uh, no. Definitely not.”
Albert frowned. It was a female voice, but one he never heard before—at least, not that he could recall. “Virginia?”
“Who?”
“Are you one of the”—you know what? Fuck it—”other sluts fucking my father?”
“What the hell? No. Fuuuuuuck no. That’s disgusting.”
“Then who are you?” Albert asked, unease returning.
“Um, Carol.”
“Carol who?”
There was a staticy pause on the other end. “You know…Carol.”
“No, I don’t,” snapped Albert. “And if you can’t even give me a last name, then I doubt it’s your real name anyway.”
“Y-You know what, you’re right. That was kind of a secret identity. Because I'm about to tell you some secret stuff.”
Albert rolled his eyes. “I’m not listening to a word you say until you give me your real name.”
“Okay, it’s, um, Diana. Diana Prince.”
Memories of Max’s comics and ‘future wife’ plaguing his thoughts. “Do you think I'm stupid?” He lifted the receiver from his ears.
“Waitwaitwait! Don’t hang up!”
“Why should I stay on a second longer? You’re full of shit.”
“I’m full of sh—okay, you know what? I’ll tell you my real name. It’s Carol…Danvers. I told you that wasn’t my name before because I got nervous since I’m about to drop some big bombshells and—fuck, I forgot you’re in, like, World War II. For once I actually wasn’t trying to be offens—”
Albert hung up. He ignored the ringing and made his way through the basement, but before he could reach the doorframe, he stopped.
Two of the chairs were vibrating. Albert’s hands grew clammy and he returned to the phone.
“Don’t hang up! I need to—”
“Are you a ghost?” he interrupted.
“Uh, yeah…and I know things from the future. Because ghosts know stuff. And that’s why we need to talk. There’s something that’s kinda…concerning.”
Albert stilled. His mother and Leona used to tell him that ghosts existed outside of time, but he never fully understood what that meant. “My mom’s a ghost, too. Is she with you? Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I never met her.” There was another staticy pause, then Carol mumbled. “Sorry she’s dead. My mom’s dead too. It sucks.”
Albert didn’t trust himself to say anything to that, so instead asked, “What did you want to tell me?”
“Okay, so, um.” Carol didn’t sound as confident as she did a few minutes ago. “Hypothetically, if there was a person in your life who did…things…to your brother…how would you feel?”
His hands tightened around the cord as he remembered his father’s hands trailing over Max. “Like I want revenge.”
“Me too,” she said wryly. “So the reason I’m calling is that I want that kind of thing to not happen. The future’s kind of…dark, so I’m hoping you could do something to help it not be awful. Maybe create a new timeline. What do you say?”
Albert waited for a few seconds before realizing she expected him to speak. “What?”
“Okay, I’m going to try to be vague because if I say too much I always end up making things worse. So there’s this evil person in the future and there’s something you can do to stop this person from….existing. He, um, screws with kids, literally and metaphorically, He pretends to love them when all he just wants is sex.”
“...I think I know who you’re talking about,” he mumbled, tears forming against his wishes.
“Oh. Well, this is super-awkward for me then, because what I’m talking about technically isn’t your fault right now ‘cause right now you're super-young, but you’re still kind of involved with it so, um, yeah…”
“What are you saying I should do?” he murmured.
“I think you know what you have to do. Make the right choices. Do things to help other people instead of things that could hurt them. Sometimes we have to do what’s right, even if it’s hard. ‘The right way isn’t always the easy way’...or something like that.”
He leaned against the wall; surprised to find that the tears weren’t flowing. Maybe Carol was right. Maybe deep down he knew his father had to die, so Max wouldn’t live like he did. And without Henry keeping him trapped, Albert might finally be free for the first time in seven years.
But…
“I’m not sure I can,” he confessed. He loved Henry, even if he didn’t love him back. Could he really be responsible for his death?
“I know you can, if you really want to! Right now, you’re still—you’re still normal. And you could stay that way, if you make the right choices! But if you don’t, you’re going to be twisted and miserable and everyone else’s going to be miserable, too.”
“You think I’m normal?” he asked, hope fluttering in his heart. “Not creepy?”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of creepy you just asked me that…”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, face heating up. “I’ve had a stressful week…”
“You and me both.” She chuckled dryly. “So, what’s it going to be? Awesome path or Asshole path?
Albert bit his lip. He thought of the jealousy, the heartbreak, the pain, the smirks, the innocent glow of Max’s sleeping face. “I’m going to do what’s right.”
“YES!!! Cool beans! Thank you so much—this is going to be so much better for everyone! You won’t regret it!”
Albert hung up the phone, numbness making way for a steady sense of purpose.
Henry was going to fucking pay for breaking his heart.
****
Evelyn called on the upstairs phone an hour later, and despite her best efforts, Albert refused to talk about anything that happened the day of the blackout drill. The only thing he had any interest in discussing was the plans for Henry’s agonizing demise.
The optimal day to enact the plan, Evelyn said, was on Valentine’s Day. Kathy squealed when he told her Henry had a change of heart, and wasn’t bothered at all by his request to bring Max along as a belated, surprise birthday present.
The neighbors to the left would be away for a week as well, and when Albert went to pick up the food, he casually mentioned to Mrs. Baur that his father would be traveling in the early morning on Valentine’s Day to visit old friends for a week. He called the post office to hold the mail, and asked for the newspaper to stop being delivered.
Then, there was the matter of the basement itself. Albert had a very small timeframe to work with—only a few hours before Henry woke up on February 14th. Evelyn instructed him to remove certain objects like the pool cues, pliers, poker chips, and others that could be misused. The most exhausting was by far the beer bottles, which involved multiple trips up and down the steps. Oddly enough, most of the furniture stayed. Albert expressed concerns Henry might use them to break down the door, but Evelyn assured him it would not be an issue.
Naturally, the most important step was cutting the cord of the basement telephone. This proved to be the most anxiety-wracking step, and when he held the pliers up to the wire with trembling fingers, Albert half-expected Henry to sense what he was doing, bust down the door, and beat the shit out of him. But he didn’t, and the only sound heard in the basement was a sharp, decisive snap.
He couldn’t say he didn’t second-guess himself during his plottings, but righteous indignation dwarfed any possible misgivings. Soon, his doubts were quashed completely, and the only reservation was that he wouldn’t be able to personally squeeze the life out of Henry’s throat like he wanted. But he knew logically that a fifteen year old, even one full of rage, wouldn’t stand a chance against a grown man.
At the break of dawn, Albert woke a groggy Max and told him, in hushed whispers, that he needed to take his bag—which Albert packed for him the night before—and wait in the garage of the Rusnaks’ old home until Albert came to get him. The old house was used as a hangout spot for neighborhood children in the years since, but Evelyn assured him Max wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. On the contrary, his brother was thrilled at the possibility of a vacation and—for once—complied quickly and quietly. The only thing left to do was wait.
Albert made his father a normal Sunday breakfast—toast with butter and eggs—before Henry awoke. And like normal, he didn’t thank Albert when he sat down and devoured the food. A spike of bitterness rushed through Albert as Henry brought the eggs up to his greedy lips. He gets the butter and he gets the eggs while his sons made do with cereal, porridge, and crappy canned meat. Albert couldn’t even remember the last time he had the privilege of savoring a real egg.
“Y-You, um, want to get a head start on the day?” stuttered Albert as he pulled a beer bottle from the refrigerator.
Henry grinned. “Good thinking, Albie.”
He grasped the bottle with sweaty hands and passed it to Henry, who used his pocket knife to unscrew the cap. Afterwards, he sat the knife down on the table and downed half the bottle.
Albert’s heart thumped rapidly. Evelyn emphasized the next step was important.
Leaning to pick up Henry’s finished plate, Albert nudged the beer bottle with his elbow, causing the contents to pull all over his father’s shirt.
Henry jumped out of his seat and swore loudly. Albert felt the expected impact across his cheek and stumbled, plate slipping from his hands and shattering on the linoleum. This incited another explosive outburst from Henry, though his drenched shirt prevented him from taking Albert to task the way he wanted to. Instead, he thundered for Albert to ‘clean that shit up’ and wait for him in the basement. As he stalked to his room to change, Albert quickly collected the plate remains in the dustpan and spilled them into the trash. He then grabbed the pocketknife from the table and shoved it into his pocket before heading downstairs.
Hands growing clammy, he surveyed the room one final time. Everything seems to be in order.
But was he really going to do this? Could he do this?
As if sensing his doubts, the phone rang despite the cut cord. He picked it up, insides fluttering.
“It’s time,” Evelyn said. “Are you ready, Albert?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, eyeing the exit.
“Whether this happens or not is up to you. I’m not your father: I won't force you to do anything you don’t want.”
The top door creaked open, and a tremor of thrill and panic raced through him.
“I–I want to do this. I think…”
“Then remember the plan. And remember what I said before: He’ll say anything to save himself. Don’t believe a word of it.”
“I won’t,” he promised quietly as Henry descended the steps.
“I’m with you, Bertie. Remember that.”
Albert set the phone back on the hook and moved into position in the center of the room. Within seconds, Henry’s shadowy visage became visible.
“That shirt was worth more than all of yours and Max’s combined,” he fumed. “I sure as hell ain’t paying for another one. First paycheck you get, you’re gonna use that dough and make it up to me.”
“O-Okay.”
Henry’s eyes drifted over to the bar area. His eyebrows scrunched, and he walked over closer to inspect. As he did, Albert inched closer to the door.
“What the hell?” Henry exploded. “Where are my drinks?!”
This is it.
With the wide gap created between him and Henry, Albert rushed to the door and slammed it shut. His hands hovered over the lock but hesitated, and a split-second later, the lock clicked on its own, just like his mother said it would.
Evelyn also promised the door would hold Henry at bay, but that didn’t stop his nerves from jumping when Henry started pounding against it. “Open up, you little shit! You’re fucking dead, you hear me? Dead!”
“Actually,” Albert corrected, defiance cutting through his nerves, “you’re the one who's dead. Or going to be, at least.”
“The hell you talking about?”
“Max and I are going to Colorado Springs, and I told the neighbors you’re going away too.” I can do this I can do this I can do this. “No one’s coming to save you. You’re going to die here, alone, in agony. That’s what you get for not appreciating me.”
Henry stopped pounding. “My car’s in the driveway, you dumb fuck.”
“I said someone picked you up last night. Of course, when we return we’ll ‘find out’ that you never actually left and the door jammed on accident. You were too sauced and passed out, which is a shame, because otherwise we might have heard you. Oh, well.”
Henry paused before chuckling. “This is a gag, isn’t it?”
“Nope. You’re going to die of dehydration or starvation, whatever comes first.”
This time the pause was much longer. “Someone else’ll notice I’m gone.” It wouldn’t be perceptible to an outsider, but Albert was able to detect a note of uncertainty. “C’mon. You’re goddamn kids. Max can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“You screwed over too many people in this town. No one’s going to look too deeply into this, or care. And Max doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Only me and Mom do.”
“So you really are like her, huh?” Albert never brought up his special abilities, but always suspected his father knew. “Should’ve sold you to the circus. Would’ve gotten more value.”
“You’ll have all the time in the world to regret your choices,” Albert said, holding his head high. “Like cheating on me with those women and Max.”
His father adopted a more affectionate tone. “Is that what this is about? C’mon, Albie. I said we’ll let bygones be bygones, remember?”
“You also said you lied,” accused Albert, voice wavering. “I gave you everything, but you never loved me. You just pretended to!”
“I never said—“
“It was heavily implied!”
“I was lying,” insisted Henry, a note of anxiety tugging at his voice. “I just said that to get you out of the house. Love and sex go hand in hand, and you can’t have one without the other. You didn’t start getting really clin—er, attached until we did. Why do you think that is?”
Doubt started creeping its way into Albert’s heart. He remembered hating it at first, feeling hurt and lost and confused, but then something changed in him. He wasn’t sure why it changed, but once he started thinking of sex as an expression of love, it made him feel better. Made everything feel warm and right instead of cold and wrong.
Was Albert’s belief a universal truth, or was Henry exploiting Albert’s feelings?
“Doesn’t matter. Either way, you lied or cheated. Maybe both. And now, you’re going to pay.”
“Look, Albie.” Now the desperation was palpable. “I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. Just open the door.”
“No.”
“I want to see my good, sweet little boy again. Want to feel you nice and warm around my cock. You’d like that, hmm?”
Visceral revulsion coiled in him, something he hadn’t felt in years. “I won’t.” Even though Henry couldn’t see him, he shook his head. “I don’t know why I ever thought I did. You’re pathetic.”
“You won’t be able to be able to survive without me!” he yelled, voice cracking. “The world’s an evil, fucked up place. It chews up and spits out kids like you.”
“I know.”
Henry laughed scornfully and resumed pounding against the door. “You don’t know shit. How the hell are you gonna pay the bills? I’m the one who rakes in the dough!”
“You said you wanted me to get a job,” Albert said innocently. “And I will. Then I’ll marry a girl and have kids and my own house. I’ll live a normal life like everyone else.”
‘Normal.’ It was a strange word—Albert had never once considered himself normal, though he yearned for normalcy when he was younger. But now he was going to join the strange masses he always observed from afar. It was a frightening but exciting possibility.
The pounding intensified. “You won’t marry a girl. You’ll never even find another man!” Faced with the concept of his mortality, Henry fell back in the old standby: unbridled rage. “Don’t you get it, moron? No one will put up with your shit! No one will ever love you, not like I do. So stop being an idiot and open the damn door!”
“I will find someone special,” Albert promised. “Someone who wants to stay with me forever and won’t love anyone else but me. I’ll make sure of that.”
“ALBERT! Open the damn door, you fucking brat—“
“Goodbye, Papa. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He ignored Henry’s bellows, insults, threats, and pleas as he ascended the staircase and locked the exterior door. There was one final step he needed to complete, but first he needed to make sure everything in the house was in order. In the process of doing so, Albert’s hand brushed against his pocket and he remembered what was in there. He pulled out the pocketknife and flicked it open, several different emotions tumbling inside as he examined his haunted reflection in the silver blade. He entered his father’s room with the intent of placing it on the dresser, but stopped. Instead, it returned to his pocket.
‘Spoils of the hunt’ was the term that sprang to mind, but Albert pushed it away. He didn’t want to think of his indomitable father as prey. That was his dad, for Christ’s sake! Not an animal.
Still, there was no harm in keeping the pocketknife as a memento of his triumph. It wasn’t like Henry was going to be using it, anyway.
****
After confirming all was in order, Albert grabbed his suitcase and hurried outside for the final step. The small basement window was barred from the Prohibition days, back when it was used for making moonshine. Still, if one were to press their face against the glass at a certain angle, they might be able to spot Henry, and that simply wouldn’t do.
Albert dragged one of the trash cans and used it to obscure the window. One part that made him anxious was that he could make out some faint, muffled noise from the basement, though no one would be able to hear unless they were outside and close by. The basement not being soundproofed was one of Albert’s biggest fears, though he knew Evelyn would do anything in her power to prevent Henry’s escape.
Another thought that caused a spike of anxiety was remembering he didn’t turn the basement lights on when he left. His mother didn’t tell him to, but with the trash can blocking the window, there was no longer any source of light in the basement.
Should he go back inside to turn them on? Did Henry deserve that kindness? Would Albert be strong enough to do so without opening the door?
“What are you up to?”
Albert almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around; Emma Baur stood on the porch in a nightdress, cigarette in one hand, with the other wrapping around her waist. She brought the cigarette up to her lips and huffed, eyes locked onto the trash can.
“Um.” Albert’s mouth grew dry. “Dad wanted me to move it here. He told me last night, before he left for Chicago.”
“That’s odd,” Mrs. Baur remarked lightly, exhaling a ring of smoke, “considerin’ I saw the souse pick up the newspaper this morning.”
“Oh.” FUCK. Why the hell did Henry pick today, of all days, to be productive? And where was Albert when this was happening? The bathroom? His own room? Max’s room? “That’s weird,” he added helplessly. “Well, he’s not here now.”
At that exact moment, Albert heard a thump from the window, as though something was thrown on it. His face flushed.
Could Mrs. Baur hear, or was she too far away?
“We have a rat problem,” babbled Albert. “Dad wanted me to block the window so they don’t get out. Um, in.”
Jail, here I come…
Emma’s gaze pierced into him, though it was contemplative as opposed to cruel. “Where are you going with that suitcase?”
“Colorado Springs. Max and I are going with Kathy and Anthony since school’s closed next week.”
The corners of Emma’s lips tugged upwards, an expression he hadn’t seen from her in a while. “Kathy, eh? Good for you.”
“Thanks.” His face flushed even brighter. “So if you hear any bumps or sounds from the house, it’s probably rats…”
“Of course,” she murmured, eyes locking onto the can again. “I’ll stay inside and try to avoid them. Those little bastards are just terrible for my rosebushes.”
****
Traveling to Colorado Springs was one of the most surreal moments of his life. Despite Anthony’s overdramatic grousing at Albert’s presence, the Shaw and Sinclair siblings boarded the train without a hitch. It was an incredibly odd feeling, knowing that while he stared out the window at rushing scenery, his father was trapped in a pitch-black tomb of his own making. When Albert unpacked his measly belongings, his father would be feeling the stirrings of a thirst that would go forever unquenched. When he took the shuttle with Kathy to see the Broadmoor Seven Falls, smiled as Max made a snow angel, and rolled his eyes as Anthony elucidated about the Garden of the Gods as if he were a tour guide, Henry was undergoing a torturous death by starvation.
No, dehydration comes first. That’s what Mom said.
Despite Albert’s bitterness toward Henry, the thought of him dying induced a wave of conflicting emotions. To stymie the tide, he focused on something more stable: Kathy.
Spending more time with her helped him realize how objectively well-suited they were for each other. Her cheer and bombasity balanced his sullen moodiness. But she wasn’t aggressively energetic like Max, either—she knew when to give him space and was eerily in tune with his emotions. He had patience for her that he didn’t have with many others, and could listen to her ramble about inane topics without getting annoyed. He enjoyed her smile, her giggle, her pout, the way her ponytail bobbed up and down when she ran. Seeing her squeal and point and whatever woodland creature crossed their path achieved the impossible task of thawing his icy heart. When she looked up and smiled at the snowy night sky, he understood how beautiful she was.
So when he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips like a Normal Boy, it was easy to push aside the nameless, quiet discomfort that something was missing.
****
Anthony’s mysterious “someone important” wasn’t sharing a cabin with them, and both Sinclairs remained tight-lipped about her identity. Anthony would spend most of the day away from his aunt's cabin and return at night, or sometimes vice-versa. This girl must be in a cabin nearby, but aside from that, Albert was at a loss. He couldn’t deny he was curious to see what kind of girl snagged Anthony’s attention, especially since he never showed interest in anyone at Lincoln High. But in the interest of keeping the fragile peace between them, Albert kept his mouth shut.
It was pure luck (or lack of luck) that led Albert to uncover the identity of the mysterious someone. During one of the times where Albert felt the claws of remorse digging into his heart, he asked Kathy if, hypothetically, he could see the brochures that listed the train times. Not that he wanted to leave, of course, but he wanted to know the information. Just in case.
Kathy narrowed her eyes and told him Anthony had them in his room, but was helping Max build a snow fort outside. Albert had no desire to speak with him unless necessary, so decided to go straight into Anthony’s repulsively neat room to find the brochure himself. The lack of clutter made it easy to spot the pile of papers on his nightstand. A bullet point list of acting notes, a booklet on the Colorado Wolf & Wildlife Center, a ticket to attend a photo gala, and…Oh, what’s this?
He found the train brochure, but underneath it was a letter. Nosiness overpowered him and he gleefully soaked in every word.
Dear Anthony,
Next time you regale me with such a nail-biting account, could you perhaps give a warning first? When I read your letter my heart almost stopped beating. I was afraid Hattie would need to call for an ambulance!
I’m envious of your courage and persistence, but I’m also genuinely stunned your father’s still allowing you to stay in his home. To be perfectly honest, this is likely going to be as good as it gets for people like us, and while I know it’s gut-wrenching to have your parents react like that, you should also take solace in the fact that your sister’s on your side. My brothers would be furious if they knew.
They’d also be furious if they knew what I’m going to be using the family cabin for. ♡ I wish we could spend the whole time together, but there’s just too many eyes—one of the many drawbacks of being a politician’s son. Looking forward to the day we graduate and travel the world together.
You can’t imagine how much I’m looking forward to seeing you again. The worst part is not being able to tell anyone, but if trysts in the forest are all I can get, then I consider myself fortunate.
See you soon!
Yours Always,
William
Albert read the letter multiple times before placing it back in the pile, thoughts of the train long forgotten.
****
Later that night while Max was in the shower, Albert reclined on his bed with a tattered copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in his hands. Now that Henry was (or was about to be) gone, he was determined to savor every second of freedom by indulging in small pleasures so many take for granted. Reading was one of them.
He fluffed the pillow and continued: “But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
There’s no hurry for that cheater, that’s for sure, Albert thought with a smirk. Before he could continue reading, Anthony slammed the door open and stalked inside in an overly-dramatic fashion.
“You must be on cloud nine right now,” he accused, crossing his arms and he leaned against the doorframe.
“I don’t know what you're talking about,” lied Albert. His eyes remained glued to the page.
“You went through my papers. It’s obvious.”
Albert rolled his eyes. “How is it obvious?”
“Because they look sloppy like the junk in your house. You’re a one-man hurricane and leave a trail of devastation wherever you go.”
Albert closed the book and folded his arms. “First, it’s a goddamn stack of papers, not Galveston. And second, you’re really not in a position to be insulting me.”
“I knew it,” Anthony spat. There was a flicker of something besides bitterness beneath his glasses. “You’re going to use this against me. Typical.”
“I didn’t say I was.” In truth, Albert wasn’t sure what he would do. It was always beneficial to have leverage, especially since Anrthony and him always butted heads. But the idea gave him less enthusiasm than he thought it would, perhaps as a result of his own secrets. “I just think it’s funny Mr. Perfect finally has a dent in his armor.”
“I never said I was perfect,” he huffed.
“You might not have said it, but you think it.”
“No, I don’t!” Anthony sat down on the edge of the bed and glared.
“Okay, well, you think you’re better than everyone else then,” amended Albert, face reddening. He pretended to read his book. Get off of the bed, you ass…
“It’s hard not to, when everyone else is so benighted.”
Albert rolled his eyes again. This time, he really did continue reading. Nonetheless, Anthony persisted. “You don’t know what it’s like, going from a big city like New York to our little shithole. It makes everything in Galesburg seem so…small.” To Albert’s horror, Anthony began reclining on the bed. But his eyes weren’t looking at Albert; they were gazing into a far-off memory. “In New York, you’ve got all these different people, with all these different beliefs. You be whatever you want to be, think however you want. There were people like me. And there were people who were just more…intelligent. I could bring up Camus in casual conversation no one would bat an eye.”
Albert burst out laughing, something that only intensified upon seeing Anthony’s miffed expression. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed this hard, and it felt good. “You were seven. What’s on the first-grade curriculum, then? Dostoyevsky?”
Anthony’s mouth twisted upward. “You know what I mean. I could have that conservation now.”
“I came from a city too, and it sucked. We were in this shitty little apartment with no yard, and no one knew who we were but everyone was still an asshole.”
“No offense, but you lived in Chicago—Mobsterland. I’m from New York.”
Which has no crime, I’m sure. “You’re just seeing what you want to see and looking at the past with rose-colored glasses. Your dad’s from New York, too, remember?”
“Yeah.” Anthony’s smile faded. “You’re lucky you get along with your old man.”
Albert shifted his book to cover his expression. “Is that why you and him fight? Because you love that boy?”
“That’s the big one. I’m a deviant he’d ship to a bughouse if it wouldn’t break Mom’s heart. But he also hates how I like art and literature instead of doing ‘real work.’ He wants me to be just like him.” Anthony pouted in a way almost as cute as Kathy’s. “I don’t want to work in his dumb hardware store. I want to travel the world and go on adventures once the war’s over, not stay cooped up in fucking Galesburg.” He peered at Albert curiously. “What about you? What do you want?”
He never gave his future much thought beyond Henry’s demands. The knowledge that the whole wide world was now open to him was as thrilling as it was frightening. “I don’t know. I just want to be happy.”
“Easier said than done.”Anthony cocked his head and was quiet for a moment. “You’re not acting like how I thought you would, after finding Will’s letter.”
“How’d you think I’d act?”
“I thought you’d be disgusted and laugh. The whole nine yards.”
“I’ve already been disgusted by you for years. This is like a drop in the ocean.” Anthony kicked him lightly and Albert added, more seriously, “I was just surprised. I know that it happens, but I didn’t think it was something that really happened, if that makes sense…”
More accurately, he didn’t think that was something other boys did. His experiences with his father were always a secret, something he held close to his chest, something that existed in their own little world. It was something Henry did that was additional to his normal interest in women, and though Albert might not have felt the same for whatever reason, now that Henry was gone there should be nothing stopping him from being interested in girls like Kathy. The possibility that another boy might want to love other boys instead of girls was a foreign concept.
“Obviously it needs to be kept secret in most places, which makes it hard to find someone interested. That’s why I’m so lucky I found Will.”
Anthony’s expression melted into one of dreamy happiness, and Albert felt a stab of annoyance. “I’m not surprised he likes you. You look nice.”
…
WHY DID I SAY THAT?!
Anthony tilted his head and gave Albert a look he couldn’t decipher. “Because I look like Kathy?”
“Y-Yeah.” I think.
Anthony’s shoulders relaxed. “She’s crazy about you, you know. You better treat her well. ”
“Of course I will. I love her.”
Anthony blinked, surprised at the ease by which he said it. Albert was surprised too when he realized he wasn’t lying. He did love Kathy. It was a different love from his father, that much he knew. But Evelyn said it was wrong for him and Henry to be together. Maybe that slightly off feeling is what normal love was supposed to feel like.
“You should tell her that. She’d be over the moon.” Anthony stood from the bed and Albert fought off a twinge of disappointment. “You’re going to see Hamlet, right?”
He wasn’t planning on it, but...”Yes.”
“Good.” Anthony stretched. “Well, I’m going to hit the sack. See you tomorrow.”
“See you…”
A couple minutes later, Max bounded in, hair trickling with droplets. “Alllll! Could you read me The Story of Ferdinand?”
“You’re getting waaaaay too old for his book,” he grumbled, but fished through his suitcase for it all the same. “And you don’t need me reading it to you anymore. You can read on your own.”
“I know, but it’s not the same if I—wait, why is your face all red?”
Albert’s face grew even redder. He sat back on the bed and opened the book. “Because it’s hot in here. Once upon a time in Spain there was a little bull and his name was Ferdinand.”
“But it’s February! It’s cold and there’s snow and the cabin hasn’t gotten hotter but your face is getting redder right—”
“ALL THE OTHER LITTLE BULLS he lived with would run and jump and butt their heads together, but not Ferdinand. He liked to sit just quietly and smell the flowers.”
There was no way he would tell Max what he was actually thinking about.
No way in hell.
****
“It’s done.”
Evelyn’s voice crackled over the radio, eventually drowning out President Roosevelt’s voice completely.
Albert took a shaky breath and closed the bedroom door to ensure privacy. Despite preparing for this, tears blurred his vision nonetheless. He placed A Farewell to Arms on the nightstand. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she replied gently.
“...Are Max and I going to have to move?” he whispered, another ache throbbing in his heart. It was a thought that didn’t occur to him, but he couldn’t legally support Max on his own.
“No. Your father has a brother, Edward. He’ll be living on Meadowbrook until the time comes when you’re of age.”
Yet another sibling Albert didn’t know about. How many stories did Henry have that he never told Albert?
And now he never will.
Albert swallowed, a tear dripping down his cheek. “Is he with you now? Can I talk to him?”
“I’m sorry, Bertie, but your father is no longer here. He’s moved on.”
That made things easier and harder at the same time. “But he was there.”
“Yes. He spoke with me, but he’s here no longer.”
“That’s not fair!” cried Albert. He knew he was being childish, but seeing another example of their lopsided love and how little Henry cared was a punch to the gut. “He shouldn’t get to leave.”
“It’s not about what is or isn’t fair. This world isn’t designed to be a place of punishment, but rather a reflection of one’s state of mind. After speaking with me, your father felt nothing else was holding him back and was ready to move on to whatever continued existence awaits him.”
“I hope it's Hell,” Albert spat.
“I certainly don’t blame you for wishing that were so. Unfortunately, I know little of what comes next or if it’s the same for everyone.”
“So why would anyone want to move on then?” Albert shivered. “Why not stay where you are forever?”
“Because although it may be frightening, everyone must enter the great big unknown at some point. You can fight it no more than you can fight the sun rising in the morning. But the longer it drags out, the more difficult and painful it will be.” Evelyn was quiet for a long moment while the thunder of static rumbled.
Albert took a breath and asked the question that had been on his mind since Evelyn first contacted him through the black phone. “Are you going to move on, too?”
Another moment of silence. “That was my intent. But if you’d like me to stay, I will.”
Suddenly he was seven again, arguing with Leona under the blankets. Back then, he asked her to leave without fully understanding the ramifications. His feelings for his mother were much more complicated.
“...No.” Grief washed over him, but he steered the course. “I want to be normal. I don’t want to talk to ghosts anymore. This is my chance for a fresh start.”
The last line was delivered more like a question than the confident statement he wished it was.
“You’ll always have this gift,” she reminded him gently, “but I understand your decision.”
Is this really it? Is she leaving? Despite adhering to his wishes, he couldn’t fight the wave of despair that washed over him. “I’m really sorry for lying to the police.”
“I know. And I’m sorry too, sweetie. I know I wasn’t the best mother. I made you feel unloved. But I always loved you, Albert. Always.”
“I know that now. And I love you too, Mama.” He clutched the phone tighter. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Bertie.”
The President’s fireside chat resumed, and Albert leaned back in his bed. So many complex, contradicting emotions twisted and raged inside him.
He mourned for the life-that-could-have-been, but celebrated the life-that-could-be.
Like Evelyn said, everyone must step into that great big unknown eventually, and Albert was standing on the precipice. As he closed his eyes and snuggled into bed, a smile spread across his face as he imagined the hope and happiness his future might bring.
Notes:
Though Gwen mentions the possibility of changing or creating a new timeline, that’s not the direction this story is going to go in. At some point in the future Gwen is going to attempt changing the past, but as Finney knows, changing the past is impossible. You can only move forward…
Chapter 26: A Beggar's Choice
Chapter Text
When Finney returned to the land of the living, the first person he saw was his father. Before he could register what was happening, Terrence buried him in a tight hug, which he reciprocated more easily than he did before. He also heard an unfamiliar voice, and when Finney reluctantly pulled away, his stomach dropped. A few EMT workers stood nearby: two on the steps holding a stretcher, and one holding an oxygen mask. All three looked pissed.
He became aware of faint ambulance sirens, and pieced together what the astral projection must have looked like from the outside. After an uncomfortable conversation where Finney and Gwen assured them they both ‘fainted at the same time but everything’s fine now, so don’t worry,’ the emergency workers finally left, and Finney resigned himself to the knowledge that by Sunday, everyone in Galesburg would be talking about how he was either attention-seeking or mentally unstable enough to work himself into a fake coma.
The guilt of wasting the EMTs’ time was secondary to the inner storm of conflicting emotions spurned about by the astral projection. After the workers left, the Blakes sat around the dining room table and ate some of the meat and vegetables from the cellar’s freezer, courtesy of the Williams family. Only one lamp was lit, producing a faint, amber light that illuminated their exhausted faces. Finney remained silent while Gwen ‘explained’ astral projection to Terrence, though she knew enough not to mention anything about the Grabber. Still, Finney just about died from secondhand embarrassment listening to Gwen’s account, especially seeing his father stare at the wall with a defeated, vacant expression.
When Gwen finally finished, there was a very long pause before Terrene spoke.
“...Okay.”
Gwen blinked, halting spoon’s journey to her mouth midway. “Wow. That’s, um, I didn’t expect that, no offense. You don’t have any questions or anything?”
“No.”
Finney prodded his meat with a fork, pretending he didn’t see the look of dismay Gwen gave him.
“I know those EMT guys thought we were playing a prank or having some kind of mental episode,” she said weakly. “But we weren’t. Our minds really were trapped.”
“I heard what you said, Gwennie.” Terrence placed his fork down and leaned back, shadows obscuring his expression. He stood and walked toward the table in the living room, rummaging through a pile before returning with what looked like two blue rubber bands.
He cleared his throat and handed one to each of his children. “So, uh, when we were at the church yesterday, I got these bracelets. I think they might be able to protect you from any”—a vein on his neck throbbed—”ghosts.”
Finney squinted and examined his bracelet closely. The words ‘Psalm 34:18-19’ were written in white on the outside of the band, though the gravity of the message was offset somewhat by the chunky Hobo font. On the inside of the band was the name and address of St. Luke’s Church.
“This looks like one of the fundraiser freebies the church gives out, like that keychain I got during the toy drive two years ago,” mused Gwen. “I think—wait—yeah, I think I saw a box of these near the entrance yesterday.”
“That’s where I got them,” admitted Terrence, shifting his position uncomfortably. “But Father O’Brien blessed them and now they got holy powers.”
“When?” she queried. “I didn’t see him bless them.”
“It doesn’t matter when!” snapped Terrence. Then, he caught himself and said more calmly, “I don’t always go there with both of you in tow.”
Finney remembered Father O’Brien confirming this the day their house burned down, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe Terrence just-so-happened to visit there a second time within a forty-eight hour period, or that a priest would bless a glorified rubber band.
“Remember how Father O’Brien said they wouldn’t be able to do the exorcism until July? ‘Cause they need to wait until that other guy comes back from South America and do all the bureaucratic shit?” Finney and Gwen nodded. “I figured you could use these in the meantime. Something’s better than nothing, right?”
“Good thinking, Daddy,” agreed Gwen. She slipped the band around her wrist, but Finney didn’t do the same. Instead, he wiped his brow with sweaty fingers. He was getting a massive headache, either from the stress of the astral projection, guilt from the fallout, the June humidity, or a combination of all three.
“Dad, could you turn on the air conditioning?” he mumbled. “It’s really hot…”
Terrence’s fingers clenched around his fork. “I’ll open the windows, get a nice breeze going.”
Finney stilled as Terrence fumbled over to the windows. His father usually avoided that, especially after the stalker incidents.
“Could you turn the rest of the lights on while you’re up?” piped Gwen.
He was glad she asked. Though the Grabber gave his word he wouldn’t try anything in the dark, Finney knew his word didn’t mean shit.
“We need to conserve power, sweetheart,” Terrence apologized as he returned to the table. “All that gets added to the bills, and we need to save as much as we can.”
A pit of dread opened in Finney’s stomach.
“Dad,” he asked hesitantly, “What did your boss say when you left early?”
Terrence’s body grew rigid, eyes flickering downward. “Nothing.”
A thick silence filled the room. Now, Finney was sweating for a new reason. “If it’s something….important, we need to know.”
From Gwen’s pale expression in the lamplight, Finney could tell she understood the implication as well. Yet, she chose not to speak.
No one did.
Sorrow and grief weighed heavy in his father’s eyes, and Finney knew what he’d say before the words finally left his mouth. “I’m…not going to be working at Rocky Flats anymore,” he admitted. Gwen made a strangled cry of protest. Finney said nothing, but his knuckles whitened as they clenched the fabric of his shorts. Terrence swallowed. “They shitcanned me. I’m sorry, kids…”
“Why are you sorry?” Anger sparked in Gwen’s eyes. “It’s your boss’s fault. Fuck that guy!”
“Actually, it’s our fault,” Finney said, voice cracking with emotion. “Right, Dad?”
“No! It’s just–it’s fucking bullshit, is what it is.” Terrence closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his forehead. “What the hell does he expect? If my kids need me, I gotta leave…that’s just how it is.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Gwen sniffled.
“Next, I’m going to file for employment. Write up a resume and send it to every opening I could find. But this means we—” He glanced at Finney with watery eyes. “You don’t know how much it kills me to say this, but we’re not going to be able to get another house, or even rent an apartment. At least, not for a while.”
Finney gazed numbly at the meat and vegetables on his plate. He lost his appetite. “Will we even be able to keep this house?”
“The one good thing that bastard did was pay off the mortgage, so at least I don’t gotta worry about that every month. The biggest challenge, I think, is going to be basic upkeep. Electricity bills, water bills, credit card statements, food. And that fucking rental car…”
“I’ll drop out of school,’ Finney decided. “Get a full-time job. Not sure how much money I’ll make, but it’s better than—”
“No,” Terrence said firmly. “You need that high school diploma.”
“We need money more,” snapped Finney. “What’s the point of finishing high school? We can’t afford college, and even if by some miracle I did go, anywhere I go will turn into a sideshow.”
“That diploma opens a hell of a lot more doors than being a dropout does. Just give it one more year, that’s all I’m asking.”
Finney’s fork clanged as it dropped onto the plate. “If we can last that long,” he muttered.
“‘Course we can.” Finney hated how he couldn’t tell if Terrence’s confidence was genuine, or a facade for their benefit. “We just need to be smart with money. I still have some left in the bank, plus the cash from those donations after the fire. Everything’ll be fine.”
“What if we ask for more donations?” Gwen asked hesitantly. “Can we do that?”
“Absolutely not,” Terrence insisted, shaking his head. “The fire was one thing, but this….” He sighed. “Sweetie, I’m not the only man in Galesburg who lost his job. Everyone’s struggling to stay afloat with the recession.”
“Which means more job competition,” grumbled Finney.
Terrence shot him a glare, but continued placating his daughter. “I have years of experience and connections. I’ll find something in no time. Maybe not as high paying, but something that could get us a steady stream of income.”
Finney felt like screaming. What ‘connections’? Terrence’s prickly personality all but ensured he had few friends, which is why they had so much trouble after the fire to begin with.
He hated being treated like a kid, hated how powerless he felt, and most of all, hated how this was his fault.
“What about a part-time job,” Finney compromised. “Or a summer one. I’ll go back to school in September.”
Terrence shifted in his seat. “If you could get one, that would be…helpful,” he began cautiously. “But given all the, uh, recent events, I’m not sure how likely that’ll be. You don’t–you don’t need to worry, alright? I’ll fix this.”
Finney fumed, but remained silent.
“There’s a bunch of stuff around this house. Maybe we could have a yard sale or something,” suggested Gwen, glancing wistfully in the direction of the living room. “We could probably sell some of them for a good price, like the Atari…”
Gwen loved that console. Another spike of self-loathing shot through him.
“A yard sale brings too much attention,” said Terrence. “But I was thinking about selling some stuff in here, yeah. That eyesore in my room’s going to be the first to go.“
A sudden thud from the living room caused the Blakes to jump.
“Damn wind,” Terrence muttered, leaving to pick up Gwen’s Humanities book, which fell off the edge of the coffee table.
Finney felt a soft yet urgent kick and dragged his eyes towards Gwen’s direction. ‘Grabber,’ she mouthed, pointing to her band. Finney scowled, but reluctantly tugged the blue rubber around his wrist as well. This is so dumb…
He remembered how the Grabber warned him against selling the paintings, but the sheer audacity of the request stoked a primal rage.
“Are you going to sell it to the Seventh Circle?” Finney asked, a bit louder than necessary. “I hear they’ll take any piece of garbage if it belongs to a serial killer.”
The lamp flickered.
“Like I’d ever do business with those freaks,” Terrence scoffed, returning to his seat. “I was just going to sell them to an art dealer or something. No one needs to know the background behind these pieces of crap.”
Initially, Finney mentioned it as a metaphorical middle finger, but the possibility did make him think. “We could get way more money selling it to the Seventh Circle,” he realized. “Think about how creepy that Saturn painting is. We’ll probably get, like, ten times the price if they knew it belonged to the Grabber.”
“No. End of discussion.”
Finney might have backed off with a simple ‘no,’ but the final sentence ignited something. “Why?” he challenged.
“Because I’m not going to monetize what happened to you!” snapped Terrence.
“It happened to me, not you,” Finney snapped back. “It should be my decision. And I think, since it already happened, we might as well get what we can out of it.”
The expression on Terrence’s face looked similar to how it did during the Breakfast Incident. “You’re thinking emotionally right now. We can talk about this some other time.”
Irritation swelled within him at the dismissal, and he felt as though he was teetering on the precipice of becoming Someone Else. A jibe about how Terrence was in no position to accuse anyone about being emotional given his drinking history danced on the edge of his tongue, but he swallowed it back. Instead, he took a few deep breaths to reign himself in. He didn’t want to have another blowup at his father, especially after the progress they made, and especially since Terrence likely felt just as bad, if not worse, than Finney.
“You’re purposely choosing to get less because of some principle,” he said with forced calm. “Dad, we need that money.”
“Not that badly!”
“You don’t have a job!” Finney exclaimed, exasperated. “None of us do. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I might not have a job now, but things can—will—change. I mean, it only happened today, for fuck’s sake. I haven’t even started job-hunting.”
“Okay, fine. Don’t namedrop him when you sell them. Whatever. But I’m going to do an interview with Gabby Fernandez,” Finney decided spontaneously, folding his arms, “whether you like it or not. And I’m going to bring in a ton of money we can use to buy a real car.”
“Absolutely not!” Terrence’s face reddened as he pounded a fist on the table. Any lingering traces of vulnerability vanished, and the hard man from Finney’s childhood emerged. “We’re not going to turn you into a spectacle and let those press vultures—”
“I’m already a spectacle!” yelled Finney, voice breaking. “I know you like to pretend I’m not, but I am. At least now we can use it to our advantage and—”
“Stop fighting!” Gwen cried.
Finney and Terrence’s mouths snapped shut. They glanced at each other, startled, then quickly diverted eye contact. Finney’s jaw clenched, and after a few moments, Terrence finally broke the silence. “We can…use those discounts you got, maybe. If they’re still willing. I always liked those pan pizzas. Burger Chef ain’t bad, either…”
It was both an olive branch and clumsy attempt to lighten the mood. Finney bit his lip, gathering his emotions. Despite their heated words, he wasn’t angry at his father the way he was a few days ago in the car. This was a different type of conflict, one Finney had a hard time labeling.
“Can we at least keep the option open?” Finney asked. Before Terrence could say anything else, he rushed to continue. “I’m not saying we have to do it, I’m just saying it’s good to have as a possibility.”
“...Alright,” Terrence reluctantly agreed after a long pause. “I can get in touch with city hall. See if there’s any way to verify which things belonged to him, and which were put there by the city or one of the old renters. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to do it.”
“I know.’
Gwen let out a breath. Crisis averted.
Still, the Blakes spent the next few minutes eating in silence. This time, it was broken by Finney when Terrence stood up to wash his plate. “Dad, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I’m not really mad at you, it’s more like I’m mad at”—myself—”everything.”
Terrence’s shoulders relaxed. “I know, and I’m sorry too. But like I said, we don’t need to make any decisions today. Let’s give it some time.”
“Yeah! You might get a job that pays more,” chirped Gwen. “For all we know, this could be a blessing in disguise.”
Terrence’s lips twitched upward. “Maybe you’re right.”
Finney was the only one not smiling. Finding a job was one thing, but the Grabber letting Terrence keep it was another.
****
An hour later, Finney reclined on his bed, scribbling in a notebook under dim lamplight with manic fervor. It had been months since he’d done any creative writing, and well over a year since he’d written anything outside of school requirements. But after finishing dinner and reflecting on that conversation throughout the entirety of his shower, he felt the sudden urge to continue a tale he hadn’t touched in a long time.
“Quick, Wendy!” shouted Taylor, wind whipping furiously across his face. Thunder crashed across the sky, and rain continued pelting down on them. The tumultuous ocean waves thrashed against the sailboat, threatening to capsize their tiny vessel and drag them into the murky depths. “You need to push down the centerboard!”
“I’m trying!” she yelled. “But it’s not working!”
Taylor glanced down at his unconscious father, whose head rested on Taylor’s lap. He wanted to get up and help Wendy, but that was out of the question. What if his father’s head knocked into something and got injured? He might need to have nanomachines placed inside his brain like Taylor did when he finally escaped the King of Shadows’ underground maze.
Taylor closed his eyes as the raging winds and sprays of salt water tousled his hair. He’d been in jams before, but right now, things seemed truly hopeless.
Or were they?
Taylor opened one eye and looked at his backpack, which leaned against the mast. There was one way to guarantee their survival, but was it worth the price?
A soft groan caused his attention to snap downward. Mr. Mullen’s eyes flickered as he stirred from unconsciousness. Determination seized Taylor, and he leaned over to unzip the backpack, pulling out the Mirror of Reciprocity he received right before escaping Hell.
“No,” Mr. Mullen murmured, reaching out and weakly tugging the collar of Taylor’s shirt. “That’s the Devil’s mirror! You can’t use it unless you give up part of yourself!”
“So what? All he wants is one lung.” scoffed Taylor. “Besides, I have friends at NASA who said they could replace my organs with cybernetics. I won’t look any different on the outside.”
“But you’ll be different on the inside!” Mr. Mullen argued. “Dr. Death already took your real heart and replaced it with the mechanical one, and after what happened with the King of Shadows, the only reason your brain still works is because of the nanomachines.”
“I had no choice!” growled Taylor. “They’re the only thing stopping my brain from melting!”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying if you keep up this recklessness, soon your whole body will be replaced by robot parts! Then you won’t be you anymore!”
“Besides, that Mirror belongs to the Devil, Taylor,” whimpered Wendy, moonlight illuminating her terrified face. “He always has some kind of trick up his sleeve. I think he wants you to use it!”
Taylor gritted his teeth, but said nothing. As much as he hated to admit it, he had started to feel a bit different since his encounters with Dr. Death, the King of Shadows, and the Devil. He felt…emptier. Less whole than he did when he had all his organs. Originally he thought it was an aftereffect of the curse the Devil placed on him that caused all his emotions to go haywire, but Mr. Mullen created the magical potion. Everything should have been fixed…right?
Maybe it really was the machine parts inside him that were messing him up. But either way, he had no choice.
“I don’t want to do it either, but beggars can’t be choosers. I brought us onto this stupid boat, and now I’m getting us out.”
“You’re being too emotional,” his father scolded. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been stuck at sea, and we’ve always managed to pull through in the past. Everything will be fine, Taylor. Don’t worry.”
“Stop treating me like a kid!”
“I’m not—”
“Yes you are! I was the one Dr. Death dissected alive, not you. I was the one who navigated the underground caverns, not knowing where or when the King of Shadows would appear. I was the one to escape Hell and deal with the Devil’s curse. I can handle bad news and tough situations, Dad. And I always figure out a way to survive. So can you just trust me on this…please?”
“I do trust you, Taylor. It’s the Devil I don’t trust. The Mirror is his artifact, and there’s always a price to
The door creaked open, causing Finney to immediately snap the notebook shut and shove it into the nightstand drawer. He relaxed upon seeing Gwen, though the feeling didn’t seem to be mutual.
“This is all my fault,” she moaned, flopping onto the bed next to Finney and burying her face in a pillow. “I made Daddy Plan C…”
“If you didn’t do it, we might still be stuck there. The astral projection was my dumb idea. And now we’re screwed.”
She lifted her face from the pillow. “So…what now?”
It was a big, empty question that incited more fear than it should. “Now we try to find summer jobs. Or something else that could get us some money.”
She inspected him carefully. “I know what you said at dinner, but I want you to tell me honestly: If we sell some of the Grabber’s stuff, would using him as a selling point bother you?”
“...I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, eyes locking onto the green apple in the painting. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“I mean, one that won’t land us in poverty.” He hesitated, then asked, “How would you feel about doing it?”
“Slimy, but I agree with you. It makes more sense to do it than lose out on the money.”
“It does.” He didn’t feel as enthused by her support as he originally thought he would.
“...And did you really mean what you said, about doing the interview?”
The courage left him once he left the dinner table. “Probably not.”
Gwen nodded in satisfaction. Then, she mused, “I actually kinda like the paintings in my room now and don’t want to sell them, but knowing the Grabber’s going to hate it makes it all worthwhile.” Her eyes shined mischievously. “That was totally him with the book earlier. Man, I can’t wait to rub it in his face once we get a buyer.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not? Especially since we’ve got these.” She held up her wrist, and Finney realized she had a different passage on the outside of her band—Luke 6:20-21. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how strong do you think these charms are?”
Finney rolled his eyes. “Zero. They’re mass-produced church freebies.”
“But Father O’Brien—”
“He didn’t bless them. Dad just said that to make us feel better, like Monster Spray.”
When Finney was six and Gwen was four, they were convinced Ghidorah and Gorgo hid in their closets and underneath their beds when they weren’t looking. Terrence created ‘Monster Spray’—water in a Windex bottle—to spritz under the bed and closet in order to alleviate his children’s concerns every night before they went to bed.
“Why would he lie?” she groaned. “We told him the truth about what’s happening. He should know how serious this is.”
He decided to break the news to her. “Because he doesn’t believe us.”
Gwen punched the pillow. “But we both told him.”
“He thinks we’re having some kind of psychotic break. Don’t dwell on it, or try to convince him,” Finney warned. “He’s got enough to worry about. We don’t need to add me being haunted by a dead pedophile to the list.”
Gwen sniffled, and Finney felt a stab of guilt at exposing the facade. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and examined the bracelet closer, eyes flashing with determination. “Well, even if they’re not officially blessed, they still might have some holy juice. It could be like the medallions, where the intent gave them powers.”
“Oh, come on. They did not have powers. If they did, our fucking house wouldn’t have burned down because of a ghost!”
“Hey, they survived the fire,” she countered, indignant. “And so did we. Plus, when I went into the ghost world for the first time, mine showed up around my neck, completely unburnt. How do you explain that, huh?”
He thought of the Grabber’s bracelet in the ghost world and how that protected him from Cerberus. Did it have powers because Finney viewed it as a symbol of their link? He shivered. “Maybe.”
For the next minute they sat in a companionable silence, lost in their own thoughts and worries about the past, present, and future. Then, Gwen poked his shoulder.
“I know you hated the idea when I brought it up,” she began tentatively, “but I could—I could use my psychic powers and get money from that somehow.”
Now he felt like Terrence. “No.”
“Mom did it,” she sulked, so quietly Finney almost didn’t hear. “We need to find out more about that, by the way.”
Now Finney was the one who wanted to bury his face in the pillow. “Eventually.” Gwen rolled her eyes, fully expecting Finney to put it off indefinitely. “And we don’t know if she actually got money from that. And if she just got random visions and phoned the cops whenever she saw something relevant, that’s not something you can control.”
“I could work with Max. He could go places and—”
“No.”
Gwen scowled and stood up. “Jeez. You and Dad are two peas in a pod sometimes, you know that?”
He did. Unfortunately.
****
Finney soon fell into a deep slumber. Hours later, he stirred and blinked as his eyes adjusted to inky blackness. He craned his head to get a better look at the alarm clock: 3:05. Groaning, he shifted on his side.
He closed his eyes, but a minute later started to feel a chill creep around his neck. He tugged the blanket up more and snuggled in. Then, cool air tickled his neck, again. He opened his eyes, annoyed, then froze as he saw, through the darkness, the faint outlines of what was happening.
At the foot of the bed, Finney’s blanket was being pulled downward by an invisible assailant. Heart thundering, he yanked the lamp’s chain, causing a dim glow to illuminate the bed.
He couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean no one was there. His breath hitched as he fumbled with the camera on the nightstand, almost dropping it as he lifted it to his eyes.
“Finney, hey! You’re up! I was trying to come up with ways to get your attention, but all my other ideas freaked out the renters, so I figured this was probably the best bet.”
Finney let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Hi, Max.”
The ghost beamed. He looked much like how he did when Finney saw him three years ago: same black mustache, same gaudy shirt, same gushing axe wound. Though unlike the last time, his eyes were dancing with merriment instead of glassy and empty.
“I’ve got some good news: Al’s gone! I mean, not like permanently, but I saw him walking down the street. Sometimes he does that to trick me into going outside and getting lost, but that’s not going to work today, buster!”
Normally the news would make him feel better, but instead, goosebumps erupted on his skin.
“He’s probably going to Donna’s house,” he muttered. “The play is in—” His mouth snapped shut, cold realization hitting him like a freight train. “It’s tomorrow. Well, today, technically.” Shit. His mouth grew dry. “I know he’s messing with her somehow. I just…” He stopped, then bit his lip. “Wait, did Gwen tell you about, um, the Donna thing…with her mom…”
Max’s shoulders slumped. “Yep, right before she went to bed. That’s why I woke you. My mind is bugging out, man!”
Guilt tugged at Finney’s heart. He’d been so concerned with his own feelings about Donna’s parentage, he forgot how Max might feel. “Uh, what did you want to talk about?”
Max threaded his fingers through his black hair, leaving a mussed mess in its wake. “I-I don’t even know, kid. I got all these thoughts and feelings knocking around my brain like bumper cars. But first, I just wanted to say sorry. Your luck’s really in the shitter.”
Yeah, I know. But instead, he said, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I still feel bad. Like you thought you finally found the girl of your dreams, then—bam! She’s related to the guy you hate the most. That really sucks, man.”
Finney’s hackles raised involuntarily. “She’s still the girl of my dreams.”
Oh, God. That sounded so much cornier out loud than it did in his head.
His face heated as Max’s eyebrows wagged playfully. “Ohhhh, really? I hear ya. Y’know, I once dated the great-granddaughter of John Wilkes Booth. At least, that’s what she told me. But Al said she was probably—”
Desperate to divert topics, Finney interrupted. “So is there something about her you want to know? I kind of want to have some rest. Today was pretty stressful…”
Max rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, right. Sorry for waking you. But since you know her best, I was just wondering…what’s she like?”
Where to even begin? “She’s got this magnetic personality that draws people in.”
Max smiled wistfully. “Her mom was the same way.”
“She’s really in tune with how other people are feeling, even if they try to hide it. She acts a bit older than most people our age, but in a good way. Also, she’s really nice and smart. She knows everything about books and history and—oh! And she’s really dedicated. If she commits to something—like the play— she goes into it 110%.”
Despite the bucketload of praise Finney heaped upon Donna, Max appeared dejected. He looked down and fiddled with his thumbs. “Are you alright?” asked Finney.
“Yup, right as rain.”
He didn’t sound like it, but Finney didn’t want to press. “Alright.” He paused to give Max an opening, but when the older man didn’t elaborate, Finney said, “Well, I need to get to bed, so—”
“Okay, actually, there is something. This might be selfish of me, but hearing about her just…it makes me wish she really was my kid.” Max’s voice cracked. “I always figured I'd be a shitty dad and never thought it would be the cards for me, but now that it might be, it makes me feel a lot worse about being dead. But I guess if I wasn’t dead, then I never would have found out about her, so maybe this is better.”
If it had to be either Max or the Grabber, then…”For what it’s worth, I hope she’s your kid too.”
Max chuckled dryly. “It’s not much of a competition. But thanks.” Max flopped his back on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling. “Even though I knew—or thought I knew-–I wasn’t going to be a dad, I always liked the idea of kids…of having a family to call me own, I guess. But that would be the worst reason to have them, right? It’s selfish. Kids aren’t supposed to be some kind of ego boost for the parent.”
Finney blinked; this was the most introspective he’d ever seen Max. “I think the fact you’re concerned about that already shows you could be a good dad. And besides, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You tried to save me, remember? No one came as close as you.”
“Tried and failed, like everything else I did. And Finney, before that, I just…” He turned on his side so Finney couldn’t see his expression. “I wasted my whole life. All I did was get high and drift from one crowd to another, hoping I’d feel like I belonged somewhere. I didn’t realize how much time I wasted until there was none left. And now there's no way to go back and fix it.”
“And you want Donna to be yours because you feel like it might give your life some kind of purpose?” concluded Finney. “You don’t need a kid for that. Plenty of people don’t have kids but still have meaningful lives. I know you think your life wasn’t, but sometimes we can’t see our impact on the world.”
“I’m not, like, a doctor or teacher who helps other people. I’m not George Washington or Howard Hughes or Jesus or someone who leaves behind a legacy and makes a difference because of what they do. I know blowing my load into a lady isn’t much, but if that kid could live a better life and help more people than I ever could, then it makes my existence mean something, you know?”
Finney didn’t know how to respond. Max’s concerns came from the perspective of an adult with decades of experience under his belt, and while Finney often felt he wasn't a child, it was times like these that made him remember he wasn’t as old as he would have liked, either.
“First off, I think you’re worth a lot on your own. You might not have lived the life you wanted, but just being good by itself has value, I think. And second, there’s a good chance you might still be her father, so I, um, don’t think you need to get all down on yourself about this.”
“Aww, shucks, kid. You’re sweet. But I always wrapped it up.” Then, he amended, “Well, not always, but 95% of the time. Al rawdogged it 100%.”
“Then it might be from that 5%. Or maybe the condom broke, or you were drunk or high and didn’t put it on right.”
“…I guess that’s possible,” Max admitted, kicking his legs up. “But if she’s really smart and likes books and stuff, then she’s probably not my kid.”
“But if she’s really nice, then she’s probably not his, either,” countered Finney.
“Hmm, I dunno….a lot of times kids aren’t like their parents. I don’t think I’m like either of mine.”
“Aha!” Finney thrusted a finger in Max’s direction, satisfied he used the man’s logic against him. “So she could be yours.”
Max’s face brightened for a moment before dimming. “I guess it’s possible. But even though I want her to be my kid, I also kind of want her to be Al’s.” Finney groaned. “Just–Just hear me out! He did a ton of evil things, but I can’t believe he’s fully evil. You never saw what he was like, growing up, but I thought it would be nice if he could put something good out in the world, instead of just bad.”
Finney’s lips thinned. He thought of the little boy, digging his tiny fingers into his pumpkin’s ‘brains’ like his older counterpart did so many years later. That child might not be evil, but he couldn’t envision the man in the mask as anything but. “He murdered you.”
“Yeah, well…” Max winced. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
He’s his brother, it’s normal for him to want to think the best. Keep it under control, keep it under control….
Still, Finney couldn’t stop his voice from raising when hissed, “Forgetting someone’s birthday is a mistake. Killing someone is a choice. Killing multiple people and stalking and raping kids is–”
“Y-You know what? That was a dumb thing for me to say. Forget it.”
When Finney felt he could open his mouth without snapping, he said evenly, “Was there anything else?”
“Oh.” Max blinked, taken aback. He laughed nervously. “Uh, I was just thinking…if she can hear ghosts, do you think it would be okay for me to go over to her house…wherever that is…and introduce myself? Or would that be too creepy?”
He couldn’t see any scenario where it would end other than terribly, but felt bad saying it outright. “Um, I think she’s got a lot on her plate right now. Sorry…”
He couldn’t help but feel guilty after seeing Max’s kicked puppy look. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Max stretched and pushed himself off the bed, finally heading toward the door. When he reached the frame, he hesitated. “Whether it’s me or Al, I feel sorry for her. And I’m sorry for you too, Finney. Neither of you deserve it.” He leaned against the frame, the weary eyes reminding him again of Max’s age. “But I guess that’s life. A lot of people get things they don’t deserve.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, placing the camera on the nightstand and staring back up at the ceiling. Truer words were never spoken.
****
The following day, Finney impulsively decided to visit Donna. The previous night, he couldn’t stop thinking about her connection with the Shaws, the calls from beyond, and the danger she might encounter during the play. He wasn’t sure what he would say, or how to even start, but he couldn’t continue keeping secrets.
Still, his newfound determination didn’t stop his insides from jittering as he rang the doorbell. They only intensified as Mrs. Anderson opened the door, peering down at Finney from behind Owlish glasses. “Hello, Finn. How are you feeling?”
His face heated. “Um, fine. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“That’s good.”
The palpable awkwardness made him want to bolt, but he stood his ground and tentatively met her eyes again. He never knew quite what to make of Mrs. Anderson. With her auburn hair tugged in a messy ponytail and smock splattered with paint stains, she looked approachable and friendly.
And she usually was…towards everyone besides Finney.
Admittedly, Finney only met her after he and Donna started dating, which might have factored into the equation. But despite acting kindly towards him, he always sensed a lingering wariness and distance, which seemed more pronounced today—not that Finney blamed her. It was understandable for a mother to be concerned about her daughter dating a lunatic who breaks into other people’s homes.
There was something itching at the back of Finney’s brain that only grew more intense the longer he stared at her, but he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint what.
“I, uh, was hoping I could talk to Donna. Tell her good luck—I mean, break a leg—before the play tonight.”
“Tonight’s showing is canceled,” she said smoothly, fixing a loose auburn strand behind her ear. “They’re having one tomorrow, and that’s it.”
‘But isn’t there supposed to be a lot of rain tomorrow?” The lake tended to flood with too much rain and lead to road closures, enough to the point where events sometimes get canceled preemptively.
“The weathermen aren’t sure yet, but either way, the school doesn’t have much of a choice.They’re in a bind organizing it because of the…situation…with Mr. Clarkson.”
Finney’s cheeks burned. “How?”
“He handled everything and now they’re scrambling like chickens with their heads cut off. Mr. Clarkson had one of those jobs where you don’t realize how much he did until he was gone…and of course, the school board doesn’t want it canceled completely because of the blowback of all the time and money sunk into this show. Plus, these poor kids worked their butts off.”
She didn’t sound angry, but Finney felt even worse, regardless. “Can they even have the play without him?”
“Probably not,” she replied bluntly. “But nothing’s official yet. As of now, it’s still on for tomorrow.”
While it would suck for everyone involved, canceling the play would be the best-case scenario to ensure Donna’s safety. For the first time today, he dared to hope. “Can I talk to Donna anyway? I need to ask her about…something.”
She paused and surveyed him with an inscrutable expression. “Alright,” she finally said. She shut the door and left Finney standing outside for a long time. As he waited, he noticed one of Donna’s neighbors bringing his trash can to the side of the road. He eyed Finney with suspicion, who flushed and stared down at the welcome mat beneath him.
Eventually, the door opened again. “I’m afraid she isn’t feeling well right now. Maybe you can stop by next week, after the play.”
“Oh.” Finney’s heart sank. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk to him, especially after he acted like a dick in the supply room.
Sympathy flickered briefly across Mrs. Anderson’s face. “Donna’s under a lot of stress right now, that’s all.”
“No, it’s alright,” he murmured, shoving his sweaty palms into his pockets. His fingers recoiled upon brushing against the smooth surface of the Time-Out. “I’ll, um, I’ll go…”
“Wait.” She glanced down the street to make sure they weren’t being watched. “I know this isn’t my place to say, but I just wanted you to be aware that, with everything that’s been going on, you have our support. What some people are saying is just awful.”
Finney blinked. Mrs. Anderson seemed sincere, which created a new sense of confusion and unease. “Thanks, but it’s okay. I made some really dumb choices.”
“You’re a good person, Finn.” The corners of her mouth tilted upward. “There are some men out there nuttier than fruitcakes, but you’re not one of them. You’d never hurt someone on purpose.”
The unexpected assurance galvanized him, though the mental itch was almost unbearable now. “Thanks,” he said, smiling gently.
But as she began shutting the door, his eyes bulged, the answer striking him like a bolt of lightning.
“Harmony!”
Mrs. Anderson’s motions came to an abrupt halt, color draining from her face. “How d—”
“You knew Donna’s mom,” he rushed before she could shut the door in his face. “I mean, um, her birth mom. Meadow.”
Mrs. Anderson stepped onto the porch and quickly shut the door behind her. Now that Finney made the connection, it was obvious that the woman standing next to him was the same one sitting across from Meadow in the astral world. He could see why he didn’t make it at first glance though: her large glasses obscured much of her face, which had the addition of age lines ‘Harmony’ lacked. Plus, every time he saw Mrs. Anderson, her hair was always pinned back, compared to Harmony’s flowing tresses.
If he wasn’t so fixated on Meadow during the astral projection, he might have realized, easily, that Harmony and Eileen Anderson were one in the same.
“How do you know that?” she repeated, this time much firmer.
He needed to bullshit, and fast. “I was researching the Grabber’s history, and one thing led to another, and then I found a picture of you and her.”
She folded her arms and exhaled. “‘Harmony.’ Jeez. Haven’t heard that name in a long time.” Her gaze sharpened. “So how exactly did researching the Grabber lead you to us?”
He knew what she was fishing for, what she wondered he knew. He searched for a way to bring it up without making things even more awkward, but found none. “I found out Donna’s dad might be, um…” He hoped Mrs. Anderson would complete the sentence, but she didn’t. “One of the Shaws…”
Mrs. Anderson grew rigid. “Does Donna know?”
That answered one question plaguing Finney’s mind. “No.” Then, he clarified, “I didn’t tell her.”
But did the Grabber? Was that why she didn’t want to talk to him, or was it one of the multitude of other reasons?
“Don’t,” Mrs. Anderson advised sharply. “She doesn’t have to know.”
“But this is…kind of a big thing,” he said hesitantly. “She doesn’t like it when things are kept secret. And this one involves her, so…”
“Learning something like that would just cause her pain. There’s no reason for it. Al and Leaf…they’re ancient history. There’s no reason to pick at old wounds.”
Finney’s fingers clenched involuntarily. “It’s not history.”
Traces of pink crept across Mrs. Anderson’s cheeks. “O-Of course not. I didn’t mean—” She sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m not phrasing this right. I just meant there’s no need to drag Donna into this. I’m aware the effects from that sordid chapter are still felt. And I’m truly sorry for that.”
“Is that why you didn’t want me and Donna dating?”
“It is.” She bit her lip. “ I wasn’t–I mean, I know you’re a good kid. It was nothing about who you are as a person. I just…didn’t feel it was fair to you. You deserve a fresh start away from that awful man. And Donna does, too. That’s why it felt…wrong to me. I’m sorry. I just wanted what was best for the both of you.”
Since he didn’t know what to say—or even mentally prepared to think—about that, he asked another question plaguing his mind. “So, um, is the Grabber definitely her…” He couldn’t finish, but Mrs. Anderson understood.
“It’s not definite,” Mrs. Anderson said gently. “But it is a possibility. Meadow told me it was either him or his brother, but wasn’t sure which.”
Finney wasn’t sure if that uncertainty made things easier or harder.
There was a lull afterwards, where Finney searched for something else to say. He felt like there were a lot of questions to ask, but now that the opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t pinpoint any of them. “Did you know the Grabber?”
Mrs. Anderson’s expression was difficult to decipher. “Not well. When Meadow got involved with him, I was getting serious with Will”—Mr. Anderson—”and nearing the tail end of my flower child days. That caused a bit of friction between Meadow and myself, and to be perfectly frank, I thought we were finished. But one day after I married Will, she showed up asking if we could take in a newborn.” She smiled at the memory. “Shortly after, we adopted Jesse, and the Andersons became a family.” Her smile faded. “We might not be related by blood, but I love my children more than life itself. And I'd do anything to make them happy.”
“Donna feels the same way,” said Finney, recalling the cold edge in Donna’s voice when he referred to Meadow as her ‘real’ mother.
“I know she does. That’s why I want you to keep this between us. She’s already so critical of herself. I don’t think this is something she could bear.”
Finney’s mouth grew dry. “I don’t—I’m not sure if that’s something I can do. I want to be honest.”
“You don’t need to lie. Just don’t bring it up,” she pleaded. Perhaps sensing Finney’s reticence, she added, “Her father and I can be the ones to tell her. It just needs to be at the right time. Not now, when there’s so much going on.”
Was there ever a ‘right time’ for something like this? Finney diverted his eyes back to the welcome mat until Mrs. Anderson sighed gently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking this of you—it’s not appropriate. If you choose to tell her, that’s your right.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I get where you’re coming from. And thanks for telling me everything.”
“Of course, Finn.”
After exchanging goodbyes, Finney walked back to the street, mind buzzing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. What would he do? What could he do?
A shrill ringing cut through his reverie, and he froze.
It was a telephone, though Finney didn’t see any phone booths. Against his better judgment, he followed the sound, which led him to the Anderson’s trash can near the end of their driveway. Eyes darting down the street, he carefully opened the lid. The ringing grew louder. Shaky fingers untied a plastic bag near the top, identifying the source of the noise.
It was the corpse of Donna’s pink phone, dented almost beyond recognition, with gears and wires peeking through cracks in scuffed plastic. The snapped telephone cord gave him a massive case of deja vu.
Steeling himself, he picked up the receiver, knowing who would be on the other end before they spoke.
“Do not sell my paintings, Finney. I mean it.”
Finney prayed no neighbors would choose this moment to step outside. “First off, they’re my dad’s paintings now,” he hissed. “And second, talk to me through the Time-Out. This makes me look crazy.”
“Everyone already thinks you’re crazy.” The Grabber giggled. “And as for why I’m doing it this way, wellll, I suppose I have a flair for drama. Like father, like daughter. Or like uncle, like niece. Whatever.”
His heart thumped faster. “What happened to the phone? What did you and Donna talk about?”
“You,” the Grabber said smugly.
Finney tried to steady his breathing; he knew he was being baited into another conversation. But he wasn’t going to play this game, not today.
Fuck you.
He dropped the phone and reset the lid before walking away. To his surprise, the ringing didn’t continue, nor did he hear any sounds from inside his pocket.
Though it should have comforted him, it made him uneasy.
A calm before the storm.
****
Despite his discomfort, Finney decided to venture to the library since he was already put and about. Though Brittany and Amanda’s words still loomed over him, his success at freeing himself from the ghost world’s grip fueled a rush of adrenaline, and he planned to take full advantage.
He spent enough time reacting to the Grabber; now, it was time to take initiative.
Instead of perusing the supernatural section like Gwen did last time, Finney focused on the town archives in order to find some clues about the Grabber’s life. Clues to what, he wasn’t sure, but Sun Tzu’s advice rang in his ears as he sifted through dusty records and newspaper clippings.
It was a laborious, overwhelming task that yielded middling results: a copy of the deed to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane from 1932, a 1936 newspaper article about Evelyn’s psychic service, and a couple lawsuits against Henry Shaw for extortion, trespassing, and assault, which ended in dropped charges. He found a copy of a marriage certificate for Albert Henry Shaw and Katherine Elizabeth Sinclair, as well as birth and death certificates for Cythia Evelyn Shaw and Stephanie Elizabeth Shaw. The biggest surprise was Cynthia’s age at the time of death. Finney originally thought she died around the age he saw during the astral projection, but according to the death certificate, she lasted a few years after that, making her around the same age as Gwen.
If she was a boy, she’d be within the Grabber’s age range for his kidnappings. Finney shivered at the thought.
Further investigation into Kathy confirmed she died of a pill overdose, and as far as he could tell, there was no suspicion of foul play. The cause of death listed on Stephanie’s certificate was crib death, whereas Cynthia died of ‘suffocation due to post-Polio complications.’ Finney heard rare cases of respiratory failure even years after Polio, but the cagey way the Grabber responded when asked made him suspicious of its legitimacy in Cynthia’s case.
There were some photographs, too. Finney skimmed an article about a new park that opened, and Katherine Shaw was one of the picnickers interviewed. Through the grainy black-and-white photo, Finney could make out a family photo: A smiling Albert Shaw cradling a gurgling baby, with a small girl clutching the hem of his shirt and eyeing the photographer shyly. To his left stood Kathy, beaming as she held a tiny, dopey-looking Chihuahua.
It wasn’t big and intimidating like Samson, and reminded him of the time when he actually liked dogs. Finney smiled and brought his finger up to it. “Cute….” he murmured.
“I wanted a German Shepherd,” a whiny, metallic voice from his pocket responded, “but they insisted on Lola. That’s what happens when you’re outnumbered by girls.”
Finney stifled a groan and returned the newspaper to its spot in the archives. He hated not knowing how long the Grabber was watching him, and had no desire for prolonged conversation. Figuring this trip was over, he began the reluctant trek to the front door. “If you want to know more about me, we can give Russ’s book another whirl. It’s full of crap, but I could tell you how things really went down.”
Ignoring him completely would lead to some kind of power play that would end poorly, but attention was what the Grabber wanted. “Maybe.”
It was a short, clipped response, like he used to do in the basement. And as he predicted, the Grabber tried to drag more out of him. “Aren’t you curious about what I said to Donna?”
Yes. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
Finney shrugged in faux nonchalance. “I’m sure you’d tell me if it was important.”
“Hmph.”
Finney was grateful when he pushed the doors open and got a whiff of warm summer breeze instead of stuffy, stagnant library air. The Grabber didn’t take his bait, but kept talking anyway as Finney strode in the direction of the house. “Didn’t everyone in that picture look peachy? A slice of Americana so sweet, it’s sickening. Even taken on the goddamn Fourth of July.”
“I guess...”
“I bet you think I’m a real heel for fucking up that marriage.”
Finney shrugged again.
“Jeez, kid. What’s with you today? I fucked corpses livelier than you.”
That finally got a reaction. The Grabber erupted into a fit of giggles. “Oh, I’m just teasing! You don't need to be so serious all the time.”
Finney scowled, annoyed at his break in impassivity. “Alright. Well, I do think you’re a heel, and I feel sorry for your wife and kids. Not sure what else you’re expecting me to say.”
“I just want you to understand where I’m coming from.” The Grabber made a sigh of frustration. “I didn’t want to cheat, but I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” muttered Finney, recalling Gwen’s words.
“How else was I supposed to fuck men in the ass? That’s the one thing she could never give me.”
Men, not boys. An interesting distinction Finney filed away for future reference. “You could have told her the truth instead of leading her on.”
“She’d want a divorce, then I’d be a social pariah! And I know this is hard for you to understand, but I still loved her, even if it was…different than most husbands. I didn’t want her to be heartbroken. But I didn’t want to be, either. I knew there was more out there I needed to experience, and marriage, fatherhood? It hung like a damn millstone around my neck.”
Finney had no patience for the ‘woe-is-me’ routine, especially after the hell the Grabber put him through during the astral projection. Feeling another surge of confidence, he rebutted, “You're just making excuses for yourself. No matter how you try to justify it, in the end, your choices ended with”—despite his adrenaline, he knew enough to phrase the next part delicately—”you being the only survivor. And after they were gone, were you really happy? Or did you keep needing more and more? Were you ever actually satisfied?”
“I was satisfied,” he said testily, “with you. And the other boys, until they tried to leave me like the little shits they were.”
“No,” Finney said with growing confidence. “That’s not it. You kept leaving that stupid door unlocked for me, over and over even though I kept staying inside. Why?”
“Because I knew you’d leave me in the end, and I was right,” the Grabber said, voice dropping a couple octaves. “But I’m not angry. You’re going to make it up to me, remember? This time, we’re going to do things the right way. You’ll choose me, and both of us will finally both be happy.”
Finney couldn’t stop the involuntary chill of Brittany and Amanda’s words snaking their way into his ears. But he also knew this was a purposeful attempt to distract him, to remind him of his own doubts and rattle him so he’d feel defeated and susceptible to the Grabber’s machinations like he did in the astral world.
But he wasn’t falling for it. Not today.
“‘Both of us will finally be happy.’ Interesting choice of words.” He paused for emphasis, then delivered the coup de grace. “You’re an addict, like how Max and my dad used to be. They had this hole inside them that they’d try to fill with drugs or alcohol, but it was never enough. It’s never going to be enough. If I do choose you, you’re going to spend eternity restless and resenting me and always feeling there was ‘more out there’ and—”
“Finney.” The Grabber’s voice was dangerously low. “Stop talking.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Finney closed his mouth. That tone triggered a Pavlovian response, and fear twisted in his gut.
The next few minutes of the walk were spent in silence. His nerves and uncertainty regarding possible ramifications were gradually dwarfed by pride. He didn’t say anything wrong. The Grabber was an addict, though to what, Finney wasn’t certain. His gut instinct said sex or violence, but the more he thought about it the more unsure he became. Perhaps his carnal desires were symptoms of something deeper and nameless, something that demanded blood and flesh as payment like an ancient pagan god.
Or perhaps he was just a run-of-the-mill psycho and Finney was overthinking this. That was a possibility, too.
Finney spotted a recently-installed ATM machine as he passed by Grab N’Go. Remembering he still had a paltry amount in the bank from his tenure at Frozen Swirls, he trudged over and inputted the code. He waited until a ten dollar bill sputtered out, then a five, and then a few coins. He shoved the cash into his pocket and was about to leave before a twenty dollar bill emerged from the machine.
Huh. Guess I had more than I thought.
He pulled the bill out of the machine and watched as another one spewed out.
Then another. And another. And another. And another.
The twenties kept pouring out of the machine, with no end in sight. For a brief, blissful moment, Finney wondered if this truly was a miracle.
Then, reality crashed down on him.
“Stop,” Finney hissed, yanking the screen from his pocket. As expected, the shadowy pixels grinned smugly.
“Hmm. It doesn’t look like you want me to stop~”
Despite the different contexts, the phrase sent him into an emotional tailspin, and he began feeling weak in his legs. “They have cameras outside.”
“I’ve already taken care of them, no need to worry your pretty little head.”
“Knock it off!” he repeated with more urgency, glancing around to see if they were being watched. “You’re stealing someone else’s money!”
“Just some rich fucks who won’t notice it’s missing. You and Daddy Dearest need the money more than they do. And beggars can't be choosers, right?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words fizzled in his throat.
He thought of Terrence’s dejected expression, the warm summer heat, last night’s argument, and Gwen’s offer to sell the Atari. He thought about how all of this was his fault, and his grip around the bills tightened.
Finally, finally, they stopped. “Why are you doing this?” he mumbled. He pushed the money into his pocket weakly, feeling like the scummiest person on Earth. “I thought you said I didn’t need money, especially since you think I’m going to, um, do it…”
“You don’t need it, but I know it makes you happy, for now. And I love seeing your smiling face.”
“I didn’t smile.”
“You will when you see your dad’s expression. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Finney shoved the screen back into his pocket and swallowed. He knew what this was about: a means to regain control after the balance tipped—albeit briefly—in Finney’s favor. Was he really going to walk into this trap of forced dependency?
Do I really have a choice?
The further he walked away from the ATM, the crappier he felt. He knew it was wrong to take the money, and couldn’t imagine what his family and friends would think if they ever found out. He couldn’t imagine ever getting a good night’s sleep after this, either.
But would he be able to sleep knowing Terrence was jobless because of him?
“I’m not an unfair person, Finney.” Finney had to physically bite his lip to stop himself from engaging with that comment. “If you do good things for me—like our movie date, little hissyfit notwithstanding—I’ll do good things for you. Everything’s reciprocated.”
The words made him feel even worse, if possible. Was this really going to be his life now? Dancing like a puppet on a string?
Or a whore…
Nausea rumbled inside him. He really was a whore, like the Grabber said. At least now I'll get paid like one.
Finney's eyes grew moist, but no water escaped. Eventually, his despair subsided into a dull lethargy. This continued until he passed Hortford’s, vaguely noticing the sign for their sale on apples, oranges, and strawberries.
The sign stirred something in him, but he didn’t know what until he was at the crossroads near the center of town. He remembered his willingness to remove the apple from his painting in the astral world—his willingness to look beyond the experiences that plagued him and the mask he constructed in order to see who he really was inside.
And who he was wasn’t a thief.
Finney’s fingers clenched instinctively. In the basement, he went along with the Grabber to ensure his survival. But now he was older, and didn’t want to merely survive.
He wanted to live.
And this time, he did have a choice.
His legs made the choice before his brain did. When he finally reached the police station and told them about the ‘malfunctioning’ ATM machine, a huge weight lifted off his shoulders, though he couldn’t fully quash the small part of him that whispered he might regret giving up that money.
“If you want to spend your days miserable before shuffling off this mortal coil, be my guest,” the Grabber huffed as Finney left the police station. But he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the day.
As Finney descended into slumber later that evening, several thoughts whirled in his mind, the most prominent being the upcoming play. The phrase 'shuffling off this mortal coil’ was a clear allusion to Hamlet, and Finney had no doubt something terrible was going to happen tomorrow night. Even if Donna was upset with him, even if the whole town thought he was crazy, he needed to be there.
The second thought was uncertainty regarding his decision to give up the money. Would he regret it in the future? Possibly. But at least for tonight—for the first time in a long time—he could live with himself.
Chapter 27: The World's a Stage
Chapter Text
To go, or not to go, to go, or not to go…
A sudden rapping on the door peeled Finney’s eyes from the ceiling. He mechanically tilted his head to the side as Terrence pushed open the bedroom door.
“You going to the play?” he asked gruffly, unaware Finney spent the last two hours dwelling on the answer to that question.
“I don’t know,” muttered Finney.
If he stayed home, the removal of the ‘audience’ might ruin the Grabber’s fun and keep Donna safe. More selfishly, he wasn’t sure if Donna would even want him there, and the idea of being in a crowd after what happened made him shudder.
But if he wasn’t there and something happened anyway, he’d never forgive himself.
He threaded his fingers through his auburn curls. Terrence folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Come on, you gotta go. She’s your girlfriend.”
“I told you, I don’t know if—”
“So you had a fight.” He gestured dismissively. “These things happen. It’s part of being in a relationship. Things weren’t smooth sailing with your mom and I all the time, either.”
“You didn’t break into someone’s house,” Finney said under his breath.
But Terrence heard him and shrugged. “Your mom would’ve found that easier to forgive than forgetting our anniversary. In my defense, it fell on Superbowl Sunday, but still…I admitted my fuckup, groveled a bit, let her know I loved her, and everything worked out in the end.”
“I don’t know if it should work out though,” Finney whispered, wincing at the painful thought. “I think…I think she deserves better. Someone normal.”
Terrence rolled his eyes. “Enough with the pity party. You’re a fighter. You always have been. Go and fight for her.”
“Why are you so invested in this?” Finney snapped. “It’s my life. Don’t you have more important things to worry about, like finding a job?”
It was a low blow, and Finney opened his mouth to apologize before Terrence cut him off. “Your happiness–yours and Gwen’s—is what matters most right now. And you’re sure as hell ain’t happy moping in this room.”
“I’m not moping!” he protested, cheeks heating. “I'm thinking.”
“About Donna.”
“And other things!”
Like the Grabber, he added silently.
The ghost had been eerily silent throughout the day, and while Finney would normally take comfort in his absence, today it sent his mind into overdrive at the possibilities of where he might be instead.
“Look,” Terrence began plainly, “she’s your first relationship, and you don’t know crap about women and dating. But Donna wants you to fight for her. That’s what she’s expecting.”
“I went to her house yesterday and she didn’t want to see me.”
“I said fight for her, not throw in the towel after one try.”
Finney finally pushed himself into a sitting position, glaring. “Sometimes there is no ‘playing hard to get.’ Sometimes no means no.”
Terrence rubbed the back of his neck and finally broke eye contact, understanding the double meaning behind his son’s words. “Listen, just…try it one more time. That’s it. And if she still says no, then that’s that.”
Finney flopped onto his side, and Terrence sighed. “Meet me in the kitchen. I want to show you something.”
After Terrence’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Finney considered staying in his room, but curiosity got the better of him. He reluctantly pushed himself out of bed and headed to the kitchen, halting abruptly upon seeing what lay on the table.
“You’re gonna give her this,” Terrence instructed as he shoved the bouquet of daffodils, white tulips, and lily of the valley into Finney’s hands. “The florist said these kinds of flowers represent apologies or some shit. Impress her with that.”
“You bought this?” exclaimed Finney, sniffing the sweet aroma of the bouquet. It looked beautiful, but felt light and uncomfortable in his hands. “Dad, we can’t be spending money on stuff like this.”
“They’re flowers, not Swarovski crystals.”
“Still, you—”
“What, did you get her something I’m not aware of?”
“No…” muttered Finney, feeling like the shittiest boyfriend in the world. With the fight and the astral projection and the stress of Terrence’s job loss, his earlier plans of getting Donna a present completely slipped his mind.
“Then don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Okay…” Finney’s gaze dropped and lingered on the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet (that definitely wasn’t here yesterday) the flowers previously concealed before quickly flickering to the clock. “Well, I better leave now if I want to get there on time.”
Am I really doing this?
Terrence’s shoulders relaxed. “You’re not walking. Not with those. I’ll drive you.”
The fluttering of the butterflies inside him grew more rapid and forceful. “Dad—”
“If you’re gonna make some comment about the gas, save it,” he snapped.
“I’ll bring an umbrella!”
Terrence ignored him. “I'm picking you up when this ends. 10, right?”
“It’s too out of the way…”
“I’ll swing by the school after I pick up Gwen from the Yamadas’. Not a big deal.”
For the first time in a while, Terrence got on Gwen’s case about her grades and how she needed to pass her finals so she wouldn’t repeat freshman year. She was reluctant because of the play, but Finney—knowing why Terrence was pushing so much now—called Amy, and the youngest Yamada promised she and Gwen would have a study session that would have his sister reciting algebraic equations in her sleep.
“Okay,” Finney mumbled, accepting defeat.
A few moments later, Terrence unlocked the Gremlin and started the engine, but Finney remained rooted outside the car door. Terrence frowned. “What now?”
“I’m scared.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Not just about Donna not liking me, but...other stuff. A lot of stuff that might happen.”
He expected his father to snap at him for being a pussy, but instead Terrence said, “You shouldn’t. You’re a badass.”
Annoyance coiled like a rattlesnake at the term, but Finney tried not to let it show. “Alright…”
He entered the rental car and slammed the door shut, staring numbly out the window while Terrence pulled out of the driveway. Oscar stopped watering the plants to give a broad grin and hearty wave of his garden hose, and Finney waved feebly in return. A brown rabbit scampered beneath the bush of the Smith’s lawn. Stray leaves drifted through the wind before settling on Emma Baur’s neglected roof. A squirrel hopped through the branches before returning to its nest, and sunlight glistened on the surface of a nearby birdbath.
A sudden, violent wave of sadness and longing washed over him for reasons he couldn’t identify. It must have been visible on his face, for Terrence’s eyebrows furrowed deeper through the reflection in the window. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No.” A minute later, he added in a softer tone: “Thanks for asking, though.”
Terrence’s eyes flickered towards Finney, then back to the road again. “You’re welcome,” he replied gruffly.
Not much was said throughout the remainder of the drive, but he didn’t feel quite as anxious as he did before.
****
There were only a few scattered groups finding seats when Finney arrived, though he knew more would trickle in with each passing minute. He tried stealthily (or as stealthily as he could while holding a bouquet of flowers) avoiding the harsh, confused, and sympathetic gazes as he slipped into the hall. He darted towards the direction of the backstage area, stopping when he spotted the open door to the supply room.
“Donna?” he whispered, popping his head in.
“No, she hasn’t arrived yet.”
Finney froze at the sight of the figure rummaging through the costume rack. “M-Mr. Clarkson?”
The former teacher’s finger’s paused over a black tunic before realizing the intruder’s identity. He turned around, surveying Finney with a cold, detached expression. “Yes?”
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck
He swallowed. “Um.” SAY SOMETHING. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Me neither,” he drawled, folding his arms. “But Principal Warren was desperate enough to ask me to get this show up and running, provided I stay back here away from respectable folk.”
“Wow. That’s—” Finney felt a spike of indignation on Mr. Clarkson’s behalf. “That’s awful of them. I’m surprised you agreed.”
If he was less nervous he might have chosen his words more carefully, but the damage was done. Mr. Clarkson’s gaze hardened, and Finney instinctively backed up, curling inward like a wilted flower.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern. In fact, I don't believe we should be having this conversation—or any conversation—without a lawyer present.”
He knew this was coming, but it hurt all the same. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Clarkson,” he babbled. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I di-”—waitDadsaidnottoadmitanythingohshitohshit—”uh, all that stuff in the newspaper, but I think it was really unfair what happened, and it shouldn’t matter if you like guys. You’re a great teacher anyway, and I’m just…I’m really sorry.”
“...I appreciate that,” Mr. Clarkson replied stiffly. But his lips were thin and his eyes remained cool and detached. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go speak with the actors.”
Despite the older man’s movements, Finney couldn’t let him go, not yet. Fueled by adrenaline and instinct, Finney hastily thrusted the bouquet of flowers into Mr. Clarkson’s chest before the older man could pass through the doorframe. “These are for you,” he bluffed. Sorry, Donna…“When we read Hamlet in class and got to that part with Ophelia in the river, I remember you had us do that lesson on flower symbolism. White tulips and daffodils and these white…small things…represent apologies. So I got this because I wanted to really show how sorry I am.”
He couldn’t actually remember if forgiveness was covered in the list Mr. Clarkson had them memorize, and was rapidly beginning to suspect it wasn’t. Mr. Clarkson arched one eyebrow. “I thought you said you didn’t think I’d be here.”
His mouth grew dry. “Um, I didn’t think you’d be here, but I hoped I was wrong.”
Mr. Clarkson’s lips twitched upward so briefly, Finney wondered if it was his imagination. “Who’d you actually plan on giving these to? Donna?”
“...Yes,” he admitted weakly.
A soft noise emitted from Mr. Clarkson, and it took Finney a moment to realize it was a chuckle.
Was this good? Bad? Finney hoped it was the former, and was slightly encouraged to see the coldness thawing slightly from the older man’s eyes.
“This is…” Mr. Clarkson said, trying to subdue a smile at Finney’s gracelessness. “Well, I don’t know what to say. Truly.”
“I really am sorry,” he repeated, swallowing. “I wish I could just go back in time, or make everyone forget or something. I wish I could do something besides just say ‘sorry.’”
“You can’t. There’s no way to put toothpaste back in the bottle.” Then, his tone softened. “But I know you’re feeling remorse right now. I recognize things have been…difficult for you in the past. I don’t condone your actions, but I’m aware panic can sometimes cloud judgment and—”
“It wasn’t like that,” he protested, glaring instinctively at the empty projector screen. “I didn’t do it because…because I thought you liked men. I did it because someone told me Donna was in danger.”
Mr. Clarkson’s brows furrowed. “Danger from whom?”
“....You,” he mumbled, staring at his shoes so he couldn’t see Mr. Clarkson’s expression. “Someone lied to me and I was stupid enough to believe them. I think–I think you were right when you said I was…projecting.”
He whispered the last word so quietly, he wasn’t sure if Mr. Clarkson heard until he responded, not unkindly, “Finn, it’s not a weakness to admit when you need help. The school has resources and—”
“My problems are bigger than the school, no offense,” he muttered, feeling that familiar tug of hopelessness.
Mr. Garcia, Dr. Moore, his dad, Gwen—-there was no one he could fully confide in. He accepted that a long time ago, but dwelling on it for too long would make him sink into a pool of self-pity, and he didn’t have time for that today. Not when Donna’s life might be at stake.
Mr. Clarkson sighed and waved dismissively. “I’m not your teacher anymore, and at the risk of sounding callous, this is ultimately your problem now, not mine. While I of course want you to succeed, whether or not anything changes is up to you.”
The bluntness stung a bit, but he couldn’t deny the truth of the words. “Yeah…”
Mr. Clarkson waited another moment, but when it became apparent Finney wasn’t going to say or do anything besides stare at the floor, he pressed on. “Who told you I was going to hurt Donna?”
Finney bit his lip; if Mr. Clarkson already thought he snapped, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be honest. “This is going to sound really weird, but do you, uh, believe in ghosts?”
He expected a flat ‘no,’ but to his surprise, Mr. Clarkson said, “I do, but I also believe the amount of suspected hauntings vastly outnumber the few real ones.”
“Oh. W-Well, things have been kind of…weird…for me since my house burned down, and I, er, I thought—and I know how dumb this sounds—but I thought I was being haunted, and that ghost told me you were going to hurt Donna and—well, I believed it. It was probably a dream or something and I confused it for reality, and I know it’s know excuse, but—”
Mr. Clarkson cut off his babbling. “Did anyone tell you about Mrs. Shaw?”
Finney blinked. “Your…sister?”
“No,” he quickly corrected, mouth twisting downward at the memory. “His mother, Evelyn Shaw. She ran a psychic business.”
“Yeah, I heard about that…”
Mr. Clarkson smiled wryly. “That explains it then. Sometimes our minds have a habit of going into overdrive, especially during vulnerable moments. We develop schemas based on our knowledge and experiences, but during periods of distress, we lose sight of objectivity and can twist reality in order to fit our expectations and preconceptions. The human mind is a powerful thing; if you fear supernatural danger, your thoughts make it a reality.”
“I guess so,” muttered Finney, staring down at his well-worn sneakers. Mr. Clarkson’s words reminded him vaguely of the ghost world and its connection with human thoughts, though he knew the danger was far more tangible than Mr. Clarkson expected.
Mr. Clarkson studied him carefully for a moment before asking, “Am I right in assuming you believed this ‘ghost’ to be Albert Shaw?”
Finney didn’t trust himself to speak, but nodded. Mr. Clarkson’s sympathetic look made Finney feel even more pathetic. “Well,” he said lightly after a lengthy pause, “he’d certainly be petty enough to try to ruin my life like that. But I stand by what I said earlier: Most supernatural activities can be explained through other means. He occupies your thoughts for understandable reasons, but that doesn’t mean he’s actually here, Finn. In fact, a point against his continued existence is the fact that I’m not being haunted. If he had the power to talk and do the things you say, I’d never get a moment’s rest. His mother…well, she might’ve been the real deal. But him? If he had powers, he’d never shut up about them, but I never heard him say anything about that. Not once.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him that well,” Finney couldn’t help but counter. “Why would he want to haunt you?”
“...It’s complicated,” Mr. Clarkson prevaricated, adjusting his glasses. “I didn’t really know him, but we were acquainted for many years until my sister’s passing. After that, I didn’t have much contact with him, and to be frank, haven’t thought of him in years until his name was suddenly plastered on the news. As for why he’d haunt me…well, it essentially boils down to emotional immaturity. Al—Albert—was always unwilling to do any type of self-reflection and unable to fathom that others have the capacity for growth and change. He’s the type who blames everyone except himself while expecting others to accommodate his whims and entertain his delusions. I told him as much during our last encounter, it didn’t go well, and that was the end of it.” He rolled his eyes. “Good thing, too, because in retrospect, the man had more red flags than Moscow.”
It was a vague response, but Finney wasn’t entitled to anything more than that. “I know what you mean.”
Mr. Clarkson’s gaze grew distant. “He was like a hurricane who’d pull people in and spit them out broken. So many people just—” Then, his eyes sharpened as he focused back on Finney, stopping his train of thought. “Well, even so, I’d never thought he’d do what he did. You have to believe me on that, Finn. I’d only ever known him to be interested in adults. Never children…”
“I do,” Finney said quickly. “I just wonder what changed.”
“Nothing changed!”
Finney jumped at the sudden metallic echo, instinctively placing his hands over his pocket.
“See, this is what I meant before,” the Grabber fumed, “when I was telling you about the Black Paintings. People start acting like they know everything about you, and it’s disgusting. He only knew what I wanted him to know. That’s it.”
Mr. Clarkson’s brow furrowed in confusion at Finney’s change in expression. “Everything alright, Finn?”
“Y-yeah,” he choked out. How long was the Grabber listening? Either way, he needed to leave and talk to him about Donna ASAP. “I better go…I want to get a good seat before the crowds start to show up.”
“Of course,” Mr. Clarkson nodded. “I’m glad we had this conversation, Finn. And also”—his lips twitched upward—”thanks for the flowers.”
“You gave him flowers?” the Grabber whined, aghast. “Finney, why? This man’s evil!”
That answered the question of how long he was listening, somewhat. “You’re welcome,” Finney mumbled, turning around.
“Before you go, there’s one more thing I wanted to mention.” Finney paused and glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Clarkson, who was tracing the stems of one of the tulips. “Earlier, you expressed surprise that I agreed to help the production. Why do you think I made that choice?”
“Say, ‘Because you’re an attention whore.’”
Pot, meet kettle. “I don’t know."
“The reason is for the students in the drama club. What message does it send—especially to the gay or bisexual students—if I cower under a rock the rest of my life? There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of, and I want them to know it.”
“Wooow, how inspirational.” An unnecessary slowclap emitted from the device in his pocket. “Tell him to get off the cross and stop making a martyr of himself. It makes him look stupid.”
Finney ignored him again and stared into the steely resolve in Mr. Clarkson’s eyes. “There aren’t any gay kids in the school. Everyone’s straight.”
Except me. Maybe.
Sure, kids were called fags as an insult, but there was never anyone who accepted the accusation, let alone embracing it outright.
The sympathetic smile Mr. Clarkson gave him made him feel six instead of sixteen. “Not openly, but perhaps that will change in the future. Goodbye, Finn.”
“Bye, Mr. Clarkson.”
“What a slimy hypocrite,” the Grabber sneered as Finney’s steps echoed through the empty hallway. “He’s been hiding who he was this whole time, and he has the balls to say I don’t w—”
“What are your plans with Donna?” demanded Finney. He yanked the screen out of his pocket and glared at the pixelated frown.
“Everytime you want to talk, it’s always ‘Donna, Donna, Donna.’ You’re like a broken record, you know that?”
“If you do anything to hurt her, I’ll never forgive you. Ever. I mean it.”
“I’m not doing anything! And nothing bad’s going to happen here. You’re the one jumping to conclusions. But you’ve—hold on a minute, sweetheart.” The screen flickered and the Grabber’s silhouette disappeared from the screen for a few moments. Finney’s anxiety spiked, heart thumping rapidly. “Sorry about that,” he continued after returning. “Like I said, you made it clear you don’t want anything to do with me anyway so I don’t see why I should—”
“Where’d you go?”
“What, did you miss me?~”
“Did you go with Donna?” he hissed.
The silhouette shrugged. Finney cursed from underneath his breath and shoved the Time-Out into his pocket before finally entering the auditorium.
Not to be deterred, the Grabber continued. “Not sure if I’m overestimating your deductive skills, but you picked up on how Anthony and I used to have a thing a long time ago, right?”
Finney’s lips thinned. The thought did cross his mind, but it was something he purposely tried to avoid dwelling on.
“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I realize now that I can do better than him. I didn’t know it at the time, though.”
Finney tried to ignore the suspicious gazes and whispers as he retreated to the back corner of the auditorium. It was close to an exit in case he needed to make a break for it, though he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Who am I kidding? I’m never that lucky.
“You know, if you stayed, we could have done things like this,” the Grabber mused wistfully. “When you were older, we could have moved out of the state or country and went out to watch plays and movies…real dates, you know? I know we went on one here, but it’s not the same.” His voice suddenly became peppy, as if a switch was flipped. “Maybe not the same, but you know what? It’s better. No annoying crowds, hats blocking the view, or too much perfume. You’re gonna love it when you’re here for good.”
“I doubt that,” snorted Finney. For once, he wasn’t too bothered for others to see him talking to himself like a psycho. At least it kept people away. “You're just as delusional as Mr. Clarkson said.”
“And you’re just stubborn,” growled the Grabber. “We’re meant to be together. Remember the bracelet that bonds us together?”
He pulled the screen out of his pocket and glared at the frowning shadow. “Yeah, I remember it. It looked cheap.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” he snapped. Spots of pixelated black dots cluttered the screen, fading in and out. “I’m not sure you realize how hurtful your words are, sometimes.”
Finney shrugged and shoved it back in his pocket. “I realize. I just don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t,” he repeated, eyes narrowing. “No matter what I do or say, you’re going to make my life and Donna’s life miserable. I’m done pretending you're someone who can be reasoned with, or feeding into this nonsense.”
After a few moments of silence, he pulled the screen out again. Gray and empty.
He put it away again. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
****
More people started trickling in, and within thirty minutes, the auditorium was mostly full. A couple brave individuals went up to him to start a conversation, but he shut those down as soon as possible. Principal Warren eventually walked up on stage, turned on the mic, and gave an opening speech that lauded the “resilience” of the actors and expressed “sympathy and concern during these troubling times.” The latter made Finney roll his eyes, especially since the performance today wouldn’t be possible without Mr. Clarkson. He tuned out the rest of the speech until the lights dimmed and play began.
Though a lot still went over his head, Shakespeare seemed a bit easier to understand when seeing it acted out in person, especially with talented actors who effectively conveyed a wide range of emotions. He reclined in his seat, nerves waning slightly as he became immersed in the first two scenes.
When Gertrude inquired why Hamlet still seemed upset by his father’s death, Hamlet replied that he didn’t just ‘seem’ to be in mourning, but that “I have that within which passeth show; Those but the trappings and the suits of woe.” As Gertrude, Claudius, and the rest of the cast sans Hamlet left, the protagonist began his soliloquy. Seething, he exclaimed how he wished his “sullied flesh would meet, thaw, and resolve itself into dew,” but lamented how suicide was forbidden. He bitterly recalled his mother’s betrayal of his father's memory by laying with Claudius.
Unease and discomfort seeped into his gut, which he attributed to trepidation regarding Donna. He stopped paying attention to the actors and started focusing on details of the stage. It didn’t seem like there were any precariously-perched props that would fall on her. Maybe something hidden? Maybe something involving a person? His head ached as the curtain fell, signifying the end to Act I, Scene ii.
This is it. She shows up in the next scene.
Sweat trickled down his neck and he sucked in a breath. The curtain rose, revealing Laertes and Ophelia.
Except it wasn’t his Ophelia.
It wasn’t his Donna.
It was Megan Cook.
She was decked in a dress that looked similar to Donna’s Ophelia, but with slight differences—the backup costume, he recalled, in case something happened to the original.
Megan was Donna’s understudy. What the hell was going on?
He skimmed the crowd while Laertes and Ophelia spoke, finally spotting the Andersons. They were looking at each other in confusion and whispering. Finney stood up and dashed towards the exit, heading down the hallway leading to the back of the stage. He pushed his way in, ignoring the protests and glares of the actors.
“Where’s Donna?” he blurted, interrupting Mr. Clarkson’s conversation with Horatio’s actor. The former teacher massaged the bridge of his nose and shrugged testily.
“She never showed. It’s possible she’ll arrive later, but this whole week she’s been acting erratically. Not entirely unexpected, considering this is Donna’s first lead role and nerves can sometimes—Finn?!”
But Finney was already out the door, bounding through the halls as he grabbed the Time-Out. “Where is she?” he demanded. No response. “Come on, I know you’re—”
“Finn?”
This time, it wasn’t Mr. Clarkson. Jesse folded his arms warily, apparently trying to head backstage like Finney did. He wasn’t sure if Jesse’s distant expression was because he saw him hissing at a game system like a crazy person or reservations due to the Mr. Clarkson situation, but at this point he didn’t care. “Do you know where Donna is?”
Jesse shook his head. “No, that’s why I came back here. She said she wanted us to go in separate cars because she might go to an afterparty.” His eyes hardened. “Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No.”
He never knew how much despair one tiny word can carry. Perhaps recognizing the sincerity of Finney’s emotions, Jesse’s gaze softened. “She probably got caught in the rain or something. That’s what happened a couple years ago with Antigone; the lead ended up coming in midway.”
“You’re probably right,” said Finney, attempting to smile. Though from Jesse’s expression, it likely looked more like a pained grimace. “I’ll head back to my seat.”
But of course, that didn’t happen. After Jesse was out of eyesight, Finney bolted out the front door, rain be damned. He bit his lip so hard he could taste the coppery tang of blood as he battled the urge to scream in frustration.
One of the themes of Hamlet concerned appearance vs. reality. Years ago, the Grabber used the magician’s hat and balloons to draw his attention away from the real threat.
A magician’s classic: Misdirection.
The current danger wasn’t at the play. It was wherever Donna is now.
Through the blurred rain and, perhaps, tears of frustration, he sprinted through puddles in the direction of the Anderson house on autopilot, ignoring the warning of thunder in the dark skies above, mind fritzing with worse-case scenarios and regrets.
How could I be so stupid? What was happening to her now? Why—
A loud blaring of a horn, bright lights, and sudden screech of tires jolted Finney out of his reverie. He froze, a deer in the headlights as the driver’s door opened.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Blake?! Your in the middle of the fucking road like a goddamn retard!”
Matt’s eyes bulged as Finney immediately closed the distance between them. “I need your car.”
Matt’s mouth hung open in disbelief at the audacity before letting out a strangled chuckle. “You know what, I’ll admit it: You do have balls. Now get the hell out of my way before I run you over.”
“Donna’s in danger.”
Matt’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes clouded in suspicion. “What do—”
“There’s not enough time to get into it,” snapped Finney, eyeing the keys in the ignition. Could he push Matt out of the way and drive out of there on his own? No, get a hold of yourself! You’re not helping. You need to be calm. Focused. “I need you to trust me on this.”
“Why the hell should I believe anything you say?”
“Would I lie about something like this? You think I’m running around like a jackass in a storm for fun?”
The raw panic and despair in his face must have been evident. That, coupled with Matt’s soft spot for Donna, allowed for a miracle to happen. He returned to his seat and unlocked the side door. “Fine, get in. But you’re gonna pay me back for ruining the seat. Shit, you look like a drowned rat.”
This was going to be a long car ride.
****
“Turn left.”
“I know how to get to her house, dingus. I’ve been there more times than you.”
Calm, calm, be calm….”I know,” he said patiently, trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes and weed lingering in the air, “I just wasn’t sure if you could see, since it’s, like, a torrential downpour and you only have one working windshield wiper.”
“You offering to pay for a new one? Then stop complaining.”
“I’m not complaining,” he insisted, shifting his position. His right foot accidentally stepped on the cover of one of the many Playboy magazines littering the floor, along with crushed soda cans and receipts. Sorry, Terri Welles…“I’m just explaining why I said that.”
“I don’t need your ‘explanations.’ I need you to shut up while I—”
Finney didn’t hear the rest of Matt’s sentence, as static blared over the radio and a voice he wanted to hear even less than Matt’s echoed throughout the car.
“You’re getting coooolder~”
Finney’s lips twisted into a snarl, veins throbbing as he used all his willpower to restrain himself. He couldn’t risk sounding like a crazy person, not now. “Can you turn the radio off?”
“What, you don’t like Black Sabbath?”
“I just want to focus,” he said through gritted teeth. The car made another turn.
“Now you’re even colder!” the Grabber giggled.
“You have hands, you do it,” snapped Matt.
Finney pressed the button, though it predictably did nothing. The rest of the journey boiled his temper, fraught with arguments between him and Matt that were heightened by road closures and smug taunts on the radio of how they were apparently ‘getting colder.’ But eventually, they reached the Anderson house, Finney jumping out of the car before Matt put it into park. He rang the doorbell and knocked frantically, panic spiking as he heard nothing besides thunder and the pattering of rain.
“She’s not even here!” yelled Matt, gesturing furiously to the pitch-black windows. “No one’s here. Christ, I should’ve known better than to listen to you.”
“You’re ice-cold now, in the tundra!”
“What did you do to her?” hissed Finney, clenching his fingers around the Time-Out in his pocket.
“I didn’t do anything. She’s not hurt.”
“Okay, then where is she?”
“What makes you think she wants to be found?”
Nope, not going to engage. This was a transparent power play because he was sour Finney gave up the money.
Shit.
Finney stormed in the direction of the car, but Matt blocked him from entering. “Oh, hell no. You’re not coming back in here after wasting my time with this bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit! She’s in trouble, she’s just…not here…”
Matt folded his arms. “Then where is she?” Finney remained silent, causing Matt’s lips to twist upwards in a sneer. “I bet this is some wild goose chase. You haven’t even told me what she’s in trouble from. I mean—hell, she could have got fed up with your crap and left!”
“That’s not too far from the truth,” the Grabber mused.
“I can’t get into it because it’ll take too long and–and I promise I’m not lying. I just don’t know where she is and—” He started tugging his hair at the crushing helplessness. “Fuck!”
“I could give you a little hint,” that loathsome voice began, “iiif you do a tiny favor for me.”
Finney finally pulled his hands away from his scalp, strands of auburn drifting downward and mixing with the rain, mud, and grass.
Was he really going to fall for this shit again?
Does it matter? Donna’s worth the price.
He opened his mouth, but Matt prevented the deal from closing. “She tells you everything,” he said bitterly. “If she had some secret hideaway, you’d know where it is. Think.”
Finney tried to calm himself and approach the situation from all angles. Was it possible she mentioned something in an offhand way? He knows she liked the library, but that was closed on Sundays. Maybe Pizza Hut?
No, her life isn’t in danger at fucking Pizza Hut. Think, Finney, think!
“Clock’s ticking, pumpkin,” the Grabber hummed. “Every second spent is a moment—”
“The tree!” Finney blurted, a chorus of mental angels trumpeting in celebration. “There’s this tree she goes to whenever she’s upset.”
“A tree,” Matt snorted. Still, he turned on the ignition. “Well, that fucking narrows it down.”
“It’s on the bank of the river,” Finney explained, shoving into the passenger’s seat. “The one that leads into the lake.”
The Grabber was silent, which he took as a good sign.
“You seriously think she went outside in this?” Matt gestured to the rain as he backed out of the driveway.
Finney nodded, confidence growing. “Yeah. When people get really upset, they don’t think clearly.”
And trust me, I’d know…
****
Although Matt followed Finney’s directions, it was hardly smooth sailing. Flooding streets caused more road closures, and incessant what-ifs buzzed around his head with waspish stings. But they soon reached the lake, and Finney could finally make out the towering outline of the elm tree.
The streetlight closest to the tree was broken, bathing it in darkness. But slivers of moonlight illuminated the back of a frail feminine figure, draped in a soaking white gown, sitting still on a branch despite the torrential downpour.
Hope and fear twisted his insides into knots. “That’s her. We need to—wait, why are you stopping?”
“Look out the window, idiot. The river and lake are both overflowing and there’s too much water on the road. If we keep going, we’ll end up hydroplaning in this piece-of-shit Vega.” Matt squinted in Donna’s direction, unease flickering in his eyes. “You sure that’s her? She looks kind of…”
He trailed off, but Finney understood what Matt meant. There was something incredibly eerie and unsettling about the way she remained calm on the branch despite the raging storm around her. Still, there was no mistaking that costume. “Wait here. I’ll get her.”
Finney stumbled out of the car and waded through the street. “Donna!” he yelled over the howling winds.
She remained motionless. He pushed himself closer, unable to suppress a shiver as he became blanketed in the same darkness that covered the elm.
“Donna!” he repeated. “I’m here! Everything’s okay now, alright?”
Is it, though?
There was a long pause, and the sudden, irrational fear that he was looking at the back of a corpse hit him like a freight train. But eventually, her head tilted slowly towards him, and he froze.
Donna’s skin was paler than normal, her eyes dull, lifeless, and empty. The same eyes he’d sometimes see in the mirror at night.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Finn.”
Whatever was happening needed to be handled delicately, and he had about as much grace as a bull in a china shop. Fuck. “Why not?”
“I came here to be alone,” she responded emotionlessly.
“But it’s, um,” He gestured vaguely around him, feeling incredibly out of his depth. “A storm.”
“I know.” She turned her head so Finney couldn’t see her expression again. “I’ll be down soon. Just go. Please…”
Was this how others felt when he was having one of his breakdowns? What was the best way to snap her out of it? Was such a thing even possible, or would it be better to let things run their course?
Nope, not an option. Not now.
“Donna, you’re sitting in a tree during a lightning storm,” he reasoned. She remained silent, and dread washed over him. “I’m not leaving if I know you’re in danger. I can’t.” Her shoulders began to tremble, but he still couldn’t see her expression. “Donna, please. I—remember what I said before? I love you. And I mean it. I love you, and I'm not leaving if I know you’re upset. People who love each other don’t do things like that. I’m staying right here. With you.”
Her face finally turned towards him, and through a flash of lightning he could see the silent tears flowing down her cheeks and the soft affection in her eyes. Sniffling, she opened her mouth to speak.
But the words never left her lips. The branch snapped with a sudden crack, and Donna screamed as she plummeted into the raging river below.
Chapter 28: An Ordinary Girl
Notes:
This chapter and the next are going to be from Donna's POV, covering the events that led up to her going to the tree at the end of the previous chapter. After that, we're going back to Finney!
Chapter Text
To the residents of Galesburg, Donna Anderson was an ordinary girl.
She had ordinary hobbies like reading, writing, acting, and ballet. She performed well in school and had a large circle of friends, and an even larger circle of potential beaus. She was the daughter of a well-respected professor at a local college and helped her mother with charity work every other weekend. She listened to music in the Top 40’s and kept up with the latest fashion trends. She was sociable yet introspective, charismatic yet well-mannered. A girl-next-door who wouldn’t seem out of place in the pages of Archie or the set of Father Knows Best.
Donna had sixteen years to perfect the role of the Ordinary Girl, blending in like a social chameleon to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect friend, the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend.
The perfect actress.
People liked the role she played, she liked it too. The ordinary girl she pretended to be was always up for hanging out, even when the real Donna wanted to bundle herself in a blanket and read a book. The ordinary girl she pretended to be was a rock for others to anchor to, even when the real Donna felt like crumbling. Yet despite her performance as an ordinary girl, there were three things in her life that remained not-so-ordinary.
The first was that she was adopted—and part of a racially-mixed family, to boot. This made her quickly learn the importance of acting ordinary, because if she didn’t, it would feed into others’ biases. Over the years she learned to smile politely wile enduring a bombardment of questions from friends, extended family, or random strangers who felt entitled to offer their two cents. She even learned how to keep smiling when ladies at church gushed over the charitable blood that ran through Richard and Eileen Andersons’ veins, selflessly allowing them to take in two poor orphans instead of having children of ‘their own.’
The second was that Donna’s boyfriend was Finney Blake, the Hero of Galesburg. Finn’s slaying of the Grabber was a triumph akin to David going up against Goliath, and his victory earned him a multitude of female admirers. Yet he only had eyes for Donna Anderson, the Ordinary Girl. Following in the footsteps of Lois Lane of Mary-Jane Watson, this made her Extraordinary in the eyes of many.
The third was something she didn’t fully understand, but swore never to tell anyone else about. A secret she’d keep tight to her chest and bury in the coffin with her if need be.
For ordinary girls didn’t see people who should be dead, or hear voices without a mouth. Ordinary girls didn’t feel that sharp, icy terror upon realizing they were the only ones who could.
Donna Anderson spent sixteen years striving to be ordinary. And the only way that secret would ever get out was over her dead body.
****
The first time Donna ever spoke to a spirit was when she was eight, snuggled under the blankets one chilly November evening. She awoke to a whine and blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness of her bedroom. A surge of panic shot through her upon feeling the pink comforter move slightly, but relaxed after Charlie’s nose peeked out from underneath it. That relaxation was short-lived as Donna remembered the ‘Lost Dog’ fliers she stuffed under her bed, too paranoid that her parents would go through the trash and demand she return Charlie to his original owner.
Did Charlie see them? Could that be why he—
No, Donna scoffed, flopping over to her side. Dogs couldn’t read. She was just being paranoid; Charlie would stay with her forever and ever.
But another whine broke her out of the reverie. She reached out her hand and tried comforting him with pets, only to stifle a gasp as she felt his small body tremble. “What’s wrong, boy?” she whispered.
Charlie only whined in response.
Her eyes drifted across the room, making out the faint outlines of her unicorn figurines, Barbie Dreamhouse, carousel lamp, and stuffed animals. The longer she looked, the more her eyes adjusted to the inky blackness, and her mother’s refrain of, “There’s no reason to be afraid of the dark! It’s the same as being in the light, only you can’t see everything,” seemed to ring true.
But as she stared at the dark corner of the room, doubt gnawed at her, and her body began trembling in a manner reminiscent of the Cocker Spaniel. For within that corner, she could discern the tall silhouette of a man.
She opened her mouth to scream, but her body didn’t—couldn’t—respond, paralyzed with terror as the shadow inched closer. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing Charlie to start snarling and barking like guard dog Eileen originally thought he’d be. But his high-pitched whimper indicated he was just as terrified as his new owner.
Her breath caught as a sudden possibility slammed into her like a train. What if the shadow was Charlie’s original owner, trying to kidnap him? Or what if the original owner summoned the shadow through dark magic? The poor pup wouldn’t stand a chance.
Her fingers clenched against the edge of the blanket as she took a deep breath, mustering the courage to open her eyes.
When she did, she bit back a squeak, heart hammering through her ribcage. The shadow was no longer a shadow, but rather a man. An older, distinguished gentleman with graying hair, wearing a suit as if he’d just stepped off Wall Street. He surveyed her with icy blue eyes that seemed to thaw a bit around the edges, though his lips indicated nothing beyond impassivity.
“You can see me?”
His words sounded warped, as if submerged underwater, and they didn’t seem to be coming from the man directly, but rather all around her. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
“You don’t know me, but I’m your grandfather. Many years ago, your mother sent me a letter informing me of you, asking for help. But like a fool, I dismissed it out of stubbornness. One of my many regrets in life. I never knew what came of you, and my Ruthie, well…”
He trailed off, while she blinked in confusion. “Y-You’re not my grandpa….”
She had Grandpa Harry, who was still alive, and Grandpa George, who died years ago but whose image she would have recognized from old photographs. This man was a complete stranger.
Did this stranger have the same illness of the mind that her Great-Aunt Ethel had? The one old people sometimes get, where they start forgetting things? The thought made her feel sad instead of scared, mirroring the sorrow behind the old man’s eyes.
“Yes, I suppose I don’t have the right to call myself that, though I’m hopeful you’ll be willing to take advice from a strange old man all the same.” She stared with eyes wide as saucers, and the man leaned closer, so close she could count every age-line on his face. She felt no breath from him, nor heard any heartbeat beyond her own, thumping wildly. “The enemy of love isn’t hate: it’s pride. Show compassion, forgiveness, humility, and love to those dear to you, for you can have all the mansions and money in the world, but material possessions will always pale in the face of love.”
Though she was near the top of her fourth-grade class, the man’s words flew over her head. He leaned back and asked, “What is your name, child?”
“Donna…” she whimpered.
“Well, Donna,” he drawled, adjusting his tie. “The reason I came here was to see how you were doing. Since you seem to be in good hands, I’ll be taking my leave now.”
She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. While part of her was tempted to hide under the covers and pretend this never happened, the other part compelled her to ask, “Who, um, who are you?”
But by the time she blinked, he was already gone.
****
When Donna awoke the next morning, she assumed her encounter the previous night was a vivid dream. At least, until she saw the news report of Lester Evans, one of the richest men on the West Coast, dying of a heart attack. Donna told Eileen he was in her room the previous night claiming he was her grandfather, and the expression on her mother’s face would be forever-ingrained in Donna’s memory.
It was this event that led Eileen to tell Donna about her birth mother, though she kept the gory details to herself until a couple years later. Richard Anderson was familiar with supernatural folklore due to his job, but neither he nor Eileen took Donna’s vision as literal truth. Donna’s ‘encounter’ with Lester Evans, he surmised, was her mind’s way of processing what she likely overheard from her parents’ hushed conversations when they thought she wasn’t listening, mixed with influence from her steady diet of spooky stories and movies.
She lied and agreed, preferring Richard’s narrative over Jesse’s claim that she made the whole thing up for attention. Memories of Lester Evans were shoved into the dark recesses of her mind, attributed to a childish flight of fancy. But while Donna might have been done with real-life ghosts, the ghosts weren’t done with Donna Anderson. Apparitions sporadically entered her life one-and-off over the next few years, exiting as quickly as they came.
Not apparitions, she decided. Hallucinations, just like Mom and Dad said.
They had to be, because if they were real ghosts, why wouldn’t her birth mother or Robin contact her, despite her desperate prayers?
It was much safer, much easier, much more comforting to believe in a world with rules and structure and logic instead of a reality not confined by human understanding. To believe in a world where it was possible for Donna Anderson to be Ordinary.
But all things must come to an end, and it wasn’t long until that fragile, illusory concept toppled like a house of cards from a magician’s deck.
****
“What’s that?”
Donna lifted the lid off the tin tray. “Chocolate chip cookies,” she said brightly, beaming in her characteristic ‘Donna Anderson’ way. A warm, open grin that had a 99% success rate of charming the recipient. “I made them yesterday.”
Unfortunately, for reasons she’d never quite been able to pinpoint, Mr. Blake was part of the 1%. He squinted as he inspected the interior of the tray, but nodded gruffly. “Gwen’ll like that.”
Her smile flickered slightly. “I hope Finn likes them too.”
She made chocolate chip cookies specifically for him, since he told her at Christmas how much he liked them. But maybe he was just being polite… After all, Matt said he ‘liked’ her brownies once. If Megan didn’t tell her bluntly that they tasted like chalk, she would still be blissfully naive to the horrors she concocted.
Her doubts dissipated once Mr. Blake clarified, “Finney’s been coming in and out of consciousness. I’m not sure he’s even gonna be up when we get to the room. And if he is, his head might be all discombobulated.”
Behind her smile, Donna analyzed Mr. Blake’s expression carefully. The sadness in his eyes couldn’t be anything other than genuine, reinforcing what Donna believed and Finn didn’t: Mr. Blake truly loved his son.
Finn told her brief snippets about his father, but enough for her to get the big picture. In the wake of his wife’s death, Terrence Blake became an emotionally-absent alcoholic, prone to fits of anger and violence. Belt whippings were common yet unpredictable, and his children never fully knew what would set him off. But the crux of Finn’s issues—in Donna’s opinion—was that Mr. Blake committed the crime of making his son feel unloved.
Despite her parents strictness, Donna never got the belt growing up. But she did get her fair share of spankings, often with the hairbrush or paddle. None were particularly pleasant, but her parents’ rules were always clear and consistent, and punishment for intentional disobeyal was, Donna felt, understandable. Perhaps she was as hardy as Finn was sensitive, but she couldn’t imagine ever doubting her parents’ love for her. And the way his father allowed him to get to that point was enough to put Mr. Blake on Donna’s shit list.
Not that he would know that though, watching her stand with a sweet smile and a tray of cookies. “It wouldn’t hurt to check.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, unfolding his arms. “Let’s sign in.”
After leaving the lobby, they weaved through the patients, nurses, and visitors populating the hallways, eventually making it to the fourth floor. Finn and Gwen’s room was purposely far from the activity hubs, giving the Blake siblings some much-needed privacy. Once Mr. Blake opened the door, another olfactory wave of lemon-scented floor cleaner, sweat, and bleach washed through Donna’s nose.
Gwen’s face lit up upon seeing the black-haired girl and dropped her spoonful of pudding onto the dinner tray with a clatter. She waved, looking rather chipper for someone who just lost her house and all earthly possessions. “Hey, Donna! Welcome back to Hotel Antiseptic!”
“Hi, Gwen.” This time, her smile was genuine. “I come bearing food.”
Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “Groovy! What is it?”
Donna let the tray do the talking. Gwen squealed and grabbed a fistful of cookies. “YES! Finally something besides hospital food! Thanks, Donna!”
“Leave some for your brother, Gwenny,” Mr. Blake chuckled. He leaned against the wall, as if afraid of getting too close to their beds.
Donna’s eyes drifted to Finn. As Mr. Blake feared, the auburn-haired boy lay in bed, eyes closed like a sleeping angel. He looked so unguarded, so peaceful, so unlike his normal day-to-day living. A sudden yearning to run her fingers through his delicate curls and her press her lips against his forehead, telling him he’s safe now and will never be hurt again washed over her. But she knew better than to make promises she couldn’t keep.
A lump rose in her throat, and she diverted her eyes back to Gwen. “I heard you’ll be getting out of here soon.”
“Yup, we’re just waiting on him.” She thrusted her spoon in Finn’s direction and giggled. “You know how Finney gets, always wanting to sleep in instead of getting up.”
Once again, Donna was both impressed and slightly envious by Gwen’s quick wit and confidence, despite the circumstances. Gwen was one of those rare, effortlessly-cool individuals who drew people to her like a magnet without having to change anything about herself. And the fact she didn’t realize it just made her even more cool. “I don’t blame him. He looks so peaceful.”
Mr. Blake chuckled, though his voice held no humor. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
Even though he was right, Gwen didn’t appreciate her father’s bluntness. “C’mon, Finney, Donna’s here. Up and at ‘em.”
After receiving no response, Gwen grabbed one of her pillows and tossed it at Finn, who stirred. Mr. Blake looked at her sharply. “Knock it off, Gwenny. Your brother needs his rest.”
“He’s going to be sad if he finds out he missed Donna twice.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and projected her voice. “Finnneeyyyy. Earth to Finnneeyyyy. Wake up!”
A shot of panic raced through her and she began to protest, but the sight of Finn’s beautiful chocolate eyes fluttering open caused her concerns to melt. He blinked, unfocused, gaze drifting from Donna, to Gwen, to Mr. Blake, then back to Donna. He opened his mouth, but the only thing that emerged was a soft groan.
Donna couldn’t recall how old she was when she first developed romantic feelings for Finn—or ‘Finney,’ as he was called back then. Twelve? Thirteen? It was definitely before Finn killed the Grabber, because when she confessed to Megan, the other girl’s face scrunched up like Donna was holding a dead skunk under her nose. “Ewww,” Megan gagged. “Why do you like him?”
Donna remembered blushing, but couldn’t remember what she told Megan. She wasn’t even sure she consciously knew the answer at the time.
She did now.
“Hi, Finn,” she greeted, dazzling him with the smile Mr. Blake was immune to. Finn kept blinking and moving his hand up and down, delirious. “I don’t know if he recognizes me,” she whispered to Gwen.
“Finney. This is Donna,” Gwen explained loudly. “Donna, your girlfriend. You remember Donna?”
“This ain’t right,” Mr. Blake muttered, fingers clenching into his folded arms. “I’m getting a nurse.”
But something did register, and Finn’s eyes locked onto her, even though she didn’t think he was truly seeing her. “D-Donna?” he slurred.
She nodded, so quickly she thought her neck might snap. “Y-Yeah. It’s me. Hi, Finn.”
“Donna…?” he repeated.
“...Yes?”
“Donna…”
Gwen snorted, trying to contain her laughter. “He’s not exactly the best conversationalist these days. Sorry, Donna.”
But Donna didn’t care; seeing him safe was enough.
Finn’s arm movements became more forceful until he gained enough control to place the bottom of his palm near her face. “Here…Donna…”
“Um.” She tentatively reached out and pretended to take the invisible item from Finn. “Thanks.”
“You….accept?”
Whatthehellishappeningnow. “Yes?”
“Yesssss,” he exhaled, rare, unbridled joy flitting across his features before he sank deeper into the sheets. “I didn’t think…it’d happen. But that’s good, because you never know what’s going to happen. Life’s too short and stuff...”
Mr. Blake, slightly put off by Finn’s ramblings, cleared his throat. “Donna, thanks for stopping by. I think Finney needs a bit more time for the medicine to wear off and—”
“She can’t go. She’s my fi…my fiancé.”
Donna froze, flushing beet red as Mr. Blake’s eyes bulged and Gwen doubled over in a fit of laughter. “Oh my god,” she wheezed.
Finn’s face clouded, righteous indignation cutting through the heavy fog of delirium. “Stop laughing! I’m sick of getting laughed at all the time!”
Gwen quieted down, guilty. Anger gave way to sadness as Finn looked up at Donna imploringly, and while he was clearly out of it, there was an underlying solemness that gave her goosebumps. “I’m sorry, Donna…I thought you wanted to. But that’s what I wanted to do. I’m selfish…and stupid…”
She knew she had to scoot out of here and give him some privacy for his inevitable delayed mortification, but at the same time, she couldn’t let the last line go. “No, you’re not. I think you’re just tired. Really, really tired. And probably aren’t thinking straight, so—”
Finney’s eyes closed as he rocked slightly back and forth. “Aaaaand time goes by, so slowly, and time can do soooo much. Are you still miiiiiiiiiiiiiiine?~”
“SO,” Gwen chirped, trying fruitlessly to interrupt Finney’s off-key rendition of ‘Unchained Melody.’ “I think my dad was right. Finney needs some rest.”
“Yeah. I, uh, agree,” she stuttered, face heating up even more, if possible. “Bye, Gwen. Bye, Finn. I’m looking forward to seeing you guys in school!”
“I neeeeeeed your love,” Finn continued to blabber, “God speeeeeeed your love, to MEEEEEE…”
It was only after she left the room that she realized Mr. Blake slipped out moments before her. He leaned against the wall gazing numbly into space, and she was startled and sobered to see tears in them, the domineering figure from Finn’s memories nothing more than a distant echo.
Part of her felt like she should say something, but she had no idea where to begin, or whether Mr. Blake would even want to talk to her. She suspected, but couldn’t prove, he thought she was a publicity-chasing floozy who’d eventually break Finn’s heart. This could be a good moment to connect with him and prove him wrong.
But she couldn’t gather enough courage, and instead mumbled a quick “Goodbye” before leaving the hospital.
Once outside, the rays of sunshine soaked away her guilt, melting her worries and illuminating the joy within. Finn wanted to marry her! Granted, it was while his mind was heavily incapacitated, but still.
Knowing a girlish squeal of excitement would be undignified, she settled for a graceful twirl as she made her way towards her parked car. She had no plans on marrying soon, and wasn’t sure if she even wanted to marry at all. She also knew Finn would inevitably drift away from her and onto better things. Still, it was nice to daydream about all the same.
So when the hairs on her arm prickled up straight, she assumed it had to be from excitement and happiness.
What else could it be?
****
After arriving home, Donna decided to channel that lingering giddiness into her monologue. She recruited Jesse as a permanent cameraman with the promise of doing his chores for a month. Standing in front of the camera, she felt confident and poised, and began the scene as effortlessly as she did when Finn filmed her long ago.
Unfortunately, she was unable to recapture the magic from back then. As the scene progressed, Donna grew increasingly uneasy and anxious, dread pooling inside her for reasons unknown.
Could she be feeling Ophelia’s melancholy? Was this discomfort due to Bella’s uncharacteristic yapping, and how she needed to be put in her crate? Or maybe Jesse as the cameraman?
The scene came to an underwhelming end regardless, and Donna sighed as Jesse headed into his room to prepare for a date. She removed the videocassette from the camera, trudged to the living room—still unable to shake the sense of lethargy–and popped it into the VHS player.
The video started out normal: She saw herself in the den, though the lighting seemed slightly off. To her annoyance, the tape grew fuzzy at one point, and the picture quality worsened when it resumed. Donna’s features appeared blurred and distorted behind the lens, the shadows in the video more prominent. One even seemed to be moving closer to her until—
Donna stiffened. Her mind tried to click together but sputtered as a gray horned figure with a twisted profane grin emerged from the darkness, winding his spidery fingers around her video counterpart’s shoulder and leaning in for a whisper.
As a horror aficionado, Donna was no stranger to watching helpless females in peril. She’d roll her eyes as they’d shriek and stumble on high heels, grumbling about the ‘inherent misogyny of the male gaze.’ If she was in a horror movie, she’d use her wits to her advantage and escape or defeat the monster easily.
Unfortunately, expectation rarely matches up with reality.
She opened her mouth and let out a piercing, blood-curdling shriek that would put any scream queen of old to shame. Within seconds, Jesse came bounding down the stairs and into the living room.
“What is it?” he panted.
Unable to trust her voice, she lifted a trembling finger towards the TV. The creature, whose head snapped immediately in her direction during her scream, tilted his head, curing his fingers inward one-by-one and lowering them.
Jesse followed her gaze, then rolled his eyes. “Come on, drama queen. It’s not that bad.”
“Don’t—Don’t you see it?” she choked. “It’s right fucking there.”
“Whoaa, trucker mouth,” Jesse laughed. “Mom’s going to wash your mouth with soap.”
“It’s there,” she repeated, voice breaking into a mangled half-sob. Jesse’s grin faded.
“What is?”
“The monster,” she cried. Is he serious? “That—That gargoyle-man thing!”
She trembled on the verge of hysteria as it stepped closer towards the screen, peering curiously. She noticed now that it wasn’t an actual gargoyle, but a man. A man whose face (mask?) seemed to purposely evoke the creatures. But gargoyles didn’t wear red turtlenecks and black slacks, or gaudy silver bracelets and rings.
Jesse frowned. “You mean, like”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—”the Grabber?”
Her gaze flickered to him, uncertain. Though she knew the basics, she steered away from reading too many details of the man and only knew what she did from overhearing others’ conversations and pop culture osmosis. Digging in too deeply felt invasive to Finn, and she was never particularly interested in learning about real-life killers. She only enjoyed horror in a fictional context, where she had distance from and control of it.
She did see a picture of the Grabber in the newspaper, though. He was maskless and looked like a normal man, which was perhaps the most horrifying element of the whole situation.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it sounds like it.”
Her temper rose. “Jesse, he’s right there. He’s—” But when she glanced back at the screen, he was gone. “Um, he was right there…”
Jesse rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this another Drive-Thru thing?”
Donna’s eyes narrowed. A few years ago when Donna went to see a movie at the Drive-Thru with Kim and her younger sisters, the sudden appearance of a bloody man with a bent neck and arms in the middle of Freaky Friday caused Donna to start screaming her head off. She still remembered his frenzied, panicked eyes years later, and his guttural holler of, “Where am I?” While Donna had become accustomed to ignoring any irregularities, this time she was shaken and caught off-guard. The gory details tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, paralyzing Kim and the other girls with fear.
She wasn’t surprised to see a news report of a traffic fatality the next day, though she knew whatever she saw couldn’t actually be a ghost. Definitely not. Impossible.
Kim’s mother called Eileen later, ranting that her youngest daughters were scared out of their minds and having nightmares because of what Donna said. She knew something like this would happen—fear of others’ reactions was the reason she stopped telling her parents about the apparitions after age ten. So when her parents questioned her about the ‘hallucination,’ something in her snapped. It was just a prank, she remembered lying. I wanted to scare Kim’s sisters because they were so annoying. And I’m glad I did! Serves them right.
Her ass stung for a while after, but it was a small price to pay for some illusory control over her visions. The lie and resulting consequence seemed paradoxically safer than being viewed as having a psychotic break, or worse, actually seeing specters. If it was a ‘prank’” then she had power and ownership of the things she ‘saw.’ If not, she was at the mercy of forces beyond her control, and if there’s one thing she hated giving up, it was control.
But after a tense moment of deliberation, she said, “I’m not lying. I thought I saw him there.”
In a way, this admission was almost as frightening as seeing the Gargoyle Man on film. She felt weak and vulnerable, like a snail with its shell removed. She had to be going crazy, had to be. There was no way it could be a genuine spirit. Why would the Grabber give two shits about her play practice?
“Then it sounds like you’re letting those rumors get into your head. C’mon, Donna. A ghost didn’t burn down Finn’s house.”
“I didn’t say it did!” she protested, “But I know I saw…something.”
“Okay,” Jesse said after a beat. “Well, he’s not here now. Aaaand….” He glanced at the clock. “I got a date with Rhonda, so I’m gonna jet.”
“You can’t leave!” she blurted, hysterical edge seeping into her voice once more.
Jesse threw up his hands in annoyance. “What the hell do you want me to do? There’s nothing there.”
“What if he comes back?” she sniffed, eyes blurring with tears.
“Turn off the TV,” he said, grabbing the remote and clicking the off button.
She grasped her elbows and shivered, shaking her head. “What if—what if he shows up somewhere else?”
“He’s not going to show up somewhere else because he doesn’t exist. It’s all in your head. Let Bella out of the crate and she can be your guard dog. But I gotta go.”
Her heightening panic sparked into anger. Finn would never leave Gwen in a state like this, or vice versa. Why did she get the sibling short straw? “I can’t believe you’re leaving. Actually—you know what? Actually, I can.”
Jesse’s expression grew stony. “Not everything’s about you. I’m allowed to live my life without changing my plans on a dime because you’re bugging out.”
“Not everything’s about me?” She echoed, incredulous. “You’re the one who acted like the center of the universe for the past five years, always dragging everyone else into your problems.”
It was a horrible thing to say, and she immediately felt the wave of guilt. Jesse had plenty of valid reasons for his ‘problems,’ and throwing them back in his face like this was petty and childish.
And also likely to backtrack on any progress they made, if his venomous expression was any indicator. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me,” he spat.
Apologize, apologize, apologize.
But because she was damn stubborn, she met his eyes and glared, guilt shifting into anger. “And you have no idea what it’s like to be me.”
“Oh, yeah,” scoffed Jesse. “It must be soooo hard being Little Ms. Perfect White Bread all the time.”
“You know what? Go,” she snapped. “I don’t want you here. Have a great time with Rhonda, I don’t give a shit.”
“Too bad, because I’m staying in case you do something stupid and burn the house down.”
Donna’s fists clenched. There was a rumor floating around Galesburg—allegedly from one of the firefighters—that occult materials were found in the remains of the Blake home. All the Andersons laughed and knew it was ridiculous fear-mongering; Finn was not that type of person. At all.
Then again, Donna never thought she was the type of person to engage in this childish argument, yet here she was. “I said I don’t want you here!”
“And I said I’m staying, so too bad!”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The fire between them dimmed, leaving behind an awkward silence where both were too uncomfortable and too proud to broach the elephant in the room.
“Okay,” she muttered, glancing to the side. She swallowed. “I’ll be upstairs.”
She zoomed up before he could speak, and cuddled with Luna until their parents came home.
****
“You sure you don’t want to stay on the basketball team?”
“I’m sure,” Jesse said through a mouthful of pasta.
“Really sure?” prodded Richard Anderson. A teasing lilt entered his voice as he wagged the meatball on the edge of his fork. “It’ll be a great place for you to meet balls.”
Eileen laughed as Jesse groaned and shook his head. “Oh my god, Dad. That one was physically painful.”
Donna would normally join in, but today she couldn’t muster the energy for anything other than twirling spaghetti around her fork, feeling numb. She was the one in charge of cooking dinner today, but the sudden appearance of the Grabber caused her to forget completely. It was only when she came downstairs after her parents returned that she realized Jesse already did it for her.
She felt another wave of guilt and decided she had to apologize no matter what. Assuming he’d want to listen to her, that is.
“I couldn’t resist,” Richard hummed. “Right after my son quits basketball, we’re eating meatballs. What other time will I have when all the stars are aligned?”
“That joke didn’t even make sense!” Jesse argued.
“Are you all right, sweetie?” Eileen asked Donna, who froze like a deer in the headlights. “You’re rather quiet today.”
“Y-Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just hungry.” She cut a piece of meatball and put it in her mouth, hoping to serve as a deterrent.
Unfortunately, she was not successful. “I know that face,” Richard said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “That’s the look of deep contemplation and wistfulness. You’re thinking of Finney Blake.”
Eileen’s lips pursed, as they often did whenever Finn was mentioned. She never approved of their relationship, and was annoyingly vague and cagey whenever Donna demanded to know why. The events of today amplified Donna’s irritation; she wanted, needed, her mother to be on her side.
“Kind of…” she murmured. “I don’t really want to talk about it now.”
Eileen didn’t look like she was about to let it go, but Richard acquiesced and redirected the conversation. “Speaking of boyfriends, how’d the date with Rhonda go?”
Though she stared at her plate, Donna could still feel Jesse’s glare. “It didn’t.”
“Why not?” exclaimed Richard, flabbergasted.
Jesse shrugged stiffly. “I called her and canceled.”
“You can’t do that so soon in a relationship,” Richard insisted, shaking his head as he brought the glass of water to his lips. “She’s going to think you’re a flake.”
“I’m sure Jesse must have had his reasons,” Eileen assured. She looked at Jesse expectantly.
Donna silently begged him not to say anything, and he didn’t. But he practically telegraphed it all the same when he said loudly, “I dunno, Donna. What do you think?”
The heat of her parents’ eyes on her made her sink deeper into the chair, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Jesse let out a hiss of frustration and finally snapped, “She thought she saw the Grabber.”
“No I didn’t!” she lied, face flushing as her parents exchanged startled glances.
“What do you mean, ‘she saw the Grabber?’”questioned Eileen. She started fiddling with her beaded necklace.
“I mean she started screaming like a banshee after watching the tape of her practicing the monologue. Said she saw him in the video or something.”
Richard’s brows scrunched. “Donna, is this…real? Did you actually see the Grabber, or is this another tall tale?”
The spike of indignation outweighed her earlier desire to deny the claim. “Why would I lie? I’m not in sixth grade anymore.”
“Maybe you didn’t want me to go out with Rhonda,” he shot back. “Maybe you’re jealous because Finn’s in the hospital.”
“Seriously?” she echoed in disbelief, another lump rising in her throat. “You actually think I’d do that? Wow.”
“Jesse, you know that would be uncharacteristic of Donna,” Eileen scolded gently. “I understand you’re upset, but there’s no need to escalate this.”
But he stubbornly dug in even deeper. “She’s not a saint. She can be selfish sometimes.”
She felt a sudden impulse to launch herself at Jesse and start whaling him like she was a volatile three-year-old again.“I really don’t need to hear this right now,” she said, hating how her voice cracked with emotion. She turned and met Richard’s worried eyes. “May I be excused?”
“Hold on,” Richard said, clearing his throat. “I think we all need to take a few deep breaths here. Let’s take a moment to appreciate the fact that we’re all able to sit here together, alright?”
The whirlwind inside her abated slightly, though she still refused to meet Jesse’s eye. Finn’s return three years ago was the catalyst that started the slow, gradual process of their family reconciling. When six families had their lives irrevocably altered, five never having the chance to be together once again, it made all other problems seem small.
“Now, Donna,” continued Richard, “You’re saying you believed you saw the Grabber. You realize it can’t actually be him, correct?”
“I know what,” she muttered, grip on her fork tightening. “I said I THOUGHT I saw him. That’s all.”
“Please don’t get upset, honey. We’re just worried,” Eileen murmured, leaning in slightly. “We know you used to be….prone to this sort of thing, but we thought this was something that stopped in elementary school.” Apprehensiveness suddenly clouded Eileen’s features. “Besides today, has it stopped?”
No. “Yes.”
“In times of stress,” Richard began carefully, unconsciously shifting into Professor-mode, “it’s not unheard of for one to experience visual or auditory hallucinations. And you’re certainly under your fair share, what with the play, those tasteless and absurd rumors about the Blake fire, and, erm, the suspicions surrounding Ruth Evans’ death. In retrospect, it’s not that surprising you’d imagine him.”
Eileen reached over to squeeze her hand. She didn’t pull away, even though it made her feel more pathetic. Everyone had been treating her with kid gloves since the press conference.
“Everyone goes through stress,” said Jesse, gesturing to the rest of the table. “But it’s not normal to see and hear things that aren’t there. I’m not saying this to be a jerk, but I think she needs to see a shrink.”
“I don’t need one!” snapped Donna, pulling her hand away from Eileen.
Despite assuring Finn there was nothing wrong with it, the thought of seeing an actual shrink herself embarrassed Donna. Reason Why I’m a Hypocrite, #135.
“That’s jumping the gun a bit,” agreed Eileen.
“Besides, don’t you already see that school counselor?” Richard asked her. She nodded, cheeks heating and feeling smaller than ever.
“She needs an actual licensed professional, especially since she’s not the only one affected by these visions. It’s not fair that—”
“Look, I’m sorry I ruined your date, but how long are you going to keep holding this over my head?” Donna fumed. “Dad, can I be excused now? Please?”
Eileen looked as though she wanted to say more, but a subtle shake of Richard’s head caused her lips to thin. “Of course, honey,” he said.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, quickly exiting before anyone else could speak.
She spent the rest of the night huddled in her room, seething, scribbling in her diary, cuddling Luna, and crying.
****
The next day was marginally better. Her and Jesse weren’t talking, but the bitterness had dissipated, replaced by awkwardness and guilt on both ends. Her parents acted like the previous night’s conversation didn’t happen, and while she wasn’t naive enough to pretend they dropped the topic for good, she was grateful for the momentary reprieve. She was also grateful after hearing Rhonda agreed to reschedule the date, glad that her brother’s romantic prospects weren’t completely trashed because of her.
But most of all, she was grateful she didn’t see any more phantasms.
Donna laid on her stomach, ankles crossed as she flipped through the pages of Tiger Beat. Luna was on the bed next to her, nibbling on her chewing ball as the drums of “Space Oddity” emitted from the record player. She stashed her Tiger Beat magazines in the closet a few months ago, finding them juvenile. But she was entitled to indulge every once in a while, and she couldn’t think of a better time than this.
A smirk tugged at her lips as she admired Michael Damian’s dreamy jawline. Just as she was about to flip the page again, the new pink phone Eileen bought her two days prior started ringing. She picked it up and pressed it against her ear. “Hi, it’s Donna. Who is this?”
The only sound she heard was static.
“Hello?’ she repeated. She waited a few seconds before placing it back on the base. But before she continued reading, she stopped.
“Aww, what’s wrong, girl?” she cooed, gently petting Luna’s soft fur. The poor rabbit was shaking, and Donna did her best to comfort her, to little effect. As she debated whether to return Luna to her hutch, the phone rang again.
“Hello, this is Donna—”“
“Agnes!” the person on the other end whispered, “Agnes, It’s me, Billy.”
She rolled her eyes at the crank call. “Oh, please. I’ve seen that movie, and Bob Clark does it better than you.”
She hung up, though it rang again soon after. She ignored it this time, placing Luna back in her hutch and scoffing when she heard it go to voicemail.
“Okay, okay,” the man chuckled, smug and self-satisfied. “I’ll be nice. Pick up so we can talk.”
She huffed at the audacity and laid back down on the bed, flipping the page of the magazine. But the caller was persistent and rang again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually Donna got so annoyed at the repeated ringing that she grabbed the phone and snapped, “Did Matt put you up to this?”
“Who’s Matt?”
The person sounded like an adult, but that didn’t mean Matt wasn’t involved. “My asshole ex-boyfriend who won’t move on. Did he pay you to bother me?”
“Pay me?” The man giggled childishly, causing her goosebumps to prickle on her skin. “Money doesn’t mean anything here.”
She massaged her temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Okay. Then what do you want?”
“A lot of things, but mainly, I want to know what’s so great about the mysterious Donna. See, when I first heard your name come out of Finney’s precious lips, I admit I was slightly perturbed. But now I see you're so….ordinary.” His disgust in the last word was palpable. “Decently pretty and a fellow thespian, that’s true. But overall, you’re very generic. Boring. Like one of those shallow, token run-of-the-mill love interests placed into a movie to camouflage the homoeroticism between the male leads.”
Donna blinked. She didn’t expect to encounter someone else well-versed in film theory in the wild, and especially didn’t expect it to come from someone making crank calls. And these insults suggested some kind of personal knowledge, so—
Her eyes narrowed. “Did Megan put you up to this?”
They had plenty of rough patches in the past, but she thought things were good between them now. Still, the film knowledge pointed to her, though it could theoretically be any theater kid she knew.
“I don’t know who that is. I don’t know anyone in your school except Finney.” After a beat, he added, sullenly, “And Gwen.”
Donna frowned, gears in her mind clicking and turning. Could this be another crazy who formed a parasocial relationship with Finney? “Trust me, he doesn’t want you.”
“Wrong.”
Indignation flared within her. “I bet he doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Ohhh, he knows,” the man chuckled.
Donna’s brows furrowed. Finney didn’t have any previous romantic interests besides her, much less a guy. Much less an adult who—
Then, it came crashing down on her. Her fingers tightened around the phone and she snarled, “How dare you? You think this is funny? Learn some empathy, you sick, vile, twisted lowlife. And if you want to scare me, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”
She slammed the phone down, steaming. Maybe her mother was right, and society really was going downhill. Why else could someone have the balls to pretend to be the Grabber?
Or maybe—
She bit her lip, unconsciously shaking her head at the possibility. No, it can’t be a prank from Jesse. He wouldn’t be that cruel.
And it definitely couldn’t be real.
The next time she heard the ring, she hissed in frustration and finally unplugged the cord. There was a moment of sweet, blissful silence.
And then, the phone rang again.
Her blood ran cold. She glanced at the outlet to double-check it was indeed disconnected, and her fingers wrinkled the corners of the page, now covered with sweat.
Should she run downstairs? Yell for her parents? Leave it?
Her body reacted before her mind did. With trembling hands, she brought the phone to her ear. For a long moment, she heard nothing beyond static and heavy breathing on the other side.
Then, finally: “Are you scared yet?”
Yes. “Who are you,” she whispered, curling the cord around her fist.
“I think you know.”
That smug, self-assured voice grated on her ears like sandpaper. She swallowed. “That’s impossible.”
“Yeahhhh, well….” he sighed. “A whole lotta impossible things are happening now, like you seeing me, for starters.”
“You're dead!” she hissed, trying to wrap her mind around what was happening. “How could—how are you talking to me now? Are you…are you really a ghost?”
“Yep.”
Her hands began shaking; the only time she had an actual conversation with one of her ‘hallucinations’ was when she was eight. Thisisn’trealthiscan’tbereal. “How…how did you show up on the video?”
“I dunno.”
“But why now? Why not last year, or right after Finn—three years ago when he—” She swallowed again. “Wait, is it because of the press conference a few days ago? How they said you killed, um…”
“Yessss?~” he sang playfully.
She took a shaky breath, “You killed Ruth Evans. She was my birth mother.”
Donna knew for a while, but it still felt weird to say. The only mother she knew was Eileen Anderson, the woman who stayed by her bedside the whole night when Donna had a 103 fever, tore into Buzz when he flipped Donna’s skirt in the playground, and baked cupcakes in animal shapes for her seventh birthday party. Ruth Evans was just a name on a paper and a box of questions.
“Hmm. Figured as much.” The Grabber didn’t sound too happy. “You look like her, and you can hear me, so…”
When he didn’t finish the sentence, Donna asked tentatively. “Could she hear…ghosts?”
“Not likely,” the Grabber scoffed.
She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment; it would have answered a lot of questions in her life if she could. “Did you kill her?”
“Yes.”
She blinked, not expecting the bluntness. “Um, why?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business,” she snapped, temper rising. “That’s my mother!”
“I killed a bunch of people. How am I supposed to remember every single one? Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about you, mostly. “
“You said you wanted to know how I could hear you,” she interrupted.
“Yeesh, let me get a sentence in, will ya? I didn’t come here to talk about you MOSTLY. I mainly came to talk about Finney.”
That shook her out of her reverie and brought her down to earth. “Stay away from him.”
“No no, no. See, that’s why I'm supposed to tell you,” Grabber corrected. “I'm going to give you a chance I wouldn't give anyone else. You break up with him and go on your merry way, and I'll stay out of your hair for good. Capiche?”
Her brows furrowed. “Why?”
“Because he doesn’t belong with you.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was getting at. “You think he belongs with…you?” She took the silence as confirmation. “This is insane. Like, actually certifiable.”
“Hmph. I’m not interested in your opinion.”
“I’m not going to leave Finn to the mercy of his kidnapper,” she echoed incredulously. “What kind of person do you take me for?”
“A smart one, but clearly I was wrong.”
“You’re a serial killer!” Her mind felt as though it was short-circuiting. “You—you hurt Finn badly. Him and the other boys. I'm not going to let some ghost molest my boyfriend!”
“I hate that word, ‘molest.’ They weren’t bothered by it. They liked it. Those reporters were lying.”
There was nothing to say to that besides, “Fuck you.”
Donna heard a loud, drawn-out sigh from the other end. “Look, I’ll take care of him, okay? He's in good hands. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’ll never let you get near him. Never.”
“Or what? You’ll stop me?” he mocked.
That question took the wind out of her sails; how could she stop a ghost?
She took a deep breath and internally counted to five. Though she had a natural inclination to get emotional, her father always tried to impart the value of pragmatism. “What can I do to make you leave Finn alone for good?”
“Nothing.”
Should’ve expected that….
She decided on a different approach. “Then what do you mean when you say you’ll ‘take care of him’? If you’re a ghost, he can’t see or hear you.”
“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.” Before Donna could respond, he giggled. “Michael Damian, huh? He’s quite the fox. Can’t deny you’ve got good taste—maybe it’s genetic.”
Another burst of static, and then the line went dead. Donna’s eyes frantically darted around her empty room, breath shallow for a long, long time.
When Luna stopped trembling and started behaving normally, Donna pressed the buttons with trembling fingers. After three rings, a groggy, crabby voice finally picked up. “What?”
“Matt?” she whispered.
“Donna?” Now he was fully alert. “What’s up?”
She closed her eyes. She promised she’d never do this again, but…”I want to come over tomorrow. For…y’know.”
“Oh.” The pause after lasted a few seconds. “Thought you said you were done.”
“I was, but, um. I really need it right now…” She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, then rushed to explain. “I know it’s rude to ask, especially since we broke up. If you don’t want to, I get it. Totally.”
There was another long pause that last aeons, enhancing Donna’s jitters and the chorus of ‘don’t fucking do this’ hissing in her ears. “Is this about Blake, or Ruth, or both?”
She told Matt about Ruth when they were dating, and the fact he called her to check in after the press conference was the only thing giving her the courage to ask this of him. “Both. Sort of…”
“Hmm…”
She was the one to break the next lull of silence. “Don’t get the wrong idea though. It’s only going to be a one-time thing.”
“‘I’m not an idiot,” he sighed. “Alright, tomorrow then.”
Oh shit, am I really doing this? “What time?”
“Five. Both my parents’ll be gone by then.”
“Okay.”
“The dogs’ll be happy to see you.”
“I’ll be happy to see them too.” God, why is this so freaking awkward? “But you have to—you know…”
“What?”
“Finn can never know about this,” she whispered, wincing as she glanced at a picture of the two of them laughing at the Summer Fair. “You have to promise me that.”
His voice was laced with mockery when he retorted, “Afraid he’ll think Little Miss Perfect isn’t so perfect?”
“Yes,” she admitted, pulling a pillow closer to her stomach.
“He worships the ground you walk on,” Matt said, more seriously. “You could literally step on him and he’d be okay.”
“Just promise me!” she hissed.
“Okay, okay,” he placated. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks. Bye, Matt.”
“Bye.”
She sighed as she hung up the phone, bringing her hands to her face as she blinked back tears. When she removed them and turned back to the magazine, Michael Damian’s grin seemed to mock her.
****
The next school day seemed to stretch endlessly. Donna’s brain pingponged back and forth, but in the end she remained resolute with her desire to go through with her plan.
Matt’s house was located down the street from the Hopper residence, in the run-down section of Galesburg. A few tiles on the roof looked as though they were one storm away from blowing off, and a sheet of paper with the number 15 had been taped atop the faded gold house number.
Her fingers hesitated for a moment, then pressed the doorbell.
She was immediately greeted by a cacophony of barks, ranging from high-pitched yaps to low, guttural woofs. A few seconds later the door swung open, and three dogs almost knocked her over with jumps and slobbery kisses.
“Hi, sweeties,” she cooed, leaning down to pet Toby’s soft floppy ears with one hand and Dakota’s silky fur with the other. An impatient whine made her giggle, and she reached out to scratch the chin of the large Cane Corso, whose stubby tail wagged rapidly. “Have you been a good boy, Samson?”
“No,” snorted Matt.
Samson looked at her innocently, and she intensified her pets. Though she always had an affinity for animals, Samson latched onto her in such a way that she would have adopted him in an instant if her mom wasn’t adamant that one dog was enough.
Matt was evasive about where Samson came from, but Donna couldn’t imagine anyone giving up such a sweet dog willingly and suspected the owner passed away. The only way she could imagine purposely parting with Samson would be if the owner was moving to a place that didn’t allow pets, or where noise would be a concern. Samson was a friendly dog, but he had a propensity for barking at the drop of a hat (“I think he was trained as a guard dog,” Matt told her), which gave off an air of intimidation to people who didn’t know him.
“Hey, Donna.” Matt leaned against the doorframe, and she noticed—to her horror—that he made an effort to clean up a bit after school, putting on a shirt with less rips and stains.
“Hi,” she mumbled.
“Come on in.”
She followed Matt into the house, which—despite its shabby exterior—was always neater than the Blake home used to thanks to the efforts of Mrs. Gallagher. They passed the rec room and Donna paused after seeing who was in the rocking chair. “Hi, Mr. Gallagher,” she squeaked.
The former soldier’s glazed eyes drifted from an empty spot on the wall to the girl in the doorframe. “Hi, Donna. Hi, Matty…”
His lethargic demeanor served a stark contrast with the warm, friendly man she’d seen last time at the Gallagher home, but then again, his moods shifted like the skies above Vietnam.
Before she could say anything else, Matt grabbed her arm and pulled her away. She instinctively shook him off, but followed.
“I thought you said your parents wouldn’t be here!” she hissed.
“He got into one of his little”—Matt contorted his face in imitated horror—” ‘Ahhh, there’s a helicopter!’ moments and bailed at the last minute.”
Her lips thinned; she hated hearing him talk about his dad like that, but also knew the past six years were not easy.
“We can’t—”
“Oh, come one. You really think he gives a shit?”
She knew he was right, but remained silent. As if sensing her hesitation, Samson bopped his head against her leg.
“My room’s to the left,” reminded Matt.
“Yeah, I know,” she grumbled, then sighed. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Soon enough, they were at the door to Matt's bedroom. Last chance to back out…
Hating herself, she turned the knob.
****
“Admit it: You missed this.”
Donna giggled, brain light and mushy. “Yeah.”
Matt smirked, bringing his own joint to his lips. “Does Blake know his girlfriend’s a junkie?”
“I’m not a junkie. I haven’t gotten high since—”She tried to remember how long it’s been since they broke up, but her mind wasn’t having it. She took another drag. “A long time. I just, like, really need it now.”
And she did. there was something comforting holding the familiar joint between her fingers, though she knew, objectively, it was bad for her and wore away much-needed inhibitions. And despite her words, there was a point in her life where her impulse to use it bordered on addiction. Matt introduced her to different types of drugs, and after breaking up with him, Donna was determined to wipe the slate clean.
But she always missed this feeling, of being able to relax her mind in a way that was impossible without them. She didn’t have to be Ms. Perfect in this state, painting her fingernails to match her outfits and offering mature and intelligent words of wisdom. She could simply Be.
Yet as much as she wished otherwise, the marijuana wasn’t able to erase the smug voice from memory, or that horrid, grotesque mask. It did, however, make her feel detached, as though the conversation were a movie she watched instead of something that actually happened to her.
“The Grabber fucking sucks.” Matt leaned against the back of his chair, almost knocking down the nearby guitar with his uncoordinated leg. “First kids, then your mom…”
Donna groaned at the mention of the latter, feeling the phantom whacks she’d no doubt experience if her mom knew what she was up to. Though they’d largely fallen to the wayside in her teenage years, she learned the hard way they were still on the table for ‘bigger things’ like sneaking out to meet Matt after curfew and coming home drunk from Megan’s party. Drug use would undoubtedly count as a ‘big thing.’ But it took her a few seconds to realize he meant Ruth and not Eileen, and discomfort churned in her for a new reason. “Other way around.”
“It’s like…” he rubbed his red, glazed eyes. “Why couldn’t he kill people everyone hates? Lawyers…IRS people…stuff like that.”
“Ugh.” She took another huff. “I don’t want to talk about him now.”
“Fair enough,” he shrugged. His gaze drifted to a lumpy and misshapen clay plastic rocket on the top of his dresser.
“Thanks.”
And she really was thankful. She was worried he’d use her vulnerability as an opportunity to try to get into her pants, a fear exacerbated when he refused to take money for the dope when offered. But he was clearly smart enough to realize she had no intention of cheating, and didn’t allude to anything sexual despite the sweet-yet-slightly-underwhelming memories this room held.
“Doesn’t the smell bother them?” She tried to gesture to the dogs resting in the hallway with her free hand, but it came out massively uncoordinated. “Don’t they have really good smell senses or something?”
“‘Smell sense’...” he laughed. “Man, you’re baked.”
She giggled, mind feeling like it was fluttering out of her body. “Don’t they?”
“I don’t know. They’re not complaining, right?”
Her giggles turned into a full-blown laugh, perhaps more than it deserved. When they died down, a sobering thought entered her mind like a raincloud. “You know who doesn’t complain about stuff? Finn.”
Matt scowled. “Fuck that guy.”
“If only,” Donna lamented, bringing her knees to her chest as she leaned against the bed. Then, she stiffened. Even with the brain fog, her comment sparked a belated moment of horror.
But Matt just relit his joint face twisting in disgust. “Forget it, the loser can’t even kiss you right…”
“He’s not a loser,” she defended. “Things are just….tough for him, like how they’re tough for your dad.”
“My dad’s a fucking deserter,” he spat. “Blake killed the Grabber. He’s supposed to be tough, not a pussy.”
As if sensing the tension, the dogs began to rouse. Toby and Dakota stood rigid, tails alert as they peered into the bedroom. Samson brought his nose to the ground, sniffing and following a trail that led to the bedroom. His stubby tail started wagging ferociously.
This went barely noticed, however, as righteous indignation swelled within Donna. “He is tough. He kicked your ass, remember?”
“Because he sucker-punched me! I could’ve creamed him in a real fight.”
Samson barked, startling both of them. Her barks became intermingled with happy whines as he spun in a circle, hopping up and down in excitement. Toby growled softly while Dakota barked as well, bushy tail tucked between her legs.
“What’s going on?” Donna asked nervously. It reminded her of how Bella randomly started barking at her before she saw that awful recording.
Was the Grabber here?
Goosebumps erupted over Donna's skin before common sense drifted back into her skull. How would the Grabber even know to go to the Gallagher home? And why would Samson be so happy?
The ‘phone call’ yesterday was definitely a hallucination. It had to be.
Samson flopped onto his back without prompting, whining for tummy rubs.
“No idea,” Matt muttered, shutting the door so Toby and Dakota couldn’t see in. He leaned down and scratched behind Samson’s ears. “Easy, boy. Easy.”
The dog panted, tongue rolling happily out the side of his mouth. As she reached down to give him some belly rubs, Matt asked, grudgingly, “Why do you like him so much?”
“Look at him,” she cooed. “He’s such a swee–”
“I meant Blake.”
She rolled her eyes. “Could you, like, cut the macho crap and use his first name like a normal person?”
“Okay, Finn. Whatever. But can you give me a good answer for once? And don’t just say he’s ‘nice,’ because there are plenty of ‘nice’ dudes you don't give a second thought to.”
She pondered the question; it wasn’t easy to verbalize why she liked Finney Blake; it wasn’t so much a conscious state of mind, but rather a decision made by the heart. She was also sensitive enough to keep a cap on it instead of singing the multitude of praises Finn deserved.
“I think it’s because he’s so genuine,” she finally said. “He’s sensitive and empathetic in a way most boys aren’t, and I love that about him. He thinks about things from unique perspectives. And he never tries to change himself to fit in.”
Not like me.
Matt didn’t seem upset or angry, just resigned, as he reached down to join her pets. “Hate to break it to you, but he does. Years ago—okay, yeah, I'll give you that. But now? He’s got this…fakeness….about him, and I don’t know how you can’t see that.”
Donna bit her lip. “I…I get what you mean, but it’s different. It’s not like he’s changing himself, or the core of who he is. It’s more like he just has this…wall…around him.”
“And he doesn’t let you in.”
Despite his outward persona, Matt was more observant than he let on. “That’s different,” she argued. “He’s been through a lot. Way more than anyone else at our school. Way more than most people in the state, or even country.”
“I know,” he conceded, in a rare occurrence. “But at a certain point, people like this have to realize how badly they’re affecting other people’s lives.”
Her temper rose at those familiar words, though the logical part of her brain knew he wasn’t talking just about Finn anymore. “And you’re suggesting…what? They crawl into a cave and die somewhere? Try having a bit of sympathy, my goodness….”
“All I want is for them to try to connect with the people who actually give a shit about them, instead of closing themselves off every freaking time. Has he even asked you about Ruth?”
She didn’t want to tell him the truth: that Finney was clueless Ruth was her birth mother, let alone a suspected victim of the Galesburg Grabber. “A little busy with his house burning down and everything.”
Matt nodded grudgingly, accepting the answer. But that didn’t stop him from asking, “Does it bother you that he barely wants to touch you?”
She hesitated, then decided to answer honestly. “Sometimes. But I think it’s worth it. He’s worth it.”
Matt shook his head fondly, returning to his chair. “Patience of a goddamn saint…”
“You know,” she began, attempting to turn this around. “Finn’s not a bad guy.”
“I never said he was.”
“You don’t need to be at his throat all the time. The two of you used to be friends.”
“First off, I'm not at his throat all the time. I only say something if he says or does something stupid first.” She opened her mouth to call him on his bullshit, but he kept going. “And second, the last time we were friends was back in, like, fourth or fifth grade.”
His eyes glanced briefly back towards the rocket and Donna remembered, vaguely, Finn giving it to him back in third grade. “What changed?”
“I dunno, just…life stuff. We don’t have anything in common anymore besides you.”
It made sense; kids on the playground were much less discerning in their choice of companions than angsty middle-schoolers. But she wasn’t satisfied with that answer, and used to press both Matt and Finn on this topic, and only received vague snippets in response. From what she pieced together and remembered from that time, it wasn’t one big event that destroyed the friendship, but rather a combination of things that caused their childhood bond to fizzle. Namely, that Matt gained a family member while Finn lost one. Mrs. Blake died around the time of the controversial amnesty ruling for Vietnam deserters and Mr. Gallagher’s subsequent return from Canada, and Finn’s heightened moroseness and sensitivity clashed with the tough persona Matt adapted to stave off his classmates’ mockery. His embarrassment, coupled with naturally changing interests and drifting to Buzz’s group of bad influences, doomed the friendship and set them on the path to where they are now.
“Even if you don’t, you can still be cordial to one another,” Donna reminded him.
Matt rolled his eyes. “The chances of that happening are lower than the Grabber coming back from the dead.”
It was a sobering reminder of why she came. Sighing, she relit the joint.
****
Things got better over the following days. Her and Jesse both pushed aside their pride and apologized, smoothing over the rough patch. As a peace offering, he even reminded her that their deal was that he could record her whenever she wanted, and she decided to give it another go. She couldn't pretend thoughts of the gray gargoyle didn’t claw at the edges of her mind, but she also couldn't—and wouldn't—let those fears psych her out and distract her from the play. The next few days she became Ophelia, throwing herself into the role completely and feeling the same dread and sorrow when performing. She couldn’t bring herself to watch, something she suspected Jesse was relieved about. He watched the videos and—at Donna’s request—gave suggestions on how to improve, which were iffy and half-hearted at best, given his complete and utter lack of acting knowledge. Still, it was better than nothing.
But while things got better for Donna, things got much worse for Finn. After being discharged from the hospital, the Blakes suffered a series of housing misfortunes that reinvigorated rumors of “The Grabber’s Curse.” She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach which grew deeper and deeper as the days ticked by without a single phone call. She mentally slapped herself whenever anxiety wrapped around her throat, hissing that it’s selfish to expect him to call when he had a million other things to worry about, and shouting that ghosts don’t exist.
These feelings finally reached a crescendo when she learned about the Blakes’ planned residence.
“Mom, please. Just for a month.”
Eileen shook her head as she put on a mitt and removed the steak from the oven. “I’m sorry sweetie, but we’ve been over this. There isn’t enough room.”
Donna couldn’t even enjoy the tantalizing aroma, too frustrated with the inherent injustice of the situation. She placed the glass on the table with a bit more force than required. “We had room for Aunt Shirley and her kids last year.”
Eileen winced slightly. “They’re family, that's different. And besides, they only stayed until the renovation was complete. The Blakes...well, there's a lot of uncertainty about what's going to happen with them."
"Which is why we should do what we can to help,” Donna countered, folding a napkin. “What was the point of all those CCD classes if you're telling me now that we should ignore those in need?"
"I'm not saying that," Eileen said firmly. She plucked a knife from the storage block and cut enough slices for dinner. "I agree that we should help the Blakes. Everyone should, which is why we contributed to all those fundraisers."
Guilt slowly trickled its way into Donna’s heart, and she recognized—albeit reluctantly—her mother's point. "It's not fair or reasonable to expect us to make such a massive change to our household," Eileen continued. "Financially or otherwise."
"What do you mean, 'otherwise?'"
"Well, it's just...you know." She gestured vaguely with the knife, a tinge of pink appearing on her cheeks. "He's a boyfriend, not a fiance. It's improper."
“Ughhhh,” groaned Donna. “Not this again.”
“I’m a mother. It’s my job to think about these things.”
The wayward thought of being with Finn the way Eileen imagined sent a fleeting thrill rush through her, only to be replaced by crushing guilt. “DAD! JESSE!” Donna called, desperate for a distraction. “Dinner’s almost ready!”
“I know,” Jesse said, trying to hold back a laugh. “I’m in the living room.”
She reddened and scowled, knowing he was close enough to hear their whole conversation. To his credit, he didn’t make fun as he sat down at the table. "They should move out of Galesburg if they can't find a house here,” said Jesse. “I mean, the Shaw house, of all places...Jesus. That's gotta be rough."
"Easier said than done, with the economy being what it is," sighed Richard, entering the kitchen and helping his wife carry the meat over to the table.
"I find it hard to believe everywhere was unavailable," Eileen murmured. She wiped the lenses of her glasses while Donna opened the drawers and rummaged for the forks.
"They went to a lot of places. Something bad happened at each one," she recalled, goosebumps creeping up her skin.
A grin spread across Jesse's face. "Yeah. They said it's because of the Grabber's ghos-"
He caught himself in time, worry flickering briefly on his face as he glanced at his sister. "I heard the rumors too," she said, trying to placate her mother, who was glaring daggers at Jesse, "and I'm not about to turn into a shrieking mess, so don't worry."
After the words left her mouth, she realized the hypocrisy; how many times did she reassess her word choice when speaking to Finn? Her gaze lowered as she hurriedly placed the forks on the table before returning to the cabinet to get the final glass.
"You know what I think?" Richard said brightly. "If I was on the city council, I'd give up my house to the Blakes and live on Meadowbrook instead. It's the least they could do after they botched the case."
"And what they wanted to do afterwards," huffed Eileen, finally taking a seat. "Honestly, turning it into some kind of tourist trap? It's obscene."
Perhaps it was paranoia, perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for the brief moment she pulled the glass from the cabinet, she could have sworn she saw the reflection of a gray devil standing behind her.
****
Her stomach teemed with jitters even a half-hour later, causing her hands to tremble as she scrubbed the plates clean in the sink. They didn't vanish ever when Jesse called from the other room, letting her know Finn was on the other line. Swallowing, she dried her hands on the towel and rushed to the phone. "H-Hi, Finn!”
"Hey, Donna."
She blinked, taken aback; Finn's tone was cold and chilly, a stark departure from the sweet, friendly boy she knew. “Finn, is everything…okay?” SERIOUSLY?! " Ugh, that was a stupid question…of course it’s not," she babbled, mentally slapping herself. "I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I keep telling my mom that you should be staying with us, but she’s such a stick-in-the-mud, saying how it would be 'improper.’ Pffft. Her mind’s always in the gutter. I just—I wish I was with you right now.”
Finally she allowed herself to take a breath, and the three seconds it took Finn to respond felt like an eternity. "I-it's fine. I’m just a bit tired from traveling, that’s all. What about you? How are you doing?”
Awful. "Yeah, I’m fine! Everything’s good over here.”
“You sure? Jesse said that you were kind of on a downward spiral and—”
He stopped his sentence abruptly, and Donna bit her lip. It said a lot about Finn, that he was worried about her during what she assumed was the second or third worst moment of his life. He always looked to her for stability and comfort, and she couldn't let him down now.
He thought she was perfect. He didn't know she was a junkie who was either seeing or hallucinating the ghost of the man who kept him captive all those years ago.
He didn't know. He couldn't. Donna wouldn't let him.
“Ughhh. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about," she said, feigning lightheartedness. "It’s nothing important, I promise. Just stupid stuff. Anyway, enough about me! I want to hear about you. Tell me everything!”
“I, um, I’m not really up for getting into everything right now,” he mumbled. “I just called to, y’know, check in…”
“Oh,” she whispered, after a beat. “I just thought that since it’s been a week, we could—”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow when I see you in school,” he murmured. “Bye, Donna.”
“...Okay. Bye, Finn.”
She stared at the phone numbly as the line went dead, trying fruitlessly to discern what the hell happened, and why.
Was she coming on too strong? Too weak? Was he upset she didn't spend enough time at the hospital? Did he realize he could do better? Did Matt start a rumor? Did he just want space away from her?
Orrrrr maybe he's just tired and stressed and you're overthinking everything, like always.
She took a breath to center herself and placed the phone back on the base. Yes, that was probably it.
Still, it didn't stop her from grabbing the phone at lightning speed once she heard the familiar ring again. But this time, her mind screeched to a halt when she heard the voice on the other line.
"I hate to bring this up," the Grabber hummed, in a tone that indicated the opposite, “'cause I know it's going to make you upset, but little Finney was just on the phone with his secret sweetheart. He said—and I quote—'I love you.' It does not get any clearer than that. So if I were you, I'd pick up my blunt and walk away while I still had a shred of dign—"
"Are you spying on him?" she squeaked, finally able to find her voice. Her eyes darted around rapidly, realizing—to mixed emotions—that none of her family was nearby. "Are you spying on me?"
"I'm observing, not spying. Spying makes me sound creepy."
"You—you are a creep! And if you want to watch me, then fine. But leave Finn alone."
"Now, why would I do that? I love Finney. Forty thousand girlfriends could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum."
Her face scrunched, stomach twisting with disgust. "Shakespeare's rolling in his grave right now."
"Robin too, probably."
Tears prickled behind her eyes. "What do you want?"
"Wow, that expression brings back memories." His voice was more contemplative and serious than she would have expected, though the rush of hatred filled her all the same. "I already told you: Stay away from Finney."
"Not happening."
"Listen," he sighed, somewhat sympathetically. "I want you to live a nice, happy life, but that's not possible if we're butting heads all the time. There's plenty of other fish in the sea. Catch one that likes you more—shouldn't be too hard. You've already got little Matty wrapped around your perfectly-manicured finger. You could have any boy in school, I bet, if you wanted."
"I don't want any other boy," she stated, confidence growing. "I want Finn."
"Well, he doesn't want you.”.
"He's not cheating on me. There is no 'secret sweetheart.'"
"Believe what you want."
“You’re not even a good liar,” she scoffed. “If you were, you’d at least pretend to be upset over the other girl.”
“Which one?”
“The one you said he loves,” she snapped.
“Oh. Well, that’s because they’re a better fit. Less ordinary.”
“I know him, and he's an honest person who'd never date another girl behind my—"
A sharp bark of laughter chilled her to the bone. "You don't know him the way I do. Not even close."
The lechery underlying the words did not go unnoticed, and Donna's eyes narrowed. Nerves dimmed, replaced with the overwhelming resolve to put an asshole in his place. "You might've had his...body," she said, face flushing slightly, "but you never had his heart, and you never will. And deep down, you know that too."
There was a long silence before the Grabber chuckled. "Pretty big words, coming from the girl who has neither."
It was a low but effective blow. "Shut up.”
“Not to be dramatic, but if you don’t stop going after Finney, then we’re going to war. And let’s just say I’m not afraid to use nukes.”
How is this happening?
Donna closed her eyes and ran her fingers down her long black hair. “I don't know why I'm wasting my time. You're not even real —Just a figment of my imagination."
Hopefully. Or would that be worse?
"Am I?” he giggled. “Aww, do you normally start seeing things when you're blazed? My brother did."
She glowered, both at the mention of her marijuana habit and Max Shaw, the Grabber's seemingly-decent brother that he killed. When he realized he wouldn’t get a verbal response, the Grabber sighed again. "If you're not gonna take my advice about Finney, at least do me a favor and stay away from drugs, even the gateway kind. First it's 'just when you need it,' then it escalates and next thing you know you're crashing at your brother's place because you're outta cash and can't hold down a job. Do you really want to do that to poor Jesse? Try thinking of someone else besides yourself for a change."
Donna was at a loss for words from the sheer audacity, barely registering the click of the phone.
"Are you seriously lecturing me about drugs?" she hissed, triple-checking to make sure her family wasn't in earshot."You're a fucking serial killer!"
The only response was the dial tone.
And the next day, the war began.
Chapter 29: Love and War
Notes:
I originally wanted there to be only two Donna chapters, but now there's going to be three. Oh well lol. The good news is the next one should be out within the next 2-3 weeks (or sooner) since I already have the full rough draft of the next chapter completed.
Chapter Text
“You must be happy now that Finn’s back.”
A thick and heavy silence blanketed the room, only broken when Mr. Garcia leaned forward on his desk, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Donna?”
“I am happy,” she asserted, shifting position in the purple plush chair. Her eyes drifted towards the poster of the kitten clinging to the tree, the words ‘Hang in There!’ printed at the bottom. Easier said than done, cat. “I guess it’s just a bit awkward. Like, what do you even say to someone in that kind of situation?”
Mr. Garcia shrugged and popped open the bottle of Gatorade, taking a sip before answering. “It’s a unique set of circumstances, true. But you don’t necessarily need to say anything unless he does. What he needs right now is normalcy, and the comfort in knowing his friends are there for support.”
“Are you going to talk to him?” Donna asked, placing one knee above the other. She tried not to sound too anxious. She knew from past experience that Mr Garcia took the privacy of other students seriously, but she meant it when she told Finn that talking things through with someone sometimes helped. Lord knows the poor kid needed all the help he could get right now.
Mr. Garcia pantomimed zipping his lips. “You know I can’t discuss other students.”
“I know,” she mumbled. “It’s just…he’s acting different recently, but I get why. He’s been through a lot over the past week.”
“And he’s not the only one,” Mr. Garcia observed, redirecting the conversation back to Donna. “Do you want to talk about your birth mom?”
“Not really,” she sighed, slouching down in the chair. “I’m still sorting out how I feel about it.”
Mr. Garcia nodded, accepting the answer, but not willing to drop the topic completely. “Is it affecting things at home?”
She stared, stifling a groan. “My dad called, didn’t he? Is that why you asked me to come down here?”
“He let us know things were a bit difficult,” evaded Mr. Garcia. “I want to work with you, Donna, but that can’t happen if we’re not on the same page. You can be honest: How are you feeling right now?”
Shitty.
Really, really shitty.
“Okay. There’s still a lot I don’t know and sometimes it’s upsetting, but everything’s going to work out in the end.”
If only…
****
Maintaining a happy facade while being perpetually harassed by the ghost of a serial killer was the most surreal experience of Donna’s life. It was as if her life stopped being her life, and rather a new role she stepped into, a role far removed from her understanding of how the world was supposed to work.
The Grabber made good on his word; Donna had yet to get a decent night’s rest after that fateful call. When she wasn’t seeing shadows in the corner of her room, feeling the sheets tug under her, or hearing the quiet movements of small objects or distant wicked whispers, she was dreaming. And her dreams quickly devolved into nightmares, more vivid and esoteric than they’d ever been. In them, she stood under the tree she and Jesse used to play in as children, shouting across the river to Finn, whose back turned. The gap between riverbanks grew wider and wider as she watched, helpless, as his skin fell off in chunks, until only a scarecrow of bone and muscle remained. It was disconcerting enough to propel her to purchase a dreamcatcher, though its effectiveness was spotty at best.
These dreams amplified her fears tenfold. There was no doubt in her mind that Finn was in danger from the Grabber, and she racked her brain trying to think of ways to banish the spirit from their lives for good. By day she acted chipper, talking about the play, school drama, current events, and movies. But by night, Donna devoured library books on the supernatural, scrounging fruitlessly for the magic bullet that could solve all their problems. Unsure if ghosts were limited in how far they could travel, Donna spent the night before his return to school brainstorming places they could go during the summer, places where Finney might be able to get some respite.
But he seemed unenthused with her ideas, stirring fears that maybe the Grabber was right, that maybe Finn didn’t love her, or was cheating on her, or both. Or maybe, somehow, she knew what was on her mind when she saw him and hated her for it.
The Grabber communicated with her on-and-off: through the phone in her room, the phone in the kitchen, display televisions in storefronts, the radio, her record player, even her fucking calculator. And Donna learned, very quickly, that he wasn’t shy when it came to telling her secrets about him and Finn that she did not want to think about.
Knowing he was kidnapped was one thing, knowing the pornographic details of his captivity was another. In the past, she never thought–or wanted to think about it—beyond a general sense of ‘it happened.’ But now she had no choice, and couldn’t shake the crushing guilt whenever she looked at him, even though everything she learned (assuming it wasn’t fabricated bullcrap) was against her will. These thoughts made it significantly harder to view him as ordinary, which she knew would upset him.
But Finn wasn’t ordinary, because only an extraordinary person could go about his day and function like he did after experiencing such pain and hardship. It was difficult to look at him because she felt so sad and indignant on his behalf, as well as humbled. No matter what her problems were, they paled in comparison to his.
Though she brushed it off when speaking to the Grabber, inwardly, his words rattled her to the core. The accumulated stress began seeping into all aspects of life. Donna performed well during rehearsals at school, but when she returned home and had Jesse record her, she felt suffocated by anxiety, depression, and fear. This was, apparently, evident in the videos as well, with Jesse offering suggestions and tips that she had to take his word for. The other option—watching the videos herself—was simply too risky.
And there was another reason she didn’t want to watch, one that she didn’t want to admit. But a part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that the play, which once seemed so important, was now a gigantic waste of time. I was silly and childish, she felt, to put in all this time and effort into playing pretend when there were all these real problems to deal with.
But thinking like that made her feel as though she was losing a key part of herself, and she hated it. It’s just a blip, she convinced herself. Things’ll go back to normal once the Grabber goes away.
The possibility that he wouldn’t go away simply wasn’t an option. She was Donna Anderson, damn it, and she always found a way to make things work before. This time would be no exception.
It couldn’t. There was simply too much at stake.
****
Still deep in thought, Donna opened the door to the typing room and was immediately greeted by the cacophony of clicks and whirs of the typewriters. She handed the guidance pass to Ms. Rinaldi, who tossed out the pass without looking at it and gestured for Donna to take a seat at one of the typewriters. “Your goal is to type ‘The man built himself a shelter’ one hundred times, and ‘the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ fifty times.”
“Do what you can,” Ms. Rinaldi replied, settling back to her desk and reopening her newspaper.
Megan waved and pointed to the seat next to her. Donna joined her, plopped down her things, and began typing.
“Did I miss anything?” she whispered.
“Oh, totally,” Megan breathed. “Todd and Denise fucked like jackrabbits on the table and Ms. Rinaldi started Go-Go dancing.” She giggled. “Seriously, you’re so lucky you got to miss the first half. This period will. Not. End. It’s like I’m trapped in Mrs. Dalloway or Long Day's Journey Into Night.”
Donna couldn’t help but crack a smile. Megan could sometimes be…a lot, but no other kid in her school could make or get a reference like that. “Well, I’d rather be here than in guidance.”
“What did they want?”
Megan once used something personal against her, so Donna didn’t trust her with the full truth. But she was willing to give a half-truth. “Mr. Garcia asked me how Finn was feeling.”
“Donna,” Ms. Rinaldi warned without looking from her newspaper. “If you keep talking, I’m going to move your seat.”
Yikes. Didn’t think my voice traveled that far… “Sorry, Ms. Rinaldi.”
Megan and her were quiet for the next few minutes until Megan leaned closer, eyes locked onto Ms. Rinaldi. “Why doesn’t he just ask him? Isn’t that, like, his job?”
“I’m pretty sure his job is to prepare us so we can get jobs,” Donna commented dryly.
“That’s what teachers do. But what does Mr. Garcia do besides sit in his office all day? He can’t be assed to call Fin down for, like, five minutes? Come on…”
“Finn’s not the only kid in the school,” defended Donna. “And he does a lot of career counseling, college planning kind of things. I mean, he literally called you down to talk about colleges last week.”
Megan huffed, unwilling to back down. “Well, Finn’s not going to get a real job if he can’t even work at Frozen Swirls for a year. Maybe Mr. Garcia should worry about that.”
Donna’s eyes drifted away from the paper and towards Megan’s smirk. “It’s not Finn’s fault.”
“I’m not saying it is,” she clarified, “but how is he going to get a real job? Seriously. He should just, like, move out of Colorado or something. Everyone here knows him.”
“You can’t just get up and do that,” hissed Donna. “Moving costs money, and—”
“Donna!” barked Ms. Rinaldi. “I already warned you once. Take your typewriter and sit at the empty desk in the corner.”
Chagrined and flustered, Donna grabbed the typewriter and headed toward the desk without sparing Megan a second glance. She didn’t realize how charged her emotions were and how loud she was as a result, yet still felt a stab of indignation that Ms. Rinaldi always happened to glance up when she was talking and not Megan.
After seating herself down and glancing up at the paper, Donna froze.
Lurid words and phrases polluted the page, describing a 'loving' sexual encounter between Finn and the Grabber that resembled something out of Bound in Chains. She immediately looked away, face flushing and heartbeat quickening.
That’s what I get for looking away from my typewriter. I should've known he’d—
“Donna,” scolded Ms. Rinaldi . “Get back to work!”
Praying Ms. Rinaldi wouldn’t ask to see her paper, Donna’s trembling hands fumbled with the keys. Except she didn’t write, ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’
With faux confidence, she instead typed: 4/10
For about a minute nothing else happened, the Grabber–hopefully–as confused as she wanted him to be, and Donna continued her class assignment. But then the keys beneath the pads of her fingers pushed inward without her putting force on them. What do you mean?
If I had to rate this, she replied, I’d give it a 4/10. An improvement over the last one, but still overwrought with purple prose, unnecessary adverbs, and tense shifts. The dialogue is stilted and what I assume to be an attempt at symbolism falls flat on its face, but I appreciate the laugh.
You didn't laugh, he typed back.
I did on the inside.
Cheeky today, aren’t we?
Donna glanced at Ms. Rinaldi, who was still enthralled by her newspaper. I always am.
Yes, but especially today. Almost as if you’ve got something to prove. Almost as if you’re on the precipice of failing and know it, but insist on clinging on for that one final, valiant hurrah before it slips your grasp completely, leaving you broken and alone for the rest of your sorry existence.
I don’t have to prove anything, she typed, with more confidence than she felt. Finn wants me, not a dead old man who can’t spell ejaculate.
We’ve been over this before, Donna. You’ll never be able to replicate what he and I have. No offense, but you don’t have the parts. You’ll never get to kiss the back of his neck as he writhes beneath you, all red, sweaty, and stuffed. It’s divine.
Fortunately or unfortunately, she’d grown immune to such description. The best way to deal with these comments, she learned, was to dish it right back. Actually, I can. It’s called a dildo.
Despite his general lechery, the Grabber always acted like a scandalized churchwoman whenever her sexuality was concerned, and today was no exception. Eww, you’re disgusting!!
What, were they not a thing in the 1800s?
Women’s lib has created a generation of whores and it gets worse with each passing decade. You don’t know how far you’ve fallen compared to the girls and women I grew up with, and I feel sorry for you.
Donna’s lips curled into a Grinch-like smirk. Cheeky today, aren’t we? Almost as if you’ve got something to prove. Almost as if you’re on the precipice of failing and know it, but insist on clinging on for that one final, valiant hurrah before it slips your grasp completely, leaving you broken and alone for the rest of your sorry existence.
The Grabber wasn’t amused. You’re the one who’ll need to prove something to your teacher.
Donna glanced uneasily at Ms. Rinaldi, who was still perusing through the newspaper. But within seconds, a screech emitted from her typewriter, and the exterior pieces clattered onto the desk, revealing the skeleton interior and crushed daisy wheel.
That finally got Ms. Rinaldi’s attention.
“DONNA!” she shrieked, leaping out of chair and striding across the room. “What did you do?!”
Donna snatched the paper and crinkled it into a ball. “I didn’t do anything!” she protested feebly, tears springing into her eyes. “I was typing really fast and then—and then the whole thing just started coming apart. I don’t know why but I—I wouldn’t do this on purpose.”
“She wouldn’t,” a voice chimed from the front.
“I didn’t ask your opinion, Gary.” Ms. Rinaldi folded her arms and stared intently at Donna, who prayed to all things holy that Mrs. Ronan wouldn’t ask to see her paper. Ms. Rinaldi slowly pressed the roller and fiddled in the inside, picking up a few detached screws.
“This explains why the outside pieces fell, but not what happened to the daisy wheel,” she murmured, eyes still locked onto the typewriter’s remains with an unreadable expression. “In all my years, I’ve never seen one break like this.”
“It’s the Grabber’s ghost,” cracked Buzz, leaning against the back of his chair with a lazy smirk. Donna stiffened. “First he went after Blake, now he’s going after everyone Blake likes for maximum revenge.”
That caused a wave of whispers across the room, and Ms. Rinaldi’s face reddened. “What did I say last week?” she snarled. “Anyone who makes a quip like that gets detention.”
“But it’s the end of the school year!”
“Now you have another one for talking back.”
Buzz sulked and turned back to his typewriter.
“…Am I in trouble too?” Donna whimpered.
Ms. Rinaldi’s eyes softened. “Danny put his pencil inside the roller earlier. That might’ve done something.” She glanced at the clock. “The bell’s going to ring in a minute. Check to see if any pieces scattered on the ground, and place them on the desk. After that, you can get your books and line up.”
Donna thanked Ms. Rinaldi and nodded, grateful her teacher was more reasonable than the Grabber expected. She was also oddly grateful for the typewriter breakdown; without it, Mrs. Ronan might have remembered to collect everyone’s papers.
But since it happened, Donna was able to shove those poisonous words in her pocket. Later, she tore them to shreds and threw them in the trash where they belonged.
****
Being constantly on edge both enhanced and decreased her focus; it prepared her—as much as it could, anyway—for encounters with wayward spirits, but at the expense of everything else. The loss of her grandmother’s gold bracelet was the necessary shock that finally snapped her back to reality.
I can’t let this jerk win, she thought bitterly, trying to calm herself as she wrapped her hands around the handle to Mr. Clarkson’s classroom. He’s trying to get me off balance and forget about everything else going on in my life. I need to remain calm. Focused. For Finn. “Hi! I just wanted to—”
She snapped her mouth shut in surprise as Mr. Clarkson smiled at her. Finn stood on the opposite side of Mr. Clarkson's desk, looking skittish and…guilty? Or was that just her imagination? “Finn! I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Well, if it isn’t our Ophelia,” greeted Mr. Clarkson.
She giggled to hide her nerves. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were busy.”
“That’s alright, we’re just wrapping up. What did you need?”
She explained about her lost bracelet, but as she feared, Mr. Clarkson didn’t have it. And during their short conversation, she noticed that not only did Finn remain silent, but he was studying her as if she was one of his science experiments.
What was he hoping to find? Was there something about her now that bothered him? Did he hate her? Did he find out she was a fraud?
Is he really cheating on me?
Either way, she needed to get to the bottom of this. “Finn, play practice was canceled. Wanna do something after school?”
“Y-yeah.” That doesn’t seem too enthusiastic…“I’ll meet you at your locker.”
The fake smile remained plastered on her face until she stepped into the hallway, where she finally allowed it to drop. That respite didn’t last long, however, as she forced it back into place while waving to Gary and Danny.
Going on like this is exhausting…
It suddenly hit her then, that this was most likely how Finn felt every day. Another wave of self-loathing washed over her.
She really was a terrible girlfriend.
****
In spite of the inner demons gnawing away at her mind, even Donna could admit the walk home was rather pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that she worked up the courage to ask him directly what was wrong. To her astonishment, he opened up and spoke about a situation that occurred earlier that day with his family, even going so far as to ask for her advice. Though he opened up to her in the past, this was the longest he spent talking about his family in one go, and Donna wondered if he noticed.
“But now what?” he mused, sighing. “I feel like everything’s just…broken.”
She reached her hand out and he took it. Warmness spread through her body. “It can be fixed. My family was the same way last year. But then we had that big sitdown and things got better. The key’s being honest and open.”
Yeah, Donna. Honest and open.
The part about her own family struggles was true at least, though she didn’t mention that Finn’s return was a key factor in turning the tides. It made everyone else’s problems in Galesburg seem so small in comparison, and offered some much-needed perspective.
“Then I'm screwed,” groaned Finn.
“No, you’re not!” She couldn’t help but laugh at his deadpan delivery; he was funnier than most people thought. “From what you told me, part of the problem was that both you and your dad haven't been open with each other for years. There’s a lot of hurt and other feelings that both of you have been keeping inside.”
“I kept things in because of him,” Finn muttered. “He used to scare the hell out of me. Even now, it's hard to just, like, talk to him normally.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand in solidarity. “And if you ever decide it’s not worth it, then I’ll have your back. But if you want to fix things, then honesty is the first step. Have you ever considered that you might scare the hell out of him?”
“Um. No. Why would I?”
“Because he has no idea how to help or process what happened to you, and that makes him feel helpless. And when people feel helpless, they get scared.” Like I am. “I know he hasn’t always been there for you and Gwen, but if he really is trying to turn over a new leaf, then it must be frightening not to be able to help the person you love.”
The Grabber’s mocking laugh echoed in her mind, and another wave of inadequacy and helplessness washed over her at the memory. But as if by providence, her eyes landed on something that shook her out of her misery. “Finn, this is the tree!” she exclaimed, rushing towards it. “The one Jesse and I used to climb when we were kids. C’mere, you can see our initials!”
She acted on instinct, climbing up the tree with the gracefulness of a cat. Each limb she passed enhanced the thrill rising inside her. How long had it been since she’d last been up here? After the Drive-Thru drama? No, later—right after Finn was kidnapped. God, how she missed it.
Then, she finally reached Her Branch. Donna swung her legs over it, basking in the glorious sight of sunlight dancing on the watery surface. “Now I remember why I’d always climb up here whenever I felt sad. The view’s beautiful!” She glanced down at Finney who was, of course, rooted at the bottom, making no attempt to breach his comfort zone. “God, I wish you could see it. Next time, I gotta bring a camera!”
Donna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the gentle breeze kissing her cheeks and combing through her hair. Her problems had been left on the ground and seemed so small and insignificant now. This reminder of the world’s beauty, and the peace and rightness of just being Here made her experience a sense of belonging, of goodness, of cosmic order and purpose.
A sense that everything will be okay.
She heard a faint mumble from the base of the tree. “You need to speak louder,” Donna said, smiling as another rush of wind blew through her hair. “I can’t hear you from up here.”
“I love you.”
With the sudden shock of a lightning bolt, her eyes flung open, mouth ajar. Was she hearing correctly?
Donna glanced downward, Finn’s flushed, awkward expression giving the answer. Her heart fluttered in her chest while she searched for an excuse not to believe him.
Residual drugs from the hospital? A brief mental break where he confused her for Kristy McNichol, maybe?
No, he means. He actually means it.
“D-Donna, you’re about t—”
In the haze of her delirium, she almost missed the slight tremble of the branch from underneath her, but quickly steadied herself.
“Donna, come down from there.”
She wasn’t sure if she could; her emotions were all over the place. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
Donna bristled, eyes narrowing and emotions cooling. Her parents raised her with enough self-respect to know a boy shouldn’t talk to her that way, and it was the reason she broke up with a previous boyfriend before Matt.
It was also very uncharacteristic of Finn.
She began descending, taking her sweet time to gather her thoughts. Maybe he thought she was going to fall. That wouldn’t be unreasonable, especially since—
Her eyes widened, and she was glad Finn couldn’t see her face from this angle. Could the branch have been moved by the Grabber?
No, she thought, trying hard to convince herself that was impossible. If he could move things in real life, I’d probably be dead already.
Her skort was covered in tree pollen when she reached the grass, but she had more pressing matters to deal with. Unable to meet his eye, she asserted, “I’m more capable than you think. I’ve climbed that tree a dozen times before.”
To her relief, discomfort and guilt crossed Finn’s features. “I know. I was just worried, that’s all. Sorry if I sounded like an ass.”
She nodded in acceptance, finally meeting his eye and feeling a swell of assurance that this was the same sweet, gentle kid she knew. “So...you love me?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled shyly.
“Wow.”
Why though?
It doesn’t matter—he said he loved me! Me!
She couldn’t stop the grin from forming. “I–I love you too!”
The words felt so natural, so right, she suddenly felt as though she were back up in the tree. Her mind fluttered through Cloud 9, barely focusing on Finn’s next words. “So, uh, I guess that means you’re not cheating on me then.”
What. The. Fuck.
Shock, disbelief, fear, and offense rushed through her like a whirlwind. What the hell was he saying? Did he really think that low of her?
She latched onto familiar, comforting anger. “Why would you think I’m cheating on you? Who said that? Matt?” Damnit, I never should’ve gone to him for weed. I knew something like this could happen…“He’s so full of crap…”
“M-Matt didn’t say it,” Finney winced. “I just…I dunno…I know you have a lot of options, and I’m not the most, um, well, I’m not exactly most girls’ first pick, so—”
Her heart thawed, while paradoxically wanting to strangle every person in Finney’s life who led him to the point of being unable to see his value. “Then those girls are dumb, because you’re one of the best people in the school, hands down. You’re kind, courageous, smart, caring, resourceful, dedicated…any girl would be lucky to have you. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise,”—pedophilic ghosts included—” they're going to have to go through me.”
He blushed a bit, eyes softening. “Thanks. I-It’s just that I thought you’ve been acting a bit different recently, and”—he swallowed—”Well, earlier you were talking about how it’s important to be open with people you care about. So…I wanted to know if there was something going on that’s bothering you. If you say it’s nothing, then I’ll accept it and stop thinking about it.”
That’s right, Donna. It’s ~important~ to be open with people you care about.
She swallowed, unable to meet Finney’s gaze as she fidgeted with her mood ring. She had no business lecturing others about being open, and she knew it. Was he able to somehow sense her hypocrisy?
“There is something that’s been on my mind,” she said slowly, gears spinning as she tried to find an appropriate compromise. She couldn’t tell him about the Grabber, absolutely not. It’d be borderline sadistic. But maybe there could be something else…? “I’m not cheating though. Can we wait until we get to my house? It’s better if I show you.”
And it gives me enough time to figure out what the hell to say…
“Um, sure.”
His unease was practically tangible, and she tried to fight off the tide of anxiety rising in her. “You don’t need to worry.”
Unless the Grabber tries something, in which case both of us need to worry. A lot.
“Could I at least have a hint?” he asked, pained.
She couldn’t tell him about the Grabber, but maybe the fight with Jesse?
No, she told him about those in the past. There’d be no reason to keep those a secret.
Her heart twisted at his wounded expression, but she needed to stall. “It’s only a five minute walk.”
Maybe the fact she talked to ghosts? No, ‘experience hallucinations.’ That’s how I should phrase it.
…Nah, he’d go running to the hills.
“Donna, you don’t know how much I've been thinking about this over the past couple days. Just give me a hint. Please.”
Damn those puppy-dog eyes!
“Alright,” Donna muttered, biting her lip. Her mind continued to search before landing on a secret that should have—in retrospect—been obvious.
Ruth Evans. A logical secret to keep, without the risk of making her seem like a lunatic and/or scaring the shit out of Finney. “Your hint is knife.”
From Finn’s expression, she might not have been successful. “Wh–what the fuck?” he exclaimed, eyes bulging.
Donna huffed and crossed her arms—she barely even scraped the surface of her levels of crazy, and already things were off to a terrible start. “You’re the one who wanted a hint!”
“Yeah, but c’mon….”
She placed one hand on her hip. “What?”
“You can’t tell me ‘you don’t need to worry,’ when my hint is knife.”
That’s…a fair point, actually.
She couldn’t stop the giggles from escaping her throat, which soon morphed into full-fledged laughter. How long has it been since she laughed like this—a real, genuine laugh, instead of a performance? It was something only Finn could elicit, and she loved him for it. “Hehe, okay, I get it. Alright, new word: Your hint is mom.”
“First knife, now mom.” Finn shook his head, smiling. “You realize I’m worrying more now, right?”
Donna threaded her fingers through her hair and winked. “Consider this punishment for thinking I’m cheating on you.”
“Fair enough.”
Finn held out his hand, and she didn’t hesitate to entwine hers with his. The looming specter of the Grabber felt a distant memory as they walked hand-in-hand. For the first time today, she felt things were going to be okay.
****
When they reached the Anderson house, Jesse was already there, decked in a paint-stained smock and applying the brush to a bust of Christopher Lee’s Frankenstein. No matter how many times she’s seen it, Donna was always impressed by his artistic aptitude. She was less impressed with how he neglected to take Bella out, and she grumbled as she hooked the leash on the poodle and exited to the backyard.
Her mind wandered as Bella sniffed along the ground. How would Finn react after hearing about Ruth? Would he be upset she didn’t tell him earlier? He always put on a brave, nonchalant face regarding his captivity, but Donna could tell the wounds dug deep. She also knew he didn’t want her to know.
And Finn was a boy. A sensitive, caring boy, yes, but still a boy, and still susceptible to the allure of stereotypical masculinity. He wouldn’t want his girlfriend to fret over him, but—
She blinked, jolted out of her thought as the revving and whirring of a lawnmower sliced through the tranquil summer air. It was loud, too, cutting through the chirping birds and humming insects like grass. She glanced in her neighbor’s yard, only to stiffen upon seeing it empty.
She spun around, and the noise immediately ceased. Goosebumps crept up her skin as her eyes settled on the lawnmower in her own yard, which seemed a foot or too closer than it was when she passed it.
Her eyes flickered down to Bella, who was far away from the machine and oblivious.
It couldn’t be due to the Grabber…right?
Bella finally found a spot and began her business as Donna’s finger clenched at her arms. The Grabber only communicated with her. He couldn’t actually control things, otherwise he would have killed her earlier. So it had to be—
VRMMMMMM.
Her stomach plummeted, and she took a shaky breath before snapping her head back in the lawnmower’s direction. The sound stopped again, but this time, he could tell it wasn’t her imagination. The lawnmower was noticeably closer than it was previously.
Bella finished and stared at the lawnmower, now rigid and alert. Her tail vibrated with anticipation, and Donna quickly scooped up the pooch, worse-case scenarios rushing through her mind. Locking her eyes onto the lawnmower, Donna slowly made her way to the door. Every instinct inside screamed at her to bolt, but her pride—possibly the same she accused Finn of having—prevented her from doing so. If the Grabber was trying to fuck with her, she couldn’t let him win. She wouldn’t.
After what felt like eons, Donna reached the door and entered safely. She suppressed a shudder and told Finn to head upstairs to her room, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the backyard as possible. Jesse gave some light teasing, but she barely paid attention, instead fixated on Bella’s tense behavior.
When the poodle started barking, another wave of unease waved over her, and she hastily grabbed Finn’s hand, fearing—perhaps irrationally—the Grabber would snatch him up otherwise.
“C’mon, Finn, let’s go.”
****
Donna immediately let Luna out of her cage once they reached her oom. The reason was twofold: The poor bunny deserved some time to stretch her legs, and Luna’s behavior could act as a bellwether to indicate whether or not the Grabber followed them upstairs. Still agitated from earlier, Donna made a careless comment about her Boston Fern outliving her. After Finn's reaction, she felt like smacking herself.
Obviously he’d be sensitive to jokes about dying early. Duh.
A traitorous, weasel-y voide deep inside reminded her that she doesn’t have to pick her words like minefields around Matt, which she quickly pushed aside. Since she wasn’t expecting him to come over today, she didn’t bother organizing her room ahead of time, and her insides clenched after realizing a book on ghosts was laying out in the open. Donna responded truthfully to his inquiries about the book, though something he said afterwards gave her pause.
“So, anyone who’s haunted is basically screwed. Awesome.”
Based on how Luna seemed a bit more at ease, Donna didn’t think the Grabber was with them in that particular moment. But in case he was, she didn’t want him getting any ideas. “Just because the author doesn’t know doesn’t mean there isn’t a way,” she said, a bit more forcefully than intended. Her fingers coiled inward as another horrifying possibility grew inside her. Why is he asking me about this? Maybe… “Finn, do, um…do you think you're being haunted?”
Finn froze like a deer in the headlights—a reaction that gave her no comfort. The seconds seemed to stretch as possibility after possibility popcorned into her mind. “No. The Gra—him, he’s not haunting me,” Finn finally stammered. “Did you get the book because you thought the rumors were true?” There was a force—an anxiousness—belying his voice, and Donna reached down to pet Luna, unable to make eye contact.Yes, they’re true, she wanted to scream, but if he was uncomfortable from the possibility of her believing it, there was no way in hell she’d drop that bombshell, especially without a way of banishing the ghost for sure. “All that shit’s in the past. Everything’s fine now. I’m fine. You said you wanted to show me something, right?”
“Yeah.” Now she regretted her decision and feared it would upset him more, but by this point she was in too deep to back out. Donna returned Luna to the hutch, then walked over to the desk and wordlessly handed him the newspaper clipping detailing Ruth’s death. She studied Finn’s reaction carefully, trepidation morphing to bafflement as she detected a flicker of relief in his eyes.
Why relief? What did he think she’d tell him about?
When his eyes met hers, she looked away. “Ruth is my mom. My birth mom, I mean. I knew what happened to her for a while, but I never told you that she was a murder victim because, well…I’m not sure. I guess it just felt weird to bring up something like that…”
Finn couldn’t make eye contact with her either, not that she blamed him. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“But then, on the night your house burned down, Chief Walker went on TV and said they might have figured out who did it,”she continued, hesitantly.
His eyes widened with realization. “The Grabber.”
“Yeah.” She hated how the name visibly made her wince, but couldn’t help it. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but can’t talk to many people about it. The only ones who know are my parents, but it feels like they’re keeping stuff from me too. And Matt knows…I told him about Ruth and how she was murdered when we were dating, and when he heard her name on TV he got worried for me. So we’ve been talking more this past week, but we’re not cheating. It’s just as friends.”
“Jesse doesn’t know?”
“He knows a little, but we don't really talk about it. It would be weird too, since…well, you remember what happened last year.” But the focus on today wasn’t on Jesse. “Finn, I don’t want you to think that I didn’t trust you or anything, because it’s not that! But it’s like you said, that shit’s in the past. I know you have so many bad memories of him, and with you moving into his house and everything, it’s—it’s so messed up. You need a break from thinking about him.”
“Donna, when I said that, I didn’t mean I didn’t want you to tell me things, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Donna murmured. “But you get why I didn’t say anything earlier, right?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the article again. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
“What do you mean?” she questioned, stuffing some lettuce into Luna’s hitch.
“You said you wanted to talk about her but couldn’t. So let’s talk now. What questions were you thinking about?”
Despite her obfuscation of the full truth, he still cared enough to ask. It was a welcome reminder of why she chose Finn in the first place. “I don’t know. Everything, I guess? If I had to pick one thing, it would be why she died. She’s not exactly in his target demographic.”
Donna did try, occasionally, to squeeze more information about her from the Grabber. But unlike his history with Finn, he was far less formcoming when it came to Ruth.
“He might not have killed her. It could be police conjecture or—” Finn’s mouth snapped shut. “Donna, what do you know about your mom?”
She hated how once people found out she was adopted, they viewed Ruth as her ‘real’ mom. It felt not only disrespectful to Eileen, but also gave Ruth a lot of credit where it wasn’t due. “My birth mom.”
“R-Right, sorry.”
Donna leaned down on the bed, fingers tracing the soft textures that normally gave her comfort. “I don’t know much. Mom said she had issues with her parents and was a ‘drifter,’ which I’m guessing is a nice way to say unemployed. She joined this Charles Manson-y flower power thing, and had me out of wedlock sometime after that. And that’s pretty much it.”
Finn looked both nauseous and nervous. “When I was talking to Mrs. Baur earlier today, she mentioned his brother inviting a bunch of, um, drifters, to stay with them. And he didn’t like that.”
Donna stopped her motions abruptly and blinked. That was a new piece of information. “You think that’s why he killed her? He was fed up with her staying in his house?”
“I don’t know. It says here that she left and moved to Lakewod.” He pointed to the article. “So that couldn’t be it. But maybe there was some kind of problem before she left.”
But why wouldn’t he tell me, though? That’s the kind of thing he’d love to rub in my face.
Donna sighed and shifted her position on the bed. “See, this is the kind of thing that drives me crazy. Every question leads to another. I think that’s why Mom got me that phone: it was meant to be some kind of sympathy gift.”
Despite the dark topic, a smile tugged at the edges of Finn’s lips. “Hey, at least you got a phone. All I got was a Floro Hardware Supply gift card.”
Donna giggled at the memory, and the tension subsided as they engaged in the easy banter that came so naturally a month ago. The conversation eventually veered back to more morose topics, like Charlie and Finn’s grades, and when Finn adulated her for being such a good person, she almost felt guilty enough to spill the beans about the haunting. Almost.
But she didn’t, and the conversation took a lighter turn when Donna recalled her hospital visit and Finn’s ‘proposal.’ A faraway look entered his eye, and Donna sat up straight, annoyed that she said something to once again fuck it up. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you upset…”
“I’m not,” he said quietly. Then, unexpectedly, he got off the beanbag chair and sat next to her on the bed.
The sudden action—and close proximity on the bed—was startling, yet exciting, awaking a deep and forbidden part of her. She absorbed every detail: the way his auburn curls lay gently on his forehead, his smooth, creamy skin, the way his chest went up and down with his breath. And of course, his beautiful chocolate-brown eyes she could get lost in forever. And those lips, those smooth, tantalizing lips…
She imagined kissing them, and seconds later, it became a reality. Her eyes bulged open in surprise, then squeezed shut as she tried to soak in every moment, heart fluttering at the realization that he initiated it, just like their kiss in front of Robin’s memorial. She felt wanted.
Loved.
She blushed as they parted, and her heart fluttered again as she looked at those sloppy curls. “Your hair’s all messed up now. It’s cute.”
Caught in the moment, she reached up to his face. In an instant, Finn’s body stiffened, and she cursed herself once more for her impulsiveness. Yet her hand didn’t fall. Perhaps it was selfish, but she didn’t want it to. Instead, she continued peering in his eyes, pleading a silent question.
After a long pause, he nodded, and her fingers brushed against the soft skin of his cheek. The other threaded through his springy clusters of auburn, savoring the moment while it lasted.
It didn’t last long. The harsh screeching of the fire alarm shattered her reverie, and in the ten minutes that followed, she and Jesse scrambled around like chickens with their heads cut off. When nothing else worked, Jesse suggested removing the batteries in order to stop the malfunction.
But it wasn’t a malfunction, and this knowledge made Donna seethe as she assisted Jesse downstairs. It was the Grabber, it had to be, just like how he fucked with the lawn mower. He couldn’t stand seeing her and Finn together.
Today was the closest she’s been to him—both physically and emotionally—since the day of their first kiss. She felt like Tantalus, yearning for fruit on the vine that would be forever out of reach.
“Okay,” Jesse exhaled as he twisted the alarm back into place. “I think that’s the last one. We should be good to go until Mom and Dad get b—Donna?”
She didn’t realize she was crying until he hastily grabbed some napkins from the counter and shoved them in her directions. She dabbed her eyes, looking as miserable as she felt.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes shining with concern.
“Nothing,” she muttered. He put his hands on his hips, and she sighed. “Everything. It’s just---I don’t know how to explain it, but nothing ever goes right with me and Finn. I thought things were improving. He kissed me and I touched his hair and then that stupid alarm just ruined everything and…and I know this sounds stupid, okay? So quit it with the eyerolls. You’re the one who asked!”
Normally she would never be this forthcoming with Jesse, but the accumulated stress had finally reached its tipping point. And though omitting the mentions of Albert Shaw’s ghost must have made her words come across as childish, Jesse’s eyes softened anyway. “What do you mean, ‘improving’? I thought everything was stellar with you two?”
Donna’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. I thought I knew what dating him would be like, but the reality’s just…different.”
Jesse sat on the chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “How so?”
She paused, then plopped herself across from him, glancing at the top of the steps nervously. “Well, there’s the crazies who don’t want us to be together. Kind of puts a damper on things, not that I’d ever let them get in the way.” She spoke the latter part of the sentence a bit louder, in case the Grabber was listening in. “I think it’s worth it. It’s just…”
“Is someone threatening you again?” Jesse interrupted. “Remember what Dad said? Go o the police fir—”
“No,” Dona said quickly. “It’s just the knowledge they exist that kind of makes it a bummer.”
“Oh.” Jesse relaxed. “So that’s it.”
“...No,” she admitted grudgingly. The Grabber could, theoretically be listening, and she’d hate to admit this in front of him, but the thoughts were clamoring for some sort of release. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s also me. Nothing I do seems right—in fact, a lot of times I make things worse. I say or do the wrong thing and—and he’s been kind of distant and snappish recently,” she added, thinking about the branch and some of the comments in her room, “and whenever we do some stuff—kissing and hugging stuff, get your mind out of the gutter—he gets super tense. And I get why, but I get this irrational fear that maybe he doesn’t actually like me. Maybe he’s just dating me to feel normal. It might just be paranoia, but still…”
Confessing felt like a weight lifted off her chest, only to be replaced by a roost of butterflies. Jesse leaned his chin against his knuckles in contemplation. She originally feared he would mock her, but that didn’t seem to be the case. “So. First off, this stuff about the crazies? There’s not much that can be done about that. They’ll probably go away once more time passes.”The Grabber was a rather unique brand of crazy, and Donna had zero faith that he’d lose interest. But she bit her tongue and nodded. “As for the stuff about you? Damn, kid. You got nothing to worry about. The boy’s head over heels.”
“….What do you mean?”
Jesse chuckled dryly. “I spent more than three minutes watching the two of you. It’s obvious. And we both know a kid like that’s gotta have some issues, so if you think he’s being distant, there’s no harm in asking.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to talk about it?”
“Then he’ll say, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But he won’t,” Donna insisted. “Well, he sometimes does, but not often. He usually makes some kind of weird conversation redirect, or I pick up on his body language. I don’t think he wants people to know certain things upset him.”
Though he confessed about his family problems, Donna had the lingering feeling there was more he was hiding, though she wasn’t sure if it was genuine or simply her paranoia talking. Regardless, the thought bothered her, especially when he was saying that he loved her and initiating physical contact. If he could do those things but didn’t trust her, what did that say about how he viewed her?
“Well, if you wanna keep this going, that’s something that needs to change. But you can’t be harping about him keeping stuff to himself when you do the same.”
Donna put a hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes. “What, you’re expecting me to tell him about the g—”—ghosts—“things I see?”
“No,” Jesse muttered, looking away, blushing slightly. “Not yet. But you’re keeping other stuff from him. Normal things.”
Her mind raced, trying to discern what he was talking about. “Like what?”
“Like how you like monsters and horror,” he said, gesturing to the paint supplies on the table.
“Jesse!” she hissed, glancing at the staircase again. “You asshole! He’s not supposed to know about that.”
“Why not? That’s who you are.”
“Are you really this insensitive?” she accused, putting a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on. Think about it for two seconds.”
He rolled his eyes. “Finn didn’t bug out when I told him. You’re just assuming he would.”
“Because I saw it happen before!” she hissed. Guilt and sadness weighed down on her as she remembered Finn’s skittishness during Friday the 13th. Her boyfriend’s embarrassment was palatable, and she vowed never to put him in an uncomfortable position like that again, vowed never to be stupid enough not to consider the possibility he might be unbalanced by things she didn’t think twice about. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“I get why you think that, but he can’t spend his life in a giant hamster ball. There’s a balance between being compassionate and being condescending.”
“I’m not—”
“You kinda are, even if you don’t mean to be,” he continued, despite her glowering. “There’s a difference between seeing something on screen and just talking about it, and you don’t even know if he wouldn’t like talking about it because you’re too afraid to ask. You’re his girlfriend, not his mom or therapist. You and him aren’t supposed to hide things from one another, or be afraid to talk about basic shit.”
Donna bit her lip. Instincts told her to lash back, but he knew there was some degree of truth in Jesse’s words. She did want to protect him from everything, and maybe that wasn’t what he needed.
Or, more accurately, it might not have been what Finn needed a month ago. But considering he was haunted by the ghost of the man who caused all these problems in the first place, he needed a hamster ball inside a hamster ball, and Donna wasn’t about to feel guilty for doing what she could to ease his pain.
“Since when are you the love expert?” she scoffed, cocking her head.
“Pfft. I had plenty of relationships.”
“Yeah, but they all failed.”
“Exactly, and I learned what not to do.”
Now it was Donna’s turn to roll her eyes. Jesse got up and headed to the counter, tossing a water bottle her way. “Okay, let’s say he didn’t have a shitty past. Would you be totally open with him then?” Donna remained silent, which answered the question. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
She unscrewed the cap and brought the water to her lips so she wouldn’t have to speak immediately. “Let’s say I did. What happens if he doesn’t want me?” Upon seeing his expression, she hurried to say, “And don’t give me the, ‘oh, he’s head over heels for you’ junk. Let’s say, hypothetically, it happens. Then what?”
Jesse shrugged. “Then it won’t work. If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. Seriously, how many people marry their high school sweethearts? If it’s too much, then there’s no shame in pulling back. You shouldn’t feel guilted into a relationship because of his past, or because you feel sorry for him.”
Her fingers curled around the bottle, temper rising. “That’s not why I dated him.”
“I know, but it shouldn’t be the reason why you stay. It’s okay to love a person and realize you’re not cut out to be with them in the long term. Unless you’re fully on board, that resentment’s gonna boil.”
She slammed the bottle down on the table. “Well, I want to stay, and I do love him, and I’m not going to resent him for something he can’t control!”
“All those things might be true. But you might not be able to stay, and that’s okay.” He said it gently, but she couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. “Hey, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
“I can handle this, Jesse,” she declared, forcing her chin up. “I will handle it. I’ve been able to handle everything life’s thrown at me so far. So you can keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Fine, I will.” He stood up and grabbed a paper towel, thrusting it in her direction on his way out. “And you better go to the bathroom to wash up. Otherwise, he might think you’re one of the movie monsters.”
Donna snatched the towel and stormed off into the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror,
she had to admit he wasn’t far off. Her eyeliner was smudged and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but a quick-yet-effective application of makeup—as well as her own mental fortitude—got her ready in no time. She wasn’t sure how she’d be able to go upstairs and act like everything was normal after that conversation, though she was sure she’d manage to find a way, like always.
But as it turns out, she didn’t have to. Just as she was about to head upstairs, Finn thundered down, frazzled and pale.
Paranoia that he somehow overheard their conversation sprung into her mind. “Finn, are you leaving? Jesse and I just finished with the smoke detectors and—”
“Yeah,” Finney said. He looked at her in a way that made her feel like one of the frogs they dissected in science class all those years ago. “I have a headache.”
“Oh, okay,” she murmured. Does he know? How CAN he know? We were so quiet. Or maybe….
Maybe he just didn’t want to spend any more time with her. Maybe he could see through her lies, even if he didn’t know the specifics. Maybe he didn’t like the way she kissed. Maybe he had his mind on the alleged mystery person. Donna wondered if that person ever lied to him the way she did.
No, because she doesn’t exist.
Still, her voice was weak when she said, “I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks. And Donna?” She glanced up at him, trying not to flinch at the intensity of his gaze. “I love you, okay. Nobody else. Just you.”
He said the same thing earlier, but unlike then, she now felt nothing but unease.
****
The next day, Donna trudged back into her house, sighing as she kicked off her shoes.
“Hi, sweetie! How was school?”
“Mom!” exclaimed Donna, hanging her backpack on the hook near the door. She glanced curiously in the direction of the voice; Eileen was sitting on the couch in the living room, a scrapbook and pictures spread out on the coffee table in front of her. “I didn’t expect you to be home.”
“It was a slow day, so the office sent some of us home early.” Eileen gestured to the seat next to her. “Want to help me sort through some pictures?”
Donna nodded uneasily. Cut hours usually meant eventual layoffs, and Eileen needed the job for a reason. But Donna decided not to prod as she sat down next to her mother. A wistful smile played across her face as she gently picked up the photograph of her five-year old self being held by Eileen with one hand. The other hand was on Jesse’s shoulder, who was holding a sapling proudly. “Was this taken on Earth Day?”
Eileen nodded. “The first one ever.” She pointed to Jesse’s beaming face. “Is everything alright with the two of you?”
She was tempted to lie, but Eileen could usually see through that. “Sort of. We got into an argument yesterday—well, it was more me arguing, I guess—and haven’t talked about it since then.”
“What was it about?”
“...He gave me advice on what I should do about something,” she prevaricated. “I knew he had a point, but I didn’t want to hear it, so I got mad. And now I feel bad about it because I know he was just trying to help.”
“It’s not uncommon for siblings to argue,” reasoned Eileen. “The important thing is that you’re willing to make up and move on.”
“I am. I’m going to apologize later tonight,” Donna decided.
“Good.” Eileen nodded, satisfied, before pointing to another picture. “Do you remember when we went on that wagon trail pilgrimage during the Bicentennial?”
Donna inspected the photo of her younger self, Jesse, and Richard—along with Eileen’s sister and her children—posing next to a covered wagon. Or, more accurately, everyone else was posing except Donna. Instead, her eleven-year old self was crossing her arms, sulking.
“I remember that!” laughed Donna. “Oh, man. I wish I appreciated it more at the time. I was so mad I wasn’t able to celebrate in Galesburg that I spent most of the time cooped up inside instead of enjoying it. When am I ever going to go cross-country like that again?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Eileen chuckled. “Part of growing up is learning from mistakes of the past.”
Donna continued flipping through the pages, helping Eileen organize the pictures by estimated age. “Oh, look at this!” she exclaimed, pointing to a picture of Donna and Eileen from a few years ago, making student council posters. “Time flies, huh?”
Eileen nodded. “That was—what? Three years ago? Four?”
“Yeah. When I was in eighth grade.” The title of ‘Student Council President’ was largely nominal and did little besides pick the theme for the dance, make the morning announcements, and help teachers with fundraisers, but at the time she felt as if she was Queen Elizabeth.
“Now this one’s definitely one of the earliest,” said Eileen, smiling fondly as she showed Donna a picture of her in a baby carrier, chubby hands clasping together, laughing.
Donna felt a pang of sadness as she looked at the pure joy in her baby self’s face. Would she ever be as happy as she was then? Could anyone ever recapture the sheer joy they had as babies, before they were baptized by life’s hardships?
Eileen’s smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
Donna was quiet for a moment before asking, “How did you meet my mom?”
Eileen clasped her hands above her knees and looked down at the photographs scattered across the table. It was rare Donna asked questions about Ruth, but if there was ever a time in her life when she really wanted to know, it was now.
“Mea—Ruth—was my roommate in college.”
When it became clear Eileen wouldn’t elaborate, Donna prodded, “What was she like?”
“She was a very…special person. She had this zest for life and infectious enthusiasm that could make you do crazy things you never would’ve dreamed of otherwise.”
“Like what?”
“Like dropping out of college to go on a ‘journey of self-discovery and spiritual truth,’” snorted Eileen. “That’s a fancy way of saying hitchhiking cross-country and bumming off strangers.”
Donna’s jaw dropped. “You?! I know she was, but you too?”
“Mhmm,” Eileen nodded, blushing slightly. “Still might have a couple tie-dye shirts stashed away in a closet somewhere.”
“Did you have a hippie name, too?” giggled Donna.
“Yes. It was”—Eileen cringed—“Harmony.”
Now Donna’s giggles tumbled into full-fledged laughter. Eileen smiled too, and when they finally subsided, Donna didn’t know what else to say other than, “Wow.”
“I wasn’t lying about what I said before. Part of growing up is learning from mistakes of the past, and Lord knows I’ve made plenty of them.”
A dull, faraway look entered Eileen’s eyes, and Donna entwined their arms. “Mistakes related to Ruth?”
Eileen squeezed Donna’s hand gently. “Some. But in the end, the decisions were mine and mine alone.”
There was a moment of silence, then Donna decided to address the hesitation spotted on Eileen’s face when she first spoke of Ruth. “Was there…more to Ruth, beyond what you said before?”
“There’s more to everyone,” she sighed.
“Mom…”
Eileen’s shoulders slumped. “She had her own demons that she kept on the inside.”
“Like…visions?” whispered Donna.
Eileen adjusted her glasses. “No, but that impulsivity—and the way she brought people in—had its drawbacks, both for her and the people involved. She could be very…flighty, sometimes. You’re not like that.”
Donna wasn’t so sure. “What else?”
Eileen started fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “There’s not much else to say. She kept going further and further away until she was too far gone. I started having regrets about the life I chose, and then I met your father and—we’ll, you know the rest.”
“So you changed yourself to be with him?”
Eileen shook her head. “It’s more like I needed to take a long, hard look at my life and decide what I wanted things to be like five years from then. The lifestyle I had was fun—and liberating, in more ways than one—but I didn’t imagine it could be sustainable in the long term. Our lack of money also put us in some very vulnerable situations, and even back then I was starting to get frustrated with it and wanted stability. Security.”
The ‘Something Ruth didn’t have’ was silent, but tangible. Donna’s eyes drifted to the picture of the smiling, oblivious baby. “Do you know the real reason she abandoned me?”
Eileen brushed Donna’s hair behind her ear with her fingers. “The real reason is what I told you before. She wasn’t in any position to raise a child, both mentally and financially. She gave you up because she wanted to give you the best chance at a happy life.”
Not for the first time, Donna wished she could peer into an alternate reality where she was raised by Ruth. If she was a druggie even when raised by the Andersons, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like with Ruth. “It’s not like anyone forced her to have a kid in the first place. There were ways to stop that from happening.”
“Well, this was before Roe, so it was more difficult to—”
“I meant condoms, Mom. Or birth control pills. Or something.”
Eileen blushed, as Donna expected her to. But while her mother was annoyingly prudish on the topic of sex, to her credit, she never backed away from discussing it. “The only guaranteed way to avoid pregnancy is to be abstinent, but yes, there were ways that could mitigate those chances. She was never the most responsible though, and if a guy whined about not wanting to put one on, then forget it. She’d always put a man’s wants over her needs.” She wagged her pointer finger. “Don’t you ever do that. Not just for pregnancy, but also for STD’s. And if anyone tries to guilt you or give you grief about it, cut ‘em loose. A man won’t have to deal with the consequences, and if he’s not willing to suck it up, then he’s putting his pleasure over your health, and he’s not worth it.”
“I know that,” Donna huffed. She didn’t know if Eileen knew she lost her virginity this past year; it was hard to tell since periodic sex lectures started once she entered high school. But as irritating and awkward as those conversations were, they helped her stick to her guns even when Matt became pushy about not wearing one, and when she became very close to caving. “Was my birth father one of those men?”
Eileen’s shoulders sagged. “Probably.”
After another pause where it became clear Eileen wouldn’t elaborate, Donna asked directly, “Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
All her life, the identity of her birth father mattered as little as her birth mother; Donna ultimately viewed Richard Anderson as her ‘real father.’ Still, it hurt to hear, and it hurt even more because Donna suspected, by the clipped tone, that Eileen knew more than she let on. “Any ideas?”
“No, she didn’t tell me. I’m sorry.”
The last word was so laden with emotion, Donna suspected it was true. But whether or not Eileen was sorry about what she just said, or something else, remained unclear.
A mix of sadness and anger rose inside her. “Is it bad I wish she was still alive? There are so many questions I want to ask her.”
“Of course it’s not bad,” Eileen rushed to assure her, bringing her in for another hug. “It’s normal to feel that way, and you don’t have to feel guilty. I know you do.”
“Okay,” murmured Donna. Then, she pretended to look at the clock. “I think I better start on my homework. Sorry I couldn’t help more with the scrapbook.”
Eileen released her, and Donna stood up. But before she started walking away, Eileen grabbed her hand. “Donna?”
“…Yes?”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. love you too, Mom.”
That part, at least, was true.
****
A half-hour later, Eileen left to go to the store to pick up groceries. After she left, Donna returned to the table, flipping through the scrapbook. The most recent picture showed Donna in her Ophelia gown, mid-twirl with a huge grin on her face. It was a reminder of her need to practice, and she grudgingly closed the book. But before she could get up, a smug, smarmy voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Cute story. A bit sappy at parts, but touching. A nice little bonding moment for you and Mommy. But she’s not really your mommy, now is she?”
Donna leaned back against the headrest and crossed her arms, face imperviousness as she observed the television in front of her. The Grabber’s black shirt, red turtleneck, and grotesque smile filled most of the screen while the rest of Annie Hall played out normally behind him. “You’re going into movies now? Hopefully you’re a better actor than writer.”
“I like to think I am.” His voice was staticy, but clear enough to comprehend. “Fooled everyone. You know something about that, right?”
She knew he wanted her to get upset and deny it. “Yeah, except I’m actually recognized for my theatrics, whereas the height of your stage career was making balloon animals at five-year olds’ birthday parties.”
The screen flickered, the gray smile replaced with a frown. “I’m a magician, not a clown.”
She shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re a very mean person, you know that?”
“I prefer honest.” She crossed her legs and tilted her head. “So what’s the reason for this little visit? You going to have a temper tantrum and break my TV?”
“No. I came because I wanted to help you.”
Donna snorted. “Cool beans. You can start by telling me more stories about Finn. The writing might be sophomoric, but I can’t say it didn’t have its own…allure. Gets the blood pumping, you know?”
Her outward nonchalance hid the nausea she felt by the lie, but it got the desired effect of eliciting the Grabber’s disgust and—hopefully—put an end to his ‘story time’ permanently. “Eww! That wasn’t for you.” He tsked. “You’re a sick degenerate like your mother.”
“Yup,” she agreed.
“I’m reconsidering my offer now.” Donna pantomimed wiping a tear away. “Don’t you want to hear what it is?”
“Not really.”
The indifference rallied him enough to say it anyway. “It’s about your real mom. I can tell you aaaaaalllllll about her. Why I killed her, what she was like. Everything. The one little thing you need to do for me is leave Finney alone for good.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not leaving Finn alone with you skulking in the shadows!”
“I’m not going to hurt him.”
“You tried to kill him with an ax.”
“Are people not allowed to change? And besides, he’s already got someone watching over him.”
“Who?” she scoffed. “The other girl? You?”
The Grabber just shrugged. Donna rolled her eyes and lifted her legs up on the couch, opening the scrapbook again in a facade of nonchalance. She wasn’t going to be the one to leave first and make him think he got under her skin. No way.
Instead, she made a show of flipping through the scrapbook, refusing to make eye contact with the screen. After a minute, he spoke again, wistful. “You know, you really do look like her.”
Her eyes remained glued to the book, refusing to look up. “Yeah, but I’m not going to die like her.”
“We’ll see.”
She continued flipping through the pages. After a few minutes of silence, she glanced up at the screen before almost dropping the book in shock.
The apparition was still looking at her, but this time, without his signature mask. The lack of gray marble provided a clear sight to his stormy yet pensive expression. His brows knitted together in deep thought, though she couldn’t imagine what.
She blinked, and the words tumbled out before she could catch them. “Your mask…”
Albert Shaw blinked, started. His hands fumbled to his face, and when he felt the smoothness of skin, he recoiled as the screen frizzed before shutting off completely.
There were a few moments of silence. Then, despite his earlier words, there was a loud groan, and the TV soon went the way of the typewriter.
****
Richard Anderson was not happy. He–and Jesse–believed Dona broke the television intentionally, which made sense from an objective point of view. She was the only one home at the time, and the way the pieces broke apart did not seem natural at all. And while her parents had a lot of patience for her current stressors, there were limits, and purposely breaking an expensive piece of technology definitely crossed it.
It was only through her mother’s intervention that she was narrowly able to avoid serious punishment. Eileen claimed that she believed Donna’s story of the TV breaking on its own–no matter how implausible it sounded—and was willing to go to bat for her daughter, emphasizing how Donna rarely lied about things like this. That, combined with Donna’s unwavering claim that she wasn’t at fault, cast enough doubt that Richard allowed her to go upstairs unscathed.
Regardless, Donna was brimming with anxiety and anger at the Grabber, and took a long hot shower to cool off. Wrapped in the bathrobe, she dried the edges of her hair with a towel and clenched her teeth at the ringing of the pink phone.
Part of her said to ignore it, as per usual since the Grabber’s first call, but the aggravation over the interrupted kiss and destruction of the TV and typewriter had her revving for a fight. “More of this? Really? How does it feel to be a walking cliche?”
The voice on the other end started cracking up. “Oh my god, who did you think I was? Matt?” wheezed Megan. “Please tell me it’s Matt. Has he been calling you?”
“No,” Donna replied quickly, flushing. “What’s up?”
“Nuh-uh. You need to tell me who's calling you first.”
She groaned internally. “A jealous, parasocial bitch who's too fragile to deal with the fact Finn chose me.”
For once, she hoped the Grabber was listening.
“Anyone I know?”
“Nope. Creepy stranger who’s, like, fifty or something.”
“Bummer.” Megan paused, then added, somewhat ominously, “Well, you might not be getting calls from them soon. At least, if you do what I would do in your position.”
Donna’s hackles rose. “Are you going to explain, or am I supposed to just keep guessing?”
“The latter’s tempting, but I couldn’t do that to my bff.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “So I’m guessing you haven’t heard about what went down at the Board meeting?”
“Board of…Education?” she clarified, in a mix of disbelief and disgust. “Um, no. Not exactly my scene, and I didn’t think it was yours either.”
“It’s not, but my uncle’s on the Board and he called my mom after it was over.” She giggled. “Oh man, it was a doozy. It had to do with your boyfriend and Mr. Clarkson.”
Donna’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Did you know Mr. Clarkson was gay?”
If Megan expected this to be some kind of bombshell, she was sorely mistaken. Donna already believed that to be the case, but didn’t spend much time thinking about Mr. Clarkson’s love life beyond occasional blips of curiosity. “No. I mean, I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected it.”
“Me too. Not to stereotype, but he’s a guy into theater with perfect hair and no girlfriend. It’s obvious.”
The whole conversation was starting to make Donna uncomfortable. “Either way, it’s not any of our business, and we shouldn’t be talking about it.”
“Donna, Donna, Donna,” Megan clucked patronizingly. “Idealism doesn’t suit you. All the old-fashioned fuddy-duddies are getting their panties in a twist over this. No way he keeps his job next year. Everyone’s too scared he’ll be preying on their sons and spreading the plague.”
“But that’s nonsense! Mr. Clarkson’s never done anything like that to a student.” She rubbed her forehead, feeling sick. “How did it even come out, anyway?”
“That’s where Finn factors into this. You know Gabby Fernandez from Channel 7? He went to their building and gave Fernandez proof Mr. Clarkson’s gay. At least, that’s what she says.”
“Oh, please. That’s ridiculous.” The fear she was holding lightened significantly. “Finn would never do that. He avoids the press like the plague, and she’s been trying to get at him for years.”
“Do you know any other kid from our school with a terrible experience with gays and the media? Because that’s who she said gave it to her.”
“So you’re just taking her at face value?” demanded Donna. “Whatever happened to ‘the media is a mouthpiece of political and corporate interests and can’t be trusted’?”
“That doesn’t mean everything’s fake. And if it’s a lie, it’s a brazen one. Reporters twist the truth, but they can’t really lie outright without getting fact checked or sued or have to retract their stories.”
Donna’s mind felt like it was being pulled in multiple directions. “I still don’t get it. What’s the proof?
“It’s a document that said Mr. Clarkson’s boyfriend got that new illness. Finn got it at his apartment.”
“His—you mean Mr. Clarkson’s apartment? What was Finn doing there?” A horrifying possibility dawned on her. “Was Mr. Clarkson…doing something to Finn?”
That would certainly explain Finn’s erraticness, at any rate.
“Not sure, but people are saying he broke in and found it.”
“What?!” The ease from earlier returned. “Okay, then it’s definitely bullshit. Megan, you know Finn. You know he wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Normally, but it makes sense he’d be a bit paranoid since…you know. Given what happened to him and everything.”
Donna stiffened. “He still wouldn’t do that. And if he did break in, why isn’t he arrested?”
“I dunno. Maybe it’ll happen tomorrow.”
Donna bit down the taste of nausea. “Why aren’t you more upset about this?”
“Huh?”
Anger swelled within her. “Finn’s my boyfriend and Mr. Clarkson’s in charge of the play. It wouldn’t kill you to show a little concern.”
“Oh, I am concerned,” Megan cooed in assurance. “That’s why I called you. I wanted to see how much you knew.”
“Well, you don’t sound concerned,” snapped Donna.
“I am! Mr. Clarkson’s my favorite teacher. But you gotta admit, this is some good shit. I haven’t been this invested in high school drama something since Kim fucked that freshman.”
Donna’s fingers clenched. Megan could be callous at times, and more than once she’d heard others inquire as to how the two of them could be friends. The main reason—the one that sounded pretentious as fuck and she knew enough not to verbalize—was that she viewed Megan as her intellectual equal.
Though clearly, not her equal in compassion.
“Their lives aren’t plays for your amusement,” Donna snarled. “And Finn didn’t do it! I can’t believe you believe this garbage. I thought you were smarter than this.”
Megan’s smugness evaporated, replaced with cold calculation. “I thought you were. Anyone with a surface-level understanding of psychology could tell your boy was a pressure cooker ready to blow.”
“Amazing how people come out of the woodwork to say how they ‘always knew’ something was off after it happens,” she said, voice dripping with bitterness. “You sound like one of the Floros workers. They’re full of it, and you are too.”
“You know what? Let’s have a wager,” Megan purred. Donna could practically see her Cheshire grin through the phone. “If I’m right, you drop out of the play. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you my tickets for Gypsy. You can take Finn on a little cross-country romance and laugh about how dumb I am. How ‘bout it?”
The world stilled, and Donna swallowed. “No. I don’t bet on things like that.”
“Really? Huh. Guess you don’t have much faith in your boyfriend.”
Guilt and regret gnawed at her, knowing she crossed a line with Megan. “Finn would have told me if it was true.”
Would he, though?
“So it wouldn’t hurt to take it, then.”
Donna tried to inject some levity to diffuse the situation, though it only egged Megan on. “I’d feel bad taking away your tickets.”
“It was a guilt-gift from my dad. If I tell him I lost ‘em, he’ll just buy me new ones.”
“Still—”
“Hey, if it bothers you that much, then you can give them back to me after you win. It’s more the principle of the thing. But if you don’t trust Finn, I totally get it. No hard feelings.”
She closed her eyes, several different emotions using her heart as a battleground, battling in her heart. She knew she was walking into Megan’s web, but it’s not like she actually had anything to worry about, right?
“Fine,” agreed Donna. “It’s a deal.”
She hated the glee in Megan’s voice, but hated the part that regretted the bet even more. Because that meant part of her believed Megan’s words, and how would Finn feel if he knew his own girlfriend thought him capable of outing someone?
After hanging up, she preemptively disconnected the phone so no one else could call her that night. She expected the Grabber would taunt her, but the phone remained eerily silent.
She knew there was one easy way to confirm whether or not the rumors were true. All it would take was a simple phone call to Finn to clear the air.
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was afraid of the answer.
And as it turns out, she had every reason to be.
Chapter 30: Ophelia
Notes:
The "Microsoft Adventure" (also known as "Colossal Cave Adventure") featured in this chapter was a real computer game from the early 80s.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gossip spread around the school like wildfire. Finn and Mr. Clarkson’s absences did nothing to abate the raging flames, and the fake pleasantries Donna exchanged with Megan in the morning were physically painful, as was the nagging suspicion Megan miiiight be right. She felt like a traitor for even considering it, though she had to admit it would certainly explain Finn’s unusual behavior recently. But giving it more than a minute’s thought snapped her back to reality.
Finn wouldn’t break into someone’s house—no way. He wasn’t that kind of person.
Galvanized, Donna defended Finn at every opportunity, treating the rumors as nothing more than annoying, trivial gnats. Kim and the others would usually follow her lead and rally around her, but this time, Megan’s words reeled them in like fishhooks. No one voiced it to Donna directly, but unease settled within her all the same. Both Finn—and Donna—were going to be fighting an uphill battle bereft of allies, and she didn’t need a historian to tell how that usually goes.
“Crazy shit, huh?”
Donna stifled a sigh. “Don’t tell me you believe it.”
Matt inspected her carefully as she sorted through the books in her locker. “The Board of Ed does. Why do you think neither of them are here?”
She shrugged testily. “Maybe they’re sick.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” A faraway look entered Matt’s eyes as he leaned his back against the locker next to hers. “I never would’ve guessed Mr. Clarkson was like that. He looks like a normal guy.”
Matt’s voice didn’t sound insulting or disgusted, just confused. Nevertheless, she looked away, anger coiling in her heart. “See, this is why things couldn’t work out between us.”
Matt blinked. “I thought it was because of the shit I said about you.”
“About me being an easy lay with a hot ass, big knockers, and a tight pussy? Yeah, that too.”
Matt winced. “I was fucking stupid. I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath, reminding herself of that fact. “And I appreciate you saying it again. But I really don’t want to continue talking about this, especially since they’re rumors about my boyfriend and he’s not here to defe—”
“Wait,” interrupted Matt, incredulous. “You’re not seriously going to keep dating him, right?”
She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”
“Look, I might not be the most ‘enlightened’”—he used finger quotes—“or whatever, but even I know it’s fucked up to break into someone’s house and expose them like that. Mr. Clarkson’s a good dude. How are you okay with what Blake did?”
Donna slammed her locker shut. “Because he didn’t do it!”
The hallway quieted for about a second before devolving into giggles and murmurs from passerbys. “What if he did?” argued Matt.
That was the question that kept her up last night, and she still didn’t have a good answer. “Depends why.”
His eyebrows arched. “So you’ll accept breaking into someone’s house in certain circumstances. Good to know.”
Donna bristled. “It’s a moot point because he didn’t do it! Moot means—”
“I know what it means. I’m not the idiot you think I am.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” she said, clutching her books tighter to her chest. “But you’re immature sometimes. Like now.”
“I’m not. I learned and grew up and he—he’s not. He breaks into people’s houses if he’s got a problem with them, for fuck’s sake.”
“How are you mature?” she challenged. “You hold on to an elementary school grudge—”
“I don’t have a grudge.”
“—and you keep holding a torch for someone even though that person’s made it clear, multiple times, that she’s not interested anymore.”After the words left her lips, she instantly regretted them. The fire inside her dimmed, replaced with horror at her cruelty. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Whatever,” Matt snapped. He turned on his heels and stormed off, leaving Donna feeling even more miserable than before.
She trudged toward the end of the hallway, shame and remorse filling her. But just before she turned the corner, she felt a tug on her elbow.
Matt was back, the coldness replaced completely by a frazzled mania. “You know what? Yeah. I still got feelings for you, and I know that ship’s sailed for me. But here’s the thing, and this is how I know I’m not as immature as you say: I don’t care if you’re with another guy. You can marry some dude on Broadway or Danny Perez or Principal Warren or some shit. The only thing I want is for you to be happy. That’s what…love…”—His face turned beat red—“is. Being willing to give something for someone else. And Finn’s not doing that.”
Donna suddenly felt very lightheaded. “Matt—”
“Can you look me in the eye and say you’re honestly happy? If you can, I’ll back off him for good.”
She looked into his eyes and opened her mouth to speak.
“I am happy.”
In the past, he could always see through her facade. Today was no exception.
The rare pity in his eyes was too much, and Donna spun on her heels, unable and unwilling to look back.
****
Later that morning, Donna heard from Gary and Kim that Finn arrived at school. She stuffed a note in his locker asking to meet ASAP, and spent the next hour ruminating over her future conversation with Finn and past conversation with Matt. There were a lot of ways she could have answered Matt’s question without it being a total lie.
I am happy, sometimes.
I was happy.
I don’t know if I’m happy.
I’m fucking miserable.
The whole situation was aggravating; her relationship with him gave her a joyful exuberance she never felt before, but also a deep sadness. The Grabber’s ghost, of course, played a major role in the latter, but in a world where he didn’t exist—where no ghost existed, where Donna wasn’t plagued by childhood 'hallucinations’—would she honestly be able to say she was fully happy?
Part of her screamed ‘yes.’ She enjoyed spending time with Finn, his sense of humor, his smile, his kindness, his warmth. Her words to him under the tree weren’t a lie: She loved him.
But her words to Jesse weren’t a lie, either. Being with him was hard.
There were the human crazies she had to deal with, the ones she took great pains for Finn to never know. There was the uncertainty and concern over their future and what his celebrity meant for them. There was the lack of physical contact. But most of all, there was the emotional wall Finn erected around himself, even before his house burned down. It was an insurmountable barrier he might not even realize existed, but was difficult to breach. Against her better judgment, it led her to question what that meant for them.
Donna loved Finn, but she wasn’t fully sure he loved her.
He wasn’t the type to lie about something like that, and she believed he genuinely believed it. But that doesn’t mean it was actually true. He could have been confusing friendship or lust with romance. He might have said it because he felt that’s how things were ‘supposed’ to go.
Still, when he first told her, it felt so real, so right. Years ago, when Donna was in middle school, Eileen told her that she might get crushes in her teenage years, but she wouldn’t know ‘real’ romantic love until she became an adult. But that was one of the (many) things she disagreed with Eileen on; she couldn’t imagine anything purer, deeper, and stronger than how she felt about Finn. Being with him was hard, but like she told Matt, the hardship was worth it. And that love gave her the strength to fight literal ghosts and the rumor mill. It gave her the power to defend him even if no one else was willing to have faith in his integrity.
Which is why her heart shattered upon hearing heard those two devastating words:
“They’re right.”
The ground wavered. She searched Finn’s face, trying to spot any hint of the resilience that covered his face for so long. But for better or for worse, he was finally honest, flushed with guilt, shame, fear, and sorrow.
“I don’t understand. W-Why would you do something like this? Mr. Clarkson’s life is—Finn, I never thought you—” She took an unsteady breath, mind clutching to the only possibility that could possibly make sense. The one churning in her mind since last night, and the one she hated thinking about the most. “Did he—did he do…something to you? Is that why…?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.”
There was no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice.
So WHY THE HELL did you do it?!
But since he made no effort to explain (shocker…), Donna had no choice but to play the guessing game. “Is it because you don’t trust gay men?”
“No,” he snapped.
Irritation and confusion swelled within her. “Then…why?”
“I didn’t mean to out him, i-it just kinda happened. The reason I went to his apartment was because….well, this is going to sound stupid, but—I thought he was having sex with you.”
She would have been less surprised if he said Mr. Clarkson was an alien from Mars.
“What the fu–why would you think that? I said I wasn’t cheating!”
“I don’t know,” muttered Finn. “I just had a feeling.”
“A feeling,” she repeated slowly.
There were two possibilities. The first was that he really was as unhinged as Matt and the others said he was, which she didn’t believe. The second was that he was lying. She didn’t know which option was worse.
She waited, hoping he would elaborate or tell the truth. Instead, Finn just stared at his shoes, and Donna felt like screaming. “It makes no sense. If you went to his apartment and got the letters and photos, that should be enough proof he’s not into girls. You’re leaving something out. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were. And I did see something, kinda, that made me think that. He had your bracelet.”
Donna rested the urge to facepalm as she explained to him that Mr. Clarkson found it on stage. “But even if you saw the bracelet,” she added, “you still went to the media with proof he has a boyfriend! And then you tell me it’s not because you hate gay men? And how did you even know he was gay, anyway? How did you know where to find those pictures and letters?” Despite his words, she wasn’t fully convinced. Mr. Clarkson abusing him would certainly account for his recent erraticness, at any rate. “If he did something to you, you can tell me.”
“He didn’t do anything to me.” There it was again, his voice lined with steel. The sheer audacity of him being annoyed with her after what he did to Mr. Clarkson made her hackles raise. Perhaps sensing this, he suddenly looked a lot more uncertain as he explained ‘someone’ told him Mr. Clarkson was fucking her and had a safe with proof in it at his apartment. “I gave it to Gabby, but I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t look in the envelope before I gave it to her because this person said it would disturb the evidence.”
“‘Protecting me?’” Calm down, calm down... “How would—okay, you know what? Let’s focus on the first point. Who’s this ‘someone’? Matt?”
Or the mystery girl?
“No! He—I can’t say who they are. Please don’t ask why.”
Gee, how convenient.
Donna was at a loss for words. As far as lies go it was a terrible one, but Finn’s mind seemed clear enough that she refused to believe it was a genuine psychotic break. “So this mystery person tells you Mr. Clarkson and I are having some kind of secret affair, and instead of, I dunno, asking me if it’s true, you take his word for it, break into our teacher’s apartment, steal a secret envelope and then give it to the media without even looking at it. Finn, why?”
Finn threw up his hands. “Because I’m a fucking moron, obviously.”
She was in no mood to placate his self-deprecation today. “Finn, nothing about your story makes sense. It kills me to say this, but I don’t think this person even exists.”
“They do. Just trust me on this, please…”
He looked like a kicked puppy, and it was difficult to believe he could be capable of breaking and entering. But it was difficult to believe his story—based on what he was telling her, at least—was true either. “I told you I wasn’t cheating. You chose not to believe me.”
“W-Well, it might not have been, like, cheating cheating. He could have pressured you into it.”
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe it really was lingering paranoia…
She tilted her head. “A few days ago you asked me if anything was bothering me and I told you that stuff about my mom. We even had that nice little talk about the importance of honesty, remember?” Her words were a bit more forceful than intended. “If he was doing something to me, why wouldn’t I tell you then?” ”
“Because it’s embarrassing to talk about!” Her anger subsided as compassion took root. “Stop looking at me like that!”
Aaaand now the anger was back. “Like what?”
“Like I’m weak and pathetic!”
Where does he get off on shouting at me this way?
And if they somehow managed to get through this, would this be a picture of their future? Constantly tiptoeing around delicate topics?
“You’re not weak or pathetic!” she reminded him. “But you obviously need help with, um, this stuff.”
“No I don’t. I made a really, really stupid decision, but I’m not the ticking time bomb people say I am.”
“Finn, you just ruined a man’s life. He’ll never be able to teach again, at least not in Colorado. Things are so hard for gay men right now, especially with what’s happening—I mean, I don't believe there’s a plague, but people are talking…”
“I know. But that’s not—it’s not because of what I went through. I wasn’t projecting.”
The Grabber’s vile words on the typewriter clawed their way back into her mind, images flitting through it against her will. With all the agony and cruelty he suffered, was it any wonder he was troubled? A genuine mental break wouldn’t be his fault. Could she really stay mad at him?
Then, Finn’s face clouded with a dark fury she’d never seen before. “You know what? Maybe we shouldn’t even be together then. Considering I’ve got all this ‘stuff’ to deal with.”
The clouds in his eyes lifted the moment after he said them, and it was only because of this that Donna was able to remain calm. “You know full well I don’t mind your ‘stuff.’ I’m not going to sit here and pretend it’s easy all the time. But it’s worth it, because I love you.” She said it both for Finn’s sake and her own. And like before, the words gave her courage, albeit more wobbly than before. “Having ‘stuff’ isn’t the problem. Pretending it doesn’t exist and putting your pride before the safety of other people and yourself, though? That’s a problem. We’re supposed to be a couple, but at this point it’s more like we’re just two people hiding things from one another.”
“‘Two people’ hiding things?” repeated Finn, a gleam she didn’t like entering his eyes. Crap…”Hmmm. I thought you said honesty is important.”
Donna wasn’t able to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. She didn’t know what Finn was hiding, but there’s no way it could beat talking to the Grabber’s ghost. She couldn’t tell him about that though, especially after the episode with Mr. Clarkson revealed a mental fragility he didn’t want to admit. Who knew how he would act if she told him the Grabber wanted him again? “I-It’s nothing big. I’ve been—I’ve been getting prank calls, that’s all. I didn’t want to add another thing for you to worry about.”
Finn’s eyes flooded with concern. “What did they say? Do you know who’s doing it?”
Unfortunately. “I don’t know. Some guy who wants to be Billy from Black Christmas so badly, it’s pathetic. Not sure how he got my number.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because it’s the man who raped and tortured you and made your life a living hell and I’m so, so, sorry.
But of course she didn’t say that, and Finn’s voice grew hard again. “You can’t get mad at me for not telling you things if you’re doing the same thing.”
“I didn’t say anything because this guy, he’s, um—” Fuck, I need to give him something. She started tugging the edges of her hair, seeing no other option. ”He’s pretending to be the Grabber. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Oh.” Finn’s shoulders, surprisingly, relaxed. “I don’t turn into mush every time someone mentions him. You and my family, all of you act like you need to walk on eggshells around me, and I’m tired of it.”
“It’s because we care about you, Finn.”
Why was that so hard to understand?
“I’m just like everyone else!” he snapped.
“No, you’re not.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Even before your house burned down, you always kept me distant from so many things going on in your life. It made me wonder if you were into me because you actually liked me as a person and thought we could have a future together, or if you just wanted to date me because you thought I was pretty.”
She regretted the last line, a holdover of insecurity from both Matt and the Grabber’s first conversation with her. She hated even considering the possibility Finn might subconsciously view her as a status symbol of his success and desire for normalcy instead of a fully-fledged person who exists independent of him. But what else was she supposed to think if he kept her at arm’s length? She couldn’t help but feel, sometimes, that he used her for surface-level conversations and kissing instead of truly confessing his deepest thoughts like a partner should.
“Of course I like you for more than just looks!” He seemed so startled and earnest that Donna believed him. “If I don’t tell you everything, or try to keep you separate from some stuff, it’s not because I don’t like or respect you. It’s just that there’s no use bothering you with that crap. It’s stuff I gotta deal with on my own.”
She understood the philosophy behind it; she was doing the same thing, after all. Even before the Grabber’s ghost, she could have told him about her hallucinations in general. But there was one key difference: She didn’t hurt others in the crossfire. “But that’s the thing: you’re not dealing with it. Already, I’m already doing a lot you don’t see to help you, and if you would just talk to me for once, we could—”
“I don’t want your help!” he snarled. An unfamiliar darkness rose in him, something Donna couldn’t unsee. “I–I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, I’ll handle it on my own.”
She thought of Finn on his own against everyone in the school, a battle which, in its own way, might be as daunting as his thirteen year old self going up against the Grabber. But she couldn’t force him to let her in. That was a key difference between her and the Grabber.
“Okay, fine. I guess you will.” She placed her hand on the doorknob, wondering how things went so wrong. “I’m not sure if you realize this, but whoever this mystery person is who told you about Mr. Clarkson…you’re choosing them over me right now.”
“That’s not true!”
“You trust them, but not me. What am I supposed to think?”
She loathed to admit it, but maybe the Grabber really was right. Maybe there was another girl in the picture.
A day ago she would have found the idea ridiculous, morally and ethically at odds with the person she knew Finn to be. But now, it was like she didn’t know him at all.
“I don’t trust them. I just—I just made a mistake, okay?”
She looked at him, silently imploring. “Who is it, Finn?”
He didn’t speak.
Donna didn’t bother hiding her heartbreak. “That’s what I thought,” she mumbled, sniffling as she shut the door. The thud echoed in her mind long after.
****
Donna felt sick the rest of the day. She considered going to the nurse and leaving early like Finn allegedly did, but the knowledge that she had a group presentation last period forced her to power through the rest of the day. There was an announcement play practice was canceled, creating another avalanche of rumors and buzzing speculation as to the fate of the play itself.
Reluctant to head home immediately, Donna made the impulsive decision to enter the Galesburg Public Library. She tied her hair in a ponytail and fished out sunglasses from the outer pouch of her backpack, feeling like an incognito celebrity when she entered. It wasn’t that far from the truth; people who knew about her connection with Finn would swarm her with questions, no doubt. And today, she was on a mission.
Donna flipped through the card catalog and headed toward the section of books on the supernatural. Her search this time around wasn’t much better than the first; if anything, there was even less of a selection to choose from, several empty spaces in the shelves indicating many books had been checked out. After flipping through her sixth book, she sighed, disgruntled, and shoved it back on the shelf.
But as Donna made her way towards the front of the library, her eyes locked onto the library’s sole piece of advanced technology: a clunky IBM Personal Computer that was supposed to be released to the public two months from now. Galesburg and a few other libraries in cities and cities and towns across the country were given some kind of ‘early access’ preview (Serial killer perks, she remembered Finn saying) and there was usually always someone hogging it. Today was the first day she could recall where the seat in front of it was empty.
She glanced at the clock; it was still early, and using it might bait the Grabber’s ghost. Before she could talk herself out of it, Donna scooted into the seat and booted it up. The heavy wheezing and humming of the exhaust fan was music to her ears, and a small green line flickered in the upper-left corner. After forty-five seconds, the forty-five seconds, the computer fully loaded. Next to the computer were a couple floppy discs, one being the Microsoft Adventure game Danny kept raving about. She never played a video game beyond a couple one-off games of Pong at the arcade, but getting through the game wasn’t her intention. She took the disc and inserted it, waiting another minute for it to load. Green text filled the screen, explaining the premise and instructions:
Somewhere nearby is Colossal Cave, where others have found fortunes in treasure and gold, though it is rumored that some who enter are never seen again. Magic is said to work in the cave. I will be your eyes and hands. Direct me with commands of 1 or 2 words.
She skimmed through the instructions before looking at the first chunk of story.
You are standing at the end of a road before a small brick building. Around you is a forest. A small stream flows out of the gully.
Donna tried to press the down key for more, but the blinking of the text line indicated she was supposed to type something. Unsure what the hell she was supposed to do, she remembered the instructions and typed in, Help.
An essay-length explanation followed, and she realized then what the game was expecting her to type: IN.
You are inside a building, a well house for a large spring.
There are several items on the ground here.
There is a shiny brass lamp nearby.
There is food here.
There is a bottle of water here.
She paused a moment, waiting for the words to start typing on their own. When they didn’t, she sighed and continued.
Get lamp, she typed.
OK
XYZZY
It is now pitch dark. If you proceed you most likely will proceed into a pit.
Donna blinked. Then, she typed, On.
Your lamp is now on. At your feet is a small pit breathing traces of white mist. An east passage ends here except for a small crack leading on.
Rough stone steps lead down the pit.
How did I get into the cave? she typed.
I don’t understand that question!
Donna leaned back in her chair, frustrated. Her lack of video game expertise made it difficult to tell if this was how the game was supposed to go, or if the Grabber was toying with her like cat and mouse. Can we cut the bullshit and you just tell me if you’re responsible for what happened?
I don’t understand that question!
Donna’s lips thinned as she typed Help, leading to the same instructions as before. The second time reminded her that the computer could only register one or two words at a time. Deciding to roll with it, she typed, DOWN, and the game commenced.
You are at one end of a vast hall stretching forward out of sight to the west. There are openings to either side. Nearby, a wide stone staircase leads downward. The hall is filled with wisps of white mist swaying to and fro almost as if alive. A cold wind blows up the staircase.
In the center of the room is a small hall. Do you want to descend into the hole?
Donna snorted. Creepy hole in an already-creepy cave? No.
As you move further away, you hear a soft crying sound emitting from the hole. Do you still want to leave?
Donna’s fingers drummed against the desk. It was obviously a trap, but that’s what she wanted. No.
After a pause, she realized she was expected to input another direction. Stifling a sigh, she typed Down.
You crawl deeper into the cavernous depths, holding your breath as the passage grows more and more narrow. A groaning sound emits behind you, but you cannot turn your head to see its origin. When you reach the bottom, you have no choice but to crawl over cobbles in a low passage. There is a dim light at the east end of the passage. Do you continue through the passage, or go back up?
Donna didn’t realize she had some degree of claustrophobia until now. Up.
As you attempt to retrace your steps, you notice that the above passage has now been sealed off by another stone, a result of the colossal cave’s magic. You must continue through the passage.
Hell no.
I don’t understand that question!
She decided to try for a second time. Are you the Grabber?
I don’t understand that question!
There was no guarantee he was even watching her; Bella and Luna weren’t frantic all of the time, after all. But still…
She typed East and continued.
You continue moving through the narrow walls.
XYZZY
You are in a small, dirt-covered cavern. From below the dirt you see remnants of bone and cloth.
There are several items on the ground here.
There is a rocket shaped pen nearby.
There is a collarbone here.
There is a mask here.
Feeling a mix of smug satisfaction and dread for the same reason, she typed, Get pen.
You are now holding the mask.
She rolled her eyes. Throw mask
:(
You can’t.
Fine, if he wanted her to play, she’ll play….
Lick mask.
As expected, that finally cracked the illusion.
You are a sick person!!!
Suppressing a smirk of triumph, she wrote, You’re the expert, so if you say it’s true…
No I’m not. I know that because if the love of my life was in deep shit, I wouldn’t be wasting my time playing ataris. You don’t deserve Finney.
She removed the floppy disk, though the game, predictably, stayed on. What do you think you just did?
I’m talking through the box now, but I wasn’t before. I just stood by it and the words started changing on their own. Spooky, right?
Donna waited to see if he would say anything about school, and when he didn’t, she made a show of nonchalantly gathering her books one by one. When she stood up to leave, to her pleasure, words populated the screen once more.
I’m surprised you’re not asking if I was involved with what happened.
Looking too eager wouldn’t get any answers. If you were, she typed, I figured you’d be bragging about it right now.
Good guess.
She waited some more, irritation flaring. She thought she was luring him into a trap by going on the computer, but now the table was flipped once again.
You know what? Fuck it.
She asked the question that had been on her mind for hours. Were you involved?
What could I have possibly done? Possess him?
The words sent a chill up her spine. She never considered it before, but it would explain Finn’s erratic behavior. Is that something you can do?
Ohhh, if only. The things I would do if I was inside that precious body…I mean, I was inside him before, but total control hits different, you know?
If he could possess people, she imagined it wouldn't be a skill he’d easily reveal. But Finn seemed in control of himself when Donna spoke with him in the supply room. Emotionally volatile and different from normal, yes, but still unquestionably Finn.
I get it. If I were you, I’d leap at the chance to have a body that doesn’t look like a cross between Willy Wonka and the lead singer of Behaus.
If I could possess you, I’d step into traffic.
Given his obsession with her boyfriend, she found it highly unlikely he didn’t know something, at least. Do you know why Finn did it?
Maybe everyone’s got it right. Maybe he did it because he can’t stop thinking about me ;)
Hmmm…according to him, he did it because he wanted to save me. This was, perhaps, the only time she could relish in it. That must sting, huh? She then followed his lead and typed a passive-aggressive: :(
Hey, how much do you think this computer machine is worth?
Her eyes widened as she heard a sudden clicking from inside the monitor. The screen immediately turned blue.
Donna hastily grabbed her bags and practically sprinted out of the library, facade of aloofness be damned.
****
Oof!
Donna stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a near-collision with a skateboarder in her haste to make distance between herself and the library. It was only after he called her name that she gave him a second glance.
“...Danny?”
“’Sup?” He grinned. “Don’t tell me you actually go to that place for fun! I thought Finn was kidding.”
Donna stuck her chin out, inwardly grimacing at the mentions of Finn. “There’s nothing wrong with the library. In fact, I think society would be a lot better off if people spent time reading books instead of rotting their brains with TV.”
Danny laughed, a genuine one this time. “Oh man,” he wheezed. “You sound like one of those kids from our Health textbook.”
In spite of everything, she cracked a smile. “At least I wear more than solid-colored shirts.”
“True, true. But don’t knock the screens until you try it. Sometimes people just want a good brain rot, yeah?”
His eyes flickered, a wary emptiness entering them. Her expression likely looked similar as the mention of screens reminded her of the Grabber. “I just tried the library computer. Still prefer paper by a landslide.”
“How?” Now his eyes were filled with interest, making Donna question what she thought she saw. “That thing’s the bomb. Did you play Colossal Cave?”
She tried very hard not to let her bitterness show. “Yes, but I didn’t get very far.”
“Me neither. I got into the room with mist and shit and found wizard staff, but I think I was supposed to get water in the beginning…I dunno. Some eleven-year old fucktard got the librarian to kick me off because he wanted to go on. Never made it past that.”
She gasped in mock shock. “How dare that child want to use a library resource.”
“Hey, you should’ve seen him! Motherfucker was smug as shit. Wish I could’ve punched him without getting arrested.”
The levity dropped as his eyes clouded at the last word. Donna tilted her head. “…Are you okay, Danny? Like, in general?”
Danny gave an over exaggerated sigh, “Man, you say you want to punch a kid once and then everyone wants to psychoanalyze you.”
“I wasn’t talking about that. I just meant”—she gestured vaguely—“with the news about Finn and Mr. Clarkson and everything.”
He picked up his skateboard and slumped down on the nearby bench. Donna sat next to him. “No,” he admitted. “It really fucking blows.”
“Tell me about it,” she agreed.
“Sorry, I should’ve said something when I first saw you. I’m not good with this kind of thing. My sister says I don’t have…what’s it called…social smarts? Social intelligence? Basically, it’s a nicer way of saying I’m a dumbass when it comes to emotional stuff.”
“You’re not a dumbass,” she assured him. “This can be…a lot. It’s okay not to know what to say, or what to do.”
It was something she sometimes said to Finn. Now that she thought about it, both he and Danny were a bit rough when it came to being open with their feelings. Maybe that’s why they were friends.
“I feel like everything I say screws things up,” he mumbled.
“How so?”
He glanced at her, hesitant, before his gaze dropped down to his sneakers. “I saw him in the bathroom and he was, like, saying weird shit to himself and then I tried talking to him but then he got mad at me I think, and then just kinda stormed off.”
Could you be any more vague? “What did he say?”
For once, Danny stayed silent, and Donna's mind went into overdrive. Maybe he was lying before, and really was abused by Mr. Clarkson. She adored her teacher and hated even considering the possibility, but….
“Danny, please. He’s my boyfriend. You can tell me.”
Danny fidgeted with the battered watch around his wrist, not meeting her eye. “He said he was going to kill himself.”
The world screeched to a halt. Donna’s heart plummeted, feeling as though she were splashed by a bucket of icy water. “Oh my god…” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Yeah…I told Mr. McKay. Think that’s why he left early.”
Fears and questions swarmed through her head. “When did it happen?”
“History. So sixth period, I think?”
“Shit. That’s after we—” She swallowed, guilt constricting her throat.
“What?”
After a brief moment of deliberation, she decided to be honest. “After we had an argument about what happened with Mr. Clarkson. He was keeping stuff from me and it got pretty heated. I should have known something like this would happen. I should have chosen my words more carefully, or—or—”
If anything happened to Finn, his blood would be on her hands.
But in spite of this, she couldn’t stop Jesse’s voice worming its way inside her brain. ‘Do you want to worry about things like this happening for the rest of your life? You can’t be responsible for his decisions.’
Shut the fuck up, Jesse. It is my fault.
“Did he do it?” Danny whispered, even though there was no one else nearby. “Did he actually break into Mr. Clarkson’s house?”
Donna’s fingers squeezed the edge of her skirt and she looked away, biting her lip as she thought of what to say.
“Guess that’s enough of an answer,” he said glumly.
There was no use denying it at this point. “Danny, you can’t tell anybody.”
“I know that,” he huffed, indignant. “It’s just hard to believe he’d do this. I don’t think he’s as cracked as everyone says. There’s gotta be more to it.”
“Maybe,” Donna murmured. Every path seemed to lead to another question, and she wasn’t sure what she believed anymore. “I want to believe that, but sometimes people can hide things well.”
Like me…
“But this involves morals and legal stuff. He wouldn’t do it.”
“I hope you’re right,” she mumbled.
“Well, I’m glad his dad came and picked him up,” Danny sighed, slumping further down in his seat. “Maybe he’ll help Finn not want to jump out the window anymore.”
‘Terrence Blake to the rescue’ was not a phrase that inspired confidence. “Maybe.”
“I’m still pissed I fucked things up,” muttered Danny, running a calloused hand through his spikey black hair. “I said the wrong things and made him feel weird. You should’ve seen him in that bathroom. He was like a different guy.”
“Different how?” she asked, recalling the Grabber’s jibes about possession.
“Really frantic and emotional. Not used to seeing that from him.”
“Oh.” That side she’s seen. “Well, anyway, I’m pretty sure there’s no way for him not to feel weird. Considering…everything.”
“Yeah.” Danny kicked a pebble, which clattered into the road. “His best bet is to get out of Galesburg.”
“Why does everyone keep saying he should move?” She hated the snappish tone in her voice, but couldn’t reign it in. “This is where his life is. He wants to be here and he’s willing to fight for it.”
She wasn’t sure if the last line was true or a product of wistful thinking. Danny’s expression indicated the latter. “Yeah, maybe.”
“And he’s not miserable all the time,” she argued. “Until his house burned down and he had to live in the Shaw shithole, everything was fine.”
Danny winced. “Ehh, not really. “He never said anything to me so I never said anything to him, but the dude obviously had some problems.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t,” she amended, bristling at the implication of ignorance. “‘Fine’ might be overstating it, but I just meant things were on the right track.”
Danny nodded, accepting the answer. “Guess that’s true.”
There was a lull of companionable silence, eventually broken by Donna. “No offense, but I didn’t realize you were so perceptive.”
“You can’t hang with a bro for years and not notice. Just because I’m not good at talking about heavy shit doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
“Maybe you can bring that up when you see him tomorrow,” she suggested. “He really needs people in his corner right now.”
Danny’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know if he’ll want to talk to me…”
“I guarantee whatever you said pissed him off a lot less than what I did. And if you talk to him and explain what you told me, he might feel happier and less awkward.”
Danny’s face brightened, a smile slowly growing. “Yeah. I think I will.”
****
But Finn didn’t come to school the next day, or the day after that. Rumors multiplied with each passing hour: Finn was expelled, Finn was arrested, Finn was the recipient of a lawsuit, Finn was preparing for a TV special on Channel 7, Finn died in a car crash, Finn had to go into hiding because Mr. Clarkson had mafia connections, Finn held a seance to contact Robin and the Grabber’s ghost killed him instead. The most mundane and logical possibility, that Finn chose to stay home and avoid scrutiny, was sometimes mentioned, but discarded quickly in favor of the more colorful possibilities.
The truth could have been clarified by a simple phone call to the Blakes’ new residence, but no one had the guts to do so—Donna included. Instead, the student body speculated with a mix of concern and glee while Donna seethed.
Aside from the Grabber, there was no one she could say she genuinely hated. But Donna couldn’t help but feel a growing, unfamiliar hatred for those around her, who commented on Finn’s life as if they were watching a baseball game or movie. Without realizing it, she started isolating herself from others, a chasm forming between her and the people she once considered friends.
Megan smoothed things over with her, claiming that she was ‘just kidding’ about the wager. With the situation regarding Mr. Clarkson and Finn in limbo, there was never an official confirmation Finn was involved, though it was abundantly obvious to everyone at school. Donna suspected Megan knew this, and simply relished in the rare opportunity to get some kind of mental victory over her. Still, she smiled and went along with it, thoughts of the wager lingering in her mind long after.
Donna knew the truth, knew she lost the wager. Knew she didn’t deserve the part. It was this knowledge that, perhaps, contributed to her struggles rehearsing at home. One of her father’s coworkers had an older television set he was ready to get rid of, and ended up giving it to Richard to replace the broken TV. But every time she performed in front of the camera, a deep melancholy and undefined dread enveloped her, to the point where Jesse was able to pick up on it when analyzing her performances on video. Every recording made her feel worse and worse, yet she felt compelled to keep going. A form of masochism perhaps?
That would track, especially with how she acted in school. She kept defending Finn Finn from gossip despite what she knew, despite the guilt stabbing through her every time as she recalled Mr. Clarkson’s smiling face and the way his life and livelihood was ripped from him. She kept clinging to the false hope that he acted for a deeper reason—a real reason— unbeknownst to her, like Hamlet did to Ophelia.
But if he did, it almost didn’t matter, especially if he wasn’t around to clarify. Since Finn wasn’t here to defend himself, people started turning on Donna. Like sharks smelling blood in the water, they circled her.
‘Why was she defending him?’ ‘Does she know something?’ ‘Was she in on this?’ Or worse: patronizing giggles and murmurs about loyalty to a boy off his rocker. The most egregious were from those who didn’t know her that well, implying she was a groupie determined to attach herself to Finn for fame. Why else, they said, would someone with high prospects hitch her wagon to a losing horse?
Despite her social status taking a bruising, she was still Donna Anderson and her name still commanded respect. Very few people were willing to say their thoughts directly to her face. But she knew they were talking, and it was a foreign, frightening position for her to be in, heightened by her increasing feelings of loneliness.
The girls she normally hung out with remained superficially friendly and supportive towards her, but there was an underlying distance and unease. They coalesced around Megan, who was more than comfortable being the conversation focal point while Donna moped silently in the background, thinking of Finn. Jesse knew of the issues and brushed them off as ‘juvenile bullcrap that’ll blow over soon.’ She commiserated with Danny occasionally, and Matt kept his distance. After their last conversation, he was hesitant to initiate conversation and was instead waiting for Donna to make the first move. Part of her desperately wanted to do so and resume their friendship, but the concern of giving him false hope outweighed her personal desires.
The Grabber had stopped talking with her directly, but Donna felt—either due to paranoia or her supernatural gift—a suffocating presence almost constantly. Despite the summer heat, she often found herself cold and shivering as if suffering from a fever. Objects seemed to be moved slightly from where she last left them, though she wasn’t sure if it was because of a genuine supernatural occurrence or her own exhaustion causing her to forget. Lights flickered, mechanical objects fritzed, and her dreams (nightmares) became more real and vivid. She’d wake up in the middle of the night sweating, recalling nighttime terrors of storms and rivers, of colossal caves, of falling deeper and deeper as the earth swallowed her whole. Or even, sometimes, watching Finn get swallowed whole.
The decline in sleep quality affected her focus and energy in school. Yet despite this, Donna walked through the halls with her head high, a picture-perfect facade of confidence. Objectively, there was no point in her steadfastness—perhaps she was driven to madness like Ophelia.
Or perhaps it was simply the logical conclusion of eight years of practice.
It came in handy, however, as many things annoyed Donna. Her classmates, trivial assignments, herself. But also Finn Blake, the boy who elicited so many mixed feelings. She knew logically he was probably feeling much worse than she was.
But on the other hand…so what?
He was the one who made the choice to break into Mr. Clarkson’s apartment and out him to the world. Any social fallout was simply the consequence of his actions. At least he got to hide away. Donna was stuck here, bearing the brunt of his actions.
And he clearly didn’t care, because if he did, he would have called. But the line remained silent, just like how it did after Finn’s house burned down.
Eventually, Donna’s emotions churned and churned until only pulp remained. Those once-powerful feelings were now specters like the ghosts that haunted her throughout her life.
A couple years ago during the first snowfall of the season, a foot of snow weighed down the branches in her backyard. Bella, still a pup, pranced on the powdery blanket until a branch snapped, causing the snow to collapse on poor Bella.
Donna remembered freezing in horror at the motionless, silent pile of snow. Those seconds felt as though they lasted an eternity, but then, finally, Bella’s black nose popped through and the poodle happily pranced out, no worse for wear. Donna almost collapsed in relief.
Donna wasn’t like Bella.
****
The coup de grace occurred when Donna was alone in her bedroom doing homework. The phone rang, and she almost dropped it after hearing who was on the other end.
“Finn?”
“Hey, Donna.” To her amazement, Finn’s voice sounded warm and casual, like the boy she knew. “Just wanted to check in and see how things were going.”
“Um, alright,” she stammered.
“What’s going on with the play?”
Are we really going down this route? “We have a show on Sunday, but the ones on Friday and Saturday were canceled. Not sure how it’s going to go without Mr. Clarkson there, but I guess we’ll see.”
“I guess so.”
There was a beat of silence. Donna hoped he would use the opportunity to talk more about Mr. Clarkson, but that clearly wasn’t happening. “How are things going with you?” she asked stiffly.
“Kind of rough, but I’m hanging in.”
Her fingers curled inward. “That’s…good.”
“You sound upset.”
She tried to count to five in her head, but only made it to three.
“Of course I’m upset!” she exploded. “Finn, you just…you left. And I know things were hard for you at school, but they were hard for me too. People were asking me questions and—and I told them you didn’t do it. Even though”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“you did. And you won’t even tell me the real reason why!”
“How does that line in Hamlet go…’God has given you one face, and you make yourself another?’ That’s it, right? Always loved that one.”
Donna blinked. “What?”
“You admitted you were hiding things of your own, and it’s hardly fair to expect me to be open when you’re not. You’re not showing me the face God gave you, Donna, and it makes me sad.”
“I—I’m not being fake, it’s just…” That I’m omitting key things in my life. Anger faded as she bit her lip. Then, she attempted to redirect. “Anyway, since when are you the script expert?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And stop trying to change the subject.”
Donna winced. “Listen, I know you have reasons to be upset with me. And yes, I was being…less-than-upfront about certain things. But my things aren’t the kind of things that could harm another person, like you did with Mr. Clarkson. The whole situation’s just…complicated. And if I could tell you I would, but I just…can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not mad anymore, Donna. I know that sometimes it’s okay to lie if it’s for a good reason.”
Donna fidgeted with the cord, fingers growing clammy. “And I take it you have a good reason for not being honest in the supply room?“
“Yes.”
Donna waited a few seconds, and when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything, prodded, “Are you going to tell me?”
“I will, but it’ll involve some things you’re not going to want to hear.”
“Oh.” She blinked, startled. “Um, that’s okay. I can handle it.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he chuckled. “But in order to get into the big thing, I need to start with something smaller first. So you know how me and Robin used to be really close?”
“Yes…”
“Well, this is kinda embarrassing to admit, but me and him were a bit…deeper than friends. On my end, at least.” He paused to give Donna a moment to process this. “See, everywhere you look there’s guys getting paired with girls. In movies, books, TV shows…everywhere. So it took a lot of time for me to realize that wasn’t what I actually wanted. I like you as a friend, Donna, and I thought I liked you as more than that, but I think the real reason I asked you out was because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. The thought of knowing a woman in the Biblical sense—if you catch my drift—doesn’t do a lot for me. At least, not as much as men.”
“…Oh,” she said, cheeks flushing as conflicting thoughts swarmed her mind. “So you’re…gay?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Oh.”
She swallowed. Of all the things she expected him to say, this wasn’t it.
Then again, she couldn’t say she never suspected it. His prior obliviousness to her advances, coupled with the way he’d sometimes blush when seeing shirtless joggers in the streets or boys exercising during gym class definitely made her wonder, and played a major role in why she decided to move on and pursue other boys during sophomore year. When Finn started showing interest, she retroactively chalked those moments up to residual trauma.
Now, she couldn’t help feeling betrayed and foolish for believing he loved her romantically. She thought of Kim’s dad, married for twenty years with three children, who came out a year ago and moved across the country to live with another man. She thought of Kim’s mom, led on for almost half her life and gave up her career to be a housewife to a man who didn’t love her romantically, a prop in his journey to ‘find himself.’ She thought of the grief and rage Kim’s mom must have felt for wasting the prime of her life, and while she publicly and privately sympathized with Kim, she inwardly wondered how an educated woman could have spent so long without noticing. If Donna was dating a closeted man, she’d be smart enough to notice the signs—or so she thought.
Hubris at its finest…
“Thank you for telling me,” she said stiffly. Then, she tried to relax, remembering how vulnerable Finn must feel to be revealing this to her. “I know it wasn’t easy, and you know I support you no matter what.”
“You’re taking this better than I thought you would.”
“I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t make me sad, but it’s not something you can change. And it’s better to be upfront now than years later.” She shifted position so she was sitting cross-legged on her bed. “I just don’t get how this connects to Mr. Clarkson. Wouldn’t you have less of a reason to expose him?”
“That’s where it gets complicated,” he sighed. “I wasn’t lying when I said someone told me to break in, and I wasn’t lying when that person said you were in danger. I didn’t know at the time An—Mr. Clarkson—was into men. But I trusted this person, because I love him.”
Those words still stung like hell. She swallowed a lump in her throat and asked, more confidently than she felt, “So the mystery person was a guy? Anyone I know?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Finn was silent for a while. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him since my house burned down.”
Donna’s eyebrows scrunched. She wouldn’t say they spent ‘a lot’ of time together, but…“Matt?”
“No.”
“Wait. Is it…Jesse?!” She groaned, remembering his implicit suggestion she should break up with Finn. “Oh my god, I will seriously kill him if—”
Finn laughed. “No, he’s not a student.”
That caused her to sober immediately.
“…Mr. Garcia?” she guessed hesitantly.
“Nope.”
Thank God.
She sighed. “Then I’m all out of ideas.”
“He might be with you right now.”
Donna’s blood ran cold. Her eyes trailed to Luna’s hutch, realizing for the first time that the white rabbit was quivering in the corner. “W-What?”
“It took me a while to realize our secrets overlapped, but once I did, everything made sense.”
Donna disagreed—vehemently.
“I-I don’t understand,” she croaked. “You’re talking about…ghosts?”
“His ghost, yeah.”
Donna suddenly felt very faint. “You…you knew?”
“I knew he was here,” Finn amended. “He’s been talking to me for a while now, but I didn’t know he was talking to you too until after we spoke in the supply room.” His voice grew lower, more urgent. “Donna, I swear, I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. When he told me he’s been bothering you, I was really, really upset. I know he can be jealous and has a bad temper but I never thought he’d hurt you. I didn’t think he could. I thought I was the only one who could talk to ghosts.”
“‘Ghosts’?” she echoed, picking up on the plural. That was more manageable to focus on than…everything else. “You heard others?”
“Yup. That’s how I was able to leave the basement—the other boys helped.”
“You never told me,” she accused, tears stinging her eyes. “All these years I—I never knew. We could’ve—”
Her mouth snapped shut, unsure of what she was even going to say.
“You never told me,” he reminded her gently.
Donna steadied her breath, head buzzing. “Finn,” she whispered hoarsely. “There’s got to be a way we can get rid of him for good. Maybe an exorcism or something.”
“Tried it once, didn’t work. That’s how my house burned down.”
Hearing that was another punch to the gut. “I’m not going to sit by while he torments you again!” she cried.
“He’s not tormenting me,” Finn said impatiently. “I already told you how I feel about him.”
“You just told me you tried to exorcize him!”
“That was right after I saw him for the first time. I did it because I felt like it was something I was supposed to do, instead of something I actually wanted.”
Donna brought her palm to her forehead. She was so incredibly out of her depth, and the worst part was that she wouldn’t even know where to go or who to talk to in order for Finn to regain his senses. Today he truly felt like a stranger, so far gone that he’d—
Donna’s eyes narrowed, a cruel possibility nipping at her mind. “You’re not actually Finn, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
If the story about the ‘exorcism’ was true and Finn started to hear the Grabber the same day—or a day or two before—the Blake house burned down, there should have been signs from him that something was amiss. But were there?
She wracked her brain but couldn’t remember; everything since the Grabber showing up on the recording seemed like a blur.
“Earlier today, you—Albert Shaw—talked about possession. That’s what’s happening now, isn’t it? You’re not actually Finn, you’re just taking control of his body somehow.”
“Donna, he was just messing with you. He can’t actually do things like that.”
“There’s no way Finn would ever”—she couldn’t even verbalize it—”say the things you did. Because you’re an evil, disgusting old man who–who—”
She swallowed again, while the person on the other end of the phone unhappily. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you before: I knew you’d react this way.”
“If you really are Finn, then prove it,” she snapped. “Tell me something only he’d know.”
“Um, alright…” He trailed off for a moment in contemplation. “I know math is your worst subject. You sometimes call me for help with the homework. The last time was a couple days before the fire, I think.”
That was accurate, and the fact it was before the Grabber started haunting her made her uneasy. Still…“You’re going to need more than that.”
His tone grew more playful. “I recorded you on stage, Miss Desmond. You were beautiful, and I loved seeing your smile afterwards.”
A wave of dread washed over her. That was also before the Grabber first contacted her, and the Sunset Boulevard reference was too specific for a guess.
She swallowed, wiping a sweaty hand on her skirt. It was, technically, possible he stalked her for a bit before making contact. “...What else?”
“I haven’t taken you on a real date in a while, even though I know I should’ve. I didn’t call you either, and I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want to make him jealous…”
Bits of memory began pushing through. She recalled, vaguely, asking if Finn was alright on the day he recorded her, so something must have been different. But it couldn’t have been that different. He laughed and joked around with her—not the type of behavior she’d expect from someone tormented by their abuser.
Unless he’s telling the truth and he really does think he loves—
No.
Her eyes began prickling with tears. “Tell me something about when we first met.”
“Okay. So, uh, the next part’s going to sound really corny, but when I saw you for the first time, back when I was thirteen, I remember thinking to myself, ‘I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life with this person.’ And I know things didn’t really work out, and I know it’s mainly my fault, but I still wanted to say thanks for, um, sticking around. Most girls wouldn’t want to deal with a boyfriend who gets a bit weird with, um…touching. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better boyfriend, and I’m sorry that you’re dealing with all my baggage.”
Donna’s mouth opened, then closed. Though he didn’t reveal much in the way of information, the way he spoke—the phrasing, the manner of inflection, the self-deprecation—sounded unquestionably Finn.
Fuck.
“...Okay,” she whispered.
“...Okay what?”
“Okay, as in, I believe you.” She wiped a stray tear away with the palm of her hand. “But Finn…I know you think you like him right now, but you really don’t. He’s messing with your mind.”
“I think,” he began, vulnerability hardening into cold steel, “I know more about my feelings than you do.”
What could she even say to that? Still, Donna persisted. “He showed me these…stories, of you and him, and—and what happened to you was—it wasn’t the kind of thing that could make you like him. What you’re feeling right now is Stockholm Syndrome. It’s not real feelings, just the brain’s way of coping.”
“Did he show you how it made me feel?”
“Um.” Donna’s face flushed beet red. “Yes. B-But I just—I didn’t actually read it, I just skimmed.”
“Mhmm, sure.” Donna felt like a monster, but Finn’s voice was light when he added, “Well, that’s how you know it’s a real feeling. Couldn’t do it otherwise.”
The small, cynical voice inside snarked that it would explain why she never came with Matt. But the much larger part was petrified by Finn’s admission. The Grabber’s stories usually depicted mutual affection and pleasure, and she believed for the longest time the Grabber was full of shit, concocting an elaborate fiction through a fetishized lens.
Now, she had no idea what was real and what wasn’t. Her whole world had been turned upside down, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
“Doesn’t the fact he showed me upset you?” she queried, voice cracking. “That shows you the kind of person he is.”
“Kind of. It’s really embarrassing, and I hate when he does stuff like that,” he winced, once again sounding like the bashful, awkward boy she knew, “But he did it because he thought it would make you upset. From what he told me, it didn’t.”
There was a note of accusation in his last sentence, and Donna sprung to her feet. “How could you even say that?!” she exclaimed, rage mixing with grief as she clutched the phone tightly. “I acted that way so he wouldn’t think he was getting under my skin.”
“Sorry, sorry. I know it was wrong of me to say,” Finn apologized weakly. “It’s just…people have all these ideas about what happened. And for the longest time, I was embarrassed to admit it, but what was between me and him was, well, it wasn’t just one way.”
“Finn…”
“Maybe in the beginning it was,” he admitted. “I was scared, and everything hurt. But then I saw how he felt about me—really saw—and everything started to change. I started to like it. Because think about it, Donna: He wanted me so much he was willing to risk jail time to bring me into his home. How many people would do something like that?”
“Hopefully not many,” she forced out. “Because it’s illegal for a reason.”
“You don’t get it. I know our relationship—mine and his, I mean—is different than most people’s. And you’re right: maybe it’s not healthy. Maybe it is as fucked up as you say. But it feels right, and after all the shit I’ve been through, is it wrong for me to want a little happiness?”
Finn’s voice dissolved into muffled sobs, and Donna froze. He’d never cried in front of her or showed this much emotion, and she had no idea how to respond. “Finn,” she whispered, numb. “He killed Robin.”
“I know. And I’m not blind—I know he’s not a good person,” he sniffled. “It’s really hard, sometimes, to love someone like that. But feelings aren’t logical, and the heart wants what the heart wants.”
Donna closed her eyes and slumped down on the bed. “If you’re not looking out for yourself, then at least think about what it means for other people. What if he tries to hurt your sister, or other boys?”
“He’s not going to harm anyone else.”
Donna couldn’t suppress her scoff.
“It’s true! He only wants to be with me. I can help him control his moods, and he already promised not to bother you anymore.”
“Finn, this is—” She snapped her mouth shut, then opened it again, tact be damned. “This is insane. This is absolutely fucking insane. I’m not trying to be mean here, but what you’re saying is crazy beyo–”
“I’m not crazy!” he snarled. “Why does everyone always say that?”
“Because you’re talking about”—she glanced back at the closed bedroom door and lowered her voice anyway—“being in love with your kidnapper.” She squeezed the cord tightly. “Finn, please. You need help. I can help you if—”
“I don’t want your help.” All traces of emotion and vulnerability vanished as he returned to the cold stranger from the supply room. “I’m sick of people treating me with kid gloves and acting like I don’t have any agency here. If you do love me, you’ll let me go. Just like Charlie.”
She blinked, taken aback by the mention of the cocker spaniel. “Finn…”
“Think on what I said, okay?” he murmured. There was a long pause of silence until he added, “I might not love you, but I hope we can still be friends.”
Donna didn’t trust herself to say any more. The phone clicked, and all she heard now was the dial tone.
She kept it pressed to her ear a long while after that. Then, she yanked the telephone cord out of the outlet, stormed out of the house, and flung it inside the trash bin.
She heard the Grabber’s phantasmal laughter coming from the phone as she did.
****
“Donna?”
“Mhmm,” she mumbled, continuing to stare at the ceiling as Eileen creaked open the door and peeked inside the bedroom.
“Finn’s downstairs. He wants to speak with you.”
What was there to say after yesterday’s conversation? She felt nauseous, angry, and—most of all—helpless.
“I don’t feel well right now” she murmured, flipping over to her side.
Eileen sighed gently. “Donna, is this about him staying home? I know things have been difficult for you at school recently, but things would be even worse for him.”
The rest of the Andersons believed Finn was framed, with only Donna knowing the truth. She wanted to laugh, longing for the days where breaking and entering was the worst thing that could have happened.
“No.”
“Alright…”
Before Eileen closed the door, Donna turned and asked, “Mom…before you married Dad, did you ever love someone you knew was bad for you?”
Eileen paused for a moment before answering. “Yes.”
“How did you break out of it? Did someone help?” Is there anything I can say?
“Oh, no,” chuckled Eileen. “If someone acted like they knew better, I just dug in deeper. I’d dismiss or make excuses for anything I didn’t want to hear, and if something like that were to happen now I’d be more objective, but back in college? Yeesh. It’s true what they say about youth being wasted on the young.” Her smile faded. “I take it this is about your conversation with Jesse.”
“It’s not about Finn,” lied Donna. Well, It was, but in a different way than what Eileen expected. “Megan has a new boyfriend, that’s all.”
“I see,” Eileen said, though her tone indicated doubt. “Well, let me know if you want to talk about him.” She glanced behind her. “And are you sure you don’t want to talk to Finn? He seemed quite…anxious.”
There were a couple reasons he might be anxious—fear of her telling someone else about the Grabber, fear of her judgment, fear of something else she didn’t know. And the part of her always looking out for him wished to alleviate his burden.
But it was that very same part of her that couldn’t muster performative cheer when she knew the relationship was gnarled, wicked, and poisonous. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t spend every waking hour since their conversation trying to concoct plans against the Grabber, only to keep running into dead ends at each turn.
And most of all, she couldn’t bear the pain of watching him ‘love’ the man who dragged him into Hell.
“I’m sure.”
****
Donna wasn’t nervous on the day of the play. She didn’t feel much of anything besides the empty pit where her heart used to be.
“You sure you don’t want us to come home early?”
Donna shook her head, despite knowing Richard couldn’t see over the phone. “No. I’d feel bad if Jesse had to cut his campus tour short because of me.”
“There will be other open houses. We know it’s a big day for you, and—”
“It’s okay, Dad,” she repeated, firmer this time. “I can drive myself. And I think it’s better this way—Megan mentioned something about a party at her house afterwards.”
“But you have school tomorrow!”
Donna winced, annoyed at her choice of lie. “I won’t stay long.”
“Midnight is the absolute latest. And absolutely no drinking.”
“I know…” she mumbled.
“After we leave, we’ll head straight to the school. So don’t worry if—ah, hold on sweetie.” Donna heard muffled voices for a few seconds before Richard returned. “Sorry, there’s someone else who needs to use the payphone. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about? It can be about anything.”
Donna’s lips thinned. “No.”
“Alright,” he replied reluctantly. “Goodbye, honey.”
“Bye…”
A few seconds later, Donna heard the phone ring again. Figuring her father forgot to mention something, she picked up.
“Throwing the phone away was a teeeensy bit overdramatic, don’t you think?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck off.”
She slammed the phone down, and the lights flickered. The blender started buzzing and red numbers on the microwave phased in and out with no rhyme or rhythm. She didn’t care much about what happened to her anymore, but Bella’s whines in the next room over reminded her that she wasn’t the only living being in this house.
“What?” she snarled, snatching up the phone. “You got what you wanted. Why are you still calling me.”
“Finney wants me to apologize. He might not love you in a romantic way, but he does like you for some reason and was upset when you didn’t want to talk to him before. He wanted to tell you to break a leg before the play.”
“Message delivered. Bye.”
“I get why you’re so snippy,” he hummed. “It’s hard to accept Finney chose me over you.”
Though she knew her best bet would be to hang up, Donna’s fingers clenched instinctively around the phone. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “It really, really is.”
The Grabber was silent for a moment. “I do get it,” he repeated, voice softer and somber. “I know how hard it is to be passed over in favor of someone else, to have so many feelings that just kinda…linger there, unrequited. It’s sad. I was in that position too, long ago, before I found my special someone. Maybe you’ll find yours one day, too.”
“Yeah,” she replied hoarsely. “Maybe.”
When she first heard his smarmy voice, she was all primed to tear into the Grabber for warping Finn’s mind. But now that the opportunity was here, she couldn’t muster the energy. Arguing with the Grabber would get back to and anger Finn, and the last thing she wanted was for him to dig his heels in deeper.
And of course, there was the elephant in the room she hated to even consider: Who was she to assume her interpretation was correct, especially when Finn himself said otherwise?
“Oh, kiddo. It breaks this old man’s heart to see it come to this. You should’ve taken my deal when you had the chance. All this pain could’ve been avoided.”
“I’d rather know the truth,” she glowered. “If Finn's gay, then that’s…fine. Even if it’s painful, I’d rather deal with it than living a lie.”
“Do you?” he countered, pensive. “Sometimes it’s more comforting not to know. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and once it’s out there’s no way to unknow something.”
She thought of the lurid words on the typewriter and shivered. “One day, he’s going to realize how despicable you are and hate you as much as I do. You know that, right?”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But not today.”
There was a large stretch of silence. Then, the Grabber asked, “So, what are you going to do now?”
“...What do you mean?”
“I know you and him are done, but he still feels sad and guilty whenever he sees or thinks about you. What are you going to do about that?”
Her fingers tightened around the cord. “I don’t know. That’s his problem, not mine.”
“Hmph. Selfish as always.”
Indignation sparked in her. “What are you expecting me to do?” she snapped.
“What do you think you should do?”
Before she could formulate an answer, the line went dead.
****
Donna spent the next couple hours drifting in deep thought. It was only the alarm’s ring that reminded her to get ready for the play. She delicately lifted the Ophelia costume from her closet and inspected the dress, which she took home earlier in the week to adjust their hemming. It really was beautiful: long, white, and lacy like a fairytale princess.
She didn’t feel any less suited for it than now.
Then again, perhaps this was the perfect time. Her haunted, empty eyes in the mirror mirrored Ophelia’s, and before she could stop herself, she slipped on the dress.
What happened to me? she thought numbly, gazing at her warped reflection. The girl in the mirror only vaguely resembled Donna Anderson, and it was hard to believe she went from the pure bliss she experienced when Finn recorded her to indifferent listlessness in only a couple weeks.
She didn’t care enough to change out of it. On her way to the car, Donna glanced up at the gloomy overcast—a perfect complement to her mood.
Why am I doing this? she groused, waiting for the light to turn green. Interest in the play had long since evaporated, something she attributed to Megan’s wager.
She knew her faith in Finn was misplaced. Even if no one else officially did, she knew. And that knowledge suppurated and corroded the inner workings of her brain until only one thought remained: She was willing to bet so much on trust and her own ego when she didn’t know the first thing about Finn.
‘You know what? Maybe we shouldn’t even be together then. Considering I’ve got all this ‘stuff’ to deal with.’
He didn’t want her; he never did.
The light turned green, and Donna hesitated. Beeping from the car behind her finally caused her to move. But instead of going straight, she turned right.
****
It wasn’t a conscious decision to go to Her Tree instead of Lincoln High, but when she realized that’s where she was going, it felt right in a way acting in the play didn’t. She parked across the street before climbing up, dress and all.
When she was younger, going up on the branch always cleared her thoughts, height giving her greater perspective. Today was no exception.
‘If you do love me, you’ll let me go. Like Charlie, right?’
She didn’t want to let Finn go. Maybe the Grabber was right, maybe she was selfish. Maybe, deep down, her thoughts were wrong—maybe she didn’t love him as much as she thought. If she did, then she would know not to force herself where she’s not wanted.
But the Grabber did, and now he’s rewarded for it.
Donna tugged the ends of her hair in frustration, the lack of support causing her body to sway dangerously above the babbling river below. It would be so much easier if there was someone else who knew about ghosts, someone else who could help her brainstorm ideas on how to banish the Grabber’s spirit for good. But Donna, like always, was on her own.
She loathed the idea of Finn in that monster’s clutches, but felt as helpless as a daffodil in a hurricane. If she kept trying to make him see reason, he’d lash out and eventually cut her off completely. But could she silently sit in the sidelines and watch him destroy himself?
Of course not.
Donna sighed as the first traces of raindrops slipped through the leaves and onto her brow. She knew Finn had justifiable anger over being treated with kid gloves and having his agency ignored, and he wasn’t wrong when he criticized Donna for acting like she knew more about his feelings than he did. If he didn’t want help, maybe it was wrong to get involved. But she couldn’t live with herself, knowing that Finn was with that horrible man—willingly—and being unable to stop it.
A flash of lightning illuminated the river below, and a chill ran through her.
Maybe I won’t have to…
She stared dully at the river as the rain pattered against the leaves and rocks, slowly but steadily increasing in ferocity. The water rose, the babbling beneath called her name. Her fingers clutched against the rough bark on the branch.
She didn’t want to die, not really. But the more she thought about it, the more logical it seemed. She wouldn’t have to pretend she couldn’t hear something that came second nature to her since childhood. She wouldn’t have to endure petty gossip, backstabbing friends, and profound loss. She wouldn’t have to worry about her future.
Donna spent her life surrounded by death, the one inevitability that would come for everyone in the end. What was the harm in expediting the process?
Because my family will never recover. And I like being part of this world.
Sometimes.
But as the wind roared against her face, black tresses flapping in the breeze like an errant kite while the rain pounded down on her and the musty scent of mud and grass filling her nostrils, she couldn’t deny an inherent beauty and power of nature. Whatever this was, she liked being a part of it, and wasn’t thrilled with the idea of leaving it, especially when there was no certainty as to what came after.
Thunder rumbled, and Donna took a deep breath and closed her eyes. How strange it was, to think she’d ever be in this position. If only she didn’t record that stupid video. Then she never would’ve seen the Grabber whispering to—
She opened her eyes. What was the Grabber trying to do that day? She remembered feeling uncharacteristically morose during her performance, and worse and worse with every subsequent recording. She might not have watched them, but that didn’t mean the Grabber wasn’t in them. Could he have subconsciously influenced her somehow?
Was he the reason she was on this branch right now?
Unease skittered through her, and she swallowed. Then, the fog of melancholy entrenched itself once more. It didn’t matter. Regardless of what triggered them, her feelings were real. Her phone call with Finn was real.
She needed to make a choice.
Part of her hoped the decision would be taken out of her hands somehow—lightning striking the branch, perhaps? But no miracles came, and Donna remained motionless in the tree as the storm developed into a tempest befitting of the Bard. She sat for a long time, and would have continued to sit, if not for an angelic voice piercing through the wind like an arrow.
“Donna! I’m here! Everything’s okay now, alright?”
She didn’t want to turn around. She didn’t want him to see her like this, broken and disheveled.
But despite everything, she still wanted to see him. And so she did.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Finn.”
He looked frozen in alarm, like a deer in the middle of a highway and prey for an approaching car.
I must really look hideous…
“Why not?”
“I came here to be alone.”
“But it’s, um”—he gestured around him—“a storm.”
He sounded so much like the old Finn: earnest, awkward, and compassionate. Like the Finn she used to know, instead of the stranger in the supply room and on the phone. She couldn’t bear it anymore.
“I know,” she whispered, turning her head. “I’ll be down soon. Just go. Please…”
“Donna, you’re sitting in a tree during a lightning storm. I’m not leaving if I know you’re in danger. I can’t.”
She trembled, tears welling in her eyes; despite everything, he still cared about her.
How? I thought…
“Donna, please,” begged Finn. “I—remember what I said before? I love you. And I mean it. I love you, and I'm not leaving if I know you’re upset. People who love each other don’t do things like that. I’m staying right here. With you.”
She finally turned back, tears mixing with the rain as she looked at his loving, unguarded expression.
He meant it.
He really meant it.
So what did that mean for the Grabber?
Clarity trickled through the haze of delirium. She remembered what Finn said on the phone, but also remembered how true and powerful his words felt when he said he loved her, both now and under the tree. And what the hell was she thinking, killing herself over a boy? And why was she so willing to throw her hands up and assume nothing could be done about the hauntings? That wasn’t the Donna Anderson way. The Donna from a month ago was clever and tenacious, and while a lot had changed since then, she was still the same person.
The Grabber shouldn’t count her out of the fight just yet.
Donna opened her mouth, not sure where to even start. But as it turned out, she didn’t have to.
The branch below her snapped, and Donna tumbled down into the raging waters below. Her body thrashed violently as cold fluid filled her lungs, and through animalistic panic and terror, she recognized, dimly and bitterly, that she finally got her wish.
****
Notes:
The painting at the end is "Ophelia" by Sir John Everett Millais.
Chapter 31: Confessions
Chapter Text
Finney didn’t think twice. He yanked off his windbreaker and immediately leapt into the rushing river, howling winds drowning out Matt's unintelligible shouts.
Every nerve in his body screamed with discomfort upon plunging into the water’s icy depths, but concern over Donna dwarfed all of them. His eyes squinted open, only to be greeted by murky, indistinct underwater shapes. Finney pushed himself to the surface gasped for breath, swimming towards Donna despite the current fighting against him. Her panicked face bobbed above and beneath the surface, and Finney followed her flailing arms.
“Help!” she shrieked.
Another rush of horror spiked through him. Finney attempted grabbing her underarms, but she thrashed and kicked in animalistic panic, elbow knocking him underneath the water. His open mouth instantly filled with water, and memories of and sensations of suffocation, the need for air forced upon him by an outside force flickered in his brain.
Donna, Donna, Dona. Focus on Donna.
He mentally clung to his girlfriend’s image like a lifeboat as he pushed up towards the surface again. The gasp of air dissipated the memories, and he immediately reached out to her again. She grabbed his shoulders and the weight made him sink downward, lips bobbing up and down from the water’s surface. He vaguely recalled hearing somewhere that the worst thing a person could do for someone who’s drowning is to swim in after them, unless they were professionally trained to perform rescues. Otherwise, there was a good chance the victim and the would-be rescuer would both drown.
Well, shit.
His body felt lighter, but any relied that brought was overpowered by the realization he lost his grip on Donna once more. To make matters worse, lightning flashed across the sky, and the possibility of getting electrocuted flitted through Finney’s head.
He tried to fight off the rising panic and look at the situation objectively. At this point, his options were limited: If he tried to grab Donna and swam to the riverbank, there was a good chance both of them wouldn’t make it. He didn’t think he had the lower body strength necessary after quitting the baseball team three years ago, and she might unintentionally push him down in her panic. But if he swam away without her, he could never live with himself.
He needed to try. If he died here with Donna, then so be it. There were worse ways to go.
With renewed vigor, Finney launched himself towards Donna. His attempts of telling her not to flail were impotent in the wind’s might, and the rushing waters and lopsided body weight caused him to sink under the surface once more. Water stung his eyes as he observed Donna’s writhing shape. Finney reached out to steady her as best he could in the churning river, but a soft, muffled thud echoed, Donna’s body suddenly grew limp. Something dark and amorphous drifted from the back o her head through the water, and Finney’s stomach plummeted.
He reached with all his might to grab her shoulders and surfaced—which was slightly easier this time without the thrashing, but still a massive strain on his legs. His throat constricted with horror at the dark red staining the water and the back of Donna’s head, eyes darting to a similarly-stained sharp rock jutting out from the riverbank into the water. Finney tried treading towards it, but the weight was too much, and there wasn’t anything within reach he could grab onto in the direction the river was pushing. Helplessness shot through him as the dawning realization of how well and thoroughly fucked they were hit him like a freight train.
But then, a miracle happened. A tree branch (the same one as before?) extended into the riverbank, and Finney swam forward with all his might. He clutched the rough bark with one hand for dear life, the other remained wrapped around Donna’s waist. He held on as tightly as he could, tighter even than when he wrapped the cord around the Grabber’s neck. All he needed was a slight break in the storm for the water to calm, and for him to muster the strength to crawl upward on the branch and towards land.
That he could do; his arm was mint.
But the storm’s intensity didn’t wane, and before dread could pool into his stomach, another miracle occurred. The branch pulled inward on its own, bringing Finney closer to the riverbank without him needing to scale the length of the branch. Another flash of lightning illuminated the riverbank, and Finney’s heart leapt.
It was Matt! He held the edge of the branch, face contorted with exertion as he struggled pulling it further onto land. Finney’s legs kicked furiously in the water until the branch was finally close enough for him to feel the pebbles of the riverbank. It was only then that he allowed himself to exhale and let go of the branch, dragging himself and Donna further inward.
But Finney’s worry didn’t abate. He bent over, pressing his palms against his knees, breath shaky and uneven as he watched Matt press Finney’s discarded jacket against the back of Donna’s head. She was still unconscious, and the bleeding didn’t appear to be stopping.
“Is she…is she breathing?” he choked out.
Matt nodded, looking almost as pale as Donna. “Yeah, but we need to get her to a hospital. Fast.”
Together, they supported Donna on their shoulders as they made their way back to the car and laid her in the back seat. Panic lurched within him with each passing second as the Chevrolet Vega skidded and screeched through the wet pavement, though Finney knew objectively that Matt couldn’t go faster without hydroplaning. Contributing to his fears was the general lack of awareness at were the hell they were; the windshield wipers remained virtually useless against the constant downpour, and frequent road closures creating a cycling labyrinth vaguely reminiscent of the spirit world.
“Fuck,” Matt hissed, skidding to a stop. A fallen power line blocking the route twelve feet in front of them. “This is the last road that could’ve brought us to the hospital.”
Shit. Shitshitshit. “Can we call an ambulance?”
“Assuming the power works—which it probably doesn’t—I doubt anyone’s going to be able to get to us if we can’t get to them.”
“What about walking?”
A subsequent boom of thunder answered that question, though Matt also gestured to the flooding streets. “Doubtful,” he muttered.
Finney’s fingers clenched. Donna didn’t deserve this. Why did the stars always seem to align in the worst way possible?
“Then the only thing we can do is try to keep her stable until tomorrow.” Finney swallowed, a lump rising in his throat at the remote possibility. “Which house is closer: yours or mine?”
Matt’s fingers tightened around the wheel, jaw clenching. “Yours, but I think if we bring her to my dad, he might—might—be able to help.”
Finney hesitated. Terrence wouldn’t have a better idea of what to do than either of them, but he couldn’t remember Frank Gallagher having a background in medicine. “Why do you think that?”
Matt shrugged before putting the car in reverse and doing a K-turn. “He was in Vietnam and saw shit like this all the time. I don’t know for sure he’ll be able to, but…”
Matt trailed off, but Finney nodded stiffly. “Sounds like he’s our best shot.”
“So if that’s the case, we’re probably fucked,” sighed Matt.
“I mean”—Finney gestured to the back seat, fighting the urge to laugh and cry at the same time—“We’re fucked anyway.”
Is there ever a time when I’m not?
****
When they pulled into the Gallaghers’ driveway, Matt fixed him with a familiar glare. “I’m taking her inside. You stay out here.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it,” snapped Matt. He pushed the side door open and unlocked the backseat. “I’ll come back out once everything gets settled.”
Before Finney could protest, Matt gently took Donna’s body and carried it to the front door. Finney seethed but remained in the car, not wanting to destroy whatever tentative peace existed between him and Matt.
The waiting was the worst part—that and the helplessness. Frustration climbed with each passing minute as he dwelled on how Matt and his dad were helping her in the house while he stayed in the car, soaked, useless, and freezing. There was nothing to do but pray, which never seemed to help him before, but Finney figured it couldn’t hurt. Even afterwards, however, the nausea remained, and his right leg bounced up and down, unable to contain his anxiety.
What the hell was taking so long?
He slammed the dashboard in frustration, only to be caught off guard when it lit up. Then, a familiar, loathsome, slightly-nervous voice emitted through the static. “You look really nice wet.”
“Oh, Fuck off,” Finney spat. He glanced at the time on the dashboard; somehow, only six minutes elapsed, despite feeling like an eternity. “You jealous, vindictive asshole.”
“Finnnnneeyyy,” the Grabber whined, “Don’t be mad—it was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it.”
Finney said nothing, but glared out the window, fingers clenched.
“You just made me so upset before, with the things you said—”
Finney slammed open the door, rain be damned. He stormed to the front door of the Gallagher home and yanked it open, relieved to see it wasn’t locked, and even more relieved to finally feel dry.
Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived. A cacophony of deep barks and nails against wood froze him on the spot. A split-second later, three dogs bounded into the hallway. Two were the Beagle and German Shepherd from before, and the third—
—”Samson!”
A bark. The clanging of a chain as the Cane Corso slunk down the stairs with the grace of a panther. It glared at its prey with beady yellow eyes, sizing him up just like its master.
Samson barked in warning, and the Grabber smiled at Finney as his fingers wrapped around the collar.
The pure glee in it chilled Finney to the bone, looking utterly profane against the backdrop of blood scattered across the Grabber’s skin. Max’s blood.
His brother’s blood.
And Finney’s would be joining it soon.
There was no way it wouldn’t the plan was stupid he was a grown man and Finney was so small and weakandhealwayslosttherewasnowayhecouldeverbefree—
—-23-31-7
No
23-3-17
Shitnohe’sgoingtowakeup
2-33-17
Yes! That was it!
The moment the lock snapped open, a deep, guttural woof ricocheted with the intensity of an explosion. Finney sprinted outside. His feet pounded against the pavement, the image of the Grabber— sweater unzipped and belt in hand, waiting for unsuspecting prey—eternally seared in his mind.
He didn’t want to be whipped again. He didn’t want to cover his mouth to stifle the cries as the Grabber shoved into him. He didn’t want to be gutted like an animal, didn’t want to become a ghost watching and judging the Grabber’s next victim.
He just wanted to go home.
He heard the distant revving of an engine, and then—
—the beast strained against the chain, drool foaming from its mouth as it eyed the meat in Finney’s hand. It looked different now—did its eyes change? Didn’t they used to be yellow? Or was that just Finney’s imagination?
Whatever. It didn’t matter now. Everything was over.
He tossed the meat to the side, the dog descending on it like a starving panther. Though everything screamed he needed to leave, he couldn’t resist one final look at the Grabber.
His tormenter’s corpse remained slumped over in the ditch, face still red and contorted in agony, red marks of the phone cord still blazing against his pale skin. He’d never move again, thanks to Finney.
Finney’s stomach lurched, but he continued dragging his feet towards the steps. towards the steps. He didn’t feel proud, or sad, or happy. He didn’t feel much of anything—
“—why I said stay in the car!”
Finney blinked, mind jolting back to earth. His heart thumped furiously, arms and back soaked with either rain or sweat. A hitched breath caught in his throat as his fingers trembled. Matt was in the process of wrangling the Beagle and German Shepherd, while the Cane Corso continued jumping and sniffing at Finney’s jeans, stubby tail vibrating with excitement.
It couldn’t be the same dog. There was no way. That dog was probably euthanized or sent to the pound, or—
Finney swallowed as the dog whimpered happily and rolled over. Out of all the animals he’d seen, this was the only one who reacted joyously to the presence no doubt hovering beside him.
Somehow, some way, it was Samson.
Fucky my life.
Matt finally managed to corral the other dogs into a closed room. “Don’t you listen?” he snapped, grabbing a leash and heading towards Samson. Matt looked oddly pale too, and Finney’s stomach lurched at the possibility he said or did something embarrassing while his mind was elsewhere; it wouldn’t be the first time.
Now Finney knew it was sweat.
“Is this the Grabber’s dog?” Finney choked out.
Matt hesitated before answering. “Yes,” he muttered, hooking the leash into the collar.
“Why isn’t he dead?!”
He didn’t mean to shout. But Matt tensed, now on the defensive. “Because he didn’t do anything! It’s not his fault his owner was a total psycho.”
“That’s not–”
Finney shut his mouth, begrudgingly realizing Matt was right. All Samson did was bark; the Grabber may have used him as a threat, but Samson didn’t attack him—or even try to attack him—and none of the other boys had been mauled to death.
Still, bitterness swarmed in him all the same.
“I thought he’d hate me for killing his master,” Finney finally said, staring down the whining dog as Matt pushed it behind the closed door.
“Did you also do something he liked? Give him a toy or something?”
It was a ridiculous question and Finney was about to say that outright, but paused. “I gave him food…”
“There you go.” He shrugged. “He’s kind of simple like that.”
There was also the matter of sensing the Grabber’s presence, but Finney wasn’t about to mention that. He tried to ignore the dog’s scratching and barks on the other side and asked, “How’s Donna?”
Matt’s shoulders slumped. “Still unconscious, but Dad says she’s stable at least. Can’t do much else but wait.”
“Did you try calling the hospital?”
“Yeah, but the line’s busy. Probably getting swamped with calls.” He exhaled in frustration. “You’re getting water everywhere.”
Finney glanced down at his dripping shirt and jeans, as well as the small puddle forming beneath him. “That’s what happens when you dive into a river,” he muttered.
“Yeah. That was actually…pretty cool.” Despite the unexpected compliment, Matt shoved his fingers in his pockets and scowled. “I hate to say this—like, really, really hate to say this—but I think you’re going to have to stay the night.”
The vague possibility he wouldn’t be able to get home crossed Finney's mind when they were trying to get to the hospital, but he would sooner believe Matt would throw him into the rain than into the rain than provide shelter. Nonetheless, the offer didn’t thrill him anymore than it did Matt. “Okay.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to shower in a storm, so you gotta dry off with towels. I’ll get you some. Donna’s in the guest room, so you’re sleeping on the couch.”
Distant memories tugged and poked at the edges of Finney’s mind. The last time he slept over Matt’s house was when he was eight; Finney curled beside Matty’s bed in his sleeping bag like a little caterpillar while they whispered and giggled all throughout the night. It was a simpler time, and much had changed for the both of them.
“What about school tomorrow?’ Finney asked, trying to steer his thoughts in a more comfortable direction.
“What about it?”
“We need to get Donna to a hospital.”
“I doubt we’ll have school tomorrow. The power’s probably out there, like it was during the blizzard.” Matt smirked, the first time his face held anything besides a frown since Donna fell into the river. “We get to miss the math final. That’s the only good thing about this shitty day.”
In spite of everything, Finney cracked a weak smile. “Don’t be too sure. Mrs. Jameson would swim to school if she had to.”
“I believe it.”
They both knew it would be postponed, but grades seemed inconsequential compared to the grim reality of everything else they were facing. “Did you call Donna’s parents?”
“I tried, but they didn’t pick up so I left a voicemail. You can call your par—your dad too, if you want.”
Finney nodded, inwardly groaning as he realized the sheer panic Terrence must be experiencing. He remembered where the phone was and dialed it while Matt got the towels. Finney was—thankfully—able to get through, but the connection was static and disjointed, and Terrence couldn’t hear fully. He seemed to be under the impression Finney was staying over Donna’s house and was overjoyed. Finney didn’t have the heart to correct him.
The rest of the evening dragged painfully slow. Mrs. Gallagher was visiting her sister when the storm hit and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, so ‘dinner’ was some crackers and whatever else could be scrounged in the Gallagher kitchen. Finney spent most of the time peering into the guest room where Donna lay, avoiding the room with the dogs, and pacing nervously.
Come 11:30 PM, Finney grudgingly decided to turn in for the night. He decided to check on Donna one final time in the futile hope her condition changed somehow between the last ten minutes he’d been in there. Moonlight peeking through the window to illuminate her pale skin, and with her closed eyes and black tresses spread out on the pillow like wings, she reminded Finney of a storybook princess. The bandages were no longer stained red, and it was hard to believe the sleeping beauty in front of him, with bandages no longer stained red—was the same one screaming in terror only a few hours earlier.
A sudden rustling in the corner caused Finney to spin around. He tensed as his eyes locked onto Mr. Gallagher’s shifting form. The older man’s pale fingers grasped the arms of the chair with such intensity, he could see the prominent bulge of veins even in the dark. His white sclera bulged prominently against the room’s blackness, and he trembled while speaking words unintelligible.
“Mr. Gallagher,” Finney whispered cautiously, hairs on his arms standing upright.
“Right—right—” Mr. Gallgher whispered faintly, breathing heavily. “You need to stay calm, Andrew. Go down, left.”
Mr. Gallagher’s right arm began spasming, and panic shot through Finney at the horrifying possibility of another medical emergency. He took a few steps forward and opened his mouth to call for Matt, but before he could say anything, Mr. Gallagher's arm shot out and grabbed Finney by the thought.
“Get away from me you fucking gook!” snarled Mr. Gallagher.
His grip was deceptively strong and rough, and once more, the Grabber’s image flickered in Finney’s mind. Finney desperately tried prying the fingers from his neck, to no avail (just like then). Horror flooded him as he felt his mind slipping further and further away, and in a panic, his legs kicked furiously with all his might.
It was enough to loosen Mr. Gallagher’s grip, allowing Finney to elbow him away and create greater distance. Finney raised his fists in warning, but Mr. Gallagher didn’t seem ready to go for another round. He blinked uneasily as his hand fumbled for the chair’s armrest. He brought the other one to his forehead, the only sound in the room being the ticking clock and two pairs of unsteady breaths.
“Did I—I didn’t—” Mr. Gallagher looked almost as pale as Donna, but his eyes were focused now in a way they hadn’t been before. “Wh-What did I do?”
Finally it clicked, and Finney had to stop himself from facepalming his obliviousness. In all fairness, he’d never seen what a flashback looked like from the outside, though the signs should have—in retrospect—been obvious. He tried not to let his thoughts about how he must have looked in the past encroach on the current situation as he approached Mr. Gallagher carefully.
“You thought I was…”—after a moment’s hesitation, he concluded, “a Vietnamese soldier. I think.”
It had been a while—seven years? eight?—since Mr. Gallagher returned from the war. As a deserter, which Robin sometimes used as ammunition during his verbal smackdowns with Matt. Finney recalled—guiltily— how he and Robin would laugh about it afterwards; the insensitivity and ignorance of doing so was something that flew over the heads of middle schoolers. If not for Finney’s own close brush with death and realizing what that can do to a person, he might have remained ignorant even in high school.
Mr. Gallagher buried his head in his hands and exhaled. “Fuck.”
From personal experience, there wasn’t anything anyone could do afterwards to make Mr. Gallagher feel better. But Finney realized now how his father and sister must feel, that pressing desire to do something, anything, instead of staring wide-eyed and useless.
His body made the decision before his mind did. Finney moved slowly and purposefully towards Mr. Gallagher, feeling the impulse to take his hand the same way Finney’s family sometimes did for him. But he knew it would be a bad idea—not only were they not anywhere near close enough, but because he knew from personal experience the dangers of touching someone in such a sensitive state. Instead, Finney crouched next to the chair in solidarity. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I—Sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that shit.”
Finney hesitated. “I know what it’s like,” he said shyly. “To remember things so vividly, it’s like they’re real again.”
“…Yeah,” Mr. Gallagher replied, after a moment of silence. “Suppose you would.” He thankfully didn’t press,but leaned over the side of the chair and searched for something. “I need more of my medicine. Don’t—don’t tell Matty about this, alright?”
“I wo—” Finney’s voice faded as he got a closer look at Mr. Gallagher’s ‘medicine.’ “Were you drinking before? When you were helping Donna?”
It came out sharper than he would have liked, but alcohol was a sore spot for him for obvious reasons and he was not about to have Donna’s safety put in jeopardy because of it too.
“Only after.” Mr. Gallagher gestured towards Donna’s bandages. “Didn’t think I’d ever have to do something like that again.”
Finney hesitated again, knowing the next thing he said might be overstepping his bounds, but couldn’t resist. “I know drinking might make you feel better now, but it’s bad in the long term.”
Mr. Gallagher snorted and rolled his eyes in a manner very reminiscent of his son’s. “You sound like my wife.”
“She’s right,” Finney mumbled, beginning to stand up.
“It was the only way any of us could get through the war,” Mr. Gallagher said, inspecting the bottle with bitter fondness. “It numbs the senses. You don’t realize you’ve got shrapnel in your arm or barbed wire in your leg or your best pal’s dead until later.”
Once again, every warning bell in Finney’s head was blaring for him to drop it. knew it would be best to drop it, but…
“But it doesn’t change reality.”
Mr. Gallagher unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips. “What do you suggest instead?” he asked, not unkindly.
That took the wind out of Finney’s sails. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wish I knew. Would make my life a whole lot easier, too.”
“I wish I knew something better, but things have been like this for years. Matty says you just cracked recently.” Mr Gallagher took another swig. “Welcome to the club. Pull up a chair.”
Finney bit his lip. He didn’t feel fully comfortable with the direction the conversation was heading, but once again, his legs had a mind of their own. He picked up a nearby chair and brought it next to Mr. Gallagher, while still keeping a distance between them. “I cracked a while ago,” Finney admitted, unable to meet Mr. Gallagher’s eyes. “It’s just that no one knew.”
He wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact moment; was it during the Breakfast Incident? After? Before? Maybe it happened the night he had his virginity ripped from him. Maybe even before that, when he first woke up in the middle of the night to find his kidnapper watching him with tears of love in his eyes.
“That’s always how it goes. No one wants to be showing their ass in public, yeah? Keep everything inside until it goes off like a damn grenade.” He reached down and held out a second bottle to Finney. “Drink?”
Finney held up his hands and shook his head. “I said I, um—”
“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.” Still, Mr. Gallagher placed the second bottle down with a clang. “They call it shellshock. Thought it was only something soldiers get, but maybe you have it too.”
“I’ve never been to war.”
“You were kidnapped and tortured by a faggy magician, I was picked by a lottery to die in a fucking jungle halfway cross the world. Oorah.” Mr. Gallagher brought his bottle to his mouth again. “It’s different shit, but it’s the kind of shit that sticks with you.”
Finney nodded numbly, eyes trailing to Donna’s unconscious form. He vaguely remembered Father O’Brien alluding to something similar all those weeks ago, but it was still difficult to reconcile his experiences with that of the military. Soldiers were heroes—or so people said—and while Finney was also called a hero, he didn’t feel like it.
Then again, maybe the soldiers hated it when people called them that, too.
The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I killed someone.”
“Me too.”
“Is that why you…” Finney trailed off, then looked down at his sneakers. It was completely inappropriate to ask why Mr. Gallagher deserted.
But Mr. Gallagher understood what Finney was about to say and, to his credit, didn’t seem surprised.
“No. I didn’t think about that ‘till I came home. With all the gunfire and everything going on, it’s…” Mr. Gallagher shook his head and exhaled. “Nah. I left ‘cause someone almost killed me. If I didn’t turn my head at that exact moment, it would’ve been a clear headshot. Ended up only grazing the side of my cheeks, but it spooked me enough to betray my brothers-in-arms. I saw what their bodies looked like dead and I—I didn’t want to be like that.”
Mr. Gallagher’s eyes glazed over, and Finney swallowed. He brought his feet up on the chair and hugged them. “I would’ve run too, if I could,” he confessed, so quiet he didn’t know if Mr Gallagher would hear—or if he even wanted him to hear. “I only fought because I was backed in the corner and had no choice. And when I escaped, everyone started calling me a hero for that.”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘hero.’ Anyone using that word, says more about them than the person they’re talking about. It’s something that makes them feel good about other people going through shit.”
There was another long moment of silence, both of them lost in deep thought.
“You know what,” Finney decided, in a moment of boldness. “I’ll try that drink.”
Mr. Gallagher blinked in surprise before cracking a grin. “Atta boy.”
He held the second, unopened bottle to Finney who unscrewed the cap. He would have preferred a cup instead of swigging from the bottle, but when in Rome…
Finney brought the bottle to his mouth and chugged before he could change his mind. His eyes bulged, and he fought every urge to spit it all out on the wooden floor.
Is this what Vodka tasted like? How the hell did Terrence used to drink so much of it on a daily basis without vomiting?
Mr. Gallagher chuckled at Finney’s expression. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Finney unsteadily put the bottle down. “Does it ever get better?”
“Yeah. You should probably start with a more mild brand before—”
“No, I meant”—Finney gestured vaguely around them—“everything.”
Mr. Gallagher nodded slowly in understanding. “No, but something tells me you knew that already.”
He did, but it still sucked to hear. What Finney didn’t understand is why some people like Father O’Brien seemed to get over their issues easily, while people like him and Mr. Gallagher couldn’t.
Who said it was easy? In fact, didn’t he say it wasn’t?
Just because he seemed okay didn’t mean he actually was.
But what if Mr. Gallagher’s wrong? What if I’m wrong?
Mr. Gallagher’s words cut through Finney’s mental conflict. “Word of advice: always pretend everything’s fine. Otherwise you’ll end up with nothing, like me.”
Finney scoffed. “You have Matt and your wife,.”
“I had Matty and Margaret. But that…that’s long past. All I’ve been doing since I got back was make their lives harder. Matty wants nothing to do with me, and I don’t blame him.”
“I make my dad and sister’s life hard, too. But they still”—he hesitated, then admitted something he sometimes had difficulty accepting—“love me. And things between me and my dad weren’t great, but we’re working things out now. I don’t think it’s too late for you and Matt.”
Mr. Gallagher was silent for a moment, staring off to the side. “Maybe. I hope you’re right.” He pushed himself up from the chair, picking up the two bottles. “Well, it’s getting pretty late. You outta get some rest.”
Finney glanced once more at Donna’s unconscious form. “…I’m going to sleep with her here, if that’s alright.” Then, his face heated as he realized his incredibly poor choice of phrasing: “In the chair! I’m going to sleep here in the chair. I just— I want to be here when Donna wakes up.”
Mr. Gallagher cracked a rare smile. “Suit yourself.” When he reached the doorframe, Mr. Gallagher brought two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Godspeed, soldier.”
Finney smiled wryly, and saluted back.
****
Finney blinked groggily as sunlight peeked through the blinds, casting their amber glow upon the bed. The gentle rays illuminated Donna; she lay just as before, black hair fanning the pillow, and her gorgeous hazel eyes blinking softly.
Wait, hazel?
“You’re awake,” exclaimed Finney, immediately shaken from his drowsy stupor.
He couldn’t discern Donna’s expression. “Hi, Finn,” she said quietly.
Finney realized he had no idea what to say, despite having the whole night to think it through. Her clouded gaze did no favors on his nerves, either.
He chose what he felt was the safest option. “How are you feeling?”
“Crappy,” she winced, adjusting her position and bringing her fingers to the bandages. “But I don’t think I have, like, brain damage or anything. Matt came in earlier and said he was able to get through to the hospital. They should be arriving soon.”
A weight lifted off his chest. “That’s great!”
“I guess.” She paused, playing with the ends of her black strands. “Is it true you dove into the river for me?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Matt helped.”
Finney wasn’t sure what he expected, but definitely wasn’t prepared for her frown to deepen. “Finn, don’t ever put yourself in danger because of me.”
The steel tone put him on the defensive. “What, you expected me to just watch as you died? Why were you even out there anyway?”
What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop arguing!!
He bit his lip, regretting his words as traces of pink peppered Donna’s cheeks. “That’s because you”—she sighed bitterly, then shifted her gaze out the window. “Never mind.”
Finney felt like tearing the stupid clock off the wall, its annoying tick seeming as loud as a thundering boom in the void of silence. The gulf between them was as wide as it’s ever been, and Finney felt a pang, remembering their life before the fire.
He wanted to go back to that, but was that even an option anymore? Gwen’s words from that time, of the importance of honesty, flickered in his mind. Would that work? Was it too late? Would it make things even worse? Should he let the topic go? Press ahead?
Finney stifled a sigh; The only thing he knew for sure is that things couldn’t continue like this.
“Donna,” he began carefully, standing up and moving closer to the bed, while her gaze remained fixed out the window. “I think…well, I know…we’ve both been keeping secrets. And I think the more we do it, the worse it’s going to get.” He paused, waiting for her response, but she continued averting her gaze, and he hurried on. “I know things changed between us, and it might not be possible for things to be the way they were before.” God, that was painful to admit out loud. “But I also don’t want things to be tense like this forever. I think we can”—he was about to say ‘make something new and just as important,’ but felt that was too corny and chickened out at the last minute—“make things not bad.”
Smooth, Casanova. Smooth.
He felt like crawling into a hole, but Donna—to her credit—didn’t poke fun at him. She grasped the edges of the sheet absentmindedly, twisting them around her fingers as she continued staring out the window. “I can’t tell you why I was on the branch, because I don’t really know why. It was something that made sense at the time but makes no sense when I think back on it.” She sighed. “I just kept thinking about our last conversation and—well, first, I need to stress that me going up there is not your fault. It’s no one but mine. Got it?” Finney nodded uncertainly. “I just kept thinking about our last conversation and I—I needed to get away from everything, and the branch was the first place my mind went to. That’s it.”
He definitely understood the desire to run and hide from problems, but needed to make sure they were on the same page. “You’re talking about when we met up in the supply room and talked about Mr. Clarkson, right?”
“No, I’m talking about the time on the phone. When you told me about the Grabber.”
Finney froze.
“Wh—What did I say?” he choked out, mind fritzing like an amplifier doused with water.
“Stuff about how he’s been talking to you”—ohhhhh shit—“and…how you felt.”
The pinkness on her cheeks reddened, and a pool of dread swelled Finney’s stomach. “How did I say I felt?”
“…I don’t want to repeat it,” she mumbled, which confirmed the worst.
The urge to take a hammer to the Time-Out was overpowering, only slightly less than his desire to crawl into a hole and hide there for all eternity. But he attempted to maintain a cool, distant composure, utterly refusing to give the Grabber the show he wanted.
With forced levity, Finney asked, “Was it anything other than vehement hatred?”
Her brows scrunched in confusion, but she nodded hesitantly.
“Okay.” He swallowed, mouth feeling dryer than normal. “So, um, that wasn’t me.”
Donna finally turned to look at him, and her earnest expression made him want to cry. “Finney, it was you. I know your voice.”
There was no gentle way to ease into this, so Finney decided to be blunt. “Donna, you’ve been speaking to the Grabber.”
“Obviously.” A note of impatience rose in her voice. “We already talked about this.”
“No, I don’t think you’re getting—ugh.” He slumped onto the bed next to her legs and buried his face into his hands, wondering how something so obvious escaped his attention for so long. “It wasn’t me on the phone. He can change how his voice sounds—or how we hear it, or something like that.”’
Donna’s eyes widened, mouth agape before closing it. “I considered that, but you—he—knew things only you could know.”
“Because he’s fucking obsessed with me and probably listened in on all our conversations.”
“But it’s also the way he said it. He was talking about how he fell in love with me when he first saw me and wanted to spend our lives together and—” Now, her face looked like a tomato, and knew his probably looked the same way. “The speech patterns, it—it really sounded like you. God, I feel like such a moron.”
That makes two of us.
“Don’t. He was probably mimicking sentences I actually did say when I was talking to him on the phone.” Finney cringed from the memory. “He, um, because he pretended to be you too.”
“Wait, what?” She pushed herself into a sitting position, eyes blazing with fury. “That motherfucker! What did he say?”
Finney rubbed the back of his neck, taken aback by her intensity. “Nothing that made you look bad,” he tried to assuage her, to little effect. “Just stuff he wanted me to talk about. He was trying to get me to let my guard down.”
“What kind of ‘stuff’?” she prodded, still steaming.
He hated recalling that conversation, especially now. “Stuff about moving into the house, and about how me and you met. Then he went on this creepy-ass rant about paintings and Picasso or something. I don’t really remember.”
She relaxed slightly, but the edge was still there. “…How long has he been haunting you?”
This was the question Finney was dreading. “A day or two before my house burned down.” Now it was his turn to look away. “That’s why I’ve been acting kind of weird recently. I didn’t want to tell you because I know it’s…a lot.”
“Have you always heard ghosts, or is this the first time?”
Finney blinked at the abrupt question. Donna folded her hands in her lap, looking away once more. “On the phone, y—the Grabber—said you heard some when you were taken,” she explained.
“That’s true,” Finney admitted. “I heard Robin, Vance, and the others. I think it’s genetic or something, since my sister and mom also had this power.”
There was a lot more to say on the subject, but the information hovered on the edge of his tongue. He knew he’d have to bring up the possibility of a Grabber’s relation before the ghost took advantage of that knowledge somehow. Finney wasn’t certain he would—the topic seemed to elicit a lot of complicated feelings and baggage—but also knew everything else came second to that unholy end goal of driving Finney to the brink. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Still, bringing it up now would be too much at once. It was a topic that would no doubt cause a large amount of stress, and Finney didn’t want to do anything that would interfere with her recovery. That thought needed to be put to the side—for now.
And maybe by then I’ll find a way to work it in naturally.
He almost snorted at the thought. Yeah, right.
“So, it’s not in my head?”
Finney shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, and panic shot through Finney. But she didn’t seem upset. If anything she seemed, unfathomably, relieved. “I don’t know if that makes things easier or harder, but…it means a lot to hear that.”
The burden Donna must have carried for a while—a burden she carried all alone—hit him at once. His hand twitched, yearning for Donna’s, but feared the sting of rejection. “You’ve been hearing ghosts too, then? Even before the Grabber?”
She nodded. “Yeah, ever since I was a kid. It wasn’t super-frequent or anything, but I had enough experiences to make my parents worried.”
“I never knew,” Finney said quietly. He knew it was hypocritical of him to be upset that Donna didn’t feel comfortable confiding in him, but he couldn’t help it.
“I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to seem…”
“Crazy?” he finished wryly.
“Yeah,” she winced. After a moment of hesitation, she asked the big question. “Finn, why did you break into Mr. Clarkson’s apartment?”
He figured this question was a long time coming, but dreaded it all the same. “What I told you before was true. You were acting really weird and I thought something was up, but that someone who told me Mr. Clarkson was responsible was the Grabber. He said there was some evidence in the safe, but it was in a sealed envelope and that’s what I delivered to Gabby Fernandez. I didn’t know there was anything in it about him being gay.”
“And the whole reason I acted weird was because of the Grabber,” Donna finished, eyes narrowing. “He was playing us both the whole time.”
“Pretty much.”
“That bastard,” she hissed, clenching a fistful of sheet. “I’d actually be impressed if the motives weren’t completely vile.”
To his surprise and relief, the Grabber still hadn’t chimed in by now. And given the man’s penchant for showmanship, Finney figured this would be the opportune moment. The fact that he hadn’t yet meant he either wasn’t here or was sulking, but either way, Finney was glad.
“I just don’t understand what he’s trying to do,” Donna murmured. “I know he wants you, but what does that even mean?”
Aside from Donna’s birth family, this was the topic he dreaded bringing up the most. “He’s trying to get me to lo—” He swallowed. “Want to stay with him, which is why he’s trying to get between us. He thinks that when I die, I’m going to be a ghost like him and spend eternity just…”
He trailed off, but Donna got the gist. “Jesus…”
There was an uncomfortable silence afterwards Finney wished desperately to fill, but had no idea what to say until Donna finally broke it. “Not to be morbid or anything, but why doesn’t he just kill me? Like, turn on the gas while I reach over the stove or something. Can he even do that?”
“I’m not too sure about the limitations, but I know ghosts can affect the living world to some extent. They’re stronger and can do more in the dark and when they’re really emotional, but it exhausts a lot of energy.”
“Is he afraid of me becoming a ghost and fucking up his plans? Is that why I’m not dead?”
It was a possibility Finney hadn’t considered before, but was certainly food for thought. “Maybe. I always thought it was because he knew I’d be really pissed—like with what happened with the branch—but you might be onto something.”
Donna’s eyes widened in alarm. “That was him?”
“Yeah. He’s pissed I love and want to be with you instead of him. And he always acts like a five year old when he doesn’t get what he wants, so….”
Finney shrugged, and Donna’s eyes drifted downward. “Oh,” she murmured, putting a strand of hair behind her ear as she quickly turned away.
Once again, Finney had trouble discerning what was going on in her mind. Why did she look so overwhelmed? Why were her eyes so clouded? What—
Oh.
He blushed and quickly rushed to say, “If you want to break up, I totally get it. No hard feelings.”
Donna’s head snapped back towards him, eyes suddenly in focus. “Seriously? Now? After everything?”
“Um, yeah?” He didn’t understand why she seemed mad, but then realization hit him like a lightning bolt. “Oh! I, uh, forgot we already broke up. Never mind.”
His words had the opposite reaction, and her frown deepened. “We did?”
“In the supply room.” Maybe? “I mean, I thought we broke up, but I guess not.”
She blinked slowly and incredulously, and Finney couldn’t shake the feeling he somehow made matters worse. “I’m not afraid of some catty, washed-up has-been of a ghost,” she finally said. “But if you want us to break up, then I’ll respect that.”
Finney wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wasn’t lying when he said he loved Donna, and she brought him happiness in a way no one else could. But the past week made it clear that even without the Grabber, their relationship had some underlying issues neither had the courage or awareness to address. And breaking up with Donna would certainly keep her safer and–theoretically–away from the Grabber.
It was only when she raised her eyebrows that Finney realized she was expecting a reply. His heart rate started to pick up, and he shrugged.
“What does this”—she mimicked his shrugging—“mean?”
There are times in life where panic can cause one to do idiotic things. This was one of those times.
Finney mumbled a noncommittal noise and shrugged again.
Donna buried her face in her hands, probably questioning the life choices that led to her accepting his date in the first place. “Jesus Christ, Finn...”
“I’m sorry. I—I don’t know what to say,” blubbered Finney, face as red as a tomato. Ambulance sirens rang in the distance, and Finney knew they wouldn’t have much time left. “I don’t know what I want. But one thing I definitely know is that I don’t want to start another argument.”
Her face softened. “I don’t want us to fight either, and I’m sorry, too. Forget I said anything.”
“R-Right,” he stammered. “The focus should be on you getting better.”
Donna stood from the bed, making sure her bandages stayed in place. “We’re tabling this conversation for now, but when I get out, we’re going to deal with this Grabber thing as a team. Even if our relationship status is—” She mimicked Finney’s shrug again, but this time with a smile.
He smiled back, albeit uneasily.
****
After the ambulance took Donna, Matt unexpectedly offered to drive Finney home. His first instinct was to say no, but changed his tune once he realized the alternative would involve thirty minutes of the Grabber trying to make conversation with him during the walk home. Nonetheless, the awkward silence was palpable as Matt backed out of the driveway, lasting until they reached the first red light.
“Thanks for saving Donna,” Matt murmured.
Finney’s eyes trailed out the window, watching a construction team fixing a power line. “It wasn’t just me. If you didn’t help, me and her would probably both be dead.”
“Can’t you take one comment without acting all sanctimonious and shit?”
Finney blinked, surprised Matt even knew what ‘sanctimonious’ meant. ”I’m not trying to be—“
Matt exhaled and grabbed a fistful of black strands, other hand clenched around the wheel. “I know, I know. Just…listen, alright? Without saying anything.”
“Okay…” mumbled Finney.
“I just wanted to tell you I see what Donna sees in you. Not in a gay way,” he added quickly, “but you’re not—I mean, it’s obvious you care about her. No offense, but I didn’t think you’d be able to be a good boyfriend with your fuckton of issues. Like my d—like a lot of people. So, good job.”
“Uh.” Saysomethignsaysomething. “Thanks?” I think…
The light thankfully turned green. “I also wanted to say…” Matt looked like he was about to throw up. “....Sorry for being a dick.”
“It’s okay, there was a lot going on,” Finney mumbled, wondering if he should look outside for flying pigs. “It was a stressful situation.”
“I don’t mean just yesterday. I meant, like, everything.”
Finney turned slowly to Matt, who sat stiff as a statue, eyes glued on the road. “You mean with…Donna?”
“Even before that.” Matt’s rambling picked up pace with the car’s increased speed. “My dad came back, and there was that thing with your mom, and then we stopped hanging out and you started being friends with Robin and—I don’t know. I took a lot of shit out on you that wasn’t your fault. I don’t know why. You might have issues, but you pull through when it counts.”
Finney was at a loss for words. The possibility of Matt ever apologizing for anything seemed so remote, he never prepared or even thought about how he’d feel or react. So he did what he did best and tried changing the topic. “Like your dad.”
Matt’s lips flickered downward. “I guess.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” Finney reminded him gently.
“Fuck.” Matt slammed a fist on the wheel, the type of reaction Finney originally expected when he first brought him up. “I say one nice thing and then you think you know my whole life story.”
This antipathy was far more familiar, and far more comfortable. “The only reason I’m saying anything is because I know what he’s going through, and I don’t think you know anyone else who does. Your dad’s trying, Matt.”
“He’s not trying to do a damn thing! He spends all day sleeping or drinking in his little hidey-hole.” Matt laughed, though there was no humor in it. “He’s this weak, hollow shell of the man I remember. I don’t even know him anymore.”
They finally reached the driveway to 7742 Meadowbrook Lane, but now that he was finally here, Finney didn’t launch himself out the car the way he expected. “He’s embarrassed, especially after everyone turned against him,” Finney explained. “He closes himself off to stop being hurt, and hurting others.” It suddenly occurred to Finney that this might apply to Matt as well. “And, um, sorry if I ever said anything bad about him, by the way.”
“You didn’t. At least, not where I could hear.” Matt’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the headrest with a hollow expression. “So…that’s going to be the rest of my life then? Sit back and watch my dad destroys himself?”
“He’s not destroying hims—”
“He is. And you said he’s not hurting people, but he’s already doing that by being so…”
Matt’s face twisted in an expression of disgust. Finney bit his lip, thinking of his own family, and the way they were suffering. His actions and the way he dealt—or, more accurately, didn’t deal—with his issues were hurting them too.
“I wish I had answers,” he mumbled, feeling almost as helpless as he did in the river. There would be no simple solution, no magic cure that could heal a heart and mind that broken. If there was, Finney would be first in line for a cure.
But he didn’t want to believe Mr. Gallagher and his family—and his own—would be doomed to misery the rest of their lives. He couldn’t. Despite all the sorrow and hardship, Finney still clung onto that tiny sliver of faith that whispered somehow, somehow, everything will work out in the end.
“But I think…the only way things can get better is if both of you are willing to try,” Finney added hesitantly. “I talked to him yesterday when I checked in with Donna, and he loves you a lot, Matt. He wants to change, and if you want things to change, then…well, I think if there’s a will, there’s a way. Just showing that you’re there for him and willing to listen means a lot. When someone’s got a lot of…stuff on their mind, it’s easy to forget about the people around you.”
It was a slightly corny speech, and Finney wasn’t fully convinced of the accuracy, especially when his own life was hanging by a thread. But instead of the mockery he expected, Matt’s eyes glazed over.. “Maybe,” he muttered
After another pause, Finney’s hands wrapped around the handle, and he creaked the car door open. “I’m going to go now. And Matt—” He hesitated. “No hard feelings, about…everything. It’s all in the past.”
Matt’s cracked a small, sad smile. “This is why Donna likes you.” He turned on the ignition and sighed. “Take care of her.”
Finney nodded. “Will do.”
As the Chevrolet Vega sputtered out of the driveway, an unfamiliar feeling swelled in Finney’s stomach. He thought of Donna and Matt, and how things changed drastically in such a small amount of time.
It took him a while to realize, with a start, that it was hope.
Chapter 32: Dandelions in the Concrete
Chapter Text
“You sure you wanna do this? Last chance to back out.”
Finney’s gaze hovered on the archway, the once-gold ‘Lincoln High’ lettering having eroded to a dull brown over the years. Aside from a rogue squirrel hopping across the pavement, the courtyard was silent and empty, which should have bolstered Finney’s confidence. But the knowledge all those pairs of eyes were clustered inside the building amped his anxiety, making him feel as though he was mere steps away from entering a den of scorpions.
“I already told you, the final’s twenty-five percent of our grade,” sighed Finney, reluctantly wrapping his fingers around the door handle. “If I fail math, it won’t look good on a college application.”
Terrence nodded begrudgingly, still clinging to the fiction that he’d somehow be able to scrounge enough money to send Finney to college. Finney was under no such illusions, yet still felt compelled to take the test anyway. Math was his second-best subject, and the idea of failing a subject he normally got A’s and B’s in because he was too chicken to come to school didn’t sit right with him.
It was a matter of pride, he realized, which surprised him. He didn’t think he had any pride left.
“Okay, Finney, you take the test,” Gwen piped up from the back seat. “Daddy, take me home and I’ll give my opinions on your job-interview outfits.”
Finney was about to remind Gwen that 7742 Meadowbrook Lane was not their home and never would be, but Terrence laughed and he didn’t want to put a damper on the mood. “Nice try, Gwennie. But these dumb tests might be the only way you pass any of your classes.”
“Hey!” she exclaimed in mock offense. “I’m passing Humanities and Gym!”
“I stand corrected,” chuckled Terrence. “And hopefully you’ll be passing more after they’re graded. You’ve been studying, right?”
“Yesssss,” she groaned. “Drill Sergeant Amy’s been whipping me into shape. I’m pretty sure I’ll get at least a D.”
Terrence rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Alright then. I think it’s about time you joined the rest of your platoon at the front lines.”
“Aye-aye, captain!”
Finney sucked in a breath and pushed the door open, the June breeze tickling his cheeks. He tried no to glance back at the AMC Gremlin chugging and sputtering out of the drop-off zone. Now there really was nowhere to run.
“You got your metaphors mixed up,” he said to Gwen, trying to catch up with his sister’s skips.
“Not if it’s a pirate army.”
“True.”
“Is it weird that I’m happy-scared right now?” she asked, twirling the ends of her brown locks. “Happy that it’s my last final, but scared for the same reason. After today there’s no more chances not to suck.”
“You don’t suck,” he said automatically as they approached the steps. “You just don’t try, except now you’re actually trying so maybe you’ll surprise yourself.”
“Maybe. Hopefully.” She stretched her arms and a mischievous smirk crossed her lips. “Orrrrrr maybe I should jump into a river and hit my head on a rock so I won’t have to take it.”
Finney groaned, but couldn’t help but smile in return. “School ends later this week. If she gets out before then and doesn’t have a concussion, she’ll probably have to take it on the last day or second-to-last day of school. Would you rather take it then or now?”
“Now. Definitely now.” She shuddered, then brightened. “I still can’t believe you did that.”
When Finney filled Gwen in on what happened, he tried to downplay his role in the rescue effort but she was able to see through him. Her joy at his ‘daring rescue’ almost came close to the amount of excitement she expressed about Donna being brought into the fold. Almost.
His stomach twisted as it often did whenever he imagined Donna joining himself and Gwen in their escapades. He couldn’t pinpoint why it made him so uncomfortable, but the thought of Donna being part of whatever this was didn’t feel right. She operated a different sphere in his life, and the thought of those boundaries being muddied, of the walls he erected between the different parts of his life collapsing and merging together made his nerves spike.
“It’s so romantic, like something out of a movie,” Gwen sighed dreamily. “Did you take your shirt off when you jumped in?”
“No. And before you ask, there was no romantic music playing in the background either.”
“Maybe there was and you couldn’t hear it over the rain.”
“It’s possible.”
They entered the main office, where the secretary wrote passes for them to take to their teachers. Her eyes lingered on Finney for longer than usual with a questioning expression, but at least she had the tact not to say anything.
Once both of them left the office, Gwen whispered a quick “Good luck” before heading off toward the wing of freshman classrooms.
Finney got the feeling she wasn’t just talking about the final.
***
“Finn. Glad you could join us.”
Mrs. Jameson experienced a stroke the previous year and despite her recovery progress, it was still sometimes difficult to determine feeling based on facial expression and tone. Finney found ambiguity more preferable than interest, and latched onto that as he tried ignoring the whispers and stares.
“Here’s my pass,” he muttered.
She adjusted her eyeglasses with a wobbly, bony hand. “Leave it on my desk and take an answer sheet from the yellow bin. I’m going over the instructions now.”
He quickly did as instructed and sat at his desk, eyes drilling into the paper.
“Stop looking at each other,” Mrs. Jameson snapped to his classmates. “This is an individual assignment!”
The instructions matched up with what Mrs. Jameson had been preparing them for during the past two months. The test was split into two sections, one to be completed without calculators, the other permitting calculator usage. All students were to write their names, work, and answers on a separate sheet of paper, and anything written on the actual test itself would not be scored. They would be taking the non-calculator part first, and once the students finished that part, they would turn it in to her and be given the calculator part of the test and use the school-provided TI-1766. When they were finished with that, they’d hand in the calculator part and the answer sheet. Periodically, she’d let them know how much time they had remaining.
“Any questions?”
Megan raised her hand. “What if we don’t finish?”
Buzz snickered. “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” he whispered, the kids around them erupting into giggles.
“Oh, shut up,” she hissed, face flushing. But her retort was drowned out by Mrs. Jameson.
“Kevin,” she barked, using Buzz’s legal name. “That type of comment is completely inappropriate. Take your things and head to the principal’s office. You’ll take the test after school with me tomorrow.”
“Oh come on, I didn’t even do anything,” whined Buzz. Megan smirked and waved mockingly as he gathered his books and left.
“Stop that,” Mrs. Jameson scolded. “And to answer your question, Megan, if you don’t finish the test before time’s up, I’ll score whatever question you completed. Hopefully all of you have been handing in enough homework so it won’t bring your grade down too much.” She looked pointedly at a few students chronically negligent with homework. “And let what just happened be a warning: I will not tolerate any nonsense or foolishness during this exam. The last thing we need is for your classmates to get distracted on one of the most important in-school tests you’ll be taking this year. Everyone clear?” The class murmured in agreement. “Good. I’ll be passing out the non-calculator section now, and you can start once you get it. Good luck.”
After receiving his exam, Finney completed the first question, and then the second. As he continued progressing through the questions, his confidence bolstered. There were only a few he had trouble with, and even then, he felt he did a good job showing his work and figured he’d at least get partial credit. He approached Mrs. Jameson’s desk to receive his calculator and exchange the test sections.
That was when things started to turn sour.
Just as before, Finney breezed through the first couple questions, the only semi-obstacle being when he sneezed and accidentally sprayed droplets hit the paper. It didn’t affect his answers, but he still tried to wipe them off the paper in embarrassment. When he reached the third——a multi-step equation——he frowned.
The number currently on the calculator was 55378. But judging by his work, it should have been a different number completely. Finney turned the calculator off and restarted the equation. But after adding more work to his answer sheet, he encountered the same problem, except with a new number: 41
He picked up the calculator and turned it around, trying to see if the batteries were dying and motion was what was causing the irregularity with the numbers. Then, his lips thinned as he read what the number looked like upside down.
hI
Hatred and fury churned within like a brewing storm. He knew it was the Grabber, even without that grating voice or annoying horned shadow. Max wouldn’t travel with him to school like a clingy virus.
Ever since Donna was taken to the hospital, Finney endured occasional, sporadic pleas begging for Finney’s forgiveness, which he promptly ignored. The Grabber didn’t do it when Gwen was around, perhaps realizing how pathetic he sounded, and Finney took full advantage of that opening by spending most of the day with her. He knew the Grabber’s false apologies would soon morph into anger and that it would be more strategic to deal with it before it became a problem. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, at least not yet. The thought was too degrading, and Finney was too incensed to think he’d make a convincing show of it anyway.
So it was from this streak of rebellion that Finney shoved the Time-Out into his locker before the final, unwilling to let any whines or pleas distract him. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and the Grabber was nothing if not determined.
He shook his head subtly, clicked the power button to erase the numbers. This time, a new set of numbers appeared. 638.
The inherent limits of the calculator made it more difficult to convey words and intent compared to the Time-Out. Finney wasn’t sure whether the Grabber intended to imply he was begging for forgiveness, or that he wanted Finney to beg. Regardless, Finney wasn’t about to entertain this. He stood up and walked over to Mrs. Jameson, saying the calculator was having issues and asking for a new one.
He was able to finally finish the third question before the antics started again.
5337
Finney assumed LEES was as close to ‘Please’ as the Grabber could get by using the calculator and ignored it, but his temper continued to bubble as he found none of the numbers he pressed showed up on the screen.
“You have twenty minutes of testing time left,” Mrs. Jameson announced to the class. “If you haven’t started the calculator section yet, I recommend doing so. Remember, it counts for half the grade.”
How could he forget?
Finney placed his pencil down, staring at Gary Stewman’s back instead of the paper. He was a thread away from losing his shit yet again, and his reputation couldn’t afford another hit. He needed to pretend to be calm, not just for his classmates, but also himself. This was yet another power play, and the only way for Finney to ‘win’ would be to not play at all.
But of course, doing that would all but ensure a poor grade. Something that the Grabber assumed, correctly, Finney cared about.
In a forced show of apathy, Finney took a page from his sister and began doodling on the test. He shaded in a border, drew S’s with sharp edges, and fucked around in general, each minute stretching excruciatingly long. His hope was that the Grabber would get bored and leave, giving him at least some time to scramble near the end of the period and finish whatever questions he could.
After eight minutes passed, Finney snatched the calculator. It had no numbers on the screen, which was a good sign. But when Finney tried pressing the power button, the screen remained blank.
Finney sighed and trudged toward Mrs. Jameson again. “You’re having some rotten luck today, aren’t you?” she chuckled, handing him a new one.
You don’t know the half of it.
Finney returned to his desk and resumed working. But a minute later, the battery died once again.
Initially, Finney thought the dead battery might have been a final ‘fuck you,’ a parting gift fri when the Grabber left in a huff. But now Finney knew his tormenter was still with him, and considered his options.
Option 1 was to reward this insanity by accepting his apology, which Finney refused to do out of principle. Option 2 involved accepting a poor grade, which would not only mess up his GPA, but also might make the Grabber feel like he ‘won.’ The only, only way Finney could see himself getting out of this was if some calamity befell the class and rendered all the tests null and void, or if something happened that would give them extra time. Like if the fire alarms went off, or–
He leaned back in his seat and suppressed a shiver at ‘fire alarms.’ No, hoping for a miracle at this point was ridiculous. He didn’t need something that extreme anyway; just something to affect his own test was all. Perhaps if Mrs. Jameson noticed his ‘tech issues’...
But when Finney went to get another calculator, his hopes faltered. Mrs. Jameson’s lips pursed as she silently handed him the calculator, and he felt her eyes drilling into him. He returned to his desk with the new calculator, this one finally turning on. But it wasn’t long before another string of numbers popped up.
5337638
Finney glared with all his might, and subtly shook his head. A new string of numbers popped up.
4915
The battery died, and it took all Finney’s willpower not to chuck it across the room.
“Finn? Is everything all right?”
There was a hint of warning in Mrs. Jameson’s voice as she peered at him from her desk, curious about the fury which was no doubt clouding his face. He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Just, um, this one died too.”
A few of his classmates tittered, and Mrs. Jameson’s eyes hardened. “Bring it here.”
He did, face reddening with embarrassment. When he handed it to her and it worked, he wanted to sink into the floor.
“This works fine,” she snapped. “Take it back to your desk and keep working. You’ve still got five minutes.”
A new string of numbers emerged once he sat at his desk.
376616
Then, the calculator died again.
Finney was fully aware he must already look as though he was being purposely disruptive, and didn’t want to be sent to the principal’s office or have his classmates think he was fishing for attention. So he did the only thing he could do: write in random answers while seething in silence.
At the end of the period, Mrs. Jameson collected their papers and supplies as the rest of the students filed out. Terrence was picking him up after the final and Finney was in no particular rush to go back to his locker and look at that stupid Time-Out.
Finney wasn’t expecting to go to college, but it was still frustrating to have his potential transcripts fucked as a result of something outside his control. His anger still must have been evident, because Mrs. Jameson hobbled her way over to his desk. “How do you think you did?”
She sounded less firm than she did previously, which was a good sign. “Not great,” he replied, though he suspected she already knew that. “I blanked on the calculator section.”
“Did you study?”
He hadn’t been able to over the past week for obvious reasons. He did, however, attempt a last-minute cram session the previous day, though it wasn’t nearly as effective as it could’ve been since Donna’s predicament occupied most of his thoughts. “Sort of.”
“If you think you did well during the first part, then that might be enough to push you into the passing range.”
Half of her lips tugged upward in a smile, while the other side remained motionless. A few assholes sometimes made fun of her behind her back, and while Finney was never bothered by her limited expression, he always wondered why she decided to keep teaching when she could have retired years ago. He couldn’t imagine anyone her age wanting to return to the trenches of teaching—at Lincoln High, of all places—and supposed it must come from an unfathomable love of the job.
Whatever her reason, it was something that took a lot of courage, and he never considered just how much until now.
The residual anger over the botched final started to fade as Mrs. Jameson continued. “It’s been a tough year, but at least it’s almost over. Are we going to see you again tomorrow?”
“...I don’t think so,” he mumbled, glancing down at his shoes.
“Then enjoy an early start to summer vacation,” she said evenly.
“There’s not really much to enjoy.” The words tumbled out before he could catch them, and he quickly added, “I don’t have any exciting plans or anything.”
“You don’t need to in order to have a good time. The only things I have on my calendar are doctor’s visits and dinner with my husband and the rest of the family for Father’s Day.”
Finney’s breath hitched. Father’s Day. He and Gwen hadn’t even started thinking about what, if anything, to do for it, and their financial situation certainly limited the possibilities. “That sounds nice.”
Could they do something that simple? Just dinner and…talking? Father’s Days in previous years for the Blakes were erratic, from going all-out when Susannah was alive to either forgetting or scrambling at the last minute in the years after her death. Finney remembered toying with the idea of doing something more special this year, as a subtle acknowledgment of their mending bond. But that thought was quickly buried underneath the heap of problems resulting from the Grabber’s sudden reappearance in Finney’s life.
“I hope so.” Mrs. Jameson glanced up at the clock. “Well, I hope you have a wonderful summer, Finn. It was a pleasure having you in class this year.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Jameson. I hope you have a good summer, too.”
But as his hands reached the doorknob, he hesitated. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of deja vu, but also couldn’t stop the question. “Actually, before I go, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Finney didn’t think she would answer the same way if she knew what he was going to ask, but no going back now…
“Is it true you were the Grabber’s teacher?”
It seemed so long ago that Finney stared in horror at that projector, enduring inane questions about how the school changed as if they were acquaintances discussing the weather instead of a former child murderer and his would-be victim. The Grabber’s offhand mention of Mrs. Jameson took a backseat to the plethora of other comments, but now that they were alone, Finney realized it would be the perfect time to ask. With her white hair, wizened skin, and frail bones and movement, she certainly looked as if she could have been teaching in the 1940s, if nothing else.
Her expression—as usual—revealed little. “One of many, yes.”
“Was he always clingy and annoying, or did that come after?”
Mrs. Jameson blinked slowly. “No.” Finney got the impression there was more she wanted to say, but was choosing her words carefully. “He was a quiet, polite boy. He had some issues with his classmates and rarely did his homework, but there was nothing…nothing that would have led me to believe he could’ve done what he did. Albert was…troubled…but not like that.”
Emboldened by the lack of Time-Out in his pocket, Finney dug the knife deeper, “So he didn’t get hit with a ball in gym class and get brain damage or something?”
“No…”
He wanted to push back against the Grabber and not make Mrs. Jameson uncomfortable, but realized he was venturing into the latter category. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I believe Mr. Garcia wanted to speak with you sometime today. I can write you a pass so you’re not late for your next class.”
Finney’s jaw clenched. He should have expected this, and mentioning the Grabber out of the blue probably reinforced everyone’s suspicions of a psychotic break. “I just came to take the final.”
“You can talk about the final with him.”
“No, I mean I’m not staying. My dad’s picking me up in five minutes.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, grateful to not feel any metal. “And there’s nothing really to talk about. It’s not like I didn’t know how to solve the problems, I just…froze up and choked.”
Mrs. Jameson nodded slowly. “I see.” Then, after a short pause, added, “Well, if you really did your best, then that’s that. One thing I’ve learned in life is that it’s better not to dwell on the negatives and accept some things are out of our control.”
“...Thanks,” he said. “Bye, Mrs. Jameson.”
“Goodbye, Finn.”
Finney slipped through the halls as quickly as possible, hearing the muffled complaints from his locker before opening it.
“—can’t believe you tried to turn my old teacher against me. Don’t you have any shame?”
It was nice while it lasted, Finney thought bitterly, stuffing the screen in his pocket. “I’m the one with no shame?”
He was glad his voice came out incredulous instead of angry, just the way he hoped. It made him feel he had some degree of control even though he knew he didn’t.
“It’s not my fault! If you brought this thing with you, it would’ve caught my feelings instead of that stupid calculator.”
Finney didn’t say anything or do anything other than slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “It’s too bad you weren’t able to finish,” the Grabber said in a tone that indicated the opposite, “but grades aren’t important, especially where we’re headed. I never did that well in school either.”
“And you turned out fine, right?”
“End of my life notwithstanding, I was definitely happier than you are. You’re Mr. Doom-and-Gloom all the time, pumpkin.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because you don’t have any confidence or self-respect?”
Finney slammed the locker shut.
“Just throwing it out there,” the Grabber hummed. “Look, I get what you were insinuating, I really do. But if you think your life would’ve been better without me, you’re wrong. You’d be scampering away like a cute little mouse, waiting for Matty and his buddies to pounce. And that other guy who lives in the house—yeesh.”
Finney rolled his eyes. “‘Other guy.’ That’s my dad.”
Which you damn well know…
“Well, if it wasn’t for me you’d still be working yourself into a tizzy, afraid of making Daddy upset. Some real nail-biters happened in the past, yeah? But now the only one you gotta care about is me.”
There were so many retorts begging for a release, but to his relief, Finney was able to keep them in. Finney learned a long time ago that struggling egged the Grabber on, and the protested, the more he liked it. So he continued walking in silence.
“Listen, kid, I didn’t want to make you sour with that whole math thing. But c’mon… how long are you expecting me to beg? The branch thing wasn’t my fault, you gotta believe me. Please.”
“Do you think I find any of this remotely attractive?”
“I don’t want things to be tense like this forever. I think we can—how did you put it?—make things not bad.”
Finney gritted his teeth at the reminder of yesterday’s fumbling, but this at least answered the question of whether or not the Grabber was listening in during his conversation with Donna.
But before Finney could decide how to respond, a blur of red, black, and blue zoomed up to him.
“Finnnnn! My man,” Danny called, thumping him on the back. Finney tensed. “Thought you’d be in the mayor’s office getting a medal or something. How long were you going to sit on that news?”
Finney’s mind screeched to a stop. He wasn’t sure what Danny was referring to, and the idea of him being so chipper after Finney snapped at him in the bathroom was jarring. In truth, he didn’t expect Danny to ever talk to him again.
Because of this, Finney couldn’t manage anything other than a confused, “What?”
“Seriously, dude? Donna,” Danny answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone’s talking about it. Matt said you jumped into a river to save her, and if he’s willing to say that, then it’s gotta be true. Or maybe it was even better. Did you give a one-liner or take your shirt off before you did it or something?”
“Wha–No. I mean, I did save her with Matt’s help, and I took my jacket off, but I don’t know if that counts.”
“It does in my book,” Danny said with forced solemnity. Then, another grin broke out on his face. “You gonna be here this week? Only three more days until school ends.”
What was he doing? Why was he acting so…so normal?
Didn’t the school hate him?
“No.” Then Finney added, impulsively yet hesitant, “Well, I might come tomorrow. Not sure.”
“Sweet,” nodded Danny. Something flickered in Danny’s eyes then, a bashful uncertainty Finney sometimes saw in the mirror, but rarely in Danny. “Even if you don’t, you can come over my place after school if you want. My uncle got me a used Intellivision last week, which sucks compared to the Atari but still has some decent-ish games on it.”
Finney’s mouth moved before his brain could stop him. “...Yeah. Sounds good.”
Danny seemed as surprised as Finney by the answer, but also pleased. “Okay, cool. See you at lunch?”
“My dad’s picking me up now. But I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”
Danny gave him the thumbs up and left. An odd sense of peace descended upon Finney as he headed in the direction of the office, even though his brain was still frantically trying to process what happened.
“Finney, you can’t come back to school,” the Grabber snapped. “Everyone’s going to make fun of you. They haven’t forgotten about what happened with Anthony, and speaking of, you don’t see him strutting around school anymore, do you? Even if they didn’t shitcan him, there’s no way he’d show his face in public ever again.”
“He came to the play,” Finney murmured.
“Woooow, one whole day. What a hero,” scoffed the Grabber. “One day isn’t a big deal. But the rest of the week? That’s too much attention for him, or anyone. And especially you, Finney. It’ll be too much for you to handle.”
Maybe. But if Mrs. Jameson was able to make it through not just one week, but a whole year, maybe he could too.
****
After much deliberation, Finney did not, in fact, finish the rest of the school week. But he did show up for a couple morning classes on Wednesday and Thursday, which was already more than he would’ve expected.
Terrence’s biggest concern was Finney admitting to the break-in, the possibility of impending legal charges still hanging over their heads like a blade. Finney specifically chose the morning classes he did because they would be more structured, leading to less potential student contact. It wasn’t perfect, and Finney did have to field a few questions, but he wasn’t derided the way he thought he would be—at least, not to his face. The newest focus seemed to be on Finney’s cinematic rescue of Donna, and those questions he was able to answer more easily, though he still sidestepped the persistent question of what Donna was doing up on that branch in the first place.
He saw Matt, and the two of them didn’t say anything to one another but at least nodded in acknowledgment. Donna’s parents called Finney from the hospital, thanking him through tears for rescuing their daughter. According to the doctors, Donna would be fine and was cleared to return to school later that week, filling Finney with a deep sense of relief.
The biggest question mark was Danny’s house. Despite his overwhelming nerves, Finney worked up the courage to go. It was initially a bit awkward, but the tension soon eased and for a little while, Finney felt like things were the way they used to be.
But things could never go back to ‘the way they were,’ something Finney was learning all too well. Danny was the one who first broached the topic of the bathroom.,
****
“Everything…cool, man?” Danny asked trepidly, placing the controller on the pillow next to him. “With, like, everything?”
Finney’s stomach twisted; he figured this question was coming but dreaded it all the same. “Between us? Yeah. Sorry I acted like an ass before.”
“It’s all good. I was just asking more if, uh, you were okay.”
Danny looked nervous, not that Finney blamed him. His eyes trailed to the pixelated soccer balls on the screen to avoid making eye contact. “Yeah, I’m f—”
It almost came out automatically, but it wasn’t the truth, and hadn’t been for some time. Yet the lie was easier to swallow, for both him and Danny.
But if that was true, then why was he having a hard time with it now?
“Things have been kind of rough,” Finney admitted tentatively, “but I’m not going to do…that. I was just stressed out and venting.”
“Oh yeah, I get that,” Danny said, nodding as he restarted the game. “Did I ever tell you about the time my sister got caught shoplifting? She was bugging out so bad my—”
****
Finney didn’t have to talk about himself for the rest of the time, thankfully. He also didn’t need to answer any questions about Mr. Clarkson, and the rest of the visit consisted of lighter topics. He felt a weight lifting when leaving Danny’s house, though he wasn’t sure why.
The Grabber wasn’t happy with his ventures outside the house, but couldn’t say much due to Finney’s newfound ‘acceptance’ of his apology. He suspected the Grabber knew his acceptance had no heart or authenticity, but it served to pacify him in the meantime so Finney didn’t care.
He wasn’t used to not caring about things, especially things related to the Grabber. But for whatever reason, Finney didn’t feel as emotionally engaged or fearful as he did in the past, even though he knew now more than ever the danger the ghost possessed. Perhaps the novelty of being haunted worn off, or perhaps because he’d already gone through the wringer with Donna, but for whatever reason, Finney didn’t feel as bound to the Grabber as he once did and was able to enjoy that lovely, liberating sensation of not giving a fuck.
Yet despite the ‘acceptance,’ the Grabber didn’t spend as much time around Finney as he thought he would. That was likely due to Max’s presence, who almost continuously buzzed around him inquiring about Donna and reminiscing about Ruth. To Finney’s annoyance, Gwen apparently visited Donna in the hospital on Tuesday to fill her in on ‘everything she missed’ since the day Finney got that fateful phone call. (“Just in case you left anything out” she not-so-helpfully told him). It was during that meeting that Gwen made the impromptu plan to have herself, Donna, and Finney meet at St. Luke’s on Saturday to discuss their ‘game plan,’ and when discussing it with Finney later, she mentioned the only thing she left out was Donna’s parentage (“Sorry Finney, but telling someone they’re actually related to a serial killer is a boyfriend’s job”).
Despite the inevitable dread of that impending conversation, Finney felt weirdly content—relatively speaking, of course. He knew it was bound to blow up soon, but for now, he'd enjoy it while it lasted.
****
On Friday, Finney slept in later than normal. Gwen was out doing something with her friends, and by the time he dragged himself to the kitchen to make some cereal, he noted with satisfaction that if he was in school, it would almost be lunch time. Living lazily would normally make him feel guilty and unproductive, but today, he didn’t care.
He heard some grunts and curses echoed down the hall, and Finney returned the spoon to the bowl as he followed the noises. They brought him to the Grabber’s old bedroom—a place Finney avoided like the plague—and it was there Finney saw Terrence attempting to yank the horrifying Saturn Devouring his Son painting from the wall.
“Finney, can you help me with this?” Terrence asked, panting as he wiped the sweat from his palms onto his jeans. “It felt loose enough yesterday, but now that I'm trying to take it off, the damn thing won’t budge.”
Finney suspected the reason had nothing to do with Terrence’s strength, but knew Terrence wouldn’t be amenable to the real reason. “I don’t know, I kind of like it,” lied Finney.
Terrence looked as though Finney sprouted a second head. “This freaky-ass muppet?”
Finney looked darkly at the bearded figure and his bulging, animated eyes. Now that Terrence mentioned it, the face did look somewhat Muppet-ish if he squinted. “Yeah. Matches the atmosphere.”
Terrence opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. A twinge of guilt tugged at Finney’s heart. If it was up to him the painting would be chucked on the sidewalk with the rest of them, but he knew he needed to pick his battles and there were far more important hills to die on than a few unsettling paintings.
“I’m going through some of the old crap left behind,” Terrence said, glancing away and rubbing the back of his head. “I piled some stuff up in the basement. You might want to go through it too, see if you want to keep anything.”
“I doubt it,” muttered Finney.
“I’ll bring them upstairs,” Terrence said quickly, making his way to the hallway
“That’s not what I—Dad, I can go downstairs. It doesn’t look the same.”
Terrence’s eyes flickered between uncertainty and hope. “...Okay.”
They reached the basement door and Finney realized, to his surprise, that he was being truthful. The biggest hurdle was the first time taking the plunge, but now that he knew what to expect, it wasn’t nearly as daunting. The presence of his father by his side helped, almost making it seem as though they weren’t heading directly into the belly of the beast.
Still, the reality that they were didn’t change, and Finney would prefer not to think of it if possible. “Are you selling this stuff to the Seventh Circle?” he asked.
The basement looked much like it did when Finney found Gwen’s body, the only difference being the pile of junk heaped atop the coffee table.
“No,” Terrence grunted. “Just a regular pawnshop.”
The memory of their prior argument was still fresh in Finney’s mind, and that was yet another hill he didn’t want to die on. “Okay.”
“It’s not what you think,” clarified Terrence. “I’m 99% sure most of the junk on that table belonged to the family that was here before us.”
Finney agreed with Terrence’s assessment that most of the items probably did not belong to the Grabber. There were quite a few toys, many of which came out fairly recently. Nerf balls, a pogo stick, Legos, a View Master, Stretch Armstrong…
“Gwen’s going to want to keep the Spirograph,” Finney commented, lifting one of the Tonka Trucks. “And this has initials on the bottom: JW.”
Terrence let out a low sigh. “Well, that just cut any value in half. Assuming it has any, that is.”
“We could probably get something for the pogo stick,” Finney said, placing the truck back on the table. “And something’s better than nothing.”
“Hopefully that ‘something’s’ gonna be more than the cost of gas getting there,” Terrence chuckled dryly.
Finney continued rifling through the pile: a baseball, three unopened Wacky Packs, two pocket combs, a GI Joe, Weebles…”Are you sure we won’t get sued if we sell these?”
“We’re clear. City Hall said the Williams were given a few different chances to come back, and they never did. Said they took everything important and never wanted to set foot in this place again. Not that I blame ‘em.”
Finney stilled as he saw what was at the bottom of the pile. “You’re getting rid of these?”
The two baseball mitts were frayed and worn, but still usable. He slipped his hand into one, biting down the sigh of contentment. How long had it been since the last time he wore one?
“I, uh, didn’t think you’d want it. Since you stopped playing and all…”
Annoyance plucked at his memory as he recalled the incessant camera flashes and raucous cheers and chanting of strangers. But he was also annoyed at someone else: himself. He didn’t have to let other people ruin his enjoyment of the game, but instead of just quitting the team, he quit completely.
“I dunno, maybe I’ll give it another shot,” mumbled Finney. “Not playing on a team, but just pitching in general..”
“That—That’s’s a good idea. Maybe we can—” Terrence gestured to the table with his chin, traces of pink appearing on his cheeks. “Well, there’s two mitts…”
Terrence didn’t come out and say it directly, but Finney understood what he was getting at. His heart skipped a beat, and swallowed, but nodded quickly. “Y-Yeah. Okay.” Then, he attempted a smirk. “If you still got it.”
Terrence laughed. “Oh, you’re on.”
They grabbed the mitts and baseball and headed outside. The sky was bright and clear with a nice breeze, lacking the heavy humidity that characterized most of the previous week. In the Smiths’ backyard, Mary beamed and waved at the pair before continuing to water her perfectly-manicured garden. Finney and Terrence waved back—the polite gesture stiff for Terrence, as usual—before getting into position.
Terrence threw the ball first, lobbing it so gently Finney would have been insulted if it happened three years ago. He caught it with ease, then pulled his arm back and returned the pitch. Finney didn’t hold back, and felt a surge of satisfaction at Terrence’s unexpected ‘oof’ as he just barely caught it.
“Nice one,” congratulated Terrence.
Finney smiled.
They continued catching and throwing for a little bit, not stopping even when Terrence broached a topic Finney hadn’t thought about for months. “So, your birthday’s coming up soon. Got anything in mind?”
“Not really.”
“What about a pet?”
Finney paused a few seconds before throwing the ball back. They couldn’t afford a pet’s upkeep, something Terrence no doubt knew. He didn’t understand why his father kept pushing the idea—first with dogs on the day of the car accident, and then now. “No. The only thing I want is to win the lottery.”
“Heh. You and me both, kid.”
Finney’s fingers twitched at the nickname, but not enough to fumble the catch. “What about you,” he asked, turning the question around. “What do you want for Father’s Day?”
Finney didn’t never knew what to get Terrence in the past besides beer, homemade cards, and ties he never wore. But like his son, Terrence wasn’t particularly forthcoming. “A job would be nice.”
“The interview didn’t pan out?” Finney inquired gently.
“Nah. Didn’t give me a reason why, but at least I got to the second round. And…well, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but Ken Yamada says he knows an opening where he works, and might put in a good word for me.”
Despite Terrence’s warning, Finney couldn’t help but get his hopes up. “I didn’t know you guys talked.”
“We’ve been talking more recently,” Terrence said evasively. “But enough about that. Let’s talk about Donna.”
Finney groaned. “There’s not much to say. We’re talking now, so that’s good.”
“You know if there’s anything you need to ask about…girls…and stuff about girls, you can ask me, right?”
Finney’s face heated. “Yes,” he said, knowing he’d rather stab his eyes with a fork than ask Terrence any questions about sex.
“And, uh—” Terrence glanced toward the Smiths’ yard; Mary had finished up a couple minutes ago, leaving Finney and Terrence alone. Nevertheless, Terrence’s voice lowered as he whispered, “You always gotta wear a condom. It might feel weird but—-”
“Dad. Stop,” Finney was seconds away from dropping the mitt and bolting into the house. “Seriously, just stop.”
“It’s important to know,” huffed Terrence. But he sensed Finney’s discomfort and asked something else. “And what’s this about a river? Gwen said Donna fell in and you helped her or something, but you know how she exaggerates…”
“She did fall in,” Finney said, grateful for the change in topic. “I helped her out, and brought her to Matt Gallagher’s house since we couldn’t get to a hospital. Nothing happened between us. I mean, we talked and made up, but nothing physical.”
“Oh.” Terrence deflated somewhat. “I thought you said–”
“We had a bad connection because of the rain,” Finney explained, winding up his pitch.
“Hmm. Makes sense.” Terrence sighed, then perked up a bit. “Well, guess that’s for the best. So when it does happen, you know what you gotta do and—oof!”
The baseball, which was originally on a trajectory towards the mitt, jerked upward and slammed Terrence in the face. The mitt dropped to the ground with a thud as Finney’s father stumbled backwards, cursing as he covered his nose.
Finney immediately rushed over. “Dad, are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Terrence said, waving him away brusquely. Finney didn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “Guess I really am outta shape.”
“Do you need to go inside for some ice?”
Terrence hesitated. “Nah, I’ll be fine.”
It was just like Terrence to forge ahead and pretend nothing was the matter, but Finney knew better. That growing redness in the center of his face didn’t look so good. “My arm’s getting sore anyway,” lied Finney. “We can do this some other time.”
Disappointment flickered in Terrence’s eyes, and hatred for the Grabber in Finney’s heart. “All right.”
Finney watched Terrence disappear into the house, but remained rooted to the spot. His mind ping-ponged between whether to confront the Grabber or not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“I don’t like it when you spend time with him.” The Grabber sounded snappish and aggravated as opposed to smug, which instinctively sent goosebumps up Finney’s skin. Taking the screen out of his pockets reinforced that, as indistinct pixelated blotches formed in and out of the screen. “He’s trying to manipulate you into liking him.”
Finney couldn’t keep the retort down this time. “I guess you’d know, since you’re the expert when it comes to that.”
“It’s not funny!” the Grabber snarled, with such intensity Finney couldn’t help but flinch. “I’m the one you belong with, not him. He’ll never love you like I do. He can’t. He’s just—he’s a liar! Everything he said was bullshit. You don’t need him, Finney. You just need me.”
The hypocrisy was staggering, but the Grabber was far too worked up to push back. Finney had seen him get like this many times in the past when he was alive. It was always safer not to engage, to remain silent and wait out the storm.
But this time, he wasn’t scared. Or if he was, it wasn’t in the same way he felt at thirteen, or even the way he felt a few weeks ago. The overall sensation of Not Caring extended to even now, and not only was it liberating, but it was also incredibly powerful.
Powerful. Like pride, Finney didn’t think he had any power left in him, either. He wondered what else was buried in there.
The Grabber was oblivious to Finney’s inner contemplations, and as Finney expected, he eventually cooled off after a minute. “Your dad wasn’t lying about the rubbers though,” he added grudgingly as Finney walked through the back door. “All it takes is one time with a girl and your life becomes completely and utterly fucked beyond belief.”
Recognizing it was safe to push a bit, Finney said, “Donna exists, so you obviously didn’t learn your lesson the first time.”
The Grabber sighed. “You’re assuming she came from my nutsack and not Max’s. But anyway, they feel weird and wrong and I don’t like wearing them. But isn’t it great we don’t need to worry about that any more?”
Yeah. ‘Great’…
****
“The way I see it, there’s only one option. We have to go to this ghost world.”
Gwen nodded while Finney stifled a groan. Ever since they arrived at the church, Gwen had been acting like everything Donna said was golden. It didn’t help that Donna did nothing to dispel the illusion, taking charge of the group like it was a school project or student council meeting. Finney knew she meant well, but she didn’t understand the full gravity of the situation. No one could without experiencing the astral plane firsthand—Finney certainly didn’t.
“Orrrrr we could wait for the exorcism and let the professionals handle it,” he said, trying not to let his frustration show. “Father Rivera’s supposed to be back next month.”
Finney glanced at Father O’Brien from the corner of his eye, who had been shooting the group curious glances periodically, but was otherwise preoccupied with a family. They timed their arrival so it was right after mass and there were a few stragglers remaining, but their hopes of blending in fell flat. Clustering and whispering in the back corner pews was bound to give off a suspicious aura.
“The Grabber’s not going to sit and wait patiently to get exorcized. He’s capable of doing a lot of damage. Finn, just look at what he did in a couple weeks.”
Finney gritted his teeth at the unintentional condescension. “I know that, but ‘taking the fight to him’ doesn’t work. Gwen tried and it turned into a disaster.”
Finney looked pointedly at his sister, who squirmed in her seat but didn’t chime in to corroborate Finney’s story like he wanted.
“I’m not saying we should confront him there,” explained Donna. “But it could be a good place to plan and gather intel. If we’re there, we can know for sure he isn’t listening in on us. Also, if time doesn’t follow a linear pattern like you say, we might be able to see things from the future that can help us. What works and what doesn’t work…stuff like that.”
“But if we see something that doesn’t work,” Gwen said, stroking an imaginary beard, “and we don’t do it, then we wouldn’t have seen it in the first place because it wouldn’t have happened. Boom! Time paradox.”
“Yeah. There’s nothing we’ve seen that shows the future can be changed,” mumbled Finney, the specter of suicide looming over him.
“Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it’s impossible,” Donna said mildly. “But even without that, it could still be valuable to go there again. There might be patterns or hints that could help us, or maybe something about the world you didn’t see the first time around. Having a third pair of eyes can be beneficial.”
“Donna, you’re underestimating that place. Gwen, tell her.”
“I dunno, Finney,” mused Gwen, twirling the edges of her pigtail. “Maybe we should bring her. It’s not fair otherwise.”
“It’s not an issue or fairness, it’s an issue of safety.”
“Believe it or not, Finn, I’m not keen on putting my life at risk again,” she said, a steel edge creeping into her tone reminding him of her recent predicament. “I’m open to other suggestions. But if we can’t guarantee he’s not listening in, it makes any plans out here pointless.”
“Aaaand that’s why Max is here!” chirped Gwen, eager to relieve the tension. She pointed at the Time-Out in Finney’s hand, pixelated spots bouncing across the screen like a rapid game of Pong. “Max, do you see the Grabber anywhere?”
“No.” Just like the last time Finey spoke to him through the Time-Out. Max’s voice was screechy and distorted (“He doesn’t sound like that on the phone or in real life,” Gwen whispered after seeing Donna’s horrified expression for the first time). “But I don’t know if he can’t come in here, or just doesn’t want to. This place isn’t really one of his usual haunts. Get it? Hahaha.”
Max’s jokes were even worse than usual, a likely result of increased nerves and anxiety from Donna’s presence. To Donna’s credit, she adapted well after some initial balking, but Max was still wound up tighter than the world’s largest yarn ball.
Gwen laughed and even Donna cracked a smile, making Finney feel like the crazy one. “But if you’re able to talk to us here, that means ghosts can enter the church,” said Donna.
“That’s because Max is a good ghost, not an evil one,” argued Gwen. “The rules don't apply.”
“Maybe. But unless the Grabber specifically comes, there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
Gwen slumped deeper into the pew. “Yeah, you’re right…”
Finney took that opportunity to stuff the Time-Out back in his pocket. Having it out in their presence always made him feel vulnerable and on edge, like simply seeing it would somehow make them realize the Grabber spoke through it often.
But he shouldn’t feel paranoid. It wasn’t really a secret, after all—he just didn’t feel a need to mention it. It was just like carrying a tiny phone in his pocket, that’s it. Not a big deal.
“Aside from Max, is there any other way we can tell?” asked Donna, drumming her fingers against the pew in thought. “I know sometimes tech starts fritzing, but that’s not a guarantee if he’s there. It’s also not guaranteed to happen if he is there.”
They both looked at Finney, who hadn’t spoken up much during the ‘planning’ session unless it was to shoot down ideas. “What about Animals?” he offered.
“Yeah, I almost forgot,” Donna nodded. “Bella freaks out and barks whenever he’s there, and even Luna gets spooked”
“They’re like Grabber-detectors! That’s so cool!” gushed Gwen. Then, she pouted. “Too bad we don’t have any pets, Finney…”
“I could bring Luna to you. Show you how to take care of her and everything...”
Despite the offer, Finney couldn't shake the feeling Donna wasn’t quite enthused with the idea. Gwen apparently picked up the same. “Thanks, Donna, but we can’t take your bunny away from you. She’ll get homesick and I know you’ll miss her…”
“It’s not just that. I mean, yes, that’s a big factor too, but I’m more concerned with how Luna would feel in that situation than I would,” explained Donna. “We’re basically forcing her to be continuously exposed to something that’ll cause distress. It doesn’t feel right to use pets as guinea pigs. No pun intended....”
“True, true,” Gwen agreed solemnly. “If only we could find an animal that doesn’t get scared…”
“Oooh oooh, I know I know!” piped Max. “What about fish or sea monkeys? Have you ever seen them afraid of anything?”
“You’re right!” Gwen gasped, wide-eyed.
Donna didn’t look as convinced. “How can you tell if a fish is scared? They swim around all the time.”
Finney tuned out Donna, Gwen, and Max’s debate on the ethics and possible outcomes of using fish, lost in his own thoughts. He agreed it would be cruel to subject any animal to continued misery. The only way it could work was if instead of fear or anxiety, the animal would feel excitement or joy from the Grabber’s presence.
A large, slobbery answer to the problem popped into Finney’s mind, and his lips thinned. No way in hell was he going to say it out loud.
But speaking up, he soon realized, would have been the better option. While Finney was mulling over the possibilities, the conversation drifted in a dangerous direction.
“I knew you’d be an animal lover!” Max gushed. He sounded more comfortable and less high-strung now, but his excitement caused him to ramble. “It’s in the blood. Everyone in the family, even my uncle who–oh, wait actually, scratch that. Your grandpa had a reeeeeal hate-on for dogs and chickens. He even—well, I’m not going to say what he did because I saw it when I was like five it was super-traumatizing. But yeah. He hated animals.”
Donna’s grin faded, and her eyebrows scrunched.
Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
Finney could practically hear the robot from Lost in Space blaring into his ear as Donna asked the dreaded follow-up question: “What do you mean ‘in the blood?’ Did you know my birth parents?”
Even Max wasn’t oblivious to the sudden change of temperature. “Er, Finney? I thought you, um, told her about her mom and me…and Al…”
Donna slowly turned to him, and he sank deeper into the pew. “Uh, n-no. I was going to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
For a few seconds, there was only silence. Theb, words vomited from Gwen and Max simultaneously.
“—So you know how Luke is Darth Vader’s kid but he’s good guy? Well you might be like that too because your dad might be the Grabber but he could also be Max and I think that’s more likely in my opinion but—”
“—eadow was hot. FLAMIN’ hot. So hot she even made a dude into little boys also into her. Not me, but Al. I mean, yes me also, but I dont like boys. Uh, not in that way. But I do like Meadow and I might be your dad but I doubt it because you’re super smart and assertive and my exes always told me I wasn’t so—“
“Wait, what?” She stood up, eyes darting between Gwen. Finney’s pocket, and Finney’s eyes. “This is a joke, right?” Her eyes lingered on Finney, expecting him to clarify. But his mouth felt dry, and his gaze turned to the stained glass. “What the fuck?!”
She said the last part loud enough that a few people from opposite ends of the church glanced over.
“It doesn’t haaaave to be true,” Max rushed to assure her. “I mean, yeah the timing’s perfect, but maybe you’re not related to us. Maybe Ruth had a secret affair with Gwen’s dad I didn’t know about—”
“Eww!” exclaimed a horrified Gwen.
“—and you and Finney were twins separated at birth or something, like Luke and Leia. That’s pro–oh. Oh, that movie didn’t come out by you yet, did it? Aww, nuts. Sorry Gwen.”
Gwen pounced on the opening for a topic change with the eagerness of a tiger. “I forgot you have exclusive ghost movie access! Tell us about what happens during the rest of the mo–”
“...I have to go,” muttered Donna. She swiftly turned and exited the church, not even waiting for a response.
‘Oh man oh man oh man,” Max whimpered. “I really fucked that up. Sorry, Finney.”
“It’s alright,” he said, though he certainly didn’t feel that way. “It’s better she hear it from you than your brother.”
“Are you going after her?” asked Gwen.
“Obviously.”
Gwen nodded in agreement. “Do you know what you’re going to say? This one’s kind of a doozy.”
“Not really, but I’ll figure something out.”
Story of my life…
****
Finney feared Donna would be out of sight by the time he exited the church, but his worries were for naught. He spotted Donna sitting on the bottom step, next to a tuft of yellow and white dandelions growing through a crack in the step’s cement. She stared out into the street, silent tears dripping down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Finn,” she whispered.
He plopped himself next to her, watching a car zoom past the speed limit. “For what? It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it,” she sniffled. “Is that why you’re so on edge today?”
Damn, he thought she wouldn’t notice. “It’s not because of that. Things just feel…different, with you knowing everything. I just need to get used to it.”
They sat in silence as the few stragglers from the church stepped past them, glancing at the pair curiously. Finney didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he could say about such shitty news. So he tried for humor, which was always a hit-or-miss. “...It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Seriously?!”
“We could be twins separated at birth like Max said. That would be worse.”
“...Maybe.” She giggled through her tears, which was the desired effect. But she quickly sobered after. “I just don’t understand how you can even look at me now.”
“It’s not hard. You’re–” He was about to say ‘easy on the eyes,’ but remembered her insecurity over her looks. “Donna, it doesn’t affect how I see you. I fell in love before I knew about it—before I even met him. And trust me, you and him couldn’t be any more different.”
He couldn't deny the Grabber’s words sometimes got under his skin, making him wonder if his feelings for her really were a byproduct of subconscious feelings for him warped by past experience. But today his mind was unusually clear, unbound from the chains of anxiety and paranoia, and he was able to see what Gwen saw. Finney knew what he just told Donna was the truth, and felt ridiculous for ever considering otherwise.
“So it could be him or…Max? And no one knows?”
“I don’t think so…”
“I wonder if my m—” Her eyes widened, and she whitened. “Finn, did my parents know about this?”
“Yes,” he murmured, a pit in his stomach widening as rage clouded her face.
“Sonuvabitch,” she swore, clenching her nails in her palms.
“It’s why they were against us being together. I spoke with your mom on Saturday about it. She said she was friends with Ruth but she didn’t know who your real dad—”
“Sperm donor,” Donna spat. “I will never, ever think of either of them–no offense to Max–-in that way. I already have a real dad.”
“You’re right. Sorry,” Finney said quickly.
“I believe they’d keep this from me,” she whispered, knuckles whitening as they clenched the fabric of her skirt. “I trusted them.”
“You still should,” said Finney. “They kept the secret to protect her, like how you protected me, and I protected you.”
“And that ended up being a major bust,” she said flatly. “Not saying something made everything worse.”
“But we didn’t know that at the time, and neither did they.”
“I guess,” muttered Donna, wiping a tear with the palm of her hand. There was another lull of silence, broken only by birds chirping and some nearby boys playing. “No wonder they were so concerned about me freaking out. It’s in the blood…”
“Yeah, but no one knows about the Grabber’s power but us. People say he was crazy and maybe he was, but not in the way people think. He wasn’t insane. He…” It was hard to sift through his thoughts and put them into words, even not fully sure where he was going with this. “He planned things out. He didn’t see or hear things that actually weren’t there, and the ghosts he did hear didn’t drive him to do any of this. That was separate from what he did. He knew what he was doing and made all those choices anyway. But you make good choices.”
“Pfft. I think we already established that I don't.”
“You make choices that don’t involve killing people,” he amended.
“True.”
Another long pause. “So, when did you find out about me and the Grabber?”
“It could be you and Max,” Finney reminded her. “But I just found out last week, I think. Everything’s been kind of a blur. But I was in the ghost world and saw Ruth and she–well, she looks a lot like you. Even if the Grabber didn’t say anything I think I would’ve figured it out.”
“He said something?” she repeated, eyes hardening. “So he knows I’m related to him, and still did and said the things he did.” She hissed in frustration, “I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but…jeez. What a psycho.”
“Not sure if this makes things better or worse, but he killed his last two relatives. You got off easy.”
“Mhmm. If I ended up drowning it would’ve been a hat trick.” Then, she frowned. “Wait…I know he killed Max. And the second is…who? The girl from the news—Samantha or something? How were they related?”
“Cynthia. And I–I probably shouldn’t have said anything. There’s no proof he did anything and he never came out and said he did.”
“How were they related?” she repeated, and he knew he wasn’t getting out of this one.
“She was his daughter.” Then, he rushed on to say, “But like I said, zero proof. And, uh, I saw her in the ghost world on the same visit I saw Ruth. She seemed nice, too. Nice and normal and not murder-y.”
Donna twisted the stem of one of the nearby dandelions in thought. “Finn, I’m going to try to get into the astral plane. You don’t need to come with me, but—”
“If you’re going, I’m going.” It was a forgone conclusion; he knew it the moment Finney realized she was serious about going. “But you have to know—and I know I said this before, but—it’s dangerous. Like, really, really dangerous. I went with Gwen and we made all these preparations and they ended up being completely useless.”
“I know. And I appreciate it..”
They sat in silence for a while, cars continuing to zip by. A brush of wind caused some of the white seed heads to scatter and rift lazily through the wind, and Finney looked down at the tuft again. The dandelions were a mixture of yellow sunbursts and gray gossamer orbs, persistently poking through the crack. . It was pretty impressive, Finney thought, that they were able to grow in such adverse conditions. Though trapped in concrete, they still reached for the sun.
“I never got why these were considered weeds,” Finney said, gesturing to the dandelions. “They’re really pretty.”
‘Pretty?’ Ugh, he sounded lame. But Donna didn’t care, like always. “Weeds are weeds not because of how they look, but how they grow,” she explained. “They keep coming back no
matter how many times they get plucked, and they grow in places normal plants shouldn’t. Like these guys over here.” She pointed to the cluster of dandelions.
“My mom used to tell me if you blow all the seeds away and make a wish, it’ll come true,” Finney reminisced.
Donna smiled and plucked two of the white ones, handing one to Finney. “C’mon. Let’s give it a try.”
Susannah’s ‘magic’ had about as much a chance of being real as the Tooth Fairy—something both of them knew—but Finney was willing to play along if it meant seeing Donna happy.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. There were several potential wishes fluttering through his thoughts, but only one—in this moment—felt right.
“Okay,” he said. “Count of three?”
“Yep. One, two, three!”
Finney opened his eyes and blew, breath and the breeze carrying the scattered seeds on their new journey. Nothing left on the stem—Susannah would be proud.
“What’s you wish for?” asked Donna. Her stem was empty, just like his.
“Can’t say, otherwise it won’t come true.”
“Fair enough.” He leaned over and kissed his cheek. “That’s one secret I’ll let slide.”
Chapter 33: The Spiral
Notes:
The only slang term in this chapter that might be unfamiliar to modern readers is the phrase "it's a gas." It was slang in the 60s-70s that means having a fun, enjoyable time.
Chapter Text
“I know why you’re doing this.”
Gwen stilled, fingers whitening around the pillow. She forced a laugh and placed it atop the possibly excessive heap of blankets. “What? Making our sleep warm and comfy instead of cold and cement-y?”
Finney folded his arms. “No, Being all gung-ho about the incredibly dangerous and life-threatening astral projection that we know will make things worse instead of better?”
“We don't know that for sure.” At Finney’s incredulous expression, she sighed and threw the rest of the sheets down. “Look, this is the third time I’m doing this. I’ve got experience. Plus, we’ll have Max.”
“We had him last time too, and that turned out so well.”
Gwen grimaced and huffed over to the couch, sitting opposite Finney. “No one’s forcing you to do this, Finney.”
“You are, because I’m not about to let you put yourself and Donna at risk because you feel guilty about something that’s not your fault.”
“But it is my fault.” Tears sprang into Gwen’s eyes. “If I didn’t talk to the Grabber on that stupid phone, then he never would’ve known Donna’s mom was pregnant and he never would have killed her. She would have grown up knowing her mom and—and—”
“There’s no telling that life would have been better,” Finney said gently. “Donna’s happy with the parents she has now. Her birth mom seemed kind of…flighty.”
“That doesn’t mean she deserved to die!”
Gwen was right, of course. Both about Meadow, and how the Grabber wouldn’t have known about Donna’s birth without Gwen. And despite his attempts to alleviate her guilt, he felt it was an important cautionary tale to remember about the dangers of interfering with powers beyond their imagining.
But, nevertheless….
“You didn’t control his body and force him to stab her to death. You just told him Donna was born. That’s it. That’s just giving information. Just because it led to something bad doesn’t mean it was your fault, especially since you didn’t know it would happen. Just like you didn’t know going to Susie’s would lead to me getting kidnapped. I don’t blame you, and I doubt Donna would blame you either, so stop blaming yourself about stuff that’s not your fault, alright?”
She wiped a tear and sniffled. “No offense, but it’s hard to buy into that spiel when it’s coming from you. You’re the king of beating yourself up over stuff that’s not your fault.”
“That’s…fair,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong about this.”
“If I work on it, then you gotta work on it. Promise?” She stuck out her pinky.
A half-smile graced Finney’s lips. A pinky promise. Wow.
Talk about a blast from the past…
Finney linked his pinky with hers. “Promise.” Then, he pulled it back, smile fading. “But Gwen…you know if something happens to Donna, you’ll feel even worse, right?”
“I know,” she murmured, shoulders sagging. “But she’s going to do it no matter what. Us going with her would be better than her trying alone.”
“She might not be able to do it on her own,” argued Finney.
“But she might. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
Good point…
The chime of the doorbell twisted Finney’s stomach into knots. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered.
“We can try to convince her not to go,” Gwen said as she jogged up the steps. “It’s not too late.”
It only took one look at Donna to see it clearly was. She came as overprepared as Gwen was underprepared during the first astral projection, lugging a large, overstuffed backpack as she entered the house.
“Thanks, Finn,” she panted as Finney took the bag from her and onto his own shoulders. He tried to suppress a wince.
“What are you carrying in here, bowling balls?” he half-joked.
She didn’t answer immediately, eyes trailing over the rest of his home. He recalled this was the first time she laid eyes inside the infamous Shaw House, and was struck with the sudden realization that, at some point, he ceased thinking of it as just the Shaw House and also started viewing it as his house.
That elicited several mixed emotions: horror, guilt, grief, resignation, and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
Was it…relief?
That’s what it sort of felt like, though he couldn’t understand for the life of him why. If anything, it should be the opposite. Viewing the place of his captivity as home signaled he could never really escape. He was adapting to it—there was no denying that anymore. But was that something to feel happy about?
Before he could figure out something to say to address the elephant in the room, Donna replied, “Just some essentials. Ropes, a pocket knife, alarm clocks, scented candles, a few books about spirits—”
“—a few?!” he echoed in disbelief.
“—a record player and some records that are supposed to get us into ‘the zone.’ I couldn’t decide whether to buy traditional religious hymns or esoteric hippie music, so I bought both.”
Gwen blinked like a fourth grader dropped into a calculus class. “Why do we need rope and a pocket knife?”
“We’ll use the rope to wrap around ourselves. I know you tried yarn before, but rope’s sturdier, and even if physics don’t work the same way, we’ll think it’s sturdier. And if my theories are correct, that’s all we need to increase our chances of success. Same with the pocket knife. We might not be able to actually kill anyone, but if we need to we can do some damage. Just in case.”
Gwen laughed weakly. “Sounds like you’re got everything figured out. So I guess, uh, you're pretty dead set on doing this still?”
“Absolutely. And there’s nothing anyone can say to talk me out of it.”
She looked at Finney pointedly, who sighed. “It’s still a bad idea.”
“Reallllly? I had no idea you felt that way,” she drawled. Then, turning to Gwen, she smiled. “C’mon, let’s head downstairs.”
****
“What’s this?” asked Gwen, holding up a white envelope with ‘To Whom It May Concern’ scribbled in Donna’s neat penmanship.
Donna stopped staring google-eyed at the rest of the basement and continued helping Finney and Gwen lay the rest of the backpack’s contents on the floor. There was even more in the backpack than Donna initially revealed, like a container of salt, crystals and quartzes, miniature animal totems, and—most surprisingly—a small bag of marijuana tucked into one of the inner pouches. He wasn’t sure if it was to ‘unlock their minds’ and prepare for astral projection, or simply a way to cope from this month of hell. But either way, he knew Gwen wouldn’t be able to act maturely about it and decided to leave it until Donna took it out. Luckily, the envelope captured Gwen’s attention.
“It’s a note to whoever finds us,” Donna replied nonchalantly, placing the crystals around the blankets. “So probably your dad. Basically, it says to keep our bodies preserved for as long as possible in case we don’t wake up within a few days. Otherwise we’d wake up in a coffin buried alive, and that would really suck.”
Finney and Gwen exchanged looks of horror. They never considered that possibility, and Finney truly, truly hoped that wasn’t what actually ended up happening to the Theosophists.
Donna, oblivious to the terror she unleashed, asked, “I’m assuming the Grabber knows about our plan by now. Has he been bothering you?”
“Weirdly, no.” Finney admitted, not sure if the news should make him relieved or worried.
The Grabber had been moody and more sporadic in his communications before stopping completely the day before Father’s Day. Finney wasn’t sure if it was because he was still sour over Finney’s nonchalance toward him, or if it was a sensitive time of year due to his baggage with his own father and daughters. But even after the holiday passed, Max was the only ghost making their presence known.
“I haven’t heard from him in a few days,” continued Finney. “What about you?”
“Nothing, thank God. I spent my entire Father’s Day bracing for the worst, but all I heard was crickets. I did here from Max, but that’s—” She snapped her mouth shut. “Well, that’s different.”
‘Different’ was putting it charitably, if Max’s account was any indication. He seemed to be under the impression him and Finney were bros for some reason and spent the over an hour that night moaning and lamenting through the Time-Out about how he acted ‘like a total spaz’ when he tried to say hi to Donna during Father’s Day and ‘didn’t get the hint’ she didn’t want him there. He rambled in his characteristic way to her and continued digging a deeper and deeper hole until he finally fled in shame to Meadowbrook where he regaled Finney with the sad, sorry tale.
Finney listened politely, but couldn't shake his annoyance at another crazy, supernatural end to what could have been a surprisingly good day. Finney and Gwen didn’t do anything particularly special beyond watching a couple old Westerns playing on TV that Terrence loved. It felt a bit stilted at first; they watched a lot of television as a family when Susannah was alive, but the only times he could remember in its wake were a few painfully-awkward occasions when Terrence tried to make things feel ‘back to normal’ after Finney’s kidnapping. This time didn’t feel as uncomfortable as back then, and after getting sucked into the movie he barely felt it at all.
Another boon to Finney’s mood was the trip to Frozen Swirls. Finney was, for once, grateful that his father gave him some spending money, and decided—after much hemming and hawing—to head there in order to purchase a small ice cream cake for the family to eat later that night. He scrambled through the basement boxes in hopes of finding a disguise, reluctantly settling on a smushed San Francisco Giants baseball cap (of all the baseball caps from all the teams in all the world, the Williams had to pick this one…) and tinted aviator sunglasses. They weren’t ‘the’ glasses—this pair was a dark gray instead of brown—but they looked similar enough to incite a familiar twist in his gut, despite knowing logically they were probably left over by another tenant instead of actually belonging to Albert Shaw. Apparel would have fallen under the type of personal effects the city purged before listing the house for sale, he assumed, and which man over the age thirty besides his dad didn’t own at least one pair of aviator glasses?
Still, they felt heavy on the bridge of his nose and contributed to his unease as he made the trek to Frozen Swirls. Lisa Johnson was working that shift, popping bubbles and filing her nails as she walked in, and Finney fought the urge to chide her for gum chewing and doing anything nail-related so close to the product. Naturally, she recognized him despite his attempt to deepen his voice, and to his surprise she actually seemed happy to see him. As she wrote ‘Happy Father’s Day’ on the cake with icing, she lamented how much things ‘totally sucked’ without him working here, shared some workplace gossip, and asked about Donna. The only Mr. Clarkson-related question was a general ‘Is everything okay?’ And when she asked it, she seemed to genuinely mean it. Finney didn’t consider the possibility his coworkers actually cared about what was going on in his life and assumed they hated him like the rest of the town. Seeing something that indicated his assumptions might have been off put a slight bounce in his step during the walk home.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Donna’s mention of Max reminded Finney of how the last astral projection was botched from the start, and needed to ensure that wouldn’t be the case this time.
“Max,” Finney called, “are you there?”
Finney’s Time-Out beeped, and he pushed down the instinctive surge of panic which lessened when he heard Max’s warbled voice. “Y-Yup! Ready for action!”
“And you're sure you don’t see the Grabber anywhere?” prodded Gwen.
“Nope.”
“What about anything weird?” asked Finney. “I mean, weirder than normal….”
There were a few seconds of staticy silence before Max responded. “So I told you about the house being bigger than normal, right? So, uh, that’s still happening. But aside from that, everything seems good to go.”
Max mentioned the size fluctuations offhandedly during his crying session, but Max didn’t seem to think that made the house any more dangerous. And while Finney learned over the years to never be optimistic, he couldn’t help but hope the larger size might work in their favor, giving them more space to run around and escape when things inevitably went south.
“Looks like there’s nothing stopping us then,” Donna chirped.
Finney’s shoulders sagged. “Guess not.”
****
The scented candles, ‘relaxing’ music, and bulkiness of the rope made it take much longer for Finney to astral project than he did last time, along with general anxiety over Donna’s safety and his realization surrounding his new home. Still, he ended up being the first one to do so, and reluctantly high-fived Max as he surveyed the area, cringing as he noticed the Grabber's damn silver bracelet on his arm once more.
“It doesn’t look bigger,” observed Finney, quickly pulling his sleeve down over it. If anything, his surroundings looked identical to the cluttered basement of 1981 he just left, save for a few bloody handprints and scratches on the walls and door.
“It might not look it, but I swear on my mom's grave that it is. Here, lemme give you a boost so you can see.”
Max stood at the bottom of the window and cupped his hands, jutting his chin up to the small window. Finney glanced back at Gwen and Donna, still sleeping below. Like Donna predicted, the rope extended while he walked, and he didn’t feel it grow taut as he approached the window and placed a foot in Max’s palms.
Max lifted him up, and when Finney finally peered outside, he stumbled back and careened to the ground. His body didn’t hurt the way it might in the living world, but even if it did Finney wasn’t sure he’d feel it. His mind fired on all cylinders, his mouth opening and closing as he looked at Max.
“Told you it was bigger,” Max said smugly, folding his arms.
“You said it was bigger,” Finney wheezed. “You didn’t say it’d look like we’re on top a fucking beanstalk.”
Finney really, really hoped Donna didn’t have vertigo.
When he first peered out the window, all he saw was mist. Glancing down, Finney felt his stomach churn, and he didn’t even have a fear of heights. It looked as if there were hundreds of 42 Meadowbrook Lanes, stacked haphazardly on top of one another in a spiraling staircase that coiled down to the rest of the darkened world, which now looked as tiny as a toy village beneath a Christmas tree. What made it even more frightening was the black smoke-like tendrils weaving around the spiral, attaching to the exterior and sending waves of dark purple rippling through the siding like water.
“Wait, what?”
Finney’s head jerked to Gwen’s direction. His sister stood up and stretched, and Finney’s eyes immediately went to the communion medallion hanging over her neck, one he just realized he possessed as well. They had been transformed into solid metal instead of cheap plastic, with the dove carving looking more like the ancient talisman of protection Gwen wanted it to be instead of something mass-produced at a factory to be sold for less than a dollar.
They didn’t put the earthly counterparts on before the astral projection, and Finney gave up the logic in trying to find out why they were on now.
“Nothing. The outside looks weird, that’s all.”
Gwen’s eyes gleamed. “I wanna see!”
She bounded over to Max, chatting with him over something-or-other while Finney’s gaze drifted to Donna. What was taking so long for her to get here?
A sudden, rumbling growl immediately snapped Finney into action, bracing himself as his hair stood on end. It sounded like—
—Samson—
—a dog, coming from outside the window. Gwen shrieked and tumbled down just as Finney did.
“Did you hear that? That–that boar sound?” she whimpered, knees wobbling as she stood up again. “I think it’s right outside. I think that black stuff’s it or a part of it and it’s bending all over the house or houses or whatever and we really need to leave.”
“Yeah. Agreed,” Finney said, nodding furiously. This was the best-case scenario, returning to their bodies before Donna even arrived.
But Max looked at the pair with pleading eyes. “You sure? I think it’ll be fine. It’s been like this for a while now and it hasn’t bothered me. You know what it reminds me of? One of those cops chilling out in the car waiting for people speeding. Maybe—” He laughed nervously. “Hey, maybe we can get it a donut or something so it won’t bother us. Wouldn’t that be something? A donut for some weird, creepy, smoke monster thingy? I think that’d be swel—”
For once, Gwen’s patience for nonsense seemed to match Finney’s. “The Minotaur might not bother you because you’re supposed to be here, but Finney and I aren’t actual ghosts and this isn’t our first time here. It’s probably got our scent or something.”
“I don’t think it even has a nose, so—”
A sharp crackling sound chilled Finney to the bone. His heart lurched as glanced at the window, which now had jagged cracks spreading like a spiderweb. Another loud growl.
Finney swallowed. “We have to go n—”
“—two-hundred-and-fifty-nine sheep, two-hundred-and-sixty-sheep, two-hundred-and-sixty-one sheep—oh. Oh wait, is this it? I’m here?”
Fuck. Fuuuuuck.
Donna gaped in amazement at her unconscious self beneath her, and pressed her palm to where her heart would normally be. “Ohmygodohmygod. It actually worked!”
She beamed at Finney, laughing at his expression. “You don’t have to look so nervous! With all the precautions we took, I doubt—” Her eyes latched onto a section of wall closest to the door. “Wait, is that a handprint?”
She rushed over to the wall, and Finney finally found his voice. “Donna, get back to your body! We need to lea—”
The glass shattered.
Black smoke pooled into the room like a dust storm, and a sharp ringing pierced through his ears despite the howling and whooshing of winds and whatever else was coming through.
“We have to run!” Finney shouted, though he could no longer hear his own voice. He sprinted to Donna and pulled her up through the door, waiting for a few seconds that seemed to stretch like an eternity for Gwen and Max to come through as well. He locked it as they sprinted up the steps, only for his stomach to plummet as the door snapped from its hinges and the cacophony increased in intensity. Donna yanked the knob at the top of the steps open and they rushed through before slamming the door behind them.
Except they weren’t in the kitchen like Finney anticipated. Instead, they were on a descending staircase which led to the basement again, only this time it looked similar to how it did when Finney saw the younger Max and Uncle Eddie. But definitely not identical—shelves were toppled over and items scattered to the floor shattered and broken, with certain areas cratered in as if the basement withstood an explosion.
With no exits beyond the one they just came out of, there was only one thing to do.
“We need to form a barricade,” he ordered, pulling the small bookshelf to the base of the steps. Donna, Gwen, and Max sprung into action, and their efficiency would have made Finney proud if he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that this would all be for naught.
“Uh, Finney…” Max stammered from the other side of the room, freezing as he peered over the side of the cot he was moving.
“Just keep moving,” snapped Finney, piling more of the heavy carpets. “Don’t stop.”
Eventually they piled enough objects that it looked like a trash heap. The four braced themselves and gathered closer together, waiting.
But nothing happened. They didn’t hear any growling, feel any trembles, or see the pile shake as force pushed violently against the door.
Gwen was the first one to voice what no one else had the courage to. “Do you think it’s gone?”
Finney waited a few moments before answering. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Wow.” Max laughed shakily. “I guess, uh, I was totally wrong about it not going after us. Hi, Donna.” He gave a small wave.
“...Hi,” she muttered, then turned back to Finney. Despite a paler countenance and rattled expression, she was—Finney thought—handling her close brush with presumed death better than he did. “I’m guessing that was the monster.”
“What gave it away?”
It had the desired effect of making the corner of her lip flicker upward, even if just for a moment. “You didn’t mention it’d be raining so hard. I didn’t think this place could even have rain. If we ever go outside, we’re going to need umbrellas or jackets or something.”
Finney didn’t hear any rain, and assumed it was her perception of the monster. But either way, it was irrelevant. “We’re not going outside, because we’re going back to the living world ASAP.”
Finney expected her to argue, but Donna wasn’t as pigheaded as he was when he came to the astral world for the first time. “...Okay,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly. “How do we get back?”
Ohthankfuck.
Hearing she was willing to abort the mission lifted a huge weight from his chest, and Gwen’s face mirrored the same relief. The only one who seemed put out was Max, but even he knew enough not to say anything.
“I think the simplest way would be to go back to our bodies, so that’s what we should try first. But I’m not sure going back the way we came is a good idea…”
“Where are we, anyway?” Donna asked, peering around. “It looks like this place was bombed or something, but that should be impossible…”
‘Impossible.’ Under different circumstances, Finney might have found that word endearing. Nothing was ever impossible here.
Though Donna directed the question to Finney, Max answered before he could. “It’s still the same basement. My uncle moved in after our dad died, and he turned it into a fallout shelter after Al moved out. Not sure why it looks like it’s been bombed though. Pretty whacked, right?”
“Is there another way out besides the door?”
“No, that would kinda defeat the whole—oh! Oh wait, I almost forgot. When I moved the cot I found something underneath it. C’mere!”
He waved the group over and pointed to the area by the wall where the cot used to be. There was an inky black hole on the cement floor, spanning a couple feet in each direction, with no bottom or end in sight.
“Ta-da!” exclaimed Max, gesturing to the hole with an innocently insensitive magician’s flourish.
Finney, Gwen, and Donna said nothing, but Donna took a can of spam from the ground and dropped it into the hole. They didn’t hear a clank.
“Who wants to jump down the creepy, endless hole first?” Gwen asked with forced cheer.
“Wait,” cautioned Finney. “Maybe we should try going back up the stairs. We know it leads to our bodies, and if we don’t hear the monster now then maybe it’s gone. We can get to our bodies before it comes back.”
“That’s the thing though: we don’t know it’ll lead us there. Remember last time we were here? Sometimes the doors were completely random. And since now it looks like a fucking tower—”
“What do you mean?” Donna interjected.
Gwen briefly explained the alien geometry she saw outside the window, Donna twirled the bottom strands of her hair in contemplation. “When we first woke up here, we took a door that leads upstairs, so that means we’re above where we were,” she concluded. “If we take the stairs up again, that means we’re two floors away from where we need to be. Going into the hole should theoretically bring us back to where we were.”
“You’re trying to use logic in a place that has none,” Finney argued. “Jumping into that hole could lead us to, like, the school or something, or straight to the monster. I’m not jumping into a random endless hole while there’s a perfectly good door right there.”
He went back to the pile and started tossing items to the side while Gwen, Donna, and Max continued to debate amongst themselves. This continued until the pile was about a quarter of the way down, when he began to hear a low, distant rumbling. He stilled for a moment to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him before sprinting back to the rest of the group.
“Never mind,” he muttered, pushing his legs into the inky abyss. “Hole it is.”
****
Finney was right; it didn’t lead them to their bodies. But neither he, nor anyone else, could have anticipated what happened next.
They weren’t in a basement, or even—Finney assumed—42 Meadowbrook Lane. They were in what looked to be a gilded palace, with golden halls that stretched in all directions and white sculptures of different animals adorning the pillars. Lavish chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling of angels and saints flitting amongst the clouds, Classical strings and violin echoed throughout the hall, distant yet omnipresent.
“Whaaaaat?” A Cheshire grin broke out on Gwen’s face. “Hmm, looks like going into the hole was the right choice after all. This place is slammin’! Are we in Europe or something?”
Max picked up the can of spam from the ground and chuckled. “Heh, could you imagine eating this here? These rich folks probably eat, like, pheasant or something.”
Finney continued gazing upward at the painting, noticing for the first time a gray smiling devil leering down at him from behind the cloud. Finney suppressed a shudder. “I think we’re still inside the house.”
“We can’t be,” said Donna, gently touching the nose of one of the sculpted cats. “This architecture and music indicates the Baroque period. That was before America became a—eek!”
Three heads snapped in Donna’s direction. She pointed a trembling finger to the left hall and whimpered, “I saw something! It looked like a…like a tiny, green man running down that hall. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I swear it’s true!”
It did sound ridiculous, even for this place. But Donna was never the type of person who’d exaggerate or make things up, and Finney knew she had to have to have seen something.
Gwen threw back her head and cackled. “Little green men! Hahaha. Wow. I did not put aliens on my ‘crazy shit that’s happened to me’ bingo card.”
Max, on the other hand, looked considerably more nervous. “Oh man. Ohmanohmanohman. This reminds me of that summer when me, Meadow, and the rest of the gang camped out in New Mexico. I swear to Christ, after I fell asleep those little green bastards abducted me and took me on their spaceship. And no, it wasn’t the peyotes! I didn't take that much.”
“It wasn’t an alien!” Donna insisted, face flushing. “It didn’t have that giant alien head. It looked human-shaped, just smaller and flatter and square-er.”
“I still wanna see it!” Gwen said gleefully.
She skipped into the hall, ignoring Finney’s protests. The rest had no choice but to follow, and Finney didn’t know if it was a good or bad sign that the music grew louder with each passing step.
The hallway led to an ornate silver table decorated with teacups and saucers. A young girl of around five or six sat at the head of the table, wearing a poofy dress that made her look like a miniature Cinderella, with a silver crown to match. But that paled in comparison to what sat in the other chairs.
Various stuffed animals—a rabbit, a basset hound, a bear, a squirrel, a lamb, a zebra, and a mouse—moved their arms and legs mechanically in silent pantomime of tea party guests. With eyes of beads, it wasn’t possible to tell what—if any—emotions lay behind them, but it was obvious their movements went beyond the scope of what a toy can do.
“Possessed toys,” Gwen whimpered, earlier enthusiasm drained completely. “Why’d it have to be possessed toys?”
Finney remembered how she hid behind the couch years ago when Twilight Zone with the talking doll aired. “We don’t know they’re possessed.”
“They’re moving! Inanimate objects aren’t supposed to move!”
“Hello?” Donna called to the girl, waving a hand in front of her face. “Can you hear us?”
The girl glanced in Donna’s direction, but clearly didn’t see her. Instead, she turned back to the party. But that was enough for Donna to bubble with excitement. “I think she knows we’re here? Hello?”
This time, the girl didn’t do anything to acknowledge Donna's presence. Donna’s shoulders slumped. “Who is she?”
“Cindy.”
Max crossed his arms and leaned his back against the painted wall, looking at his niece with a pained expression. It was then that Finney noticed a small, painted green man—Gumby— looking very out of place amongst the Baroque landscape as he peeked out from behind the tree of the painting, yellow mouth molded into a permanent grin.
“I say, Mr. Bunny,” Cynthia continued, in a clumsy impression of a British accent. “How are your stocks today?”
She leaned over and grasped the head of the stuffed rabbit. It stilled once she did, and the voice that emitted was that of an old British gentleman overlaid with her own voice. “Quite well, old chap. I made a bazillion dollars and spent five billion on fun dip, and an extra katrillion on peppermint patties.”
Cynthia let go of the rabbit, allowing it to resume its motions as she grasped the white cat sitting across from Mr. Bunny. “Egads!” Just as before, the voice of an older British woman mingled with her five-year old self. “You’re not spending money right. You need to save it all in the bank because we need at least fifty million for our child’s future. Right, child?”
Cynthia scooted out of her seat and grabbed the stuffed lamb. “Baaaa!” After placing it down and rushing back to her seat, Cynthia clarified to the parents, “That means yes.”
She grasped the cat, who added haughtily, “Besides, you need to take me on that bridal shower to Hawaii! You promised! You need to buy me that instead of spending money on freda–frivoly—frivolness?”
Cynthia gave up and grasped the bunny. “I can spend it on whatever I want!” he snapped, voice dropping to an American accent. One that sounded younger and uncannily familiar. “I make the damn money around here.”
Cynthia’s nose scrunched in distaste. “You stop. You stop now,” she commanded.
The bunny replied, back in the older, British accent, “I’m sorry, old sport. I get so angry sometimes and I can’t help it. Do you still love me, Mrs. Fluffy?”
Cynthia grasped the cat. “Of course, Mr. Bunny,” she gasped. “I loooooooooove you. Let’s smooch.”
She shook the rabbit in excitement. “Yipee!” he exclaimed. After smushing the rabbit and cat’s faces together multiple times like cymbals, she made the rabbit say, “Let’s go to our engagement party!”
Cynthia threw both toys to the end of the table and grabbed the basset hound to start a different scenario.
“Hello?” Donna said, louder than before. The girl stilled, confusion clouding her features briefly before continuing the tea party antics. Donna’s eyes sparkled.
“You saw that, right? She definitely senses us. We just need to figure out a better way to communicate.”
“Ehhh, I’d rather we not,” winced Max, standing straighter. “Let her enjoy being a kid.”
But Donna wouldn’t budge. “If she could hear us, we can warn her about the Grabber. Or maybe we can get her to put him on the phone, and then let him know what happens so he’ll want to change it. This is before he’s really far gone, right?”
“Trying to interfere can make things worse,” Finney said evenly, feeling Gwen shift uncomfortably next to him. “Max is right. We should just move on.”
“I’m not going to just walk away without trying something! She’s going to die, Finney.”
Finney wasn’t sure Donna realized her voice was at a yell. His hackles rose, though his tone remained neutral when he said, “I know, and it’s horrible. Obviously. But it’s physically impossible to change the past, Donna. If we changed it then we wouldn’t be here now to change it. It’d be one of those time paradoxes.”
“Or it could lead to some kind of split reality or alternate timeline,” Donna stubbornly insisted. “Even if we don’t get to experience it, all that matters is some version of her will—”
Donna’s mouth snapped shut as a distant creaking sound echoed throughout the halls—wait, is this room smaller than before?—and a warbled, indecipherable droning sound similar to Charlie Brown’s teacher boomed throughout the room. The lights in the chandeliers flickered, and for a brief moment, Finney could see the reality underlying the grandiloquent walls.
They were still in the basement, the stocked shelves and overall aesthetic reminiscent of Uncle Eddie’s makeshift fallout shelter of the 1950s. The stuffed animals were droopy and lifeless, sporting the usual wear and tear of a well-loved toy. The grand table was Fischer-Price, with plastic replacing the fine china. A paper crown sat lopsided atop her frizzled hair, her cotton dress with chocolate stains a far cry from princess regalia.
Cynthia pouted. “Okay, Uncle Eddie.”
The slam of an unseen door returned the palace to full view. As Cynthia continued babbling to the zebra, Donna turned to Gwen and said, “What do you think, Gwen? Are you with me on this?”
Gwen froze like a deer in the headlights. “Uh…”
“If she’s actually in the basement right now, we can use the phone.” Donna hurried to where the phone was in the living world: near the back of the room. In this world, however, the only thing there was the painting of a large apple tree. “Cynthia? CYNTHIA? HELLO?!”
Her shouts eventually yielded a faint, distant ringing, and a crack began to emerge in the bark of the tree. Cynthia frowned and looked back. Donna’s shouts grew louder, and eventually the bark crumbled, revealing the phone stuffed inside like the woman in the Wych Elm.
Finney’s growing trepidation matched Donna’s widening grin as Cynthia stepped tentatively toward the phone, reaching on tiptoes to clumsily grab the base and bring it to her ear. “Hello? This is the Uncle Eddie Shaw res’nance speaking. Who’re you?”
Despite it being her plan, Donna seemed a bit taken aback by Cynthia actually answering. “Um, I’m–”
“I mean, ‘may I ask who’s talking?’ Hi.”
“I’m…” Donna looked to Gwen and Finney in a monetary panic.
‘Carol,’ whispered Gwen.
“Carol. Is your father there?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, can you put your father on, please?”
“Okie-dokey. DADDY, THERE’S A—”
“—waitdon’thang—”
“PHONE CALL FOR YOUUUUUUUUU!”
“—up.”
But it was too late. Cynthia already clinked the phone back on the base before skipping up the stairs. Closing the door led to a complete pitch-black that sent Finney's mind into a panic and made the girls shriek.
“I’m here!” he heard Max proclaim valiantly. “Donna, don’t worry! I’m still here.”
The door creaked open once more, and a sliver of light illuminated the basement steps of Finney’s memory. Albert Shaw descended slowly, a dimly-lit clarity of their surroundings returning with each step. He was maskless and looked much younger than Finney remembered, though it was somewhat offset by haggard expression, bloodshot eyes, and stiff, dazed steps as he stumbled towards the black phone resting in the rotten center of the painted tree, which now looked barren, gnarled, and identical to the one outside 41 Meadowbrook Lane. Albert eyed the phone fearfully, a visible lump rising in his throat as he tentatively lifted it closer to his ear. He paid no attention to the string of tree sap by his fingers as he quavered, “...Cindy? Cindy, is that you?”
Now that Donna actually had the Grabber on the phone like she wanted, she seemed frozen on the spot and couldn’t formulate the words. Finney wasn’t sure if it was because of the stark contrast between the miserable man in front of them and the smug ghost from their nightmares, or if the gravity of calling someone through time became too overwhelming. She looked pleadingly at Finney and Gwen.
Say nothing, he mouthed. But Gwen shuffled over and stood closer to the phone. “Nope.”
For the first time since he descended the stairs, a spark of life sprang into Albert’s eyes. “Carol?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s Carol?” Max whispered to Finney.
“Later,” he muttered, not liking the hope flickering in Albert’s eyes one bit.
“Thank God,” exhaled Albert, his relief matching Gwen’s growing horror. “I—I need help. Like you did before. Please, just—just tell me what I should do. She’s dead and I—I—”
Seeing a grown man—this grown man, especially—break down in sobs was rattling, both for him and the girls. The only one not shaken was Max. His eyes hardened uncharacteristically, fingers curling as he watched his brother’s hunched form. Finney glanced down at his shoes, stilling as he realized the shimmering, golden palace floor had rusted into a brownish-orange. He looked up, startled, allowing a greater view of the world around him.
They were in what Finney recognized as the basement’s general layout: same stairs, same size, same shape of the room. That unfortunate reality had melded with Cynthia’s dreamscape, creating a sad, small mix between the two that had, perhaps, twisted Cynthia’s dreamscape into something out of a nightmare. Jagged cracks spread throughout the Baroque architecture, rot and rust having easily overtaken its former splendor. Through the dimmed light of broken chandeliers, Finney could make out the faded paintings once decorating the expanse of the walls. Demons had overtaken the former images of joy, angels, and peace, slaying lambs and reveling in debauchery.
What Finney found most unsettling was the table. A murky, sludge-like substance filled the tea cups, and the table was chipped and rusted like the rest of the room. The animals sat slumped and inanimate like they did in the living world. But in the living world, the animals didn’t look as torn and dejected as they did now. In the living world, Finney didn’t see bits of bone beneath the cotton interior.
He redirected his attention to Gwen, who quickly regained her composure. “You killed your own child.”
It was a statement, not a question. Albert wringed the cord around his hands and swallowed. “I—I didn’t have a choice!”
“That’s bullshit!” snarled Gwen. “There’s always a choice. Why’d you do it?”
“…I don’t know,” he admitted weakly. “I thought I knew, but now everything feels confusing.”
“What’s confusing is you thinking I’m going to be your personal shrink. Here’s some advice: Get your ass to the precinct ASAP.”
The wounded expression seemed to incense Gwen even more. “I thought you wanted to help me. That’s why you called last time.”
“I don’t want to help you!” she cried. “I’m never going to call you again! You’re sick in the head.”
“Gwen, just stop,” Finney whispered sharply. “You getting on his ass isn’t helping. Let’s get out of here.”
Albert’s eyes misted in a way that might have elicited sympathy if he was literally anyone else. “I guess I am. You know what I thought when it happened? ‘I’m finally free.’ That’s pretty sick, right?”
Gwen’s eyes latched onto Finney, and her slumped shoulders indicated his words got to her, albeit reluctantly. “Yeah,” she agreed, “but if you go to the cops, you can still make things right.”
Albert wiped his face with his arm and frowned. “I don’t want to go to prison.”
“She didn’t want to die,” Gwen countered, voice rising once more.
“I think she did, deep down,” nodded Albert. “She was suffering. It wasn’t my fault.”
Those words shook off Finney’s fragile grip on Gwen. “It’s never your fault,” she spat. “It’s always someone else’s. Always someone who can’t fight back, like your literal five-year old child.”
“Five?” Albert giggled, demeanor shifting like a summer storm. The heaviness in his eyes vanished, replaced with a light, shallow confidence. “She just turned fourteen. So many years wasted…ah, well. At least now I can do whatever I want. I’ve got all the time in the world…”
When Albert returned the phone to its base, the chandeliers flickered, and he was gone.
“I never knew,” croaked Max, finally breaking the silence. “I didn’t think—Cindy—I just didn’t think he’d do it. Killing random kids was one thing, but Cindy? Fuck. I-I didn’t think he had it in him. I never suspected…” His bottom lip wobbled, and Finney thought they might be about to witness another adult breakdown. Then, Max’s eyes hardened and he let out a cry of frustration as he kicked the legs of a chair in frustration.
“He fooled everyone,” Finney said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “There’s no use beating yourself up over it.”
“But I was his brother. I should’ve known…”
Donna’s lips pursed at Max's self-flagellation, but he chose not to say anything. Instead, she turned to Gwen and said, “Sorry I put you on the spot like that. I wasn’t prepared for…that…and froze. I’m really sorry, Gwen.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Gwen mumbled. “That call was useless. I couldn’t get him to do the right thing.”
Finney couldn’t keep quiet on the matter any longer. “Yeah, no shit. That’s because you came at him aggressively even though I told you not to. The Grabber needs to feel like he’s always in control and gets defensive really easily. The only way you can get him to do anything is if you play to his feelings and make it seem like the whole thing’s his idea. Stop trying to contact him, Gwen. It’s just going to keep making you miserable.”
The partial catharsis was quickly replaced by embarrassment at his outburst. But Gwen only tugged the ends of her hair thoughtfully, which was—he supposed—better than that painted, sympathetic look she’d often give him whenever he started mentioning the Grabber. “...Maybe you should say something to him, Finney,” she suggested. “You know him the best, even more than Max.”
He was so stunned by the suggestion, it took him a few seconds to formulate a response. “You don’t think I’ve talked to him enough?”
Shockingly, Gwen didn’t back down. “I’m not talking about the Grabber we know, I’m talking about Kid-Grabber. This one was far too gone, but if we get him before every screw came loose—”
“No.”
Donna came to the rescue. “Finney shouldn’t have to talk to him if he doesn’t want to,” she mediated. “But I think it’s good to keep what he said in mind. That way, when we have the opportunity we can reach him in the most effective way.”
“There’s no ‘reaching him.’” Why is this so hard to understand? “There’s not going to be any split timelines or alternate universes. You can’t change the past. That’s what this whole world keeps showing us again and again and again. You both need to accept that.”
“I disagree,” Donna said stubbornly. “Look, I’m not a super-religious or spiritual type of person or anything. But from what you’ve described and the small bits I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on in the background that we just can’t see. We know ‘moving on’ is a thing, and theologically speaking, that concept usually involves some form of higher power. And I don’t know if it’s because this place is actually alive or if it just responds to our thoughts or if it’s designed to be some kind of purgatory state, but I just can’t believe everything here is completely random. I want to believe there’s a method to the madness, that at least some parts are connected to a greater good or purpose, because if it’s not, then that means God—or whatever Godlike entity exists—is a sadistic bastard that likes taunting people with horrifying things they can’t change, and I really, really don’t want that to be true. No offense, Gwen.”
But Gwen didn’t seem to be engaged in conversation anymore, instead fixated in horror at the dead stuffed animals at the table.
“Maybe God just really likes Nightmare on Elm Street,” Max suggested.
“I think you’re viewing it wrong,” Finney argued, ignoring Max’s indecipherable nonsense. “First, I don’t think there has to be a God in order for this place—or even spirits or souls— to exist. Maybe there is, but I don’t think we should treat it like a guarantee. And second, it’s not really taunting, it’s just…showing us reality. We’re seeing the past, which—yeah, it usually sucks—but we need to know some of these things to move forward. Accepting it doesn’t automatically mean giving up.”
Robin’s tear-stained face in the basement flitted into Finney’s mind, and he stood up a bit straighter. Before Donna could respond, Gwen tugged at the dusted tablecloth and gasped. “Guys! Come over here?”
They peered under the table and saw the source of Gwen’s surprise: underneath the table was another large hole, similar to the one they entered into.
“Nope,” Finney said, pushing the tablecloth down. He pointed up at the stairs Albert entered from. “This time, we try it my way.”
****
Finney regretted his decision.
He regretted it immensely.
The first thing they had the misfortune of seeing once they reached the kitchen was a maskless Albert Shaw once again, only this time with the longer hair Finney was familiar with, and untamed stubble peppered over his chin. What’s worse was the pretty brunette in a mod dress, looking in her early twenties or even possibly even her late teens, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck as she lifted one foot in the air. Albert smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes.
“This is unfair,” lamented Max. “I’m with Finney, there isn’t a God.”
“I didn’t say there isn’t, I just said there might n—”
“—I mean, just look at her! She looks like Raquel Welch! So fucking unfair…”
Donna’s nose scrunched as Albert and the mystery girl began making out. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
But they didn’t leave fast enough. The girl breathed, “Oh yes. Oh, Daddy…”
Albert immediately pulled away, looking as almost appalled as Finney, Gwen, and Donna did.
“OH MY GOD I WANT TO UNHEAR THAT!” shrieked Gwen.
Donna yanked the doorknob hard. “It’s locked,” she groaned. “Is there a key anywhere?”
“What the fuck, Anna?” Albert said, frowning.
Anna blinked innocently as the unwilling spectators searched the kitchen frantically. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I don’t want to hear that depraved shit.”
Finney bit his lip, a snarky retort begging for release despite knowing Anna and Albert wouldn’t be able to hear it.
She placed a hand on her hip, eyes narrowing. “You’re accusing me of being depraved? Really? And no offense, but why else would I want to come here? Last time was hardly a gas. Your age is the only thing you’ve got going for you, mister.”
Gwen snickered. “You go girl!”
Finney wasn’t nearly as amused, knowing full well the danger she stepped in. But Albert didn’t lash out the way Finney thought he would, blinking slowly as if unsure to be impressed or offended by Anna’s frankness. “I’m thirty-four.”
Anna visibly recoiled. “Jesus, you do not look good for your age. I thought you were in your fifties. Mid-forties, at least.”
“That’s because I’m going through some shit now,” he defended.
“Everyone’s going through some shit, but that doesn’t mean everyone starts looking and dressing like a hobo. Where’s your razor? We’re going to fix this.” She patted his stubble shadow, and he reluctantly gestured his head towards the hallway that led to the bathroom.
“I can’t find a key,” complained Gwen. She placed a jar of canned tomatoes back on the shelf, right next to a line of ants that were trailing down to the counter.
“Looks like you gotta head my way, Gwennie.”
The group reluctantly followed the Grabber’s voice to the living room. He sat on the couch, feet kicked up lazily onto the coffee table, one arm spread on top the back of the couch. The only mask present was the blank bottom piece. His eyes were glued to television in front of him, some kind of sitcom Finney didn’t recognize.
“Anna was a good kid,” he said, without sparing them a second glance. “She didn’t deserve to get murdered by some needy, insecure ex-boyfriend with control issues.”
He shook his head in disgust without the slightest hint of irony.
“...Al?” murmured Max. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Max closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. For the first time since they began the astral projection, blood began trickling down the back of his head. “You killed Cindy,” he said, voice cracking. “You actually did it.”
Whenever Finney broached the question in the past, the Grabber acted snappish and defensive. There was no sign of that now.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck,” Max hissed. The Grabber continued staring distantly at the television. “Did I ever really know you?”
“Probably not.”
Finney followed the Grabber’s line of vision as another burst of canned laughter emitted from the TV. Though he didn’t realize it at first, Finney did, in fact, recognize the characters on the screen—and the setting, too. His stomach churned as Amanda huffed and leaned back on the same sofa the Grabber was currently sitting on. Brittany bounced down next to her and giggled.
“Our house isn’t haunted, okay? If it was, we would've seen something by now. You’ve got to chillax.”
“‘Do you hear how they talk?’” the Grabber hissed. “Christ, I’m glad I died before I had to witness this cultural degradation in real-time. I thought people were fucking stupid when I was alive, but it gets worse with each decade.”
“—or when my iPod fell off the table?”
“You left it right on the edge!” More canned laughter. “What did you expect would happen? C’mon, sis. There’s no such thing as ghosts…”
“And they’re liars too,” the Grabber said, clenching the fabric of the couch. His eyes narrowed, and the girls in the television gasped. The television the sisters were looking at was located in the same spot as the one in 1981, though it was a different type—larger and flatter, with no antenna protruding from the top. But it apparently worked the same way, and the Grabber’s ire from the spectral world caused the television in their world to short-circuit before shutting off completely.
“Okay,” breathed Amanda, eyes practically bulging from their sockets. “That was definitely a ghost. You can’t tell me it wasn’t.”
“The timing was sketch,” Brittany admitted, “but that doesn’t mean it’s definitely a ghost. It could be just a coinc–”
“There’s a ghost?”
The girls turned to see a young boy with a bad case of bed head yawning and rubbing his eyes as he stood at the entrance to the living room in his pajamas. Max hissed in annoyance. “That’s the little bastard who threw up on my bed!”
“There’s no ghost,” Amanda said quickly, clicking the remote. For a brief second Finney feared it would show himself and the other spectral observers on the screen, but instead it shows what Finney assumed to be an actual show about office workers. “We’re talking about something on TV.”
“That doesn’t look like a ghost movie,” the boy observed.
“Because we changed the channel,” Brittany said quickly.
But the boy wasn’t convinced. He brought his thumb below his bottom lip and started rocking back and forth. “What if it’s the Grabber’s ghost?” he whimpered. “Or one of the kids he killed? Or that other guy?”
Finney’s blood ran cold. It wasn’t the first time he heard about the death of someone other than the Grabber and his victims, but it was the first he heard the gender confirmed as male.
Without meaning to, Finney’s eyes met the Grabber’s. He could usually tell what emotions the Grabber was feeling whenever he took off the top part of the mask, but not this time. His tormenter broke the silent exchange and looked back at the television, which showed Amanda lifting the remote again.
“There’s no ghost,” she sighed. “C’mon. Time to get you to bed.”
When she clicked the remote, the television in the spectral realm turned off as well.
“People still talk about me,” the Grabber said smugly, “even in the year…whenever it’s fashionable to dress like a painted whore.”
‘Our names are going to be linked forever, like the handcuffs I use in my magic acts. Whenever they hear your name, they’re going to think of me. Whenever they think of me, they’re going to think of you and all the other naughty boys who can’t follow simple directions.’
Finney gritted his teeth at the memory. “Let’s keep going,” he said to the rest of the group, pointing to the front door.
“I wouldn’t,” the Grabber giggled. “It’s right outside. You don’t want it to notice you, do you?”
Finney’s gaze trailed to the blinds, which were drawn shut. “There’s nothing there,” Finney declared, trying to sound more certain than he felt. He’d been burned too many times taking the Grabber’s words at face value, and wouldn’t put it past the man to do whatever he could to keep him housebound.
At least, that would normally be the case. But for whatever reason, the Grabber had been oddly distant with him during the entirety of the encounter, which sent Finney’s mind spiraling into overdrive. What was going on in that twisted head of his?
The Grabber shrugged. “Don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.”
The possibility the Grabber was telling the truth was enough to deter him from that, and Finney’s hesitation was enough for that smugness to return to the Grabber’s eye. Irritation sparked in Finney, but he wasn’t going to let his ego put Gwen and Donna’s life at risk.
“Let’s explore the rest of this floor,” Finney instructed the girls. “We might be able to come back through one of the paintings. That’s what happened the last two times.”
Gwen’s eyes darted to the Grabber, but she nodded grudgingly. “Okay.”
“Have fun, kiddos.” The Grabber returned to looking at that blank television.
“And you’re going to let us walk around.” It came out like a flat statement instead of the question Finney intended.
“Yeah.”
The ‘why?’ danced on the tip of his tongue, but he knew engaging with crazy always led to worse outcomes. Gwen, on the other hand, didn’t have such qualms.
“Why? You follow Finney everywhere like gum stuck on the bottom of his shoes. And now you expect us to believe you’ll leave him alone? Yeah, right.”
“Believe it or not, missy, I still have a teensy bit of self-respect. I’m tired of baring my heart again and again, only to keep getting spit on. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m not going to keep chasing after people who don’t want me.”
Finney squinted, but the Grabber’s expression was still too difficult to decipher.
If something sounded too good to be true, it usually was. Assuming he wasn’t bullshitting, what could have prompted the sudden change? And if that was the case, then why was the Grabber still here?
“What self-respect?” Gwen snorted. “You’re a grown man wearing a Halloween costume when it’s not Halloween.”
“Finney, get rid of her or I will,” the Grabber said, eyes still glued to the television.
“We’re both leaving,” Finney said quickly. “Come on, Gwen.”
Before his sister grudgingly moved towards the hall, the Grabber couldn’t resist one final dig. “The three of you look really dumb with that rope.”
Gwen stopped. “You look really dumb all the time.”
“Alright, let’s keep going,” snapped Finney.
But it was only when he felt the rope go taut that he realized Donna hadn’t moved. She hadn’t spoken since they first noticed the Grabber in the living room, but judging from the smoldering fire in her eyes, it wasn’t for lack of things to say.
Finney’s heart sank; he knew where this was going.
“You’re sick,” Donna spat, waves of righteous indignation emanating from every pore, voice trembling with emotion. “A horrible, sick, evil man. Everyone who comes in contact with you is worse off for it.”
That, at least, got a brief glance. “Are you finished?”
“No,” she snapped. “I thought seeing you face-to-face would let me see…something. I don’t know what. Something that shows me there might be an actual person behind the mask. But you’re just a hollow shell of a person who wouldn’t know real love if it hit you in the face. If you didn’t try to kill me and get off on my boyfriend’s pain, I might actually feel sorry for you.”
Now Finney had no trouble discerning the Grabber’s emotions. He hurried to Donna’s side and instinctively placed himself between the two. Max had the same idea. “What the hell is this, a kind of cry for attention?” the Grabber snarled, standing up. “You’re upset about the branch, is that it? No matter how you’re related to me, if I killed my own brother and my own daughter why do you think you’d get a pass, huh?”
“Lay off,” Max warned.
“Or what?” the Grabber mocked, getting closer. “You’ll bleed on me?”
Donna shook her head, the anger seemingly drained from her. “What happened in your life to make you think this is okay?” she whispered. “Please don’t tell me this is genetic.”
“Finney, that’s two people now who keep bothering me. I think I’m being very generous by not slicing their necks open like Griffin’s. Don’t you agree?”
Gwen joined himself and Max in front of Donna, slamming one fist into the opposite palm. “There’s four of us and one of you. I think we can take you on.”
“And I think if you do, it’ll turn out even worse than last time, especially since our little friends are waiting outside. It’d be a shame if I opened the door and let them in.”
The Grabber sighed theatrically, and Finney’s brows furrowed. “Them?”
He rolled his eyes. “That…thing that’s chasing you.”
“Finney was right, it’s not outside,” Gwen asserted. “You’re just making shit up. I say we start pounding. Donna, you still got that pocket knife?”
“Yup.” Her hand slid to the right pocket of her jeans.
“We’re not attacking anyone,” Finney shouted, desperate to de-escalate. “We’re going to look at the paintings, like I said. And he’s going to let us, like he said.”
The tension in the air was thick and palpable. Then, after a few seconds, the Grabber returned to his seat and shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”
If Finney could breathe, he would have given a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
He hurt his pride to thank the Grabber for anything, but Finney was perhaps the only one who knew how bad things could have gotten, and how rare it was for him to let anything go. But the Grabber didn’t acknowledge his words, instead turning back to the television. Finney fought off a stirring of annoyance.
He wasn’t stupid enough to believe the Grabber genuinely wanted to stop chasing after him, at least not this abruptly. The obsession was too deeply entwined with his psychology. So what game was he playing now?
“Do you know the way out?” Finney asked, hoping to get something out of him.
“Nope.” The Grabber turned on the television. Vertigo was playing, because of course it was.
“If the painting thing doesn’t work, then we should keep going down or up until we find your bodies again,” Max said happily.
From the corner of his eyes, Finney spotted Donna closing her eyes in frustration, the silent count-to-five he’d seen her do so many times before. “That’s…a good idea, Max.” What the hell else did he think they would do? “Let’s get going.”
“Actually, Max, I think you should stay here,” said Donna.
Max’s eyes widened. “But you guys need someone to help you get through here.”
“Finney and Gwen did this before. And if you stay here, you can make sure your brother doesn’t follow us.”
The Grabber stuck up his middle finger but did not look back from his seat. Max blinked his puppy-dog eyes at Gwen, who bit her lip but was looking at Finney to make the final decision.
The logic behind keeping Max with the Grabber was sound, but Finney didn’t think that was the reason Donna wanted him away. It wasn’t fair to Max, but Donna was already starting to move down the hall by this point and Finney didn’t want to escalate this into a bigger problem. “We appreciate it, Max.”
Disappointment and uncertainty flooded Gwen’s eyes. “And when we get back, we’ll let you know how it went,” she assured.
Max’s shoulders slumped. “O-Okay…”
They turned and began to leave, but not before hearing the Grabber snicker. “It sucks not being wanted, doesn’t it?”
Gwen scowled, but before she could shoot another retort to defend Max, Finney subtly shook his head. She grumbled and veered into her bedroom to follow Donna, but before Finney did the same, he hesitated by the doorframe.
It could possibly be a result of being a chronic overthinker, but Finney couldn’t help but wonder if that comment about not being wanted had a double meaning directed at him. If being clingy, jealous, and possessive didn’t work, then perhaps the Grabber was trying to match Finney’s energy under the warped delusion that ‘playing hard to get’ would make Finney forget the litany of reasons he wanted nothing to do with his former captor.
Though he told himself he wouldn’t, his eyes wandered back to the living room. The Grabber was talking to Max about something, not sparing so much as a glance in Finney’s direction.
He was leaving Finney alone. This was a good thing.
But it was also entirely unfamiliar, and Finney couldn’t shake a sense of the quiet discomfort as he stepped into the bedroom.
Chapter 34: Colossal Cave
Notes:
Be advised this chapter contains a few scenes depicting claustrophobia.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“The picture changed.”
Gwen pointed to the spot on the wall that once belonged to The Persistence of Memory. In its place was an untitled painting of a dirt road leading to a small brick building surrounded by forest. In the distance, a small stream flowed out of a gully.
Finney glanced towards the bed. “Donna, do you know what it’s called?”
Despite being the first to enter, Donna hadn’t done anything besides sit on the bed and scowl. Finney knew they needed to talk about what happened, but was hoping that was a conversation they could push off until they returned to the living world
Donna shifted her gaze to the painting. “No, I’ve never seen it before, but—“ Confusion clouded her features. “Something about it seems familiar.”
That sounds vaguely ominous, but Finney forced himself to be optimistic. “Put your hand against it. Maybe it can bring you home.”
When Donna tried to no avail, Gwen started pushing her bed to the side. “There’s one under the bed. That’s what I used to get out of here the first—aww, shit.”
This one had also changed. Instead of a young woman sprawled on a field, this new, unfamiliar brunette lay with her back arched in the midst of slumber, unaware of the gray demons leering down at her from the bedside.
“That’s one of Salvatore Viganò’s,” Donna replied immediately. The Dream of Countess Marguerite of Flanders. I feel the symbolism is pretty obvious, given where we are. ”
Finney brought his hand to the girl and, when that didn’t work, reluctantly pressed it against the demons. “Still nothing.”
“Let’s see if the others changed.” Gwen pranced out of the room before he could even respond. “Oooo, it did!”
Finney peeked into his bedroom and groaned. The new picture featured a man in black looking at his reflection in a mirror, only to see nothing but the back of his head. “This one’s even creepier than the one at home.”
“At least this one’s another Margritte. Not to Be Reproduced,” informed Donna.
“There’s also another one in the back of the closet, right?” Gwen asked. She scampered over and yanked the door open before waiting for a response. “Eww.” Gwen stuck up her middle finger for good measure, and curiosity compelled Finney forward. Much like the picture in his closet in the living world, this one also was an advertisement for a magic act: ‘The Amazing Al: Enter a World of Wonder and Enchantment.’ It featured the Grabber decked in more traditional magician’s regalia, with the white face paint and shaded glasses that long haunted his memory. The Amazing Al grinned as he pulled a string of smiling paper dolls from a top hat, red smoke billowing from its interior. Small devils sat on his shoulders, whispering into his ears.
Finney shuddered.
“He totally ripped off his poster design from the one in your closet,” declared Gwen. “Okay. Four down, one more to go.”
Given the creepiness of its earthly counterpart, Finney expected the new painting in Terrence’s room to either match or exceed it. But once again, he found himself surprised.
There wasn’t a painting at all. In its place stood a door, several feet above floor level and roughly the same dimensions of the painting, with an ancient bronze knob protruding from the side. Donna’s eyes sparkled with interest. “I’m assuming this door doesn’t exist in the living world, right?”
“Right,” confirmed Finney. “Well, I guess it could. Dad hasn’t been able to move the painting that’s normally there.”
“But a painting wouldn’t be able to stick to the wall with that knob, unless the Grabber chopped it off for some reason,” said Gwen. “And I don’t see why he would do that. Then, again, he’s crazy as fuck, soooo…maybe?”
Donna shook her head. “If it exists in our world, the police definitely found it when they were combing for evidence. But I don’t remember hearing about it, and ‘secret passages behind paintings’ is too juicy a detail for the press to ignore. If it does exist and wasn’t reported, then there’s probably nothing substantial. Maybe an extra place for storage, or a crawlspace or something.”
“Welp, a door’s a door.” Gwen yanked it open before Finney could stop her. The insides led to a small, vent-like tunnel. Finney couldn’t make out the end—if there even was one.
“I’m going in,” she announced.
“No, you’re not.” This time, Finney was able to grab Gwen’s arm before she scampered off. “Let’s head back to the kitchen and see if the door’s unlocked. Maybe we can break it down or something.”
“Finney, we have the rope attached. I’m not going to get lost.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. Gwen, don’t you see how this can be dangerous?”
“Everything’s dangerous here, and this might be our best shot at getting back to our bodies. Besides, if I go into the crawlspace, I’ll be going deeper into the house. If the monster’s outside, wouldn’t that make me safer?”
“Gwen, since you’re in the middle of the rope it might be difficult to maneuver,” Donna said, pulling a chair closer to the passage. “I’ll go in first.”
“Donna, st–”
But it was too late. Donna already stepped onto the chair and pushed herself into passage. For several nerve-wracking seconds, Finney and Gwen waited. Then, faintly in the distance, they heard Donna call to them. “I’m at the other end. It opens to a bigger room that looks like the inside of a well house. There’s also some kind of weird…shrine? I think? Or an altar to something. I don’t know, but there’s a lot of symbols I don’t recognize on the walls.”
Warning bells blared louder than an earthquake. “Donna, get out of there.”
“There’s also these stone steps below it. And there’s mist coming out of it.”
“Does any of that sound like a good sign?”
“Hey, it might be,” shrugged Gwen. “You know how crazy things can get here. Maybe the mist is, like, the boundary between worlds or something.”
Gwen hoisted herself up past a protesting Finney and crawled her way through the small tunnel. Cursing under his breath, Finney followed.
Both Donna and Gwen were smaller than him and didn’t give a heads-up about how suffocating the passage would feel. He crawled through on his knees, inching his way down, feeling the walls pressing in on all sides of him and praying he wouldn’t get stuck. For once he felt grateful he couldn’t breathe, because he believed there was a good chance he’d hyperventilate from the claustrophobia that periodically seized him, and needed to stop a few times to mentally calm himself from the panic.
He hated feeling trapped. Hated it.
The sudden innate desire for freedom spurred him to wiggle through the final stretch, where he tumbled through the exit.
“‘Weird’ was underselling it,” muttered Finney, glancing around the room. The same black, murky liquid from the teacups filled the crumbling stone well. Through the faint, white wisps drifting from a pit below, Finney could discern the stony steps leading downward. The well seemed lodged into the large altar, two things smushed together that shouldn’t be. Faded, painted images of suns and planets decorated the red altar, along with the symbol Donna mentioned, which extended to not only the table on the altar, also the wooden walls. There had to be thousands of etchings of that symbol: a snake circling two overlapping triangles, one upside down. What looked like an Egyptian ankh nestled in between, and there were two smaller parts above the snake that Finney had to step closer to see.
“I know that symbol!” squealed Gwen, pointing at the walls. “That’s the seal of the Theosophists.”
“Why is there a freaking swastika above the snake?”
“Okay, yeah, it aged poorly,” Gwen winced. “But it’s not meant to be a Nazi thing since this was before they even existed. The swastika had a lot of different meanings in different cultures. Good luck, something with sun positions, and a deeper state of consciousness.”
“What about the symbol on top of it?” asked Donna. “The one that looks like a three?”
As Gwen straightened her back with a newfound sense of importance, Finney noticed some objects that initially went overlooked—a rusted pail of murky water, vegetables on a small table to the side with ants crawling over them, and a bronze lamp near the steps. “That’s the Om. It’s supposed to represent the source and essence of the entire universe.”
“Cool.”
“Let’s not touch the creepy altar,” Finney said, picking up the lamp. “We need to decide where we’re going from here.”
“That should be obvious, right?” Gwen pointed to the steps. The wisps retreated a few inches as she did.
“Finn should have the final say,” Donna conceded, glancing at him. “If you really don’t want to go, we can try heading back.”
The thought of returning to the passage made him sick. “Let’s go down.”
Gwen pumped her fist in the air. “All right! I hope we end up in another castle. Or get teleported backstage to a Blondie concert. That’d be groovy.”
****
It wasn’t either.
“A cave?” exclaimed Gwen. Finney held the map higher. She looked right and left up and down and back again, only to be met with the same expanse of stalagmite. “This sucks ass.”
The passage was roughly as narrow as the one leading to the well house, though this, at least, had the added benefit of not pressing down on his head. Their path seemed to weave in accordance with a small crack above their heads, and Finney prayed the ceiling wouldn’t cave in on them.
“I don’t get why it’s a cave though,” said Finney, desperate to take his mind away from the precariousness of their situation. “I know one of the theories was that the Grabber used the forest or cave system to get rid of the bodies, but that ended up being bunk.”
“I think it’s my fault,” mumbled Donna. She told them about her trip to the library and Colossal Cave, a game he tried for about ten minutes before getting confused and giving up.
“The lamp, the picture of the farmhouse, the mist…it’s all part of the game. If the palace was a reflection of Cynthia’s mind, this might be a reflection of my own.”
“Orrrr maybe this world isn’t based on your memories of Colossal Cave,” Gwen suggested, stroking an imaginary beard. “Maybe Colossal Cave itself is a Jungian archetype made physical by the game developers. Dun dun duuuuuun. Plot twist.”
Finney stared. “Okay, you could definitely get an A in Humanities if you wanted to.”
Gwen sighed. “Yeah, but doing the homework takes soooo long.”
“The answers are literally in the book, usually the first sentence under the section heading. It takes ten minutes, max.”
The lamp flickered, and Donna moaned and brought a hand to her forehead. “Flashlights! Damn it, I knew I forgot something. If that lamp goes out, we’re in trouble.”
“Maybe those wispy things double as lights,” said Gwen.
“Hopefully we won’t need to find out.”
The amber light revealed another set of stone steps, with more white mist. Descending thm didn’t take the group out of the cave, but it did bring them out of the narrow passage and into a large area that was much less claustrophobic. More wisps bobbed around them, and another stone staircase leading downward stood off to the side. A slight, cold breeze caused goosebumps to prickle his skin, though he couldn’t identify its source.
“I wonder how many caves we’ll have to go through before we go somewhere cool,” complained Gwen.”
“‘Cool?’” echoed Finney in disbelief. “There’s nothing ‘cool’ about this place. We ne–”
Finney clamped his mouth shut, stopping abruptly. A dark hole in the floor was a mere two feet away from him, camouflaged by the shifting mists.
“Be careful,” he warned. “I almost fell into a hole.”
Everyone halted, and Gwen peered down to where Finney was pointing. “That looks like the hole we jumped in to get to the castle. Maybe we should use it.”
“But the breeze is coming from the stairs,” Donna murmured. “At least a breeze usually means an exit.”
“Did it work in the game?” he asked.
“...I don’t know,” she admitted. “I went into the hole.”
“So let’s see if the stairs work,” he said impatiently.
But as he took a few steps forward, he stopped again. A soft, distant crying emitted from the hole, turning his blood cold. He recognized that sound and heard it many, many times.
It was him.
Somehow, someway, it was him.
Finney took a few hesitant steps toward the hole. The only thing he could make out was inky blackness.
Why was he crying? When was this? Was it right after he was taken? Was it during his first time? When he broke through the walls, only to find the locked refrigerator? Was it wh—
The hand shot up from the inky blackness like a coiled serpent. A pale, emaciated hand littered with scabs, scratches, and bruises, grime and blood caked under the fingernails. The hand of the boy he used to be.
It clutched his leg and yanked. It shouldn’t have been that strong; back then Finney was weakweakweakweakweak.
But his arm was always, admittedly, mint.
Finney Blake tumbling into the hole like Alice spiraling into Wonderland, Gwen and Donna screaming in after.
****
Finney didn’t know if he landed upside down or rightside up. Everything felt wrong. But when vision cleared, it was clear Finney was still in the cave. This seemed slightly more narrow than the first, and the only thing stopping him from screaming in panic and frustration were the two girls next to him. They were unhurt, albeit shaken.
“W-What was that?” Donna glanced around frantically, scrambling to pick up the lamp that had thankfully fallen into the hole with them.
“Finney…” Gwen murmured.
She knew, of course she knew. Christ, it even wore the same blue sleeve. But Finney didn’t know what to say. It was his hand but couldn’t actually be his hand, because he was pretty sure he’d remember reaching into a random black hole and grabbing someone’s leg.
“Let’s just get out of here,” he grumbled.
Donna handed him the lamp, and they continued their journey. It soon became apparent the path was leading them on a downward slope that grew more and more narrow. Walls of rock brushed against his shoulders and hips. At one point they heard distant, unfamiliar groaning from behind, but the increasing tightness made it difficult to turn his head to see. When they reached the bottom, the ceiling was so low they had no choice but to crawl over the cobbles in the low passage.
It felt endless, and the gravity of their situation slammed into him like a snowplow. He needed air. Even though he knew, logically, he didn’t breathe, he still wanted air. He needed air. He needed to get out of here.
There was a small, dim light at the east end of the passage. Hope flooded within, only to be quickly replaced by doubt and suspicion. What if leaving this prison led to something worse? Things here might be horrifying, but at least he knew what to expect. But out there, outside—
“Finney!” squeaked Gwen. “Keep moving.”
He didn’t realize he stopped. Swallowing, he croaked out, “I can’t.”
“Are you stuck?” Donna’s voice wavered.
“No, I just…don’t want to go further.” Before the claustrophobia compelled him to rush out of the tunnel like a rat on a sinking ship, but at least he knew what was waiting for him at the end. Now? Now he felt paralyzed. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move, at least not in that direction. “We need to go back.”
Gwen lost it.
“Are you crazy? Finney, we’re not going back. There’s literally light at the end of the tunnel!”
His face heated with rage and indignation. “I guess I am crazy because I'm not going!”
“What the fuck is wr—”
“Stop shouting, both of you!” hissed Donna. “What if the rocks cave in?”
Gwen’s voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “Finney, we do not have time right now to unpack your psychological baggage right. I’m sorry, but we don’t. You have to keep going. Just close your eyes if it bothers you.”
“I don’t have ba–” Okay, even in the midst of his fury, he couldn’t deny that. “I’m not a pussy!” he snarled. “I just want to go back.”
Finney could feel it despite not seeing it: Gwen closing her eyes and, if she was living, would have sighed deeply. “Donna,” she barked. “Talk to him.”
“We don’t have to make the decision now,” Donna murmured. “We can wait.”
“No we can’t!” A hysterical edge started creeping into Gwen’s voice. “Am I the only one freaking out over how cramped it is?”
“If you want to go, then go,” snapped Finney. “Cut the rope with Donna’s pocketknife.”
“Sure, let me just take it and move around so—oh, wait. I can’t. Because we’re packed like fucking sardines. How the actual fuck would you even expect me to move around you?”
It was a comment made flippantly in his righteous anger, and Gwen’s words–while grating—had a paradoxical cleansing effect on his mind. He wasn’t the only one in this tunnel, and needed to consider how his decisions might affect Donna and Gwen, too.
But it was so damn hard when every step forward was a Herculean struggle.
So go to the light! What's the big deal? Robin could do it.
He swallowed, unconsciously moving back a few centimeters.
“Finney,” whispered Gwen. The rage had completely evaporated, pure terror taking the reins. “You're pushing me back. Please, please keep going.”
When he didn’t reply, Donna said softly, “In the game, the goal is to find the treasure. Maybe the light leads to our treasure of getting out of here.”
“...You’re right,” Finney mumbled, clenching his white fingers around the lamp handle. “Okay, just—just give me a sec.”
His legs unconsciously moved back a tiny bit despite his acquiescence. A loud, deafening groan filled the narrow passage. Gwen screamed, and Finney tried turning his head to no avail.
“What happened?” he yelled, panic flooding him. Whatever it was sounded close, as if it was right behind him.
“I felt something!” shrieked Gwen. She started babbling incoherently, and he could feel her trembling.
“Donna?” Finney called.
“I’m…I’m okay.”
Finney’s heart plummeted. Why the hell did she sound far away?
How could she sound far away?
“There’s something blocking her,” cried Gwen. “I can’t feel her anymore. When I put my hand back, the only thing I feel is a rock. What if—what if she’s inside?”
“I’m not inside the rock.” Donna forced a weak laugh that didn’t succeed in masking her fear. “The stone walls from the left side just…pushed in front of me.”
Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. “Can you maneuver your way around it?” he asked hoarsely. “Move where the boulder was originally?”
“I don’t know. I–I can’t see anything, Finn. It’s pitch black and—and–” Even through the boulder, he could hear her soft cries. “I’m trying to move my legs but I can’t.”
Gwen was weeping by this point, and it took every ounce of willpower for Finney not to do the same. “Gwen, are you able to turn your head?”
“K-Kinda,” she sniffled after a few seconds. “But not f-fully.”
“If I give you the lamp, will you be able to see what’s blocking her?”
“W-With one eye, I t-think…”
“Okay. I’m going to raise my hand with the lamp up. You have to grab it. Alright.”
“Al–Alright…”
Gwen’s smaller size allowed greater maneuverability, and Finney soon felt the bronze lamp leave his hands. “Is there any way to get her out? Any edges or pathways along the side?”
“No,” whimpered Gwen. “It’s a wall of rock, Finney. It’s wedged into both sides of the caves. There’s just a tiny sliver of space at the bottom where the rope is, but not enough for anyone to squeeze through.”
It was only then that Finney realized an additional layer to the horror: With the rope connecting all three of them together, Finney and Gwen wouldn’t be able to move, either.
All three of them were trapped.
Donna, apparently, came to the same conclusion. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You guys go on ahead. I can cut the rope with the pocketknife and backtrack my steps.”
“What if another rock goes behind you?” Gwen sobbed, hyperventilating. “Then you’ll be trapped! Or what if one blocks the light and we get trapped. We’reallgoingtodieanditisn’tfairandohgodleasepleaseletusgetoutofthispleas–”
Finney wanted nothing more than to curl himself into a ball and scream, which was impossible with stone pinning him on both sides. This was his fault. If he didn’t hesitate and they got closer to the light, then maybe, maybe–
God, Robin would hate him now. His friend might not have been suave and confident all the time, but he always fought when it counted.
“Donna,” Finney begged. “Don’t do it. Please. This is my fault and I’m so, so sorry.”
“No it isn’t,” she said. “It’s mine. I knew this was risky but did it anyway. I’m so sorry I brought us here and—” She sniffled. “Please don’t blame yourself. Don’t beat yourself over this and feel guilty the rest of your life. Please, don’t. I love you, Finn.”
“Donna, don’t–”
The rope slacked.
“Gwen,” Finney said, tears blurring his vision. “Gwen, do you feel it?”
“No,” she wailed. He heard the whoosh of rope being yanked through the tight passage. “She cut it!”
“Donna? Do you hear us?”
A pause.
“DONNA?”
“Where’d she go?” shrieked Gwen. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“Fuck!” shouted Finney. He wanted to punch something, preferably himself.
They stayed rooted to the spot for a while, both to achieve the Quixotic task of regaining their bearings and to see if Donna would emerge. But fear something would happen to Gwen if they waited another minute propelled him forward.
They crawled the rest of the way in silence.
****
The light didn’t lead to the living world like Donna thought, or even outside the cave. Instead, it opened to a vast, open chamber. Unlike the rest of the cave, this room looked smoother and well-kept, less like a primal coffin and more like a tourist attraction. Paper lanterns lined the ceilings, and chiseled stone benches were arranged like pews, directing to the center, where a troupe of faceless actors in Renaissance garb were performing a play. The only one with a face was a boy around his age, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, holding a skull with a bloodied bandanna Finney doubted was a prop. “Alas, poor Yorick!” the boy sighed with relish. “I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
Hamlet. Why did everything in his life recently seem to come back to that stupid play?
“Hello?” Finney called. The boy continued his monologue, oblivious. The other actors stood motionless like mannequins; perhaps they were. He was too far to tell and had zero desire to get closer.
He didn’t care, either. The fuckery of this room was nothing compared to the tight passage.
Donna…
Emptiness, grief and despair widened in him like a chasm, a feeling mirrored by Gwen as she collapsed into one of the nearby benches. That quintessential spark in her eyes had evaporated, leaving a dull listlessness in its wake. She gazed at the actors, not fully comprehending, not even paying much attention to begin with, but needing a distraction nonetheless.
“Gwen, let’s keep moving,” ordered Finney. “We’ll try…we’ll try to find Donna some other way. But we need to get out of this cave.”
Gwen said nothing. Finney wasn’t sure if it was out of crushing grief, guilt, or well-deserved bitterness for Finney’s faltering—her expression didn’t give him much to go on. Nonetheless, Finney couldn’t leave without her.
He slumped beside her on the bench and noticed a change within the cave, though it was also possible there was no change at all, and Finney simply didn't see the human-shaped specters of mist filling the rest of the benches before, facing forward in rapt attention, or the large barrier erected in front of the stage. A screen, he realized with a jolt. One vast enough to cover the large expanse of cavern, from top to bottom and side to side.
“Where be your gibes now?” the actor continued. He looked uncannily familiar, and Finney stilled in the realization that it was a younger, adolescent version of Mr. Clarkson. He squinted at the bloodied bandana. “Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning?”
“I think that’s Robin’s bandana,” he said, stomach churning. Gwen gave a barely-perceptible shrug, and Finney hissed in frustration. “Gwen, stop. Please.”
That finally elicited a reaction. “‘What? It’s wrong I’m upset about someone dying because of me? Again?” Her chuckle held no humor. “Wow.”
“We don’t know she’s dead. And, what, you think I’m not upset? I fucked up in the cave and I know you’re mad at me, and trust me, I’m mad at me too, but we’re not helping Donna by—”
“This might shock you to hear, but not everything’s about you,” she shot back with unexpected venom. “Sometimes, I have issues to deal with on my own. And sometimes, you’re not part of it.”
Finney blinked. What the hell did that mean?
“I never said I was,” he muttered, watching as the young Mr. Clarkson engaged in one-sided conversation with faceless, inanimate Horatio. “But this…I mean, this particular situation obviously does. Otherwise we never would have ended up here in the first place.”
“...I guess.” The anger dissipated, leaving behind that dull expression as she continued staring at the screen. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Emotions sometimes get weird in really tense situations,” he replied, unable to keep the blush from creeping up his neck. “Or when you feel trapped and helpless and—” He swallowed down a lump in his throat. “That’s why it’s important to keep a cool head.”
Gwen’s voice cracked. “Well I didn’t and now she’s dead.”
“We don’t know she’s dead,” he repeated. “We’re going to try getting her back. But we’re not getting closer sitting here with our thumbs up our asses.”
“You’re right,” she murmured. But Finney wasn’t sure she fully heard, eyes glazing over in a way that made him nervous. “We’ll look for her later.”
“‘Later’?” he echoed. “There might not be a later. Remember what Donna said about our bodies? I doubt you want to end up in a coffin.”
“I don't care. I just want to watch.”
She continued staring emptily at the screen, much like she had done for the past several years. Just needing something, anything to distract her and numb the feelings she didn’t like thinking about. He used to do the same, though his two-month sojourn into the basement had broken the screen’s spell.
“This is Hamlet. Do you even understand Shakespeare?”
“No,” she said, faintly. “I just want to watch.”
Finney opened his mouth to protest, then weighed the options and closed it again. Gwen’s expression looked distant and feverish, yet entirely captivated by the display in front of them. Finney wondered if the Mr. Clarkson seen on stage was a snippet from the past melded with the alien nature of the ghost world, or if this Mr. Clarkson never existed at all, and the illusory figure in front of them was just a fabrication or thought-made-flesh pulled from Finney’s mind.
And speaking of illusory figures, who were the others? The other ‘actors’ on stage gave no signs of independent thought, but what of the mistlike audience members? Were they genuine spirits trapped in this world like him, or other illusions?
Finney finally dragged his eyes away from the stage to peer out of the corner of his eyes. The stone benches seemed noticeably closer than they were before, with some of the misty figures within grabbing distance. He could make out different silhouettes: men with bowler hats, top hats, and fedoras; women with short bobs, long waves, and Gibson tucks. Long-sleeved dresses, short dresses, suits, T-shirts and jeans. Like the mannequins on stage, the audience possessed indistinguishable features, and the more Finney tried to focus, the more disoriented he felt, as if wading in a sea of molasses.
He dragged his attention back to the play. What was going on in it? He had a vague recollection of the plot from school, but couldn’t remember anymore. He couldn’t remember what the actors did earlier in the play, or if Hamlet always stood still, silently staring at him and Gwen. Everything felt clouded and jumbled.
Finney couldn’t move his mouth or legs, but tried to speak anyway. Tried to warn Gwen that she shouldn’t be standing, that she shouldn’t be walking to the stage, though he wasn’t sure why. The thought that something was off buzzed around his head like a stubborn fruit fly, blaring louder with every step. She passed through the screen and stopped at the base of the stage, where the curtains drew and the paper lamps flickered off, plunging the rest of the cavern into darkness—if only for a moment.
When light returned, the stage and stone benches were empty, aside from a large black hole where Hamlet once stood. The screen was gone, and so was Gwen.
The spell broke immediately, and Finney sprang to his feet. “Gwen?!” he yelled, eyes darting frantically. “Gwen?!”
He knew there would be no response.
And just like that, Finney Blake was alone once more.
****
He descended the hole not out of grit or willpower, but resignation. There was nowhere to go but down; deep in his heart, he always knew that.
The winding passages stretched endlessly, but gave him breathing room he wasn’t sure he wanted. What was the point of moving forward if he couldn’t be with his sister or girlfriend?
They can’t help you any more, a low voice growled. Not down here.
He should have howled in despair, screamed to the—nonexistent?—heavens, or bellowed in rage. But the emotions that once held such prominence in his heart had calcified. He was alone now, but so what?
You’re not alone. You’re down here with me. But that’s okay.
The boy shivered.
He thought the words came from his mind, but now he wasn’t so sure. Cautiously, he raised the lamp. It illuminated the cavernous expanse, as well as providing a closer view of carvings in the walls that once went unnoticed: carvings of a man locked in battle with a half-man, half-bull figure, and the same man riding a ship with lines woven into it like piece of a puzzle. Theseus and The Minotaur, he recalled vaguely—his mother or father used to tell him the story long ago. Another carving was etched further down: a large, horizontal spiral leading down the rest of the endless passageway, hundreds of Theseus' ships stacked atop one another.
In the corner of his eyes, the boy saw a movement of shadow. He thought he did, anyway—it was difficult to tell.
“Maybe it’s just in my head,” he muttered, turning the lamp in the shadow’s direction. There was nothing there besides stone and carvings.
Swallowing, he continued to creep forward. Just as his grip on the lamp finally eased, a heavy breathing from behind caused him to stop and immediately spin backwards.
Once again, nothing.
It’s all in your head, the voice assured him. None of this is real.
Right, none of this was real. If it was, then he would definitely see something. And if it was real, the voice would sound distinct instead of…something else. The boy felt the words, but couldn’t identify what the voice actually sounded like—for all he knew, it might’ve been high pitched, low pitched, a man’s, or a woman’s. Dwelling on the matter made his brain flare up like static on a television set. It must be his imagination, it had to be.
But as he walked further along and felt something press against the back of his neck, he knew it was very real indeed.
The touch didn’t feel like the Grabber’s fingers, and much like the voice, Finney—yes, Finney, that was his name, don’tforgetdon’tforget—couldn’t pinpoint the specifics. Was it wet? Dry? Smooth? Rough? Was it something physical at all, or intangible like a breath of air?
Could it have been the Grabber? Maybe. Finney couldn’t rule anything out anymore. But this felt primal, something that thrashed and pushed against the boundary of his mind like Alice outgrowing the house. Whether it was a new independent entity, a manifestation of Finney’s fears made flesh, some greater form of the Grabber, or the Minotaur itself, it was unquestioningly There.
Just because he didn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t real, or that his thoughts were invalid. The thought gave him an odd, and perhaps inappropriate, sense of comfort.
Finney had two choices: Look back, or keep moving forward. Looking back was instinctive, something baked into his genetics thousands and thousands of years ago, from ancestors who’d fight tooth and nail to scrape by under any circumstances. But this wasn’t something he’d be able to punch away, wasn’t something he’d be able to run away from. It was something that might always follow him, and no amount of glancing over his shoulder for the rest of his existence would change that.
So Finney stepped forward.
The first step was the hardest, and there were times when his head tilted to the side, but somehow, some way, he resisted the urge to fully look back as he continued navigating through the narrow passage. The shadow continued looming over his shoulder, a silent specter of the farce that was Finney’s life, but paradoxically, the further he traveled, the stronger he felt. He tried thinking of anything to keep his mind away from It: Gwen, Donna, his parents, his future. Slowly—extremely slowly—but surely, the shadow began to slip from his mind, another memory thrown to the winds of the astral world. By the time he exited the passage into a small, dirt-covered cavern, he had forgotten it completely.
Finney raised his lantern, illuminating small bits of bone and faded cloth from beneath the dirt. There were three objects scattered on the rough surface, forming a triangle: a collarbone, the Grabber’s neutral mask, and his rocket pen. His heart surged at the latter, but before we went toward it, the object in the center of the triangle snatched his attention.
The magician’s hat sat as innocuously as it did three years ago. Not a single speck of dirt or grime marred its rim despite its current dwelling; the only thing missing was the accompanying magician. Finney swallowed and crept closer to the pen, though his eyes remained latched to the hat.
The Grabber was the one to fear, not this accessory. But for some unfathomable reason, this hat stirred more unease than the Grabber himself.
Why? Was it because he had been so inundated by the Grabber’s ghost that it served as unintentional exposure therapy? Or was there a deeper, unknown reason that lurked beneath the surface of his mind?
Finney crouched and wrapped his fingers around the pen, but when he pulled, it wouldn’t come up. Upon closer inspection, Finney noticed the fins had melted into the rocky ground like products of a fire. His arm was mint, but even he couldn’t lift the earth itself.
Finney cursed under his breath and turned back to the entrance. The passageway leading to the cavern had vanished; now it was just himself, the cavern, and the objects on the floor. He sighed and leaned back against the cave wall. Surely this world didn’t expect him to pick up one of the other items? That would—wait.
Wait.
Finney stood alert once more, muscles tense. It was just himself, the cavern, and the objects on the floor. But there used to be something following him. Where had it gone? When had it gone? How could he have forgotten about it?
He deliberated for a moment, unsure if the recent turn of events was good or bad. The only conclusion he made was that it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was finding Gwen and Donna.
But with no visible exits, that seemed to be a tall order. Finney knew enough about the astral plane to realize the objects were likely the key, but had neither the patience nor temperament to navel-gaze and ponder their deeper meanings. He needed to grab one and go from there.
But which one? Besides the pen, all the items repulsed him to his core. The collarbone reminded him of the dead boys whose footsteps he almost followed in. The mask was blank instead of frowning, which was sometimes a good sign. But it was also unquestioningly linked to the Grabber.
The hat…the hat was what the friendly magician wore, what Finney picked up in order to be helpful. Its deceptive innocence masked the Grabber’s illusion, and for years, Finney beat himself up for his gullibility in picking it up and not realizing it was a trick intended to drag him somewhere else. The hat ceased being a hat and transformed into something different, something darker and more twisted.
But here, it didn’t look nearly as formidable as Finney built it up to be. It was just a normal hat.
Maybe.
Finney shuffled over and leaned down, pressing his trembling fingers over the silk top before lifting it up for further inspection. When he did, the world wavered and whooshed as it turned around and around and upside down and an alarm clock kept ringing and ringing and then—
And then Finney blinked, gazing down the suburban street in confusion. His hand fell limp to his side, the magician’s hat slipping onto the sidewalk.
“Finney!”
Finney spun around, mouth breaking into a grin as a tidal wave of relief and disbelief washed over him. “Gwen! Donna! How d—”
The ensuing pile of hugs and kisses prevented him from finishing his sentence as they smushed against him, laughing and crying and babbling.
“—fter I cut the rope I thought I’d be dead for sure, but when I blinked I ended up at the school somehow, except it was in the forties and I’m pretty sure I saw Mr. Clarkson—”
“—no idea why the hell I did that, my whole mind felt mushy and weird and I don’t even like Shakespeare, no offense Donna, and that play they were doing was absolute ass. The guy standing next to the Mr. Clarkson-lookalike looked so bored and couldn’t act. Wait, do you it actually was the real Mr. Clarkson, or some weird ghost twi—”
“—ounger Grabber was there and he was talking to Mrs. Jameson. I also saw her put an apple in his desk when he left, and Finney, I feel really bad for saying this, but I remember thinking at the time that I was glad you weren’t there because believe it or not, she used to be really, really hot and—”
“—up at our old house and saw Mom and us watching TV and then I started crying and I wanted to say something but all I did was make the TV flicker. It was when we were watching The Wonderful World of Disney. Do you remember—”
“—kept walking until I found Gwen and she told me about the play in the cave and we were both so worried you’d—”
“—efore I left I saw a hole right in front of the TV. I think if we go to our old house, we might—”
It continued like that for a while until they finally paused to let Finney get a word in edgewise. He told them about his deeper trek into the cave, keeping his arms wrapped around their shoulders as if they’d vanish at any moment. The adrenaline eventually wore off, and Donna began twirling the bottom of her strands in contemplation. “You said you saw Hamlet…hmm. Hamlet’s fatal flaw is indecision. And you end up here by picking up the hat, which I'm guessing has a lot of bad memories attached.”
“You guessed correctly,” he said dryly, glancing back at the hat. It lay tilted over on the sidewalk forgotten, like how it should be.
“Then maybe a cosmic force is at work and wants to encourage you to make some kind of decision, or is trying to get you to face your fears and the things that are holding you back,” she analyzed. “Or something along those lines.”
Gwen interjected before Finney could. “Okay, no. See, I got a direct line to Jesus and I know he wouldn’t want to terrify the piss out of us like in that cave. Did you not see all those pictures of him with lambs?”
“I just said a cosmic force, not Jesus specifically.” Then, after a beat, she added, “But if your perception of divinity is through a Biblical lens, then Jesus is a part of God. And if he’s a part of God then that means part of him killed a bunch of Egyptian kids and ruined a man’s life because of a bet God made with Satan, so I don’t think this would necessarily be outside his wheelhouse. An entity that’s not human isn’t going to think in human terms.”
Gwen grew red with anger. “He’s not just ‘an entity,’ he’s God. God made humans and what makes us ‘us.’ He knows what we feel and how much we suffer.”
“I just meant he sees things in terms of the larger picture. Or at least, I’m assuming so. It’s all speculation.”
“Your speculation’s wrong. God’s good and this place is evil.”
“That’s just it though: I don’t think it’s evil.”
“How?! We were literally inches away from being monster chow, and you almost got stuck in some weird ghost cave for all eter–.”
Finney had no patience for another theological debate. “This isn’t helping. We need to find a way to get back home.”
Donna and Gwen sobered immediately. “I would say we should retrace our steps, buuuut…”
Finney followed Gwen pointed finger, eyes widening at the colossal tower of slipshod house scraping through the clouds, vines of black and purple pulsing around it like a snake. Looking up was horrifying in a different way from looking down.
Now I know what an ant feels like…
“What about the hole you mentioned at your house?” Donna asked Gwen. “Did you go into it, or is it still there?”
Gwen shrugged helplessly. “I left through the front door. The hole was there when I was there, but that doesn’t mean it’s there now.”
“I think it will be. You have a strong attachment to that place, and if the holes are connected to our minds somehow, then it stands to reason it might get us home. Plus, the further we’re away from that thing, the better.”
With no better ideas, the trio set out for Newark Street. The walk was quiet, enhanced by the lack of footsteps, and progressively uncomfortable as memories from the cave hovered like a raincloud. The euphoria of their reunion gradually wore off, and Finney knew the elephant in the room needed to be addressed. He hoped it could wait until they got back to their bodies, but for once the topography of the ghost world matched the world of the living, and the long trek it entailed.
Gwen was the first to break the silence. “I feel really bad about what happened back in the cave,” she mumbled. “I lost my cool and acted like a total spaz. I’m really sorry…”
Donna smiled softly. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It was really nerve-wracking.”
“I think there might have been something supernatural going on, too. My mind felt like it was getting torn in all directions and my chest started getting really tight. Thinking felt hard and kind of disoriented like when you have a bad fever.”
“...It wasn’t supernatural,” Finney said. He hated being the bearer of bad news, but this felt important to say. “It was just fear and panic. When you know death is coming, or if you’re in a really hopeless situation—not just being pessimistic, but when you really, truly know nothing you do can save you—your mind changes. It becomes kind of…animal-like, and you do things you normally wouldn’t do.”
A far-off look entered Donna’s eyes. “That’s how I felt when I was drowning.”
For a moment Gwen looked ready to argue, but her shoulders slumped in resignation. “Well, it sucked.”
“I’m not blaming you. And when we saw the play I do think there was some kind of hypnosis thing going on,” clarified Finney. “But the feeling of being in that cave was something I–well, it was familiar, and I think that’s why I choked. I wasn’t thinking straight and caused everything to spiral into shit, and well, I’m sorry, too.”
“Let’s just hope none of us feel that way again,” said Donna.
Gwen nodded fervently. “Amen to that.”
Why do I have the feeling you just jinxed it?
****
The shortcut to the old Blake house from their current location brought them past the Hickory Oaks Dog Park, which—despite its grand name—was a sad little patch of land half the size of his school’s football field. Finney actively bypassed it during the past three years, but the current events caused such concern to slip his mind until Gwen squealed and rocked on the balls of her feet.
“Remember we were talking about animals and finding one to sense our presence? TA-DAAAA! That’s a sign if I ever saw one.”
Despite the sorry condition of the dog park, it was, unfortunately, populated by a surprisingly large number of dogs and owners. Rosie was one of them, yipping and jumping as high as her stubby legs would carry her as Sofia and Oscar laughed and tossed the frisbee.
“Rosie!” gushed Gwen, rushing over. “Hey, girl!”
Rosie stopped her prancing and stood rigid, tail lowering as she sniffed near Gwen’s shoe’s cautiously. Gwen looked crestfallen. “Awww, I thought she liked me.”
“This might be before you met her,” Finney reminded her. “At least she’s not barking or growling.”
“True.” Gwen tentatively reached out to pet Rosie’s fur. Rosie backed up abruptly for a moment before taking a few tentative steps forward.
“Put your hand out so she can smell it,” suggested Donna.
Gwen did so, and Rosie sniffed. Her tail began to wag timidly, and this time, she didn’t back away when Gwen gently scratched under her furry chin.
“C’mere, Rosie,” whistled Oscar. “Come here, girl!”
Rosie perked up and bounded back towards her owners. Gwen turned to Donna and Finney and beamed. “See? She can sense us and doesn’t get scared. We need to find a dog like that.”
“We’re not getting a dog,” stated Finney. “C’mon, lets keep going.”
But Gwen’s eyes bulged at a new arrival that just entered the dog park. “Holy fuckballs, that is one ginormous dog.”
“That’s a Leonberger,” said Finney. They used to be Number 5 on his list of favorite dogs when he was a kid. “Gentle giants. Supposedly.”
Rosie certainly seemed to agree, bounding up to the larger dog with no fear and rapidly wagging her tail. From snippets of the conversation between Oscar and the Leonberger’s owner, it appeared both families were regulars. Gwen grew starry-eyed. “I LOVE HIM! He looks like a bear!”
“We’re not getting one.”
Gwen sighed dramatically and put the back of her hand on her forehead in mock-swoon. “Then I have no choice but to yearn from afar for the love and life I can never have, like a Victorian maiden dying of tuberculosis.”
She rushed over to follow Rosie and the Leonberger in a decidedly non-tuberculosis-y way as they ran around in circles near the opposite end of the park. Finney opened his mouth to call her back, but Donna gently tugged on his shirt. “Just give it a minute or two. She needs this.”
“…You’re right,” Finney admitted, unable to suppress a half-smile at seeing Gwen’s eyes light up. She needed this break and, as much as he hated to admit it, so did he.
And, oddly enough, he was relaxed. Dogs had transformed into a source of anxiety, but whether it be from the knowledge they couldn’t bite him or the general exhaustion from everything, he didn’t feel that usual dread.
“You must be glad to be heading home,” Donna said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched Gwen and the dogs play.
It took him a few moments to realize what she meant by ‘home.’ “I don’t know. This might sound bad, but I don’t really want to see it.” He rushed to explain. “I mean, I saw it when I came here last and it was pretty depressing. It just reminds me of everything I lost and I just kinda want to…move forward?”
He didn’t mean to phrase it like a question, but Donna nodded enthusiastically. “No, I think that’s good! With everything with the fire, well, I definitely get why you wouldn’t want to think about it, especially since you’ve been trying so hard to move on for the past few years.”
“…I don’t think I was, actually,” he admitted quietly. He suddenly felt like a snail without its shell. “It feels different now. I mean, I always wanted to move forward and just forget about everything, but now I feel I’m actually ready to, if that makes sense. At least, I think I am. I don’t know…”
Donna nodded slowly, eyes clouding in a way that made Finney’s nerves spasm. He searched for something to say, and settled lamely on, “Thanks for never asking me about the Gra—about the basement. Everyone else at school did but you.”
Her gaze returned to him, warming. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d bring it up. And I think you’re right: It’s definitely important to move forward.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”
“But in order to actually do that, I think you need to be willing to also look back to and confront the past, just like you said before.”
“…I guess,” he muttered. The objective knowledge he espoused in the decayed palace was something he never connected with his life specifically, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
After a few seconds, he decided, Not good.
“You sure you aren’t talking about yourself, though?”
Donna blinked at the sudden turnaround. “What?”
“Max.”
Donna blushed and glanced away. “That’s–That’s diff–”
“Slow down. Jeez.”
Both their heads snapped in the direction of the entrance. Matt stumbled into the park, dragged behind a large Cane Corso that was tugging, barking, and wagging its stubby tail furiously.
“Samson,” they said at the same time, though their tones couldn’t be more different.
The dog’s ears perked at the name, and he strained the leash to get closer to Finney and Donna. Finney backed up while Donna approached, a big smile on her face.
“Ughhh!” Gwen jogged over to them, scowling at Matt. “Of course this asshole had to be here. Booo! You suck, Matt!”
“Hey, knock it off,” Donna scolded, scratching under Samson’s chin. “He’s not doing anything.”
“He exists. That’s reason enough!”
Samson flopped onto his back, inviting tummy rubs Donna was more than happy to give. Matt’s protests for him to get up fell on deaf ears, and Matt eventually leaned against a nearby tree as he watched the other dogs frolic. It was weird seeing Matt like this—perhaps as weird as it would be for the Romanos to imagine the friendly magician across the street slicing children’s necks open. “He helped save Donna.”
She pouted. “You’re the one who did all the hero work!”
Finney flushed. “It wasn’t like some kind of movie, I was just–”
Finney’s heightened volume recaptured Samson’s attention. The Grabber’s dog flopped back over and bounded to Finney, who immediately tensed. It raised its hindquarters in the air while its front two paws lowered, a sign for play.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, big guy…
“Finney!” gushed Gwen, clasping her hands together. “He likes you. Pet him!”
“No.”
“Look how happy he is!” Samson started rotating in tight circles. “Looks like someone isn’t afraid of ghosts.”
“I think he’s friendly because he already knows us already,” Donna concluded. “It’s a shame, though. If he acted this way around all ghosts, we could use him as a Grabber-tracker.”
Samson poked his nose into Finney’s intangible leg. He shuddered.
“You’d be willing to kidnap Matt’s dog?” Gwen looked at Donna with admiration. “Donna, I had no idea you had a darker side. I like it.”
She giggled. “Samson isn’t actually Matt's dog. His family’s just fostering until someone adopts him permanently.”
“Who wouldn’t want to adopt this cutie-wootie,” she fawned. Like Rosie, Gwen’s presence initially made Samson tentative, but he eased up much quicker, perhaps due to the proximity of Finney and Donna.
“Me,” drawled Finney.
“Finney, we should adopt him! He could be the key we’re looking for.”
“No he won’t. Now let’s go, we’re wasting time.”
Gwen pouted but relented. “Fiiine.”
But of course, disaster struck just as they were about to exit.
Rosie yipped forward as fast as her stubby legs could carry her, and Samson’s attention finally broke from Finney as he barked an ecstatic woof. The dogs raced around one another, size difference almost comical as Oscar jogged over.
“Holy Moses,” panted Oscar. “Is that Samson?”
The Cane Corso in question bounded back towards them. Sofia gasped softly as Samson barked happily at her, and she quickly descended her fingers on his short fur. “I missed you, boy,” she breathed.
“Who got Samson?” Oscar asked, looking around wide-eyed.
Matt pushed himself from the tree, now guarded and alert. “Me.”
“Neato.” Oscar nodded approvingly. “I thought for sure they’d put down the poor guy.”
“He didn’t attack anyone,” Matt said warily. He slipped the leash around Samson’s collar.
“Yeah, but he’s the Grabber’s dog, and you know how cops can be…”
“Dad,” whined Sofia.
“What? No one’s listening!”
Oh, how wrong he was. Donna and Gwen slowly turned toward him, and the grief and outpouring of sympathy in their eyes made his temper flare.
“I’m sorry, Finney,” whispered Donna. “I didn’t know.”
Gwen forced a smile. “Yeah, don’t worry. We’ll find another way to track the Grabber.”
Finney’s fingers clenched. “It’s alright. It’s just a dog.”
“It’s not just a dog if you’re always going to think of the Grabber when—”
“I won’t”—stop shouting!—”keep thinking about him,” he muttered. “In fact, Gwen, I think you were on to something with your idea.”
“But—”
“Yeah,” he said before he could convince himself otherwise. He needed to do this, needed to prove something not just to the girls, but also to himself—and the Grabber. “It makes the most sense. If he was the Grabber’s dog, then he wouldn't be afraid of him, like how he wasn’t afraid of me or Donna.”
Samson whined as he looked at Finney, and Finney didn’t think it was just because Matt was starting to make a hasty exit to the dog park. He stared up at him with big, dark eyes he once—for some reason—thought were yellow. Maybe he sensed Finney’s anger, fear, anxiety and desperation, all of which wafted off of him like moldy meat.
“Finn, no one would ever ask you to do that. Not when we know–.”
“I’m not doing it because someone wants me to. I’m doing it because I want to.”
He swallowed and reached out, hesitating only a second before petting Samson’s head with trembling fingers.
****
Finney thought his brazenness would wear off as they continued the journey home, but instead, the opposite happened. He didn’t particularly like the idea of adopting Samson, or adopting a dog in general. But it was something he wanted—no, needed—to do.
He just hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. The road led to 2333 Newark Street, just as it would have in the real world. Except instead of their old house, the only thing he saw was charred ruins and sad remains of what-once-was.
Finney slowly placed the lamp down. He never saw the remains after the fire, and the novel presence of the Grabber’s ghost prevented such a thought from even entering Finney’s mind during their constant hotel-hopping. Despite his heavy resignation, tears still managed to prick his eyes as he soaked in the objects and memories he could barely recognize: the melted, shriveled toaster Gwen used almost daily, the now-black sofa his father used to sit in while he drank himself to sleep, Finney’s old spiral notebooks filled with Taylor Mullen stories, now crumbled to ash.
Finney’s eyes trailed to the center, the area where they used ouija board that fateful evening.
In its place was another hole.
Finney knew somehow that it would lead them back to the world of the living, and he was right. But before he stepped in, he took one final look, remembering the love, pain, sorrow, laughter, hope, fear and the knowledge that everything in these ruins led him to where he was now.
Then, he stepped forward.
****
Notes:
The pictures at the end are Salvatore Viganò’s "The Dream of Countess Marguerite of Flanders," René Magritte's "Not to Be Reproduced," and the logo for the Theosophical Society. The poster for The Amazing Al's magic act is a riff on the shirt design from FrightRags, which shows the Grabber pulling paper dolls of the boys out of a hat (which in turn took influence from posters of older magicians like Howard Thurston!)
Chapter 35: Cards on the Table
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Albert weaved his way through the children, parents, and nurses, giddy with nervousness and excitement. His breathing quickened as the lights dimmed, and whispers and squeals rippled throughout the auditorium. Upon finally spotting his wife’s blonde curls (right by the front, excellent…), he slowed down until he was finally close enough to ask, “Did I miss anything?”
She scooted over so he could get a better view of the stage. “Not yet.”
“Good.” He held the tub in his arms out to his daughter. “Cindy, I got popcorn.”
“Nifty.” The ten-year old beamed and dug a fistful with her free hand, the other clutched around the crutch.
“One at a time,” Kathy reminded her. “You remember what the doctor said about your swallowing.”
“I know,” she sighed. All but one of the pieces trickled through her fingers before the survivor entered her mouth with a sad plop. “But even if I do stop breathing, there’s a bunch of doctors and nurses here that could resuscitate me.”
“Cynthia…” warned Kathy.
“Yeah, c’mon, kiddo.” Albert ruffled Cindy’s hair. “That would ruin the show for everyone.”
“Albert!” exclaimed Kathy.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t need to say,” she huffed.
He shook his head, once again at a loss for what grave offense earned Kathy’s ire, and too stubborn to ask. Cindy, either oblivious or ambivalent towards the ruffled feathers, said, “I can’t wait to see Mr. Bernardi. You used to go up on stage with him, right, Daddy?”
Albert’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”
He wasn’t sure exactly when it started, but Cindy started developing a habit of saying things that got under his skin. He didn’t think it was intentional, but it was definitely annoying. He missed the days when she was the apple of his eyes and could do no wrong.
Kathy misinterpreted Albert’s expression and gave his hand a light, comforting squeeze. “Try not to think about it too much,” she whispered. “Everything was so erratic back then. Dad’s store is a lot more stable.”
Kathy didn’t know how annoying she could be, either. The last thing he wanted to think about was how that double-crossing rat bastard got to perform on stage, his name literally in lights, while Albert was confined to the soul-sucking monotony of Floro’s.
He won’t be up for much longer…
The thought dampened the inner flames, a smug smile curling at the edge of his lips. In an alternate world where Stephanie lived, he imagined she’d be gazing at him with an expression that would be almost conspiratorial.
Loud, dramatic music and narration began playing, and in a poof of purple smoke, Salavatore Bernardi appeared like magic. He took off his top hat and bowed as the children erupted into claps and cheers. Albert reached a quavering hand into the tub and grabbed some popcorn.
No matter their history, Albert couldn’t deny the man’s knack for showmanship. He dominated the stage with card tricks, illusions, and death-defying stunts. It even elicited a sense of childlike wonder in Albert, despite knowing the tricks’ secrets and realizing now that the act was essentially a mishmash of other, greater magicians’ acts that came before them. It didn’t stop his blood boiling when Sal started chanting ‘sim sala bin,’ but it did cause his resolve to falter, if only for a brief moment.
He glanced at Cindy watching in rapture, and fought off a stab of jealousy. It wasn’t just her, either; adoration wafted off every child, and even some of the parents and nurses. Hell, even the stoic security officers looked mildly impressed.
It made him nostalgic for the brief moment in his life where he lit up the stage like a meteor, shortly after Kathy’s pregnancy and the rushed marriage. Back when possibilities seemed endless, back when he was courageous and naive enough to inquire about the rumors of the great Salvatore Berardi looking for a partner, and audacious enough to throw his hat into the ring despite never having any formal experience whatsoever. Cracks in the illusion were apparent from the beginning—it was clear Sal initially viewed him less of a partner and more of an assistant—but it didn’t matter. He was just happy to be there. He loved the attention of the crowd, the thrill of being on stage, the need to travel. They were never anywhere within reach of iconic duos like Abbott and Costello or Laurel and Hardy, but their star slowly but steadily rose due to a combination of talent and well-chosen appearances on the next ‘big thing’: television. But before his visage could be seen in glorious technicolor, everything screeched to a sudden halt.
Sal grew irritated with sharing the spotlight, starting to feel the new up-and-comer was taking attention away from his glorious comeback. So he cut Albert out. Made some excuse of how the producers were forcing his hand, blah blah blah, and the worst part was that the rights to all the tricks Albert created now belonged to Sal due to the predatory contract he signed when he was too stupid to know better.
Bastard.
The lights changed to orange and red, and a tremor of anticipation rose through Albert. The music took on a lower, discordant tone as a curtain shifted, revealing the painted backdrop of a large, gaping mouth of a red devil. The mouth was almost twice Sal’s size, with ceramic white conveying the image of jagged teeth. The crowd gasped, some younger children whimpering. Cindy’s eyes widened in fascination.
Here it was, the Devil’s Dance. Albert’s favorite trick and a work of impeccable artistry that never got to see the light of day until now.
With a swoosh of his cape, Sal intoned dramatically, “Only the Great Bernardi can face the fires of hell and live!”
The audience’s whispers of excitement grew louder as a coffin was wheeled into the mouth. Sal gave the audience a bit more exposition (needlessly, in Albert’s opinion—the script he came up with almost a decade ago was much better than this drivel) before unlocking the coffin and stepping inside.
“This is so tactless!” fumed Kathy. “There are children here who won’t see their next birthday, and he has the nerve to go in a coffin? Gosh, what a louse he was to come up with this.”
Albert told her about his idea for the Devil’s Dance years ago, but she either forgot or didn’t care that the ‘louse’ in question was her husband. Granted, he never expected to perform it for a hospital event, but still…“Eh, they’re doing fine.”
A quick glance back proved his suspicions correct. Any fears were dwarfed by excitement and interest, just like he knew it would be. Magic was wonderful because it was an escape from reality. A place where nothing and everything makes sense, a place to flirt with danger without actually risking one’s own safety. Children don’t like when the world is child-proofed and sanitized by adults. It always comes across as condescendingly artificial.
And they didn’t know it, but there was nothing artificial about this trick.
The music picked up in tempo, the lights dimmed, and the ‘devil’ bellowed a sinister laugh that emanated from the speakers. A few seconds later, flames erupted from the floor, enveloping the coffin in the flames of hell. Children shrieked and laughed, drowning out any noise that might have been emitting from the stage. Kathy brought her hands to her mouth while Cindy’s eyes sparkled with wonder. Albert ruffled her hair again and popped some more kernels into his mouth. Popcorn never tasted as good as it did in that moment.
When the fires finally dissipated, there was a long lull of expectant silence. After a few moments, people began whispering, which grew louder and more confused with each passing minute. A sweating, harried stage worker rushed to the coffin and unlocked it. The whispers turned to ear-splitting screams and cries as the burned, charred corpse of Salvatore Bernardi slumped to the ground.
Every performer worth his salt knew the inherent risks of performing dangerous stunts, which is why practice and safety measures were so important. Yet even so, there was always the possibility of human error leading to disastrous consequences.
It was still odd, the news later reported, for events to unfurl the way they did. Salvatore Bernardi was notorious for back-up plans inside back-up plans. What were the chances of both the interior lock and the trap door jammed? Perhaps he really was cursed by the Devil. Perhaps it was magic. Perhaps both.
And as for how it happened?
A magician never reveals his secrets.
****
Though mediums of storytelling have evolved over the years, the core idea has not: Man experiences troubles, man deals with troubles and marries the girl, man has kids with the girl and lives happily ever after. The end.
But there’s more to the story that Hollywood doesn’t tell you, the less glitzy, less glamorous parts that are unquestionably human, yet everyone would do anything in their power to avoid talking about openly.
After his father’s death, Albert was poised to take fate into his own hands. Hubristic, but expected for someone of his age. There was no one better-suited for ‘the girl’ than Kathy, and he knew they were destined to ride off into the sunset. Granted, he didn’t realize how quick it would be, but Cindy’s sudden arrival necessitated some fudging of the timeline. His father-in-law reluctantly brought him into the family business—partially spurned by tension with his biological son and the realization he had no one to inherit it—and bequeathed him the house Kathy grew up in. Albert was eager to leave behind 42 Meadowbrook Lane and the bad memories seeped within; the only downside was having to see it (and Max, and Uncle Eddie…) regularly whenever he stepped outside, a constant reminder of what-once-was. But aside from a small payment, it was essentially a free house and Albert was in no position to complain. He also didn’t complain about the Floros job, though he didn’t hesitate to jump at the chance to try his hand at alternate opportunities when they presented themselves.
Unfortunately, his magic career fizzled before it could truly begin. But he still had a wife and daughter and a dog and a literal white picket fence. He was able to provide semi-comfortably for his family while experiencing no significant hardship.
So why wasn’t he happy?
It was a long and arduous process to even admit that uncomfortable truth to himself. He felt guilty and searched for the ‘why’ to the question, but kept coming up empty. There was no logical reason for him to feel this gnawing lethargy and unfulfillment. Something was wrong with this feeling, with him, and Albert hated it. He thought Sal’s death might make him feel better, but after the initial rush he felt even emptier.
Though in fairness, he wasn’t sure how much of it was due to the death itself or Kathy’s reaction.
“Yeesh, from the way you keep going on, it’s like he was your friend instead of mine.”
Kathy set the dog bowl down in a huff. Lola scampered from Albert’s side to the food, scarfing it down with vigorous enthusiasm.
At least someone’s happy…
“I just can’t believe how callous you were in the car afterwards. Honestly, Albert. Asking Cindy if she wanted to go to Frozen Swirls? Really?”
“Ice cream always makes her feel better. And besides, I promised her we’d celebrate when she finally got discharged,” he reminded her.
“She watched a man burn to death in front of her!”
“Not really. He was in the coffin when it happened.” At Kathy’s withering glare, he added, “Look, Cindy’s a resilient kid. She might be crying now, but in a week she’ll forget it even happened.”
“As opposed to you, who got over it in—what?—minutes? Seconds?” She shook her head in disappointment. “I don’t understand, Albert. I know how livid you were when you first got his letter, but I thought you changed your tune. You told me you thought it was a genuine peace offering. Did something happen when you talked to him backstage?”
Oh, something happened alright.
Albert tried looking as innocent as possible, recalling the conversation with the older magician. Sal did appear genuine when he said the guilt of how their partnership ended weighed on him, and that he had no idea until a few months ago that Cindy was suffering from such severe post-polio complications. He reiterated his stance in the letter that his performance at the hospital was meant to be an olive branch, and expressed surprise and pleasure when Albert cheerfully said he’d let bygones be bygones.
It was all bullshit, of course. Sal’s acting was, admittedly, a lot more convincing than it had been in the past, but Albert wasn’t stupid. He knew Sal was waiting for another opportunity to screw him over, and Albert wasn’t going to let that slide. Not this time.
“No. We just…talked. All nice and friendly-like. Maybe that’s why I’m not that upset. We were finally able to clear the air and not get all hot and bothered. Get it? Hot and bothered, because he’s—”
“Yes, I get it,” she said dryly. She shook her head again in that annoyingly condescending way. “Albert, this is no joking matter. Someone died.”
“The way I talk about it isn’t going to make him any less dead.”
“I know, it’s just…” She sighed and folded her arms, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Look, Albert. I knew you were…one-of-a-kind… when I married you. And I know you always liked to keep things close to your chest. But for God’s sake, we’re married. I feel like I understand you less now than I ever did in the past. I don’t know if it started with the polio, or Stephanie’s death, or when the act got split up or…well, it doesn’t matter. It’s still a problem.”
Albert threw his hands up. “‘Still a problem’? I still don‘t know what this ‘problem’ even is.”
“The problem is you’re not letting me in. I don’t think you’re letting anyone in.” She turned on the sink and began scrubbing the dishes. “Except maybe that woman you keep seeing.”
“I’m not seeing another woman!” he exclaimed, a blush creeping up his neck. “How many times have we been over this?”
“Okay, then. Maybe your bookies, or wherever you keep going at night.”
“I don’t gamble.”
“So why don’t you be honest for once and tell me where you go?”
Though her back was towards him, he could tell from the heaviness of her voice that she had tears in her eyes. His temper faded as guilt started creeping in. “Just a few different bars, mostly. It’s not a big deal.”
“Mhmm.”
She obviously didn’t believe him, but Albert attempted to redirect focus nonetheless. “So the problem is I don’t tell you enough? Well jeez, Kath. There’s not much to tell you about Sal that you didn’t see for yourself.”
“You’re not getting it.” She turned around to face him, and he looked down at her heels. “It’s not so much what you say, but rather what you do, or don’t do. Christ, you looked more upset when the Dodgers lost the World Series than when I found Stephanie dead in her crib! I’m not sure if things genuinely don’t bother you, or if you just pretend they don’t. But every time I try to reach out, you push me away. ”
“Of course I was upset when Stephanie died,” he snapped, jumping at the rare chance to be honest. “But I'm the one who provides for this family. I can’t afford to get all weepy like a woman. Just because I don’t blab my mouth off doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything.”
If anything, Albert thought his biggest problem was that he felt things too deeply. But he wasn’t about to say that aloud—something that, he grudgingly admitted, proved Kathy’s point.
Still, she nodded, looking a tad less tense than the seconds prior. Albert leapt on that opening. “I do love you, sweetheart. I know I don’t always do the best job showing it, but I do. I got you Lola, didn’t I? Even though I wanted a German Shepherd.”
At her name, the Chihuahua trotted over. Albert leaned down and gave her a few scratches behind the ear. He was never a fan of tiny dogs, but Lola grew on him over the years. Still, he was determined that the next one would be a breed that at least went up to his knee.
“That’s true...”
Emboldened, he strode over and wrapped his arms around her waist. She didn’t push him away, which was another good sign. “And that pearl necklace, and that sexy negligee, and those six different pairs of shoes this past month—”
“Three.”
“I’m ready to make it six!” The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “C’mon, hun. Cut a poor fella some slack, will ya?”
She was silent for a moment, but her eyes contained a coyness that let him know he was close to victory.
“...Oh, all right,” she finally relented.
Tension eased out of Albert’s body. “You’re a gem, kid.”
“I’ll say.” She hung the dishtowel back on the hanger and smiled, which made him feel good too. While he couldn’t escape the frequent frustration brewing inside, he didn’t enjoy seeing her upset—especially at him.
He liked Kathy. She was the woman he liked the most. She was gorgeous and kind and funny and a good cook and mother. So why did it feel like something wasn’t clicking?
“Sooo….Cindy’s upstairs in bed,” he said, wagging his eyebrows flirtatiously, trying to will the feelings that seemed to exist in every other man besides him into existence. “Maybe asleep by now. Why don’t we put that negligee to use, hmm?”
She giggled and batted her eyelashes. “You men only think of one thing, don’t you?”
She sounded pleased instead of annoyed, thankfully. “That, and sports.”
In truth, his interest in baseball had dissipated significantly in the past several years, but it was an objectively more normal pastime than some of his other interests. Kathy nodded daintily and began heading towards the hallway. “I’m going to double-check that Cindy’s okay first.”
“Alright. You know where to find me.”
“I’m glad we’re doing this again,” he said shyly, hand hovering by the edge of the wall. The back of her neck looked so smooth and fragile, complemented by the aforementioned pearls. “It’s been a while.”
Now that she mentioned it, it did seem long. Had it been a month? Two? Maybe even three? “Yeah. It’s a lot easier when you’re not hysterical.”
Kathy paused. “I’m sorry, what?”
Albert blinked at the sudden turnaround. The frost in her voice was enough to freeze him like a snowman. “What?”
“You’re unbelievable!” she hissed. “Don’t even think about coming to bed.”
She stomped away before he could say anything. Lola whined.
“Did you understand any of that?” he asked. Lola just stared up at him with those big bulgy eyes of hers.
Was this period-related? Was Kathy—God forbid—pregnant again? Or was this yet another example of Albert missing basic social cues?
“Welp, looks like I’m in the doghouse,” he sighed.
Lola barked in agreement.
****
A few failed attempts at reconciliation discouraged him from trying further, and the Cold War was no longer limited to Washington. It wasn’t their first extended period of tension, and Albert expected the storm would eventually pass like all of them do. But it made staying at home even more suffocating than normal, and Albert jumped at the first opportunity to slip out.
The Cat’s Cradle was filled to the brim, and though Albert never considered himself a social person, he felt at ease weaving through the crowd and up to the bar. It was easier to blend in, and today he wanted to be like wallpaper.
But Anthony still spotted him easily, breaking into a grin as he gestured to the stool beside him.
“That hat looks terrible,” Albert said by way of greeting. “Are you going to order me a baguette?”
“You’re a riot,” he deadpanned, adjusting his black beret in defiance. “I’ve got more of these back home. You could use something to cover that rat nest you call hair.”
Albert did have something, actually–Sal’s top hat that rolled to the floor in the pandemonium, which Albert stealthily nabbed when the questioning was over. Not that he would tell Anthony that, of course. Despite how their relationship had changed over the years, there were still some things that needed to remain private from the beatnik.
“Why would I? I’m drinking with the king rat himself.”
The way his mouth twitched into a smile when he was trying not to was so similar to Kathy, it almost hurt. “Guilty as charged,” Anthony said with a mock bow.
A few more drinks and exchanges of banter led to mutual griping about their jobs and blabberings about any random thought that came into their heads. Years ago Albert couldn’t stand to stay in the same room as him, but now?
Now was a lot easier.
“You should’ve come to the poetry reading,” whined Antony, tapping his glass on the counter for emphasis.
“Some people have real responsibilities. I can’t just pick up and head to California whenever I want to, Kathy would blow a gasket.”
“It’s just a couple days. She’d understand.” She would not, and they both knew that. Anthony fiddled with the sleeve of his black turtleneck in a fleeting moment of discomfort before shoving a hand into his pocket and pulling out a small, thin notebook. “Ginsberg’s a fucking genius. It was just a draft, but what he wrote—goddamn, is it good. I wrote some of it down here. See?”
Albert took it and skimmed through Anthony’s rushed scrawls. Personally, he felt the poem dripped of pretentiousness and yet another example of disjointed, borderline incoherent ramblings characteristic of Beat literature, but he couldn’t deny the striking nature of some of the lines:
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! Invisible suburbs! Skeleton treasuries! Blind capitals! Demonic industries! Spectral nations! Invincible madhouses! Granite cocks! Monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! Lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
“It’s…alright.”
“Oh, come on! You don’t dig it, even a little?”
“Not really,” he admitted, shrugging. “Just another example of graphorrhea hoodwinking idiots into thinking it’s profound.”
Anthony tsked and shook his head in dismay. “I swear, you have no taste.”
“Obviously. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
Anthony smiled wryly. “Give it another look.”
Albert did, reluctantly.
“Moloch’s a demon from the Bible, right?” he asked. Theology was never his strong suit but the name seemed vaguely familiar. “The one they sacrificed children to?”
“Canaanite god, actually. Though within a Biblical framework, they’re viewed as one and the same.” Anthony snatched the notebook and thrusted a finger at some of the lines. “Don’t you get it? The poem’s a screed on the oppressive nature of our capitalist society and the institutions that break Man down and spit him out. Since birth we’ve been fattened and primed to be fed to our overlords in Washington and—”
Albert tuned out Anthony’s ramblings as he skimmed through the poem a second time. “He’s gotta change some of these lines before it gets published.”
Anthony glowered. “He shouldn’t change a single goddamn thing. This is once-in-a-lifetime, voice-our-our-generation brilliance–”
“Look at some of these lines.” He lowered his as he recited, “waving genitals and manuscripts…who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim…scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may…come on. it just goes on and on like this. People are going to have a problem with it. It talks too much about sex.” Then, even lower if possible: “Our kind.”
“That’s the whole point,” fumed Anthony. “It’s anti-censorship, anti-government squares telling us what we can and can’t do.”
“Well, those ‘squares’ are the ones in charge. They’re going to say it’s obscene and try to have it banned.”
“Obsc–no, fuck that.” Anthony’s face reddened with anger. There were few things that could get him as worked up as the topic of censoring artistic expression. “This is America. This is a raw, undiluted American experience. Just because you won’t see it on Prime-time doesn’t mean—”
Albert held his hands up in mock surrender. Hey, you’re preaching to the choir. I’m just saying, that’s how they’re gonna see it.”
Anthony’s smoldering gaze lowered to the inside of his glass, though his sagging shoulders indicated the fight dimmed a bit. “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,” he recited. Then, he chuckled dryly. “Pretty damn prophetic.”
Albert shifted in his seat and shrugged. “Maybe he’ll keep it and try fighting it.”
“Maybe. I hope so.”
“But you can’t,” Albert said, more gently than he was used to. “Anthony, you know if anyone sees this book…or finds out about the places you go…it’ll, um, well, you already said HUAC’s been sniffing around the office. Don’t make it easy for ‘em.”
“Hmph.” Anthony traced the rim of his glass with a smooth finger, and was silent for a few moments. “...It would be nice, right? Not having to hide?”
“And ruin my marriage?” Albert took another swig. “No thanks.”
Anthony scoffed. “From what you and her have been telling me, it’s already going the way of the Titanic.”
Albert winced. He wasn’t wrong, necessarily, but it stung to hear.
There were a lot of things that made their relationship rocky: the distance in its early years from traveling, the way he blew threw the sudden wealth he gained in his rise to fame, the subsequent fall and overreliance on alcohol to get him through it, Stephanie’s death, Kathy’s refuge in pills, Albert’s negligence leading to Cindy’s polio in the first place, the constant string of affairs…
“Nah. It’s fine. We were on the outs a bit recently, but I smoothed things over.”
He left out the part where he promptly ended up on the outs again, but Anthony saw through it anyway. “If you want to arrange deck chairs, be my guest. But eventually, something’s gotta give.”
Albert’s temper flared. “Well, what do you expect me to do? I can’t just walk out. We’ve got Cindy. And besides, she’s your sister. You think that'll make her happy?”
“I dunno. Maybe,” sulked Anthony. “Whatever. I was just joshing, don’t blow your jets.”
“Didn’t sound like it,” muttered Albert. “I don’t want her to be upset.”
“...Neither do I.”
A tense silence filled the air, and both looked away. Interactions between them always ran hot and cold and semi-violent, and this on-again, off-again…thing…they had was a Gordinian knot as far as emotions were concerned.
Anthony’s interest in men was something Albert discovered during their teenage years, but they didn’t consider anything happening between them until deep into the marriage and after his split with Sal. After Albert felt bold enough to start engaging in affairs on the performance circuit, from producers to stagehands to fans. It scratched an itch he didn’t realize he had, but the more times it happened, that sense of needing more returned. At first he thought it might just be guilt, but he understood guilt. Both him and Anthony did, yet were too selfish to placate it by doing the right thing.
That gnawing void wasn’t guilt. It was something else that accompanied it, lurking in the shadows yet ever-present.
Anthony finally broke the silence. “I’m surprised you went this long without bringing up the obvious.”
He spoke airily, and Albert was relieved the temporary squall had passed. “What?”
“That heel Bernardi.”
“Oh.” Albert’s gaze returned to his glass. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” prodded Anthony.
Albert shrugged feebly. “Not really.”
“Alright.” Anthony drummed his fingers against the bar and cocked his head in thought. “Hey, you know Gabe Lopez?”
Now there was a name he hadn’t thought of in a while. “Yeah. He’s the brother of one of the producers for–wait, how do you know him?”
“Met him at an…event…when I was in California.”
‘Gay bar.’ Got it. “He’s an ass.”
“I gathered as much,” chuckled Anthony. “He asked about you, though. Were you and him…”
“Ehh.” Albert shrugged, remembering the explosive finale of what he thought would be a good night. “It was a one-and-done kind of thing.”
‘God! You’re sick–you’re fucking sick! Stay away from me, freak.’
Albert took another swing. Those words hurt back then, and the primal desire to bash Gabe’s skull into the bedknob and watch the light dim from his stupid eyes was so powerful, he almost gave in at the time. Almost.
But he didn’t, and instead used that experience to learn what not to do. Even among men who got off on other men, there were lines that couldn’t be crossed.
Disappointing…
“What’d you think of him?” asked Albert, half-curious and half-jealous.
“He was alright. Not as fun as you though.” He smirked mischievously and buttoned up his coat. “C’mon. Let’s head back to my place.”
Fucking finally.
But before he stood up, he noticed something left behind on the table. “You forgot your word salad,” he said, waving the notebook.
“Nah, it’s yours,” sighed Anthony, throwing it one last, wistful look. “Probably safer if it’s not on me. Just in case we find Uncle Sam’s goons raiding my apartment.” He chuckled sardonically. “Keep it, burn it, jerk off to it, I don’t care.”
Trash it is then.
Albert stuffed the small notebook into his coat pocket and buttoned up, But as he did, an idle, discomforting thought crossed his mind.
Gabe Lopez…Gabriel Lopez…
Like he mentioned to Anthony, Gabe was the brother of one of one of the behind-the-scenes bigwigs. And when Sal said he couldn’t continue working with Albert, he mentioned it was due to the demands of that particular brother, who held a heavy amount of influence in their stage shows and scattered television appearances.
In the haze of fury, he didn’t put two and two together at the time. But if Gabriel was the one who wanted Albert to get dropped from the act and Sal was telling the truth, then—
He stilled as the world seemed to spin and silence around him. Horror, regret, and revulsion stabbed at every nerve in his body. His breathing grew quick and shallow. What the hell did he—
No.
Albert relaxed. No, Sal was the one lying the whole time. The thing with Gabriel was just a coincidence, that’s all. Salvatore Bernardi deserved every microsecond of pain and torment Albert was more than happy to give.
He had to.
****
Unlike their spats in the past, Kathy showed no signs of relenting. Albert didn’t want this to become their new normal but didn’t seem to have much of a choice. Things did, however, eventually come to a head—albeit not in the way Albert planned or wanted.
About a week after an outing with Anthony, Albert spilled coffee on his coat. Kathy snatched it away for cleaning without him needing to ask, which bolstered hope she might be coming around. And in another world, she might have.
But in this world, her heels clicked to the bedroom furiously as Albert loosened his tie. “Were you able to–”
She slammed the notebook onto the bed. A small, innocuous little thing that was so light, he forgot all about it.
Fuck.
“What’s this?” she demanded, hands on her hips.
Albert swallowed. “Poetry. N-Not mine,” he rushed to clarify. “Just some notes about someone else’s…”
“It’s homosexual!”
Her voice didn’t hold the same disgust others might—an aftereffect of remaining close to Anthony and keeping him in her life, instead of rejecting him the way their parents did. But she was obviously upset, and even a knucklehead like him could figure out why.
Albert’s palms began sweating, keenly aware of how close his life was to completely and irrevocably collapsing.
“That’s part of it,” he said evenly, “but it’s mainly about nonconformity and bucking the system. And besides, it’s not mine. I’m just holding it for a friend.”
‘Holding it for a friend’’ was one of the worst excuses ever; Albert learned that back when Raymond Klein got caught and paddled at school for hiding Bobby Baur’s cigarettes, yet somehow was stupid enough (or hopeful enough) to believe it might work now.
It didn’t.
Kathy inspected the notebook closer. “It’s my brother’s handwriting.”
“Yeah. It’s um, it’s his..”
“If that’s who you saw, why couldn’t you tell—”
She stopped abruptly. Then, he saw it in her eyes. The slowest, fastest realization he’d ever seen in another person.
She knows.
He felt as though he was careening in the air, seconds away from splattering into a puddle on the ground. His mouth grew dry. “It—It’s not what you think.”
“Just stop.” Her bottom lip quivered. “Stop with the lies. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?”
His imaginings and ‘what-ifs’ about this moment that used to flit through his mind didn’t hold a candle to the gunwrenching reality. She reminded him of a doe thrashing against the precipice of death, and a lump rose in his throat. He couldn’t bear to see her like this.
“Kathy,” he murmured, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, jerking away as if he were poisonous. “Don’t you dare touch me after you and my b-br—God, my fucking brother!”
She started to weep.
“There’s nothing between me and him,” he lied.
“So if I call him right now, he’ll say it’s bunk?” she challenged through her tears.
Albert hesitated, which was answer enough. Kathy began sobbing, makeup running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.
“Sorry? Is that all you can say?” She laughed through her tears, incredulous. “I wasted a decade–no, more than a decade–pining over you, wondering why I was never enough. I’ll never be enough. It wasn’t fair and—and how could you do this to me? How could both of you do this to me?”
Now he felt like the prey backed against the wall. “W-Well, what was I supposed to do?”
“Not marry someone you don’t love?”
“I do love you! And the sex is good. It’s just…”
“Not enough,” she finished. “Like I said, I’ll never be enough.” She sat on the bed and buried her head in her hands. “God, if you just said something before we got married, it would’ve been okay. I’d understand and wouldn’t hate you for it. We both would have been better off. So why didn’t you?”
The obvious answer hung in the air: ‘Because I’m a selfish coward.’
Albert wanted—needed—that white picket fence life that everyone dreamed about, the one with a gorgeous wife and children that promised happiness. Even more selfishly, he liked someone fawning over him, liked having someone else take over the housekeeping for once, and liked being able to show people, ‘Hey, I made it! I’m a normal, functioning adult!’
Except he wasn’t. He was hardly an adult, let alone functioning. The man in the mirror didn’t match the boy he felt inside, like a kindergartner trying to slip into their parents’ shoes.
He didn’t want to admit the answer. He couldn’t, even though both of them knew it.
So he continued to say nothing, and her eyes narrowed.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
He wanted to protest; it was, legally, his house, even though Kathy's father was the original owner. But even he wasn’t that shameless.
Albert tossed a few articles of clothing into a small suitcase and headed into the hallway and towards the living room. Cindy sat on the couch, Lola laying next to her crooked legs. Her eyes fixated dully on the television while her fingers flexed around her Gumby toy.
She probably heard. Hell, maybe the whole street heard.
“I’m going away,” he announced.
She paused before answering, though her fingers stopped their movements.
Albert hated that stupid clay asshole. It was a toy geared towards younger children and it killed him to buy it for a ten year old, but Kathy guilted him into it. ‘She likes what she likes,’ Kathy said. But Albert never understood the most important part: the why. There was a lot he didn’t know or understand about Cindy, and it was only now that he realized he might never get the chance. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
She finally broke eye contact with the television, and once more, Albert found himself unable to get a read on her. It only lasted for a few seconds before turning back to the show. “Okay.”
No ‘I’ll miss you, Daddy,’ or ‘Please stay, Daddy,’ or ‘When are you coming back, Daddy?’ or ‘Mommy’s being such an unreasonable bitch, right, Daddy?’ Just a weak little ‘Okay’ and staring at her fucking Davey Crockett.
At least Lola roused from sleep and wandered over to him. He reached down and gave her a quick pet.
“Bye Lola,” he said, unnecessarily loud.
The anger wasn’t entirely unwelcome, as it was much more comfortable than grief and guilt. If he couldn’t snipe back at Kathy, this would have to do.
“You should get rid of that kiddie toy,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “One day you’re going to have to grow up.”
She muttered something under her breath, and the veins on his neck hands throbbed.
“What was that?” he snarled.
Her head snapped in his direction, eyes widening with undisguised fear as she shrunk back. Good.
But it was short-lived. Kathy stormed into the living room, face flushed with fury. “I said leave!”
This time he did, still in a huff as he swung open the car door. He could have sworn Cindy said ‘You do too’ before Kathy came in, and the audacity still had him steamed.
In retrospect though, it might have been the television. Or maybe even his imagination.
Nah, it’s definitely her.
****
He spent the week in a crappy, run-down motel room for a week that didn’t hang their inspection score anywhere in the lobby, which should have been a warning sign. But he couldn’t bring himself to care at the time. His mind was preoccupied with concerns far greater.
How many people would find out? What would happen to him?
But as the days passed, he realized his concerns for the former might have been overblown. Kathy wouldn’t tell any of her friends—she couldn’t, not without becoming a laughing stock herself. Her father didn’t mention anything at work either, and seemed blissfully unaware of any marital troubles plaguing his daughter and son-in-law. The only person who knew for sure was Anthony, who gave him a quick call admitting Kathy spoke with him afterwards and he came clean. He didn’t ask how Albert was faring, which irritated him even though it should have been obvious.
Albert’s train of self-pity and fear was broken by a brisk knock at the start of the second week. His stomach twisted when he opened the door to find two solemn policemen. Was this it? Was he finally getting arrested for sodomy? His thoughts went out to Cindy and Max, guilt seeping through every pore of his body. Maybe if they moved somewhere else, they wouldn’t have to live with the embarrassment.
But as it turns out, they had different news entirely.
****
Albert stares numbly at the gravestone. It didn’t seem real, nothing within the last week did.
A pill overdose, the policemen said. The only uncertainty was whether it was intentional or an unfortunate accident, and neither option gave him pleasure. Albert kept thinking of their last moments together, and how she must have gone to her death despising him. It was a horrible thought, the knowledge that a few bad moments in a relationship could undermine a lifetime of goodness and joy.
The funeral attendees had trickled down after the burial, leaving only a scattered few. Max and Uncle Eddie were already heading back to their car. Cindy sat under a tree, a good distance away with her maternal grandparents. Her crutch lay limp by her side, and her grandparents tried giving soothing words. But Albert doubted it would help. He knew from personal experience that there was little one could say to make a child feel better about their mother dying.
He heard the crunching of grass, and a few seconds later Anthony was beside him. His eyes were red-rimmed behind glasses as he stared hollowly at the grave. “She’s dead because of us.”
Albert swallowed down a lump in his throat as he hackles raised. “You more than me. You were her brother. Plus, you came onto me first.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched and his face flushed with rage. “You were her husband! And I was drunk, alright? You could’ve turned me down, but you didn’t.”
Anthony was right. Albert knew, deep down, that he was right. But for some reason, it was impossible for him to admit out loud. “Whatever,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Why didn’t you lie when she called you?”
“Are you serious?” Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “We fucked up. The fact you're even arguing about this shows you have no principles.”
“I have no principles?” Albert started seeing red. “You wouldn’t know authenticity if it bit you in the ass. That’s why you gave me that damn book in the first place. After all that bluster about how nice it would be not to have to hide…”
“I know I dropped the ball, but you’re not even pretending to accept responsibility! You always do this shit. Everything’s always someone else’s fault, never your own.”
“Shut the hell up,” spat Albert. “You don’t know anything about me. You never did.”
“No,” Anthony said flatly. “I guess I didn’t.”
Albert scowled and turned away. After a few seconds, he heard Anthony’s footsteps finally retreat.
He continued staring at the grave until the sky took on the purplish-orange of sunset. Sighing, he turned around. By this point, the only people remaining in the cemetery were himself and Cindy. He ambled towards the tree and plopped himself next to her.
“So,” he began awkwardly, “everyone’s gone.”
Her cheeks had dried, but she still didn’t look happy. But she didn’t look as overtaken with grief as she did earlier in the day, either. “Yeah.”
“You, uh, want to get ice cream on the way back?”
“...No,” muttered Cindy, eyes downcast. She started fiddling with a dandelion in the grass.
Albert bit his lip. He realized, logically, that with Kathy’s death it would just be him and Cindy, but the reality of what that meant hadn’t fully hit him until now.
The thought of being a single parent was utterly terrifying. But he’d find a way to manage somehow. After all, his own mother did it, and so did his father.
How hard could it really be?
Notes:
The excerpt of the poem included in this chapter is from "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.
Chapter 36: Moloch
Notes:
-This chapter ended up going in a slightly different direction from the original concept stages, and might get the award for most fucked-up chapter yet. Make sure to heed the warnings.
-Believe it or not, Aluminum Christmas Trees did exist in real-life! They were quite popular in the 50s and early 60s before "A Charlie Brown Christmas" cratered their reign.
-As the title of this chapter implies, you will see certain callbacks to the previous one. One particular section near the end is purposely meant to evoke Ginsberg’s “Howl” via word choice and rhythm.
Chapter Text
Married life chafed Albert for years, and he flirted with the idea of a life without Kathy more than he probably should. But the old adage of ‘You don't realize what you have until it’s gone’ unfortunately proved true once more.
He missed her smile, her companionship, her laugh, her flirtatious little winks and hairflips. Her loyalty, her sense of humor, the way she’d tilt her head in deep concentration, the genuine interest and support she showed him time after time, even when he did nothing to deserve it. He was an idiot for not appreciating her before, and it killed him to know he’d never get another chance.
He also never realized just how much work she did on a daily basis. All his time outside of work was now spent grocery shopping, cooking, taking care of the dog, doing laundry, and essentially doubling as a nurse to accommodate Cindy’s medical needs. By the end of the day, he was so drained he could barely muster enough energy to watch a thirty-minute television program and usually conked to bed immediately, only for the cycle to start anew. The sleep he did get was shallow and erratic, making him more irritable, unfocused, and lethargic. More often than not, he hoped he wouldn’t wake up. It was a hopeless existence made even more miserable by the knowledge he was largely at fault.
A few months after Kathy’s death, Mr. Sinclair and his wife had one drink too many and ended up plowing into a semi going the opposite direction on the highway. The nest egg from the inheritance quickly waned as medical bill after bill kept piling up. Furthermore, the death of Cindy’s grandparents drastically limited childcare opportunities. He’d rather swallow broken glass than ask Anthony for help; neither man had seen each other since the funeral and had no interest in smoothing things over. The only remaining option was Uncle Eddie, whom Kathy never liked (“the man’s nuttier than a fruit cake, Albert!”), though Cindy did.
But within a couple years of Kathy’s death, Uncle Eddie passed on, too. Despite their fraught relationship, Max took the death very hard and spiraled, dropping out of college and doing God-knows what who-knows-where.
To Albert, Eddie’s death felt like a needle poking an armadillo’s shell. He didn’t spend much time with his uncle before moving out, and in the years prior, Uncle Eddie always seemed skittish around Albert for reasons he didn’t know nor cared to know about. But the inconvenience of losing another babysitter did weigh heavily on him.
The only silver lining to Kathy's death—albeit a faint one–was the possibility he might grow closer to Cindy as a result. And in some respects they did, though in others, the gap seemed to widen.
General frustrations aside, Albert did love his daughter. He remembered smiling when she’d zip around the lake, bright and energetic and giggly. But that light dimmed after the lake. It happened gradually over time instead of an instant deluge, but she grew quieter, more pensive and Sphinxlike, which only accelerated with her mother’s death. In some aspects, Cynthia Shaw seemed like a different person entirely, like a changeling of yore.
But she wasn’t. He could sometimes catch glimpses of the girl-she-used-to-be from the life-he-used-to-have, and his icy heart would thaw a smidge. It made the daily health struggles he witnessed cut even deeper, and wondered if Death would claim her as it did so many others within the past few years.
He wasn’t sure if that would be a curse or a mercy—for either of them.
****
“Well?” asked Albert, drumming his fingers against his forearm. “How is she?”
Dr. Barnes’ brow furrowed in concentration as he raised the stethoscope against Cindy’s chest. “You said she was screaming last night because of her…breathing? Am I understanding correctly?”
Albert restrained himself from an eyeroll. For fuck’s sake, how many times do I have to go over this? “Yes. I heard her screaming in the middle of the night, and when I ran into her room, her breathing was heavy and ragged, and she couldn’t speak right. She was drenched in sweat and didn’t seem all there.” Albert tapped a finger to his forehead for emphasis.
“Hmm.”
Dr. Barnes continued examining her silently as Albert fidgeted. Then, he removed the stethoscope and peered at Cindy over his owlish glasses. “Is that what happened, Cynthia?”
Cindy shifted position on the examination table. “Y-Yes. I went to bed, and then it was like Dad said.”
“I see.” There was a pregnant pause. “Well, in any case, I don’t believe whatever transpired was a result of the polio.”
“How?” demanded Albert, internal bullshit detectors blaring. “She’s been having respiratory problems for years because of it!”
“Allow me to clarify: I don’t believe the episode last night was because of her polio complications, though they no doubt amplified it.”
Albert despised the way doctors always seemed to talk down on him. “So what was it?”
Dr. Barnes pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. “It could be many things: Night terrors, some kind of anxiety disorder or neurasthenia…regardless, her muscle control hasn’t changed. Her condition is physically stable and looking much better than it did a few years ago. I strongly suspect any perceived physical changes are psychosomatic in nature, though that particular element is beyond my purview, unfortunately.”
It was one of the rare times when Albert found himself at a loss for words. Cindy looked up at Dr. Barnes in confusion. “Psychoso...um, does that mean I’m going to live until Christmas?”
Dr. Barnes’ frosty exterior thawed as he gave his patient an indulgent smile. “Of course. In fact, I believe you’ll live for many, many years to come.”
“Really?” she beamed.
“Yes. You may never regain full function of your leg, but I’m encouraged by the progres we’ve seen thus far. There are many patients like you who—”
“How could you give her false hope like that?” interrupted Albert. “Look, this—this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Not even recently. She was thrashing around like a wild animal and–and—”
Dr. Barnes held him in place with a hard, knowing stare. “I assume that’s the cause of bruises on her arms.”
Albert’s gut twisted. “Y-Yeah.”
Cindy looked down.
Dr. Barnes folded his arms “I’m one doctor, Mr. Shaw. Other experts might come to different conclusions, and you’re more than welcome to look for a second opinion. But going by what I see, your best chance at avoiding future incidents is to deal with its source.”
Albert’s lips thinned. “Is there anything to make things easier in the meantime? Something to make her go to sleep faster? Without, y’know, shaking and wheezing.”
Dr. Barnes sighed and scribbled something in his notepad. “I can get you a prescription, but make sure to use the proper dosage. We want her asleep, not unconscious.”
****
Every step towards the car increased the aggravation bubbling inside: the audacity and idiocy of the doctor, the cost of the medicine and knowledge insurance wouldn’t cover it, and something else he couldn’t pinpoint. The trek to the car was always painfully slow, but the mounds of snow doubled the length as helped Cindy navigate through the parking lot with her crutch. His tension ebbed by the time he turned the keys in the ignition, but some degree of discomfort must have still been evident, as Cindy asked, “Dad, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, double-checking to make sure no one was behind him as he pulled out of the parking spot. “T.J Eckleburg just rattled my cage a bit.”
“His name was Dr. Barnes.”
“I know that,” he snapped. Then, glancing at her expression in the mirror, quickly added, “Sorry. I’m not peeved at you, sweetie.”
“...So why are you mad?”
Albert sighed. “You didn’t realize it, but he basically called you a nut. And we both know that’s not true. Your body felt it, right? It was happening to you. You weren’t making it happen.”
Cindy nodded vigorously. “Yeah. I was just staring at the ceiling and then it started happening. I couldn’t breathe and started feeling hot and sweaty.”
“There ya go,” he said with vindication. “And you might not know this either, but these doctor visits don’t always come cheap. So when I get bad service, it’s enough to grind a fella’s gears. Get it?”
“I get it,” she said. There was about a minute of silence, both lost in their own thoughts as they passed blurs of houses, trees, and stores, until Cindy added shyly, “I hope he was telling the truth, though. That means I won’t die soon. I might even live until I’m thirty—that would be neat. I might get to see the first woman president.”
But Albert tuned after ‘won’t die soon.’ His gaze latched onto the road, though he wasn’t fully seeing it. His body moved on autopilot while his mind buzzed frantically. He realized, now, what the mysterious ‘something else he couldn’t pinpoint’ finally was, and it caused his blood to freeze.
It was disappointment.
The past four years were the most difficult he ever experienced. He wasn’t physically, emotionally, or financially prepared for the hardship that came with being a caregiver, but subconsciously operated with the understanding that there would eventually be an endpoint.
But maybe there wouldn’t. Maybe this was the rest of this life. Maybe he’d still be lifting her around when they were both old, wrinkled, and gray. Maybe she’d outlive him.
‘In fact, I believe you’ll live for many, many years to come.’
Albert swallowed, tears stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her father. He loved her—no matter what else he felt, he knew that to be true. And he also knew her death would devastate him, so there was no logical reason for him to be upset with the prognosis.
“Dad, are you okay?”
“Y-Yes,” he said, choking down revulsion at himself. I really am the worst… “What, um, what do you want for Christmas? You never gave me that list.”
“I don’t want anything,” she murmured, shifting in her seat. “Besides the sleeping pills, I guess…”
Albert didn’t want to think of the cost of that on top of all the others, but couldn’t stand the thought of her having a joyless Christmas. He could still make the magic happen, damn it!
“Wellll, the elves have been talking and already have some ideas,” he said with mock solemnity. “Might want to say your piece now before they get started on the production line.”
He glanced in the mirror, relieved to see her mouth twitch into a smile. “I’m not sure. The only thing I—oh. Wait, can I get a dog?”
Albert hesitated. Lola was the most recent death, from valve disease earlier in the year. It wasn’t entirely unexpected given her age, but it was hard on both of them. Albert liked the idea of getting another dog in theory, but barely had enough energy as-is.
“...Dogs are a lot of work,” he explained. “Maybe in a couple years.”
“What about a cat?”
Albert never liked cats, but Evelyn did, and even considered getting a black one for marketing purposes. Of course, Henry’s sudden arrival threw a monkey wrench into that plan. “Don’t think Santa can get that one, either.”
“Hmm.” Cindy paused for a moment, then asked, “What about a bunny? Since you used to be a magician…”
Albert drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He didn’t dislike rabbits, but had no experience taking care of them—or any live animal— in his acts, and was unsure how difficult it would be to care for one. Cindy seemed dead-set on a pet though, and he didn’t want to keep shooting down ideas. “Maybe.”
Regardless, she picked up on the reluctance in his voice and mumbled, “I don’t need a real one. I’ll be fine with a stuffed rabbit, like the one Lola chewed up when she got jealous. Remember that?”
“Yeah.” Albert chuckled at the memory.
A stuffed rabbit. That, he could do.
****
Cindy squealed in excitement the next morning, hobbling over as he squeezed the water from the dishrag into the sink. “Uncle Max is here!” she beamed.
Sure enough, Albert recognized that ugly Nash Rambler from the driveway across the street, this time with a brand new dent in the trunk. After making sure Cindy was sufficiently bundled up, they headed across the street and rang the doorbell.
“Hi, Uncle Max,” she gushed.
“Heyyy, if it isn’t my favorite little ankle-biter!” grinned Max, wrapping her into a hug. But the dark bags under his eyes belied the energetic greeting.
“Hi, Max,” Albert said stiffly.
Max’s grin faded slightly. The gap between them only seemed to widen over the years, and it was hard to imagine Max used to be the same boy who’d never leave him alone in childhood. “What’s buzzin’, cousin? How’s the Floros gig?”
Soul-sucking. “Ehh. It’s a job.”
“That bad, huh?” Max leaned and stretched. “Yeahhhh. That’s why I quit the capitalist grindfest. No rat races for this cool cat.”
Albert gave him a deadpan look while Cindy’s eyes sparkled in awe. With his leather jacket and slicked back hair, Max looked the epitome of a laid-back greaser. But unlike his daughter, Albert knew the colossal mess his brother was on the inside. “Uh-huh,” he said flatly. “So I take it you found the magic money tree?”
“Yeah, it’s inside. That’s why I came back.”
His interest was piqued as they crossed the threshold into 42 Meadowbrook Lane. Goosebumps raised on his skin, and he didn’t think it was because of the cold. “What do you mean?”
“The basement, Al. There’s a treasure trove of shi–junk,” he quickly corrected, glancing at Cindy, “down there.”
“You can say ‘shit.’” she piped.
Max brought a hand to his heart, scandalized. “Since when?” he asked Albert, aghast.
‘Since Kathy died and I don’t have her up my ass telling me to watch my language all the time.’
“I’m fourteen!” she huffed. “I’m not a baby. I don’t get why everyone thinks I am.”
“No one’s saying you are,” Albert pacified (even though he knew she was), “but Max? ‘Treasure trove’ might be pushing it.”
“Nah, I think I’ll make at least a hundred.”
Albert didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.
As they descended the steps with difficulty—Albert carrying Cindy bridal-style, Max holding onto the crutch—he reluctantly admitted there would probably be something in the mess of Eddie’s makeshift fallout shelter that could be sold, if only due to probability. It was cluttered in a frenzied, haphazard way that didn’t match the lazy slop of the basement under Henry, and it still felt odd to see the difference even after all these years.
Cindy beamed as she pushed herself to the cabinets and shelves. “I used to play here all the time. I remember the tea parties and—oooh! There’s still enough canned food to last for years.”
“That was the idea,” sighed Max.
“So you're really gutting the place.” Albert looked around, somewhat nostalgic. “End of an era…imagine if Eddie gets the last laugh and we do get nuked. You’re going to regret every dollar.”
Max groaned. “Oh, come on. You’ve been mocking him for years.”
“Some of my old teacups are here,” said Cindy, holding up the dirtied plastic. “I was wondering what happened to them.”
“Take ‘em,” said Max, shrugging. “This is the last call before I start purging the place.”
She placed the cup back on the table. “It’s okay,” she said quietly, hobbling over to the back near that fateful phone. “I don’t want it.”
“What about you, Al? See anything you want to keep?”
Albert scanned the rest of the room, insides twisting with several different emotions. “No.”
“Uncle Max?” Cindy called from near the black phone Albert had been doing everything in his power to avoid. “Why’d you cut the cord?”
He shook his head. “Wasn’t me, kiddo. The phone was like that since before you were born.”
“It definitely used to work,” she insisted, scrunching her eyebrows as she brought the phone to her ear. Albert’s fingers twitched. “I heard it here, when I was a kid. I talked to a girl on it. I know I did.”
Max wagged his eyebrows and flexed his fingers mischievously. “Maybe you heard a ghoooosssttt.”
Neither Cindy nor Albert smiled.
He vaguely recalled Cindy scrambling upstairs a month before the lake, saying there was a phone call for him. He assumed at the time it was part of her game, as ‘real’ as Mr. Bunny and Mrs. Fluffy. But could it have been a ghost? She never mentioned hearing or seeing them to him, but as his child, it was reasonable to assume she inherited the same curse he did.
Albert couldn’t recall any personal spectral encounters since his last phone call with his mother all those years ago. And he was grateful, too–he couldn’t imagine the horror of listening to Sal or Kathy curse him from beyond the grave. Perhaps one of the small blessings of age was that the curse faded over time.
Or perhaps he never heard anything at all. Perhaps it was a result of childish daydreams and wishful thinking.
“Probably just your imagination, Cin,” he said. “I heard a shrink on the radio say people sometimes create fake memories without realizing it, especially when they’re really young.”
“..Maybe,” she mumbled, placing the phone back on its base.
“You want me to lug that thing back to your house?” asked Max.
Albert answered before she could. “No.”
“Well, it’s not getting much use here.”
“Just keep it,” muttered Albert, pulling his jacket tighter. “It’s not like it’s taking up space.”
“But it’s useless!”
“It’s nostalgic.”
Despite the mix of emotions the phone induced, he couldn’t bear the thought of it sitting in some trash heap. It seemed almost profane.
Max walked closer to the phone and scratched his chin in contemplation. “Y’know, I could probably make a bit of dough selling it to an antique guy. This is a genuine—”
Albert’s temper flared. “What’s the point of asking me if I want to keep anything if you ignore anything I say?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Yeesh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
Cindy covered her mouth to hide her giggles, and his temper rose even more. Why was she so damn chipper when Max was around, but quiet and reserved around him?
You know why.
He stuffed the thought down as his lips thinned. “Cindy, go upstairs. We’re done here.”
He noted, with satisfaction, the sudden drop in attitude. “But…we just got here. I haven’t seen Uncle Max in a long time…”
“Max is busy,” Albert said brusquely. “He’s got a lot of things to do. A lot of job applications to send out, right Max?”
Max’s shoulders sagged, guilty as charged. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, I’ll take you upstairs, Cindy.”
As he did that, Albert took a few moments to take in the quiet of the basement in solitude. A sudden wave of sadness washed over him. He didn’t realize it, but deep down he missed this place. It was more comfortable, more like home than whatever 41 Meadowbrook Lane had become.
He didn’t like that feeling. He didn’t want to feel that way. He wanted to be done with this house, and the memories within it, for good.
His anger faded completely by the time Max descended the stairs.“I don’t really need a job,” Max asserted with paper-thin confidence. “I mean what I said before. The rat race is—”
“What keeps you alive. Look, no one likes to work, but no one likes being homeless either.”
Max let out a huff. “I won’t be homeless.”
“Well, you sure as shit aren’t mooching off me the rest of your life!”
“I’m not mooching!” Max flung himself down on the frayed plush chair and folded his arms. “Look, I know you technically own this house. I’m not living here permanently, I’m just staying here a few days until I get enough stuff to sell.”
“But you shouldn’t need to, not unless you squandered all of Eddie’s inheritance money on crack.” At Max’s silence, Albert shook his head in disgust. “Jesus fucking Christ, Max.”
“It’s–It’s not my fault, alright? I just–I needed it! I’ll be back on my feet in no time. See, I met this girl, Jean. She’s got this real classy chassis, if you know what I’m sayin’, and her dad’s got this chop shop and she said he might hire me when all his current workers retire.”
Albert resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. “Max, you’re a moron. You blew through all of Eddie’s cash in two years, you drop out of college—”
“You didn’t even go to college!”
“I didn’t need to, because I had an actual job lined up! Eddie saved a lot of money and you threw it in the shitter. Now look at you. What would he say?”
Max’s bottom lip wobbled before his eyes hardened and he sprang out of his seat, bolstered by righteous indignation. “‘Look at me?’ Look at you! Your life’s not too hot right now, either.”
The anger from Max’s body exited as quickly as it arrived. His younger brother’s eyes widened and he shrank back a bit in expectation.
Why does everyone act that way around me?
“You’re right, it’s not,” he admitted.
His brother rubbed the back of his neck and diverted eye contact. “Look, Al… I’m really sorry I wasn’t around much after Kathy died. I know things are probably real rough, alone with Cindy and all. How’s she, um, doing?”
“The doctor says she’s going to live long,” he said, in as neutral a tone he could muster.
Max’s eyes lit up. “That’s great!”
“Yeah.”
Even Max could see through Albert’s forced enthusiasm, but came to a different conclusion. “Is she still in pain?”
“It comes and goes.”
“I guess that’s normal, but there’s probably ways you c–Al? Al, are you okay?”
Fuck.
Albert blinked back those blurry, unwanted tears, unable to stymy the sudden tidal wave of despair crashing into him. His heart bobbed in the waves like a lost ship searching desperately for a harbor. And there was no one to go to—certainly not Max. When had he ever helped with anything?
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t, uh, seem fine…” Max stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a tentative step forward. “Want to talk about it?”
Did he?
Albert hesitated, which gave the words enough of an opening to tumble out regardless. “Everything’s wrong. This isn’t what I thought my life would be like. After Dad died, I thought I’d feel better and free, but instead everything just got shittier and I feel worse than ever. I love Cindy, but I wish I–I—”
I wish I didn’t have her.
Max patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I know things are in the pits now, but, uh, try to remember the good and not the bad. You got married to the ginchiest lady I’ve seen, and you also had a kid! I'd do anything to have–well, I know I'd make a shit dad, but if a condom breaks I, uh, wouldn’t be broken up over it…”
A broken, incredulous laugh escaped Albert’s lips. “Being a parent is tough as shit! You don’t know what it’s like. ”
“I think…I think you’ll be fine,” assured Max, blissfully naive. “You’re made of stronger stuff than you think. I mean, before Uncle Eddie came, you basically raised me yourself!”
“And every second made me miserable!”
The sudden silence was deafening. Max’s hurt expression pierced through Albert’s calcified heart, and a gust of guilt and self-loathing nipped his skin.
“Oh,” Max finally murmured. His eyes darted to his shoes as he shoved his hands in his pocket and took a few unconscious steps backward, widening the distance between them once more.
Albert felt a brief but uncharacteristic urge to grab him by the lapels and bring his brother into a hug, crying and babbling apologies and word-vomiting every secret from his past. Instead, Albert crossed his arms, gazed off to the side, and muttered, “That didn’t come out right…”
“No, I get it,” Max laughed weakly. “It was a lot of stress. Kids shouldn’t be raising kids.”
“Yeah…”
Was Albert any more mature than he was at fourteen? He doubted it. Whatever change sparked within normal people skipped over him, for better or for worse.
Definitely for worse…
“I have to go,” he muttered, heading up the stairs before Max could say any more. His brother made no attempt to follow him, which was just as well—there wasn't much else to be said.
As he walked through the kitchen, Albert almost tripped on something he didn’t notice in his haze of guilt and grief. Lips twisting into a snarl, he snatched the green figure from the ground and flung it towards the couch where his daughter sat, the sudden impact on the mattress causing her to jump and break the television’s spell. “Cindy! Don’t leave your shit on the ground where people can trip!”
Especially that shit. That dumb little Gumby Albert assumed he’d see less of as she got older, instead of clinging to it even more like some clay security blanket.
“Sorry,” she whimpered.
“Where’d you even hide that damn thing?”
He certainly wouldn’t let her bring it had he known. Cindy nodded reluctantly, eyes downcast. “I stuffed it in my jacket, but I think it fell out when I was rushing to get here.”
“What’s so–”
Albert clamped his mouth shut as he finally glanced in the direction of the television. It was a news broadcast covering Bernardi’s death and the chief of police reiterating that—yes—despite the salacious theories, it truly was no more than an unfortunate accident.
Albert’s name was floated as a possible suspect four years ago, but the (unbelievable) lack of evidence caused authorities to dismiss him rather quickly. There were other avenues for foul play that went explored: Bernardi had well-recorded issues with drugs and mob connections. A few members of the latter were, conveniently, present at the hospital and ready for an after-show shakedown that clearly ended up truncated. But despite the police’s best efforts and Sal’s long list of enemies, nothing was able to stick. The death of Salvatore Bernardi was now, officially, ruled an accident.
Kathy’s death a few weeks later prevented Albert from being as worried as he probably should have been. But he didn’t realize the weight he had been carrying over this until now.
Not only did he get away with murder once, but twice. And this time, he didn’t have his mother helping him.
He knew the sense of relief and satisfaction was perverse. There was no reason to be smug, or even satisfied. But on the other hand, why shouldn’t he be happy? Both times he was able to remove a major problem in his life with little consequence to himself. And his life was better for it.
Maybe.
But at least now, there were no more obstacles dragging him down. The only person stopping him from living the life he wanted to live was Cindy, who—
Wait…
The thought didn’t have enough time to fully dig its claws into his mind before Albert’s brain screeched to a halt, the merest possibility of thinking it dousing him like a bucket of ice water.
No. He was not going to kill, or even think of killing his daughter. He couldn’t do that; he loved her.
(I loved Dad too…)
This was different! She depended on him. She was his child that he brought into the world, for fuck’s sake. He needed to provide for her and be the kind of father he never had. He wanted to help her live out the rest of her long, long, long life the doctor promised.
“Come on, we’re going.”
Cindy grabbed her crutches and followed him without argument, and he did everything in his power to forget that little devil whispering into his ear.
****
Henry used to call the human brain a sick little bastard, and the words never rang as true as they did in the following weeks. The more one tries to consciously avoid thinking about something, the more they end up thinking about it. Albert Shaw was no exception.
He couldn’t help but mull over the possibility of getting up—if only for one day, at least—and not having to worry about the litany of tasks on his ‘To-Do’ list. Of not having to see her hobble when she walked or wheeze when she cried or laughed, though she hadn’t done the latter in a long time. Of not having to see a constant reminder of his fuckup with the lake every damn day, and to see his child suffer as a result of his idiocy.
He wanted freedom and her presence chained him, heavy shackles of normalcy that prevented him from leading the life he wanted. He wasn’t sure what that perfect life looked like, exactly, but whatever he had going on currently was decisively not it. He was miserable. He hated being a father and all that it entailed.
Sometimes.
Other times, he felt like it was his reason for living, and he’d be more than willing to cut off his arm in order to ensure his child’s safety. Other times, he felt like the luckiest, richest man in the world, just for having her in his life. But those times were few and far between.
He wanted to be satisfied with the life he had—after all, by society’s metric, he already ‘made it.’ But he just couldn’t. That phantom something that set him apart from everyone else since childhood wormed its way into his adulthood. He wanted, needed more. And Cindy was in the way.
Albert was no stranger to self-loathing and guilt, but what he felt now dwarfed all the times that came before. He thrashed against that vile Thought like fox in a hunter’s trap, determined to fight until the final death rattle. He didn’t like the distance between them, didn’t like how much of an echo she was compared to the past—and how different he was compared to the fresh-faced youth who held his baby with a healthy mix of awe, love, and fear. Yet despite this distance, he still loved her.
So why wasn’t it enough? That question was almost as difficult to grapple with as The Thought.
Albert’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as he drove home from another life-leeching day at Floros. Could it be because he didn’t love her…the right way? Was that what she needed in order for her to adore him like he did his own father? Was that what they needed to repair their relationship? True bonding?
Albert swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. Sex with men always felt better, different from sex with women. But he didn’t necessarily dislike doing it with women. And yet, that fleeting thought of Cindy incited a sense of primal, overwhelming revulsion he never experienced. But why?
Was it her age? The frequent annoyances? The caretaker role he was so ill-equipped to experience?
Or maybe this was how it was supposed to be between parent and child.
Albert bit his lip. To pay that thought any mind would be to drop a nuclear bomb on his own past and perception of it, and that simply wasn’t a road he was willing to take.
So instead, he stopped off at the bakery to buy a spur-of-the-moment Angel Food Cake, Cindy’s favorite. They'd eat it after dinner and those uncomfortable thoughts would recede to the shadows where they belonged.
At least, that was the plan. But Albert returned home to find the house empty.
Panic seeped into his pores as he swept through the house a second time. There were no signs of struggle, so where the fuck was she? She didn’t go to school, unless you count ‘homeschool,’ which basically amounted to giving her books to read while he worked the day shift at Floros. The only people besides him that she spoke with on a semi-frequent basis were Max and Emma Baur, but two quick phone calls let him know she wasn’t there, either.
The only thing stopping him from having a full-blown anxiety attack and calling the police was Emma’s suggestion that she might have visited Robbie Huang. The Huangs lived down the street for about six years now, though they were scheduled to move within a couple days. Albert was surprised they lasted as long as they did, given the treatment some of the more narrow-minded neighbors have given them, but never bore them any particular ill will. The only time they registered on his radar was when another neighbor gossiped about them, or when Kathy used to take Cindy over for a play date. Robbie had a heart condition that also prevented him from attending school, and Kathy thought it could be a good opportunity for the both of them to develop a friendship. But a couple weeks before Sal’s death, Cindy huffed that she didn’t want to see him anymore.
‘The trials and drama of young love,’ Kathy sighed theatrically, giving him a playful wink. Albert wasn’t sure at the time whether it was exaggeration or if there genuinely was some clumsy puppy love happening, but it ultimately didn’t matter in the long run. Kathy’s death sent both of them spiraling into a different reality from the rest of civilization, and Robbie Huang didn’t enter Albert’s thoughts once in the aftermath. If Cindy did, she certainly didn’t bring it up to him.
Yet for whatever reason, Emma Baur’s hunch proved true. He entered the Huang home and was able to communicate well enough to the mother, despite her spotty English. Worry and fear morphing to anger as he strode in the direction she pointed to. What the hell was Cindy doing, making him go out of his mind like this? And why was she putting herself in danger, traveling down the entire street by herself? And how the hell could she travel a block if she can’t fucking walk right?
In the span of five seconds, his mind blasted off into a series of far-fetched, horror-inducing scenarios. But they grinded to a halt as he stopped outside the closed door, straining to hear the muffled voices.
“—trapped, and it’s such a drag. I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anyone. Except you I guess, but with the move and everything...”
Cindy.
“We can still talk on the phone.”
And was that deep voice…Robbie? Damn, puberty certainly went to town on that kid.
“Maybe. For now.”
She sniffled, and Albert heard shifting movements from behind the door. “Hey, don’t worry,” Robbie said softly. “I’ve still got a year left. Maybe two or three.”
“But how are you okay with it?” she whispered. “I keep thinking about my mom and Lola and my grandparents and—and it’s scary. No one knows for sure what happens. What if there’s no Heaven? What if it’s just black emptiness forever and ever and you know it but you can’t talk or scream or do anything because you’re just some kind of floating consciousness? And billions of people are suffering the same way but can’t reach out to each other. That would be the worst thing I could think of.”
Albert blinked, both at the unexpected chattiness and existentialism. When was the last time she ever babbled on like this to him?
“Jeez, you’re a Debbie Downer today!” laughed Robbie.
There was a soft thumping sound. “You know why!”
“I know, I know,” he sobered. “But the way I figure, whatever’s happening is going to come for everyone no matter what. The part that scares me is thinking I might turn into some kind of husk of myself when I’m still alive. If I start to feel really awful—so awful I stop being me—I’m thinking of heading to the woods and staying there until it finally happens. Going on on my own terms.”
She sighed dreamily. “You’re so brave.”
“Hold on, you’re a bit…” More shuffling movements and scraping. “Let me…”
“Oww!”
Albert flung the door open, ready to tear Robbie’s head from his neck. But contrary to his assumption, both children were fully clothed. Cindy got her crutch stuck on the rug and Robbie was helping her, though judging by the (justified) alarm in her eyes, that was the least of her worries now.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he echoed, eyes thundering.
Cindy swallowed. “I, um, I just wanted to say goodbye to Robbie before he leaves.”
Albert spun to the boy in question, ready to give him an earful. But the words died in his throat.
This was Robbie Huang? The scrawny, squirrely little dipshit that trailed his parents around like a lost puppy?
What a different four years made. His skin had cleared up, he sprouted a few inches, and he grew much more handsome. His chocolate brown eyes looked delectable, and despite the aura of maturity, he hadn’t quite lost the fresh innocence of youth.
After being cut from the magic act, Albert circled back to his interest in art. He wasn’t foolish enough to make it into a lifestyle, but over the years he made a bit of pocket change here-and-there sculpting, though unfortunately reaching a creative dead end within the past few months.
It was a shame Robbie Huang was leaving. He might have been the shot needed to reignite those creative juices. There was something muse-like about him that—
Focus.
Right, he needed to focus on why he was here, and what really mattered. “Well, we’re leaving now.”
“Okay,” she mumbled. “Bye, Robbie…”
Robbie had the audacity to look at Albert like he was the one out of line. Albert fought back the urge to smack that expression off that porcelain face.
“Bye Cindy,” Robbie muttered in reply, eyes piercing through Albert’s skin like a certain four-eyed doctor. “I’ll miss you.”
****
They drove the short ride to 41 Meadowbrook Lane in silence. Every fidget from Cindy caused his veins to throb, fury flooding through his body. After parking in the driveway, Cindy quavered, “Dad, I’m sor–”
He slapped her. Hard, but not as hard as he would have liked due to the cramped interior of the car. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he snarled. “I got damn near everyone on this street going crazy because of a lost cripple.”
She clutched her cheek and began tearing up. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time…”
“How long has this been going on for?” he demanded.
“It–It’s not,” she sniffled. “I usually c-call him. This was the first time in years that I saw him in person.”
“Why did you want to see him in person?”
Did she want to fuck him? It wouldn’t be that unusual to feel that way at fourteen. And Robbie Huang was surprisingly alluring. But–
Stop. Focus.
Cindy shrugged feebly. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right for him to leave without seeing me.”
Albert shook his head, curling his lips. “You’re selfish.”
This would normally be the point where Cindy would apologize again and slink into the shadows. But something emboldened her today, and she added, albeit softly, “I’m selfish? You don’t want me to do new things because it might be too hard for you.”
Albert gaped, the uncharacteristic snippiness taking him off guard. “You can’t do the same things normal people do.”
“I know I can’t do everything, but I can do more than you think. I just did when I walked over to Robbie’s! You don’t want to let me do stuff. You’d rather let me stay locked up forever.”
“You think I want this?” Albert dug his fingers into her scalp, pulling at her hair and eliciting a cry. “My life would be easier if you weren’t! But you don’t know what the world is like—it rips apart little kids. I’m just trying to protect you from getting hurt.”
“The only one trying to hurt me is you!” she wailed.
His grip slackened as doubt wormed its way into his heart. “Only if I need to, and only because I love you.”
“You don’t love me! You don’t love anyone except yourself!!”
He finally let go; the only noises cutting through the silence were whimpers and sniffles.
When did their relationship go so wrong?
He loved her—wasn’t this proof? He nearly went out of his mind looking for her, plagued by the knowledge something terrible could have happened. He could never kill her. He couldn’t.
He needed her to understand.
“Yes I do,” he murmured, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and ignoring the flinch. “Shhh.”
He hesitated, then trailed his fingers down to her side until they hovered on her thighs. She blinked in innocent confusion, and he swallowed. His fingers moved a few centimeters inward before he lost his nerve and broke into a cold sweat.
“Let’s go inside,” he muttered, rubbing his hand on his trousers as if her dress was poison. “I bought some cake.”
****
As much as he loathed to admit it, they needed to bond.
It was the only option that made sense. She didn’t understand that he cared about her, and those stupid thoughts of her death grew more vivid with each passing day. They were both suffering, and it needed to end. He wanted to go back to that joy he felt shortly after her birth, wanted to see the pure adoration in her eyes that he did so many years ago. And this was the only surefire way to do so. If he didn’t have the stomach for it, that was a failing on his part as a father. This was supposed to be good for everyone.
It didn’t feel that way, though. The possibility felt so foul and wrong that it took him several days of agony to work up the mental fortitude to stand outside her bedroom door. He threw up twice earlier in the day, and hated it. What a terrible father he was! He wasn’t even sure why the possibility was so violently upsetting. Was he afraid of her reaction? Sure, she’d probably hate it at first like he did, but he eventually came around. She would too.
But it wasn’t just the thought of her would-be expression that plagued him. It was something innate inside him that thrashed violently for reasons unexplained. She was right; maybe he was selfish. He couldn’t afford to put his wants over own.
He placed trembling fingers on the doorknob. He needed to man the fuck up and do it already, needed to pacify that devilish spector urging him to break the chains of this family and start life anew. He wanted a life with Cindy (I think?), wanted her to love him unconditionally the way children should.
Then all would feel right with the world.
****
Except it didn’t. Somehow, it was even worse than he imagined. Closing his eyes and pretending she was Robbie Huang made things a bit easier, but only a bit. It couldn’t block out that awful noise and the clawing and the venomous hate spewing out of her mouth. Nothing could.
That night he dreamed of devils, deserts, and laughing gods.
****
The next time wasn’t any easier, nor the time after that. Whereas before he sensed fear and faint resentment from her, now terror, grief, betrayal, and loathing reigned. Everything was worse—significantly worse— when it should have been better.
She didn’t get it. Maybe it was his fault for waiting too long, maybe it’s hers (it’s not, it’s definitely mine), but either way, it couldn’t continue.
In his youth, it took a couple months to change how he felt about, not a couple weeks. He knew that with more time, things between them might change. Things probably would. But he couldn’t bring himself to put both of them through more of this torment. He was weak and hated himself for it, and often parked his car to the side of the nearby lake, begging himself to gather the willpower to push his foot on the gas pedal. Not just because of his weakness, but because of his strength in taking that first painful step.
Even though his mind told him it was right, it felt so overwhelmingly wrong. He crossed a line that was impossible to go back from, and he wondered if there was something else he could have done to repair their broken relationship. Something less….special, but equally powerful.
He swatted the possibility away like one would a bothersome gnat. Hindsight is 20/20, and like he told Kathy years ago, he didn’t see the point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed—especially since such a thought might have been another devil. Now, he needed to think about his future.
He could either kill himself now, or kill his daughter. That was what it came down to.
And as much as he wished he was someone else, Albert Shaw was, ultimately, a coward.
The decision that she’d die before the end of the year wasn’t one he made consciously. It slithered to the back of his head and puppeted him into taking the steps necessary. But even if he made the decision, Albert argued to himself, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. It would be a mercy.
For in those few short weeks, Cindy’s condition had spiraled downward dramatically. She’d been experiencing those same attacks where her heart rate would spike, and she’d have trouble breathing on a near-daily basis. And those times where she wasn’t weren’t much better. A catatonic lethargy took possession of her, and she rarely moved on her own. She spent a lot of time staring dully at the television or the pictures on the wall, more withdrawn and reticent than ever, more a walking corpse than a girl.
In another time and another place, Albert might have felt a smug sense of vindication; he knew she wasn’t nearly as independent as she thought she was. But in this world, he felt depressed and unsettled.
Depressed and unsettled, but also resolute.
****
Christmas had never been the same since Kathy died, but Albert put a lot of effort this year into making the house look as warm and cozy as possible. Garland and ribbons lined the hallways and fireplace, Bobby Darren and Perry Como crooned from the radio, and the silver aluminum Christmas tree stood proud in the living room, showing off its big red bulbs and bubble lights. The smell of slightly-burnt gingerbread wafted through the house, and snowflakes gently danced outside the window.
“Do you like it?”
Cindy shrugged stiffly, fingers tightening around the stuffed bunny’s ears. She didn’t make him anything like she did in previous years, but he didn’t expect her to.
He tried another tactic. “Are you full? I can cut off another slice of ha–”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, eyes shining with hate. “I just want to go to my room. Alone.”
“Okay,” he said quickly. “I just, um, want you to try something for me. It’s a magic trick. Just–just stay there.”
The latter comment was unnecessary, made more for Albert’s benefit than anything else. He fled to the kitchen and poured the glass. The pill bottle slipped from his shaking hands a couple times until he had enough crushed to mix into the drink. He coated it in spices she liked and reentered the living room.
Before handing it to her, he hesitated. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I never should have done that?’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing but I wasn’t?’
‘I know I’m a terrible person?’
‘You deserve better?’
He couldn’t gather enough courage for any, and quickly handed the glass to her before he could backtrack. “This is a magic drink,” he declared. She looked unimpressed. “The first step is to close your eyes.”
Her lips thinned as she stared at him with those solemn, powerful cerulean eyes that were always at odds with her feeble physicality. Then, they slowly closed.
“Step two is to think of the happiest memory you ever had. Think of alllllll the details. What it looks like, sounds like, smells like, the stuff you touch, everything. You gotta be as detailed as possible, otherwise it won’t work.”
“...What won’t work?” she asked, frowning.
“This here is the Magician’s Kiss,” he announced with a theatrical flourish she didn’t see. “A special concoction all the way from Timbuktu. If you drink it and think reallllllly hard about a time and place, then your spirit travels through time and space. Elementary, my dear Cindy.”
She scoffed, though her eyes remained closed. “You’re saying my soul’s going to teleport into the past. Really.”
“Really really,” he replied solemnly. “But it only works if you don’t lose focus.”
She didn’t say anything else, which Albert interpreted as willingness to go ahead. He fought down a lump in his throat as he gently handed her the cup. “Step three: Now, you need to drink the magic potion.”
She brought it to her mouth and took a few sips, lips twisting in disgust. “There’s too much spice in this.”
“Because it’s a special spice from the mines of Timbuktu! You can’t do magic with any ol’ dust you get from Kroger. Keep drinking, kid!”
She did, until there was no liquid left in the cup. Albert felt both giddy and nauseous. “Are you still thinking about that happy time?”
“...Yes,” she whispered, a single tear escaping her shut eyes. It rolled down her cheek and plopped onto the stuffed rabbit’s forehead.
He was glad she couldn’t see his own. “Good. Just…keep thinking of it, sweetie.”
The only sounds for the next few minutes were the crackling of the fireplace and Frank Sinatra’s voice from the radio, telling them to have a merry little Christmas. Even after Cindy’s body finally slackened, Albert didn’t jump up immediately. But after a few minutes, he stood.
“Cindy?” he whispered.
No response. He hesitated a bit before shaking her shoulder; he learned within the past couple weeks that although her legs were weak, her arms were deceptively fierce. But she didn’t attempt to scratch him or scream. She was fully unconscious.
Albert’s heart race began to pick up as he fumbled for a pillow. This was it, the moment of truth.
His fingers tightened around the pillow as he hovered over the sleeping girl, looking peaceful as an angel. Was he really going to do this?
A voice inside whispered that he didn’t need to. There was still enough time to back out. He could tuck her into bed and she’s awake the next day, groggy but alive. She didn’t have to know.
Or maybe she did. Maybe Albert could go to the police and she could have a chance at a happy life away from him.
But then he’d never have a chance at a happy life, and by God, hadn’t he suffered enough?
No, this had to happen. No more chains. No more judgment.
Just freedom.
Albert pushed the pillow against her face and held it there for a very, very long time.
****
He didn’t believe what he was hearing at first, but there was no mistaking it: the very same ringing that haunted his dreams, echoing up the stairs all the way to the kitchen. Albert finished washing the glass off and shoved it into the cabinet, slowly making his way to the door to the basement.
He hadn’t called the police yet to notify them of the ‘medical emergency’ that constricted Cindy’s breathing and led to her death, unsure if they’d take him at his word or somehow know he was full of shit. Paranoia convinced him to flee across the street to remove the glass and pill bottle from the scene of the crime, just in case. Max had left town shortly after their last conversation, so Albert was alone, accompanied only by the memories 42 Meadowbrook Lane possessed.
And whatever spirit was trying to reach him, apparently.
Was it Cindy? Kathy?
Ohgodohgodohgod
He opened the knob with clammy hands and descended the stairs. Max wasn’t kidding when he said he was planning on gutting the basement; it was largely sparse aside from some empty shelves, scattered books and miscellaneous trinkets, and of course—the phone. He swallowed down another lump as he picked it up and brought it to his ear. “...Cindy? Cindy, is that you?”
There were several seconds of static. Then: “Nope.”
Holy shit.
It was Carol. In the years following her fateful phone call, he sometimes wondered if the mysterious girl who guided him through one of the most difficult parts of his life was a false memory, or a byproduct of a fractured mind. Maybe she was, but it bolstered him regardless. “Carol?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God,” he breathed. “I—I need help. Like you did before. Please, just—just tell me what I should do. She’s dead and I—I—”
He didn’t realize he was sobbing until he couldn’t finish the sentence. And for good reason. He killed his daughter
—Jesus Christ I killed my fucking daughter—
and the gravity of that act was hitting him with a delayed, overpowering tsunami. There was no reason, nothing at all, that could have justified his actions. Why was it so damn clear after the fact?
His sobs grew louder amidst the staticy silence. After what seemed like a lifetime, they dissolved enough to hear her truthful yet piercing words: “You killed your own child.”
He knew she was right, which made everything all the more painful. But knowing and admitting it out loud were two things. He could do the former, but not the latter. Twisting the cord around his hands, he sputtered, “I—I didn’t have a choice!”
“That’s bullshit!” snapped Carol, sounding more like a vicious animal than the comforting voice of his memory. “There’s always a choice. Why’d you do it?”
“...I don’t know.” That, at least, he could be honest about. “I thought I knew, but now everything feels confusing.”
“What’s confusing is you thinking I’m going to be your personal shrink. Here’s some advice: Get your ass to the precinct ASAP.”
He deserved all he was getting and more, but couldn’t help feeling heartbroken. Here was finally someone he thought wouldn’t judge him, someone able to see his pain when it was invisible to everyone else. But she hated him, just like all the others.
“I thought you wanted to help me,” he finally said. “That’s why you called last time.”
“I don’t want to help you!” she shrieked. “I’m never going to call you again! You’re sick in the head.”
There was a faint murmur from the receiver, though Albert wasn’t sure if it was Carol, someone else (Cindy?), or his own imaginings. Either way, it didn’t matter. More tears stung his eyes as another wave of self-hatred and shame washed over him. “I guess I am,” he admitted weakly. “You know what I thought when it happened? ‘I’m finally free.’ That’s pretty sick, right?”
“...Yeah.” The raw ire seemed to have dissipated, though an underlying tension still remained. “But if you go to the cops, you can still make things right.”
Nothing could ever be ‘right’ again.
He wiped his tears away. For a moment he felt like he was eight years old, getting cajoled by his father into lying to the cops. “I don’t want to go to prison.”
What would be the point now?
“She didn’t want to die,” countered Carol.
Days before, he thought that—for a brief moment—prison might be a mercy. But the Albert Shaw that believed that seemed like a different person entirely, and he could no longer fathom the idea of liberty behind bars.
After all, this was done for the sake of liberty (maybe?), for both of them. Wasn’t that what he wanted? If he was willing to go so far, what was the point of this tragedy–
(No, it’s not a tragedy. Itwasamercythiswasagoodthing)
–if he got nothing out of it?
“I think she did, deep down,” Albert nodded. Yes, she was in a great deal of pain, she barely talked or even moved in the end, it was the right call. “She was suffering. It wasn’t my fault.”
“It’s never your fault,” sneered Carol. “It’s always someone else’s. Always someone who can’t fight back, like your literal five-year old child.”
“Five?”
He couldn’t help but giggle. He wished she was five, wished she was still that same cheerful and bubbly ball of energy. Wished she was more than a wizened, empty, judgmental husk.
But she wasn’t.
Yes, he made the right call.
“She just turned fourteen. So many years wasted…ah, well. At least now I can do whatever I want. I’ve got all the time in the world…”
He hung up the phone, a weight lifting off his chest, an odd sense of comfort that might have horrified him a month ago taking root in his broken heart. What he said was true: he had all the time in the world. No more wives, daughters, and medical bills. No more cutting parts of himself to the altar of Duty and Society at the expense of elusive joy. Something had entered his soul and sent him spiraling into ecstasy. Blinding white light streamed from the bulbs of dim amber as he sank into the concrete and laughed and laughed until tears wet his cheeks. He no longer cared about the sacrifice needed for his freedom, and it was wonderful and freeing and everything he wanted and more.
Cindy! Kathy! His marriage! His job!
For years he broke his back in supplication, lifting chain upon chain in hope of grasping the American Dream, when the true Heaven was beneath his feet all along.
When Albert exhausted all his tears, he stood shakily, blinking and sniffling as he surveyed the area around him. Despite its gutted and barren nature, the basement still managed to evoke a sense of fondness and nostalgia. Familiarity and comfort that felt right after years of the Family Man being so horribly wrong.
He made the decision then and there: He’d live here again, like he did long ago when he felt true love and happiness. After all, 41 Meadowbrook Lane was a place of dead things and dead feelings, and Albert Shaw was ready to live.
Chapter 37: A New Family
Chapter Text
“Aww,” Gwen cooed, melting to a puddle as Samson licked her cheek. “Are you the cutest? Good boy, good boy…”
The phrase reflexively made Finney’s skin crawl, but Margaret Gallagher beamed and clasped her hands. “I’m so glad you’re getting along,” she gushed. But then, turning to Terrence, she added quietly, “But there's no pressure to decide right away. The circumstances are a bit unusual, after all. And I thought, considering everything that happened with Finney, well…a dog, especially this dog, might not be your first choice.”
Finney and Matt’s eyes met briefly, before Matt folded his arms and continued watching Samson jump happily into Gwen’s flurry of pets. One didn’t need to spend much time around Terrence to know what his reaction would be if he knew the truth behind why it took so long for Samson to find a new home. But Finney kept the details brief: When he went over Matt’s house during the storm, he found a dog they were fostering that caused him to do a 180 from his previous opinion. And that dog was serendipitously available for adoption.
He knew Terrence wouldn’t ask many questions, too ecstatic over Finney’s sudden change of heart and holding onto the hope it might signify his son was returning to the cheerful, animal-loving child he hadn’t been in years. He was dead wrong, but Finney would allow him to enjoy at least a week guilt-free before easing into the truth.
Of course, anticipating the future was a pointless endeavor if Mrs. Gallagher spilled the beans now. But Terrence, luckily, misinterpreted Mr. Gallagher’s comment. “Finney didn’t do anything wrong,” he said confidently, despite the blatant lie. “If the police thought he did, they’d press charges. But they didn’t.”
Mrs. Gallagher bit her lip. “I meant, um, with Mr. Shaw…”
Terrence sighed and kneeled down next to Samson, scratching the dog behind the ear. “That’s just one thing that happened to him. It doesn’t need to define his whole life.”
He thought the same, which is why he forged ahead with the ’Grabber-detector’ plan. But the ridiculousness of that line of reasoning didn’t fully hit him until seeing Mrs. Gallagher’s expression. “I see.”
Samson’s tongue flopped happily to the side as Terrence rubbed underneath his chin. “Besides, we can use a good guard dog,” he said gruffly, though his eyes thawed with rare warmth. “I heard Cane Corsos are good for that.”
Finney felt Mrs. Gallagher’s eyes hook into him as he flushed and cleared his throat. “We, uh, better get going…”
“Yeah,” Matt nodded. “And if you decide you don’t want him, bring him back to us instead of the pound.”
Finney felt he could breathe clearer once the door opened and he stood on the Gallaghers’ porch. But that relief soon faded as Samson trotted out next to him, whining happily and straining the leash as Gwen stumbled toward the car.
Holy shit, it’s really happening…
“Thanks again,” Terrence said to Mrs. Gallagher. “And I know what you said earlier, but I can pay the fee if—”
Mrs. Gallagher shook her head firmly. “Nope, he’s free. It's the least we can do.”
His father was the only person Finney knew who’d try to haggle in order to spend more money instead of less. “I can break the payment into four smaller increments, or—”
“Terrence, please,” she laughed. “Finney’s courage is payment enough.”
But he certainly didn’t feel courageous, especially in the smaller, shittier rental car that pinned him in on all sides. Gwen positioned herself in the backseat next to Samson while Finney sat in the passenger seat by his father, but even that was too close for comfort. He couldn’t shake the fear of the dog snapping in a heartbeat like his former master and deciding to rip him apart.
But he didn’t. Gwen rolled down the window so Samson’s tongue could wave in the wind like a pink, slobbery flag as Terrence hit the road.
“No need to be so tense, Finney,” he chuckled, turning on the radio. “He’s not going to eat you.”
“Yeah, no need to be tense,” Gwen echoed, patting Samson’s back for emphasis. “It’s just us. Me, you, Dad, and the newest Blake.”
Finney read between the lines: judging by Samson’s current languor, the Grabber wasn’t anywhere near them. And as if God Himself was giving them the thumbs up, “Celebration” started playing on the radio. Gwen squealed and started shaking her arms around like a madwoman while Samson barked and wagged his tail in agreement.
Finney realized, with a sinking pit in his stomach, that the Blake household was about to get a whole lot noisier.
****
Finney was willing to adopt Samson for the dual benefits of detecting the Grabber while also, perhaps naively, proving that he was willing and able to conquer his fears. To show that—like Terrence said—he wasn’t defined by those two-and-a-half months of torture. But the daydream was a lot different from the reality.
The most frustrating part was that Samson’s presence seemed largely irrelevant, contributing nothing beyond stressing the hell out of him. There was the initial whiny blip of “That’s cheating…”, but the Grabber otherwise gave the Blakes a wide berth. There were a couple other short moments where—judging by Samson’s frenzied mania—the Grabber was present but silent, but they passed quickly
Samson took to his homecoming with the joy of a puppy’s first snowfall. From the moment his paws stepped into the house, he zoomed around, tail wagging back-and-forth so ferociously, Finney thought it might fall off. But he soon plopped down in the living room and stared intently in the direction of the front door, resuming his apparent former job of guarding the house. This pleased Terence, but Finney retreated back into his room and mourned over his short-sightedness. Previous hopes of courage faded like a rainbow.
It was impossible to avoid the dog completely, dinner being the most blaring. As Finney brought the fork to his mouth, he almost jumped out of his skin as Samson put a furry head on his lap and whined.
“Sorry, pup,” Terrence chuckled. “You gotta stick with dog food.”
Samson eyed the meat on Finney’s fork longingly, and Finney stifled a groan as he realized Samson likely associated him with food now. He wanted him to get the hell away, so flicked a bite when Terrence wasn’t looking. Samson gobbled it up with vigor, something Finney realized belatedly would serve the opposite effect.
As much as he wished he could hide up in his room all day, he knew it wasn't feasible. So the next day he swallowed up his nerves and agreed to go on the walk Terrence suggested. Terrence was thrilled, albeit less so when Finney refused to hold the leash.
But as they headed out, Samson’s posture changed. His ears pulled back, body stiff with alertness. He uttered a low growl as Finney and Terrence followed his gaze. A man was parked in a car across the street, staring at 42 Meadowbrook Lane. At first Finney thought the man might be John, but John didn’t have a beard, or glasses. It was a stranger, and a stranger ogling their home only meant one thing.
Terrence’s face flushed with fury.
“Dad…” warned Finney.
Terrence ignored him, storming towards the car with Samson in tow. “Can I help you?” he snarled.
The man blinked, taken aback before his expression smoothed over. “Are you guys the new owners?”
“Yeah. What’s it to you?” Before the stranger replied, Terrence turned and barked, “Finney, get back inside.”
Finney took a few steps back to create the illusion of movement, but wasn’t prepared to leave. He needed to interfere so things wouldn’t come to blows, especially if the stranger was here because of him.
Finney tried to mentally will Gwen to come outside, but knew his sister was likely still holed up in her room, brainstorming ideas for a potential psychic business Finney fervently hoped would never see the light of day (“We can call it…drumroll please….’The Eye Nose!’ It makes sense because eyes and nose are both body parts, and it’s a reference to the all-seeing eye. What?! No, it doesn’t suck. It’s the bomb!”) But if not her, then he hoped there’d be at least one witness on the street. But this was one of the few times Emma Baur wasn’t on her porch, and the only other living creatures outside were a squirrel hopping across the street and a rabbit munching the Romanos’ grass. He spotted Rosie yapping at the Blakes through the windowsill, though how a weiner dog got up there was anyone’s guess. Just before he turned back, he was relieved (sort of?) to notice a man’s silhouette in the Smiths’ window, but John didn’t show any inclination to get himself involved in the drama unfurling outside.
The stranger glanced at Finney with newfound interest. “That’s Finney Blake?”
“Yeah, and if you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops,” snapped Terrence. “I don’t take kindly to trespassers.”
“I’m not trespassing. I’m parked on the opposite side of the street.”
It was a fair point that served only to incense Terrence further. “It’s harassment is what it is! I mean, Christ, it’s two in the afternoon. Why don’t any of you knuckleheads ever have jobs?”
The man’s brows knitted for a moment before his eyes lightened with newfound understanding. “Oh! I think—I think you’re misunderstanding why I’m here. I didn’t come to see your son, no. I’ve been in the area the past couple weeks and—well, I wanted to just see the old place. I used to live here in the sixties for a couple months. Name’s Walter.”
“Terrence Blake,” Terrence said shortly. “Now get the hell off my property.”
“I’m not on your property–”
“Walter…Kaminski?” blurted Finney, fishing for the name itching at the edge of his brain. “You were on the news. The police thought the Grabber killed you.”
“They were wrong, obviously.” He flexed one of his arms. “But he could’ve. That man was a certified whackjob.”
Terrence looked slightly placated by the insult, which gave Finney the opening he needed. “Did you know a girl named Ru–Meadow? She was one of the…guests…here, and they think the Grabber killed her too.”
Walter sighed unhappily. “Yeah, that’s why I bothered coming out in the first place. Figured I could clear up some misconceptions and hopefully help her get some justice. Doesn’t seem likely though. I’m 90% sure he did it, but don’t have any solid evidence. ‘Least, not solid enough to close the case.”
Terrence nodded with sudden, newfound sympathy. “Even if it’s not, at least that fucker got what he deserved.”
“True,” he agreed, eyes flickering to Finney with interest. Then, he stretched. “Well, I’ll leave the two of you alone. Don’t need to put more bad energy into this place.”
Finney strained a smile. “Thanks. Need any recommendations on where to eat?”
“Nah. I’m staying at the Sunrise Motel. They’ve got a damn good diner on the second floor. Though I heard they were having a lot of power issues a few weeks ago, so maybe I shouldn’t trust the burgers.”
Terrence tried to force a smile too, though Finney knew memories of their own failed stay at the Sunrise Motel chafed him. “Bye. Take care.”
After the car sputtered away, Finney scowled. “Dad, you can’t preemptively fly off the handle every time!”
“I thought he was a media vulture or serial-killer fanatic. What else was I supposed to think? Even the story he gave sounded off.” He scratched behind Samson’s ear absentmindedly. “If he thought this was such a bad place, why’d he come back?”
“Closure?” Finney guessed. “I dunno. Sometimes people try to face their old fears.”
He became keenly aware of Samson panting at his feet as Terrence peered down at Finney curiously. “...Maybe.” Then, he kneeled and gave Samson’s neck a few hearty pats. “At least the dog was able to sense someone was here who shouldn’t be. That could come in handy.”
You would think…
But the current residents of Meadowbrook Lane clearly weren’t considered strangers in Samson’s mind. Oscar swung his door open, ambling over amidst Rosie’s yipping and leash-tugging. “Rosie was going bananas, and when I looked out the window I almost lost my shit. Is that Samson? Real, honest-to-God Sammy-boy?”
Terrence’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “...Yeah. You know Margaret Gahhagher?”
Samson hopped up and down before him and Rosie niffed one another. The size difference might have been comical if dread wasn’t pooling in Finney’s stomach right now.
He knew there was bound to be a reckoning about Samson’s origin, but hoped he would be the one to broach the topic. Though in retrospect he should have anticipated this—it would be foolish to walk Samson around the block and not expect that reaction. He naively assumed the big gossip Oscar would be working at 1:00 in the afternoon, but given how often the man seemed to water his plants and wander outside at all hours of the day, he was starting to doubt Oscar even had a job to begin with, and expecting a stealthy, silent walk was nothing short of hubristic.
“Was that the old owner?” asked Oscar, rubbing the back of his head. “I might’ve seen her son with Sammy-wammy a while back. Hmm. Did they give him up because they found out he was Al’s dog?”
Aaaaand there it was. Terrence froze in horror, eyes widening as they darted between Finney and Samson. “What?”
“Awww, jeez. Guess you didn’t know. Sorry you had to find out this way, man. The wife always said I had a big mouth.” He laughed nervously and patted Samson’s head as the dog pawed at his khaki shorts. “He’s a real good dog, y’know. A lot friendlier than Al. Lot less, uh, violent too. Samson’s loud, but he’s n–”
“He’s that fucker’s dog?!” snarled Terrence, face flushing with volcanic rage.
“Yup,” he nodded. Then, Oscar’s head craned to the side as another door swung open. “Aw, man. Heeere’s Johnny,” he sighed.
A brief image of the Grabber—blood-splattered, holding an axe with a manic grin—flickered into Finney’s mind before quickly dissipating.
“Morning Terrence, Finney,” John greeted with a wave. “Oscar.” A yellow Labrador that must have been Rover trotted beside him, poised and regal. “Is that Samson I see?”
Samson didn’t share the Grabber’s animosity and wagged his tail at John’s approach. Rover’s wagged in return, but remained stationary until John gave the motion it was okay to play.
“I guess it is,” grumbled Terrence, the previous fury ebbing slightly. “We’re returning him tomorrow though.”
“No,” said Finney. As much as he disliked the mutt, it would be downright cruel to send him back to the Gallaghers’ after returning to Meadowbrook. “I’m fine with it. I knew he belonged to him, but wanted him anyway.”
“For the love of God, why?!”
Finney shrugged, knowing anything he said would dig himself into a deeper hole.
John chuckled and put a hand on Finney’s shoulder, an innocent gesture that made him tense nonetheless. “I certainly see why this might be a sticky situation. But you don’t have to make any decisions right now. Have a drink, think it over.” He winked at Terrence.
Oscar coughed. “Maria left a pot on, so I’m gonna head back in. Later, gators!”
John waited until Oscar was out of earshot before speaking. “Say, who was that odd fellow in the car?”
“Some guy named Walter,” Terrence said gruffly. “Said he used to live here.”
“Walter Kaminski,” added Finney.
“Walter Kaminski…Kaminski…Kaminski…hmmm.” John shrugged, adjusting the collar of his polo. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Might’ve been before Mary and I moved in.”
“Or he could’ve been full of it,” snorted Terrence.
“Perhaps.” He stroked the bottom of his chin in thought. “I thought for sure he’d be a reporter. Mary said she saw that Channel 7 van passing by yesterday.”
Terrence hissed like a demon sprayed with holy water. “That bitch…”
John chuckled pleasantly. “She’s trying to make a living, like everyone else. And speaking of which…” His tone grew more somber. “Ken and I made some inquiries. The person Ken spoke with was a bit concerned about”—John’s eyes flickered briefly towards Finney—“the matter we discussed before.”
Terrence nodded stoically. “Finney, go back inside.”
He figured the reveal of Samson’s origins would put a kibosh on the walk, but—determined to prove a point—took the leash from Terrence. “I’ll walk him in.”
And he did just that. Granted, he dropped the leash like a poisonous spider once the door was shut, but still. He did it.
****
Just like the explosion after Finney ventured into Emma Baur’s house for the first time, Terence kept his distance, and the inevitable conversation hadn’t yet come. But Finney knew he must have talked to Gwen, because she popped her head into his bedroom and piped, “Don’t worry, Finney. I told him why we need Samson. There’s no way he can argue with that.”
Despite Finney telling her otherwise, she clung onto the hope and/or delusion that part of Terrence believed his children’s tales, but just had trouble admitting it. She was wrong of course, and Finney supposed this was why he found himself in the car with Terrence, driving…somewhere…into Denver proper.
Finney wondered if the car ride was a trap to force him into conversation, like how the basement forced him into participating in the Grabber’s conversations. But aside from a vague, ‘I want to show you something,’ Terrence remained generally reticent. Yet it was he—not Finney—who deigned to break the silence.
“How’d you find out about the dog?”
Finney’s lips thinned as the side of his head leaned against the window. “I saw Matt with him, and I wanted him.”
Terrence eyed Finney warily through the rearview mirror. “Are you planning on doing something to the dog? Get revenge?”
“Wh–no!” He’d never stoop so low as to kill someone’s pet for revenge; it wasn’t Samson’s fault his owner was horrid.
“So why don’t you spend time with it?”
Finney shrugged testily. He knew Terrence would respect him more if he mentioned he was trying to overcome his fears, but his lack of progress made him feel like an impotent coward and failure.
“Gwen told me a different reason you got him,” Terrence said casually. Too casually.
“...Yeah,” Finney admitted, crossing his arms. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Terrence’s grip tighten around the wheel, and he stifled a sigh. “But that’s not the whole reason. It’s just…” It was difficult to explain when he didn’t know the full reasons himself. “It just feels like…like that’s what it should be. The house is here, the dog’s here”—The Grabber’s here—“but things are different. I’m different. And having him here shows that.”
He could tell Terrence didn’t get it, but his father nodded slowly nonetheless. “Right. But you can't make a decision like this on a whim. Dogs aren’t toys. They’re a big commitment.”
Samson was, admittedly, the epitome of an impulse buy. But Finney was in the mood to argue. “You didn’t care last week when I said I wanted a dog. You were happy I wanted one.”
“That was before I knew it was that dog. We’re returning it.”
He thought of Gwen’s inevitable crushed expression and Samson’s pained whines of being ripped from his home a second time. No, that wasn’t going to happen. No way.
“I’m not doing it!”
“It’s not up to you,” Terrence said firmly.
“I’m the one who should be most upset about him, but I’m not. You’re the one who can’t handle him.”
“No, I can’t,” he replied bluntly. “He’s going back to the Gallaghers’ tomorrow.”
Hate surged through him, and venomous words danced on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed them down, stewing and steaming as he glared through the window.
He was beginning to recognize some of the buildings. There was that Italian place that had really good spaghetti, the record store that let him buy the Queen album for pennies, the—
Wait…
Alarm bells blared in his head. He was going to Dr. Moore’s—no,another one of the doctors he went to in the beginning. The one that said he needed to be evaluated for something and caused Terrence to drag him out in a huff. “Are you taking me to a fucking shrink?”
Terrence said nothing.
“I’m not going!”
He kicked the back of his seat, hoping to incite Terrence’s ire like he did when Terrence drove him back from Lincoln High. He wanted to get slapped, wanted to slap himself even, or drag his fingernails down his arms until he saw pink and red. He might have done it too if he didn’t think that would make him look like even more of a psycho.
Terrence learned from the last time and remained fixated on the road. “Finney, I’m at the end of my rope here,” he said calmly. “Whatever’s going on, I can’t deal with on my own. I’m…I’m sorry.”
Finney knew this couldn’t have been a decision Terrence made lightly, and knew his father's admission was almost as painful for Terrence as it was for him. “But what about the money?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Who am I seeing?” he snapped, temper rising.
“Dr. Harper. Remember him?”
“Yeah, I remember you saying he left his clown shoes back home.”
Terrence massaged his brows with his fingers. “Look, kid. I can't just sit and do nothing. You need something I can’t give you.”
‘That’s not true!’ he wanted to scream, though he wasn’t sure if it was or wasn’t. Tears blurred Finney's vision, and he wrapped his hands around the door handle. "Fine. Then I'm leaving now," he choked out, at that moment fully prepared to jump out of the moving car.
Terrence exhaled and pulled over, though it didn't feel like a victory. "Look, we can't just go
about our lives pretending all this is okay.”
"I just wanted a dog! Is that a crime now?"
“You know what I mean!” Terrence smacked the wheel for emphasis. “This ghost thing. The fixation on the past. It's not–” He sighed. "It's not healthy.”
"I know," said Finney, tears finally escaping his eyes. “Just–Just don't send me to a shrink, okay?”
"You didn't have problems with it before, Something's changed." His voice took on a pleading tone. "Help me understand."
“I always had a problem with going, I just didn't say anything,” he mumbled.
That much was half true. He hated the embarrassment of going, but couldn’t deny leaving the sessions made him feel lighter. And he didn't fully understand why he was so resistant to talk to one again, even one as surly as Dr. Harper. He supposed part of it had to do with why he got Samson in the first place. He wanted–needed—to show he could stand on his own two legs. Yet here he was, failing spectacularly. Again.
“Just wait until after the exorcism," he begged, wiping a tear with the palm of his hand. “Please, Dad?"
After a moment of heavy silence, Terrence sighed in resignation.
****
Much like before, the ride home was silent. This was one of the few times where he wished for the Grabber’s ramblings. Anything to fill and distract from that painful void.
Summer nights in Galesburg always seemed peaceful. They passed the long, winding line outside Frozen Swirls, children laughing as they tried to catch lightning bugs, and the silvery moonlight reflecting off the river’s surface– a tranquil scene in a stark contrast with the raging torrent a couple weeks prior. A sad wistfulness brushed against his cheek that he didn't fully understand.
But it didn't last long. The hazy, dreamy sensation morphed into a prescient unease as Terrence pulled off to the side on a road that was decidedly not Meadowbrook Lane. It took longer to get his bearings in the dark (always had, always will), but he soon recognized where they were: St. Luke’s. The scattered parishioners were filing out of a nighttime mass, the stained glass of the windows illuminating the pavement with red and blue. Finney turned to Terrence inquisitively, who shrugged. “If you don’t want to talk to the shrink, why don’t you try a priest? Won’t even cost me a dime.”
Finney leaned back against the headrest. Terrence was trying to make a compromise, and at least this one wouldn’t reek of social stigma and ‘other-ness.’ And despite Terrence's general lack of piety, his conversations with Father O'Brien seemed to yield positive changes, and the point about the cost–or lack thereof–was something to consider.
But a priest would be a very different experience from a licensed psychologist. While he knew others within the church like Father O'Brien experienced severe hardship, he wasn't sure if anyone was equipped or trained to deal with his severe hardship. And of course, it would inevitably include religious overtones he wouldn’t get with a secular professional.
“I don't think we can just drop by unannounced.”
"Worst he could say is no,” Terrence shrugged, “and if you see him, you could ask about the exorcism.”
Finney was pretty sure psychological problems would immediately disqualify them from being able to get an exorcism in the first place, but nodded dumbly and followed Terence out of the car.
The church always seemed different at night. Statues and stained-glass saints that felt standoffish in the day appeared calm and welcoming at night. Despite it being July, he couldn't shake the memories of midnight mass at Christmas. His eyes drifted toward the candles and felt a sudden tug to light one in memory of his mother, but the feeling passed as quickly as it arrived.
Terrence spoke with Father O'Brien first, a hush conversation off to the side that made Finney’s ears burn. But before simmering embarrassment could boil into anger, Father O'Brien gave him that familiar, disarming smile Finney always assumed was genuine, though it may have—in retrospect—been forged through years of working in the diocese.
“Finney.” He gestured in the direction of his office. “Come on in.”
Father O'Brien's office was, predictably, far less grandiloquent than the church proper. Heavy tomes lined the bookshelves, and portraits of saints and children's artwork peppered the ivory walls. There were a few black and white photographs as well—some of his military days, others with him in civilian clothes—grinning with men, women, and children Finney didn't recognize. He wondered if any of them were Father O'Brien's relatives, feeling a pang of realization that he knew nothing about the man's life beyond his capacity in the church. Imagining him with a life outside it seemed inexplicably jarring, like spotting a teacher outside of school.
Father O'Brien sat down at his desk, gesturing for Finney to sit in the leather plush chair across from him. As he did, he remembered Gwen stole the eulogy from that very desk and his cheeks started to blush. “H-Hi,” he croaked out.
“Hello. So…” Father O’Brien leaned back and laced his fingers. “Your father tells me you gained a new addition to the family.”
“Yeah.”
“To sense what you believe to be an…apparition of sorts?”
It was phrased like a question instead of a statement. “Mm-hmm.”
“Do you think it’s working?”
“...Kind of,” shrugged Finney. “He’s not around much.”
“Albert Shaw?”
“Yeah.”
“Well”—there it was again, that uncannily pleasant smile—“that’s good.”
“Maybe.” It should be, but the Grabber’s distance got under his skin for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Everything seemed…off. Calm before the storm.
But he knew how badly that could be misinterpreted and quickly changed topics. “Is the exorcism still happening?”
Father O’Brien paused, which set off warning bells. “Finney, the church’s official position is that ghosts cannot exist. Deceased souls are sent to Heaven or Hell. In the case of the former, the souls may be cleansed in Purgatory, but they don’t continue to wander the earth.”
“But Purgatory’s supposed to be this in-between state, right?” he pressed, as delicately and diplomatically as he could. “Maybe that’s where ghosts are, and we can just see them somehow.”
“Even so, it still brings us to the same obstacle: one simply cannot perform an exorcism on a human soul. Issues of morality aside, it’s theologically impossible. Exorcisms are performed against demons and demons alone—not humans whose actions we might consider, in common parlance, to behave demonically.”
“Oh.” Finney remembered hearing that before, but his heart sank all the same. “I guess that’s a no then.”
“I didn’t say that.” Father O’Brien straightened his glasses. “It’s not unusual for demons to mimic the deceased. In fact, it’s a rather effective way to lure their target, especially since demonic behavior can overlap with what is commonly perceived to be traditional ‘ghost’ hauntings. I’ve been gathering testimony from quite a few of Meadowbrook’s previous inhabitants. Father Rivera may currently possess some reservations, but I believe he may be amenable to further inquiry.”
Translation: Father Rivera thought it’s all inside Finney’s head and didn’t want to waste everyone’s time, while Father O’Brien felt the same but was willing to fudge and exaggerate some paperwork to hold the exorcism for Finney's peace of mind.
Father O’Brien didn’t ask any more questions about Samson. He asked Finney how he was holding up with both the Mr. Clarkson situation and Terrence. Finney wasn’t eager to speak about either, but felt the latter was a ‘safer’ topic.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Stuff between me and Dad was kind of getting better, but then one of us says something and it feels like everything resets.” Like today… “It’s like there’s this wall between us. We can hear each other but not really hear because everything sounds muffled. Does that make sense?”
“It does.” Father O’Brien murmured, looking at him in a way that made Finney understand what a rock specimen felt like. “Do you want it gone?”
Finney blinked, startled. Of all the questions he might have been asked, he never would have expected that one.
It was deceptively hard to answer, too. That wall caused him so much pain, but there was comfort in the familiarity, of the predictability, of its presence.
Still…
“...Yes,” said Finney. His doubts disappeared once the word left his lips. “I know I have to say more personal stuff, but it’s hard. Especially when I don’t know how I feel half the time.”
Father O’Brien nodded thoughtfully, picking up a Bible from the table (Greaaaat…). “You know, Finney,” he said slowly, “There’s a line in Ephesians 4:32 I feel is pertinent to your situation.” He cleared his throat and read: "Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you."”
Finney’s fingers grasped the denim of his jeans. “I know it’d be better for everyone if I forgive Dad,” he acknowledged. “Sometimes I think I do forgive him. I don’t want to be obsessed with the past all the time. But then he does something and all those bad memories come flooding back.”
“Ah.” Father O’Brien blinked, gently setting the Bible back on the table. “Actually, I wasn’t speaking of your father.”
Finney paused for a few seconds, then his mouth grew dry with understanding. “The Grabber?”
Father O’Brien quickly shook his head (thank fuck). “No. I’m referring to you, Finney.”
“Me?” the boy in question squeaked.
“Yes.” Father O’Brien leaned forward, gentle eyes pinning him in place. “You can have all the conversations in the world with myself, your father, Dr. Moore, or even praying to the Lord Himself. But change can’t happen unless you’re willing to open your heart and truly, genuinely wish to see transformation in your life. Is that something you want?”
As with before, the question was more complex than it first seemed. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“It’s not a no,” Father O’Brien smiled. “That’s a start.”
****
Father O’Brien’s question ping-ponged around his brain during the following days. Why was he so hesitant to forgive himself? What did he need to forgive himself for?
The answer lurked in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. It was because he feared what the Grabber said was true: that he did like it, and they were bonded forever because of it. And as revolting and shameful as it was, there were times when it wasn’t false. There were times when he welcomed it, desperate to be around someone, anyone. Desperate to be cared for and loved.
But it wasn’t love, and he wasn’t cared for. He knew that now, and even then. But somewhere along the way, his feelings became jumbled and twisted into a knot of Gordinian proportions. Finney didn’t know where to begin untangling the monstrosity, if such a thing was even possible. So he pushed it to the back of his mind where it belonged and focused on other pursuits.
Namely, Samson.
Despite his previous declarations, Terrence made no further movements to get rid of the dog. Finney decided to take advantage while it lasted and prove he had no qualms with their new family member, which was much easier said than done. Still, Finney found himself in the backyard, frayed, faded tennis ball in hand while Samson paced around in excited circles. Finney’s fingers shook as they unhooked the leash; he couldn’t shake the feeling of letting a wild panther loose. And though Samson didn’t attack, Finney’s throat constricted and he flung the ball as far away as possible. Samson darted after it, and Finney could breathe once more.
It soon became apparent Samson couldn’t play catch. Instead, he’d run after the ball, snatch it with his powerful jaws, plop down, and chew on it until Finney slugged over and delicately dislodged the slobbery thing. He wasn’t sure what Cane Corsos were bred for, but evidently, it wasn’t retrieving.
Yet the predictability of Samson’s pattern made the task of acclimatizing less formidable than it otherwise might have been. Slowly but surely, the jittery nerves steadied, and hope—faint but powerful—blossomed. But Finney didn’t dwell on the feeling for too long; adjusting to Samson’s presence wasn’t the same as being adjusted, and the dog’s sudden, jerky lunge of excitement from Finney’s approach caused the Hero of Galesburg to stumble backwards, falling on the grass with a decisive thump.
He cursed as he rubbed his newly-twisted ankle; it hurt like a bitch, but wasn’t broken. Regardless, attempts to stand and put pressure on it resulted in pain shooting through his leg like a knife, and he grimaced. Just a few more minutes, he decided. I’ll be fine.
But it was a minute too many. Finney froze as the beast trotted closer, cautious and curious. Samson let out a low whine before laying down next to Finney, staring at the back door and barking sporadically. His tail vibrated with tension, but he didn’t leave Finney’s side.
A sudden, unexpected surge of affection spiked through him.
The barking eventually attracted Terrence’s notice, who stormed out of the house in a rage. He rushed over to Finney’s side, glaring venomous daggers at his canine companion. “Did he do anything?” Terrence snarled.
“No,” defended Finney. “I tripped, and he stayed with me. Samson’s a…”—he hesitated, then pressed his shaking fingers against the black velvety fur—“good boy.”
****
Donna and Finney spoke every day to discuss updates, but he didn’t have much to report since the Grabber didn’t seem to be anywhere near them. Donna didn’t notice anything unusual at her house either, which did nothing to ease Finney’s tension. Just where the hell was he?
The memory of Walter’s arrival had been overshadowed by the Samson drama, but it popped into Finney’s head now and he made sure to tell Donna before it could lead to another problem down the road. She lamented that she wished she’d been there to ask Walter some questions about her birth mother, so Finney suggested an unusually bold strategy: contact him and see if he’d be up for a meeting.
“Would it be weird?” she asked, hesitant. “He doesn’t know who I am.”
“He seemed to feel pretty bad about Ruth. If he knows you’re her daughter, he might say more than if it was just me asking him.”
“But he might be back in California by now! And what if he doesn’t want to talk about it? It was probably a traumatic experience and people, um, typically don’t like talking about those…”
The awkwardness was almost palpable, and Finney tried his best to diffuse it. “The worst he could say is no.”
A few hours later, he received an ecstatic call from her, saying that she left a message with the Sunrise Motel’s receptionist and Walter responded with an affirmative. She was both very excited and very nervous, and asked if Finney could come with her for moral support.
They met the next day at the diner with the famous burgers, Walter having the foresight to pick a booth in the corner away from customer traffic. He was enraptured with a newspaper and didn’t spot them yet, and Donna began tugging the end strands of her hair. “Gosh, this is so awkward,” she winced. “He probably thinks I'm psycho. Maybe we should just leave now.”
Finney grasped her free hand with his own. “He’ll think worse of us if we ditch. C’mon.”
They moved closer to the table, and Walter’s eyes flickered upward and brightened. “Hey,” smiled Walter, putting down the paper. Finney felt the tension ease out of Donna’s hand.
As she made quick introductions, Finney caught a glimpse of the article Walter was reading. The man’s forearms rested on the headline, but there was a picture of Gloria in front of a microphone, stalwart and impassioned. His heart sank as he spotted his name in the article’s text, but before he could read more, the waitress arrived with menus and Walter folded up the newspaper.
“I could tell you were Meadow’s girl from the moment I saw you,” chuckled Walter, eyes twinkling. “You’re practically her spitting image.”
“Thanks.” She forced out a laugh in return, and pushed a few strands behind her ear. “I guess that’s why I’m here. To learn more about her, and the whole thing leading up to her death. And, uh, thanks for letting Finn tag along.”
“Of course, of course.” He nodded in Finney’s direction. “Though I can’t speak of the whole story, just what I’ve seen.”
“Right.” Donna’s eyes began shining with that familiar verve. “Did she say how she ended up with Pluto’s Haven?”
Finney told himself he’d take a backseat role during the conversation, but the unfamiliar term caught him off guard. “What?”
“It’s the name of the group she joined,” Donna explained.
Finney’s eyes drifted to Walter, who cringed. “Why was it called that?’
“River gave this whole spiel about how we were rejected and feared on the outskirts of society, like the Roman Underworld, but were still able to find a home with each other or some shit like that,” he sighed. “He sold it better than I could.”
Finney wanted to ask who River was, but felt weird asking too many questions and stayed silent as Walter elaborated. “And to answer your question, Donna, none of us had good home lives—if we did, we wouldn’t have ended up there in the first place. But we also never talked much about the specifics. This was supposed to be our ‘new lease on life,’ and dwelling on the past harshed everyone’s vibe. All I was able to glean was that her mom died when she was young, and her dad remarried and was a colossal dick. At least, that’s how she made it seem. Two sides of a story and all that.”
“Can you tell me more about Pluto’s Haven?” she pressed. “I know the commune started out in the Midwest and travelled Southward, but how’d it end up in Colorado? And how many people were in it? When I researched, I got conflicting reports.”
“About 20 at the height of it, but that trickled down a ton by the time we got to Galesburg.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away. “And ‘commune’s a nice way of putting it. Honestly, it was more like a cult.”
Images of murdered actresses and bodies stacked in the jungle flooded into Finney’s mind. “Why do you say that?”
“It checks off all the boxes. You’ve got the quintessential charismatic leader—River. Real name was Thomas Murphy, though. Normal name for an abnormal guy. He acted like he was the only one who could lead us to ‘personal self-enlightenment,’ and we bought it hook, line, and sinker. He got us to hand over our passports and money and whatnot, though I guess that ended up saving me in the end.”
They paused briefly as the waitress returned to take their orders, then Donna asked, “Did you join first, or did she?”
“She did. Her and Harmony were the ones who got me to join in the first place. Long story short, I was homeless in New Mexico and they got a kick out of my guitar playing. Brought me to River, and the rest is history.”
Donna continued her relentless query, and Finney tried to think of ways to signal she was coming on too strong. “What caused Pluto’s Haven to become transient?”
“I joined relatively late and wasn’t exactly what I’d called ‘inner circle.’ Not sure how they ended up in New Mexico specifically, but I’m guessing either money troubles or issues with the law. That’s definitely why we left there—I didn’t know the details, but it was something cartel-related. He woke us up in the middle of the night and said we needed to leave ASAP. And when River said to do something, you did it, no questions asked.“ Walter rolled his eyes. “I don’t think he had a specific place in mind once we got on the move, but when we got to Colorado and Leaf said he had family, you could practically see the damn gears spinning. It was supposed to be temporary, just a couple a’ weeks until we got on our feet. Ended up being a few months.”
“How was the Grabber okay with it?”
“Maybe, uh, Mr. Kaminski can ask you some questions first,” Finney said clumsily. Donna got the message and blushed.
“I’m so sorry, I know I’m being really forward and–”
Walter laughed heartily. “It’s all right! That’s what I’m here for. And to answer your question, he sure as hell wasn’t ‘okay with it.’ But it’s like that ol’ analogy with the frog and the boiling pot. First it was just Leaf and Meadow and—y’know, he might’ve grumbled a bit, but put up with it. Then Harmony. Then me and River and River’s revolving door of girlfriends. He didn’t like it, but at that point it felt like it was more our house than his.”
Finney half-expected to see a glass shatter, but it didn’t. “Harmony, hmm?” Donna’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “What was she like?”
Another chuckle. “That’s something you’ll have to hear from the woman herself. She’d kill me if I started blabbing.” Then, more seriously: “Does she know you’re here?”
Though Donna told Finney she informed Walter about her relation to ‘Harmony,’ Walter’s last question was one he didn’t think about asking. “No, but she’ll be fine with it.”
Walter suddenly–and understandably—looked as wary as Finney felt. “You sure? If she doesn’t want—”
Donna’s fingers curled around her napkin. “Mr. Kaminski, I understand your concerns. But part of the reason I wanted to speak to you so badly is because it’s a part of my history, too, at least where Meadow is concerned. Mom knows I’m digging more into this part of their life and she’s not really happy about it, but she accepts it. I promise I’ll let her know right when I get home, but I feel I have the right to know some of these things.”
After a thick, heavy pause, Walter nodded slowly. “I guess you do have that right, especially with everything on the news and all.”
“Thank you.” The tension ebbed out of Donna’s body slightly.
Walter, on the other hand, didn’t look nearly as relieved. “But some stuff’s better to hear from her. She knew Meadow a lot better than I did; even with the problems later, the fact Meadow let her know about you was a huge sign of trust.”
Donna caught onto an opening Finney hoped she would ignore. “What problems?”
Walter glanced towards the waitress, who was scribbling down the orders of another table. “Harmony caught feelings for a local academic and left the group, which got Meadow teed off. You could ask her for the details. I’m not getting into them.”
This time, at least, Donna knew to back off. She flashed Walter the same smile which charmed most of the school. “I’m pretty sure that academic’s my dad.”
Walter knitted his brows in confusion. “You’re…?” Then, he understood, and brightened. “Huh! Good on her.”
Donna smiled pleasantly in return, though Finney could sense the underlying tempest brewing. The reason for Walter’s confusion would be an awkward topic for everyone involved, yet inevitable. Instead of delaying it, Donna decided to tackle it head first. “I know Meadow used to date Max Shaw,” she began carefully.
“That’s correct,” he replied, impressively impassive.
“Do you know anyone else she might have been romantically involved with?”
Walter took a sip of his water before answering. “...I think she used to have a thing with River, but they broke it off at one point. Not sure when.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I’m not.” She stared him down, hoping for him to budge. He didn’t, so she decided to get straight to the point. “I want to know why, out of all the men on God’s green Earth, she would ever go for the Grabber.”
Finney stared down at the fries the waitress brought over, but felt Walter’s gaze boring into him. “He wasn’t the Grabber back then.”
“Still, there must have been warning signs!”
“Only with the benefit of hindsight.” Walter took a bite of his cheeseburger, which gave him a few moments to compose his thoughts. “Meadow had a lot of…issues, and so did he. Clearly. Not that they were anywhere near the same level,” he was quick to add, “but they both had something the other wanted and ended up in this dumpster fire of a relationship because of it. He wanted to hurt someone and she wanted to get hurt. Don’t ask me any more than that—even back then, I knew enough to stay the fuck away from the whole thing.”
“And Max never had any idea?” she prodded.
Walter bit his lip. “I know who his brother was, but Max himself was a real stand-up guy. He never had a bad word to say about anyone, and would always be the first to lend someone a hand, even if he didn’t have the time or money. One of the few honest people I met throughout my life. The idea of telling him was just…well, it just didn’t cross my mind. If he didn’t know about it, then I didn’t want to break his heart. And if he did know about it and was fine with it, then I’d come off as a nosy square.”
Donna nodded slowly, nibbling a fry. “Okay. So…what happened in the end? With Meadow, I mean.”
“One day she was gone. Didn’t tell me or Max or even River, and when you don’t tell River something, you’re basically dead to him. So we figured at the time she just wanted out of the Haven—and she probably did—but in retrospect it also coincided with her pregnancy. No one knew she was pregnant at the time, though.”
“And Max?”
“Beyond distraught. I can’t say for sure how she felt about him, but he was head over heels. It was sad to watch.”
Finney couldn’t contain his question any longer. “What made you and the rest of the hipp–Pluto’s Haven people decide to leave Meadowbrook?”
“A lot trickled out over time, ‘till it was just me, River, and Leaf. The house felt…odd. I’m not sure I buy the whole bit about it being cursed, but it definitely had some bad juju.” Walter placed down his burger, eyes clouding. “Though I guess it could’ve just been Al. He unsettled a looooot of people, myself included. But I put up with it ‘till one day River wakes me up in the middle of the night, saying we needed to get the fuck out of there ASAP or we’d be killed or something like that. He actually looked scared, and believe me, River never got scared. That’s how I knew to floor it. He was paranoid as shit that we’d be followed and eventually we ended up getting fake IDs,. That’s why, as far as the world knew, Walter Kaminski was dead, and that’s how I liked it.”
“But Max was left in the lurch,” concluded Donna.
Walter winced. “Yeah. River only ever saw him as a piggy bank, and I was too much of a coward to say or do anything else. But after we got our IDs, I split, since it was hard to see him as anything other than a man at that point. I drifted for a while, taking odd jobs ‘till I finally settled in San Francisco.”
Donna pushed some of her fries in Walter’s direction, gesturing for him to take some. “Thanks for telling us this. I know it couldn't have been easy. and I really appreciate it.”
Walter took her up on the offer and popped another into his mouth. “I don’t mind. Just a bit embarrassing in hindsight, seeing how I fell for such obvious shit.”
“At least you learned from it,” piped Finney. Unlike me…
Walter chuckled. “Wish I could say I did, but I must have one of those susceptible personalities they talk about in the news sometimes. A couple years after leaving Colorado, I got roped into another ‘stick-it-to-the-man’ lovefest that looked like gold but turned out to be shit. Thank God I didn’t have my passport, otherwise you might’ve seen me on the news a few years back.”
San Francisco…cults…passport…news.
“Hold on,” Finney said, eyes bulging. “Were you at Jonestown?”
“No,” Walter replied, quickly but firmly. He glanced around them, and guilt spiked in Finney as he realized he voiced his conclusion louder than he would have wanted. “I was part of the People’s Temple, but never went to Guyana.”
Excitement and fascination bubbled in Finney. The infamous mass suicide occurred about a week before his kidnapping, and captured his interest—as well as the rest of the country’s. “What was he like? Jim Jones, I mean.”
Walter leaned back in his seat, wariness returning. “We weren’t exactly buddies. I faded into the background, mostly…”
“But you must have talked to him sometimes, right?”
Walter chewed the bottom of his lip in thought. “He made you rely on him for everything,” he finally said. “He couldn’t stand the thought of someone finding purpose or happiness without him. He needed to feel important. To feel needed.”
That sounded eerily familiar. “Did you know anyone who died in Guyana?”
He felt a slight jab in his side—Donna poking him underneath the table. His confusion melted to horror. “I’m so sorry,” he babbled. “I know I shouldn’t ask questions.”
“It’s alright. I’m used to it.”
Finney felt a tug of painful kinship with the older man. How many times had the shoe been on the other foot and he’d been the recipient of unwanted personal questions? And yet he fell so easily into the same trap. It didn’t even occur to him that he was being invasive.
Was that how the people who talked to him sometimes felt?
In a rare moment of reprieve, the waitress brought the checks. Walter fished into his pocket for his wallet, eyes clouding over with distant memories. “People call it a mass suicide, and it was, to some degree. Plenty of folks willingly drank the Kool-Aid—or Flavor Aid, or whatever the hell it was. But a lot didn’t, and that’s something no one ever talks about. They were stabbed with syringes or forced to drink it at gunpoint, but they don’t get any sympathy from the media because they went there willingly. Just because they didn’t put up a fight with some things didn’t mean they wanted everything he did to them. Agreeing to some things doesn’t mean agreeing with everything. I knew some good people who died there.”
Goosebumps prickled Finney’s arm, his stomach twisting into knots of discomfort. If Donna felt the same–which he doubted—she did a good job hiding it. “You’re right. Thanks for everything, Mr. Kaminski. I’ll let my mom know we spoke. She might want to give you a call, too.”
Walter smiled faintly. “I’ll be looking forward to it. It was a pleasure talking with the both of you.”
As they turned to make their way to the front of the diner, Finney couldn’t help but hear Walter’s distant mutters.
“‘Revolutionary suicide,’” he snorted. “No such thing.”
****
“I can’t believe I said that,” Finney lamented. Even the sugary vanilla of the ice cream cone now tasted bitter. “I should’ve known better. Fuck! He probably hates me.”
Donna finished wrapping the bottom of her strawberry cone with napkins and sat on the brick wall next to Finney. “Do you hate everyone who asks you questions?”
“No…”
“Then he probably doesn’t, either,” she concluded, before licking the wayward pink dripping down the side of the cone. “I’m really glad you told me about him, Finn. It’s not closure, but it’s probably the closest I’ll get. I feel like I understand her a bit more now.”
“I get the feeling there’s probably more than he let on,” mused Finney, recalling some of Walter’s subtle shifts in expression.
“Probably,” she shrugged. “But everyone’s entitled to some secrets. And maybe my mom’ll actually start talking more and fill in the gaps.”
A scowl tugged at the edge of her lips before she bit into her cone, but the sweet burst of flavor caused her expression to melt into bliss. They ate their ice cream in peace, listening to birdsong, children bicycling, and shoppers shuffling with their bags.
“From what Walter said, Max seemed like a pretty good guy when he was alive,” said Donna, dabbing her lips with a pink-stained napkin.
“He still is.”
“Max, are you there? Give us a sign,” she called.
Nothing in the scenic view indicated any acknowledgement, so Donna chomped down the rest of her ice-cream cone and threw the napkin in the trash. When she returned to the wall, she looked more serious and troubled than before. “I know what you’re thinking: I was a real asshole during the astral projection.”
“I don’t think that.”
“I was,” she moaned. “But I'm just…I’m mad that I’m related to the Grabber and taking it out on Max. I know he’s one of the Grabber’s victims too, but everytime I see him or think of him, I feel like breaking something.”
“It’s normal to feel that way,” Finney said gently. “Emotions aren’t always logical.”
Trust me, I know…
“Maybe, but there’s a difference between feeling it and acting on it, and I acted on it.”
“He’s probably used to it.” He winced at how unintentionally callous he sounded. “Look, just try to be nice next time you see him. I can step in if it starts to be…a lot. He can be a bit”—Finney tried to find a nicer way to say ‘annoying’—”enthusiastic, but he means well. There are worse ghosts to talk to.”
“True,” she murmured. Her black tresses floated in the sudden breeze, and Finney’s heart squeezed at how beautiful she looked in her contemplation. “Hearing Walter describe Max that way was…interesting. It’s like there’s this whole other side to him I never knew.” She placed a few strands behind her ear and turned to him with newfound determination. “I think…I want to talk to him, and clear the air. Is it okay to impose on you again to arrange a meeting?”
He shook her head at her guilty expression. “You’re not imposing. And of course I’ll set it up, next time I see him.”
He just wished he could guarantee it would go smoothly.
Chapter 38: Uncertain Waters
Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Blake,
Thank you for applying for the Project Manager position at Sustainability Inc. Unfortunately, we wish to inform you that the position in question has been filled by another candidate. Thank you for your time and expressing an interest in the position, and we wish you the best of luck in future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Elmer Whitman, CEO
A loud knock made Finney jump out of his skin. He hastily shoved the letter underneath the newspaper where he found it while Samson raced to the door. The wagging tail indicating it was someone Finney knew, and he scurried over. But like always, he made sure to glance out the window before opening it—just in case.
Mary cooed as she knelt down to pet Samson. “Oooh, what a good boy you are! Did you miss me? Yes, I think you did!”
Samson barked in response, and Finney smiled in a way that wasn’t entirely for show. Though there was nothing that suggested Mary’s prior kindness was fabricated, seeing her with Samson felt different. More authentic.
“Did you come to see him?” he asked after they exchanged greetings.
“No. My husband wanted me to give this to your father.” She held up a dark brown book with a cover he couldn’t see. “Is he home?”
Finney’s curiosity piqued; he couldn’t remember the last time he saw Terrence read anything besides the newspaper. “No, but I’ll give it to him when he comes back.”
“Swell! Thanks, Finney,” she said, handing the book to him.
Finney expected her to leave, but she hovered near the doorframe, peering curiously into the house. Finney’s smile faltered. “Is there something else you need?”
“Oh.” A tinge of peek appeared on Mary’s cheeks. “It’s nothing, really. I was just curious if the paintings were still there.”
“They are.” Unfortunately.
Mary’s eyes sparkled. “Wonderful! There was a Goya replica I saw at an art show, but Albert managed to snag it before I could. John was never a big fan of the Romantics, but I don’t think he’d pass up the opportunity to stick it to him, even posthumously. We’d pay a handsome sum, of course.”
Finney’s mind blanked, trying and failing to recall which painting was the Goya. “What was the painting called again?”
“‘The Dog.’ At least, that’s the title it was given after it was found.”
‘After it was found’ was telling: It had to be one of the Black Paintings. A sense of unease drifted over Finney. Were there more of those damn things in the house? And if so, where?
“...I don’t think we have that one. The only Black Painting we have is one of a god eating another god.”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “I know what that one looks like. It’s…not to my tastes, but thank you for offering.” She sighed. “Maybe he sold it to someone else. Oh, well. It was nice talking to you, Finney.”
“Bye, Mrs. Smith.”
After he shut the door, Finney finally glanced down at the title: Reentering the Workforce: Tips, Tricks, and Things Not to Say.
Finney smiled wryly; maybe he’d give it a read after Terrence. Summer was the perfect time for teenagers to get part-time jobs, and while he hated exposing himself to the world again, he hated the idea of his father shouldering the financial burden even more.
As Finney flipped through the pages, a folded letter slipped out and fell to the ground like a snowflake. Finney leaned down to pick it up, and saw it was addressed to Terrence.
Finney bit his lip. He shouldn’t. It would be a breach of trust.
But…
Before he knew it, Finney unfolded the letter, eyes glued on John’s immaculate cursive.
Terrence—
I tried calling your house this morning, but kept getting a busy signal. Hopefully Mary delivered this letter when I asked her to, because I’d hate to break the news to you tomorrow over lunch.
So as I’m sure you surmised, I spoke with Roger about possible openings. He’s concerned about current legal troubles (or perception thereof) regarding Finney, and also attendance reliability after speaking with Pearson. He’s also somewhat concerned with the ‘celebrity’ component of the Finney situation and fears your hiring might ‘inject politics into the workplace.’ I was as baffled as I’m sure you are about the latter, until I realized it was likely a reference to the brouhaha surrounding that teacher. I’d hate to gossip (at least without a few drinks first), but rumor has it that at least two of the higher-ups in the company are, shall we say, a bit light in the loafers.
If you want my unsolicited two cents, the best option would be to bypass any job requiring a past reference. Which, yes, would mean applying to entry-level positions. I know they’re undesirable in terms of pay and respect afforded, but they could lead to further opportunities down the road. Ken’s still adamant the EPA job could pull through—a few employees are apparently retiring over the summer, but at the risk of sounding pessimistic, organizations like that attract liberal flower children like bees to honey. And while your family has engendered a boatload of sympathy for obvious reasons, the recent happenings have created a sense of divisiveness that never would have existed in the old days.
I understand why you’d be adverse to making some kind of public statement and know it’s legally wise, though I can’t help but wonder if some sort of vague, PR-friendly feel-good message might help you get back into everyone’s good graces. Or at least making Finney or yourself visible in some capacity through charity work and whatnot. I wonder if there’s a second murderer lurking around Galesburg with bloated self-importance that needs a good neck-snapping…
Talk to you soon!
-John
Finney placed the letter back in the book, numb. The reason Terrence hadn’t found a job yet was because of him.
Though he suspected it for a while now, seeing it laid out plainly was still brutal. He placed the book on the dining room table and slowly headed to Gwen’s room, Samson trotting behind. She sat on the bed cross-legged, attempting to knot a macrame…something.
“What are you working on?”
Gwen sighed dramatically. “It’s supposed to be a dreamcatcher.”
“Oh, I see it now.” Kind of…“Are you having more bad dreams?”
She paused before answering, which was enough of an answer by itself. “Sort of, but nothing really new. What’s up?”
The redirect did not go unnoticed, but he let it slide. “Did you find another painting? One with a dog?”
“No. Why, is there supposed to be another one?” She pet Samson as he pushed his large body up onto the bed, something he knew to do only when Terrence wasn’t there.
“I’m not sure,” Finney answered honestly. “But Mrs. Smith stopped by earlier and said she saw the Grabber buy it years ago. But who knows if it’s still there.”
“Sounds like another job for Mystery Incorporated,” she mused as Samson rolled over on his back. “Especially since we finally got our very own Scooby! Maybe we can get him to track down the paintings somehow, like Lassie.”
“Lassie never did that.”
“Hypothetically, she could.”
Finney shook his head. “Cool. You can train him and let me know how it goes.”
“Maybe I will,” she laughed. “It’ll come in handy if you ever get stuck in a well.”
Finney smiled, but his grin faded as he went back to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed. The Blakes’ money troubles had haunted him since the day of the exorcism, and was proving to be as persistent as the Grabber. Was it always going to be like this? Was obsessing over money and never feeling financially secure simply part of being an adult?
Sentences in John’s letter poked and picked at his brain. Maybe it would be better if they said something publicly. But maybe (and more realistically), it would become a Hindenburg-level disaster. Or maybe ‘they’ shouldn't say anything at all. Maybe it should be him since it’s his goddamn fault.
I still have Gabby’s card…
The thought hovered for a moment before dropping with an unceremonious plop. Nope. Nopenopenope.
Finney rolled onto his side, facing the closet where he knew Howard Thurston was staring at him from behind the door. One of the few good things about the basement was that he never had to worry about money. Everything was provided for him and he knew, generally, what to expect.
Now? He had no idea what to expect. Which was both good and bad and everything in-between.
He bit his lip, thoughts mulling around his head for a few moments. “...Al?” he murmured cautiously.
Still no response.
Hmm…
That was fine. Objectively, it was a good thing he wasn’t there. Any nefarious plots he was concocting would be preferable actually being in his presence. No way was Finney lucky enough to have the Grabber gone for good. Definitely not.
Besides, there was someone else he needed to speak with instead.
“Max?”
****
Finney decided the best place for Donna’s meeting would be the park. It was a neutral location—Finney didn’t know how Donna would feel about entering the Shaw home, but also wasn’t sure where he stood with the Andersons. Finney picked out a secluded bench under a towering Elm, with a great view of the lake. Nature sometimes had a calming effect and made the world’s problems feel smaller. That might have been why his mother used to bring him here, in retrospect.
He couldn’t deny he had jitters about how the conversation would go, but the sheer amount of lamenting and catastrophizing he’d been hearing from Max the entire day had beaten down his energy. What Max didn’t know was that Donna was expressing the same concerns Max did the day prior. Finney truthfully wasn’t sure that the end result of the conversation would be, but at this point, he just wanted it over with.
Finney’s fingers tapped on the screen of the Time-Out. “Hi, Max. We’re ready to start. Are you there?”
“Yes?” he squeaked. Max and Finney practiced speaking through the Time-Out, so Max’s voice sounded normal for once instead of something demonic from a horror movie. The trade-off was that the nervousness was much more apparent.
“Donna’s with me,” Finney said, though it should have been obvious.
“Hi, Max,” Donna said with a strained smile.
“H-Hi.”
“Donna wanted to say something,” said Finney, extending the Time-Out. After a moment’s hesitation, Donna took it.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I acted back in the astral world,” she said. “I was pretty harsh back there when I didn’t need to be. It’s just…well, I was upset about a lot of things and took them out on you when I shouldn’t have. I know you just wanted to help, and I’m sorry.”
Splotches appeared on the screen, forming a sloppy smiley face. “Nah, it’s all good! That’s, like, a family classic. I’m used to it.”
Donna’s eyelid twitched, and Finney’s heart started to sink. But she continued talking before he could interject. “See, that’s what I specifically don’t want happening: I don’t want to be like that. I tried my whole life to just hold stuff in and thought I was pretty good at it, but now it’s like everything’s slipping and I don’t know if it’s because I know where my genes come from or if it’s just the mountain or stress or what, but I hate it. I hate not being able to control my life.”
It came out in almost one breath, and was more blunt than she was with Finney. He kind of wished she was that blunt with him, but was admittedly in no position to talk.
Finney wouldn't have been surprised if Max shrank back, but instead, the older man surprised him. “It’s not healthy to hold stuff in alllll the time. Meadow used to be like that, and I don’t think it made her happy. It just made it hard for anyone to help her. If I knew she was so upset, I would’ve done something, or tried to do something and maybe make it worse so maybe it’s better she didn’t say anything. But I still think it’s okay to let the mask slip every once in a while. It’s not like you, uh, kill kids or anything, right?” Some static. “Ah, man, that was a bad joke. Sorry, sorry…”
But Donna didn’t take offense; instead, the edges of her mouth flicked upwards. “It’s alright.”
“I think…” Max began carefully, “even Al kept a lot of things inside. I know it seems like he didn’t because of all the times he lashed out in, uh, different ways. But I think he didn’t know how to deal with things and they kept piling up until he snapped. Not saying you will,” he rushed quickly to add, “but another reason why it’s okay to show how you feel sometimes.”
“I’m not disagreeing,” she said evenly. “But there are different ways to show those emotions, and I didn’t do it in a healthy way.”
“You’re also…what? Sixteen? Seventeen?” he chuckled. “Getting short with someone—especially someone who probably deserved it—isn’t some unforgivable sin.”
Finney knew what she was thinking: ‘But I’m Donna Anderson! I don’t do that!’
“What about you, Max?” Finney cut in, rescuing Donna from her loss of words. “You’re being pretty open now. Were you like this at our age, too?”
“Err, kind of…maybe. Not really. It’s hard to say, because I felt like I’d put how I’m feeling into other things instead of actually talking about it. Like music. I had this guitar and tried to sing and write songs but they were all really shitty. But it still made me feel better just to get everything out. Kind of like all your writing, Finney. Except I’m sure yours is the opposite of shitty!”
“Wait. You write…for fun? Not schoolwork?” Donna looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t know you still did that. That’s neat.”
“I don’t do it that much,” he mumbled, face starting to heat.
“Whaaa?” Max exclaimed. “I always see you scribbling away in that notebook. But don’t worry, I’m not a snoop. I don’t know who or what you’re writing about.”
He’d only written one time at Meadowbrook Lane. If Max saw him writing more, it had to be sometime in the future. Plans to banish the Grabber, maybe?
Donna, sensing Finney’s discomfort, said, “Well, thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Max. I really appreciate it.”
“Waitwaitwait!” he pleaded. More static. “Donna, I know it’s rough. It’s rougher for you because you don’t have any good memories about my side of the family. But I just want you to know that, um, I’m going to do the best I can to help you. I couldn’t help Finney or your mom when I was alive, but maybe…maybe I can do something now.”
“That’s…really sweet,” Donna said, eyes softening. “Thank you.”
“After I became a ghost, I spent a lot of time thinking about my dad and Al, and what it meant that I’m related to them. I spent a lotta time kicking myself over it, but then I was like, why bother? That’s outta my control. The only thing I can control is what I do. My dad chose his path, and Al chose his, and matter who your dad is, you’ll choose your own too. You’ll break the cycle of shittiness or mediocrity and—aww, man. Look, I—I’m sorry. I screwed this up. I promise I didn’t mean to make you sad!”
They were tears born of emotion, but not the emotion Max expected. Max’s words unlocked something in Donna, a wellspring of sincerity, grief, and hope. A deep, untapped part of her Finney had only seen glimpses of.
Donna’s lip quivered, and Finney rubbed her shoulder. “No, I’m okay. Really.”
Donna continued talking to Max, discussing Walter, Meadow, their different memories, and random musings and observations about life. She looked so beautiful when she was happy, when she was unguarded, when she felt heard and seen in a way she couldn’t with anyone else.
Finney decided to give them some space, but they were so sucked into their conversation that they didn’t notice. Resting his hand against the weathered bark of the tree, he gazed out at the lake. He watched as the wind brushed gentle ripples and a family of ducks swam towards the shoreline, where a mother and her two children stood with a lumpy bag of birdseed.
Would that ever be him? Would he break the cycle of family troubles and give his own kids a blissfully happy childhood?
But his smile faded as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t have kids; he was fated to die in that stupid house.
Still, it was nice to think about while it lasted.
****
Finney tapped his pen against the paper, at a loss at where to begin. Words used to flow as easily as water from a spring, but today it was like wading through molasses—definitely a far cry from the 'scribbling away’ Max recounted.
He wanted to write something new, but didn’t have any inspiration or focus. In truth, he hadn’t even before the exorcism. Aside from a few blips here and there, it was like both him and Taylor were in a lull. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to continue with Taylor; something about him felt inherently childish now, though he couldn’t shake the lingering fondness and attachment.
But he had no other ideas, so reluctantly circled back to Taylor. He wrote a line and immediately erased it. He did this a couple of times until the proverbial lightbulb finally lit.
He could use the Taylor stories as a basis, but what if he didn’t write about Taylor specifically? What if he wrote about a supporting character, or a villain…maybe even Dr. Death himself.
For the first time since he sat down in this stupid chair, Finney finally felt a jolt of enthusiasm. Writing from Dr. Death’s perspective would be challenging. He was always depicted as fairly one-dimensional, but now that Finney was older, a simple evil-for-evil’s-sake villain didn’t seem engaging. He wanted villains that were more realistic.
Finney’s enthusiasm dampened slightly as he tried getting started, only to erase his sentences more times than he’d care for. After the seventh attempt, he decided to take Mr. Clarkson’s advice of ‘you can’t edit a blank page’ to heart and Just Write, even if it came out looking like crap.
“AHHHHH!”
Dr. Death peered down at his bloody captive and smiled. Taylor’s screams were music to his ears, more exquisite than a Beethoven symphony. The way his archenemy screamed and writhed every time he sunk the scalpel deep into his flesh were the only things even better than that.
Tears started dripping out of Taylor’s eyes, and Dr. Death felt a thrill of excitement. He loved having this power and seeing his victims spread out on the operating table before him. They spent their whole miserable, pathetic lives waiting for him, even if they didn’t know it. Their lives would be complete forever under his knife.
Dr. Death reached out and wiped Taylor’s leaky tears with his thumb. The nau boy was so nasty and stubborn and defiant, and it was nice seeing him taken down a peg or two. Right now, there was no trace of the strong young man who strangled him to death. Instead, Taylor looked like a helpless fawn to devour. He wanted him now.
And he was going to have him.
Finney’s pencil stopped mid-motion. Going into this, he never intended for the scene to turn into anything other than ‘normal’ torture. But he had a sudden, powerful urge to turn it sexual, and wasn’t sure why. He didn’t like the idea of writing Taylor helpless like he was. Taylor was a hero, not…this. Yet no matter how much he mulled over how the scene could end in different ways, he kept drifting back to ‘the r word.’
Finney gazed down at Samson, who was resting by Finney’s chair peacefully. The Grabber wasn’t there. There was nothing stopping him from writing it.
But what would a mind as twisted as Dr. Death’s be thinking?
‘Mine, mine, all mine?’
Finney sighed. After a few trepid attempts of wading into the mind of a rapist, he could admit, for better or for worse, that he didn’t really ‘get it.’ He still had the problem of making Dr. Death cartoonishly evil, and wasn’t really sure why it was bothering him so much. Some people are just assholes that couldn’t be understood by non-evil people. So what?
But he couldn’t shake the feeling he failed somehow, both as a writer and on a deeper level he couldn’t pinpoint. He didn’t want to close the notebook just yet.
If I can’t get into Dr. Death’s mind, I can definitely get into Taylor’s…
Finney bit his lip, palms growing sweaty over the pencil. He never directly broached the topic of rape in any of his previous stories, and subjecting Taylro to that seemed perverse and profane. Those kinds of things didn’t happen to him. Ever. He might suffer, but he’d always find a way to get out of it. He was a Junior FBI Agent, for Christ’s sake!
But his pencil began writing nonetheless. The first few lines were the hardest, but he eventually got into a rhythm where he began spewing words like he did when writing the Definitive Moments essay. The muse was unleashed; he went into the salacious details everyone imagined but no one had the guts to ask directly. The physical aspects, but also the emotional ones. The shame of getting off on it, the confusion, the love, the hate. The pain and the pleasure. The guilt. The thrill. Sensitivity and numbness. The raw, visceral realness that couldn’t be replicated by someone who hadn’t been there.
Eventually, the muse left, leaving just him, Samson, and the paper. He surveyed the hasty scrawl, a lump rising in his throat. Why was he writing this? There was no literary value; it was just gross and disturbing. Was he a sicko like the Grabber? How was this any different from Bound in Chains?
One is real, the other isn’t.
Maybe. But from a purely objective standpoint, the writing didn’t seem that different. They both doubled down on the nitty-gritty and didn’t shy away from the frank-but-unsavory elements that made normal people uncomfortable. The character in Bound in Chains wasn’t technically Finney Blake, just like how Taylor Mullen wasn’t. But Bound in Chains felt suffocating whereas writing this felt liberating. Could it be the overall impression that the author viewed Finney more like a fictional character than a real person?
Finney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering his conversation with Walter. Before he met him in person, he knew, logically, that Jonestown was real. But it didn’t impact him directly. He’d made plenty of ‘drinking the Kool-Aid’ references without thinking twice about it, and assumed along with most of the country that all of Jones’ adult followers were brainless sheep. He watched and enjoyed the hell out of Guyana: Cult of the Damned, which was, in retrospect, was roughly as exploitative as Bound in Chains.
The events surrounding the Grabber would always resonate the most with the Galesburg community the most—that shouldn’t be surprising. Distance and detachment towards events portrayed on the news was a normal, if unfortunate, part of human nature. And the understanding that it wasn’t personal was calming in its own way, though he’d never like or approve of Bound in Chains. Maybe that made him a hypocrite, but oh well.
He placed his pencil down, deep in thought. What would make other people understand him more, see him more as a person instead of a story in the newspaper? Plopping in front of a camera? The mere thought made him shiver.
Finney stared at the paper a bit longer before ripping it out, tearing it up, and throwing the remnants in the trash.
****
Finney’s mind glazed over as the testosterone-fueled opening notes of Magnum P.I blared from the television. Despite the day consisting of virtually nothing, he still felt exhausted and wanted to turn his brain off. Being a television-zombie wasn’t exactly the healthiest way of dealing with problems, but given everything that's happened recently, he felt it miiight be okay to cut himself some slack.
When he realized it was an episode he already saw, he started flipping channels. Dynasty? Too over-dramatic. Trapper John, M.D? He wasn’t a fan of hospitals. T.J Hooker? Nah, he saw that episode before, too.
But when he got to the next channel, he stopped. Gloria Arellano was seated in a plush chair across from Gabby Fernandez, ‘What’s the Gab? With Gabby Heranndez’ in bright neon lights in the background.
“—really a misunderstanding for what we’re all about,” Gloria explained.”It’s not a platform of hate, it’s a platform of espousing values that protect children and allow for a healthy society.”
Gabby leaned forward eagerly. “What you're asking is for thousands of Amercians to lose their jobs based on sexual preference. Some say that by itself strokes hate.”
“I’m not saying the homosexuals shouldn’t have any jobs. But it’s one thing to work in a supermarket, and another to indoctrinate impressionable children into thinking sexual deviancy is okay. Not everyone is suited for every job. I mean, could you imagine me as an NBA player?” The crowd in the audience laughed. “Life isn’t always fair, and instead of fighting against it, it’s better to lean into the path God intended.”
“You mention homosexuals 'indoctrinate impressionable children.’ Can you explain what you mean by that?”
Gloria hesitated briefly. “...Well, if children know their teacher is one of them, then that alone normalizes sin.”
“But in the case of Lincoln High, it wasn’t publicized,” Gabby pressed. “No one knew of the teacher’s sexuality until the documents came to light.”
Finney rolled his eyes. ‘Came to light’---as if she didn’t have a direct role in it.
Still, Finney couldn’t deny part of him was impressed at the hard-hitting questions, which seemed at odds with his prior belief that Gabby was on Gloria’s side. But spending more than a few seconds dwelling on it shone a light on what should have been obvious: Gabby was on the side of whatever was most provocative. Whatever led to a good story.
“And we have to ask why that is. What happened that led to that tipping point? These things don’t happen out of the blue. I’m not accusing Anthony Clarkson of anything, but we must consider how his presence might have made the children feel, even subconsciously.”
Nausea rolled in Finney’s stomach.
“But there have been no reports of any misconduct.”
“Again, I’m not saying he did something. But looking at the situation from a broader, general context, a lack of reports doesn't necessarily equate with innocence. Albert Shaw should be proof of that.”
“Of course, of course.” Gabby nodded sympathetically. “We’re aware your relationship with your son plays a major role in your advocacy. Would you like to expand a bit on that?”
“I…wasn’t there for my son,” Gloria said, wincing at the memory. “I couldn’t save him, which is something that’ll rightly haunt me for the rest of my life. But I can still help other children, and I vowed to do everything in my power to do so.”
“How many children do you think are currently in danger?”
“It’s difficult to say, since it often goes unreported. There are thousands of children nationwide that we know of, over half of which know their perpetrator beforehand. It creates long-lasting trauma that persists for years later, such as the case of Finney Bl—” She stopped, suddenly alarmed. “Can I say his name?”
Gabby smiled. “You can say anything that’s in the public record.”
Finney’s heart plummeted.
“The story of his survival displays tremendous character and emotional strength. There’s no question about that. But experiences like that naturally cause emotional wounds, and when left to fester…” she trailed off, clearly choosing her words carefully to avoid a potential lawsuit. “It’s natural that such harrowing abuse of the past would affect views and action in the present. There are so many children who can never go back to normal lives because of this, many children who don’t escape. Their voices are silenced, so I have to speak for them.”
Finney grabbed the remote and turned the television off, unable to bear any more. He stared at the black screen for a long, long time.
Then he walked to his bedroom, opened the dresser, and took out Gabby’s card.
Chapter 39: The Interview
Chapter Text
“It’s not happening.”
Finney’s hand twitched as he continued parsing through his closet, trying to pick out something that looked semi-professional. They were virtually all hand-me-downs, but there had to be something that would look good on television. “It is. I have a date set up and everything.”
Terrence scowled, folded his arms, and leaned against the doorframe. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a minor, and I get the final say in shit like this. She can’t interview you if she knows I don’t want you to. I’ll take her ass to court.”
“With what money?” snorted Finney. At Terrence’s silence, he added. “Dad, we’ll be getting a lot from this. Enough to send me to college. Maybe enough to send me and Gwen to college.”
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure. He had no idea how much things like that actually cost, but the amount of zeroes certainly seemed impressive over the phone.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” demanded Terrence. “For money?”
“Not just money. It’s for a couple different reasons.”
“Like what?”
Finney hesitated, unsure of how to verbalize it when he wasn’t 100% certain of his feelings himself. “There’s a lot of wrong things being spread about me and how I feel. I want to clear the air.”
Terrence immediately strode over, and Finney couldn’t fully suppress the twinge of fear at his intense expression. “You can’t admit to anything. I’m sure that bitch is salivating at the thought.”
“She already knows I broke in,” Finney muttered, pulling out a gray blazer jacket.
“That’s different from saying it on live television.”
“I won’t say anything!” he snapped. “I’m not stupid. I just want to say I don’t support whatever Mrs. Arellano’s doing and all that.”
Terrence let out a hiss of exasperation. “Well, it’s stupid to get yourself involved with that shit. If you comment, that’s putting a giant magnifying glass on you when things are starting to finally die down. You really want that?”
“I don’t think I have much of a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice!”
“How else are people going to know what I really feel?” Finney shouted.
“You don’t need them to—”
“Besides, I want them to see me as real. See me for me, instead of some kid they read about. It’d mean a lot for me to do this. Please, Dad. Just trust me for once…”
Terrence’s eyes softened, but his voice was still firm when he said, “You, I trust. It’s everyone else that’s the problem.”
“I hate to say it, Finney, but I think Daddy’s right.” Finney almost jumped; how long had Gwen been hovering in the hallway? “Gabby’s not the type of reporter who does puff pieces. You’re going to be hit by some hardball questions.”
“After everything that’s happened, especially recently,”—he exchanged a pointed look with Gwen—“I think I can handle it. I know what it’s like to be really scared. Someone like Gabby can’t make me feel that way.”
He surveyed the other clothes he picked out: aside from the blazer, he also found gray slacks and a white collared shirt. He wasn’t about to light the fashion world on fire, but it was the fanciest ensemble donations allowed.
He dared glance back at Terrence and Gwen. Gwen knew what he was trying to do and looked unimpressed, but the guilt was starting to work its way through Terrence.
“...I gotta think about it more,” he finally said. “Next Saturday, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmph.” Terrence rubbed the back of his neck and looked off to the side. “I dunno. We’ll see.”
It was as much of a victory as Finney could hope for.
****
Finney didn’t relent on his attempts to persuade Terrence. His reasoning and imploration kept raining down like a tempest, and though Terrence made a valiant attempt to weather the storm, Finney’s words eroded his well-kept defenses.
Then, finally, he folded.
Finney was stunned, grateful, and frightened all the same time. It gave a sense of legitimacy, a sense of realness to something that—despite his phone call with Gabby—he didn’t expect would actually happen. But there was no way he’d back out now. And even if he could, he didn’t want to.
Donna, Gwen, and Max practiced potential interview questions with him until he felt he could recite answers in his sleep. Terrence drilled into him which topics were legally precarious and must be avoided at all costs, and Samson was his audience when Finney stood in front of the mirror, practicing normal, non-awkward facial expressions.
Finney expected the Grabber wouldn’t be able to stop himself from piping up, but somehow, he remained radio silent. It unsettled Finney, but anticipation of the interview edged out those concerns.
Eventually, the big day arrived. Terrence told him every hour that if he wanted to back out he could, but Finney remained resolute. The only time his willpower quavered was when they finally arrived at the Channel 7 building. Gabby gushed over him like one would after winning an elusive auction prize, and hurried him towards a dressing room. He was pushed into a chair where two women adjusted his hair and put on some light makeup (“It's for the cameras. Everyone on TV does it, even the men,” they assured him after vehement protests). After what seemed like an eternity, they were finally satisfied and hurried outside, telling him he’d be called out in a couple minutes.
Finney blinked, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The difference was uncanny. His skin was smooth and bright and even, his normally-wild hair finally tamed. He swallowed and looked at the clock. It was almost 8:00 PM. This was actually happening.
Part of him wanted to bolt out of there, to talk to his father and sister one final time at least. But they were ushered to a different part of the building doing…something. Something Gabby mentioned but he forgot. Everything was a blur.
A sudden but intense loneliness flooded him. He stubbornly left the Time-Out at the house, but for the first time, he regretted not taking it with him. He glanced around; the only form of technology he spotted was a radio.
“Max?” he said.
He was disappointed, but not surprised when there was only silence. He wringed his hand on his lap for another minute.
“Al?” he finally said. He still didn’t hear any response, but that didn’t mean the Grabber wasn’t there.
Finney bit the inside of his lips as he glanced at the clock again. Soon he’d go out there recounting all these thoughts and experiences he’d kept inside for all those years. Thoughts no one but him knew about.
Well, him and one other person.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” Finney said. Talking to empty air made him fool about as foolish as expected, but he pressed on. “I’m going to talk to Gabby. Tell her and the world about everything that happened. You used to say it was ‘our little secret.’” He almost gagged repeating it. “Not anymore.”
He waited, but still, there was nothing but silence. Finney decided to make it more definitive. “I’m moving on. You should do the same.”
More silence. Finney was about to give up before static emitted from the radio, and the Grabber’s tired voice replied. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want,” snapped Finney.
“So you say. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, because you refuse to leave!”
“History lesson, kiddo. What did I say was the reason I came back in the first place?” Finney remained silent. “You called to me. Not the other way around. So if I’m still here, that means you still want me here, and no amount of trite-yet-adorable speeches can change that.”
He remembered that reasoning before, but couldn’t countenance the possibility of it being right when it felt so wrong. “I don’t want you here. You always make my life miserable. You’re just twisting things like you normally do.”
An overly-theatrical, staticy sigh emitted from the radio. “Believe what you want.”
“And don’t do anything to mess this up.” Finney hoped it came out more like a demand than a plea.
“Hmm, someone’s a bit prickly today,” the Grabber taunted. “But don’t worry. I’ll be watching, even if my lips stay zipped. But if you want me to do something, just say my name and I’ll take care of it.”
The tone of the last line was a somber departure, and the hairs on Finney’s neck stood up.
“Why would I want that?”
The static fully dissipated, leaving a heavy silence that lasted until a stagehand finally entered.
That’s not ominous at all…
****
No matter how many times he saw the studio on television, being there in person and sitting on the plush chair across from Gabby Fernandnez was another matter entirely. Finney immediately understood the need for makeup; the lights were blaring and harsh, and the sea of people in the audience caused his chest to tighten. Donna’s advice of looking at Gabby instead only helped by a small margin. Her smile didn’t have the disarming effect she must have thought it had, her pearly-whites reminding Finney more of a vampire than a concerned host.
He tried to ignore the cameras, which was hard when they cluttered his vision no matter where he looked (seriously, why do they need so many??). He tried to ignore the crowd, tried to ignore Gabby’s introductory speech, tried to ignore that this was being broadcasted to millions of people. In thirty minutes, this would be over and done with, his name would be clear, and the Blakes would stroll out like bandits. That was it. No pressure.
“You’ve lived a very private life over the past few years, didn’t you?”
Finney waited for more, but when Gabby looked at him expectantly, he choked out a soft, “Yeah.”
“So what I—and the rest of America—want to know is…what made you change your mind to go public with your experience?”
Finney’s palms started to sweat. It was an innocuous question—so innocuous, in fact, that it flew under the radar of practice questions. Figuring ‘I need the cash’ wouldn’t go over well, he instead said, “So, uh, I realized there’s a lot of talk about how I feel about certain things, and some of it’s wrong. So I figured it's better for people to actually hear it frommyself.”
No ‘uh’s or ‘um’s’ or ‘like’s’. Stop with the filler words!!
But he saw some nods in the crowd, which he figured was a good sign.
“A ‘lot of talk,’” Gabby echoed, eyes sparkling. “We’ll circle back to that.” Fuck. “But in the meantime, let’s rewind to three years ago. Could you tell us, from your perspective, what happened that fateful November afternoon?”
This one he rehearsed. “I was walking home from school with my sister. She was going to a friend’s house, so we split up and I continued on my normal route. Then I saw a black van and a man carrying groceries.”
“I take it this was Albert Shaw?”
“Yeah.” Finney’s toes curled at the memory. It was one that crossed his mind many, many times, and never seemed to get any easier.
She cocked her head. “What did he look like at the time?”
Finney blinked. “Uh, he had on white facepaint and a top hat. But the rest of his outfit looked normal. A black shirt over a red turtleneck, and black pants.”
“Interesting. When most Americans think of the Grabber, the first thing that pops into mind is those strikingly grotesque masks. It’s easy to forget how this man had affairs with both men and women in the past, and was considered by many to be an honest, handsome man. When you first saw him, how did you feel?”
“Huh?”
“Did he look attractive?”
His brain stopped with a record-scratch. She said something else, but his mind was racing a hundred miles per minute. “Um.” Yes. “I don’t know. Everything moved pretty fast, and after that I didn’t see him without the mask until he was, like, dead.”
He cringed inwardly, both for his continuous use of filler words, the way the interview wasn’t ten minutes in yet already going off the rails, and for making one of the big mistakes his family warned him about: don’t bring up events beyond what she specifically asked.
“So you wouldn’t say there were any bad vibes?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She shuffled some papers. “Can you describe what happened after you saw him with the groceries?”
“He tripped—well, pretended to trip, I guess—and asked if I could pick up his hat. Which I did. And I got close enough and he asked if I wanted to see a magic trick, and I said okay because I didn't know he was trying to kidnap me and then he put me in a headlock and I tried to stab his arm with a pen but it didn’t work so well. He took this can of spray or something and sprayed it in my eyes, and then I couldn’t see and passed out. And when I woke up, I was in the basement.”
Gabby leaned forward with a calculating expression. “What kind of magic trick were you expecting?”
Finney shrugged feebly. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I just thought it might be cool.”
The one silver lining of his social capital collapsing within the past month was that it was impossible to go lower, so he didn’t beat himself up over that comment like he might in the past. Gabby nodded in acceptance and forged ahead. “What did you think when you woke up?”
“I wasn’t really thinking much of anything except that my head hurt. But then things started to click when I saw him in the mask.”
“Tell us about it.”
Finney’s mouth dried; it was another question they rehearsed, but the cameras drew forth a newfound sense of intractability. This level of detail was too personal, too invasive. “He said he wasn’t going to hurt me. And then he said he’d get me some food, but the phone rang.”
It was a minor change in detail, but for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he didn’t want to reveal the full truth to the whole world.
“But that was a lie, correct?”
Finney froze before realizing she was referring to the former part. “Yeah.”
“Everyone’s aware you faced tremendous challenges during your captivity,” Gabby said. “I’m pretty sure I speak for everyone when I say you’re one of the bravest people in this room.”
The crowd erupted into claps, but instead of comforting Finney, it made him nervous. “Thanks…”
She asked a couple questions about day-to-day life in the basement, carefully dancing around any mentions of sexual assault. He mentioned the food, the lights, the different types of masks and what they meant. Sometimes he’d tweak the irrelevant details, but even so, digging into those memories and shining a literal spotlight on them wasn’t something he felt good about doing. He inexplicably felt like he was committing a subconscious betrayal; whether it was to himself, his family, or—if he was more Stockholm’d than the thought—the Grabber (ughh…), he wasn’t sure. But his discomfort must have been evident from his face, as Gabby reached out a hand in a facsimile of kindness and solidarity.
“Everyone knows how difficult it must be to sit in front of millions of people and recount what I imagine to be the worst few months of your life,” she said, clasping her skillfully-painted fingernails around his. Yeah, way to remind me… “I won’t be asking you to go into the nitty-gritty details about something you clearly want to move past from. But one of the big questions everyone’s curious about is what it’s been like afterwards. How have you adjusted from going from an experience so heinous to the doldrums of day-to-day life?”
Finney didn’t know what doldrums were, but understood the gist. “It’s been okay. I try not to think about that stuff too much.”
Or at least he did, until a literal ghost from his past pushed himself into Finney’s life once more.
“It must be hard with constant reminders everywhere.”
“Yeah, kind of.” Like right now…
“How do you feel about those who take the basis of your story and dramatize it to varying degrees?”
“Um, what?”
Gabby flipped to another page in her notepad. “There’s a miniseries in the works at NBC, rumors of a movie, and of course, Bound in Chains.”
Finney grew lightheaded. A miniseries? A movie? Since when?? “I, uh, only know about the last one.”
“I see. So you read it?”
Finney rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants in a way he hoped looked natural. “No, but I heard some excerpts.”
“Like what?”
Did the lights grow brighter, or was that his imagination? “I don’t—I don’t really remember. Something about my”–He tried to recall the wording of a description of his eyes that stuck out as particularly hackneyed–“chocolate orbs or something like that.”
Titters of laughter rippled throughout the crowd. Were they laughing with him, or at him? Gabby smiled and said, “But you’re familiar with the overall contents, correct?”
“I—yeah.”
“Would you say it provided a generally accurate depiction?”
His face started heating, which made him flush even more out of concern the audience might misinterpret his expression. “N-No.”
“How so?”
“Well, it didn’t happen that way. I’m not going to, like, get into details or anything, but…”
“Of course, of course. I’d never ask something like that,” Gabby said soothingly, which counterintuitively made Finney’s nerves spike. His eyes drifted to the cameras, which was something he was instructed by both his family and the staff at the station not to do. He thought he spotted a glimpse of gray in the reflection, and quickly looked back to Gabby, who was moving on to her other question. “Do you agree with calls to have the book banned?”
Finney considered the question carefully. He knew that, while Donna might never say it to his face directly, she’d be against a ban. One of the things she felt strongly about was that all art had a right to exist, even if people found it disgusting. But he wasn’t Donna. What did he want?
“I…don’t think it should be,” he said finally. “I’m not a lawyer or anything, but I think I heard on the news that it’s not actually illegal.”
“Howard Showalter believes it should be.”
“Okay. He’s allowed his opinion.” Finney decided to clarify, “I mean, I don’t like the book. The fact it exists really creeps me out.” He shoved memories of his own explicit writings to the back of his mind. “But if we start drawing lines at what kind of books are allowed and what’s not, it becomes a slippery slope. And I don’t think censorship’s the right answer. Maybe I'm wrong, but that’s what I think right now.”
“So, would you say your disagreement rests mainly on the basis of free speech?”
“I guess...”
“Opponents might argue there are limits on free speech. Incitement to violence, defamation, obscenity…though most experts believe Bound in Chains wouldn’t meet the requirements in the Miller test needed for it to be classified as the latter. The book’s release has sparked a broader societal conversation regarding the sometimes-uneasy relationship between morality and legality. Do you feel there’s a moral or ethical responsibility of the author to abstain from depicting topics in a manner described by critics as ‘borderline pornographic’? Do you believe it could encourage those with pedophilic, or pedophilic adjacent, predilections?”
That was two questions, but he found the second easier to answer than the first. “I’m not sure, but if someone feels that way, it’s their responsibility to avoid things that could trigger that. It’s not the book's fault, it’s the fault of the person doing those things.”
That was something he felt strongly about; how many times did he have to endure the Grabber’s laments of how Finney was ‘too delicious’ and ‘tempting’? He wasn’t that far gone enough to believe it was anyone’s fault but the Grabber’s.
“The matter of personal responsibility is certainly on the minds of many viewers,” Gabby commented. “And with that, let’s segway to another topic. One that involves staffing at your school.”
Finney tensed; this was the moment he prepared for the most, but his rehearsed speech was rapidly slipping out of his mind. “Okay.”
“How did you feel when you discovered your English teacher, Anthony Clarkson, was a homosexual?”
“Fine.”
Gabby blinked incredulously. But she quickly recovered, the gears in her head practically visible as she coolly surveyed the boy in front of her. “Really? You didn’t feel threatened at all, given your…history?”
He knew Gabby was in a tight, uncomfortable position. The fact Finney gave her the file in the first place was an open secret. But she couldn’t confirm it officially, otherwise it could put them both in legal hot water. She, like most people, assumed he gave it due to discomfort over Mr. Clarkson’s sexuality, and now his responses were throwing off the perceived narrative. And while she loved a good scoop, he didn’t think she’d appreciate being caught this unprepared.
“No. There’s millions of gay people in the world, but most of them don’t do the things he did. That would be like saying just because Ted Bundy was straight, we have to be worried about straight people. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Interesting,” Gabby murmured as she clicked her pen in thought. “Gloria Arellano—Robin Arellano’s mother—believes otherwise. You were friends with her son, yes?”
Finney swallowed. “Yeah.”
“My heart goes out to him, and I’m so sorry you experienced such a loss,” she lamented. “Are you familiar with her thoughts on the matter?”
“Yes. I respect her, but I disagree with the position she’s taking.” He was tempted to add ‘and Robin would too,’ but didn’t like speaking for other people and was afraid doing so would come across as combative. “It’s good to want to help kids. But I think—personally—there might be other, more helpful ways to do it. She’s afraid of how people might be affected by being near gay people, but I think it might be better to help those who were actually hurt.”
“The word ‘hurt’ means different things to different people,” she parried. “While some minds default to physical danger, some claim there’s something to be said for the psychological impact. What are your thoughts? I know you mentioned you didn't feel threatened, but did you feel uncomfortable in other ways?”
He dreaded asking this, but…“What do you mean?”
“Even if Anthony Clarkson didn’t commit any wrongdoing, I imagine knowledge of those proclivities alone must dig up some memories you’d rather avoid. Especially in a school setting.”
His face heated at the mention of ‘those proclivities.’ “N-No. I don’t think about that kind of stuff at school.”
WHY DID MY VOICE CRACK AGAIN?!
Finney tried to keep his expression impassive at the obvious lie. He thought he saw the corner of Gabby’s mouth flick up briefly—like a cat cornering her prey—but it could have easily been a trick of the light, or his paranoia, or both. “Even with rumors of other staff members sharing the same tendencies?”
He wasn’t sure if she meant homosexuality in general or making sexual advances on minors, but either way…”I don’t know anything about that.”
“I see.” She fiddled her pen between her fingers fluidly, pausing a moment before continuing. “Part of the controversy has to do with the raging debate over what exactly causes homosexuality. If it’s baked into one’s genetics, or forged by past experiences. Based on your experiences with Albert Shaw, what’s your take on that?”
“Uhh,” Finney said intelligently. “I don kn–I’m not really the person to ask. I only knew him for a couple months.”
Gabby was erroneously conflating homosexuality with pedophilia (or ephebophilia or hebephilia or whatever the hell the Grabber had). That already made the question difficult—if not impossible—to answer, but she pressed ahead anyway. “I’m wondering if he revealed anything about his past to you during that time. Recent reporting suggests his father may have exhibited similar behavior with minors, and some of the reports of Shaw’s childhood behaviors coincide with what behavior experts generally consider to be common signs of childhood sexual abuse..”
The lights flickered dangerously. As Gabby frowned at the lighting crew, Finney remained rigid, realizing they were going deeper into a minefield. “I don’t think that’s the reason,” he babbled. “I think it’s innate. Otherwise I’d be…”
He caught himself, but her eyes gleamed. “You’d be what, Finney?”
He knew everyone’s eyes were on him before, but now, he really knew. “I’m not gay.”
“No one said you were,” she replied smoothly. “You have a girlfriend, correct?”
Was this a genuine question, or was it meant to mock him? Was he catastrophizing again? Was the Grabber right—was everyone really out to get him? YesyesyesyesYES
Finney cleared his throat. “Yes,” he squeaked.
“How does she feel about this? Do your experiences impact your life together?”
Forget Dr. Death, Gabby could dig that scalpel deeper than any imaginary construct ever could. “Kind of, but she’s patient and we work through it.”
“I’m sure she helps wash those unpleasant memories away, right?” smiled Gabby.
Finney didn’t know how to answer that, especially given recent events. “It’s not, um, it’s not really like that. They’re different people and we do different things. She can’t make me forget him. I don’t think anything can. ”
A soft, sympathetic ‘awww’ rippled through the crowd and frantically tried to think of why. Was it because he mentioned he couldn’t forget him? Was it because…oh, fuck…was it because he implied he didn’t have sex with his girlfriend? Which option would be worse?
A brief yet discordant screech of feedback from the tiny microphone attached to his lapel jolted him back to reality. He needed to focus, he needed to
I need to get out of here
No, he couldn’t. He needed to stay here in this stupid place until this goddamn interview was over. How much longer was it?
His eyes glanced toward the clock, and almost tumbled out of his chair. It was only 8:30. They still had thirty more minutes of this torture to go.
Why the fuck did he ever think he could do this?
“Finney,” Gabby soothed. “Like I said before, you are one of the strongest people in this room. There’s no need to be nervous.”
Was it that obvious? Finney’s nails curled into his palms. The line between sympathetic and patronizing was inherently thin, and he couldn’t shake the impression the hundreds of people in the room still thought of him as that thirteen-year old abductee. Not someone on the precipice of adulthood. Not someone who should have his shit together, but clearly didn’t.
He wanted to say something, but his brain grinded to a halt. When it became clear he wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak, Gabby moved onto her next question. “‘Homosexuals cannot reproduce — so they must recruit.’ That’s the controversial rhetoric behind various groups such as Anita Bryant’s ‘Save our Children’ campaign. Would you say, during your captivity, that that thought process played a role in your imprisonment?”
“Wha–no. No. He just—he wanted to kill me.”
“Why’d he wait so long compared to the other boys?”
He shrugged weakly, wishing the plush chair would swallow him whole. His head pounded, the harsh light scraped at his eyes, and his cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“Regardless of his intentions, it didn’t work.” The crowd began clapping, slowly at first, then rising in feverish intensity. “You don’t have any attraction to males. And no matter what horrors he put you through, your mind didn’t break. You didn’t find any moments pleasurable, and hated every second of it. Albert Shaw didn’t win. You did.”
Finney remained rooted in spot, unable to move or think or do anything.
Just fucking agree with her!
But he couldn’t, for reasons he both knew and didn’t know.
Gabby leaned forward, eyes shining with the determination of a hawk swooping down on a field mouse. “Right?”
Finney closed his eyes for a few seconds, and tried clearing his throat. His mouth felt so damn dry, and he tried mouthing the words. Gabby frowned. “I’m sorry, but you need to speak into the mic.”
Instead, Finney covered it with his hand, and whispered as quietly as he could the one word that elicited so many warring emotions.
“Al.”
Darkness immediately descended upon the room, eliciting shrieks from the audience. The camera lenses cracked, Gabby shouted orders at the camera crew, and Finney bolted out of his seat towards the emergency exit.
He didn’t know where he was going, or mustered the energy to care. All he knew with 100% certainty was that he needed to get out of here.
Chapter 40: Sinking Deeper
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“How bad was it? Be honest.”
From Gwen’s vantage point on the floor, it looked as though Amy Yamada’s head was dangling upside down over the purple bedspread. She didn’t answer Gwen’s question immediately, which was to be expected; Gwen could always count on Amy to give a brutally frank assessment, though the sensitivity of the situation required a degree of finesse that didn’t come naturally to the youngest Yamada.
“Not as bad as he probably thinks,” she replied, spitting out her gum in a wrapper and casually tossing it into the wastebasket. “He was obviously nervous, but answered the questions pretty well. It was only at the end where things went off the rails.”
Gwen winced at the understatement, looking at the art pieces decorating Amy’s room to avoid making eye contact. Mermaids, jellyfish, the beach, a Ragdoll cat, and…an ear? What the hell, Amy?
“Yeah…”
“But even that wasn’t totally catastrophic.”
Gwen wanted very hard to believe Amy; Finney’s reaction certainly made it seem like it was, but Gwen had to remind herself that the Blakes were neck-deep in bias. “How?”
“It did three things I assume were upsetting.” Amy pulled herself up to a sitting position, and Gwen did the same. The earth returned to its normal position. “One, some of his responses near the end fed into the ‘traumatized-kid-who-can’t-move on’ narrative. Either because he’s still got some psychological baggage to work through—I don’t mean this as an insult, just fact—or because people actually think he’s being haunted. That thing with the lights and the cameras didn’t help. Did Channel 7 do it on purpose, or was it real?”
“It was real,” she sighed. Unfortunately…”But it wasn’t, like, ghosts or anything. Just tech stuff that came at the worst time possible.”
The guilt tasted sour on her lips, but Gwen knew it was safer for Amy to be as far away from this insanity as possible. She wasn’t sure if Amy believed her, but regardless, Amy nodded and said, “Well, the good news is that those people are a minority and aren’t taken seriously, like the people who think Elvis is still alive. The bad news is that some people—some people, okay?—some people think, um—”
“Some people are trying to say we’re the ones who caused it,” Gwen finished, burying her head into her knees. “Not because we’re ghost magnets, but because they think we’re doing some kind of elaborate hoax. For attention.”
That was, perhaps, the most harrowing and offensive aspect of it all, though Gwen had to admit the series of alleged-coincidences the Blakes experienced since their house burned down would seem more than a little shady from an outsider’s perspective. Still, it didn’t warrant the harassment they were getting from the hodgepodge of ‘ghost hunters’ and conspiracy fanatics. She was sick of getting flyers for psychics in the mail, and especially queasy seeing the guy who’d been picketing outside their house for a week straight, holding up a sign that bizarrely read, ‘The CIA Can’t Fool Us!’ Gwen didn’t know how that fit into any of the current groups of wackadoodles, and wanted to keep it that way.
“It’ll pass,” Amy said evenly. “No offense, but your family isn’t as famous as you think. It’s not like Amityville or the Loch Ness Monster. And like I said, most people probably think it’s just psychological and feel sorry for him. Embarrassing, but not unexpected. C’mon up here.”
Amy patted a spot on the bed next to her, and Gwen grudgingly lifted herself and plopped down. Amy had a waterbed with a nice bounce to it, but Gwen was too miserable to enjoy it.
Finney had been struggling, to varying degrees of success, to move on, but this interview poured an ocean’s worth of salt back into the wound. Now he was spiraling again, just as bad—if not worse—than when he broke into Mr. Clarkson’s apartment.
“That’s not the only thing people are going to take away from the interview,” muttered Gwen.
“I know. I was getting there.” Amy sat cross-legged, tilting her head at Gwen. ‘Resting Amy Face’ was always impassive, and today was no exception. “But I still don’t think he said anything particularly damning. A lot of it’s open to interpretation, so it’ll be like a Rorschach test to confirm whatever the audience wants to be true. People who think he was turned gay will think that, but others will think his nerves are just a natural reaction to uncomfortable questions. Honestly, I wouldn't think much about it. Most people just feel sorry for him.”
“Super,” Gwen deadpanned.
Amy’s eyes drilled into her, voicing the unspoken question. “He’s not gay,” clarified Gwen. “He has a girlfriend, and he’s totally obsessed with her. She’s not a beard or a paid actor or whatever.”
“He could be bisexual,” Amy shrugged. “Wasn’t there something going on with him and Robin?”
“I don’t think so,” Gwen replied, racking her brain to see if there was anything she was forgetting. “It was deeper than a normal friendship, but I don’t think he like-liked Robin. He’d tell me if he did.”
“Why?”
Gwen bristled. “Because we tell each other everything!”
“Really?”
Amy had a contrarian personality by nature, a stark difference from her dearly-departed older brother. One thing Gwen found both endearing and annoying about Amy was how she always seemed to probe more and help Gwen unconsciously reflect on why she said or believed the things she did. It reminded her of what they learned about Socrates in Humanities class, though Amy threw a pillow at her when she told her that a few months ago.
“Okay, not everything,” she amended. Especially now… “But that’s pretty big.”
“It’s pretty personal, too. He might not feel comfortable saying anything, or he might not know how he feels. He could be confused, given everything that’s happened to him.”
Amy’s eyes grew distant, and Gwen knew she wasn’t only thinking about Finney anymore. She leaned her head against Amy’s shoulder and sighed. “How do you think Channel 7 is going to spin it?”
“They’re not going to take any definitive stance. They can’t, otherwise the blowback would be too much. They’ll just keep airing the clips, offer commentary that’s meant to get people thinking, and move on to the next thing.”
“And by ‘get people thinking,’ you mean imply the Grabber fucked with his mind and changed his sexuality,” Gwen said flatly.
“Possibly. Or just sympathize over how affected he is even years after the fact, neither of which I assume Finney wants.”
Gwen groaned and spread out on the bed, burying her face in Amy’s fuzzy butterfly pillow. “No, he doesn’t. And then those dickweeds had the balls to call us and ask for Finney to do the remaining thirty minutes.”
“Wow. I hope you told them to get bent.”
“My dad did, but yeah.”
That was putting it mildly. And to add insult to injury, they denied the full payment because Finney didn’t complete the full hour.
Gwen groaned again. “Seriously, I’d trade all the money in the world if it meant going back in a time machine and stopping that interview from happening. I’d create a new alternate reality or something. That’d be dynamite.”
“Let me know how that works out,” Amy replied, just as dry. “There’s a lot of things I'd like to change, too.”
There was a light rapping on the door, and June Yamada, Amy’s mother, popped her head in. She looked far less anxious and haggard than she did when the Blakes temporarily stayed here; not having a serial killer constantly haunting your home does wonders for self-care. “Sorry to interrupt, girls. I just wanted Amy to know that Brent’s on the phone for her.”
Gwen smirked as Amy’s cheeks grew pink. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Gwen sat up and grabbed her satchel from the ground. “Nah, I’ll let you two sweethearts be. I gotta head home soon anyway.”
“You sure?” Amy asked, unspoken questions lingering in the air.
“Yeah,” she said, flashing a smile. “Bye, Amy. Bye Mrs. Yamada.”
The walk home was largely uneventful. She reflected upon the last image she saw before leaving the Yamada household, of Amy’s eyes lighting up when she picked up the phone. Sometimes Gwen got jealous when she saw lovey-dovey couples, wondering why she was born missing whatever part was needed to feel that amorous desire. But then she remembered how exhausting the
will-they-or-won’t-they drama of both Amy and Brent—plus Finney and Donna—were this past year. It was one thing to watch or read about romance, or even fantasize about it happening, but actually dealing with it was another matter entirely. It seemed incredibly time consuming, and there were plenty of comics to read, video games to play, and shows to watch instead.
Of course, she didn’t feel like doing any of those things right now.
Gwen stretched as the summer sun kissed her forehead. What could she do to make Finney feel better? Was there anything she could do?
Probably not. He was the type of person who needed space and time to heal, but Gwen was far from patient, especially when everyone around them seemed keen on ripping open the same scab over and over. She wished there was a more direct way to handle it. A way she could grab the problem by the jugular and strangle it to death, like what Finney did to that masked asshole.
A smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her earlier mention of a time machine.
If only…
Then, her smile faded. She didn’t have a time machine, but the astral world functioned similarly.
Nope. Nopenopenope.
She shook her head even though no one was around her. Nope. She wasn’t stupid; she knew a disaster happened every time they went to the astral world. She also knew Finney’s feelings that the past couldn’t be changed. Certainly, every time they went that seemed to be the case.
But what if it could?
Gwen fully admitted her first venture there was impulsively idiotic. There was a lot about that place she didn’t understand, and humility, which didn’t come easy to her, was necessary. But while she heard the arguments against it, she still wasn’t sold on the idea that everything was set in stone. She couldn't fathom why the Blakes had access to the world if nothing was going to come of it.
It reminded her of the parable of the drowning minister. A boat comes up and tries to rescue him, but the minister refuses, insisting that God will save him. Then another boat comes, but the minister rejects that one as well. Finally, a helicopter arrives, but the minister—insisting fervently that God will rescue him—turns it down, too.
Predictably, the minister drowns. And when he asks God in Heaven why he didn’t save him, God simply replied that he sent two boats and a helicopter.
The more Gwen thought of it, the more logical it seemed. Maybe the astral world was the boat: she just didn’t know how to drive it yet.
****
“Finney? You there?”
Gwen rapped on the bedroom door a second time until it finally opened a sliver. Dark circles hung under Finney’s eyes, and his hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed in days. But he didn’t look upset. He just stared blankly, which might—in retrospect—be worse. “Yeah.”
“Just wanted to check in,” Gwen said, scrounging every ounce of dusty, leftover enthusiasm to force a cheerful grin she didn’t feel. “How are you doing? Relatively speaking, I mean.”
“Fine,” he muttered. “Just thinking about stuff.”
Gwen pushed the door open further, and Finney's lips tightened. “I heard you mumbling in here,” she said lightly. “You talking to yourself? Or anyone?”
The question she wanted to ask lingered in the air, silent but heavy:
‘Is it the Grabber?’
Finney hadn’t spoken about what–if anything—caused the tech malfunctions during the interview. She doubted it was coincidence, and while her first instinct was to believe it might be the Grabber, it could just as easily have been Max. The fact she hadn’t heard from either—even after trying to contact the former—didn’t put her at ease.
Finney apparently picked up on her question, and turned around to gesture to the inside of the room. “How? There’s nothing I can use to communicate.”
Good point. “I know I heard talking,” she said, more insistently.
“I was talking to myself,” he snapped, lips deepening into a scowl as he turned back to the hallway. “I used to do it all the time. Old habits.”
“Oh.” Gwen shuffled back, face warming. After all that happened, it was especially insensitive to bring up something that would remind him of the basement. “Well, you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got people to talk to now.”
“Mhmm.”
He was starting to close the door, so Gwen used her sneaker as a wedge. “I talked to Amy. She said the interview wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“Of course she’d say that,” scoffed Finney, rolling his eyes. “She’s not going to say, ‘Actually, your brother looked completely retarded.’ Not if she wants you to feel better.”
“She wouldn’t do that. You know how brutally honest she is.”
Finney shrugged. “Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m starting to get over it.”
“Then why are you still in your room?” she challenged.
Finney shrugged again. “Why not?”
God, times like this he was so infuriating. “I know it’s hard,” Gwen said patiently, “but you gotta rejoin civilization eventually.”
Finney’s eyes hardened in a way that confirmed she made a major misstep. “Yeah. I know.”
Then he slammed the door in her face.
Gwen’s temper flared, and she raised her fist to knock or bang or whatever impulse took hold of her first. But sense grabbed the reins before that could happen, and she took a breath to steady herself.
She initially wanted Finney to join Operation Diverging Timelines because even if it didn’t work, the distraction itself might prove beneficial. But the consequences of it failing—particularly for Finney’s mental state—was too much of a risk. And, in retrospect, considering the plan itself to be a ‘distraction’ was irresponsible at best.
She still clung to the idea that there was some way to influence the past in a way that led to more than a closed time loop. But going into that vast unknown by herself would be the height of foolishness. She needed someone else with her, someone besides Finney.
And there was only one possibility.
****
It took Gwen an embarrassingly long time to view Donna Anderson as a full-fledged person. For the longest time, Donna was simply ‘Finney’s crush,’ which later evolved into ‘Finney’s girlfriend.’ Gwen liked her as an individual and considered her a friend, but a school friend. Not the type of friend she’d normally hang out with after school, like Amy.
Part of the reason was that she and Donna were so different. Before finding out about their shared supernatural abilities, Gwen couldn’t think of anything the two of them had in common beside Finney. And since conversations usually ended up leading back to him in some way, it led to the Ouroboros of questionable personhood. But Gwen reminded herself that she and Amy were different too, yet forged a strong friendship in spite of—or perhaps because of—their differences.
It took a lot of soul searching, and only recently did she come to the conclusion that might not be the full story. That she might be subconsciously jealous of how Donna was ‘taking Finney away,’ which she objectively realized was selfish and immature. Familial and platonic relationships had always given her fulfillment in life, but the lingering fear of ‘You’ll die alone’ was both a whisper and a roar. It was also, most likely, going to be a reality. Finney would get married and have kids and Terrence would eventually die and she’d be home alone doing…whatever. Hopefully happy. Or happy-ish.
It was a hard pill to swallow, especially since her and Finney had been thick as thieves before the basement. But she couldn’t hold any bitterness towards Donna for too long. The older girl was disarmingly kind, and aside from Gwen and her father, Donna was the only other person alive who truly loved Finney, and that alone deserved respect.
As she trudged into Donna’s hoity-toity neighborhood, she stifled a groan to see scattered camera crews and gawkers swarming like flies. Gwen needed to leave through the back door of her own home and do some backyard-hopping in order to escape notice, but that was something she anticipated. She didn’t expect that Donna would have to deal with the same issue.
Temper rising, Gwen pushed her way past the rubberneckers, ignoring their excited gasps and pleas for comments as she stomped up the driveway. She grabbed a hose from its perch, squeaked it open, and sprayed it in their direction. “Go away, creeps!”
That only doubled the amount of camera flashing. Most cursed and shouted, others pleaded for comments louder. She hastily turned off the hose, jammed her finger on the doorbell, and a few seconds later, she was swiftly pulled into the Anderson home.
After Donna locked the door, Gwen gave a half-wave. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
Donna didn’t look mad at least, but not particularly happy, either. Not so surprising, given what was waiting outside the house. “Are your parents home?”
“No. They’re at the station seeing if the cops can do something about this”—she gestured to the drawn window—“and Jesse’s with his girlfriend.”
A snow-colored poodle pitter-pattered into the living room, wagging its tail as Gwen knelt down and cooed. “Sorry for using your hose by the way,” she said, melting as she ran her hands over the coarse curls.
Donna shrugged. “Honestly? I wanted to do that for a while, but wasn’t sure of the legality.”
It was a good point. Spraying the crowd was cathartic and made her feel like a badass movie heroine, but they lived in reality, and as much as she hated to admit it, it probably wasn't the wisest choice. Not that she was willing to admit that out loud, anyway.
“One of the benefits of having no money is that people can’t take much from us if they sue,” Gwen said sagely.
“I don’t think it works like that,” laughed Donna. “They can take assets and…well, it doesn’t really matter now. I’m guessing you came because of something with Finn, right? How’s he holding up? I tried calling, but…”
Gwen sighed. “Let’s just say he’s not in the mood to take calls.”
“Not surprising.” Donna grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Gwen winced as she watched Finney sit rigid in the seat, sweaty brow shining in the light as Gabby yakked and yakked. “—considered by many to be an honest, handsome man. When you first saw him, how did you feel?”
Finney blinked. “Huh?”
“Did he look attractive?”
Donna groaned as Finney froze like a deer in the headlights, pupils dilating in and out. “I can’t believe she asked that question,” she muttered.
As if hearing her thoughts, Gabby added quickly, “I only ask because of the recent controversy with Joyce Brown. You don’t have to answer. If any of my questions make you uncomfortable, just let me know and we’ll move on to something else.”
Finney didn’t seem to hear though. His eyes had that far-off yet-panicked look before rambling into some semblance of an answer.
“What controversy’s she talking about?” Gwen asked. Joyce Brown was a semi-famous talk show host, but in the overall stress during the interview and ensuing chaos, the thought slipped her mind.
Donna sighed. “It’s a non-story. Joyce made some kind of comment about how the Grabber was the second-hottest serial killer after Bundy or something, and the media rolled with it. Slow news day, I guess.”
Gwen and Donna continued watching for a couple more minutes in silence, until Gwen could no longer take the secondhand embarrassment. They turned the television off and—after grabbing some Pringles and Twinkies from the kitchen—headed up to Donna’s room. Gwen had never seen it before, and was monetarily put off by how meticulously neat it looked in comparison to her own. But any reservations melted when she spotted the adorable bunny. “You’re so lucky,” Gwen whined, sticking her finger inside the hutch so the bunny could sniff it. She heard the crinkle of papers being stuffed away, but was too transfixed by the rabbit to see what Donna was doing. “I wish I had two pets. But I guess keeping Samson is pressing my luck asis.”
Donna flopped down on a bean bag cushion and opened her Twinkie. “How’s it going with him and Finn?” she asked between chews. She covered her mouth while she spoke, which reminded Gwen to do the same.
“It was a little touch-and-go in the beginning, but I see them together all the time now. Finney’s his favorite, even though I’m the one who wanted him,” huffed Gwen. The poodle trotting into the room and resting at Donna’s feet added further insult to injury.
“And Samson acts…normal?”
Gwen understood the unspoken question. “Yeah. Either his Grabber-sense is busted, or the dumb asshole knows enough to stay away.”
She wasn’t sure if she should tack on a ‘no offense’ given the familial connection, but Donna didn’t seem bothered by that aspect at least. “Well, if he’s not there, then that’s good.”
Gwen’s shoulders slumped. “It should be, but who knows.”
They were both quiet for a moment reflecting on a shared thought they were hesitant to verbalize: that the Grabber’s newfound lack of interest heralded something darker looming over the horizon. Donna finally broke the silence and asked, “Was he the one who messed with the lights and video?”
“I don’t know. Probably. But whenever I try to ask Finney about it, he doesn’t want to talk.” Her eyes stung with angry tears: angry at Gabby, angry at Finney, angry at the Grabber, angry at herself, and angry at the whole damn situation. “He never should’ve done that stupid interview. I told him it was a bad idea. I should’ve done more to stop him.”
“We both should have, but what's done is done,” Donna replied brusquely, but not unkindly. “We need to focus on what’s going to happen instead of what’s already happened. I’m worried the Grabber’s going to try to manipulate Finn while he’s extra vulnerable right now.”
“Me too,” agreed Gwen. She popped another Pringle in her mouth. “That’s why I think we need to be proactive and get to the source of the problem.”
“You mean travel to the astral world again?”
Gwen was planning on gradually easing her into the idea instead of jumping straight into it, especially since Donna’s expression confirmed Gwen’s fears. But there was no putting toothpaste back in the tube. “Yeah, except this time we go without Finney.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Donna replied immediately. “Remember that cave? We almost died last time.”
“I know, it’s kinda hard to forget,” she said dryly, inwardly recoiling at the memory of her primal panic and desperation. “But I keep going over it over and over again, and I just…I just can’t help thinking what I said back there was right. There’s gotta be a way we can use it to do something. Change what happened to Finney or—”
“But that’d lead to a paradox,” interrupted Donna. “If we change the past, then the conditions that led to us changing the past would no longer exist, and it wouldn’t happen.”
“But we’re not physically time traveling,” she said weakly, aware of the fragility of her argument. “When we’re in the astral world, we technically exist outside of time, so maybe it won’t apply.” At Donna’s doubtful expression, Gwen hurried to something—hopefully–stronger. “Or maybe you’re right, maybe it won’t change our present. But maybe our actions could create some alternate timeline.”
Donna folded her arms. “But we’ve already seen how our actions affect the world. It affects this past.”
Gwen closed the Pringles tube, having lost her appetite. “I still think it’s worth a shot, but I get it if you don’t want to do it. In fact, it's probably better if you don’t. I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”
Like your mom did…
Gwen’s gut twisted with guilt, and the audacity of her even coming here hit her like a ton of bricks. She stood, suddenly sick to her stomach. She wanted to ask if Donna could at least watch over her body when she did the astral projection, but the words dried on her tongue. “I’m, uh, going to go. Bye, Donna.”
“Wait.” Donna stood up too, staring Gwen down with a look that made her feel paper-thin. “Gwen, I was the one pushing for the astral projection last time, even though you and Finn were against it. You’ve been against it the past two times, from what he told me. So I know you wouldn’t go back there without a good reason. Is there something causing this complete 180? Is it just the interview, or something else? Because we’ve seen a lot of evidence showing changing the past doesn’t work, and nothing that shows that it could, or even create a branching timeline. And going there and risking our lives for a slim-to-none chance doesn’t seem like you.”
Damn, she’s good. “I, um, yeah, actually.” She swallowed, trying to quash the sense of rising trepidation. “Not sure if you know about this—everything’s kinda been a blur, so I don’t remember—but I sometimes get these dreams. They’re usually about things that haven’t happened yet, but sometimes they're about things that are currently happening except it’s hard to tell because they’re kinda…symbolic, I guess? And it’s hard to tell what they mean, but now that I’m saying it out loud I feel like an idiot because you’re basically the queen of symbolism and metaphors and whatever and I probably could’ve just come to you instead of racking my brain trying to figure out what all this stuff means.”
Donna cracked a smile. “I think Finn’s overselling my skills a bit. But only a bit.”
A short, raspy laugh escaped Gwen’s mouth. “We’ll see.”
“So, what are these dreams about?”
Last chance to back out…
This was the conversation Gwen was dreading, and one she hoped to avoid entirely. But it was bound to get out at some point. “Finney and the Grabber,” she confessed. “I see Finney stopped at a literal crossroads—that intersection between Meadbrook and Elmwood Lane. If he goes left, he’ll be heading in the direction of our old house. But if he heads right…” She trailed off and swallowed. “I don’t have to be some symbolism expert to know what the crossroads means. But the part that’s weird is that he looks thirteen again. And I sometimes have other dreams with him in it too. In some of them he’s young, in others he looks normal. But no matter what”—God, this is difficult—”um, no matter what, he’s always wearing that ugly silver bracelet he did in the astral world during our second trip. The one that belonged to the Grabber. And he always takes the Grabber’s hand.”
There it was, the ugly, naked truth stretched out on the table. Donna’s expression remained impassive, but the subtle clench of the jaw evinced her thoughts nonetheless. “What does Finn think about this?”
Gwen looked down at her sneakers. “I haven’t told him,” she mumbled. “He’s pessimistic enough already, and totally convinced he’s going to die in that stupid house. The Grabber thinks so too. I don’t want this to drag him down even more, especially after the interview. Otherwise he might do something stupid. He’d focus on the hand part, not the crossroad part.”
Gwen had a strong hunch that with Finney’s current fragile emotional state, the ‘something stupid’ might speed up the process to get to where he was in the dream, and she was not going to let that happen if she had anything to say about it.
Donna nodded, unhappy but understanding. “You think the crossroads means there’s a way for him not to kill himself.”
Donna was merely verbalizing what had already been on Gwen’s mind for days, but it sounded so definitive, blunt, and finite.
“Yeah. I don’t see why it would be there otherwise.” She glanced over at the rabbit, who was munching a lettuce leaf. The Grabber likely wasn’t there, which gave her enough confidence to say, “I know it’s not a lot to go on, but I can’t see why the crossroads would be there otherwise. And the fact it shows him younger makes me think the decision had to be sometime in the past, before he was bogged down with all this shit. And I think we can lead him to that, if the time theory works.”
“It might not have anything to do with the past. It could reflect his inner thoughts or past trauma or something like that.”
Gwen felt another flare of impatience. “Or it might be literal. Or literal-ish.”
Donna was silent for a moment, dabbing the remains of frosting on her lips with a napkin (how does she make wiping her mouth look elegant?). “What does Max think about all of this?”
Gwen sank further into the beanbag chair. “I don’t know. Last I heard from him was the day of the interview.”
There were a number of reasons why that might be, and none of them good. The only thing preventing Gwen from going completely out of her mind with worry was that Finney’s problems eclipsed that.
“Hmm.” Donna twirled the strands of her hair, once again impassive.
“Is that a good ‘hmm’ or a bad ‘hmm’?”
“It’s a neutral ‘hmm.’” Donna locked eyes with Gwen, and Gwen saw that steadfast determination that captured her brother’s heart, and for good reason. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
****
Gwen wasn’t nervous, though she probably should have been. Instead, she was exhausted. Exhausted in that overwhelming way that crushes thins out all other emotions. The sole benefit was that it made it much easier to drift into a malaised lull that brought her into the astral world.
Donna didn’t have it so easy. The moment she walked in, Gwen could tell something was up. Donna was tense, rigid, and on edge, which was understandable, Gwen supposed, considering where they were going. It didn’t help that Donna ignored Gwen’s warnings and attempted to talk to Finney through the bedroom door, only to get rebuffed. Gwen felt like smacking him in the head, but exercised restraint and tried to match Donna’s fake smile as they laid down on the blankets. He was curling up like a hedgehog again, too wrapped in his own melancholy to consider how these actions affected others. Understandable, but frustrating as hell.
Donna made a good show of not letting it bother her, though the fact she wasn’t here yet proved otherwise. In the meantime, Gwen tried to gather her bearings. The basement looked virtually identical to the one from whence she came (save for her unconscious body, of course), which she supposed was a good thing. Same furniture, shelves, and rug. She wandered in circles as she waited for Donna, searching diligently for irregularities. The communion medallion still adorned her neck as it did the last time, albeit more warped and burned than it was before. She also spotted some grains of…something (Dirt? Sand? It was hard to tell with the muted coloring) in the rug and on the table. Aside from that, nothing.
“Gwen?”
Gwen spun around and shrieked, stumbling back into a cabinet. “JesusmotherfuckingChristonapogostick.”
“What?” Donna asked, alarmed.
If Gwen had a heartbeat, it would be hammering out of her chest by now. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Oh. Sorry,” she giggled. “Guess you never realize how important footsteps are until you can’t hear them.”
“No kidding.” But now that Donna was here, relief flooded through Gwen. Now, it was time to discuss business. “Okay, so the bad news is that Max isn’t here. I didn’t leave this area, but it’s still worrying. The good news is that this place doesn’t look as freaky as it did last time.”
Donna scanned the area. “Is there anything different? You know what it looks like better than I do.”
“Just some extra dirt. Maybe sand. I hope it’s sand—maybe the next room we go in is a beach,” she snorted.
Gwen wasn’t sure if Donna would find the joke amusing or annoying, but Donna cracked a smile in return. “We could all use a vacation.”
“Amen to that.”
With no further reason to stay, Donna and Gwen made their way to the basement door. Their plan—shallow as it was—involved going to the crossroads Gwen saw in her dream and hoping for something to happen. Gwen thought it made sense, since the astral world seemed to reflect the inner workings of their mind to some degree. Donna, much less so.
Yet to their annoyance, the door didn’t lead to the kitchen—it led down the stairs again. Gwen rolled her eyes, having expected this nonsense, but before she could tell Donna to go back into the door they came from, Donna drifted down the bottom of the steps, coaxed by a masculine murmur.
It wasn’t Finney or Robin’s voice, but too young to belong to an adult. Gwen scooted down and spotted the Grabber with his hands behind his back, wearing a grotesquely blank mask and facing a scowling blonde boy sitting on the mattress. It was Billy Showalter, looking far cleaner than he did in Gwen’s prior visions. He jutted his chin out defiantly and said, with a confidence opposite one might expect in that situation, “I know why you took me.”
The Grabber tilted his head. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Billy puffed his chest to make him seem tougher than he actually was. “You’re some asshole who wants ransom money.”
The Grabber hunched over as he erupted into a fit of giggles. Gwen’s heart panged at Billy’s hopeless naivete, but Billy just flushed, incensed. “Stop laughing!”
The Grabber wiped a tear from his eye. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
Billy’s face twisted in revulsion, but not with the horror of Understanding. “Eww.”
The Grabber plopped next to him on the mattress, as if taking the disgust as an invitation. “If your dad’s loaded, why’s he making you do that paper route?”
“To teach me ‘work ethic’ or something. I don’t know.” Billy shrugged. “It’s annoying, but I get some pocket change out of it so it’s not too bad.”
“Wellll, you don’t have to worry about that anymore~” the Grabber cooed. “I’ll take care of you.”
The edges of Billy’s lips flickered downward, and a flash of unease crossed his pale features. “I’m not staying here long. He might let me sweat it out for a couple days, but he will pay you.”
Gwen couldn’t see it, but she sensed the grin grow wider underneath that mask. But before she could grab something to throw at him, Donna clutched at the back of her rayon shirt and dragged her upstairs.
This time, they ended up in the kitchen like Gwen wanted. Small small mounds of dirt covered the floor. The clocks looked warped and melted like they did last time, but other than that, it wasn’t much different. No Grabber in sight, thankfully.
But Donna didn’t seem relieved. She looked almost as expressionless as the Grabber’s mask, though the veins in her neck seemed more prominent. C’mon,” she said brusquely. “We need to get to the crossroads.”
On one hand, Gwen appreciated and understood the urgency. But that scene they just saw warranted something, at least. “Are you, uh, okay?”
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Before Gwen could answer, Donna already made her way into the living room. Gwen had no choice but to follow.
She stifled a gasp at what she saw—the dirt had quadrupled, now covering the couch, coffee table, cabinets, and other furniture. It also looked damp and less solid, and very, very dark. So dark that her head started hurting the more she gazed at it.
“Gwen, you okay?”
Gwen blinked, quickly diverting her eyes from the pile.
“Yeah. But this stuff’s so gross,” she exclaimed, scrunching her nose.
“Check this out.”
Gwen followed Donna’s gaze to where the television used to be. In its place was a painting split into two parts: an empty tan sky with a curved dark brown section on the bottom that sloped up to the right. The tiny black head of a dog—nearly swallowed by the disconcerting vastness—poked its head from the sloping mound, gazing right as a dark, faint mass loomed overhead.
“That’s The Dog,” Donna murmured, trudging through the brown thickness to get closer, oblivious or unconcerned with the filth seeping into her beautiful white shoes. “Another one of Goya’s Black Paintings.”
“Finney mentioned it,” recalled Gwen. “He said one of our neighbors asked if we had it in the house. She said the Grabber bought it years ago, but I don’t remember seeing it there before.”
Donna’s lips thinned, her eyes growing frostier as she glared at the painting. “Oh.” Then, she spun towards the door as quickly as she left the basement. “Well, no use staying here. Let’s go, Gwen.”
Gwen didn’t move. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
Gwen inwardly groaned at the deflection. “Seeing the Grabber. I know we saw him–the ghost version—last time, but this was the first time you saw him in the past.”
“That’s not true. I saw him on the phone last time.”
“I meant the first time seeing him with kids.”
That came out much blunter than she intended. Donna turned, and Gwen couldn’t decipher her expression. “It’s not like I don’t know what happened. I’m fine, Gwen. Really. Let’s get a move on before that monster gets us.”
The thought sobered Gwen immediately. But she also knew from her own experience witnessing Meadow’s death that seeing it firsthand was a lot different than simply knowing what happened. Leaving without a clear head would do neither of them any good. “Hold on. I want to get a better look at the painting.” She made a show of getting closer to it, the dirtlike mosh around her bubbling with every step forward. With a heavy dose of sarcasm, she droned, “Gee, I wonder if this world’s trying to send us a message.”
“It’s about the inherent futility of man’s struggle against oppressive forces that do him harm,” Donna replied immediately. “The dog’s literally drowning in filth, looking helplessly upward in hopes of a rescue that will never come.”
Fuck that’s dark. “Well, I disagree,” Gwen said with forced enthusiasm. “We don’t see what happens later. For all we know, he could free himself and get to the top. So I think it’s a message about perseverance. It’s telling us we gotta keep going even when all seems lost.”
“But the dark coloring clearly indicates the thematic—”
“Pffft. I bet that’s what he wants us to think. You know how these artist-types are all about subverting expectations and whatnot. I think it’s actually a positive message.” She gave Donna a thumbs up. “We got this.”
Donna looked incredibly doubtful.
Still, it achieved the desired effect of loosening the tension from her body. They made their way to the front door–Gwen annoyed to see the muddy paste clinging onto her jeans—but before Gwen could open it, Donna grabbed her hand.
“Wait,” she said. “Look at the windows. Everything’s dark.”
“Everything’s always dark here.”
“Yeah, but we could still see the things around us. Can you see anything outside now?”
She could not. Just murky tar covering the windows.
Nerves began fluttering inside. “That’s alright. Sometimes the inside doesn’t always reflect outside. We can s—”
The sudden slam of a door shut her up. Donna and Gwen whirled around, on guard at the sudden noise that pierced through the world of silence like a gunshot. “...Hello?” she called out tentatively.
No response. Gwen turned to open the door and get the fuck out of there, but Donna pushed her hand down. “It might be Max,” she whispered. “Or something that could lead us to where we need to be.”
“No way. Nuh-uh.” Gwen shook her head furiously. “I’ve seen enough horror movies to know you should never investigate the weird noises.”
Donna’s lips curled into a smirk as she tapped her forehead with her pointer finger. “Ahh, but if this was a horror movie, the plot wouldn’t be able to progress if we don’t.”
Gwen threw up her hands as Donna inexplicably followed the direction of the noise. “I thought you were supposed to be the logical one? Are you going to suggest we split up next? Y’know, just to make sure we check off all the clichés.”
Donna laughed. “No. But this is an illogical place, so you need to think illogically. If fighting against it won’t work, maybe leaning into it will.”
Donna opened the door to Finney’s room—or what should have been it, at any rate. The walls were caked in tanned, peeled paint, and the dirt covered the floor at the same volume as the living room, if not higher. A replica of The Dog was fixed to the wall in place of Son of Man, and a musky, rotted odor more poignant than outside emitted from it. Her head started aching once more.
“Oh, yeah. This world is trying to encourage us. Totally,” Donna deadpanned.
“Well, looks like you were wrong,” Gwen said, far too happily. “There’s nothing here. So let’s—”
But she snapped her mouth shut as a man’s voice reverberated faintly down the hall. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but knew from the intonation that it was Max.
“Now who’s wrong?” winked Donna.
They followed the voice one door down and into Gwen’s room. Dirt caked the floor, and Gwen’s headache became more intense. She brought her hand to her forehead as she watched Max lounge on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head. Meadow sat upright next to him, combing her hair idly as she peered at the painting on the wall. Donna brought her hands to her mouth
“Your brother doesn’t strike me as an art guy,” she said. Gwen followed Meadow’s gaze—Christina’s World had replaced the Persistence of Memory, just as the grass in the picture had been replaced by a mushier dirt-like substance.
“He’s got a lot of sides to him. Like one of those decohagen—decuplet—um, what are those called again, hunny bunny? A shape with infinite sides.”
“Aperirogon,” Donna whispered under her breath.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Meadow shrugged lazily, though a spark of interest flickered in her eye. “But your brother…Al…he reminds me of a kaleidoscope. Every time I think I’ve seen everything, there’s another bright and beautiful detail. Or,” she added, curling up next to Max, “a snowflake.”
Max burst out laughing. “Hehe, don’t call him a snowflake, otherwise—actually, no. Do it, that’d be hilarious. Or maybe not, because otherwise we’d get kicked out on our tails before—”
Gwen couldn’t hear the last part of their conversation, her eyes zoning in on the ceiling. A winding ouroboros was carved deeply into it, symbols inside and around it that Gwen couldn’t read or understand. She opened her mouth to ask Donna if she might have some insight, but when Gwen turned, Donna was gone.
Panic surged as Gwen bolted into the hallway, only for it to stop as suddenly as it arose when she saw Donna leaning against the wall, holding her arms and looking away. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Yeah. It’s…a lot.” Guilt slithered in and fermented once more. “Do you miss her?”
“How can I? I never actually knew her.”
Gwen rephrased the question. “Do you wish you knew more about her?”
“Yeah,” admitted Donna. “Max told me a bit, but actually seeing in person—or something close to it, anyway–is different. I wish I could just shake her and go, ‘Girl, why?’”
Gwen laughed, and a few bubbles popped in the mud. “Her head started feeling a bit clearer now. “Some people are prone to always choosing the dumbest option available. I’m kind of an expert on that.” She felt a renewed awareness that they were in the realm of the dead and their mere presence here was, in fact, a shining example of one of those dumb choices. “Did you see the Ouroboros on the ceiling?”
“No.” Donna poked her head back in, but with the exception of dirt, the room looked as untouched as it was on Gwen’s first arrival after Memorial Day. ”Guess we should keep going.”
But that was much easier said than done. When they exited the hall and returned to the living room, the muck had risen to about mid-shin and covered the entirety of the room. The walls rusted, the smell more potent. Yet Donna pushed herself through the dirt towards the door. Gwen tried to follow, but it was like wading through molasses. It was difficult to move quickly, and the primal sense of urgency embedded into the DNA every human hissed for her to stop. “Donna, we shouldn’t go.”
Donna turned back with a frown. “We need to save Finney. The whole plan was your idea.”
“I know, and I was wrong. I think it’s too dangerous. We should head back.”
“But your vision—”
“I can’t interpret my visions for shit. The worst thing for Finney would be if something bad happened to us because we were trying to help him. How’d you think he’d handle that?”
Donna looked back at the door reluctantly, but didn’t move forward. “But if there’s a chance to save him, we need to take it…”
“But I don't think this way is it. I’m just—my head hurts and I’m getting really bad vibes today. I know the whole plan was my brainchild, and I’m really sorry about that. But can we head back? Please?”
Donna hesitated for what seemed like the longest seconds of Gwen’s life. Then, she nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”
Thank God.
“Let’s head back to the basement and find our bodies,” Gwen said, trying not to let on just how relieved she felt.
Donna cracked a smile. “That’ll never not sound weird.”
Gwen giggled as they waded through the kitchen, which was also covered in mud and the lovely addition of ants marching in circles on the paint-chipped walls. At first she was worried she wouldn’t be able to push the door open, but she did, and the mud seeped down the steps. Both girls scrunched their noses as they tiptoed into the basement.
First thing I do when I wake up is take a nice, hot shower.
But instead of the sparsely-occupied basement they came from, this basement looked like the gambling den from her second visit to the astral plane, only without the overturned furniture and torn wallpaper. A small figure with stringy brown hair slept curled on one of the couches with a threadbare sheet thrown sloppily over him.
She knew who that was from her first visit. Seeing the Grabber this young always made her feel awkward and uncomfortable, and her hopes that she could sneak back were dashed by Donna’s perceptiveness. “Is that…him?”
Gwen winced and nodded. Donna glanced back towards the couch, stricken, before turning and fleeing up the steps. “Wait!” Gwen called out, mind racing a hundred miles a minute, desperate to find some reason for her not to leave. “Maybe this is what my vision was about. Maybe I can call him here and change everything.”
Donna stopped, but appeared doubtful. “It didn’t work the last time.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot. It’s not like we can do anything to make it worse.” Donna gave her a long, hard stare. “I’ll be subtle,” Gwen promised.
Though she had every right to push back, Donna didn’t, and Gwen focused all her willpower on making the phone ring before Donna could change her mind. Albert blinked groggily before pushing himself off the couch and stumbling towards the phone. After a moment’s hesitation, he brought the receiver up to his ear. “Mom?”
If they both weren’t so stressed, Gwen might have laughed. “Uh, no. Definitely not.”
“Virginia?”
“Who?”
Albert’s eyes narrowed. ““Are you one of the other sluts fucking my father?”
With that, the illusion of younger Albert being an angel to his older counterpart’s devil went up in flames. “What the hell? No. Fuuuuuuck no. That’s disgusting.”
“Then who are you?”
“Um, Carol.”
“Carol who?”
Gwen’s brain grinded to a halt. In all their previous phone conversations, the Grabber always seemed to know who she was, albeit via an alias. “You know…Carol,” she said lamely.
“No, I don’t,” he snapped, tightening the core around his fist. “And if you can’t even give me a last name, then I doubt it’s your real name anyway.”
Gwen looked to Donna for help, who had returned down the steps and reclined on the not-gross-as-fuck part of couch. But the black-haired girl looked annoyingly validated and completely disinterested in helping. “Y-You know what, you’re right,” babbled Gwen. “That was kind of a secret identity. Because I'm about to tell you some secret stuff.”
Albert rolled his eyes with more cynicism than was needed. “I’m not listening to a word you say until you give me your real name.”
Changing the past was the goal, but saying, ‘I’m Gwendolyn Blake, the sister of the boy you’ll rape thirty-six years from now’ would be an admittedly hard sell. She needed to approach that topic gradually and delicately.
“Okay, it’s, um”—her mind sputtered out the first female secret identity that came to mind—”Diana. Diana Prince.”
Albert’s lips curled into a snarl. “Do you think I'm stupid?”
He lifted the receiver. ““Waitwaitwait!” she begged. “Don’t hang up!”
“Wonder Woman comics were around in the forties,” Donna said unhelpfully. Gwen glared and gritted her teeth; she knew that, she just didn’t have time to think it through!
“Why should I stay on a second longer?” sneered Albert. “You’re full of shit.”
The audacity of that statement coming from him, of all people, made her want to chuck the phone at his head. “I’m full of sh—okay, you know what? I’ll tell you my real name. It’s Carol…” Then, the proverbial lightbulb moment arose. “Danvers. I told you that wasn’t my name before because I got nervous since I’m about to drop some big bombshells and—fuck, I forgot you’re in, like, World War II. For once I actually wasn’t trying to be offens—”
Albert hung up and walked away. Gwen let out a cry and stomped her foot in frustration, which wasn’t helped by Donna’s semi-condescending, “That went well.”
Gwen wasn’t blinded by Finney’s Donna-blinders and always knew there was more to the older girl beyond the constantly gracious and mature exterior. But this cynical, jaded Donna was just adding more fuel to the fire. Gwen felt guilty for thinking it, but her patience for everything was wearing thin at the moment. Finney’s retreat into isolation, the looming specter of Meadow’s death, and the inevitability of yet another botched astral world trip was too much to handle at once.
Gwen didn’t realize her frustrations were made palpable in the living world until Albert stopped to observe two vibrating chairs. Were both hers, or was one a result of Donna’s hidden anger and misery?
She glanced back at her brother’s girlfriend. Donna’s face looked impassive, but her hands twisted the fabric of the couch, veins bulbing. Albert trudged back to the phone and picked it up.
“Don’t hang up!” Gwen begged. “I need to—”
“Are you a ghost?” he whispered.
Okay. Despite his chiding Max over ‘Gargoyle Man,’ he accepted the existence of ghosts. That was good. Gwen could work with that.
“Uh, yeah…and I know things from the future. Because ghosts know stuff. And that’s why we need to talk. There’s something that’s kinda…concerning.”
Albert grew a few shades paler. “My mom’s a ghost, too. Is she with you? Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I never met her.” Despite her animosity for the Grabber, the younger Albert’s words slightly softened her heart. She needed to keep reminding herself that despite the litany of his older self’s crimes, the boy in front of her was still a kid like her. An asshole, maybe, but still a normal kid. Normal-ish, anyway. ”Sorry she’s dead. My mom’s dead too. It sucks.”
He looked predictably uncomfortable at the unexpected compassion that was likely absent in his life. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Okay, so, um.” Come on Gwen, don’t fuck this up. “Hypothetically, if there was a person in your life who did…things…to your brother…how would you feel?”
He understood the meaning, and his expression darkened. “Like I want revenge.”
You and me both, pal. “Me too. So the reason I’m calling is that I want that kind of thing to not happen. The future’s kind of…dark, so I’m hoping you could do something to help it not be awful. Maybe create a new timeline. What do you say?”
Albert blinked slowly. “What?”
“I thought you said you were going to be subtle,” groaned Donna.
“Okay, I’m going to try to be vague because if I say too much I always end up making things worse,” said Gwen, flashes of scarlet dripping down Meadow’s pale white skin in her memory. “So there’s this evil person in the future and there’s something you can do to stop this person from….existing. He, um, screws with kids, literally and metaphorically, He pretends to love them when all he just wants is sex.”
“That’s too much,” muttered Donna. “Way too much.”
But Gwen thought that, while harsh, might be exactly what was needed. It seemed to be making an impact, as Albert’s eyes moistened with tears. Guilt clutched at her heart, but she knew she needed to keep going for Finney’s sake.
“...I think I know who you’re talking about,” he mumbled.
“Oh.” If she was in the living world, there was no doubt her face would look like a tomato now. “Well, this is super-awkward for me then, because what I’m talking about technically isn’t your fault right now ‘cause right now you're super-young, but you’re still kind of involved with it so, um, yeah…”
“What are you saying I should do?”
“I think you know what you have to do. Make the right choices. Do things to help other people instead of things that could hurt them. Sometimes we have to do what’s right, even if it’s hard. ‘The right way isn’t always the easy way’...or something like that.”
One of the most difficult parts about being a Christian was reconciling the belief that all humans had the capacity for good. The sheer sadism brandished by not just Albert Shaw, but so many others in the news and in history books, was downright incomprehensible to her. But those people were just as human as she was, and right now, her plan hinged on clinging to that tiny light that’d eventually get buried in filth in the coming years.
“I’m not sure I can,” he whispered.
Her heart ached. “I know you can, if you really want to! Right now, you’re still—you’re still normal. And you could stay that way, if you make the right choices! But if you don’t, you’re going to be twisted and miserable and everyone else’s going to be miserable, too.”
“You think I’m normal? Not creepy?”
Er…
She glanced at Donna, who finally stood up from the couch. Her back was towards Gwen, and she was moving in the direction of the steps. Gwen tried to bang the base of the phone to attract her attention, but no sound emitted. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of creepy you just asked me that…”
Albert blushed in a way that would cause Millie to squeal. “Sorry. I’ve had a stressful week…”
“You and me both.” She chuckled dryly, eyes locked on Donna as frustration mounted within her. “So, what’s it going to be? Awesome path or Asshole path?
Albert bit his lip, pain and grief clouding his expression. Then, a fortified determination set in. “I’m going to do what’s right.”
“YES!!!” Gwen pumped her fist in the air. “Cool beans! Thank you so much—this is going to be so much better for everyone! You won’t regret it!”
She rushed up the stairs as Albert hung up the phone. Donna hadn’t opened the door yet, and Gwen clutched her hand before she could do so. “Okay, I think we got it.”
“No, Gwen, we don’t.” She spun around, and brought her hand against cheeks in exasperation. “Nothing’s changed. Everything still feels the same.”
“We knew this was a possibility. The idea was it might create a new timeline, so some Finney somewhere might—”
“No, you don’t get it. The Grabber wasn’t thinking about himself, he was thinking of someone else. His dad, if what Max says is true.”
Were those cracks in the wall there before?
Gwen opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Well, you could have told me when I was on the phone!”
Donna folded her arms and looked off to the side, lips thinning. Irritation flared. “Okay, what’s really the matter?” asked Gwen, a bit sharper than intended. “I know we don’t exactly float in the same social circles, but we’ve always been on the same team. I thought you and Finney had this big awakening where you learned the importance of not hiding stuff, but I get the impression something’s going on you don’t want to talk about.”
Guilt crept into Donna’s eyes before smoothing over. “What’s up with you?” she parried. “You’ve been acting weird since we got here, especially when we saw Meadow and Max in that room. You can’t point out the speck in my eye when you’ve got a plank in yours.”
Oof.
“N-Nothing’s weird,” she lied, immediately losing any high ground she once had.
“Okay, well, nothing’s wrong with me either. Do you wa—”
Then the steps collapsed beneath them, sending Donna and Gwen screaming as they plummeted into the vast unknown.
****
Liquid broke their fall. It couldn’t be water—it was much too dark and thick for that. As Gwen surfaced, the smell that assaulted her nose left no mystery to its origin: Whatever she was in was the same dirty substance that coated the rooms earlier, only significantly less solid.
A shot of panic ran through her as she remembered Donna couldn’t swim. Her head spun around frantically until they latched onto Donna, whose arms flailed for a moment until eventually stilling. “Stay calm!” Gwen called, even though she felt the exact opposite. “I’ll come and get you.”
She wasn’t sure how, or where they could even go when there was nothing but this soupy filth as far as the eye could see. But Donna didn’t look as fearful as she should have been.
“I can feel the bottom,” she said, relief palpable in her eyes. “It’s just up to my shoulders. I think I can wade my way through here.”
“Cool.” Gwen tentatively reached her legs down, the tips of her toes touching the bottom. She was shorter than Donna, so the liquid reached just underneath her chin, and she fervently prayed none of this crap would end up in her mouth. “Coolcoolcool.”
Donna sloshed in the direction of the living room. “The front door’s gone,” she moaned.
Gwen turned back, only to find the basement door had vanished, too. So had the cabinets in the kitchen. It was just the two of them, the muddy dirtlike substance, and empty beige wallpaper. “Cool,” she repeated, as if saying the word again and again would actually make it so. “Let’s go near the bedrooms again.”
Donna glanced in that direction. “I don’t know if that’ll do anything. Gwen, I don’t see anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, there’s nothing out there. No coat stand, TV, paintings, furniture. It’s just the walls and the mud.”
As the person with the most experience on these astral voyages, Gwen knew it was up to her to figure out the next course of action. But her mind felt hazy and blank. “Maybe there’s something underneath it. I think I see some bubbles.” Right after she said that, she realized in horror that one of them would need to go underneath. “Orrrr we can wade around some more and see if something happens.”
Donna, thankfully, opted for the second option. They went around in circles and down the bedroom hallway, but the scene didn’t change. They didn’t see specters from the past, either. Just empty walls and mud and empty walls and mud again, with the occasional bubbles.
Donna finally verbalized Gwen’s worst fear. “What if we’re stuck here forever?”
“No way,” she said, with far more confidence than she felt. “I think things are changing. I even hear something. Do you hear it?”
She had no idea what it was, something underneath the water. Groaning? Rumbling? Whatever it was, it was faint and distorted.
“Yeah, I hear it.”
But aside from the sound, nothing else changed. Gwen tried fighting off the fatigue taking hold of her body, and pulling her mind like taffy. She’d like nothing more than to sink into the mud and sleep, but that sure as hell wasn’t happening.
Donna, on the other hand, seemed to be getting more alert, frantic, and frazzled with each step, unwinding and unraveling in a way that struck Gwen as very uncharacteristic. “Something could be happening to Finn right now, or Max. I can’t just sit here and do nothing!” She flailed her arms for emphasis, and Gwen dodged some of the splashed mud.
“Hey, it’s not like I'm happy about this either. But there’s not much we can do. We just have to keep remembering why we’re here, otherwise we’ll forg—”
“Wait. Do you see that?”
Gwen’s eyes followed Donna’s pointer finger. There, nearly lost in the murky vastness, was a tiny speck of white. A rocket-shaped pen, bobbing helplessly like a ship in search of a harbor.
“That’s Finn’s,” Donna said excitedly, wading closer towards it. “He had it years ago. I saw him use it during science class.”
“Donna, wait!” Gwen cried in exasperation. “It could be a trap!”
She wasn’t used to being the responsible one, and didn’t like the recent role reversal. And just like how Gwen usually did, Donna ignored the saner voices.
“Maybe it’ll get us out of here and bring us to Finn,” she protested, pushing herself closer.
Gwen heard another rumble under the water. What the hell was it? If it wasn’t distorted by the muddy water, it might have sounded like sounded like a hungry stomach, or a pissed off cow or—
Oh.
Oh.
“DONNA!” Gwen screamed. “Get back here. It’s the m—”
But it was too late. Donna’s hands already grasped the plastic rocketship, which caved in and crinkled apart as if it were made of paper instead of plastic. With a resounding, definitive roar, the liquid beneath them whirled and churned and sundered into a dark gaping maw, eagerly dragging them in. Gwen tried pushing herself further from the emerging sinkhole, but it was as effective as running from a tornado a few feet away. Gwen and Donna shrieked in terror as the Minotaur pulled them further and further into its jaws until there was nothing but darkness.
****
Notes:
The painting at the end is "The Dog" by Francisco de Goya.
Chapter 41: The Dollhouse
Chapter Text
She expected bright lights, pearly gates, and the trumpets of heavenly hosts. But instead she saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing besides pitch-black Oblivion. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think.
She always envisioned this to be what atheists believed would happen after death, though the girl with glasses (Sally? Susie?—yes, Susie!) disagreed and said humans wouldn’t be conscious for it.
Well, that girl was wrong. Really, really fucking wrong.
At least eternal torture ensured that there was someone to torture. At least that was proof of some individual existence. But the girl wasn’t sure she’d ever actually been alive. She recalled vague echoes—noises that used to bring her joy, though she couldn’t remember what joy felt like, exactly. A boy with auburn hair. A yellow raincoat and a bicycle. A woman holding a storybook. But she couldn’t link them together. She knew she felt what might have been terror before coming here, but didn’t remember why, or who she was with.
She tried moving again, but with no legs, she didn’t go very far. Or, she didn’t think she did, anyway. It was impossible to tell.
She stayed for what could have been minutes, seconds, or hours, drifting or not drifting in the infinite void of Wherever. Eventually she stopped remembering there was a time before, that this wasn’t all there was to existence, if you can even call it that.
Then, something changed. She wasn’t sure what exactly, but something felt…different. An awareness that something was nearby, but she couldn’t move to see it, and couldn’t open her mouth to speak. Then, a something filled her mind. She couldn’t tell if it was male or female or had any gender at all, but it was there.
“Gwen?”
That’s right, she was Gwen. She had a brother named Finney, and she came here to do…something. Help him? Yes, help him.
The existence around her stretched. It was still dark, but dark like a bedroom in the middle of the night, not dark like the endless, unrelenting Oblivion. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Speaking was still ineffective. She willed the thought to the forefront of her mind, as if whatever or whoever was with her could suck it from her brain: “Who are you?”
But she was greeted only with silence. She tried to recall why exactly she was here. To help Finney, but also something to do with a…pool? A monster? And a girl! A girl with dark hair, who fell with her into the sinkhole. Diana? Dana?
Donna.
She tried screaming her name with her brain, and whatever entity echoed it back:
“Donna.”
Right, Donna. The girl with the most adorable poodle and bunny in the world.
She felt an odd sensation underneath, and realized with a jolt of excitement that she was curling her toes. She could flex her fingers too, but still couldn’t move. Her lips, on the other hand, finally opened.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
There was a long pause. and then, a tiny voice whispered, “I don’t know...”
It was a boy’s voice. One that was vaguely familiar, and took Gwen a few seconds to pinpoint. “Max?”
“I think so. Maybe.”
Why did he sound like a child, like the little boy insisting that he saw Gargoyle Man? “Where’s Donna?”
“Why doesn’t anyone ever want to talk to me?” he exploded in childish anger. “They always want to talk to everyone besides me!”
Her mind was growing clearer and clearer, while Max’s seemed to be disoriented. “I tried talking to you before, but you didn’t pick up. Maybe because you were here and…lost your memories? I guess?”
“Oh.”
“You’re Max Shaw,” she continued, encouraged by Max’s receded temper, and by how her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. She could make out outlines of shapes. “You have a brother named Albert, and can see ghosts. You were in love with a woman named Meadow”—the name caught in Gwen’s throat—“and have a daughter-slash-niece. Well, guess I should say daughter or niece. She’s not both, because that would be weird. Weird, even for us.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Then, something perceptibly clicked. “Yeah. Uh, hiya Gwen.”
Relief flooded her being. “Hi, Max. Do you know where we are?”
“The belly of the beast? Literally.” He chuckled weakly. “At least that’s what I thought, but we’re a lot less chewed up than I thought we’d be.”
Gwen continued focusing on the shapes, trying to will them into visibility. To her amazement, it seemed to work—at least to a certain extent. The silhouettes sharpened and became more distinguished. There was what looked like a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and…a dollhouse?
“Holy shit, is this my room?” she blurted. Not her new room in 42 Meadowbrook Lane, but her old house on Newark Street. The bedroom where she prayed for Finney’s safe return, where her mom kissed her goodnight, where she woke up with bloody sheets and screamed after finding out she got her first period.
“Huh, maybe. I don’t know.”
She was finally able to turn and see Max’s silhouette, at least two full heads shorter than she was. “I thought we were dead, like the Theosophists were. But did that thing really just teleport us to another part of the astral world?”
Max’s shoulders lifted up, then down. “No freakin’ clue, kid.”
“It sounds so weird when you call me that,” she declared. “You’re like, eight right now.”
The shadow moved up an inch, and Gwen assumed he was standing on tippy-toes. “I’m old at heart! Anyway, I think you got out because you remembered who you were before you got, uh, digested, I guess? It got me once before, I think, back before I met you. Ghosts can’t die, but it ate away at my sense of self and then I…well, I don’t really remember what happened after.”
“That’s when I met you,” she remembered. “You had that rad leather jacket and I reminded you of who you were.”
“Heh. Yeah, I looked pre-tty fly in that, if I do say so myself.”
Gwen smiled, but couldn’t shake her concern. “Are you okay?” she asked gently. It was a broad, sweeping question on multiple levels. “I think you’ve been in here a long time.”
Max’s head turned to the side, and Gwen believed for a few seconds he might brush the question off or answer falsely like Finney always did.
“...No,” he admitted softly. “I’m not doing anything. I’m not helping.”
“Whaaat? You’re a big help!”
Max scoffed. “How?”
Jeez, he really was giving off Finney-vibes today. Neither of them knew their worth, and it was really annoying when the answers were so obvious. “With moral support! Just knowing there’s someone on this side of the veil who’s backing us is important. Plus, you’ve helped us with tracking the Grabber before.”
The darkness was finally beginning to fade, and Gwen could make out the washed-out color palette that permeated the astral world. She was right, it was her room. Nostalgia wrapped her like a blanket as she soaked in the memories. But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was off about the furniture around her. It looked almost too pristine, too airbrushed. Too fake.
“And I messed up every time! And now it’s even worse because Donna’s at risk. Not that, uh, it wasn’t a big deal when you were at risk,” he added hastily, “but it’s…different.”
She glanced at Max, who was slumped against the wall, pouting. He looked almost identical to the time Gwen saw him with his brother, and she resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.
Gwen tried to smile, which was difficult with the rising ‘where the hell are we and how do we get out’ anxiety. “I know what you mean. I’m worried about her, too. But getting all angsty right now isn’t going to solve anything. We’re in this together.”
The cloud on Max’s face lightened somewhat, but didn’t vanish completely. “Yeah. I guess,” he muttered, glancing off to the side near her desk. His brows furrowed. “Is this really your room?”
She glanced around again. There was a beige wall, woven basket of records, patterned rug, dollhouse, record player, and blue bedspread, just like in her memory. But the shapes in the bedspread and rug looked simpler. The lines in the basket were thick and chunky, lacking the frayed edges and other details and intricacies. “...Maybe? It looks like it. Sort of—wait.”
She scooched closer and lifted the basket. It was incredibly light, and felt like plastic instead of straw. And all her records were smushed together and indistinguishable. “Something’s not right.”
She dropped the basket and ranger fingers against the wall. It had a much smoother texture than the one in the living world. And the floor….
Gwen leaned down and ran her hands over the rug. It wasn’t an actual rug at all, merely a floor with a rug-pattern painted onto it. Everything was fake, and nothing was real. It was like a replica version of her house, or…
Her eyes drifted to what had always been her favorite part of the room, and a lump rose in her throat. She didn’t want to verbalize what she was thinking, couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it. “It’s like we’re in a dollhouse. A dollhouse version of my old house.”
Silence reigned. Then, Max shuddered. “Holy cats, this is freaky-deaky. If this was a movie, a giant hand would come out of the ceiling right about…now.”
They both looked up, but thankfully, the ceiling remained unperturbed. “Don’t jinx it!” snapped Gwen. “Let’s just get out of here and—”
A sudden shriek shattered whatever tentative peace existed. It was a girl’s shriek—(Donna’s shriek?) and Gwen’s legs moved without a second thought. She flew into the hallway and followed the direction of the voice, barely registering that while the bedroom might have been hers, this hallway was not recognizable from her memory. She flung open an unfamiliar door and stumbled back in horror at the sight that greeted her.
Donna crouched on the bedroom floor, clutching her head and weeping. This room she did recognize. How could Gwen ever forget that image seared into her brain, of Meadow sprawled bloodily on the bedsheets as the Grabber’s dagger plunged into her again and again and again?
But the Grabber wasn’t here, and neither was Meadow. In place of Meadow was a facsimile of a woman with smooth, plastic features: a mannequin. The details of the room were simplified in true doll-like fashion, but while many things in the room might have been fake, the coppery odor indicated not everything was.
“What is that?” choked Donna between sobs, pointing at the mannequin on the bed. “Is that supposed to be Ruth? Wh-Why does she look like that?”
“That’s not her.”
Gwen spun around at the unexpectedly deep voice. Max had turned back to an adult, albeit younger than the Max she was used to. His longer hair and mustache drooped across his face, and the somber expression served a harsh juxtaposition with the bright tye-dye of his shirt. “It’s a thing that looks like her. A doll lik that can’t capture Meadow’s…Meadow-ness. Her essence, That joy and life and–and–” His tentatively patted Donna’s shoulder, encouraged when she didn’t recoil. “And I'm sorry you had to see that.”
“No, I'm sorry,” sniffled Donna, wiping her cheeks with her palm in an attempt to quickly regain composure. “It’s just—I’m not good with blood, and especially with her, it’s—it’s—”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” soothed Max. He helped her as she stood wobbly. “Let’s go back in the hall.”
Donna nodded, and held Max’s arm as she shakily followed him outside. “I’m digging the threads, by the way,” she said with a strained smile.
Max laughed and said something in reply, but Gwen couldn’t hear what. Nausea roiled in her stomach as she stared numbly at the bed. Aside from a live body, this was an exact replica of the murder scene the police officers stumbled upon all those years ago.
And it’s all my fault.
Her bottom lip wobbled as her eyes grew blurry with tears. She stumbled backward, eyes on the mannequin as her hand reached out to grab the doorframe for support.
Its hollow eyes followed her.
Gwen didn’t realize it immediately, too engulfed by grief and self-loathing. But once she did, her blood turned cold. And that coldness quickly surged into adrenaline-filled panic as one of the creature’s fingers twitched.
Gwen slammed the door shut, grabbed Max and Donna, and started dragging them into a brisk walk that morphed into a sprint. “Let’s go, go, GO!”
“What’s happening? What—”
One thump, another thump, and the cracking and splintering of wood reverberated in the seemingly-endless hallway like an explosion. Donna made the mistake of looking back and shrieked like a banshee.
Gwen didn’t, but heard the rapid clicking and scuttling behind her. Adrenaline spiked as she searched frantically for a door. There was one open on the far end of a hallway to the left, and she shouted for the others to follow. They plowed inside, immediately barricading the door with a bed and anything else they could find.
There was another loud thump against the door, followed by some more scuttling and thumps and scratches against the roof.
How is it on the roof? We were just in a hallway!
“It’s on the ceiling,” Max said, as if no one else had ears.
Donna let out a strangled cry and rushed to the opposite side of the room. “The window!”
She slammed it shut and locked it while Gwen frantically dragged the bookshelf to form a barrier. Before she did, she caught a quick shadow of the creature’s spiderlike contortions from the corner of her eye and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to face that empty gaze again. Apart from the scratching at the window, the room was silent as the three stood rooted in place, minds racing a mile a minute.
With the door and window blocked, there was no other way out of the room. No conveniently-placed holes or Deus Ex Machina. They blocked it from getting inside, but for how long?
Donna slumped down on the bed, and Gwen realized, for the first time, that this was a replica of Donna’s bedroom, down to the white stuffed rabbit in a plastic hutch. “What does it want?” whimpered Donna.
“It probably wants to kill us,” Max said, nodding sagely. “Well, probably the two of you. I’m already dead.”
Donna buried her face in her hands and moaned. “But why? She’s my mom, she—”
“No,” corrected Max, all traces of forced levity vanishing in an instant. “Remember what I said before? That’s not Meadow. There’s nothing of her in that thing.”
“Then what is it? Why’d it take her form?”
Max shrugged helplessly. “I don’t understand half the shit that happens here, honestly.”
Gwen paced in a circle, the scratching and clicking followed above her like a magnet. “Donna, this is some weird dollhouse version of your room, right?” she asked. Donna nodded glumly. “Are there any other ways it could get in?”
“Not that I know of. We should arm ourselves just in case though.”
Gwen shuddered, remembering the startling crack of the door thrown off its hinges. She rummaged for something vaguely weapon-shaped, which was a lot harder than it seemed. Yet for whatever reason, the creature didn’t appear to be as aggressive in its hunt as it was previously. Its clicking and movements continued following Gwen’s footsteps throughout the room from above, like a panther toying with its prey.
Gwen eventually settled for a lamp, doubting it would do much good. “God, I hope this thing doesn’t burst through the walls like the Kool-Aid man,” she groaned.
A ghost of a smile flickered on Donna, who had brought a pink phone on her lap and curled her fingers around it. “Oh yeah?”
In spite of everything, Gwen laughed. She sat next to Donna on the bed, trying to ignore the pitter-patter of footsteps trailing her. “You're going to knock it out with that?”
“Hey, it worked for Finn. Even though I definitely don’t have his upper body strength…”
Max’s search came up fruitless, so he raised his fists and practiced a jab that would make Mohammad Ali cringe. “That’s all right. I’ll use these good ol’ fisticuffs.”
Donna sighed. “I wish this place brought us to a kitchen or something. There’d be plenty of knives to—” Her shoulders sagged, and she stopped abruptly.
Gwen put her hand on Donna’s shoulder as the creature clawed above. “What is it?” she asked gently, though she feared she already knew the answer.
“I know it’s a stupid thing to be thinking of now,” Donna replied hoarsely. “But that murder scene we saw…was that really what it looked like in real life? I mean, with real people, obviously.”
Gwen drew her legs up and squeezed them, guilt crushing from all sides. “Yeah,” she whispered.
“How could he do that?” Donna’s voice started to grow with intensity, a tornado of grief, anger, and fear. “Why would he do that? Like, I know he’s evil but it’s so hard to—”
A sudden impact against the window caused Gwen and Donna to shriek. Max leapt in front of them with his fists raised, a scene of protection that left much to be desired. Another thump caused a few travel brochures to flutter off the bookcase, and Gwen squeezed her eyes shut.
“It’s my fault. He did it because of me.”
She spoke softly, but that simple admission caused a sudden jolt of realization. The Not-Meadow didn’t move until Gwen got close and thought about her guilt. And the pacing and movements of the creature on the roof always seemed to match up with her position.
It didn’t want Donna or Max. It wanted her.
“I’m the reason it’s here.” The realization was terrifying and liberating at the same time. “It wants me.”
“What? Why would—”
“I’m going to open the window,” Gwen declared, above Max and Donna’s protests. “While I do that, you two run out the door. It shouldn’t follow you, but if it does, I’ll at least buy you some time.”
Max’s eyes bulged. “Nonononono. This is batty. Batty, bananas, bonkers, bojangling...”
Donna grabbed Gwen’s forearms as the younger girl stood to leave. “You’re not going. And why the hell would you think it wants you? I’m her daughter.”
Not having a heartbeat didn’t stop the jitters that strummed every nerve in her body, but she owed it to Donna to give her this answer. “I’m the reason Meadow died.”
“What?” Donna’s grip loosened, but didn’t slacken completely. “You can’t be. The Grabber killed her.”
“But he only killed her because of me.”
The scratches on the window became more forceful as Gwen teared up. “On my second trip here, with Finney, I called the Grabber. I let it slip that she was pregnant with you, and then he went to see her in that room we saw. And she told him she got an abortion and then he got really pissed and killed her. He never would’ve known if it wasn’t for my big mouth.”
Donna looked at her with an expression Gwen couldn’t identify. “Is that why you’ve been acting weird today?”
Gwen nodded.
Donna blinked, and a heavy silence stretched before she finally broke it. “Gwen, we don’t hold that against you. At least, I don’t.”
”I don’t either,” Max said quickly.
“I’m just—no offense, but—-I’m genuinely flabbergasted that you think it would. Is your opinion of me really that low?”
Instead of comforting her, it did the opposite. ”Your mom’s dead because of me!’ Gwen wailed in frustration. Memories of her own mother, of the blood-stained bathroom tiles seared into Gwen’s memory. “At least I got a chance to spend some time with mine! You were totally robbed.”
”I’m not saying it’s good that it happened, just that it wasn’t your fault. It’s not like you had a crystal ball that could tell the future. And she was going to give me up for adoption anyway, so—oww! Gwen, stop!“
But it was too late. Gwen yanked her arm away with all the force she could muster and sprinted to the window. Speed and adrenaline cleared the debris quickly and thrust open the window. “I’m here!” She shouted, squeezing her eyes shut. “Come and get me, you bitch!”
Gwen waited for the slashing, clawing, and tearing of talons. But nothing came. She tentatively opened one eye, then craned in her in different directions. All she saw was an ocean of that muddy liquid in lieu of grass. She couldn’t hear the clicking and scraping on the roof, either.
Max and Donna yanked Gwen back inside, Donna smacking Gwen on the arm as she did. “Gwen the fuck?” she exclaimed, face ashen. “Seriously, what the fuck?”
The possibility of a heroic death having eluded her Gwen’s energy levels began deflating like a balloon.Embarrassment and regret encroached on her, and it was as though a fog had lifted. The clarity and gravity of her actions shone like a beacon of light guiding her back to sanity.
She didn’t realize how easy it was to make rash choices and throw self-preservation skills to the wind while in a heightened emotional state. A newfound urgency to find Finney spiked through her, along with another heaping of guilt. How would Donna and Max feel if they watched her sacrifice herself to save them?
Maybe how I felt when Mom died.
“…I might have overreacted,” Gwen conceded. Donna made a motion to smack Gwen’s arm again, but Max held her in place.
“Alright, enough of that.” He finally looked and sounded weary enough to match his age. “Let’s just skedaddle.”
Donna’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.”
Gwen rubbed the back of her neck and Max and Donna removed the door blockade. ”That big reveal felt a lot more dramatic in my head,” she said weakly.
“Right, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I was downplaying your feelings and got all aggressive,” Donna said, pulling away a travel suitcase Gwen didn’t notice before. “But jeez, I was really scared. Please don’t do that again. Let’s try to be open with each other, considering how every time we try to keep a secret it ends up blowing up in our faces.”
Max rattled the doorknob and groaned. “Locked.” He shook his fist in the air and adopted an overdramatic affect that made Gwen and Donna smile. “CURSES! Foiled again!”
Gwen groaned. “And there’s more of that quicksand stuff outside, so that’s a no-go.”
”So we’re locked in?”
Gwen nodded at Donna and plopped in the beanbag chair, like she did during what seemed like an eternity ago. “Seems that way.”
”There has to be something we can use to break the lock,” huffed Donna. She began rummaging through her desks and drawers. “This is so annoying. My room at home doesn’t even lock from the outside, so this is just unfair. It’s like—-“
Donna stopped mid-sentence, and Gwen craned her head to see what captured Donna’s attention. The older girl stood frozen, paling as she looked down at a dresser shelf overstuffed with blue brochures. Gwen frowned and glanced down; she’d seen those brochures before, when they fluttered off the dresser.
Gwen reached down to pick one up. The cover said ‘California’ with a simplistic picture of a palm tree and beach. On the inside, there was a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge and scribbles where the writing should be. “You okay?”
”Y-Yeah,” mumbled Donna, slamming it shut. “Maybe we can check the closet.”
Gwen waited to see if Donna would offer up any information on her own, but when it became clear she wouldn’t, Gwen broached the topic herself. “You literally just said we should be open with one another. Why do these brochures have you so worked up?”
“I’m not—-I’m not worked up,” she said feebly. “I just really want to get out of here—-“
Even Max could see through the bullshit, and to Gwen’s relief. “Donna…c’mon, kid. I can’t have you go all Butch Cassidy on me too, kid.”
“It’s nothing. I—“ she stopped after seeing Gwen and Max’s expressions, and leaned against the wall and looked away. “It’s my parents,” she whispered. “They’re thinking about going away. To California.”
”Oh.” Gwen waited, but Donna didn’t elaborate. “So that’s a bad thing because…”
”It’s bad because they want me and Jesse to go with them. For a long time.”
It took a few seconds for it to click, and when it did, Gwen’s eyes bulged like saucers. “Wait, you’re moving?!”
“No, I’m not!” Donna replied forcefully, eyes hard with determination. “They want me to, but I can’t leave now. There’s no way I’m abandoning Finn.”
Suddenly, everything odd started sliding into place. Why she seemed so edge, so emotional, so quick to jump into things she normally wouldn’t. Iif she thought she’d be leaving Finney in the lurch…
”Since when did this happen?” Gwen asked, still trying to wrap her mind around this. “People don’t just get up and move out of nowhere.”
”We have family there, so we usually visit every year. But they first floated the idea of moving last year, but Jesse and I were against it and nothing came of it so I just forgot about it. I thought they did too. But then after the play…” she trailed off, clasping her arms tightly. “They mentioned it again, but it still didn’t sound serious. But last week all these reporters started coming and I keep telling them it’ll blow over like it did when Finn returned but since people know we’re dating they’re afraid they’ll try to dig up more information about me and—and—-“
”And they’ll find out you’re adopted,” Gwen finished, heart sinking. “And your birth parents…”
”Yeah.” She laughed shakily. “Somehow, they don’t think colleges’ll be lining up to take in the child of one of America’s most notorious serial killers.”
”You might not be!” Gwen countered, trying to sound more cheerful than she actually felt. “There’s a good chance that you’re the niece of America’s worst killer, not child. That’s not as bad.” Wow, that sounded a lot more comforting in my head. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that. Shit…”
“Donna, I’m so sorry.” Max dug his hands into his hair and leaned against the door. “I’m—This family’s completely fucking up your future and—-ah, fuck.”
”It’s not fair.” Gwern leapt to her feet, shielded by warm, familiar anger. “If you’re not his kid, no one should—“
”But I might be, and even if I’m not and there’s a chance I am, which story do you think would sell more newspapers?”
Gwen sulked, already knowing the answer. “It doesn’t matter,” she repeated through gritted teeth. “Even if he is, who cares? My dad did some bad things. He can be erratic and unpredictable. But no one held anything against me because of it. I’m not a worse person because of it. Everyone who treats you badly because of that can go fuck themselves.”
Donna stood up and walked over to the window, gazing numbly at the shifting quicksand. “You’re a good person, Gwen,” she said, a newfound sense of calmness trickling through her wavering voice. “Not many people are. But whatever. It is what it is. I can’t change the past, or what family I was born into. And if it means my life takes a hit because of it, then so be it. I’d rather deal with that than run away when Finn needs me the most.”
Gwen understood where Donna was coming from; if the tables were flipped, she imagined she’d cling on just as stubbornly. But now she had the benefit of an observer’s perspective, and once the kneejerk reaction subsided, she could view the situation with more objectivity. “Is it permanent?"
Donna sighed. “They said it won't be. That it’ll just be for a couple years. And even if it’s not, I’ll be old enough to move wherever I want soon anyway. But still…”
Any previous traces of jealousy were a completely distant memory. Gwen joined Donna at the window, leaned her head against her shoulder, and murmured, “You wouldn’t be running away. You’d be looking after yourself.”
“At Finn’s expense.”
“Donna, you know Finney would hate it if anything happened to you because of him. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.”
Donna pulled away with a hurt expression. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I left him!”
“I think you should go.”
They both spun around Max, who remained uncharacteristically impassive despite the girls’ stares. “It makes the most sense, and I think you know that deep down.”
Gwen gaped, taken aback by the sudden bluntness. Donna opened her mouth, closed it, then looked away. She unlatched the window and pulled it open. “...C’mon, let’s go,” she muttered. “This is the only way out.”
“The quicksand where the monster was lurking? The quicksand where we forgot who we were and got transported to some weird doll reality? That quicksand?” Gwen said, exasperated.
“Yup. Unless either of you can think of any better ideas?”
They couldn't, and before long the three launched themselves into the murky depths.
****
“This. Is. So. Grody,” groaned Gwen, making sure her lips stayed above the filth. The world around her was an endless ocean of brown, with the tops of houses looking like sailboats and speckles of debris drifting through the waves.
“Donna, how are you doing?” Max asked, dog-paddling towards her.
“Fine,” she replied. Gwen was pleased to see it didn’t seem like a lie; the older girl’s arms splayed out from her, but she wasn’t sinking. “I think I can feel the bottom with my tip toes, but either way, I’m not having trouble getting around. I just think of moving somewhere and the water takes me there.”
Gwen silently willed for a few different things in quick succession, but nothing happened. “Well, I can’t fly,” she said, miffed. “And a door isn’t popping out of nowhere to get us out of here.”
“I don’t think I’m commanding it or anything,” she mused, placing some wet strands of hair behind her ear. Damn, Gwen thought, she looks good even swimming in literal mud. “Maybe the liquid’s responding to my thoughts. Or maybe it’s affecting my thoughts. Either way, I’m not complaining.”
“Let’s just hope it lasts,” Max chuckled nervously. “Now, where to? The house?”
Gwen surveyed her surroundings. “It looks kiiiinda like Donna’s street. So, maybe?”
But Donna voiced what Gwen was thinking. “We all know the geography of this place is warped, to say the least. I think our best strategy—-and yes, I know I’m using the term ‘strategy’ loosely—-but I think our best strategy is just kind of….swim around, I guess, until we see something that might be significant.”
”Great,” piped Gwen, as she began swimming in the vague direction of where her house might be. “The ‘Gwendolyn Blake’ strategy. Classic.”
”I mean, your plan before did get us somewhere. Technically.”
At the very least, it was a relatively uneventful swim. And quiet too—-the veil of the spectral world devouring the expected noises of splashing and leaving only a dim blanket of silence behind. Gwen’s thoughts drifted to her phone call with the young Albert. Did it do anything? Was there another Finney in another world who never suffered such a heinous fate? Did her actions drift lazily and impotently into the wind? Or did she give the wheel of time a sharp kick?
Gwen frowned as she bypassed a bicycle bobbing to the muddy murk. She didn’t like thinking of time as a loop instead of a line. It’s a line, damn it! One thing leads to another, and that’s that. If she went back and changed something, that should result in an actual change happening, not just feeding into the already-existing timeline.
It should. But did it?
”Gwen, Max, you’re going to have to veer to the side a bit,” Donna called from the front, “there’s something submerged right ahead.”
As Gwen swam closer, she tried making out what it was. There was some blue, something that might have been a volcano…”Is this a Pachinko machine?”
“I think it’s a pinball machine,” Max said quietly.
”Oh, yeah!” Gwen said, brightening. She wiped off some more sludge from the top, and immediately sobered. “It’s the game Vance used to play.”
Max made a soft noise of affirmation. When Gwen caught up and tried to get a look at his face, she saw he looked small and weary, like he was about to collapse if she flicked him. Before she could ask if he was okay, Donna gasped and pointed up. “Look at that.”
Gwen followed Donna’s gaze and shuddered. It was hard to tell from the direction they were coming from, but the muddy landscape was sloping up to a steep incline. Hovering above horizontally, like something painted atop a ceiling, was a door. And not just any door.
The door to the basement.
Gwen swam furiously forward. “That’s it! Hurry up, let’s go!”
As they reached the base of the mount, the muck around them became less liquidy and more tangible. But climbing the muddy mountain was a lot harder than it looked. Every time she thought she grasped something vaguely solid, it’d collapse under her weight. But she pulled herself up in the mush and tried again. It was muddy and slippery and frustrating as all hell.
“ARGH!” she exclaimed, slipping and falling on her knees again. She yanked out the offending object that disrupted her climb—some kind of bicycle lock?—-and tossed it over her shoulder.
Donna and Max didn’t seem to be having any luck either. Donna was still at least trying, while Max hesitated, staring at the lock. “Are you okay?” she asked, remembering his skittishness from before.
“Yeah. It’s just—-‘“ he swallowed, glancing back at the debris, “everything in the quicksand is something that relates to one of the boys.”
Gwen blinked. “Really?”
She didn’t pay much attention on the way here, and squinted as she tried to see some of the floating objects. A baseball mitt, a bandanna…
”So that means we’re on the right track,” Donna concluded, brown-stained face brightening. “Max, maybe you can give us a boost.”
“A-Alright,” he stammered as Donna waddled closer. He cupped his hands, and clumsily hoisted her up once she stepped into them. Now, Donna was finally eye-level with the hilltop.
“I can almost reach the door,” she said, sloshing and struggling to pull herself onto solid ground. “The mud’s sturdier up here. I—oh!”
‘Studier’ and ‘sturdy’ were not the same thing. One leg sank deep into the mound while the other remained kneeled on firmer dirt, and the movement dislodged another item from the incline and sent it flying into muddy liquid with a plop. Something thin, small, and silver bobbed in the water, and Max leaned down to pick it up.
“Is that a fork?” Gwen asked. Max stood motionless, paling. “What’s that white stuff on it? Cauliflower?” The ivory stood out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of brown.
Max brought it to his nose and sniffed. “It’s…cake,” he choked out.
”Eww, don’t put it close to your face.” She turned back in Donna’s direction and called, “How are you doing up there?”
Donna grunted and pulled her right leg out with a squelch. “Better. I’m just afraid to move too much. Can Max boost you up?”
She glanced back at Max. “Um…”
Max didn’t seem up for anything at the moment. His bottom lip quavered as his eyes moistened with tears.
“Max…” she began softly. The murky waters in the distance horizon seemed to ripple. “Remember what we said before about being open about things?”
But Max seemed lost in his own little world. There was a sudden flicker of light, and for a split-second, Gwen thought she saw him as a six-year old boy again. But he quickly returned to adulthood, albeit older this time, and in the numbered windbreaker and grey shirt she remembered. “Max, what’s wrong?” she whispered, this time with heightened urgency.
“…I’m such an idiot,” he said hoarsely, drops escaping his eyelids “Everything was right in front of me, and I never noticed. I let them all down.”
Okay, this time the ripple definitely wasn’t in her imagination. It wasn’t moving towards them, but what was it? “Let who down?”
”The boys. Al.” He turned the fork left, right, and left again, staring numbly. “All the signs were there that they were being hurt. I just didn’t notice or didn’t understand. Or maybe I didn’t want to. Oh, God.” The fork slipped from his hand and plopped into the muddy water, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore. He didn’t seem to be looking at much of anything. “If I didn't keep looking the other way, I could have stopped so much pain.”
Gwen winced. She didn’t like thinking about the Grabber also being a victim. “You didn’t look the other way, you were a kid! How were you supposed to know?”
”But what about Griffin Stagg and Billy Showalter and the others? What about your brother? I—-argh, goddamnit!”
“Hey, what’s taking you guys so long?” Donna poked her head from over the mound.
Donna’s voice finally shook Max out of whatever trance he was in. His eyes blinked with stronger clarity, and a genuine warmth spread across his features. “Oh. Donna.”
“Do you see that?” She said, panic climbing in her voice. Gwen followed the direction of Donna’s pointed finger. The ripples were getting closer. “You guys need to move it. Now.”
Max cupped his hands, giving Gwen a boost as she scrambled up the incline. Her jeans were caked in muck, and every grasp felt less sturdy than the last, but just before she was about to tumble downward, Donna clutched at her wrists and dragged her up.
Gwen stood on her tiptoes and pawed at the doorknob, which swung open lazily on its rusty hinges. Excitement flitted into her chest—there it was, the basement! Even from the weird angle, she could see her and Donna’s unconscious forms, and was about to say that before Donna’s observation shattered her fleeting exuberance.
“We need to help him up!”
Gwen peered over. Max was taller than both of them and his fingers might be able to clasp the edges by jumping. But he wasn’t, instead looking behind him with a forlorn-yet-determined expression. Panic seized her chest, knowing what he was going to do before he actually did it.
“Don’t,” she warned.
Max looked at Gwen apologetically before his eyes settled on Donna. “Go to California for me, would’ya?”
Donna didn’t understand. She stretched out her hand, eyes widening as the ripples were now within twenty feet. “Max, it’s going to get you!”
“Better me than you.”
“What are—“
There wasn’t much time. Gwen dragged Donna towards the center of the door and tried pushing her up, but the older girl was stubborn. “We can’t just—“
“Go!”
Several things happened in quick succession. As Max’s voice boomed, a deep, guttural roar bellowed throughout the murky oceans, and a blinding white light shone from below the incline. Gwen couldn’t see what was happening; she was too close to the center of the slope. But a second later, she and Donna were thrust upward by the same white light into the open door with the force of an explosion.
Both girls screamed as they tumbled, limbs knocking into cement. Gwen recovered first, sprinting to slam the door shut.
A thick silence reigned until Donna shakily pulled herself to her feet. “He’ll come back,” she said, with more force than needed. “It’s not like he can die a second time.”
Gwen bit her tongue, wondering if there’d be anything productive in shattering the illusion. But she felt she owed it to Donna to be honest. “He won’t die again, but he’ll probably lose his memories and sense of self like we did. Except since we’re gone, there’ll be no one there to remind him of who he was.”
Would he return to the cheerfully oblivious Greaser, or the moody little boy? Both options made her gut twist. There had to he something they could do, but—
But now’s not the time, concluded Gwen, watching as Donna’s eyes glistened with tears. They had to make his sacrifice count.
“There’ll be time to mourn later,” she said. “Right now, we need to get out of here.”
Donna bit her lip, but nodded. “Alright..”
She drifted over to her body and knelt down, clasping her hands over that of her sleeping form. The spectral Donna vanished as the girl in the living world awoke with a gasp. She pushed herself up and wiped the tears, now flowing freely, with the palm of her hand.
“Yeesh, it’s always the waterworks with that one, isn’t it?”
Gwen spun around. The Grabber lifted himself from a reclining position on the couch, though she couldn’t make out any details beyond his silhouette due to the lamp being turned off. She also noticed, for the first time, the picture of The Dog fixed onto the wall.
“Were you hiding in the shadows like a creep the whole time?” she demanded.
“I don’t like it when people call me creepy.”
“Then stop being a creepazoid. Normal people don’t have pictures like that”—she pointed to The Dog—“hanging on their walls.”
Truthfully, she thought all the paintings were pretty cool, but why let the truth get in the way of a good insult?
The Grabber turned to where she was pointing and tilted his head. “I don’t have that one.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Okay, it might not be on the walls, but I know it’s somewhere. Mrs. Smith told Finney you had it.”
“Oh, that?” The Grabber giggled in that deceptively childish and highly grating way. “I bought it because I knew she wanted it. I returned it the next day.”
Petty. But, admittedly, something he would do. “Then why is it here?”
The Grabber shrugged, and Gwen could smell the smugness radiating off of him despite his features remaining clouded in shadow, something that was contributing to a mounting sense of unease. “Hmm. Why, indeed…?”
“Gwen,” Donna whispered, shaking her lifeless body in alarm. “Gwen, what’s going on? What’s taking so long?”
“Aww, poor kid’s getting a little frazzled. You should go.”
She should, she knew she should. But something was compelling her to stay. A desire for knowledge, for understanding, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.
“Didn’t you hear what I said about Max?” she demanded.
“I did.”
She knew trying to appeal to his nonexistent better side was pointless, but try as she may, she was unable to shake the thought of the sullen, insecure teenager from her mind. “Doesn’t that bother you? Even the teeniest, teeniest bit?”
“Ehhh. He was actively working against me, so…not really. Besides, I was the one to—hehe—get through that thick skull last time, if you know what I mean.”
His flippancy stoked the flames of fury within her heart. “You’re a coldhearted bastard.”
“So I’ve been told,” he hummed. “But I think my problem is really the opposite. I feel things too deeply.”
“At least you admit there’s a problem. That’s the first step,” she said, matching his levity as her eyes scanned nearby surroundings for something throwable that could test the Grabber’s theory. But the only things she could find were too close to the couch near him, and there was something primordial churning inside, hissing of its danger.
“Forgetting isn’t even that bad,” scoffed the Grabber. His arm draped lazily over the back of the headrest, clouded in shadow as the rest of his body. “It’s peaceful. Finally gives you some time to do real deep thinking and figure out who you really are.”
“Cool. You should go back to it.”
The Grabber withdrew his hand from the headrest. “I can’t. Finney needs me.”
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.
“He wants me.”
“Okay, I’m going now.” She gave him the finger in lieu of a wave. “Fuckyoubye.”
As Gwen approached her body, she noticed another change in the basement that originally went unnoticed. Burned into the ground with a coppery hue was a snake devouring its own tail in a perfect circle.
It was only then that Gwen knew, with full certainty, that her plans in coming here had failed. The same innate voice which whispered warnings screamed that harsh, inevitable truth. She squeezed her eyes shut and clasped her hands over that of her silent form.
“Bye, Gwen.”
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