Chapter Text
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1999
Sometimes, when she’s bored, Chrissy imagines plunging her thumbs into her mother's eye sockets.
But she’d never actually, of course – she’s a good person. She reminds herself of this as her mother quietly, in a tone you'd almost mistake for friendliness, berates her in the middle of their family shoe store.
It's routine, to be at work a half hour earlier than the other employees, standing in the fitting area, or the stockroom, or in front of the little carousel of baby shoes. It's expected of her to nod while Laura complains about whatever she feels has wronged her, and to accept the blame regardless of who caused it.
Her dad called it your mom's little fits. She misses her dad for a few good reasons, but this isn't one of them.
"I mean, honestly Christine, how are you not embarrassed?"
Easy: Carol was the one who left the shoeboxes all over the floor last night. But that doesn't really matter, not to anyone in this conversation. What matters is waiting for it to be over. Her mom has a voice that seems like it stretches across the space-time continuum, like some kind of eldritch horror infesting reality.
She wonders if the eyeballs would squish like jelly, or pop out solid like ping pong balls. She’ll never find out, though, because she’s a good person.
(She knows this! She's kind and friendly. She keeps to herself; isn't a bother. She never hurts anyone and tries to help those in need.
Chrissy Cunningham is a good person.
Really.)
"I'm sorry," she mutters. "It won't happen again."
Laura swats her daughter upside the head and walks away. It's fine – it never hurts, it's never actually violent. Just a simulacrum of what she could do, what she could inflict, if she wanted to. Chrissy adjusts her ponytail.
She takes her spot behind the register and bounces on her toes, trying to wake up. It's time to be happy and perky. The citizens of Hawkins need their shoes.
Or, rather, they need to return or exchange the shoes they were just gifted. There's not many actual sales happening in this limbo between Christmas and the new year.
She's just finished a refund when Chrissy sees a head of hair she would know anywhere bob into the store, right past the fake tree she decorated last month. She gasps, checking her reflection in the glass of the countertop. She swats down a flyaway hair.
"Chrissy?"
She looks up and plasters on her brightest smile. "Oh my gosh, Steve!"
It wouldn't shock anyone to learn that she had a crush on Steve Harrington back in the day, even when she was taken. She thinks most girls did. Probably some boys, too. He looks different now, but thirteen-plus years will do that. He's tanner than he ever was in Indiana, with that LA upper-middle-class kind of glow they all seem to have out there. He's got a ring on his finger, and a bit more weight on his frame.
(A few months after he moved, one of her friends said she heard Steve had thought Chrissy was really cute. She thinks about a life in California sometimes.)
"No way.” He looks around. "Is this your family's place?"
She forgot – he can be a little dense. It's not his fault, and kind of part of his whole charm. "It is called Cunningham's," she notes forgivingly. "Been in the family since Hawkins was founded."
"Had no clue, I always went to Foot Locker." He drops the gift bag he's been carrying onto the counter, then leans in with the cocky head tilt of someone who knows he's cute. "Sorry, are we allowed to say that name in here?"
Chrissy laughs a little for him, because Steve is nice and handsome and after all this time, after golden skin and a silver ring, she still wants him to like her. She can cling to that. "I'll let it slide this time," she assures, nodding to the bag. "Return or exchange?"
"Just sizing up. My parents seem to think I have small feet, and I'm this close to developing a complex about it."
Chrissy sits on the fitting stool as Steve strides back and forth in his new trainers.
"So," he says, "are you just helping the folks out while you're in town?"
She watches his heels, making sure they aren't riding up. "I work here full-time, actually."
He stops in front of her, an incredulous hand on his hip. "Really? I mean – sorry, but really? Did you ever leave Hawkins?"
"Nope," she lies politely, as though she never even gave it a thought.
"Jesus. You were so –" He falters, blinking. "Shit. I'm sorry, it's just… you were on top of the world in high school." Steve plops back into the chair facing her and cards his fingers through his hair. "Always thought you'd be a model or something, or one of those pretty actresses in commercials who like, eat yogurt and use Herbal Essences. It's weird to see you selling shoes."
Chrissy huffs at that.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm being a dick. Christ, just ignore me, okay?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and she sees it on his face, that he means well. She also sees the pity, and the unspoken question: what the hell happened to you?
The answer to which would be: depression. That's oversimplifying things a bit, though – glossing over important things like a large mental filing cabinet labeled Mom, a reoccurring eating disorder, and several failed relationships of varying lengths. It skips right past the fact that she did get out – told her mom to fuck herself and ran off to New York to try to be pretty for money, only to be told that she's too short to be a model and her acting skills need work (which is bullshit, because she acts like she's not dead inside every day). It ignores her brother Cory writing her – only because Laura knew anything by her pen would be thrown out – to say Dad's sick, we need you and Chrissy coming home with her tail between her legs, right back where she started.
She gazes at Steve, his stupid coiffed hair, and she misses high school so much it hurts. She misses being fun and having hope – that she would be someone, that things would get better. She misses knowing how to laugh – the real way, not small or fake or just for the sake of kindness to old crushes. She just wants to feel like a person again.
High school was a special kind of hell, sure. It's just that hell doesn't sound so bad anymore.
Chrissy sits in the basement of Cunningham's Value Shoes and peels the top off of her low-fat yogurt. She looks down at the cover of the novel sitting in front of her on the desk: The Kiss of the Devil. A busty blonde woman with a lustful expression is being held in the leather-clad arms of an otherwise shirtless man with long dark hair. The blurb on the back promised a forbidden love between a dangerous yet sensitive guitarist and the same protagonist it always is – someone smart, a little feisty, a bit in over her head. It'll be incredibly formulaic and cheesy, and she will eat it up much more voraciously than her lunch.
She traces the painted cover models with the nail of her pinky finger. The woman has modeled for a few books she owns, but the man is new. He's different – not quite as interchangeably chiseled as the usual guys. Big eyes, long nose. She hopes he'll model for more books. He's sexy, but he also looks kind, which has been taking priority for her these last few years. She could just really use a friend.
Chrissy rolls her eyes at her own pathetic despondency, reaching over to turn on the tabletop lamp. The desk illuminates in its corner of the poorly-lit basement, and she checks her watch. She has fifteen minutes to herself, in the one place at work where no one will bother her. Fifteen minutes to fantasize about daredevil men and kisses so passionate that the world fades into the distance.
Fifteen minutes to feel something.
She's on minute thirteen when she cuts herself on the page she's turning. She winces at the sting, sucking at the wound on the pad of her index finger. She examines it – deeper than she was expecting. "Shoot," she mutters, scooting back to open the side drawers to the desk. She's seen a bandaid tin somewhere around here before.
The first drawer is filled with old receipts and newspaper clippings, and Chrissy moves quickly to the second, which is just as helpful. She's about to give up on her dig into the third drawer when her hand hits an unmistakable block of thin metal.
She pulls the tin out and notices two things immediately. First: it must be several decades old – rusting at paint-chipped corners, with a sort of woven pattern she's never seen. Second: it probably hasn't held bandaids for a long time, given that something is rattling inside it.
She pries the hinges open, tilts the box, and an off-white rectangular stone slides out abruptly. She quickly catches it before it clatters to the floor. It feels weird – porous and lightweight. She turns it over in her hand, and sees a black engraving of a triangle with three diagonal lines through it. Right in the middle is a smear of red, and she remembers – blood. She's bleeding. Duh.
She licks at the cut again, absentmindedly dropping the stone in her cooler bag as she gathers her things. Her break is over.
Chrissy forgets about it the entire rest of her shift.
She pays it no mind during the fifteen minutes it takes to drive home.
She doesn't think of it as she unlocks the door to the duplex Mrs. Driscoll renovated after her husband died, or the door opening into the stairwell that leads to the upper apartment she rents above her.
Its presence doesn't occur to her when she hangs her cooler bag on its hook in her living room, or as she eats an undressed chicken salad for dinner, flipping pages of her book with a bandaged finger.
And she sure as fuck isn't thinking about it when she gets in bed.
This is her favorite part of the day: relaxing in pyjamas under layers of cozy blankets to read a book in the light of her bedside lamp. The main character, Emma, is thoroughly seduced now, enthralled by Nick, the guitarist. He's got that overprotective machismo that Chrissy could do without, but he has the usual charisma and heart of gold to win the heroine over.
It also helps that he is, as far as she can tell from the last two pages she's been reading with wide eyes, completely obsessed with eating pussy.
She checks her alarm clock – almost midnight. She has a little time.
Chrissy slips her hand under her sheets, slowly finding her way past the elastic of her panties. She brushes over her clit and sighs, letting the book fall open on her lap. She dips her fingers at her entrance, scooping up her slickness and rubbing it over her cunt.
She closes her eyes and tries to picture the man on the cover here in her apartment, kneeling between her legs. She swipes a wet finger against her clit, imagining it's his tongue. She thinks of him whispering filthy things into the crease of her thigh as he pumps his fingers inside of her. She thinks about him grinning up at her as she squirts on his face, and –
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1999
Chrissy's eyes pop open.
She needs to look at that stone again. It feels very, very crucial for her to see it, hold it.
She climbs out of bed, wiping her fingers on the front of her old cheer shirt as she makes her way to the living room. Distantly, she acknowledges that this is weird, but that seems so unimportant, so immaterial. What's important is the stone.
She stretches up for her cooler bag, still hanging from its hook, and opens it on her end table. She reaches in, and slowly picks up the stone. It feels incredible in her hand.
She pulls it out, inspecting it. This stone is so, so special.
"Chrissy Cunningham!"
She yelps, dropping it on the table. She whips her head around, looking for the owner of the disembodied voice. But as soon as she loses contact, she misses it. She needs to touch it again.
She picks the stone back up.
"Okay, hi, my name's Eddie. You anointed this talisman with your blood so now we're bound together, and –"
Chrissy's arm moves back instinctively, ready to toss the stone across the room.
"Please don't throw me," the voice interjects. "It actually kinda hurts."
She freezes, panicked. Her hand clenches around the stone as she whimpers. What is happening?
"Great, thanks. The rules are, you need to carry out three human sacrifices over the next three days or else the world's gonna end."
Chrissy makes a face. "You mean like… Y2K?" she asks, hoping not to get a response.
"What?" The voice sounds exasperated. "No, the computer thing has nothing to do with this."
Slowly, she unwraps her fingers. She blinks rapidly, staring at the stone – talisman? – and turns it over in her hands. Is this a prank? Is there a tiny hidden speaker on this thing? Is technology advanced enough for that? The voice just sounds so… present.
"Look, I know this is weird but the fate of the world is kinda hanging in the balance right now, and you have to help me help you. Can you permit me entry?"
"This isn't real," Chrissy whispers to herself. It can't be.
"C'mon, dost thou permit me entry? Yes or no."
"I –" Her mind is going into overdrive, unable to process what's happening.
"Ya gotta say yes. Just say the word yes. Can you say it?"
Her hands tremble, cupping the seemingly sentient object. "You're not –"
"Please, Chrissy? If you say yes I'll... I'll stop! I'll go away. You'll never hear from me again, like this didn't even happen. Just say it," the voice begs, a little whiny. "Say yes? Say yes. Say it. Come on, say it. Say it. Please?" The voice begins to yell thunderously. "Say it! SAY IT! SAY IT!"
"Yes!" she shrieks, flinging the stone to the floor with her eyes screwed shut. A strange static fills the air, buzzing, and then there's nothing but a fit of coughing.
"Ugh, fuck, that sucked ass."
She takes a peek, and falls back on the floor with a scream. Some kind of creature stands in her living room, man-shaped but rotting, strips of flesh dangling loosely.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" he asks, almost a coo.
She scurries backwards on her hands, knocking into the end table. One of her mother's Hummel figurines falls to the hardwood floor and cracks open as she whimpers, desperate to get away.
"Okay, okay, ya got me – I lied about going away. Sorry about that." He glances down and flicks at a shred of skin hanging off his stomach. "Oh, is it all this? Yeah, probably a bit much in this realm. Hold on a sec."
Chrissy cowers, hiding her head between her arms as she hears a quick chant, and the lights flicker.
"This any better?"
She peeks out, and her breath catches. A man with long curly locks stands before her now, in ripped jeans and a worn leather jacket. He's also wearing a familiar battle jacket, which is a term she just learned half an hour ago. Her vision trails up the hair on his exposed, tattooed torso and hesitantly focuses on his face.
Big eyes.
Long nose.
Like, the same nose she was just thinking about expelling bodily fluids onto.
"What the fuck –"
"She speaks! Hi! Hope you don't mind, I peered into your soul to see what kinda vibe you dig. Which, I know, ugh, men, right? Always so invasive. But if it helps, I'm not really a man anymore." He gives himself an appraisal, ringed hands running over the distressed leather. "Damn. You have taste."
He looks back down at Chrissy, and his face falls as she hyperventilates. "I get that this is a lot, but I'm really doing my best here. We gotta be a team, okay? Just three kills and I'll be outta your hair."
"W-what are you?"
"I'm Eddie," he replies simply.
"What?" she cries in confusion. This isn't happening. It just isn't!
"And, you know, a demon. Or, demon-in-training, I guess you could call it. Former man, current demon intern? I dunno, this is my initiation quest. Been a long time coming, I’ll tell you that."
She just stares at him, and he doesn't seem to mind. "Listen, you're on edge right now, and I think we can use this energy for the first kill, just to get it over with. And I'll hold your hand through the whole thing! We'll be fast friends, I promise."
"I'm crazy," she mutters, rocking and clutching her head. "You're not real. You're not my friend."
"Okay, uh, little rude," Eddie responds. "This is a partnership, so let's maybe not go for that vibe? I do have feelings and shit."
Chrissy tears her head from her hands. "You're not real!" Spittle flies from her mouth. "You don't have feelings because you're not fucking real!"
He sighs like he's not mad, just disappointed, and she finds the courage to clamber to her feet, running for the front door.
She turns the corner into the hall, and he's standing there, leaning against the wall. "Hey gorgeous! Me again."
She cries out, rushing past him to get to the stairs.
Eddie's already at the bottom, waiting with his arms crossed. "It's blood and bone, baby. You marked the talisman. I don't make the rules, trust me."
She turns around, desperate for any escape, and he's standing in front of her, inches away. "Basically if we don't deliver these sacrifices by the new year, it's like, end-of-days, burning-skies time."
She runs away, frantic, and locks herself in her bedroom.
"Okay, I get it, you need convincing," he says from her bed, practically draped across it. "Gird your loins, this is gonna be pretty fucked up." He snaps his fingers, once, twice, and then –
Fire. Smoke fills her lungs. Someone lets out a bloodcurdling wail to her left; a child cries out for his mother to her right. She can barely see ten feet in front of her. Gunfire rings in the distance, and a man in protective gear runs past with an automatic rifle. Chrissy ducks down, screaming. She coughs, spluttering, as blisters form on her skin. "Stop!" she wails. "Make it stop!"
It does. She finds herself crouched on her carpeted floor, safe if not for her company.
Eddie fiddles with one of the rings on his fingers, still lazing on his side, propped on an elbow. "So, yeah. That's what we're dealing with. Walls of flames, agonizing death… crispy people. Up to us to stop it. Shitty cards, but we're playing 'em."
She curls into the carpet, sniveling. She wants to wake up.
He sits up, swinging his legs to hang off the side of the mattress. "Honestly, I don't want this any more than you do. But I'm here for you, moral support and all. So whaddya say – you, me, and three sacrifices? It's real easy. Animals don't count, by the way; humans only. Oh, and there needs to be an elegance to it, once a day, not just bam bam bam, y'know. Bosses think the whole mass murder thing is kinda tacky."
"Please go away," Chrissy says meekly.
Eddie clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he looks down at her. He almost seems sorry. "Would that I could, but like I said – we're bonded. You carry out the sacrifices, and you're rid of me. Plus, there's the added benefit of the world not ending, which, I gotta remind you, is a pretty pressing issue."
She lies there, unable to produce any more tears. Numb. She thinks she needs a doctor. She thinks this might be real, so she for sure needs a doctor, because of course it's not real, none of this can possibly be –
Sharp knocks jolt her from her thoughts. There's someone at her front door, which is only accessible from inside the actual front door, which means it's Mrs. Driscoll. The woman visits often, usually at inconvenient times. Chrissy knows she's very, very lonely. She understands.
She considers not answering, until the knocking starts again, more urgently. She peels herself off the floor. "I have to answer that," she tells Eddie, in an unsettling apology. Like she's being a bad hostess to the demon possessing her bed. He could be getting gross underworld germs all over it. Ugh.
Mrs. Driscoll, decked out in a polka dot nightgown, smiles when the door opens. So does Eddie, who pops into view behind the woman.
"Oh, she's perfect," he says, leaning down and taking a whiff of her hair, "just aching for it." He gives Chrissy two encouraging thumbs up on either side of Mrs. Driscoll's perm. "Baby's first sacrifice!"
"Shut up," Chrissy hisses.
Mrs. Driscoll glances over her shoulder, right through Eddie. "Excuse me?"
Shit.
Shit.
"Shut up, it's so nice to see you!" Chrissy exclaims over a dry tongue, reaching a hand out to awkwardly pat her neighbor's arm. "How – how've you been?"
"Well, obviously she's not buying that. Just invite her inside and kill her." Eddie claps his hands. "Chop chop!"
The other woman eyes her warily. "Are you okay, sweetie? I heard screaming."
"Would it help to know she definitely wants to die? She's excited for it! She wants to join her husband. Not that she will, but –"
"Oh, I'm fine!" Chrissy replies. "I, um, I rented a scary movie? Just had the volume on too loud. I'm so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Driscoll."
"You'd be doing her a favor! She fantasizes about eating fertilizer until she croaks, Chrissy. Fertilizer! You can be a good neighbor and give her something quicker."
Mrs. Driscoll peers past her, searching up the stairs. "Honey, if you need help, you can tell me," she whispers. "Is there someone inside?"
"Cunningham," Eddie says on his knees next to the woman, hands clasped in the air. "I'm begging you, kill this lady. It'd be so easy. And look at her, she's on the brink anyway! All you gotta do is give her a little push. Or a little stab, or a little whack. A little choke if you want to get weird – I'm not picky!"
"It's just me in here, I promise." Chrissy smiles in her best attempt at seeming genuine.
"Please just do it."
"Okay…" Mrs. Driscoll looks as skeptical as she should be.
"Pleeease?"
"But thanks for checking on me, I'm really sorry to interrupt your evening."
"Fuuuckkkk, why is this so hard?"
Chrissy closes the door after a quick goodbye, turning around to come face to face with Eddie brooding at her. "Well. That was disappointing."
She peers up at him, an eyebrow quirked. "Fertilizer?"
"Fuckin' fertilizer, man!" he shouts, hands flying in emphasis. "People are so goddamn batshit. Can't believe you won't let her die."
Maybe it's because she's exhausted, or in shock, or just losing her mind. Maybe it's the revelation that whether people live or die has always been a choice she makes, and now is just the first time she's had to think about it. Maybe the whole thing is too absurd to do anything else.
But the corners of her mouth lift, just a little.
Chrissy's eyelids pry open to the sound of her alarm, and relief washes over her as she swings her arm out to turn it off. Just a dream. Of course it was. A weird one, and more vivid than usual, but her doctor said sometimes Ambien will do that, so –
"Morning."
"Fuck!" she squeaks, feeling her muscles try to escape her skin as she looks over to see Eddie casually perched on top of her dresser.
"Well, lovely to see you, too."
She huffs as she sits up, pulling her blankets over herself protectively. "Were you watching me sleep?"
He shrugs. "Not in a creepy way."
"How is this –" Chrissy gestures between them, "not creepy?"
"Well, I'm not jerking off, for one. I'm just looking. You snore, by the way."
"Oh. My God." She could smother him.
"What? It's cute."
"Eddie," she seethes.
"Yeah?"
"Get. Out."
He scans her face for a moment. "Okay. I'm being creepy. Noted." He hops down, his hands in the air. "Woe betide the demon be a little strange and off-putting!" he calls as he saunters out of the room.
Chrissy flops back onto the mattress, covering her face with a pillow and letting out a short scream. Today is gonna fucking suck.
"Okay, so we've got until midnight to get our first kill, I figure since impulsive murder isn't your thing, we can do a little brainstorming today and do the actual sacrificing this evening. How's that sound?"
"I'm not sacrificing anyone," Chrissy mutters resolutely as she pulls her car door shut. She is not a killer! She doesn’t have it in her.
"Welp, it's kinda gonna be a problem for you and literally everyone else if you don't," Eddie replies from the passenger seat that was empty a second ago.
The pleather beneath her is frigid. She starts the car and blasts the heat before turning to stare him down. "I don't even know if you're real."
He throws his head back against the headrest. "Fuck, this again? Okay, look," he says, pointing to the man she sees every morning coming towards them, walking his eager terrier past her car like always. "He's about to sneeze so hard that little Nugget flies away. Wait for it…" His finger follows the man in her vision as she watches. "Now."
The man sneezes violently, the handle of the leash slips from his hand, and the dog takes off at full speed down the sidewalk. "Wait, no – NUGGET! NUGGET GET BACK HERE."
She watches the man give chase in her side mirror, and a breath it feels like she's been holding for hours is finally let out. She's okay. She isn't losing her mind. "Oh." Chrissy turns to Eddie, though, and oh. Right. The whole murder thing. Armageddon. "Well, you can find someone else, right?"
"Thing is, blood anointment isn't really flexible like that. It holds until you rack up the kills or one of us dies. And I died like, ages ago."
Her head rears back. "You did?"
"Yeah, I told you – former man, current sorta-demon. This is my initiation quest, remember? Guess you weren't really listening because of the whole…"
"Supernatural presence in my home?"
"No hard feelings," Eddie grins.
Chrissy regards him warily. He looks absolutely ridiculous wearing two open jackets and no shirt in December. "If you're a demon, does that mean you were a bad man?"
He shrugs. "Honestly? Don't remember. I hope not."
It's utterly fucking annoying that she wants to know more. "I thought demons were supposed to be evil?"
He chuckles a little, scratching at his jaw. "Yeah, some, I guess. The head honchos – older than the planets, void of emotion? – definitely aren't winning Miss Congeniality. But, uh, the little guys? I think most of us are just kinda lost. Going through the motions. Shit, it's not like we have any other option."
Chrissy lowers the parking brake, feeling dourness settle on her face. It's not looking good for her, is it, if the most relatable person in her life right now is the devil on her shoulder.
"This isn't the shoe store," Eddie comments as they park in front of a tall, drab office building.
"Nope," she replies, gathering her purse. "We have a meeting with our accountant."
"Ooh-ooh," he sings, following her inside the revolving door. "Can we kill a math nerd?"
"Chrissy!" Laura gets up from the lobby bench and strides over. "I said to be here at 9 o'clock," she says tersely.
Eddie recoils as he takes her in. "Oh, ew, what the fuck?"
Chrissy steadies her breath. It's 9:04. The appointment is at 9:15. Whatever. "I'm sorry, Mom, I had a bad night."
"I don't need excuses," Laura responds, dragging her by the arm to the elevators. "I need you to get your act together. What would your father think?"
"Okay," Eddie chimes in, a ringed finger in the air, "uh, crazy suggestion –"
"I understand, I'm sorry," Chrissy replies reflexively as she presses the button.
"I think we need to kill your mom."
She shoots him a stern look, her jaw tense. She just wants to get through this meeting – or a solid five minutes – without thinking about murder.
"I know, I know, like, matricide? Big move. But I mean –" he gestures up and down at Laura as they enter the elevator. "Pardon my French, but Jesus Christ."
She stares up as the floor numbers tick past above the doors, not dignifying him with any further response. Her mom is a lot, she's aware, but – no way.
Not happening.
No. Way.
Charles Sinclair sits forward, using a capped pen to point at numbers on the sheet between him and the Cunningham women. "Obviously marketing is expensive, but it'll be worth the investment in the long run since your sales in Men's have dipped so much."
Laura nods. "Of course. Absolutely. I did think my lovely daughter here might draw some gentlemen in, but…" she shakes her head as she jots in her legal pad, "the Lord's surprises keep us all on our toes, don't they?"
"Hear me out," Eddie says, sitting criss-cross atop Mr. Sinclair's desk. "Poison! It's kinda hard to get the dosage right, but your mom looks like a pat of butter would kill her. Plus you don't even have to stick around to see it take effect. Simple, clean, efficient. How 'bout that?"
Chrissy ignores him, just as she has been for the past half hour as he's implored her to kill her own mother. She's expected to take over this business one day, and her attention to the numbers is imperative. She'll deal with his bullshit later.
"Well, that does it for now," Charles says. He hands Chrissy a thick manila folder as they stand. "Just keep these for your records and I'll give you a call about advertising options next week."
The humans all shake hands, Eddie makes dramatic stabbing motions at her mom, and they leave the office of Sinclair Accounting Solutions.
She heads in the direction of the elevator they took up, but Laura pinches at her arm. "We're taking the stairs." She pats her belly. "You need the exercise."
"But it's five stories," Chrissy mumbles, even as she follows her mother through the door to the stairwell.
"Dude, seriously? You're just okay with this shit?" Eddie acts disgusted, but she's seen him as a decaying corpse, so she doesn't think he has much room to complain.
Her mom walks down a few steps, and turns back. "Christine," she snaps. "Don't be lazy."
Chrissy listens to the clacking of her mother's heels against the cement steps, frozen in place. She just needs to breathe, and then let it go. She can let it go like everything else. She can be good. She can behave.
Laura reaches the landing on the next floor and disappears around the corner to continue.
Eddie sighs, dragging his hand over his face. "Okay, I didn't want to do this, but… your brother's girlfriend gets pregnant in four months."
Her head whips back to him. "What? Cory's gonna have a –"
"A girl," he says. "Beautiful, the sweetest little thing." He brings his index finger to her temple, and touches lightly. "It's just a shame…"
Her vision goes hazy, and then she sees her – a purple plastic crown atop sandy hair, a bright smile, gazing in wonder at a colorful birthday cake with six sparkling candles. She has Cory's eyes.
Everything blurs, then Chrissy sees her mom, a little older. "I think that's enough for you, pumpkin," Laura says, taking a half-eaten slice of cake away. "You want to look pretty in the dress Grandma bought you, don't you?"
Chrissy's vision clears, but she still sees red. She drops the folder, papers spilling out over the steps below. "No."
"That shit always starts so small, doesn't it?"
She looks at Eddie, and he places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Warm, solid. Real. His head tilts down in a small nod, like he knows she needs some kind of permission from anything or anyone, and she's off.
Chrissy scrambles down the stairs after Laura, replaying visions of a girl who doesn't exist yet. She has just one single moment of hesitation before pushing against her mother's bony back with all her might.
Laura yelps as she falls, neck craning briefly to look her daughter in the eyes. Chrissy sees fear, surprise, anger. It feels, for the single nanosecond she allows herself, incredible.
Her mother tumbles down, and there's a cracking sound as she hits the concrete landing. Blood pools from her head.
Eddie appears next to Laura and whoops, his arms raised in victory.
Chrissy screams.
Chief Jim Hopper flips a page in his notepad, peering down at the pale woman trembling in an office chair. "Sorry to ask again, but you're positive you didn't see anything? No one else was in the stairwell?"
Chrissy Cunningham looks up into the air to her right, her eyes moving like she's watching something. She turns back and presses her lips together into a thin line, shaking her head. "No," she says, her voice thick. He really hopes she doesn't vomit again. "I told you, I – I dropped the papers and she kept walking down while I picked it all up, and I heard her yell, and then a sound, like a thud, and when I got around the corner she was just –" Tears start welling up again. "She was just lying there."
He's so uncomfortable with displays of emotion. He can't remember why he wanted this job. He hands her his card. "Alright. You're free to go, Miss Cunningham. I'm sorry for your loss."
He watches her sniffle as Callahan ushers her away to her brother, then turns to Wheeler, writing furiously in her own notepad. "You said you went to high school with her?"
The officer nods. "Same year, mostly different circles."
"You think she'd ever be capable of…"
"Murder?" Nancy smirks with disbelief. "No. Chrissy's sweet enough to give you cavities. Super friendly. Spent a lot of time volunteering and organizing charity fundraisers, too."
"Saving the whales doesn't mean she can't push someone down the stairs."
"True," she concedes. "But her mom is – was – around the age for balance to start being a concern. Combine that with stairs, and the heels she had on…"
"Yeah," Hopper exhales, scrubbing a hand through his beard. "Yeah, you're probably right. Gotta wait on toxicology, too."
It's a tragedy, sure. Death always is. But in his mental catalogue of ongoing cases, he's already marking this one closed.
He can always unmark it if he's wrong.
"I know it's rough, but you gotta be more positive, here – one step closer to no apocalypse, and no more bitch mom."
Chrissy looks up from the toilet she's just emptied her stomach into, and glares at the extremely handsome, extremely obnoxious demon leaning against Cory's bathroom door. "I'm not talking to you."
"Oh, Chrissy. Babe. That ship has sailed. It's in the Antarctic by now."
The nonchalance is infuriating. "You made me –" her voice comes out high and piercing, and she lowers it to a harsh whisper. "You made me kill my mother!"
Eddie's brow shoots up. "Yeah, except that I do not, nor will I ever, fuck around with free will. That was all you."
She knows it's true, but hearing it out loud is devastating. "Oh my God." Her face crumples, feeling the tears start up again. "I'm an awful, horrible person."
"Hey, wait, don't do that," he frowns. "The only reason any of this works is because you're good."
Chrissy latches on instantly. "Good?" She’ll take any confirmation that she's okay, even if it's from this fucking guy.
He holds up the talisman, missing one of its lines through the triangle. "Yeah, this can only be anointed by blood that's like, pure."
Oh, great. She sits up, wiping her chin on her sleeve. "I'm not a virgin." She would be the victim of a cosmic mix-up like this.
Eddie seems genuinely thrown off for a second, and then smiles at her with sharp teeth. "Uh. Good to know. Not what I was talking about, like, at all, but… very good to know." They stare at each other until he brings up the talisman between them. "Anyway, you have to actually be a good person to get this shit going. We're kinda into corruption in my realm. If you think about it, this is all a pretty major compliment to you."
Chrissy sniffles at that, which spurs him on. "Shit, I mean –" He gestures his arms around. "You're saving all life on Earth! Not to mention you just saved your niece a lifetime of your mom's bullshit. She grows up happy, Cunningham. You made that happen for her."
Her heart splats against her ribcage. "Promise?"
"What?"
Her cheeks are sticky with drying tears as she crawls on the tile to kneel at his feet. "Promise she's happy?"
Eddie smiles down at her, with a strange warmth she hasn't seen before. It makes him even more attractive, which makes him even more annoying. "Well, yeah. I'm not saying she leads a perfect life, but for the most part – she's happy. Confident. She feels good in her skin. I promise."
It feels like a divine forgiveness she's being blessed with. Consecrated by what lies ahead.
Chrissy smiles back, blinking off more tears. "Thank you."
He holds out his hand. "Feel better?"
She takes it, and he pulls her up with a strength and ease that she suspects is supernatural. She finds her balance on shaky legs. "I'm still a little mad at you."
He chuckles quietly, squeezing around her fingers. "No worries, I did kind of just make you kill your mother."
Her stomach clenches, and for a moment she thinks she might puke again. But laughter – the real kind, from her tummy – comes bubbling up instead.
(Chrissy Cunningham is a good person.
She's pretty sure.)
"You alright?"
Chrissy sniffs as she pulls on her gloves outside Cory's front door. "Mostly. Just can’t believe I did that to him." Both of his parents are dead, and he's barely twenty-five.
"But you also resent him," Eddie says unhelpfully, following her down the small path to her car parked at the curb.
She throws herself into the driver's seat, her body feeling like lead after sitting with her brother for hours as they wept for mostly different reasons. He's already inside. "Can you please not do the mind-reading with me right now?"
"I can't read your mind. That's part of the rules."
She looks over at him. "What?" Chrissy is so sick of not knowing what the hell is going on.
"They allowed me one peek inside that pretty head of yours, and I used it kind of immediately 'cause you were having a conniption and I was hoping all this," Eddie gestures broadly at his body, "would be less scary?" He smiles, a bit sheepishly, as if to prove just how unscary he is. "But this whole thing is a test for me too, remember? They gave me your name, that's it. Everything else I'm getting is from the people in your life."
She looks back at her brother's door, the wreath hanging from it radiant with Christmas lights. She loves Cory. She's loved him from the moment she felt him kick against her hand in their mom's belly. It's just always been hard to tell if he's ever felt the same for her, is all.
"So he knows I resent him?"
"Eh, he just worries sometimes. He's definitely aware he was the golden child."
Chrissy scoffs. "That's putting it mildly."
"He feels kinda bad about it."
She smiles bitterly, turning back to Eddie. "Just not so much for him to ever put in a good word for me?"
"Uh." He runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth as he looks down at his lap. "Can I be real with you?"
Her forearms go up in a defeated shrug. "Might as well."
"He saw what was happening, just figured it wasn't that bad if your dad never intervened."
It hits her softer than she'd have thought. She's too numb for any of this. Or maybe she just knew that already.
"Okay." Chrissy turns the ignition, staring blankly out at the dark street in front of her. "Then he can plan the funeral by himself."
Eddie smiles with something like pride, and a traitorous heat drops in her stomach.