Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Chapter Text
October 20, 1982
Rain pelted the ground in torrential, angry bursts. Harsh winds threatened to blow a disheveled child off of his feet as he struggled helplessly through what—to him—could only have been a devastating hurricane. Typically, on days such as these, his mother would have picked him up from school. She’d park as close to the awning as possible to avoid his uniform getting soaked, wrapping him in her woolen sweater once he’d gotten to the car, then grabbing him and blowing raspberries on his cheeks while he’d try (unsuccessfully) to push her grinning face away, giggling and squealing.
Today was different, though, for some reason or another. Hours went by before he’d decided to brave the weather, clutching a hefty backpack above his head for cover and wading through domineering gusts of numbing cold as the wistful beginnings of hail bit at his cheeks. He wondered if this was some form of punishment, if he’d done something by accident that even his mom, typically the forgiving type, saw fit for consequences. Or, perhaps, it was a test; a plan put in place by Father to determine if he was old enough to walk home by himself, the notion of which made him steel his face and puff out his chest, trying to walk proudly like the soldiers he’d seen on the box at home. This charade didn’t last very long (unfortunately), as a soaked piece of newspaper flew into his face with a wet SMACK, sending him careening backwards; dropping his bag and wildly flailing his arms in an attempt to right himself before falling unceremoniously onto his butt.
Larry would have laughed at him for a good 15 minutes if he were there, he thought, which quelled the fear and shock from such an event. Mrs. Johnson had offered to drive him home when she picked Larry up from after-school care, but he hadn’t yet clocked that his mother wouldn’t show, so refused. He gathered his bearings and scrambled to his feet before continuing the trek, deeply regretting the choice to turn down such a kind offer, cussing to himself before immediately pinching his arm and praying to God to forgive such a misdemeanor.
After roughly half-an-hour of walking, the boy’s legs having since grown tired and dragging behind him with each step, he came into view of the church; a grandiose, ethereal monolith that made him feel rather small. Beside the downtrodden gravel path sat a bright yellow sign that read,
“BEWARE / THE TEMPTATION / OF ALL / HALLOW’S EVE”.
His eyes lit up. He wasn’t home , per se, but he could take a moment to rest in the pews before making the last half-hour to the house. He didn’t mind an excuse to visit the spider who’d recently laid eggs in one of the stained windows, either. With newfound vigor he bolted down the path, kicking up small pebbles and dirt behind him all the way to the double doors, grabbing onto the ornate gold-painted handles and—
That was strange, the doors wouldn’t budge. Normally the church would be open for confessions around then, right? Pressing his ear up to the heavy wooden entrance, he could hear faint, garbled chants and mutterings. While he certainly could have just taken residence at the side of the building from the ever-intensifying downpour, a new source of motivation crept up his back and tugged at his rationale: Curiosity .
Slipping his arms once more through the loops of his backpack, he veered around to the East side where he knew there would be a window with a broken lock; an exploit he’d previously used on several failed attempts to run away from home. He pushed the glass inward as much as his short arms would allow, scrambling up the wall and—with all the grace of a sack of potatoes—tumbling into the building head-first and managing a butchered somersault on the way down,
The nave was completely empty, though a door to the right of Christ’s stone body rested ever-so-slightly ajar, a faint red glow emanating from the opening along with the sounds of prayer and chatter growing louder as he approached. Unfortunately, peeking inside provided no answers, as there was a long staircase waiting temptingly behind the door. He faltered, stepping back a moment and biting his lip. He wasn’t supposed to go into the basement. Father typically kept it under lock and key to avoid this exact thing from happening, but that itching feeling at the base of his skull beckoned him forward.
Hands trembling, he pulled on the brass knob just enough to shimmy inside, tiptoeing down into the ministry's ominous depths while gripping a shifty railing. As he descended, a metallic scent filled his nose and sat uncomfortably in the back of his throat, growing stronger and more nauseating the closer he was to the bottom.
When the seemingly endless staircase finally tapered off into flat ground, the boy found himself in an open hallway, facing a stone archway that led into a room full of black garbs and odd silhouettes. The smell now clawed at his senses and made his gut roil, loud chanting ringing in his ears as his vision spun. An intangible sight sat shifting and warping in front of him; blurry, pulsating, impossible to make out as though a thick wall of running water sat between him and whatever it was.
Mom?
Chapter Text
May, 1994
Teeth gnashing, flesh tearing, bones crunching.
Travis’s entire body jerked and spasmed as he tripped over his feet, crumbling to the floor. He clutched at his neck and then chest, gagging through hoarse breaths of rotting air while the dream fizzled from his memory like a doused campfire. For a moment—and only a moment—he wondered where he was, wide eyes darting about a nearly pitch black room before adjusting enough to see the outlines of a cobweb-laden bookshelf and cracked concrete walls.
Ah , he thought.
The cellar.
An unpleasant place to wake up in, sure, but familiar nonetheless. He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced over at his “bed” (three old rugs stacked on top of each other and a pile of old shirts for a pillow), then down at himself to assess just how far he’d gotten before waking up. He’d made it almost all the way across the room, but supposed he could have been walking in circles for a while.
A lot of people probably would be freaked out if they’d just scared themselves awake. A lot of people, justifiably so, would be curious about what kind of dream could elicit such a reaction and be forgotten about so quickly.
Travis wasn’t a lot of people. This was just part of his routine.
After pushing himself off of the floor he, rather violently, cracked his spine and stretched in every way he knew how, trying and failing to get rid of the dull ache that settled between his shoulder blades. He ran fingers through his hair to make sure there wasn’t a mouse or anything trying to take residence up there—again—before making his way up worn wooden steps and opening the door into a depressingly undecorated vomit-beige (or “sand” as the home depot employee insisted) hallway.
Creeping through the house, he took care not to step on any of the particularly creaky floorboards as not to alert Father. He wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving the basement, not on a school day, but he certainly would for being loud about it, so he stood on his toes and took comically wide steps to avoid making a sound as he made his way to the washroom.
There, on the toilet seat, sat neatly folded clothes as they did every morning following a night in the cellar. A seemingly kind gesture that, for all intents and purposes, was his father’s way of telling him he wasn’t allowed back in the actual bedroom yet. He exhaled, getting himself ready as quickly as he could. By this point he’d become a master of multitasking; combing and styling his hair with his left hand while brushing his teeth with his right, then changing into the newest set of dress shirt and knee-length shorts at a breakneck pace. This left him time to thoroughly clean up the washroom, leaving absolutely no trace of himself behind.
Most teenagers would be doing fuck-all until the last possible fraction-of-a-second before they had to leave for school lest they risk being late, or sleep in until that last moment and scramble around helplessly in their futile attempt to leave on time. Travis, however, left home at roughly 6:30 A.M. with a 30 minute trek to go and nearly an hour more before classes started. As far as he was concerned, waiting outside in the grass and being a little bored was a far better idea than waiting for Father to wake up. He was not, as they say, ‘cruising for a bruising’.
The walk was peaceful. It always was. He pulled his sweater on over his dress shirt, then stuck a cigarette between his lips and cupped a lighter in his hands. The decrepit thing finally worked after a good while flicking the tiny gear. Limping down the sidewalk, he craned his neck up and exhaled a steady stream of white death. It tasted disgusting, sure, but it helped with the stress, pain, and hunger, so at that point he’d consider cancer a mercy-kill compared to the alternative.
A good distance through his walk, Travis felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck, like he was being watched. Stopping in his tracks, he slowly turned to the left, only for his eyes to lock onto a... Woman? She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it and wasn’t too concerned about where he recognized her from—moreso the fact she was staring directly at him. It made his skin crawl. He took a dramatic step sideways to see if her eyes would follow, and they did.
Well, that was creepy.
Travis whirled back around and started to speed walk away from her, glancing back every so often to make sure she wasn’t following him, but just as soon as she’d appeared; she was gone.
That was even creepier.
He shuddered and tapped the ash from the butt of his cigarette, tossing it onto the sidewalk and stepping on it before continuing—at a faster-than-normal pace—to the highschool.
Nothing had been the same since ‘the incident’ . Not only was bologna taken off the lunch menu, but Travis was completely avoiding Sal and anyone remotely associated with him like the plague. Just a day prior he’d almost thrown himself into one of the garbage bins behind the school to narrowly avoid a confrontation with Todd of all people—as if the scrawny ginger had threatened to bite his head off. He had no idea whether or not Sal even told the rest of them about their talk, and frankly didn’t want to know. He’d rather stay as far away from them as possible. Particularly Larry, whom he was certain he’d heard saying something about “ripping that little toothpick’s limbs off”. Not that he didn’t deserve it, of course, but he (quite selfishly) did wish to keep his limbs intact as long as possible.
Every class he shared with one of the five was now spent in a back corner huddled protectively around his notes. He’d keep his eyes trained solely on the chalkboard or his own work, glancing wearily off to the side every so often before snapping his focus back to the topic at hand. At least lunches were easier; Father used his status as a school investor to get him free meals on bologna day, so without any mystery meat to speak of there wasn’t a good reason to be in the cafeteria. He could spend lunch outside, away from everyone and everything else.
He ducked out of the front doors—the courtyard was always far too crowded—and veered left twice, into the little pocket beside the main entrance. Nestling into his now-usual corner with his knees tucked into his chest, Travis pulled a leather-bound notebook and pen from his backpack and started writing.
“Hey,”
He just about jumped out of his skin, eyes bulging as he snapped the notebook shut and whipped his head to the right so fast it smacked into the brick wall. Sucking in through his teeth, he held onto the afflicted area, glaring at the culprit.
“Oh— Shit, Jesus Christ. Are you okay?” Sal asked in a tone he couldn’t pinpoint. Sarcasm?
“Are you making fun of me, asshole!?” His voice cracked a little.
“What? No, oh my god. I’m literally asking if you’re okay.”
“Oh.”
“Did you seriously—Whatever,” he shook his head, gesturing to the grass beside Travis. “Is this spot taken?”
“Fuck off.”
Sal shrugged and plopped himself down, crossing his legs and resting his head in his hand. He did not, in fact, fuck off.
“What are you writing? Er—Drawing? You don’t seem like the drawing type, but I d’nno, maybe you doodle. Can’t judge a book by its cover, y’know?”
Travis squinted and shoved the notebook back into the recesses of his bag, glaring at the other, who (rather unamused with this response) still didn’t seem to want to leave.
“None of your business,” he spat, and Sal’s hands went up defensively.
“Alright, it’s personal, I get it. Chillax. Do you not have a lunch?”
“I thought told you to fuck off.”
“Right, and I thought I asked you if the spot was taken, so I guess we’re both a little confused.”
“We aren’t friends, Fisher. Do you have dementia?”
“Right, no dementia, but we are partners for the english project, so…”
“Pardon me?”
Travis had a look of utter shock and horror plastered across his face at such an earth-shattering discovery. He furrowed his brows, wracking his brain for a possible explanation. Mrs. Packerton loved the boy—favoured him in fact—and typically let him work on group projects alone, why would she—? Oh. Right. She was hit by a car.
He must’ve been so focused on avoiding them he barely registered any of it and, by extension, forgot to ask her replacement to let him work alone.
His ears rung, vision a tad hazy at the prospect of spending any time alone with Sal. He felt like he was about to throw up. Or pass out. Maybe both. Maybe he’d pass out and then throw up, and it would gross Sal out so much he’d beg to partner up with someone else, and—
“Earth to Travis, helloooooo”
He blinked, staring at the hand waving directly in front of him for a split second before his body jerked to the side and his hands shot up in front of his face. Sal’s eyes widened and he backed away, awkwardly scratching his neck while the other wearily scooted back into the usual position.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine .”
“I wasn’t going to, uh—”
“Drop it.”
There was a good moment of silence between them, Travis avoiding eye-contact and Sal fidgeting with his shirt sleeves before continuing.
“Right, um,” clearing his throat, “Well, I have a really shit grade in that class, Todd’s in a different one, and I guess you were Packerton’s favourite for a reason, so …”
“ You did this?”
“No. I mean, yes? Not on purpose. Look, all I asked was to be put with someone who knew what they were doing, and apparently you were that guy.”
Travis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, and exhaled.
“Fine, whatever. It’s too late to change anything now.”
“Great!”
Sal seemed far too okay with all of this. It made Travis dreadfully uncomfortable just how not annoyed he seemed. Christ, he would be angry if he got paired with himself, he wasn’t exactly known for having a welcoming demeanor.
“I’m sorry I punched you,” he blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even thought about what he was saying. His face got hot with embarrassment, particularly at the confused look Sal might have been giving him (it was a little hard to tell with the mask), but continued nonetheless.
“I don’t think I … Explicitly said that. Before. When we, uh, talked.”
“I mean, I figured you were after our little heart-to-heart, but thanks.”
“That— it wasn’t a heart-to-heart.”
“Oh? What was it, then?
“An incident. ”
“Right. Like when you punched me,” Sal teased.
Travis glared back at him, though guilt settled deep in his chest and took root there where it would grow and fester until it consumed him whole.
Monster .
Chapter Text
This was the place, right?
They’d agreed to meet at Sal’s apartment, as Travis’s father didn’t like having guests over on weekends (at least, that’s the excuse he made). He must have looked like utter shit, though, having spent 3 nights now in the cellar and far more without a meal. His stomach growled, and his immediate response was to give it a good punch and tell it to shut up—which obviously didn’t work.
He stood virtually motionless outside of Addison Apartments, staring down at the address Sal had given him a couple days ago. He felt odd, but couldn’t tell if it was hunger or a side effect of having to spend practically a whole day with Fisher. An inexplicable sense of excitement? Maybe? Tugged at his chest, though was immediately stamped out by dread and nervousness upon swinging one of the doors open and facing the wall of buzzers.
Maybe he could just leave. Failing a final english project would only land him around a 75 in the class, which would only get him in—okay, he’d be in a lot of trouble. He swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed on the buzzer labeled, “Fisher, 402”
Ring… Ring… Ring… Cchrrrk.
“Hello? What’s crackalackin’? Who’s there?”
… Who the hell was that? Rather than responding, Travis started to breathe heavily as he felt sweat start to bead at his forehead and his chest tightened horribly. Fuck. Was this the wrong apartment? Was there another Fisher? What did crackalackin’ mea—
“Dad, c’mon, it’s my partner. For the English project.”
“You have an English project? Oh, is it a girl? ARE YOU A GIRL?”
“I told you about it yesterday. Will you let him in?”
He couldn’t even tell what emotions he was feeling at this point. He felt hot, like standing in an oven, barely registering when the second door clicked open and he walked—like a zombie—through it. Shame, embarrassment, and confusion dug themselves into his small intestine and twisted it into painful knots. By the time he blinked back to the present, he was standing in front of Sal’s apartment door. 402. When had he even stepped onto the elevator? He exhaled and swallowed his entire personality, raising his fist and—
“Travis!”
The door swung open, nearly hitting him in the nose. Fortunately, he had the reflexes to avoid such a thing. Unfortunately, these reflexes made him fall on his ass. Right in front of the last person he’d want that to happen in front of. Sal made an odd snorting sound and reached his hand out to help him, but he waved it away and got up himself. The other shrugged, turned around, and beckoned him in with a nonchalant wave.
Oh. Oh, God, his feet wouldn’t move. Why wasn’t he working ? It took a good few seconds of him standing like a complete idiot before he forced himself to move forward.
“Behold, mi casa.”
“... You speak Spanish?
Sal paused for a moment, probably trying to gauge whether he was being sarcastic or genuinely asking a question.
“No”
“Oh.”
“Anyways, make yourself at home. Feel free to sit on the couch while I—”
“Hello, son,” The deep, gravelly voice from earlier was suddenly booming from right in front of Travis as a rather hairy man stepped between the two. He seemed incredibly serious, holding his hand out expectantly.
“Uhm,” The boy stared at his hand, then up at him, then back at the hand. He gulped and reached out to—
“Welcome!” The man grabbed his hand with extreme gusto and shook it hard enough to rattle his brain.
“I’m Henry, Sal’s dad. You could probably tell, though, since we look so alike,” he fluttered his eyelashes while ‘sweeping’ his bald spot.
Travis leaned to the side to look at Sal, who appeared incredibly annoyed at the whole situation, hand covering his mask as he shook his head.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
He tried his best to smile politely, really, but his mouth stretched to an odd position and it looked more like a grimace, though Mr. Fisher didn’t seem to mind—or notice.
“ Sir ? Why, I may just about steal you. Might get me some respect around here,” he winked and patted Sal’s head, “Aaah, I jest. I’m sure Father Phelps wouldn’t want to part wit’cha. Just call me Henry, okay, son?”
“Okay, uh, Henry. Sir.”
He received an eyebrow raise and an awkward smile, as well as a head-pat of his own which he decidedly did not enjoy, but wouldn’t dare risk disrespecting an adult by flinching or moving away.
“Right, well,” Henry clasped his hands together, “I’ll let you two get to work, or whatever you plan on doing, and make some shar-cootah-rayh. ”
Travis was pretty sure that wasn’t an English word. He furrowed his brows and heard Sal let out an audible groan as the larger man made his way into the attached kitchenette.
“I’m sorry about him, he does this every time I have friends over.”
“We’re not—”
“I know, I know, don’t get your panties in a twist. It makes no difference to my dad; if you’re in my apartment, you’re basically my best friend.”
What a strange notion.
Sal turned around and stepped into his bedroom, rustling around and grabbing a few items before returning with arms full with two large books and an overzealous amount of sticky notes.
“Oh— You’re still standing there.”
Travis had not moved from his spot since he’d gotten there. Sal threw himself backwards onto the sofa and patted the spot next to him.
“Dude, you can sit on the couch, it’s not like you’ve got fleas.”
Wait, what? Sal was allowed on the couch? Travis was allowed on the couch?? His eyebrows furrowed even more and he scratched the back of his neck, which Sal seemed to pick up on.
“Uh, you don’t have fleas, right? ‘Cuz I’ve been like, way too close to you if you do.”
“ I don’t have fleas .”
“Okay, then, c’mon,” He patted the couch cushion, “We’ve got Frankensteins to slay”
“Frankenstein was the doctor.”
“Uh, yeah, and he sucked, so let’s kill him.”
It felt like hours had passed, with Travis sitting unbelievably straight next to Sal’s slumped position while both worked away at jotting down notes and slipping them into the appropriate pages of the novel. It felt weird that he was being treated like an actual human being. Wrong, almost. He was fifteen minutes into an extremely passionate rant about the philosophical implications of The Monster when he abruptly stopped to stare at the other. Sal was sitting cross-legged, hunched over, with his head in his hands. He was listening ?
“What? No, don’t stop. I can’t fit this all onto one sticky note but I’m loving the passion.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
The question hung in the air for a good while. Sal sat up straight and tilted his head,
“What do you mean? I’m treating you like anyone else.”
“I don’t deserve this, Sal.”
“What makes you think you don’t deserve basic human decency?”
“I’ve been nothing but awful to you. I hurt you. You could— should —have just asked Ms. Grady for a different partner. Why didn’t you? There are other A students in that class.”
Sal looked down, suddenly avoiding eye contact. Like a guilty child caught stealing from the cookie jar.
“I asked to be your partner, actually.”
“Pardon me?”
“I lied. I knew you’d just run in and force her to change it if I hadn’t, so…”
“I— WHY would you do that!?”
“Because I don’t buy this shit, Travis. I don’t buy your whole ‘we can’t be friends’ schtick, it’s like you’re allergic to human connection. I had never seen that side of you before, in the washroom, and I’ve been trying to reach out but apparently you’ve been to ninja school on the side because it’s like after class you just— poof! Gone! You know Todd told me he saw you run away from him the other day? What the hell is Todd gonna do, sprinkle his gay all over you like fucking pixie dust?”
Sal seemed exasperated. Travis glanced down at his own hands, which at this point were starting to bleed as his nails had broken the skin on his knuckles. He continued to pick at them, absentmindedly.
“I didn’t want to face you. Any of you. I said so many things in that stall that I can’t take back, and I don’t want to go back to how things were before but I— Sal, I can’t be friends with you. We’ll finish this project, graduate, and I’ll work at the church and you’ll probably work at a record store or join a band and we’ll never have to see each other again.”
“Why?”
His eyes widened and he looked up at Sal, who was staring directly into them.
“Excuse me?”
“Why can’t we be friends, Travis? Why not? Is it because of Todd? Because if you’re still hung up on the gay thing then I wholeheartedly agree.”
“No, it’s not that, it was never about that, just … Father, he—”
“WHO WANTS CHARCUTERIEEEEE?”
Both of them practically jumped a foot in the air as Mr. Fisher stepped into the living room holding a big tray of chips, assorted candy, and hot pockets. As far as Travis could tell, that most definitely was not charcuterie, but it did smell good. The man set the tray down on a fold-out table and bowed dramatically, not noticing Travis’s bleeding hands or the clearly distressed state either of them were in, jamming out with headphones connected to an MP3 player blasting Bob Dylan. He wiggled out into his bedroom, shooting them both finger guns before closing the door.
“He’s been like that ever since he started seeing Lisa.”
“Lisa..?”
“Larry’s mom. He’s been flirting with her for a while now and I guess they’ve gone on a few dates, but it’s official now so he’s pretty giddy.”
Sal sighed, shaking his head then turning back to face Travis.
“Where were— Oh. Oh my god? What the fuck happened to your hands— Jesus Christ, dude, ok, um?” Sal looked panicked, much to Travis’s confusion.
“Pardon me? Oh, no, don’t worry about that, it’s just a thing I do sometimes, it’s not that bad.”
It was that bad. He glanced down again and sucked in through his teeth at what could only be described as a massacre. Each scab he’d already had was reopened, his nails still actively dug into the gouges in his knuckles that were gushing blood at this point that—much to his horror and dismay—was dripping onto his pants and the carpet.
His father was going to kill him.
Sal’s father was going to kill him.
“Oh— the carpet— Sal, I’m sorry, I didn’t even—”
“Don’t worry about the fucking carpet! Jesus Christ.” Sal ran out into the washroom, where Travis could hear several things falling and clattering, then sprinted back in with his arms full of first aid supplies. It seemed a little overdramatic.
“Really, I’m fine, Sal, it’s not—”
But his hands were already being grabbed and pulled away from each other. Sal dumped the bowl of candy out onto the tray and speed-walked into the kitchen to fill it with cool water, then practically hurtled himself over the side of the couch to shove Travis’s hands into it. The water turned a cloudy red rather quickly, and Sal was practically panting.
“It’s—”
“Willyoustopsayingit’sfine? ” He hissed.
“Sorry.”
Sal exhaled. Heavily. He was searching Travis’s expression for any hint at what he could possibly have been thinking.
“It’s fine. I used to do the same thing. I mean, not this badly, but I’ve recently been pretty good at keeping it to my shirt sleeves. Why don’t you just pick at your sweater or something, man??”
“I … Don’t want to damage it.”
Sal blinked, but didn’t question it. There were more important things at hand.
“Right, okay. I’ll get this.. Sorted, just keep talking about what you were talking about. What was that about your father? Why does he get to decide who your friends are, exactly?”
“It doesn’t matter why. He’s my Father, and it’s my duty as his son to respect him.”
“And you don’t question that? At all?” Sal gently took his hands out of the bowl, dabbing them lightly with a paper towel and reaching for the plethora of medical supplies on the cushion behind him.
“No. Why would I? He is the authority.”
“Right, well, your father doesn’t control you, Travis. You are your own person, you know.”
“No, I’m not. Everything I do is for my faith. Everything about me must be—”
He hissed in pain.
“Shit, sorry,” Sal dabbed a wet wipe on his knuckles, “It’s rubbing alcohol. I should’ve warned you first, that’s my bad.”
He didn’t look very sorry.
“It—whatever. The point is, friendship is a distraction from that.”
“Look, I know you’re on some righteous journey for the Kingdom of Heaven or whatever, but this, ” Gesturing at Travis, “Doesn’t seem healthy. Why don’t you try hanging out with me? Just once, for real this time. If you hate it and never want to do anything with me again, I’ll leave you alone forever and you can fuck off to.. I don’t know, wine and crackers land.”
“No.”
“For God’s— you know what? You made me do this. You owe me for punching me in the face.”
“I—Excuse me?? I thought you forgave me already.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m taking it back. Hang out with me tomorrow and consider yourself re-forgiven.”
“... Fine,” Travis grumbled, guilt settling in once more.
“ Thank you.”
His hands were wrapped in gauze, a dull throb emanating all the way through both of his forearms. He exhaled and stared down at them, frowning.
“I’m really sorry about the carpet.”
“It’s fine. Gizmo ate a rat once and decided the living room floor would be the best place to throw it up, so it’s seen worse.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah.”
And thus, their work continued. There were no more friendly conversations, no more interruptions; just a thick silence hanging in the air. Nobody touched the ‘charcuterie’.
You’ll only bring him down with you.
Chapter Text
Travis assumed they’d meet up at the apartment again. In fact, he greatly preferred that to the alternative, which was Sal showing up to church and waving him down after mass, running towards him outside of the building with his arms flailing.
He was lucky his father stayed in on Sundays.
“Are you read— woah, dude, you look awful.”
He supposed he did look pretty terrible. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep and his father was not pleased to see that he’d had blood on his clothes the day before. Still, though, he narrowed his eyes and feigned annoyance. He needed to make Sal forget about this delusion of “friendship” before it became a problem.
“If you’re just going to insult me, I’m leaving.”
“Woah, woah, no insulting here, I’m just… Are you okay? Did you fall down the stairs or something?”
“Yeah. Can we stop talking about it now and get this over with?” Travis’s eyes flitted left and right, ensuring there was nobody in the vicinity who might tell Father about his son hanging out with the Fisher boy.
“Fine, fine. You’re so uptight. Wait— you actually fell down the stairs?? Do you need a doctor?”
‘Fell’ wasn’t exactly how he’d describe it.
“No. I don’t.”
The day was going surprisingly well, although Travis would hardly admit it. They stayed out of crowded areas, for the most part, walking around the park and school’s football field, sitting in the grass, just … Talking . Well, Sal talked. Travis responded mainly with a series of grunts and the occasional “mm-hmm”, which he thought would discourage the other but (apparently) only drove the stubbornness up a notch.
At some point, they’d ended up on a bench overlooking the pond, when Sal was interrupted—rather rudely—by one of the most horrible sounds either of them had ever heard, coming from Travis. Or at least, coming from Travis's stomach.
“Dude,” Sal laughed, “What the hell was that ?”
He looked embarrassed, shoulders going up like he was willing himself to grow a shell he could hide in, bandaged hand clutching his lower abdomen.
“Nothing.”
“Are you hungry? There’s a nacho stand nearby, if you want—”
“ No .”
His stomach growled again.
“Okay, clearly you’re hungry.”
Sal was looking increasingly concerned for the boy, likely becoming more aware of the sheer state his body was in, especially in the white dress shirt, rather than his usual baggy sweater.
“I’ll get you some nachos, okay? They’re only like 25 cents.”
Father might just kill him for accepting food from a stranger, but… He didn’t have to know, right? Travis was getting desperate at this point, hunger clawing at him from the inside out like a beast in a cage. He needed something.
“Okay. Fine, just— I’ll pay you back.”
“Dude, it’s a quarter. It’s on me,” Sal chuckled and hopped off of the bench, disappearing into the thin treeline facing downtown.
It felt like hours passed, though it was probably closer to 10 minutes, lengthened by the speed at which his brain was going. Acknowledging it always made it so much worse.
“I’m coming! Hang in there, starving boy!” Sal was sprinting towards him at a not-so-incredible speed, holding two paper bowls of nachos above his head. At least he was pretty sure those were nachos; he wasn’t typically allowed such a luxury.
“I’m not starving,” he responded as soon as Sal plopped back down beside him, “I have a fast metabolism and I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”
“You’re acting pretty dramatic for someone who forgot their breakfast.”
“I also didn’t eat dinner. My pants were completely ruined and I guess they were expensive, so I wasn’t permitted to.”
He wouldn’t admit just how long he’d gone without being allowed a meal, but wasn’t aware that most people weren’t being denied supper for bleeding a little on their clothes. Sal blinked a couple times, trying to think of how to respond to such a thing.
“He… Sorry, you weren’t allowed to eat because you were injured?”
“No, because I stained my pants.”
“Travis, they’re your pants??”
“That he bought.”
“I— oh my God, whatever. Let me just… Uh…”
Sal reached into his bag to pull out an old jacket that had probably been in there for ages, something he’d shoved in there at some point in the spring, when it was freezing in the morning but unbearably hot by noon. It smelled of mildew, but he threw it at Travis because it was all he had.
“Put this on. I am not getting you in trouble again for staining that white shirt.”
Travis raised his eyebrow, “Why would you care if I got in trouble?”
“That would be called basic empathy.”
There was a great pause. A moment of confusion, as Sal treated something decidedly alien to Travis in such a casual way.
“... Thanks,” he mumbled, slipping it over his head. He was used to odd and moldy smells so that didn’t get to him, but he looked rather ridiculous in a sweater that was somehow both too big and too small at the same time.
“I keep forgetting how tall you are,” Sal snorted and finally handed him his nacho bowl, “I guess it makes sense though. Your dad’s a fuckin’ giant”
“I think you’re just short,” Travis responded, in an extremely matter-of-fact tone.
“Well you didn’t have to say it like that !” Sal snickered, playfully poking his shoulder.
“Why not…? You are, it’s not an insult.”
“Eat your nachos, tall boy.”
Travis shrugged, taking one and immediately regretting it as the melted cheese and salsa was proving quite difficult to handle. He had to duck his head under it and lower it into his mouth and still got some of it on his face, but by that point he was far past caring.
Holy shit .
He sat there, staring at the paper bowl for a moment, before rather unceremoniously grabbing a handful and shoving it into his mouth, eating like his life depended on it. He looked like a stray puppy eating its first bowl of kibble. Sal was staring at him, eyes wide, struggling through the instinct to laugh at such an uncharacteristic sight, as he didn’t want Travis to stop.
If he’d known this would happen, he would’ve forced Travis to hang out much sooner.
“You—uh—you good?”
No response. He was too busy eating and probably hadn’t even heard what the other said in the first place. Good lord, he must have been hungry. Or maybe he just really liked nachos. Sal chuckled and turned his face away from Travis’s line of sight, undoing the lower clasps of his mask to (much more calmly, mind you) eat his own portion.
It was a while before Travis had come up for air, and not by choice, but because he’d finished the bowl. His mouth was covered in salsa and cheese, which felt gross, so he quickly reached for a napkin and wiped it off. His face grew redder by the second as the reality of what he’d just done sunk in. He wanted to bury himself under the ground and not come back out until winter. He twiddled his thumbs and stared blankly out at the pond with a look in his eyes like a soldier who’d just returned from battle, wrestling himself mentally for having such an unseemly reaction.
“That was so rude,” he practically wheezed, “I apologize.”
“What?” Sal redid the clasps on his mask before turning to face him again, “No, don’t say that! You just really like nachos, I get it, it’s fine.”
“I didn’t know they’d.. Taste like that,” Travis mumbled, staring down at his hands, “They’re… Uh. Good.”
Understatement of the century right there.
“Wait, you’ve never had nachos before? Seriously?? Wow, you must live under one serious rock.”
“Junk food just isn’t usually at home, I guess.”
That much was true. Travis himself tended to get the bottom-of-the-barrel when it came to food; a diet that could only be compared to that of a poor child during the Great Depression, but his father didn’t exactly indulge in treats either. He often cited them as a form of temptation.
For a good, long while, the two sat in silence. Not heavy silence, like those before, but tranquil. An air of mutual understanding. Travis was the one who broke it, this time.
“I don’t want to be a bad person.”
He pulled off Sal’s mildewy sweater.
“I never did. I was jealous, I guess. I envied you, and I hated that. You guys are so… free . I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to start harassing you, but I guess I thought if I picked out every sin you committed, the envy would stop. It never did, though, so I just kept getting worse .”
He drew in a long, tired breath, and exhaled.
“And then I punched you. I don’t know what happened, I never meant for it to go so far, I just… That’s not an excuse. Sal, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be trying so hard to help me when I’ve proven so many times I don’t deserve it.”
“You know, I would’ve agreed with you a while ago.”
Sal stuffed the sweater back into his bag.
“Really, I would’ve. I don’t care much for bullies. Thing is, most of them would’ve kept beating down on us after having a deep conversation in the bathroom, and wouldn't seem so guilty. Most of them wouldn’t even get to that stage, much less this one.”
He cocked his head to the side, turning completely on the bench and pulling his legs up to face Travis.
“I’m not trying especially hard to help you with anything, I’m just offering you the company you clearly lack. If all it takes for you to be a better person is some human interaction, I’m all for it. I don’t think you’re a bad person, dude, I just think you’ve convinced yourself that’s all you can be.”
There wasn’t a response. Travis couldn’t think of a possible response to such a statement. He swallowed a lump in his throat and picked slightly at the frayed edges of his bandages. His brain felt like it was splitting in two, and yet strangely there was also a sense of calm.
Pathetic. Disgusting. Feed from your trough, lamb, and drink the poison you’ve been so kindly given. There is no salvation waiting for such a creature as yourself, only eternal torment.
Chapter 5
Notes:
!! WARNING !!
This chapter contains graphic violence and depictions of abuse. If you do not want to read that, skip the 2nd half (after the horizontal line break).
Chapter Text
SAL
“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Larry yelled, throwing his hands in the air and pacing back and forth in the treehouse. “ Travis!? ”
“He’s not that bad, Larry.”
“He punched you ! Or are you forgetting that?? He called Ash a bitch and—Todd, fucking Todd! Do you know how much grief he’s caused him!?”
“Okay, first of all? You don’t get to be angry for me. Or Ash, or Todd. I don’t know how they’ll feel about it, but that’s up to them .”
“How do you not see that he’s manipulating you? He’s gonna be all buddy-buddy so you put your guard down and then BOOM! Everything he knows about us is reported back to Father Phelps and his little cult members, and we’re fucked .”
Sal exhaled, looking down. Right, Larry didn’t know about the journal, or about Travis giving him part of it.
“I don’t think he knows about the cult, and I really don’t think the guy is capable of manipulation… I mean, even as a bully, he kinda sucked. Do you think that guy is some kind of mastermind of human psychology?”
“I don’t know, probably! He’s practically his dad’s lap dog, and even if he doesn’t want to right now doesn’t mean he won’t later! It’s crazy suspicious that he just randomly started avoiding us around when we discovered the… Bologna”
Both of them took a hefty moment of uneasy silence, shuddering at the memory of Mrs. Packerton’s freezer and its contents. Sal didn’t want to disrespect Travis’s privacy, so he wasn’t entirely sure how he could clear Trav's name of that coincidence.
“I knew I should’ve told the others first. Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now? You’re accusing him of being in on the bologna thing. He literally only ate those sandwiches! I doubt he’d purposefully chow down on human flesh.”
“Sal, dude, he’s a massive dick! I don’t even know what possessed you to partner up with him in the first place, but it’s gonna end up getting you in some deep shit.”
“I’m not a fucking child, Larry. I can make my own decisions.”
The brunette grumbled, running his hands ‘through’ (more like ‘over’) hair with enough styling gel and hairspray in it to kill a small child. He hit his hand on his thigh repeatedly, huffing before finally throwing himself back onto a beanbag chair and crossing his arms.
“What the fuck is your problem with him, anyway? There’s clearly more to this than him being a dick.”
“...We used to be friends.”
“What?”
Larry huffed, hunching forward.
“We used to be friends. Like, best friends. Back in elementary.”
“Seriously? What the hell happened??”
“I don’t know, he just—like—disappeared for a year, then showed up again and pretended he didn’t know me. It hurt ‘n all but, man, when he started bullying you guys? That was the last straw.”
Sal’s eyes widened and he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. He felt a bit bad, now, for insisting on befriending Travis. He had no idea Larry had a history with the guy, but was equally torn on whether or not he should be trying to patch things up between them.
Travis had changed, right? He seemed to want to, at least. There was no reason he couldn’t figure things out with Larry.
TRAVIS
Travis’s body hit the floor with a loud THUD . He groaned and slowly pushed himself up, swallowing a mouthful of blood as a massive figure stood towering above him. His father crouched down and grabbed him by the jaw, nails digging painfully into his cheeks, then leaned in with lips curled back in disgust at the writhing creature.
Pathetic.
“You,” he spat, “you little rat. ”
Travis whimpered, arms going limp at his sides. Father’s breath smelled like rotten meat.
“You stole from me, didn’t you?”
He could feel the grip tightening, threatening to crush his skull without a second thought, before being dropped and crumpling to the floor.
“ Where did you put it? ” His father snarled, sounding almost inhuman.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re—”
“LIAR.”
A heavy boot crashed thunderously down on the palm of his hand, twisting at the heel as if squashing a bug. Travis heaved, his body jolting and curling in on itself. He let out a guttural sob, snatching it back as soon as the boot rose and cradling the marred thing to his chest.
“You were in my study.”
His father’s voice took on an eerie calmness, though he could hear venom dripping from every word.
“You took something from my study. Where is it ?”
And suddenly, it clicked. The odd writing. The torn page he’d discovered only weeks before. The seemingly meaningless object with a strange aura that, for whatever reason, he’d felt compelled to take to school that day. The page he’d given to Sal.
He sputtered, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. I—I lost it. It blew away, pleas—” SMACK.
Travis’s vision flashed white and a loud ringing sound bore into his good ear like a power drill. He felt weightless if for only a moment, floating serenely downwards before his head hit the floor once again. An impossible force drove itself into his ribcage, followed by a sickening crunch.
He vomited, and the world went black.
“Insolent brat.”
Chapter 6
Notes:
HI SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG UNI'S BEEN KICKING MY ASS. Hopefully the length makes up for it!!!
Chapter Text
School bells are terribly shrill. They have a certain way of worming their way into your ears at just the right angle to rattle your brain. They send every synapse in your body firing off in a futile attempt to get away from the perceived threat, which you’re forced to ignore as you stumble from class-to-class. Then, at the end of the day, you’re finally allowed to listen to that primal instinct and run for the hills.
“Are you avoiding me again?”
The voice came out of nowhere, causing his fight-or-flight to kick in and sending him jerking spastically around only to slam backwards into his locker door. He seriously needed to stop doing that.
Sal stared up at him, expression hard to place through the mask as always. The intense eye-contact was making Travis uncomfortable. Though he hadn’t been intentionally avoiding the other, he probably would have if given the chance. He opened his mouth to give some sort of explanation; a lie, but an explanation nonetheless.
“... Is everything alright, Travis?”
The words sunk like rocks in his stomach. His head was pounding—it had been since Monday—and every so often he felt himself becoming dizzy as though the world itself was trying to throw him off-balance.
Go away. Stop talking to me. I take it back, I do hate you. Leave me alo —
“I’m fine.”
“You look ill , dude.”
“I’m— I was. That’s why I was gone.”
“Oh, shit, alright then. My bad.”
Travis nearly deflated with a sense of relief. Most of the time, his physical state went wholly unnoticed, as he simply wasn’t important enough for people to care all that much. This, of course, seemed to change with Fisher’s sudden insistence to hang out with him. It’s not like he’d never come to school with a concussion before, but it was the first time someone had anything to say about it.
“You feeling well enough to work on that project?”
He’d barely registered that he was on his way to Sal’s apartment until he was there, sitting on the couch again with a strange orange thing curled up beside him and doing what he could only describe as an impression of a broken tractor.
“Dad’s at the office until midnight, so he won’t be harassing you,” Sal chuckled as he dropped their notes from previously on the couch.
“Mine’s, uh…” Travis closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, “business trip. Normally I’m supposed to head home right after school.”
Well, he could only assume his father was on a business trip. The preacher had a habit of leaving without explaining why or when he’d be back, particularly after a bad beating. Either way, he was gone for at least a day, so he wouldn’t know of his son’s transgression.
“Right… Seriously, dude, are you okay?”
“Just a headache,” he mumbled with a sluggish nod, pain burrowing through his skull from the inside out, settling behind his sinuses.
Sal sat down, immediately earning an annoyed huff from the orange creature, which unfurled its massive body and—how on earth did it fit itself into such a small shape?—stretched, shooting its owner a side-eye and an indignant mrrrrp .
A cat. Travis raised his eyebrow at it, was met with giant yellow eyes emptier than space itself.
Mrrrrrp.
“That’s Gizmo,” Sal said absentmindedly, “He was hanging out in my room last time, so he couldn’t join us. He’s the one that keeps throwing rodents up on our carpet.”
“Oh, um.. Okay.”
He felt a tad uncomfortable. He wasn’t allowed pets at home—
A rifle, clutched tightly in small, trembling hands. Something whimpers at the end of the barrel, just out of focus. A strong grip on his shoulder.
‘Shoot it,’ a voice snarls from above.
—and would likely need to lint-roll the hell out of himself before he even stepped through the door. One stray hair may just earn him permanent brain damage. Despite this—in fact, as though it could hear his thoughts—the orange furball lazily slunk over to his lap, turned around in a full circle, and plopped itself down with no hesitation whatsoever.
Smug bastard.
He looked helplessly towards Sal, who shrugged.
“He’s stubborn as a bull, nothing can move him now. You’ll just have to hope he gets off before you have’ta leave.”
Mrrp.
It didn’t take long for Travis to get used to the weight of the cat on his lap, absentmindedly stroking between its ears while writing his notes with uncharacteristic chicken scratch—entirely different from their previous session wherein each word had been thoughtfully scrawled out in an eloquent cursive font. His palms burned each time he gripped the pencil and his head throbbed with fresh agony for every pause to think, and he was pretty sure Sal was starting to figure out he was suffering far more than a head cold.
“Dude, hey, what’s going on with you?” Sal wondered in a gentle tone, making Travis incredibly uncomfortable. He didn’t want, nor did he deserve, pity.
“Nothing, it’s just a cold,” he retorted, avoiding eye-contact.
“Your knuckles should be pretty healed-up by now, shouldn’t they? Were you picking at them again?”
His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back, the hand petting Gizmo faltering—which earned him several insistent headbutts until he continued. He stared at the fresh bandages wrapped around his hands, swallowing bile he hadn’t realised was bubbling up from his throat.
“Yeah, I was,” he lied. He’d been doing that a lot, lately.
A mallet, a splintered wooden board, a thin metal nail with a sickeningly sharp point.
CRACK
“Anyways,” Travis exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically,“Viktor’s death. This solidified the very last connection the Monster had to …”
He continued, flipping the subject back to the book to cloud the other’s attempts at squeezing the truth out of him. He’d let Fisher in already—let his walls down in a pathetic attempt to search for reassurance—and it had altered the course of his life for the rest of the foreseeable future. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Sal’s attention was successfully diverted, though his eyes repeatedly flitted to the side to stare at the other, ensuring he wouldn’t crumble like a piece of old paper and waste away right in that spot.
By the time the two had finished compiling their notes the sun was beginning to set over the horizon, casting a sickeningly orange palette onto the living room. Gizmo finally lept off of Travis’s lap, sauntering over to the middle of the carpet and plopping down with the grace of a sack of flour to groom himself. Travis was beginning to feel the weight of an exhausting day tugging on his eyelids, the decade-old couch cushions enveloping his senses with their siren song, though a soft nudge to his shoulder snapped him out of it.
“Father Phelps is away, right? Are you able to sleep over?”
He let out a shocked coughing noise as his head jerked to the side and his heart rate shifted instantaneously from a lazy drawl to a thunderous, off-rhythm beat.
“...Pardon?”
Sal stood up, stretching his hands above his head and cracking his knuckles.
“You look, like, ridiculously tired. Dad does a lot of overtime, so I have no idea when he’ll be home, but I don’t know if I like the idea of you stumbling home looking like a zombie on sleeping pills.”
Travis opened his mouth to refute Sal’s words, but couldn’t find a suitable argument for such a reasonable concern. He exhaled, shrugging.
“Sure, I guess.”
Father wouldn’t typically be back until noon, if at all, which gave him a pretty solid chance at not getting caught as long as they were at school on time. Besides, he was fairly certain his legs would just give out on him halfway home.
“Plus, we haven’t even had dinner yet. I didn’t realise how late it was!”
Dinner? we ? His hands shot up in surrender.
“No, no. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Pffft, as if you could. We have, like, a billion boxes of Krap Dinner sitting in the cupboard just waiting to be eaten. My dad buys in bulk every time there’s a sale.”
Great, another thing he hadn’t tried. It took a good amount of willpower not to directly ask Sal to provide stale bread and canned soup, as he was more familiar with that sort of meal.
“Krap Dinner? What, uh—”
“ Seriously ?? No nachos OR Krap Dinner? Dude, I know you said you don’t usually eat junk food but this is getting ridiculous.”
Travis shrugged again, embarrassed moreso by the fact there were a lot more foods he’d only ever heard mentioned in passing and not actually tried. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly.
“Father says overindulgence leads way to gluttony, so, uh, we don’t indulge much.”
We wasn’t the word he should’ve used. It was him alone who wasn’t indulging, though he wouldn’t dare accuse the authority of being a hypocrite. Father simply deserved more— earned more—in life than he had in his young age and sinful habits.
Sal squinted one of his eyes in an overdramatic display to make it clear he was raising an eyebrow, then turned and shuffled towards the kitchen.
“Right, then. I’ll make some of that.”
He turned the stove’s gas on and lit a match at the burner, blowing the match out and setting a pot full of water on top. Near perfect silence followed up until the water started to boil. Travis stared wistfully at the flames from his spot on the couch, before eventually sitting up and sauntering over to watch them dance and flicker beneath thick, charcoal-encrusted grates.
“So, Travis,” Sal dumped the noodles into the bubbling pot of water
He shook his head free of his trance, prying his eyes away from the fire and towards his host.
“ … What do you know about bologna day?”
The words coming from Sal’s mask seemed almost unsteady, as if he was ashamed to ask such a question, and yet accusatory. Travis’s eyebrows creased as he searched the boy’s eyes for some kind of intent.
“Uh, I know you guys were being pretty weird the last time we had one, then Mrs. Packerton got hit by a car and they stopped. I just assumed, since she was the meat supplier, they had to stop it.”
A pause.
“... Did you guys run over Mrs. Packerton??” His face twisted with a mix of horror and confusion as he took a half-step away from Sal who, oddly enough, looked relieved at hearing such a ridiculous theory.
“What?? No, dude, obviously not,” Sal laughed, “I was just… Er... Wondering, because your dad funded it and all.”
Something seemed to be bothering him. The mask hid it well, though hints of disgust and solemnity seeped through.
“... Did something else happen with bologna day?”
“No, not much,” Sal said all-too quickly, “we just found out the meat was pretty gross, is all.”
Understatement of the millennium.
“Alright, I guess.”
Sal turned the stove off and strained the noodles in the sink, dumping them back into the pot, pouring a neon orange powder in along with milk and butter, then stirring vigorously. When the contents were mixed, he dumped equal parts into two plastic bowls and set them on the small kitchen table with a fork in each. Bowing, he pulled a chair out for Travis.
Once again, it didn’t take long for the thin boy to start ravenously inhaling the contents of the bowl, using his fork to shovel piles of it into his mouth and barely taking the time to chew. And, once again, shame settled deep in his gut.
“I’m—”
“Chill, it’s all good.”
Sal, like last time, had turned away to eat. The mask never came off entirely, though he seemed determined not to give the other a glimpse at his lower jaw, and Travis was fine with that.
SAL
The next morning hurled itself into existence with all the serenity of a fat pigeon flying into a window. Sal woke up choking through a hoarse whimper, his hand flying up to grab at the right side of his face as his upper body flung forward in his bed. He heaved, exploring taut scar tissue and a torn cheek with his fingers before staring down at his hand.
No blood.
A sigh. The cacophonous sound of his heart drumming in his ears started to dwindle, fading away as his shoulders relaxed. His eye scanned the room before falling on his alarm clock, which hadn’t yet gone off.
4:46 A.M.
He let out a groan and rubbed the good side of his face, twisting his torso and throwing his legs off the side of his mattress. There was no hope of getting any sleep now, so he might as well—
Creeeaaaaak…
His head whipped to the side, heart starting to pound in his chest again as he listened, slowly rolling himself out of bed and pressing his mask to his face with one hand while he did up the straps with the other. He grabbed a bat, which was meant to be a movie prop, from the corner and slowly reached for the door handle.
Creeeeeeaaaaak…
The door flung open and he charged out, nearly tripping over himself when he’d realised who this ‘intruder’ was.
Travis.
Luckily for both of them, Sal managed to careen left before he could deal a devastating blow to Travis’s knees. He took a good moment to catch his breath, then whirled back to face the guilty-looking blonde.
“Dude, what are you doing up so late..?”
He was met with confusion in the form of a cocked eyebrow; An expression Travis seemed to make a lot since starting to hang out with him.
“... What are you doing up?”
“You know what? Touché.”
A mutual understanding, though neither boy knew the other’s reasons and weren’t exactly itching for a conversation about it, that there were incomprehensible monsters lurking behind the shadows of sleep.
They both ended up on the couch for the remainder of the morning until they’d have to leave, with the TV on at a low volume playing the late-night public access channel.
For a moment—and no longer—Sal found himself gazing at Travis’s face in the dim glow; at the divots and rough scar tissue intermittently spattered across his face, which had long since faded to near-invisibility in normal light. He wondered just how many schoolyard fights possibly could have caused so much damage. How devoted one could be to a facade to take in so much scorn and keep acting, and how it must feel to be relieved of such a burden.
There’s something off about him.
Chapter 7
Notes:
I ended up working on this while taking breaks from studying, so I finished it earlier than I thought I would! Enjoy!
CHAPTER WARNINGS: surreal gore and a semi-graphic depiction of vomiting
Chapter Text
Travis gasped as his torso shot upright, elbows-deep in a thick, dark liquid stretching as far as his eyes could see. The sky was pitch black save for swirls of red; colourful painterly strokes he’d normally find ethereal making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. It looked wrong, felt wrong, like he was being watched. His eyes darted around cautiously as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, uneased by the utter absence of sound as he did. No dripping, splashing, nothing. Tentatively, he opened his mouth and attempted to call out.
Hello?
His lips curled around empty air. He felt the word leave his tongue, the phlegm-encrusted croak of a morning voice, and yet nothing came out. Pure silence, heavy and dense and suffocating. He could feel himself breathing heavier, heart beating wildly in his chest, but he couldn’t hear it. He tried again, breath hitching as he did so.
Hello!?
Still nothing. Tears welled up and stung the corners of his eyes. He whipped his head back and forth, eyes bulging out of the sockets as he started wading frantically through the viscous solution under some delusion he’d find an exit hidden somewhere beneath it. Hours passed with him trudging through the hellscape he’d woken up in, starting to lose any semblance of hope. He was starting to slow down, feet dragging lazily behind him until he tripped over one of them. His flailing attempts to right himself did little to help and he fell forward, earning a mouthful of the liquid and reeling back in disgust at the familiar coppery taste.
Blood.
A silent scream tore through his throat as he gagged and coughed and sputtered pathetically, pushing himself up with newfound terror and hundreds of alarm bells sounding off in his head. He nearly fell over again when he looked up.
An unintelligible figure sat perched on a jagged, crooked mound only meters in front of him. He couldn’t move, his body stiff and ice-cold, as though his blood had frozen over. The thing’s form was grotesquely twisted, bones bent in horrifying and unnatural positions, too many contorting limbs jutting from its heap of a body, and hundreds of eyes—black as obsidian—bulging from each crevice. Its skin was paper-thin, pulled taut over disproportionately spaced rolls of sagging fat and lean, wiry muscle that rippled and throbbed with each laborious breath, and covered in oozing baubles of flesh he could only assume were tumours. Its mouth hung open in permanent ecstasy, an infinite supply of blood dripping from rows upon rows of gnarled teeth, trickling down into the red sea below.
He could feel his lungs desperately insisting that the air was thin and oxygen was in short supply. His chest burned, throat tightening as the blood drained from his face.
What are you? He managed to think, unsure of if it could even hear him.
As it turned its head, bones cracking and shifting under pulsating flesh, its biggest eyes—the size of softballs and reflecting a cloudless, starry night sky—staring directly at him.
It lunged forward, stopping mere inches from his face.
He would’ve flinched, jolted, fallen back, something , but he was still frozen in place.
What are We?
Its booming voices echoed painfully in his head, reverberating against the insides of his skull as the cacophony of anguished cries slithered down his spine and clawed at his stomach, drilling into his brain from all angles. Ever-changing symbols were etched into his mind when it spoke.
We are that which sits behind thine eyes; Observer of All Things, Weaver of Dreams. This is Our domain, little lamb, deep within the shadows of Eternity.
His eyes focused up at its stretched and bleeding maw, half expecting to be swallowed whole. Was this hell? Had he died in his sleep? He could feel its hot breath on his face, the rancid smell of blood and rot causing bile to rise in his throat. His gut squirmed and tightened, pupils constricting to mere pinpricks.
Cataclysm oozes from within thee. A scourge on We who have been long forgotten. Thy veins harbour a wickedness that doth not belong there, thine blood reeks of filth.
He could do nothing but watch as its many spindly hands extended towards him, grabbing and tugging at his body. It burned. His skin shifted, squirming, like thousands of maggots had burrowed into it and were wriggling feverishly underneath, feeding on his tainted flesh. He felt it squeeze and pull and tear, felt his bones crack and joints pop. It placed two of its thumbs over his eyes, pressing down, shoving themselves in deeper and deeper until—
His body jerked itself awake, cold air biting at exposed skin as he fell forward onto his hands and knees. He gagged, heaving and retching the watery chunks of yesterday’s meal onto the grass.
Grass?
Staggering upward, he spun around to face an all-too-familiar door. His door. He was outside, covered in dirt and dripping sweat. He’d barely registered the feeling of tears streaming down his face as he shakily pulled himself up to the porch, keeping a death grip on the railing despite the sharp pain in his hands from doing so. He cracked the door open, slipping inside.
Must have been sleepwalking again.
July, 1994
It was impossible to determine just when , exactly, he’d passed the point of no return; when he’d stopped making attempts to push Sal away, or arguing when the word ‘friend’ slipped out. He’d never admit it, not even in confessional, but he’d started to look forward to the days his father would disappear and leave him to fend for himself.
A stone skipped along a concrete river, his foot making contact with it every couple steps as his friend —still an alien word to the boy—kept in pace with him. It would be safe to say Travis had been emboldened by his new companion, no longer putting copious amounts of gel in his hair when Father wasn’t around. Sal skipped a couple feet ahead and spun around to walk backwards, hands stuffed in the pockets of his torn jeans.
“You alright?” He wondered, “You seem distant, today.”
“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just had a weird dream.”
“Oh. You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Alrighty then.”
A few more minutes passed, and Sal started to act reserved and hesitant about something, tilting his head every now and again as if debating with himself on whether or not he should speak.
“If you have something to say, Fisher, say it. You’d think not having a face would make you more subtle.”
“I—wait, seriously? It’s that obvious?”
“Yes, it’s that obvious. Spit it out.”
“Wow. Okay. Uh, did you know Larry?”
Travis stopped in his tracks, scratching the back of his neck as his face contorted into a mix of amusement and confusion before continuing along the path.
“What do you mean ‘did I know Larry’ ? We’ve both lived here our whole lives, of course I know him. Nockfell isn’t known for being the social hub of America”
“No, I mean, like, weren’t you friends with him when you were kids?”
“Not that I can remember,” a shrug, “where is this coming from?”
“He mentioned something a while back. It’s like, half of the reason he doesn’t want you around.”
That felt like a stab to the gut. Travis was already completely aware of everyone’s feelings towards him—or, at least assumed that’s how they felt—but it still stung.
“I don’t know, maybe we were. I don’t recall much from back then, anyways.”
“I mean—are you sure? Can you… I don’t know, try to remember? Maybe if you figure out what happened you can make up with him and—”
“Sal. No. The only reason you put up with me is because you are more stubborn than a rock. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, much less theirs, and they —understandably—probably aren’t going to just offer it up.”
“Well, if one genuine conversation in a public bathroom convinced me, I can’t see why doing that with them wouldn’t help.”
“You’re an exception. A massive fucking exception. Do you think Larry would’ve stayed and listened to me? Ash? Even Todd probably would have left me there, and for good reason. Better yet, if they had stayed they’d still hate me just as much after the fact.”
“Why can’t you just try, man? It wouldn’t hurt! I mean, worst case scenario they still hate you and we all go back to how things already are.”
“No, worst case scenario they still hate me and make you realize that you should, too.”
He stopped again, nails starting to pick at his knuckles. His eyes were glued to the sidewalk, head tilted downwards.
“That’s a selfish reason, I know.”
“Trav, hey…”
“God knows I’d deserve it, but I’ve never had a friend before now and if I lose that I— I know I’m being greedy. I shouldn’t try to force you to stick around.”
Blood was starting to drip from his hands. Sal quickly pried them apart and held Travis by the wrists to avoid another disaster regarding the destructive habit.
“Dude, c’mon. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You should .”
“Too bad, not happening. I love my friends, and it’s understandable if they don’t want to forgive you, but why would I listen to their opinions about you? I know you way better than they do. Besides, you got me my first A in English, so I owe you. I promise I won’t leave”
Travis tugged his wrists away, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Don’t promise that. You’re not under any obligations to me.”
“Right, well I won’t stop obligating myself until you get it through your thick skull that I’m sticking around. I’m like a tumour, and the more you try to cut me out the more hair ‘n teeth I’m gonna grow, buckaroo.”
“... Ew”
“Okay, bad analogy.”
Tumour . Teeth.
Images of undulating growths on marred flesh and needle-like teeth tore through his mind like a bullet. His stomach churned.
“Uh, y’aren’t looking too hot there, buddy. Seriously, you okay? You look like you’re about to blow chunks.”
“I’m fine, just cool it with the tumour talk.”
“Got it.”
Sal clapped him on the shoulder, ushering him to continue their trek.
Ow.
Chapter Text
There she was again, that woman, watching from behind a lamppost across the street. Travis was starting to get fed up. His sleep had been awful—Well, more than usual—recently, recurring nightmares and the terror of waking up in the wrong place plaguing his nights. Maybe if he could properly remember the dreams he’d be able to push them out of his subconscious, but all that seemed to come to mind were vague flashes and sensations that made him feel sick. With nightmares came exhaustion, and with exhaustion came a severe lack in performance according to Father, earning intense scoldings and far worse beatings. With all of this combined, the last thing he needed was her making him more uneasy.
He narrowed his eyes, quickly checking the street for cars before marching across to meet her and hopefully offer up a piece of his mind. She was tall; taller than him (though not by much), with a lean build. She looked to be in her late-twenties or early-thirties, her features unnervingly familiar and resting on a blank face he couldn’t quite read. Though that wasn’t saying much, as he wasn’t exactly skilled in reading people’s emotions. Her eyes followed him as he walked closer, and she backed up a meter or so by the time he’d reached her.
“Who are you?” He demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. He supposed he looked pretty stupid; a scrawny kid with a bruised cheek and baggy pink sweater. Maybe it was a bad idea to have approached someone who could easily curb-stomp him.
“My God,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’re skinnier than I thought you’d be…”
Her voice was lower than he expected, shocking him slightly. He blinked a couple times before shaking his head and furrowing his brows again, trying to come off more intimidating.
“You trying to pick a fight, lady? Are you stalking me or something?”
“You don’t remember me? I guess I have changed quite a bit.”
She spoke so quietly, like she was afraid raising her voice past a certain point would cause a chain reaction that’d bring on the end of the world. Frowning, she nodded to herself and sighed, opening her mouth again before—
“Travis!” Another voice called. Sal. He turned to see the masked interrupter waving him down and sprinting towards them, not even bothering to look both ways before crossing. Not like it was a busy road, but he’d been paranoid ever since Packerton’s death.
He turned to look back at the woman, but she’d already left.
What the fuck?
“Who was that? Your girlfriend?” Sal said in between pants, chuckling and clapping Travis on the shoulder, earning a pained yelp.
“Oh, shit, sorry dude. What happened?”
“I slept funny,” he half-lied. He did sleep funny, but the shoulder was thanks to Father knocking it out of the socket a couple days back. “And she’s not my girlfriend, she’s clearly too old for me.”
“I dunno, maybe she’s just really tired. It’d be a good fit if she was,” a wink, along with several irritatingly gentle arm-nudges.
“She’s been stalking me, I think.”
“Oh.”
Stunned silence, interrupted by Sal clearing his throat awkwardly and patting Travis in the spot he’d nudged earlier.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was actually something, like, bad . Do you know her?”
“I don’t know. She looks familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Something’s just off .”
“Oh, well, um..” Clearing his throat, “I was worried when you didn’t show up at the apartments, and since you don’t have a phone or anything I was on my way to check on you. I’ve got Todd back in my living room, ‘cuz I think he’s the most willing to actually hear you out, and I don’t want to rush you in front of Larry or anything, and—”
He didn’t shut up for a while. The blonde fidgeted with a hangnail while his companion rambled on about nothing in particular.
“Anyways, we should probably go see him. Talking to Todd is basically talking to Neil, since Neil doesn’t actually know you and will take his word for it.”
“Alright, I guess.”
So Sal took his wrist, dragging him back across the street and towards the apartments. They walked in silence for a while, until the other’s shoe nearly made fatal contact with something dark and spindly sitting on the path.
He sprung into action. Sort of. Quickly grabbing Sal by the shoulders, he pulled him back out of the way before a telltale crunch could ruin his day even further. Keeping him at a short distance, Travis crouched down to scoop a large furry spider into his hand.
“Dude, what the—” Sal exclaimed, confused and, above all else, concerned, before he’d registered what was in the other’s palm.
“Sorry, I didn’t want you to kill her.”
“Her??”
The spider sat idle in his hand, barely moving though still alive—he could tell because its legs weren’t curled up. He furrowed his brows.
“Yeah, the males don’t get this big. She’s probably recently molted, too, that’s why she’s not moving around so much.”
Crouching to set the critter down in the grass, he could feel Sal’s eyes boring into his neck. Embarrassment prickled at his cheeks and ears. He should’ve just let it die.
“I had no idea you knew so much about spiders, that’s so cool.”
Cool? Sal thought that was cool ? His face got even hotter at such a thought and he shook his head.
“It’s nothing, they’re just,” scratching his neck as he stood up and faced the other, “I don’t know. They’re ugly, and some of them are venomous so everyone hates them, but they keep to themselves for the most part and they really are helpful with pest control.”
If not for the spiders, the cellar would be overrun with bugs. He had them to thank for his peaceful solitude when locked down there.
“Nah, I get it. I have one in the corner of my room I named Herbert.”
“... Why Herbert?”
“I dunno, it’s just a very neighborly name, and he’s such a good neighbor killing all of the roaches. Now that I think about it, though, it’s probably a she. Herbert’s a pretty big bastard.”
Entering the apartment would have been a more harrowing task, had Sal not practically shoved him inside. He could hear Henry’s keyboard clacking away from the closed office, and Gizmo purring as the redhead on the couch thoroughly patted the sensitive spot above his tail. The Fishers called it ‘bum-pats’, but Travis was thoroughly against such an undignified name for an act as enjoyable as that.
Every signal in his brain was telling him to flee. Run away, get the hell out of that apartment. He’d never expected Todd’s stare to burn holes into his spirit, but alas, even through thick bottle cap glasses, he could feel the vitriol.
He’d practically rehearsed in the mirror for this. Everything he could possibly say had been repeated countless times in his head, even the prospect of getting on his knees and begging for forgiveness. Had it not been for the several wounds and injuries on his legs, he was certain he would’ve right then and there.
“I, um,” he swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn’t budge. He could see Sal slowly making his way into the kitchenette to allow them a small modicum of privacy without leaving them completely alone.
“Sal said you wanted to apologize,” Todd’s eyes seemed to soften at the sight of Travis’s barely-functioning mental state. “That true?”
“I— yes. Yes, I fucked up. With you especially.”
“Well, you never punched me.”
Ouch. A pang of guilt hit him in the stomach like a truck.
“Yeah, but I—I mean I practically blamed you for everything I put everyone through.”
Travis made his way over to the couch, avoiding eye contact like his life depended on it.
“I never really cared that you were gay, Todd. I mean,” he fidgeted with the cross around his neck, “I did believe it was wrong, but I was trying to act like I cared way more than I did, like Father does. I don’t think I’ve actually cared that much for years now. I was just jealous, really.”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah, I mean— honestly, the fact you made so many friends and are still with Neil despite the way people— I —treated you guys. A lot of people would’ve just hid who they were, y’know?”
The word ‘gay’ still stung in his throat. He felt compelled to wash his mouth out, not for Todd’s sake but his own. He was startled to look up and see the other giving him an oddly knowing expression, lined with sympathy.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me or anything. If you hate me, I get it, I just wanted to clear things up.”
“Eh, I don’t really hate people. I didn’t like you, though. I mean, I still don’t like you, but I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to give you a chance. You always sat alone and were constantly grumpy, so you’re obviously just lonely and finding stupid ways to cope with it.”
He didn’t like the stare he was getting. It felt like Morrison was reading between the lines of his soul, like he could easily see more than just loneliness.
“You’re very, uh,”
“Direct?”
“Yeah.”
“I get that a lot. Has Sal told you about the—”
Sal clapped his hands together loudly, interrupting the conversation before it could take a turn. Travis’s eyebrow practically raised off of his forehead.
“That looks like it went well!” He wedged himself between the two. Gizmo rather gracefully stretched his entire giant body out to lay across all three of them, demanding at least one hand from each to shower him with attention.
“Sure,” replied Todd, who leaned over to stare at Travis’s hands scratching Gizmo’s chin.
“What happened to your hands?”
A pause, his eyes flitting around the room and looking for anything to focus on. His hands were still stiff and hurt when he moved them, a strange pain like electricity shooting through his muscles. They weren’t quite holes anymore, but the wounds through his palms had healed into divots of thin skin barely covering the nasty sight underneath, his body desperately trying to fill in the gaps that were left. He swallowed.
“Oh, shit,” Sal interjected, “Yeah, I never noticed those, Are you alright? I guess that would explain your hands being bandaged for, like, a month.”
“There was an accident with a nail gun. Father and I were working on the shed.”
Looks of uncertainty from the both of them. Accidents aren’t typically perfectly centred, where the least damage would be done to the bones or tendons, on both hands. He stared at the floor, hoping they’d just drop the subject.
They did, but obviously hadn’t forgotten about it, opting not to scare the guy away before Todd could get used to him.
“Is your dad gone for the night?”
“Pardon? Yeah, he always is on Sunday nights, why?”
“Maybe you should stay over, again,” Sal seemed more serious than he had been the last time. “Just, uh, so you guys can get to know each other better, y’know? Todd, I’m sure your parents will be okay with it.”
“Yeah,” the redhead retorted, “they’re probably too high to care anyways.”
“Perfect! It’s settled, then.”
Travis couldn’t even object. He wanted to, as his newly erratic sleeping habits weren’t exactly something he wanted either of them to experience, but wasn’t in a position to say no with Morrison there.
“Uh, okay, I guess.”
Sal
He couldn’t stop thinking about those scabs on Travis’s hands. The whole evening he’d felt like his eyes were glued to them, head reeling with possible explanations. Obviously nobody had assumed Kenneth Phelps was a good father; his son was skin and bones and bruises were a common occurrence, but that ? That seemed extreme, didn’t it? He was starting to think that Travis was hiding a lot more than insecurities under that sweater. Worried thoughts whirred around in his head until he’d finally fallen asleep.
This time, he woke to a knock at his bedroom door. He sighed and glanced at the time, his alarm clock blinking in big, red numbers.
5:25
Pinching the bridge of his barely-existent nose, he swung his legs off of the bed and yawned as he lazily pulled his mask on, clipping it shut before opening the door. Todd was standing there, clearly in the same exhausted state and pointing to a gangly silhouette shambling around.
“Travis? Dude, what are you—”
“He can’t hear you,” Todd whispered, “he’s sleepwalking. You know him better than me, how do you deal with this? It’s creeping me out.”
“I don’t know, man, he’s never done this before, at least not here.”
The blonde was mumbling something under his breath. Sal sighed and made his way over, gently putting a hand on his back.
“Trav, buddy, what’s going on?”
Travis grabbed Sal back, gripping his shoulders and staring through him. He could’ve sworn the guy’s pupils were glowing in the moonlight, like an animal’s.
“It’s coming for you,” he groaned almost incoherently, “it knows you, it wants—”
He fell forward, eyes fluttering as he stumbled into Sal and nearly knocked the two over. If he weren’t so light, they would’ve gone tumbling.
“Trav? You alright?”
In his stupor, the other didn’t seem to recognize who was holding him, shoving free and scrambling out of his arms. He wheezed and gasped for air, eyes darting around the room before he seemed to realize where he was.
“It’s okay, dude, you’re okay.”
What the fuck was he talking about? Sal hoped it was just a weird dream.
“I— shit,” Travis muttered, “I hoped that wouldn’t happen.”
“Hoped what wouldn’t happen? What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know. It’s been fucking with my sleep recently, though. Sorry I woke you two up, too.”
“...Do you remember any of it?” Todd interjected.
“No, I never do. It’s driving me fucking insane.”
If it were possible, Sal wouldn’t let Travis go home after witnessing such a thing. Unfortunately, however, they’d picked the one kid with a father that practically ran the town to befriend. They couldn’t do anything, at least nothing short of kidnapping him and moving to another country.
Chapter 9
Summary:
This is the point at which the story will start to heavily deviate from canon events! This is a version of the narrative in which Travis actually integrated into the friend group, so from now on it'll be more of an au than speculative!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
September, 1994
It felt like cotton was stuffed in his ears, muffling the ambient sounds of the room around him as overlapping voices called out, unintelligible behind the mental fog.
“Travis!” Ash called from above. He was dimly aware of her shaking him by the shoulders, holding his upper body. He groaned, squinting at the two other figures above him, the alarm bells in his head having not quite gone off yet. What was he doing ?
He could vaguely remember sitting in Todd’s apartment, Sal and Ash playfully nudging him while shoving a controller into his hands, the booming sound of a Sega Genesis console booting up, and overly cheerful-sounding video game music. Now, he was on the floor. He could feel drool on the corners of his mouth and his muscles ached. Trying to sit up, Sal quickly crouched in front of him and pushed him back down.
“Hey, no, you’re not getting up. What the hell was that, dude?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled back, reaching up to rub his throbbing head while trying to push upwards again.
“You had a seizure, sit the fuck back down while we all figure out whether or not you need to go to the hospital .”
That word sure as hell did something. He scrambled back and threw his hand out, finger up.
“No! No hospitals. I’m fine, see?”
Uneasy expressions all around. Apparently all he could do was deeply concern these people. Maybe that’s why they’d all forgiven him so easily. Pity.
Except Larry, that is.
He sighed and shook his head, his limbs still burning from muscle spasms and being thrashed against the floor.
“It happens a lot. Normally not around you guys, but I didn’t exactly warn you. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being epileptic, man, Jesus,” Sal laughed, “but still, stay down for now. We don’t need you standing up and taking Todd’s menorah with you when you fall over.”
He glanced up at the ceremonial candelabra sitting on a cabinet, letting out a nervous ‘heeeeh’ sound. Not quite laughter, as nobody had been quite blessed enough to hear that from him yet, but something agonizingly wedged between fake and genuine. The mere thought of destroying any of their property made his blood run cold, especially the response their parents might have —harebrained as Todd’s may be.
Speaking of, the redhead slid up next to him. He looked quizzically into Travis’s eyes, far too intensely for comfort.
“Are you not medicated? That looked pretty intense for some flashing colours on a TV, Travis.”
“Now that I think of it,” Ash tapped her chin, “Yeah, my brother’s epileptic and he doesn’t get them nearly this bad.”
Travis inhaled. He reached for a cross around his neck that wasn’t there.
“Sorry!” She held it out for him, “I took it off. I didn’t want you to get it tangled and accidentally choke yourself, or something.”
He took it, clipping it around his neck again before speaking.
“It’s my own fault. I’m being punished for my shortcomings, it would be wrong to combat His plan for me.”
You could probably cut the tension that followed with a knife. Though there was little anger boiling behind the silence, the three standing around him glanced wearily at each other and fidgeted awkwardly. Sometimes they forgot just how different of a background he’d come from, and the teachings that’d been etched into his brain didn’t quite translate well coming from his mouth.
“Not that your brother is being punished,” he quickly corrected, assuming that was the purpose behind their silence, “It’s just, I’m the son of a pastor. I have more responsibilities.”
Once upon a time, he might’ve thought otherwise. Looked her dead in the eye and told her just how immoral her brother must have been. Ash chortled and waved her hand dismissively.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t think you meant it like that.
“Right, but…” Sal scratched the back of his head, “wouldn’t that explain a lot of your memory loss? Isn’t that a side effect or something?”
“I’m not a brain scientist, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“If you can remember .”
“ That was a low blow.”
Fisher snorted, patting his back before helping him up onto his feet, guiding him over to the couch and setting him down. Ash quickly hurled herself into the cushion beside him, followed by Sal in an equally bombastic fashion on the other side and Todd perching neatly on one of the arm rests. Not long ago he would’ve felt suffocated, squeezed between two people he wanted nothing to do with, and yet the warmth radiating off of the two bodies filled him with a strange sense of calm.
Maybe going to hell was worth it, if he could stay like this for a little while longer.
Yet at the same time, the mere thought of that stirred up a guilt that made him want to lock himself in the cellar.
“Larry’s still being pissy,” Ash interrupted his train of thought, “the fuck did you even do to him, man? I get he holds a grudge like crazy but, I mean, come on.”
“I seriously don’t remember.”
He thought back to the attempted apology. The humiliation after having been, essentially, shoved out of the way and stormed off on—in the middle of his rehearsed speech no less. Knitting his brows together, he shook his head.
“But I know it’s been hard enough, so I don’t blame him. I said I would understand if nobody forgave me,” he shrugged, “so I do. He’s got a hell of a good reason without whatever past I had with him.”
Fidgeting with a hole in the leg of his pants, he sighed.
“I still don’t even understand what possessed you three.”
“You’re kind of like a hamster,” she responded almost absentmindedly.
“Excuse me??”
“You’re like a hamster. You bit our fingers a couple times—okay, a lot of times—but it’s because you were being defensive. I’m pretty sure you were a lot more scared of us than we were of you, man. Like, we weren’t going to approach you normally, but if Sal trusts you then I trust you. Plus you kinda look like one when you eat.”
Trust.
That word settled like a beehive in his skull, buzzing fervently as the sickeningly sweet taste of honey seeped into the back of his throat. He swallowed and picked at his hangnails, it took every fibre of his being not to start up another rant about how they shouldn’t be trusting him so easily—or forgiving him. It had been months , and yet still the thought of being treated equally sent off all the wrong signals.
Plus, something about it felt like a lie. He could tell they were keeping something from him, and from the weary glances they often shot each other he had a feeling it was something big. He had no right to question them, though. Not after all he’d done.
After all, he had secrets too.
He nudged Sal’s side, leaning to whisper a request in his ear.
LARRY
He kicked the side of his cabinet, hissing through his teeth and hopping backwards on one leg. Bad idea, Larry, bad idea.
“That prick !” He yelled to himself, pacing around the room as Sanity’s Fall blared from his radio, the guttural vocals only adding to anger that he, himself didn’t quite understand. Part of him nagged ceaselessly for him to forgive the scrawny piece of shit, while another reminded him of the last time they’d spoken amicably; the last words that runt had ever spoken that weren’t laced with vitriol.
“See you tomorrow!”
Just another lie; another person in his life who’d abandoned him, another reminder of better days, before the mornings had begun to bleed into one another and pictures of his father started disappearing, one-by-one, from the walls. And of course they were all hanging out with him, now. They were all leaving him behind, too.
He threw himself on his bed, face-first in his pillow until the faint creak of his bedroom door broke him out of his angry stupor. He snapped up, eyes narrowing. Speak of the fucking devil.
Travis stood awkwardly in the frame, gripping a leather-bound journal in his hands which looked like it’d been cobbled haphazardly back together with glue.
“Sorry. I knocked, but you didn’t answer and I assumed the music meant you were, um.. In. Your mom invited me inside.”
His reaction speed felt inhuman even to him. Within moments the blonde was shoved against a wall and pinned by the neck with his elbow while his leg stuck out to the side and closed the door. He shut the music off before starting his interrogation.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Phelps? I already told you I’m not falling for your bullshit apology.”
Travis shook his head wildly.
“I’m not here to apologize! I swear. It’s just, I found a page for this in Father’s study. I gave it to Sal a while back, but—” he coughed. Larry begrudgingly removed his elbow from the other’s throat.
“Spit it out.”
“Jim Johnson. That’s your dad, right?”
Silence followed as his eyes widened. He felt the floor give out underneath him, his body floating in a void of uncertainty as he grasped through empty space for his words.
“I didn’t read it,” Travis continued, “The whole thing at least, but Father mentioned him when he was asking about the missing page. I know you don’t want anything to do with me, so I wanted to give it to you.”
Larry swallowed. He took the journal in his hands and stared at it, brows furrowing as he thumbed the cover.
“This isn’t some sick joke, is it?”
“I promise you, it isn’t.”
“Yeah, well your promises mean shit all to me. Why wouldn’t Sal mention this?”
“He didn’t say.”
“...When did you give him that page?”
“Back in spring, in the bathroom. You guys were snooping around on bologna day. We had a talk.”
His eyes narrowed, lips curling back in disgust.
“So that’s how you got your grubby little claws in him, is it? A pity party in the bathroom stall? A little cliche, don’t you think? I’m not falling for this shit, I know what you are. People don’t change this quickly. You’re up to something, Phelps.”
“I—”
“Get out of my apartment.”
Travis nodded solemnly, slowly backing out.
“I won’t bother you again.”
His mom stepped in from the living room, watching the blonde leave before turning to smile at him.
"It's been a while since he's been over, hasn't it? Are you two hanging out again?"
He didn't respond.
Notes:
Minor disclaimer: I know Larry seems a bit antagonistic right now. I want to clarify that I am not demonizing him or forcing his character as a point of conflict. He is completely valid in his emotions towards Travis, and while he's being a bit too aggressive to be completely justified, he is not a bad person. The guy is insanely stubborn and we've seen that a lot, so he's going to take longer than the others (who are all pretty kind and gentle people) to come around.
Remember: Kenneth and his eldritch demon pal are literally at fault for everything. If you're going to hate anyone, hate those guys.
Chapter 10
Summary:
Am I releasing this a day after the last chapter? Yeah. Is it currently 1:35 AM where I live? Also yeah. I have a midterm this week and wanted to pump one out before I had to disappear to study, despite the fact I'll literally be free to write again on the weekend. Consider this a bonus chapter, I guess. Sorry if the writing isn't great, I tried to edit it to the best of my abilities but it's so late and I'm a little loopy so I probably missed stuff.
WARNING: EXTREME DEPICTIONS OF ABUSE (aftermath)
Chapter Text
It was raining. The cellar was cold and damp, and it hurt to put any pressure on his ankle. He could see it faintly in the dark room, horribly swollen and shiny with blood. Groaning, he leaned against the wall, watching a growing puddle forming from a leak in the cobblestone as he coughed through a pain like knives in his chest.
Father only seemed to be getting more and more cruel as time went on, as he grew older. He could vaguely remember the face of his brother, a lean and healthy man, who’d stood up to the pastor once before seemingly disappearing with his sisters. He was older than his brother was, when he’d run away.
Something about the face in his memory rang with familiarity, but it quickly burnt out.
“You will never be like that faggot, Travis. Do you understand?” He could remember Father shouting with a bruise forming on his cheek, that he’d wished his mother were there.
His mother. The whore, according to Father, who’d abandoned them. Why did that statement feel like a lie?
He stared at the cross hanging from his neck, a deep-seeded anger boiling up from within. He was beginning to loathe the sight of it, and that scared him. Was Father right about the group that had all but scooped him up into their arms? Were they bad influences?
…Or was he simply realizing, after all these years, that there could have been greener pastures?
Travis was nearly asleep by the time he heard a familiar voice at the window, a whisper echoing off of the basement walls.
“Trav? You in there?”
He scrambled up then let out a strangled cry as he stood on the mangled ankle and collapsed back to the floor. Hacking, groaning, gripping the injury, there was no way the source of the voice hadn’t heard that. He craned his neck and eyes to face the filthy window, the face completely smudged behind dirt but a telltale blue giving away the identity of the trespasser to confirm his worst fears.
Sal.
He could see him scrambling to open the window. All he wanted to do was climb out and take him by the hand and lead him the hell away from that place, but it was no use.
Fisher pushed the glass up, staring down at the crumpled heap that was Travis on the floor, trembling and freshly injured, wallowing in his shame. The smell of mold and filth, not to mention the telltale odor of infection, should have been enough to drive him away.
Yet it didn’t.
Travis had no control over what happened next, his eyes filling with tears that quickly overflowed, choked sobs tumbling from trembling lips as he barely managed to speak.
“Please leave,” he rasped.
Sal didn’t listen. He shimmied his body through the window as quickly as he could without making too much noise and rushed to his friend’s side, pulling the whimpering mess close with no hesitation. It felt warm.
SAL
“Jesus fucking Christ, what happened?”
He wrapped his arms tightly around Travis, nearly shocked to silence when he received the same in return. He knew, all too well, what that level of pain and desperation could do to someone.
“Hey, hey… It’s,” he faltered. It wasn’t alright, was it? That would be fucked up to say.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” the other sobbed, a rough and fractured sound, “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
Shaking his head, Sal quickly stood up, lifting the surprisingly light body with him. It broke his heart to hear the subsequent pained groan, but he had no way of doing anything in this darkness.
“I’m taking you back.”
“No— NO,” Travis yelped and tried to push off of him, gangly legs flailing, but he buried his face in Sal’s shoulder instinctively with a shriek when the swollen foot hit the floor.
“Will you let me help you, you stubborn fuck!?”
Silence. Agonizing, horrible silence. He sighed and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I’m taking you back. You’ll fucking die down here.”
“H-He wouldn’t let me die.”
As if that made it any better. Forced to live with endless torture. He exhaled and slowly set Travis down, wrapping him in his yellow rain-jacket before turning around and hoisting him up by the legs onto his back. He may have been far shorter, but the weight he’d been putting on since starting his new medication added to some of the exercise he’d been doing with Larry, making Travis concerningly easy to lift. At least this way, he couldn’t get an accidental whack to the face.
“Where’s your dad, right now?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long will he be out?”
“...What day is it?”
Jesus. He must’ve had a concussion.
“Monday.”
“He’ll be back on Sunday.”
Sal exhaled, nodding. Kenneth would’ve just left his son there? For a week ?
“I guess we’ll just have to get you back by then.”
If he could, he’d never bring him back. He’d wreak havoc on the piece of shit that did this to him, move back to New Jersey with Travis in tow. But he couldn’t. He recalled Jim’s words, staticy and hardly legible.
Many people will die.
No. He had to stay here. He had to hit this cult where it hurt.
He gently lifted the other through the open window, thankful that there was minimal squeezing involved despite the unfortunate reason for it, and followed shortly afterwards. hoisting Trav up once more, he kicked the window shut before bolting through the rain. The last thing the other needed right now was a cold.
As he ran, he was hyper-aware of the feeling of ribs bumping against his back. Of Travis’s wheezing breath, and an unpleasantly warm liquid trickling down his shoulder alongside the cool rain. By the time they reached the apartments, he was shivering and dripping wet, and Travis was hardly faring better in the cheap raincoat.
“It’ll be alright. We’re here.”
Checking himself in, he stepped over to Addison’s door and knocked a tad aggressively. He muttered an apology when he felt the other recoil slightly.
“Coming~!” He heard from the other end.
“Addison Tea, please.” He said roughly before the mail slot even opened. He could hear shuffling from behind. Travis needed something warm, and fast.
The mug was handed to him through the slot, and he thanked his landlord breathily. Setting Travis down on one of the lobby chairs, he thrust it forward and tipped it back against the other’s lips.
The blonde had barely sipped it before spitting it out rather abruptly, eyes bulging. As if reflexively, he grabbed the tea and poured it into a plant pot.
“Something is wrong with that stuff,” he coughed.
That was almost as concerning as the blood that had just started gushing from Travis’s nose.
“ What? ”
“I don’t know. I’m not drinking that.”
He’d never known Phelps to be picky. Glaring wearily, now, at the empty mug, he nodded and picked him up again to carry him into the elevator.
“I’ll make you some Earl Grey, then.”
He brought Travis into his apartment, past the lumpy old couch, and to his room. Setting him down in the bed, Sal carefully pulled the rain jacket off and nearly dropped it on the floor at the sight.
Normally, the boy was wearing something relatively baggy. He supposed the t-shirt would have been baggy if not for the rain making it cling to his bony body and partially see-through. He looked sickly, to say the least. Disproportionately small for his height, skin looking shrink-wrapped around his ribs. Sal gulped and shook his head.
“I’m going to get some of my dad’s old clothes. You can change into those, okay?”
He didn’t want to think about what they’d all so ignorantly missed. How could they have known it was this bad? This was borderline torture. If not for the fact Kenneth might honestly kill the both of them, he would’ve brought Travis to the nearest hospital. That ankle looked especially bad, likely broken.
TRAVIS
He’d never seen Sal’s room before. Not that he wasn’t allowed inside, of course, just always felt that it was intruding in a private space. The walls were lined with posters, shelves filled with collectables and vinyls. It was frankly overstimulating, especially compared to his room which featured nothing but a depressing-looking crucifix and paint on his walls so old he was sure it contained lead.
He’d been since changed into Henry’s clothes, which felt incredibly awkward, and could hear Sal running around performing what he could only assume were circus acrobatics by the sounds of it. When Fisher barged back into the room, he was breathing heavily and holding a tray with tea and a TV dinner. Luxurious.
Seeing Travis standing must have flipped some kind of switch in his brain, because he immediately set the tray down and picked him up like a plank of wood, placing him back down in the bed.
“Let’s not stand on a broken ankle.”
“I wasn’t putting weight—”
“ Let’s not. ”
“...Okay.”
He felt like such a burden already, and he’d barely spent 30 minutes in the apartment. Why was he in Sal’s bed? Why was he eating their food? He hadn’t even the energy to scarf it down like normal, which seemed to bother Fisher. That made him want to try, but the sharp movement caused him to cry out in pain.
“Fuck, dude! No sudden movements, alright? Shit.”
Sal scooted in next to him, taking the fork from his hands and literally bringing it to his mouth. He did not open it.
“...Sal, you’re not feeding me.”
“Clearly it’s hurting you, so yes, I am. ”
Despite not being able to see the expression, he could sure as hell tell that those blue eyes were burning holes into his own. Obediently, he took an uncertain bite.
“...Are your eyes different colours?”
Oh.
Shit.
Travis coughed, nearly choking on the microwaved asparagus. He’d forgotten about that. The brown contacts he normally wore, both to hide the crimson red on his left side and pale blue on the right, weren’t in because he’d been at home.
“Uh—”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re pretty, is all.”
He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of irony. ‘They’re pretty’, said Sal of all people.
“They’ve been like that since I was born. My left used to be brown, but,” he looked down, shrugging.
“Father says it was a sign from the devil. That I was his spawn, and I had to hide it.”
“Bullshit,” Fisher retorted while unceremoniously poking his lips with a meat-filled fork.
“He says the way I was born was a sure sign, too,” he continued after taking a moment to chew and swallow, “Premature, at 7 months. And I had a cleft palate, too. One of my ears doesn’t even work.”
He was hoping that would be proof enough for Sal to believe him. That he was a bad omen all around. Instead, he shrugged.
“Eh, you were born with it and I got it all later in life. My right eye isn’t even real,” he popped out the concave glass prosthetic, showing it off, “see?”
“...Huh.”
“Wait. Hold on, did you just say you’re half deaf? Do you not have a hearing aid?”
“Nope.”
“...Something about God’s plan, right?”
“Yep.”
“Got it.”
When Travis finally finished the tray, Sal set it aside and slammed a first aid kit down in front of him.
“Now let’s treat this shit.”
Chapter 11
Summary:
“Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Everything hurt. He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, and yet there he was —rotting away under Sal’s covers—the unpleasant weight of the morning settling on top of him as he became increasingly aware of a burning pain coursing through his body. Sitting up, he glanced down at red-stained sheets and the crusted scabs lining his body.
There it was again. Guilt. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to have slept on a comfortable mattress.
It took him a moment to realize his host was sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at him with tired eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Sal croaked, his voice barely legible behind the mask and Travis’s inability to read his lips making the words infinitely harder to make out so early in the morning. After a moment to collect himself and process what was said, he tilted his head.
“Why not?”
“I was worried something would happen. You’re not supposed to fall asleep with a brain injury that bad but you just— Jesus, man.”
Putting his face in his hands, Fisher took a second to draw a shaky breath.
“I couldn’t wake you up. I was fucking scared. And then you started mumbling and it scared the fuck out of me but, at least you were alive. I called Neil. He’s studying nursing and works part-time at a pharmacy, so he can help.”
“I’m… Sorry, can you speak clearer?”
Normally the issues that accompanied one dead ear would’ve muffled a word or two, but Sal was speaking so shakily it was quickly becoming a problem.
“I’m getting you help. That’s all that matters, okay?”
He didn’t have the heart to respond matter-of-factly. That he’d need to remove any gauze or splints before returning at the end of the week. That, likely, he’d have to stuff grime and dirt into his wounds once more to make them appear old and infected. He was vaguely aware of the uncomfortable twinge wrought by necrotic flesh still festering from the night before.
“Hurts,” he mumbled
“I know. I’m sorry, I don’t have any painkillers. Neil will.”
“I think my ankle is broken.”
“Yeah, it… Uh,”
Sal pulled the covers from his mangled foot. It was wrapped messily, albeit tightly, in an ace bandage.
“I tried. We can’t exactly get you a cast, but I think Neil’s bringing a better splint for it. It’ll help until you go back.”
“Father will take me to the hospital.”
“That doesn’t exactly ease my mind, Travis.”
“No,” shaking his head, “he will. He wouldn’t tolerate his son being a cripple.”
The venom laced in his words surprised even himself. Why was he angry ? He’d done something wrong. He was punished for it. He deserved it.
“Trav, why did he do this to you?”
His eyes went distant, flicking over to Sal and staring right through him.
“I have a loose floorboard in my room. I keep things underneath.”
“Things?”
“Music, books. It’s where I kept my copy of Frankenstein, with the original cover. I knew it was wrong, I wouldn’t have hid it if it wasn’t wrong.”
He remembered the way he’d felt the first time flipping through the pages of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece of a novel. The first description of The Monster, the way his 15-year-old self had rolled and gasped and—of all embarrassing things—giggled under his covers while reading in secret. The poetic language and imagery pulling him in, relating to a horrendous beast created of sin. He’d known, even then, he was beyond salvation.
“He found them.”
He couldn’t shake the memory of watching his beloved tomes of olde fiction being thrust into the fire with vigor like no other. Of feeling his life being burned away by flames that transfixed him nonetheless.
“Sal,”
“Yeah?”
“...Do you have a cigarette?”
“No, sorry. My dad quit a while back.”
Sal seemed genuinely apologetic. He reached forward and gripped firmly onto Travis’s hand, rubbing a thumb over the gnarled scar that had finally started to heal more, no longer inciting the usual shot of electric pain that once followed.
“What about this?”
“He… Found out I took the pages from his study.”
Normally, through the holes in Fisher’s mask it was near impossible to read his entire expression. The speed at which his eyes snapped to stare at Travis and the creases in his lids gave away a look of abject horror. Of guilt.
“What!?”
The raise in volume tore through Travis’s skull like a drill bit. He winced and reached up to hold his forehead. Sal quickly collected himself at this and shook his head.
“Sorry, I’m sorry. Travis—Jesus—We could’ve photocopied it? I could have helped you get it back to him, I don’t know what to say. Why wouldn’t you just ask for it back??”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want him to have it. I wasn’t sure why , but it felt weird that he did, you know? Like it belonged elsewhere.”
“And you were willing to let him crucify you?”
Clearly, the other was struggling not to yell again.
“He didn’t crucify me, he just,” rubbing his neck, “it was to the floor . I wasn’t hanging from anything. It’s not like I knew he would do that, he’s been getting… Worse, lately.”
“Jesus, Trav.”
A knock at the apartment door broke the both of them from their conversation. Sal seemed to untense as he got up and left the room to answer it.
A chill ran down Travis’s spine as all sound drained from the room. Instinctually, his eyes turned towards the dark ceiling corner, expecting a shadowy emptiness in its wake. Instead sat a long-necked creature, spine jutting from its back as gangly limbs held it up. Its body was pitch black, stretched out like all of its bones had been broken and the spaces between were filled, and its breath hung heavy as it gasped for air as though slowly suffocating.
“You.”
Its rasping voice oozed from its chest and filled the air with a thick, stinking fog. It turned its grotesquely split head to the side, a beady white eye located near where its ear should be focusing on him as its neck bent and stretched closer.
“Filthy blooded hare. You do not belong here. You reek of your Father’s transgressions.”
“My F—”
The bedroom door opened, and nothing hung from the corner of the room. The stench was gone. There stood Sal and an unfamiliar man with a rather strong build.
“I’m Neil,” the stranger grinned. Travis tried at a polite smile in return, but he likely looked more along the lines of a hostage held at gunpoint, because Neil’s immediately dropped.
“Jesus, Sal,” he continued, “Why isn’t he in the hospital!?”
“It’s complicated, Neil. You’re going to have to trust me, okay?”
“Fuck sake, alright.”
He sat at the edge of the bed and Travis fancied he’d be launched off like from a catapult, judging by the creaking and sheer amount he felt his bottom half sink into the mattress. Compared to being tossed around like a ragdoll, medical attention was a piece of cake. His ‘cast’ consisted of compression bandages, a roll of duct tape, and several thin metal rods to keep it in position. He’d refused to take anything off in front of either of them, so Neil had reluctantly given him instructions for most of the subsequent treatment, based on descriptions he’d supplied.
He found himself repeatedly looking towards the corner. For any sign what he’d seen wasn’t some hallucination; that he wasn’t going insane.
Notes:
SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG HHHH. My mental health has seriously taken a dive due to some unforeseen circumstances. I'm not abandoning this, I'm just tired and depressed.
Chapter 12
Notes:
Longer chapter coming soon, hopefully! I'll aim for 2000+ words for the next one I swear. Depression's STILL been kicking my ass and I have final exams in the next few weeks, but I am getting my groove back a little. Enjoy this extremely wholesome and definitely not at all strange chapter, where NOTHING eldritch happens.
Chapter Text
It had taken a lot of convincing for Sal to switch places with him on the couch. At the very least, now armed with borrowed crutches that were too short and a makeshift ‘cast’, Travis could get around if needed. He felt awful using someone else’s bed. So awful, in fact, he was making the treacherous journey to the laundry room in order to clean Fisher’s bloodied, sweat-soaked sheets.
Without permission, of course. Henry had taken Sal to run errands so he’d immediately jumped on the opportunity to give a little back. On the way down, as the elevator periodically dinged at him —an awful sound, he thought—his eyes kept flicking towards the corner. He couldn’t get that thing’s face out of his mind, and the fact it hadn’t showed up again bothered him even more. At the very least, the nightmares were recurring, but he’d seen that while awake .
Hobbling out of the metal doors, he nearly crashed nose-first into Larry, stopping just short of giving himself another broken bone.
Shit. Why did it have to be Larry?
“What do you think you’re— Oh shit.”
Great, even worse. It took everything in him not to roll his eyes. Why did people suddenly become so much nicer in the face of injury? He wasn’t magically transformed into a toddler, the hurt he’d caused was still caused by him. Larry should still be angry.
“Sorry. Laundry.”
He tried to shoulder past the other, making little success as the Spaniard simply sidestepped back in front of him. Hunched over the crutch, Larry was actually taller than him, not that he wasn’t already getting to that point.
“You’re not getting any of that blood out by throwing it in the machine. You need peroxide.”
“..Okay, thank you for the tip.”
“Why are you doing Sal’s laundry, exactly?”
“Because I bled on it.”
“Riiight. Does he know you’re doing this?”
“You’re not my father. Neither is he.”
“M’kay, but if you get more hurt while I’m around he’s gonna rip me a new asshole.”
“Ew. And Sal won’t know you were around.”
“He did sort of tell me to watch you, so he probably will.”
“Pardon?”
Travis’s eyebrow shot up, his face contorted with confusion and partial concern. Was Fisher trying to put out a hit on him? Why Larry of all people?
“I mean, I was going to stop by. To um,” clearing his throat, “ apologize , but apparently you got your shit rocked and I thought it’d be a bad time.”
“Apologize for what?”
“I mean, I did choke you.”
“I was intruding, you had a right to choke me.”
“Jesus Christ, are you always like this? I’m sorry. I overreacted, and it was nice of you to give me that journal.”
“It really wasn’t. It was your father’s journal, so it belonged to you. Plus, Sal would’ve done it if not for that weird loophole he was talking about.”
“Right, yeah. Still, though, if it were me I would’ve just left and thrown it in a fire or something. I shouldn’t have been so quick to assume you were… Y’know.”
He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Century-old books being tossed into the fireplace like nothing. Embers being coughed out with soot onto his face
“I don’t, actually.”
Larry led him to the dingy laundry machines, loading the sheets for him and rubbing his nose.
“I still haven’t read it.”
“...Pardon? Why not?”
“It’s like, I’ve been holding on to some kind of hope he’d come back. That he didn’t just leave us, and he’s somewhere out there just waiting for the right moment. Then mom started dating Henry, and like, I’m happy for them but I just— it’s like, now it’s all real, you know? My dad is actually gone. And this stupid fucking journal is all I have left of him. If I read it, he really will be gone.”
Thinking back to an old, pink sweater, Travis nodded.
“I think I understand. Sort of.”
He wanted to offer some kind of comfort. Words of wisdom, or advice, but nothing came. Were he a little more naive he might have blurted something meaningless like ‘God has a plan’, but he’d been thinking about that recently.
What plan could a righteous god possibly have for him? For Sal ?
“I’m just not ready,” Larry continued. “Maybe some other time, but I can’t deal with the thought that maybe he wrote about why he’s leaving us behind. I don’t want to know, I just want to remember him before all of that.”
“Oh,”
“Jesus. Sorry, man, I’m dumping all of this on you aren’t I? Can’t really talk to my mom about it, so I guess I’m a bit pent up.”
“No, you’re fine. I know how you feel, I just haven’t gotten to the part where I know how to fix it.”
“Fair enough.”
They spent the rest of the cycle in silence. Sitting there for the hour it took for the machine to wash the sheets, then transferring them to the dryer. A sense of mutual understanding filled the space between them where tension had once lain.
“We should get back to the apartment. Sal will be back soon and if he finds you outside I’m afraid I’ll be made to walk the plank.”
KENNETH
Soon, everything would fall into place. He cracked the tight joints in his neck, chest heaving as he yanked the heavy cover off of a large, pristine mirror that towered far above himself. Over the past decade and a half, he’d found it harder and harder to distinguish where he ended and It began. Gazing into the cloudy reflection, the thing that stared back held none of the same anger or frustration. Perhaps the merging of a mortal mind with that which sat beyond the plane of the living wasn’t quite as straightforward as it seemed.
He coughed, black phlegm spewing from his mouth and dribbling down his discoloured, stubbled chin. As he wiped it off, he glared at the reflection’s piercing red eyes.
“He’s becoming defiant.”
“IT HAS BEEN DEFIANT. YOU ARE BLIND TO ITS REBELLION AND HAVE ALLOWED THE SEED OF DOUBT INSIDE OF IT TO GROW AND FESTER. IF YOU DO NOT ACT, IT WILL BE YOUR UNDOING.”
“He’s weak. His secrecy is nothing more than a mere setback.”
“YOUR EGO SHROUDS YOUR VISION, VESSEL. IT LIED TO YOU, AND YOU STILL HAVE NOT SHOWN IT THE WEAKNESS OF ITS FLESH. IT IS AN ADULT NOW, YES? IT IS READY.”
“He does not deserve to lay his eyes on you. He’s only proven that by lying to me.”
“IT WILL CONTINUE TO LIE. YOU WILL LOSE YOUR GRIP ON YOUR OFFSPRING AS YOU HAVE LOST YOUR GRIP ON THE LAST. IT IS READY.”
His eyes began to burn, ears ringing. Snarling, he gripped the side of his head and forced a nod.
“As you command.”
“IT HARBOURS MY BLOOD. IT WILL DO WELL FOR OUR USE, VESSEL. DO NOT PRETEND YOU DO NOT ENJOY WATCHING IT SQUIRM AND SUFFER. YOU CANNOT DECEIVE WHAT LIVES WITHIN YOU AS YOU HAVE DECEIVED THESE MORTALS.”
“Of course not.”
He bowed, the form under his skin wriggling and squealing with excitement. He wiped thick, viscous liquid from his eyes and pulled the covering back over the mirror, before turning back towards the heavy wooden doors leading to a room of guttural chants and hymns which echoed from the walls in haunting, cacophonous harmony.
The thing inside of him, the thing he’d become , needed to feed.
Chapter 13
Notes:
Ok! So a majority of my exams are over, I had 3 this week (hence not being able to update, but I did warn you guys last chapter so it probably wasn't shocking) but I'm finally done with the hard ones. Still depressed, but that's a given lmao. Anyways, we're getting into the nitty gritty now! Consider this chapter the final official warning, shit's going to get crazy.
(P.S. It is currently 3:30 A.M. and there's a chance what I've written is dogshit. If that is the case, I apologize. Personally I like how this one turned out but it's also too late for me to edit it now because I can feel my eyes trying to force themselves shut as I type this note, so I could be delusional.)
Chapter Text
“You’re going to love her. She’s such a sweetheart, honestly.”
Sal lead him through the hallway, using himself as support since the crutches were so short—Travis had no idea just how stubborn the other was up until that point. It was like ‘no’ wasn’t a word in Fisher’s vocabulary, and sometimes that drove him a little crazy. When they got into the elevator and the fifth floor button was pushed, he started to get a tad suspicious.
“Isn’t the 5th floor under renovation..?”
“P’shyeah, dude, it has been since I got here, that shit is not being finished.”
“....Is your friend homeless?”
Mild concern tumbled through his lips. He knew Sal’s crowd wasn’t exactly normal , per se, but homeless people living in the apartment building weren't exactly on his bingo card.
“No, what?? She’s— uh… Look. I can’t make you promise not to freak out, because that would be unfair since you don’t know what you’re getting into,” the elevator dinged and Travis felt himself being pulled out despite his newfound reluctance, “but I can’t tell you what you’re getting into. Because you’ll think I’m crazy and probably run.. Limp.. away.”
“Sal, that’s an incredibly concerning thing to say. You know that, right? You know how fucking insane that is to say as you’re literally controlling where I’m walking?”
“You’ll be fine . Lanky ass baby.”
Was he about to get stabbed? He felt oddly at peace with that prospect, though didn’t appreciate having been led along as a friend for months before being claimed as the Sally Face Killer’s next victim. He’d prefer not having an emotional connection to his killer.
While he sarcastically toyed with the notion of being murdered by a short boy with, as far as he knew, no face, his suspicions seemed ever-so-slightly more real upon being brought into a dark, dingy old apartment with piss-stained newspapers all over the floor.
Was Sal’s friend a homeless person? Was he about to get stabbed? He’d plan escape routes, but was incredibly self-aware of the fact that any attempt to walk without help would end with a flattened nose and probably a couple less teeth.
Wait, the bathroom? He was practically being dragged at this point, his good foot dug firmly into the floor as Sal marched forward.
“Dude, don’t be afraid, it’s all good. Megan’s chill.”
He was half expecting to come face-to-face with some long-dead woman, sitting in a bathtub full of her own decomposition and mummified with age. A delirious boy making him shake hands with a corpse, lest he risk being turned into the newest victim bait.
Except he didn’t, the bathroom was empty. He raised an eyebrow, about to ask Sal what the hell kind of joke this was when the jittering image of a little girl phased through the fucking bathtub .
He screamed—an embarrassingly pathetic, high pitched squeal—launching himself back with enough force to put a nasty crack in the door’s old, brittle wood. Hissing through his teeth, he groaned and reached back to grip the back of his head as blood seeped into his hair, eyes still locked on the child as she tilted her head at him.
Sal looked confused. Concerned, immediately dropping the gearboy he’d been taking out of his pocket to make sure his friend was okay, but mainly confused.
“Jesus, man! Are you alright? What the hell happened? I haven’t even used the—can you see her?”
His chest was heaving, eyes wild and heart thumping so loudly in his ear he could hardly concentrate on what the other was saying.
“The hell do you mean cAn I sEe heR ? What the FUCK IS THAT!?”
He watched as the ghost—demon??? Folded in on itself, its skin and muscles and bones all disappearing one by one, before re-materializing in a more comprehensible form in the opposite manner.
“Hey, Me—”
“ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS SWEAR AT ME! IT’S RUDE! STOP BRINGING ME POTTY-MOUTHS!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought I’d have more time to prepare him, like I usually do.”
She crossed her arms. Travis felt like he was about to faint, or throw up, or both? Bile rose in his throat which he fought to keep down, the incessant need to be polite and every synapse in his body screaming at him to run waging an all-out war against each other. He could see the world around him melting, warping and pulsating as—
THUNK.
By the time he came to, which wasn’t that long after he’d lost it, Sal was holding his head above the ground and the dead girl was uncomfortably close to his face. He let out a strangled yelp and, once again, flinched away from her.
“You faint funny.”
Normally it took him a good 5-10 minutes to remember what had occurred before a seizure. Her ghastly face and somewhat detached voice brought it back immediately. The other tried to put a hand on his shoulder and received a pretty hard swat in retaliation.
“What. Is. Happening. ”
“I swear to god, I was going to warn you.”
“THAT IS NOT AN ANSWER.”
Sal cleared his throat.
“Megan, this is Travis. Travis, Megan. She’s a ghost, she was… turned into a ghost in 1987 by her father.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and stretched one of her eyelids down.
“She also doesn’t like swearing very much, or when people scream and seize at the sight of her, though I admit the second one is a first.”
Travis swallowed, watching her uneasily before steeling his face and thrusting a hand towards her. A limp, clammy, trembling hand, but a hand nonetheless.
“...Dude, she can’t—”
She took his hand, then gasped and smiled so wide he could see her gums.
“Can’t what?”
“Shake.. Hands??”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking between the eager corpse now enthusiastically yanking his hand up and down with both of hers and Sal, who—in spite of a mask covering the majority of his face—looked utterly dumbfounded.
“Have you never tried to touch her?”
“Obviously I have. What the fuck, man?”
“SALLY!”
“Sorry, sorry Meg. He deserves it though, for saying it to you earlier.”
“Hmmm.. Okay!”
“Wow, okay asshole,” Travis grumbled at the remark.
“LANGUAAAGE!”
“My apologies.”
He watched as Fisher reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, just in case, and it phased through. Fear turned to intrigue turned to fear, again.
“Wait, am I dead? ”
“What?? No, obviously you’re not dead. I can still touch you.”
“Am I going to die?”
“I—crap, okay, that’s a good question. Hopefully not. I don’t think it works that way, though”
When Megan finally dropped his arm, he brought it closer to him and stared. In less than 30 minutes the boy had learned more about himself and the afterlife than he ever had from his father.
They sat at the edge of the roof, Travis’s gaze pointed downwards at the street below. Staring at the makeshift boot Neil had made for him, he frowned. Honestly, he felt like he was going to cry, swallowing back a torrent of emotions before they could get the best of him.
“I don’t want to go back home tomorrow, Sal.”
He felt a hand on his, a gesture he almost melted into before pulling it away.
“Really? I thought the whole Megan fiasco would’ve put you off of staying here any longer.”
It was pretty obvious Sal didn’t want that either, voice trembling slightly and eyes turned to look anywhere but at him.
Megan was a sweet kid. She’d talked for hours about her favourite animals and seemed a bit sad when they’d had to leave. If it weren’t for the hunger gnawing at his stomach he would’ve insisted they stayed, but he’d already been doing that for hours and was starting to look pale by the time he was dragged back off.
“I like her,”
“I’m glad you do. Is your head okay?”
“It’ll be fine, yeah. I already have a concussion, not like it can get much worse.”
“I mean, it can , that’s why I need to make sure you didn’t just give yourself brain damage.”
“It’s alright. The door was really old, and termites probably weakened it a lot anyways.”
“Okay.”
He pulled out a pack of marlboros and a matchbox, propping the cigarette in his mouth as he struck a match and lit it, then held the match out in front of him.
“Trav?”
No response. His eyes glossed over, flame dancing in his vision. It was mesmerizing, up until the point it burned his fingers and Sal quickly blew it out.
“Uh, Trav??”
“Hm?”
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
SAL
He’d never noticed it before, probably thanks to the contacts, but Travis’s eyes were beautiful in an almost otherworldly way. As the sun set over the horizon and the sky darkened, he was acutely aware of the strange way in which Phelps’s pupils seemed to glow in the absence of light. He’d seen that already, sure, but after the day’s strange events he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was dreadfully off about his new friend; something beyond the unfortunate home life and odd habits. As smoke curled around sullen his face in long, creeping tendrils, Sal couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever actually seen the boy smile. Perhaps that would be his next goal. If he couldn’t swoop in to save the day, pull him away from that sad excuse of a man, he could at least incite a little joy.
???
She struggled against her bindings, eyes bulging as countless robed figures closed in around her, chanting in some unrecognizable language. Falling onto her side, she jerked and flailed in some attempt to loosen the ropes tied so tightly around her wrists that she could feel her hands going numb. Her cheek scraped against the floor, stinging as her blood painted the stone a crimson red.
A taller figure stepped closer, its cloak writhing unnaturally as it pulled its ornate mask off to reveal the sunken face of an older man, looking roughly in his 70s, with near-grey skin that appeared to squirm and wriggle as though it had a life of its own. He reached down with a gnarled hand, his nails yellow and curled into canine-esque talons, grabbing her by the hair and lifting her up.
“ Please ,” she sobbed, “I have children. Two little boys. I—I can show them to you, they don’t have a f—”
“Do not fret, little one. Your progeny are safe with us.”
He had such a horrible voice. A mix of low, snarling tones overlapping one another bore into her ears when he spoke.
“They’re here…? Where are they—W-What have you done to them!?”
“Do you wish to see them?”
“Please—Please,” she was shaking her head wildly, voice hoarse as she begged, hair still gripped tightly in his hand. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
He leaned in, blood-red eyes rolling back in his head as he took a long, deep breath in through his nose.
“HERETIC.”
He screeched; a high pitched, inhuman sound. The robed figures around her roared and chanted with newfound gusto as the man in front of her became something else entirely. She watched, frozen, as whatever was wriggling under his skin burst out through his mouth, his bones cracking and repositioning themselves as an oozing black substance slowly engulfed his entire body. His face elongated, teeth growing sharper and curling out around his newly formed maw, his body massive and barely hidden by his robes, dripping with the ooze that had possessed him, which trickled down her face and onto the floor.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. She was only able to watch in abject horror as the creature’s jaw cracked open, a gurgling sound like a clogged drain emanating from its throat. Its eyes were massive and red, piercing hers with a gaze that instilled flashing imagery of death, rot, and decomposition in her head. It took a staggering, weighty step forward, its claws scraping against the stone floor, before lunging at her with its mouth still open.
Chapter 14
Summary:
Ok, so, I did delete the last two chapters. I don't know if anyone liked them, but I personally didn't and honestly rushed into wayyyy too much. I was dealing with a lot of stress (I had just flown home from university and had some pretty nasty exams), so I didn't really think ahead much. It made my writing lack in both substance and skill.
If you read them, no you didn't. Chances are I'll refurbish them and they'll end up being used later on, but I want to write a lot more in-between stuff before I do any of that! Also, enjoy some ToddxNeil fluff :]
Chapter Text
August, 1995
It was strange how easily things fell into a sense of normalcy, again.
Travis stared at Todd and Neil practically stuck to one another on their new—almost new—porch. They’d been planning to move in together as soon as Todd got out of high school. With the redhead’s personal business fixing computers and phones, Neil’s job at the pharmacy, and Sal’s offer to move in with them, it wasn’t long before they’d discovered an affordable 2-story house for rent not too far away. The application had gone through and shortly after they were graciously accepted by an extremely flamboyant 60-something landlord, who always seemed to be wearing a silk robe and holding a martini.
For whatever reason, they’d asked him to help move their things. Travis. The least fit person any of the group knew. He pried his eyes away from the two and focused on trying to lift a microwave, straining comically and face going redder than a beet. Neil quickly jogged over and picked it up, resting it on his bicep and holding it there with one hand while clapping Travis’s shoulder with the other.
“You good, li’l buddy? You don’t have to lift such heavy shit, my guy.”
He probably should’ve hated that nickname, but coming from Douglas it felt like a compliment.
“You guys asked me to help you move, and I’ve barely helped with anything . Why did you even invite me here?”
It was getting hard not to feel insecure about his gaunt frame, which admittedly made his fuse a bit short, among other things. He shook his head and sighed. Even Todd had bulked up quite a bit since his graduation, being a year younger than his partner, and for some reason he kept calling himself a ‘bear’? Whatever that meant.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m glad you invited me, it’s just… Hard not to feel useless.”
Neil smiled.
“It’s all good, bud. Actually, we pulled your tail a little on this one.”
“I don’t have a tail.”
“Figure of speech. We wanted to talk to you.”
Shit.
“Look, guys, if this is about me not coming to that parade—”
“It’s not, it’s not. You’re fine, Trav, we get your dad’s strict.”
Not to mention the feeling of shame gripping his stomach every time the subject came up. He forced a smile, admittedly making himself look far more suspicious, considering he never smiled and was terrible at faking it anyhow.
He wasn’t expecting Todd’s sweaty, clammy hand to brush his neck. He jolted forward and nearly walloped the poor man.
“Shit! Sorry! I was try’na warn you I was coming up from behind.”
He was starting to feel rather cornered.
“You know you can talk to us about anything, Travis,” Morrison said with his unnervingly friendly grin. Maybe it was just him, but something about the harmlessness behind that smile gave him the creeps.
“Right,” Neil continued, “like if there’s anyone you’ve set your sights on.”
…What?
“What does that mean, exactly”
“You know, like,”
He followed them as they carried their boxes—and the offending microwave—into the house.
“ Romantically ”
The two seemed to share a mischievous, knowing look with each other. Travis’s eyebrow shot up and just as well could’ve flown off of his face.
“ Excuse me?”
“Seriously. Anyone at all. Girl or guy. Your secrets are safe with us.”
“... I’m not attracted to men.”
“Yeah! Yeah, no, of course,” Todd quickly interjected, nudging between him and Neil, “just, if you happened to meet someone, feel free to let us know.”
He squinted. Hard . If he hadn’t known any better, he’d think they were trying to get him to admit to something rather specific. Huffing, he set the small box of miscellaneous tech he was able to carry aside.
“Is that all you brought me here for? We could’ve had this conversation over coffee or something.”
“Actually, we wanted to show you the basement!”
Travis froze. He felt his chest tighten and whipped his head towards them, only to see the two casually walking down the stairs.
Shit. He knew it. None of them had actually forgiven him. They’d lock him down there and never look back. He’d live the rest of his life being fed cat food and—
“You coming?” Neil interrupted his train of thought.
“...Uhh…”
“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a thing about basements too, right? It’s all good, the lights are on and there are no exposed wires. Also, we have a sick couch Sal’s pa already helped us move with his truck.”
A couch? In the basement? What about the chains and an evil-looking furnace? What about the rats ? He wasn’t halfway through the list when Neil hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him down.
Fully prepared to be caged like an animal, when he was set back onto solid ground he spun to face the… Rather peaceful looking space, actually. Huh.
“Told you. Anyways, Sal mentioned you might want a place to hole up every once in a while. It’s no paradise, but if you ever need a place to stay we’ll give you the keys to the door down here. We’re going to keep the other door—the one to the hallway—locked, just in case you lose it and someone feels like robbing us or anything. If it’s daytime, just knock and one of us will unlock it for you, okay?”
He could cry.
He felt like he was going to cry.
“...Are… Are you guys sure about this?”
“Yeah, dude! Of course.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t have to say anything, buddy. We’re here for you.”
The sentiment was almost enough to make up for the feeling of Todd’s still-sweaty hand rested uncomfortably on his shoulder. Felt like a wet sausage.
“God, seriously?” Sal shook his head. “Are you okay ?”
“I’ll be fine, I’ve dealt with worse.”
Pulling his sleeve back over the burn on his arm, Travis exhaled.
“...You know I can’t stay , Sal.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“I mean, I would if I could, but—”
“Listen, the basement is just in case you need to hang out for a while. It’s a hell of a lot closer to your place than the apartments and with that new walkie talkie I can always help to hoist you out of a window if you need. Just when your dad’s away, okay?”
“It’s getting a lot more frequent.”
“Exactly!”
He knew Sal was pretty happy with such a development, but… Travis sighed. He shook his head.
“That’s the problem, Sal. I don’t know if it’s such a good thing. I mean, with what you told me about the cult, doesn’t that mean something bad is going to happen?”
“Probably, but we can’t spend all of our time worrying about that shit. Ash barely convinced herself to take a gap year for investigating, you know? We still have lives. Yours still matters.”
Debatable.
“...Sure, I guess. It’s still worrying me.”
“I can tell. Stop picking at your knuckles.”
He glanced down and pried his hands away from each other before he could do more damage to them. The moon sat just over the horizon and shone her ghostly light down upon them, and a couple sat below, wrapped in each other’s arms in a blanket and drinking beer on the porch. He wondered if they were too enthralled in each other’s gaze to even care about the conversation above.
“They’re so happy.”
“Hm?”
“Todd and Neil. They’re so happy together. It’s strange”
“It’s hard not to feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but at the same time you’re insanely jealous that anyone could be that in love and it’s not you?”
“...Not really. It’s just strange.”
“Okay, this isn’t about—”
“ No . God, no. It’s just that in the little I can even remember about mom, she was usually arguing with my father. I don’t actually think I’ve ever seen a healthy relationship before.”
“Christ, Travis. That’s depressing .”
“Shit. Apologies.”
Sal laughed, clapping him on the back so hard he thought he was about to fall off of the roof.
“I’m fuckin wit’ya. You’re fine, chillax.”
TODD
“You’re getting it too, right?”
Neil snickered into his curly hair, making shushing sounds.
“Yes, yes . My god he does an awful job hiding it.”
“It’s just crazy that both of them are so oblivious.”
Todd took a long swig from his can of ButtLite, shaking his head with a smile.
“We were the same, though. Granted we were kids , but,” a snort, “it’s definitely a lot more obvious from the outside. Maybe our experience makes it easier to see.”
"True, true. It's still so frustrating, though."
He was happy. He was so happy to finally be out of that apartment. Not that he didn’t love his parents, of course, but he’d practically raised himself while they kept themselves self-medicated and thoroughly stoned. Often he found himself wondering if his dad saw Larry as more of a son than he.
And yet, none of that seemed to matter anymore. He laid in the arms of a man he’d latch onto for a million years, if he could. Finally, they had their own place. No more sneaking around, or discrete work-visits, or eating dinner at restaurants and hoping nobody clocked the romantic tension between them. He sighed.
This is where he wanted to be.
“I love you.”
“Love you too, nerd.”
Chapter 15
Summary:
Holy shit I might be on a roll here ngl. Writing motivation hit me like a truck ig, behold chapter 15 a mere day (well, 2 days but it's midnight so that doesn't count as an extra day) after the last one! And it's not even a continuation!
CHAPTER WARNING: THE TOPIC OF SUICIDE IS HEAVILY FEATURED IN THE 2ND HALF. You don't have to read it if you're not okay with that!
If anyone reading this is struggling with suicidal thoughts or anything of the like, I implore you to call someone (a friend, a helpline, anyone). You are not alone, my friend, I've been there and it's not pretty. I know it's cliche, but it does get better even if sometimes it gets worse before then. Just in case anyone needed to hear it: I'm proud of you. Genuinely.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Mazel Tov!” Todd whooped, popping a cork and pouring cheap wine into various plastic cups (and a couple of ridiculous mugs. The kind with cheesy writing on them). Travis awkwardly held his up and ‘cheers’d with the rest of them, though his and Sal’s were filled with drool-aid, and took a swig. The awkward closeness of the event left him sweating and a tad overstimulated, his vision occasionally moving out of focus and his ears ringing to pick up the sound of his heart thundering in his chest.
“You alright?” Ash whispered into his ear, dragging him a couple of feet away from the group.
“I —Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I’m not used to this kind of excitement.”
“It’s alright,” she nudged him and gestured at Todd practically glued to his partner. “Todd’s the same. Doesn’t do well with noise.”
“But he—”
“Yeah, he did it more for our sake than his. Plus, it’s different when you’re the one yelling.”
“I guess.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifted his weight to one side and leaned against the wall.
“...What is this, again?”
“Housewarming party! Normal people, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, usually throw little parties when they move into a new place. Since we’re not in an apartment or condo… Weeee can get as rowdy as we want.”
“Well,” Sal interjected, “as rowdy as everyone is comfortable with. Let me know if anything’s too much, buddy.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to halt any of your, uh, warm house thing for my sake. I’m fine.”
“Dude, none of us want to see you have another seizure. Not after the whole arcade debacle.”
“Again, I apologize for the arcade thing. I didn’t know it’d be that flashy.”
“And, uh-gain , I’m telling you to stop apologizing for being epileptic.”
Rather than let him respond, Sal placed a finger curtly over his mouth before disappearing back into the growing circle around a pile of board games. Always had to have the last word.
“...Don’t even.” He interrupted Ash.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were going to. Don’t.”
She snorted, reaching up and ruffling his hair.
“Fiiine~”
Their conversation tapered off, the two standing quietly together for a while while the music —not too loud, but not what he would describe as quiet—filled the silence.
♫ Dancing queen, young and free… ♫
Probably Neil’s song-choice. He loved ABBA to an unhealthy degree, and was throwing his head around while lip-syncing quite dramatically. Despite the rather chaotic display, it was weirdly calming to see someone still capable of having so much fun with so little.
He found himself locking eyes with Larry, who stood off to the side and watched everyone else with a strangely solemn look on his face. He seemed tired. Drained. An expression Travis was all-too familiar with.
They didn’t get along very well. Although they’d made up, and could stomach being in the same room now, Johnson wasn’t quite ready to completely let go of whatever grudge he’d had. Travis often found himself the butt of some joke, or punchline, or prank that didn’t seem too lighthearted. He rarely complained, though. Didn’t want to put any more strain on the guy’s friendship with Sal.
Prying his gaze from Larry’s stony look, he turned back towards Ash.
“Hey, I heard about you and Sal. I, uh… I’m Sorry.”
“Hm? Oh. No big deal, man. Honestly, I think both of us realized it was a lot less awkward if we just stayed friends, you know? It was pretty mutual. Plus, I’m the only girl in a group full of guys and I end up in a relationship with one of them? Cliche, much? Stephen King called, he wants his overused horror trope back.”
Travis raised his eyebrow, gesturing to the grey-haired girl he’d never talked to before. She was twirling her sideswept bangs with her finger and deeply enthralled in a conversation with another person he hardly knew, except that one had green hair.
“What about, uh, her?”
“Maple? I mean, yeah, she’s our friend, but she’s got no idea about the cult or anything. I mean in terms of the Ghost Nabbers.”
“...Why do you call yourselves that? ”
“Dude. You are SO uncultured. Did you grow up under a rock??”
“Sal asks me that same question all the t—”
“GUYS! TRAVIOLI HERE’S NEVER SEEN GHOSTNABBERS!”
He could’ve sworn he heard a record scratch as the house went silent. Everyone was staring at him, and he felt like he could shrink into himself. Found himself wishing he was a turtle that could simply back up into his shell to escape the pandemonium.
Wait, what did she just call him?
Before he knew it, he was squished between Sal and Ash on the couch, Todd sitting on one end with Neil on the armrest, and Maple at the other. It was dreadfully uncomfortable. He gripped tightly onto his jeans and stared blankly ahead at the black TV screen while Larry rewound a VHS and stuck it into the player with that same unplaceable expression on his face.
Sal glanced down at his white-knuckled grip on his knees, apparently realizing he was not comfortable, and threw an arm over his shoulder to serve as a sort of space-barrier for everyone else. Sure, it made Travis feel less suffocated, but it also caused inexplicable feelings of heat and nausea to wash over him.
He barely paid attention to the movie, laser-focused on not moving too much, or breathing too much, or making any sound whatsoever.
“You good?”
“mm.”
“Warm?”
“....mm.”
“‘Cuz you’re real sweaty, man.”
He wouldn’t admit it —not to Sal or anyone else—but it had gotten a hell of a lot worse. The beatings, the dreams, the things he kept seeing, the buzzing in his head and whirring behind his eyes. Wiping hair from his face, he stuck one of his trusty cigarettes between his lips and, with a click of a lighter, took a deep breath in.
Soon as he was sure Sal wasn’t following (not that he usually did, just a speck of paranoia on Travis’s end), he let his foot fall heavy and drag slightly behind him with each step, hobbling unevenly down the barren sidewalk with nothing to accompany him but the wistful chirping of crickets and an occasional fluttering of firefly wings as one of the luminous insects sped in front of him. It almost fooled him into thinking it might’ve been a peaceful night.
Honestly, he hadn’t an inkling of an idea why he was at the apartments. The building made him feel sick as it was, and he had no reason to be there. Just a sneaking suspicion—a gut feeling, and not a subtle one. Something curled up inside of him and pulled at his nerves; it clawed and bit and used his limbs like a mechanical suit, pushing him in whichever direction it wished for him to go. Heavy footfalls fell silent as he stood under a lit treehouse, his head cocking to the side.
Why would anyone be in there? It was 3 in the morning. Maybe they’d forgotten to turn the lights off.
Climbing the ladder, he poked his head up into the treehouse and nearly fell back down at the scene lain out before him:
A rope, a stool, and—
“Larry!?”
The brunette tripped off of the stool and smacked his head on the floor, recoiling and gripping his nose with a sullen moan and hissing, wheezing breaths. He looked awful, and that was saying something coming from him. Blood poured from his crooked nose, flowing angrily down his mouth and chin to drip onto the floor below. His eyes were bloodshot, eyeliner he'd worn to the party smudged and trailing down his face, and he smelled like he hadn't showered in at least a week, which hadn't been as noticeable before in the crowd.
“Fuck—FUCK WHO—Travis??”
He scrambled through the entrance, hands up to signify he meant no harm.
“Is—Are you—”
What, okay? Obviously-fucking- not . He stumbled over his words for a good minute and settled for crouching down beside Larry instead, eyebrows knitted with concern.
“What the hell are you—”
“That’s pretty fucking obvious, isn’t it?”
Helping the larger man up, he gently pressed him down onto the beanbag chair and made quick work of untying the rope.
“Is there someone you’d rather… I’m not exactly good at this kind of stuff. I can call someone who is, maybe?.”
“If I wanted to talk to anyone I wouldn’t be trying to hang myself.”
“I—yeah. Right.”
Their conversation—what little there was, anyhow—quickly faded into a heavy, noxious silence. Travis swallowed and scratched the back of his neck, untying the rest of the noose and glancing every so often at his…Whatever Larry was to him. ‘Friend’ seemed to be wishful thinking.
“Why didn’t you… I mean, what about Sal?”
“Sal fucking hates me,” Larry’s voice cracked. “I made sure of that, didn’t I?”
“Wh—” shaking his head, “I mean, pardon ? No he doesn’t.”
“Oh? Well ever since you came along, he barely talks to me. Do you know how badly I wanted a brother? How much—how much Sal means to me? And now he fucking—”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“He does. It’s not even your fault, either. I was so caught up in my grudge with you that I made myself impossible to be around. And—and you know what the kicker is, Phelps? That wasn’t even the reason! I genuinely, honestly forgave you back in September. I did.”
“I don’t…”
“I read the journal.”
He slowly lowered himself to the floor, pulling his legs in and crossing them. He nodded, letting the other continue at his own pace.
“I read the journal, and it’s bullshit. Probably some—some creative project, or something. Some book my dad was writing before he left us to fend for ourselves because he was too selfish to give us an actual reason.”
Larry spat his words with such venom they could’ve turned the air toxic. Travis shifted in place, resting his weight on one of his arms.
“And if it’s not, then my dad was an alien. A literal fucking space alien. And he came down here, got with my mom and had me knowing he would have to abandon us for some ever-impending doom that he brought here. How is that any better? Great, my father’s either a plain ol’ liar or I’m the newest addition to the E.T. universe and he’s still a deadbeat.”
“Okay, so your dad’s a piece of shit.”
“Excuse—”
“Your dad’s a piece of shit and Sal’s mad at you, and instead of working out with him you tried to kill yourself. Have you even told any of this to him ?”
“He wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“You know how I told you we made up in the bathroom?”
“What does this have to do with anything, Phelps?”
“Sal sat there and listened to my bullshit. My bullshit, after everything I’d said and done. And he talked to me. He gave me advice and the time of day you might not even give someone you actually know and like . I don’t think he’d ignore you because he was a bit pissy.”
Another pause. Long and painful.
“I know none of this has changed your mind. If I leave here, right now, you’re just going to get up and try it again.”
“I—”
“I’ll page Sal. If you want me gone when he gets here, I’m gone. If he doesn’t pick up, I’m staying.”
“Travis,”
“I know I’m the last person you want to stay here with you. I know I’m probably overstepping some boundary.”
“I missed you, man.”
Oddly, he felt his breath hitch in his throat. His eyes watered and he stared down at the uneven planks of wood beneath him, biting at his lip.
“I think I missed you too, even though I can’t remember where from.”
As he pressed the little ‘alert’ button on his walkie-talkie, Larry practically scooped him up and held him so tightly he had to strain a bit in order to breathe. Normally he’d hate this, but he closed his eyes and wrapped his spindly little arms around the other as well.
“I’m… Glad I got here in time.”
“Me too.”
“...Sorry for making you break your nose.”
“Probably better than the alternative.”
“...Yeah.”
Notes:
WOAA HAHAHA TONAL WHIPLASH HUH? Honestly by now you guys are probably used to that, I love that shit. Anyways, I know this is WAY before Larry committed suicide in the game chronologically, but like I said before this is no longer following the canon timeline. Travis's introduction into the group is what caused Larry to read the journal himself, which lead to this happening a lot earlier (and in a different way).
Anyways, hope you enjoyed!
Chapter 16
Notes:
HI OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY. Okay, so at first it was just writer's block, but I also had a summer job lined up (I started May 20) and let me just say my schedule has been HORRIBLE. I work 8-10 hours a day (usually 10) and am on swing shifts which means I switch from day to night shifts, so I do 2 weeks of 10 hour nights and then 2 weeks of 9 hour days. By the time I get to the weekend I'm so incredibly exhausted I just can't do anything since I work in hell (car manufacturing) and it's REALLY physically and mentally demanding. I have one week off due to the factory shutting down, so I'll try to write a couple extra chapters and release them over the next couple weeks but I unfortunately can't promise I'll be able to. When I'm back in university I should be able to write weekly/bi-weekly again!
Either way, this work is NOT abandoned and if I don't write for the rest of the summer don't lose hope! It's just very very hard to write with my schedule :(
PS. It's 1AM rn and I probably left some mistakes in this chapter. Massive apologies if it reads like ass.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October, 1995
Rain, again. Not unusual that time of year, though it didn’t bring much comfort so late at night. One foot dragged behind him as he staggered forward, the downpour washing dried and crusting blood from open wounds, allowing it to flow freely and stinging with every droplet.
He wasn’t even sure where he was going.
Sal’s? Again?
Hadn’t he overstayed his welcome yet? Hadn’t he knocked on his door bleeding and covered in bruises enough? Besides, it was late. He’d opted instead to wander aimlessly through the street, shuffling wearily down the road with nary but the shine of streetlights to guide him.
The dead were everywhere, he’d come to realise. They skulked in the shadows and the cracks of pavement, having grown so used to the fact nobody could see them. He had to train himself not to stare for too long, lest they become suspicious and seek him out for company.
So it was strange,
That one was following him.
He could vaguely hear it through the rain. Without both ears, unfortunately, sounds had a tendency to melt into one another and become near-indistinguishable. Lip-reading helped close many of the gaps in peoples’ speech, sure, but it was far more complicated with ambient noise.
Nevertheless, he could feel its eyes on the back of his neck. A cold, uneasy feeling that made him shudder a little bit. Maybe it thought he was dead, too; maybe his posture and the way he walked made it curious to see if he was. If he listened closely enough and tried his best to tune out the sound of the rain, it sounded like bare feet smacking against wet pavement. A low, phlegmy breathing akin to that of a patient with pneumonia.
He steeled himself and continued forward. If he didn’t look back, perhaps it would leave.
“Yo u…”
He swallowed and kept walking. The footsteps seemed to be getting louder.
“Pl …eas..e”
Shutting his eyes tight, Travis stopped dead in his tracks. He could feel its breath on his arm. Could feel its small, slippery hand grab at his own. He let out a breath and turned to face it.
“H e.. lp”
The kid couldn’t have been much older than Megan. This made his gaze soften, although he was staring at a sickly, bloated child covered in scum. Kneeling down, he did his best not to gag at the smell of sewage coming from the child.
“What’s wrong?”
“C..ome”
They were going to drown him, weren’t they? He swallowed again and stood up, letting the young ghost pull him along in the other direction, towards a storm drain.
“What’s your name?” Maybe he could convince them not to.
“C…al vi.. n”
“N-.. uh..Nice to meet you, Calvin.”
Though as they approached the drain—no doubt the place this poor kid had drowned—he could hear something else. Something yowling. High-pitched, desperate squeals and the sounds of scratching on concrete walls. Calvin let go of his hand and pointed into the drain.
“H..el p…”
Fuck.
The drain wasn’t exactly small . He could certainly fit a good chunk of his torso inside, though perhaps his unimpressive physique was to thank for that. He dropped to his chest in the middle of the street—no time to think of how stupid this all was—and started to squeeze his way in.
Thankfully the rain had raised the water level fairly high, though it was far too dark to see what he was grabbing for. He stuck an arm out into the rancid water and waved it around, crying out in pain when what felt like his arm was caught in barbed wire. Flinching, he scrambled out of the drain. The pain in his arm hadn’t subsided, however, and he was seconds away from shaking whatever-it-was off of him before he locked eyes with a gigantic yellow ring surrounded by black void.
Calvin clapped so slowly that if he hadn’t known any better, Travis would assume they were being sarcastic.
“Ki.. tt.. y”
Fuck.
So much for not bothering Sal in the middle of the night.
Admittedly, he was hesitant to knock. It was late, but the shelters weren’t open and… Well… He’d already thought of a name.
The creature bunched in his sweater—which he’d run home to grab—he exhaled and lightly wrapped his bleeding knuckles against the door, expecting to have to enter through the basement and wait until morning for any help.
Clearly, he’d never met an insomniac before.
It took all but 10 seconds before Sal wearily opened the door, a chain still holding it semi-shut as he peered through the gap, holding his mask to his face.
“Trav?”
“I need help.” He blurted, wincing at the urgency in his tone. “I—I mean—If you can. Uh. No pressure.”
Fisher squinted and closed the door again. For a moment, he honestly thought it was a rejection. He was halfway through turning around when he heard a click and Sal grabbed his arm, pulling him in.
“God, you’re soaked …” He was doing that thing he did every time Travis was injured. Mumbling unintelligibly—or maybe just unintelligible to the half-deaf wonderboy—about injuries and the general state of things. Phelps shook his head and cleared his throat.
“It’s—it’s not me. Don’t worry about me.”
“Sit.”
A glare. One that honestly freaked him out a little.
“I found something.”
Too late. Sal was already in the bathroom, making a hell of a lot of noise rifling through the medicine cabinet. The freezer in the kitchen was his next victim.
“You mean, about the cult? What’s up?”
“No, I mean I literally found something.”
He was practically shoved down onto the couch, spun to the side, and pinned there by a pigtailed psychopath sitting on his shins. He winced, and the slightly less psychotic Fisher adjusted until it seemed less painful (crouched on his knees like a giant frog), before promptly pressing an ice pack up to his swollen eye.
“Well? Are you going to show me?”
“Yes. But you do understand you’re making this extremely difficult for me right now, yeah?”
“Don’t care. You’re the one who makes things difficult, here.”
Rolling his eyes, Travis huffed and reached under his sweater, his eye twitching a little as tiny claws dug into his stomach in order to stay within the warm garment. Eventually he gave up and simply lifted the sweater.
Sal nearly dropped his ice pack, making some odd squealing noise at the tiny thing clinging to his friend for dear life.
“Oh. My. God. ”
It was tiny. The kitten couldn’t have been much older than a month, covered in pitch black fur with giant yellow eyes—though one was crusted shut—and a pink nose. Its tongue seemed to be stuck outside of its mouth for the time being, and it meowed weakly, trembling.
“You put it back in your sweater, I’ll go put some blankets in the dryer for a little bit. Then, both of you will be warming up. Okay?”
“I—uh—... Alright,” he mumbled.
“Where did you find her?”
Sal had stood up and was gathering the multiple blankets he and his roommates had strewn about the living room during movie night. Travis held the ice pack to his face now, his other arm keeping the kitten tightly secured to his chest under his sweater.
“I was taking a walk through town after…” He cleared his throat, “and I heard it in a storm drain. If it wasn’t for the rain it’d be too deep for me to get it out but I managed to grab it.”
“That explains why you smell so bad,” Sal chuckled. Travis had long since stopped trying to return the sentiment, as his ‘chuckle’ usually came off far too loud and incredibly forced.
He hadn’t told the other he could actually see ghosts yet. Admittedly, their encounter with Megan had been the first time—and since then, it’d only gotten worse. He didn’t want him to worry.
“Anyways, I knew the vets were closed and I don’t want to take it to a shelter, and I thought—well, you have a cat. So.”
“So you brought it here.”
“...Sorry.”
He could hear the dryer running, and watched Sal emerge from the basement.
“Sorry? Whatever for?”
“It’s… So late, but I didn’t know where else I could take her. I’ll never show up this late again, I promise.”
“Dude, seriously? No. Your promise is that you’ll never avoid coming here because it’s late. Are you seriously saying you just wouldn’t have shown up if not for finding a kitten? Like, you would’ve just gone back home with this ?” smacking the side of his foot, making him cry out—which he quickly muffled by biting his wrist, so he wouldn’t wake Todd and Neil.
“Wphatwasthftfr!?” He grumbled into his sleeve.
“I’ll keep it here, man, but that’s your cat. Obviously you can’t keep it at your place, so come over here to play with it and feed it whenever you can. It’s yours.”
“...Wait, why?”
“Because you’re literally snuggling with it, and I can tell you’ve already thought of a name. Also, Gizmo’s my only son.”
“A..Alright.”
“So?”
“....So??”
“So, what name did you pick?”
Travis lowered his head. His eyes shifted to the side to avoid even glancing in Sal’s general direction as he mumbled it under his breath.
“Can’t hear you, buddy.”
“...Antonio.”
“Antonio? Like, that guy from the Shakespeare thing? What was it called—uhh, Italian shopkeeper?”
“M..Merchant of Venice, yeah. You remember me talking about that?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course I remember that! Dude, you become a different person when you get all passionate about something. Obviously I’ve locked all that away in my brain box. Antonio is an adorable name.”
God. His face was getting hot. As if sent from heaven, the dryer beeped and Sal left to go grab the blankets, letting him catch his breath. His heart was going a hundred miles an hour. He’d barely calmed it down when he felt his sweater being lifted off of him.
whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefu —
“It’s too wet, you won’t warm up quick enough if you leave it on.”
And then, just as suddenly, he was wrapped up in a thick duvet. Sal went over to turn the TV on, lowering the volume nearly to 0, then slid right up in the giant blanket with the other two.
“We’ll take Antonio to the vet in the morning, then we’ll…”
He didn’t hear anything else after that. He passed out almost immediately after feeling the warmth of the blankets.
SAL
Travis looked so peaceful when he was asleep. At least, when he wasn’t stumbling around mumbling strange prophetic poetry and groaning like a zombie. Sal reached over and brushed some of the wet hair from his face, adjusting his odd position on the couch to be a little more comfortable. He quietly fished the cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket—so he wouldn’t squish them—and set them aside, then leaned gently onto his friend to watch the late-night history channel.
He could feel his eyes getting heavy, as though lead had settled in his lids. He’d contemplated taking his mask off, but decided against it. What if Travis woke up before him?
He didn’t want to lose this.
TRAVIS
Something was dreadfully wrong.
He felt a weight on his chest, like a rock. It sat heavy and unmoving, no matter how much he struggled against it. He couldn’t move . Staring at the ceiling, he could feel his breath picking up as his heartbeat quickened. The Observer stared back down at him with those awful, starry eyes—saliva and blood from its mouth dripping down onto his face.
Why are you here?
No response.
What do you want from me?
The seed from which thou hast grown wast watered with poison. Poison which runs deep in thine veins, now threatening the very being from whose loins thou wast borne. Festering within thee is change; for better or worse we cannot say. No, lamb, we desire nothing from thee. We wish only to observe.
Notes:
Just a minor heads-up. Antonio is a cat I added to Travis's storyline shortly after my own cat passed away, and as such holds a lot of emotional relevance to me. Because of this, I have to ask that if you are inspired and would like to include Antonio in any SF media, to please ask me first. That's all! Hopefully I'll see you over the next couple weekends!
Chapter 17
Notes:
Doing something a little bit different this chapter (not really lmao)! While I was writing it, I doodled a few things as sort of concept art? Kind of? Anyways, I put them at the end. Let me know if you want me to do things like this in the future, though I definitely can't manage every chapter I'd be happy to put some of my art in with my writing every now and again!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dawn spilled through the window in concentrated beams of orange light, earning an uncomfortable shuffle from Travis as the rays of sunshine beat heavily behind his eyes, making his vision bright red. With a few defiant groans, however, they slowly fluttered open.
Something felt odd .
Apparently, at some point during their short slumber, the boys had managed to completely rearrange themselves. Sal’s back was propped up against the armrest, and Travis was pressed tightly against his chest, back twisted at a strange angle with one of his legs hanging unceremoniously off of the side of the couch. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t get out of the precarious position they were in… As Sal’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, and there was a purring kitten curled up on his back.
Shit.
Shiiiiiiiit .
He’d probably die there. After he’d rudely kept Sal up so late, he doubted the other would wake up anytime soon and, well, the tiny tractor engine on top of him certainly didn’t make things easier. He’d starve or dehydrate, or—more likely—die of embarrassment before either of the two moved.
Wait.
Squinting up, he realised something else was wrong. Sal’s mask was crooked.
He would be lying if he claimed not to be curious. How long had they been friends, at that point? Over a year. He hadn’t caught even a glimpse before then, and even then he could hardly see the edge of a torn cheek and rough, tendril-like depressions in the other’s skin.
That didn’t matter.
Sal didn’t want him to see anything . He reached forward and up as gently and quietly as he possibly could, the tremors in his arms making it far more difficult to pull off as he reached for one of the black straps. Upon tightening the mask, it slid back into place. He hadn’t gotten the chance to move his hands away when Sal’s entire body jolted awake and his eye shot open.
Shit. Again.
He tried to breathe, but it felt like inhaling through a tub of molasses. His breath caught in his throat and he just… Stared. And Sal stared back.
“What are y—”
“Iwasn’ttryingtotakeitoff”
Another silence. Another pregnant pause filled with nothing but the sound of Travis’s near-wheezing breath.
“I trust you but, like. Dude. Explain.”
“It was crooked. I didn’t see anything—er—I didn’t look.”
“..Okay,” Sal shrugged.
Seriously? He just believed him? Like that?
“Really?”
“Uh, yeah. ‘S not like you’ve literally ever tried to rip my mask off. I mean, even when we weren’t on good terms. You totally could’ve punched me harder if you actually took it off, y’know.”
He could tell something was wrong, but didn’t want to press. He was still being squeezed and didn’t feel like risking lung collapse. He’d ask about it later.
“Sorry for, uh..”
Travis gestured floppily towards, well, them. His arm was falling asleep.
“Oh. No biggie. I’ve actually fallen asleep like this with Todd before. Maybe I need a teddybear or something.”
For some reason, that stung.
“Antonio won’t let me get up, either.”
“...Yeaaaah. Surprised Giz hasn’t pinned you down, too.”
The orange menace was cleaning his unmentionables right above them, on top of the back rest. Frankly, he was glad that wasn’t happening on top of him.
SAL
Eventually, Antonio had received a cosmic burst of energy and unfurled himself from Travis’s back to zip around the room at astronomical speeds, allowing the two to unstick themselves and giving Sal the opportunity to make coffee. Unfortunately—or fortunately—the only mugs in the house were still Todd and Neil’s collection of the most groundbreakingly, beautifully stupid ceramics known to man, and for such an occasion he’d picked Bert and Ernie’s heads.
Travis got Bert. Obviously. Though Sal was almost 100% sure he wouldn’t get the reference, he still found it amusing.
Sitting back down, he handed his friend the vivid coffee mug, waiting for a reaction that never came. Apparently the fact he was drinking from a bright yellow puppet’s skull was far less important than desperately sucking back the piping hot coffee.
“You’re going to burn your… Nevermind.”
Glancing again at Travis—at his bruised face and the dried blood that hadn’t rubbed off at some point in the night—it really did reassure him in his lie. In the “middle” of the night, he’d woken up again to the usual nightmares and seen the other in the same situation; he could’ve either left it alone or made it easier on the both of them, and he chose the latter.
He had no doubt in his mind Phelps would’ve been unbelievably embarrassed, and grumpy, if he told him that. So he hadn’t. He swallowed the truth with a sip from the gaping hole in Ernie’s head and locked it in his stomach. Maybe in a couple years he’d tell.
“You’re welcome to shower, you know.” He smiled, invisibly, and made sure to squint his eyes a little to convey the expression.
On one hand, he didn’t want to offend him. On the other hand, it couldn’t have been comfortable, or good in any sense of the word, to sit with yesterday’s grime still in his wounds. Hindsight was 20/20; he should’ve told Travis to wash up the night before.
“Oh— uh… Are you sure?” The blonde stared uneasily at him.
“Yeah, of course man. And we need to disinfect your,” gesturing to the entire man, “everything. When you get out.”
“...Alright.”
There was an awkward pause, followed by quiet shuffling from the couch to the first-floor washroom. Sal glanced over into the Bert mug to confirm his suspicions.
Empty.
He had half a mind to whack Phelps over the head with a wooden board, just to encourage him to sleep more.
TRAVIS
He hated showering at other people’s houses.
Well, alright. He’d never done that before, but he’d decided just that day he hated it. He felt so weird, and wasn’t sure which products to use, and—did Sal glue a glass eye to the wall? That couldn’t be sanitary.
Furthermore, after the shower is when he’d started to feel strange. Aside from the usual lightheadedness following a temperature change, something churned deep within him. He stumbled forwards and hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving for a moment before retching.
What the fuck?
He gagged and pounded on his chest, the black substance sliding free from his mouth like slime, or mucus, or something. His face contorted in fear and disgust. Backing away, his legs trembled beneath him, breath heavy and deep.
What the fuck?
“You alright in there?”
Shit. Okay.
He slammed a hand down on the flush lever and triple-checked the towel around his torso.
“I’m fine!”
“You sure? Thought I heard—”
“Yeah! Yeah.”
“Alright, well… Uh, breakfast’s ready.”
For once, he wasn’t sure his appetite was up for it. He washed his mouth as thoroughly as he could and threw his old clothes back on. They still had a musty smell to them, which did not help, but they were all he had.
Barreling out of the door, it took all but two seconds for Sal to shove him back in with a folded shirt and pants in his arms.
“Neil said you can wear these until yours are washed. You’re just going to get dirty again if you wear those, dude.”
Travis could swear every day he discovered some new, foreign concept about friendship. People shared their clothing?
When he emerged again, he looked ridiculous. Everything was too big. The jack-o-lantern shirt hung around his gaunt frame like a poncho, its neckline hanging off one of his shoulders, and he’d had to tie the drawstring of Neil’s sweatpants so tight around his hips they went halfway down his thighs. Folded neatly in his arms were the bad-smelling garments he’d been wearing before, which were taken by Todd and haphazardly tossed into a laundry basket before he could do any chores for them.
“Oh,” he muttered, barely legible as the theft occurred.
Glancing back at the bathroom, Travis furrowed his brow, before being grabbed by the arm and dragged into the kitchen by Sal’s insistent hand.
“Nice swag,” Fisher said with a wink that made the room feel 10 degrees warmer (even though he didn’t actually know what swag meant)
Eggs, bacon, toast, and someone had taken the liberty of putting one of those adult multivitamins on the plate for him as well. Probably Neil, seeing as he was a nursing student. He sat awkwardly on one of the chairs, Sal sitting beside him and scooting his own chair quite close, nudging him in the side.
“Doin’ alright?”
“This is too much,” he mumbled.
“You don’t have to eat it all. Just pick what you want and I’ll scarf down the rest, so you don’t end up getting sick. Again.”
They’d learned their lesson the hard way. Multiple times, actually. Though for once, Travis doubted it’d be hard to pace himself. He still felt uneasy over what’d happened earlier.
…Maybe he needed to quit smoking.
“I mean. All of this, Sal. You guys are—”
“Ah-ah. Shut up, boy.”
“I’m older than you.”
“Shut up, old man.”
Grumbling.
“Let us treat you, dude. You’re our friend, too.”
Avoiding eye contact, he nodded and brought a forkful of egg to his mouth. He hadn’t noticed the other sneaking around until the telltale feeling of rubbing alcohol hit his arm. He nearly smacked Sal out of reflex.
“I would’ve deserved that. Sorry.”
“Can you?? Warn me???”
“Hurts more if you know it’s about to happen.”
“I assure you it does not.”
The rest of breakfast was spent like so, with Sal tending to his injuries while he tried his hardest to eat through it. The strong smell of ethanol did not help, unfortunately; though at one point Antonio had climbed his shirt and perched contently on his shoulder, which did make him feel better.
“I called the vet. There aren’t any openings today, but there’s one later this week if you’re… Y’know. Free.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Leaving felt worse every time he had to go. It felt like he was willingly giving up a small portion of paradise and throwing himself back down into hell. All things considered, he probably was.
With his old clothes washed and put back on, he said his goodbyes to Antonio and the others. The small critter seemed the most distraught about it, however, and kept trying to climb his pant leg when he opened the door. Eventually, he had to put him in Sal’s arms and scratch his ears to calm him down, quickly slipping out of a small crack in the door and closing it as quickly as possible behind him.
Crossing the threshold back into his reality, Travis’s mood shifted as soon as he’d walked down the porch. His limp slowed, shoulders slumped forward as his mind raced with images of what he’d be going home to.
If he could even call that place ‘home’ .
The trek back to his house was, for the most part, uneventful, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the incident earlier. It could’ve just been stained black by the coffee he’d drank, but it looked like ink , and felt like a giant slug had lodged itself in his throat before finally spewing out of his mouth. It didn’t sting like bile, it didn’t taste like blood, and it was cold.
He wondered, morbidly, if Antonio scratching his arm in that storm drain had given him some never-before-seen infection, or some kind of parasite. In spite of how little sense that made, what did make sense?
Stepping up to an ornate door, he fished out the key he’d managed to copy behind his father’s back and turned it in the lock.
There was no click.
He stepped back, nearly teetering off the edge of his porch stairs.
There was no click.
Breath heavy, his heart pounding in his chest, he tried to convince himself he’d just forgotten to lock the door. But he had locked the door, six times, as he did every time he left the house.
Shakily, he reached for the doorknob, fingers barely brushing the silver sheen when it slammed open on its own; a veiny, greyish hand gripping the wood so hard he could swear it splintered.
Notes:
Just a heads up. I've already written the next chapter (Unfortunately since I'm trying to spread out chapter releases while I'm at work, you will have to wait a week.. Sorry :[ ) and it is HEAVY, as I'm sure the end of this one suggests. If you're reading this in the future when chapter 18 is out, please heed this. There'll be another more detailed warning at the top of the next chapter.
Chapter 18
Notes:
!! WARNING !!
This chapter contains extremely graphic and violent depictions of both physical and ritual abuse. There are visceral descriptions of what happens and while certain factors are left to the imagination, I did not (and refuse to) sugarcoat anything. While, obviously, the abuse Travis faces is dramatized by supernatural elements, much of the symbolism and horror in the scenes I write come from the fact they're reminiscent of what happens and has happened to people in real life. PLEASE heed this warning if you are triggered or uncomfortable by anything I've mentioned.
Chapter Text
SAL
“Do you think he’s okay?” He couldn’t stop bouncing his leg, biting his nails under his mask as he absentmindedly pet Antonio.
“He seemed off, you know? Like something happened. Like—like maybe I did something to make him uncomfortable, but it seemed like it was more than that.”
Larry raised an eyebrow and shrugged, trying to calm him down by putting a firm hand on his shoulder. It didn’t work very well.
“Travis is a weird dude, dude. He gets put off by a lot of things, and he’s constantly in his own head. He’ll be fine.”
Brushing his best friend off, Sal shook his head and took his hand out from under the mask, opting to cross his arms in front of himself instead while his leg bounced at 100mph.
“But it’s not like that . He looked scared! And it was right after taking a shower. One moment he’s his normal awkward self and the next—I mean—it freaked me out . He’s hiding something.”
“Sal…” Larry sighed, “all due respect little bro, he hides everything. If you weren’t so stubborn he’d probably still be acting like he just falls down the stairs every other day.”
An exhale, uneasy though slowly calming down, Sal shook his head and then nodded.
“You’re probably right, I’m just… I’m still worried. What if it’s serious?”
“Whatever it is, you can interrogate him about it next time you see him. He’ll be fine until then, alright?”
Nodding, again, he frowned.
“Alright.”
TRAVIS
Kenneth sat, unmoving, in a massive living-room chair one might compare to a throne; ostentatious patterns embroidered into the fabric and carved out of the wooden armrests. Travis could hardly breathe, standing at attention across from his corpse-like father; skin garishly creased and greying, which appeared slick with oil. The signs of his age—normally far less apparent—now obvious on his wrinkled, sagging face. The old pastor coughed; a horrible, guttural sound from which you could hear the phlegm crackling at the back of his throat, followed by snorting and laboured wheezing. He grabbed his son’s hand when he tried to back away, blood-red eyes trained on the pathetic creature trembling at his mere touch.
“You.”
“Yes, Father?” He answered quickly, trying to keep his voice from faltering.
The grip tightened. Long, yellowed nails dug into his skin until blood trickled from the wounds. Father Phelps’s claws dug deeper until he’d induced a strangled whimper, then yanked him down, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head up. His lips curled up in a snarl, rotting breath slithering up into Travis’s nostrils as he held back a gag.
“Sit”
Travis gulped. He nodded quietly and pried himself away, before moving to perch himself on one of the Elizabethan seats across from the other, watching the worn mahogany under his hand twist and braid together while rubbing the wounds on his arm.
“You’ve been quite a deceitful little thing, haven’t you?”
He didn’t like how calm he sounded. Each word stung and settled in his stomach like a rock, filling his throat with a bile he dared not release. His father coughed, jaundiced eyes bulging from the sockets. He reached for a napkin and held it over his mouth, hacking and shaking.
“You think you can lie to us, boy?”
Us?
His voice seemed different. Guttural and raw, reverberating from the back of his throat like an animal’s. For the first time in perhaps Travis’s entire life, he could see a smile plastered on the old man’s face; a wide, uncanny-looking grin that made his stomach twist. Kenneth stood—was he taller than usual?—and grabbed the collar of his son’s shirt, shoving him further back into the chair, pinning him by the sternum with a large, pulsating hand.
Black, mucilaginous sludge bubbled from the pastor’s mouth and eyes as black veins bulged from his forehead. It looked like he was melting . His skin sloughed off in inky clumps and assimilated quickly with the rest of his body as it, too, changed. Bones splintered audibly before dissolving into the mass as it grew, slowly forming a shape that filled most of the room. A coyote of sorts, with massive piercing red eyes and fangs that curled around its mouth in all directions, ribs heaving in and out as it opened its gaping mouth to speak.
“I AM THE DEVOURER. DESOLATION. I CONSUME ALL AND ALL TREMBLES BEFORE MY CRIMSON GAZE. YOU, DISGUSTING LITTLE WORM, CANNOT HURT ME WITH YOUR PATHETIC TRICKS.”
Much like the observer, every word made his ears ring. He tried to cover his ears despite knowing it wouldn’t do a thing, trapped under its paw.
Its long black claws tore through the front of his dress shirt, and its breath was ragged and deep, stinking of rot. He whimpered as it opened its mouth, a strange crimson glow emanating from the back of its throat as its jaw fell open.
“YOU SHOULD BE DEAD. TORN LIMB FROM LIMB FOR THE SCOURGE YOU HAVE WROUGHT ON OUR PLANS. IF NOT FOR OUR BLOOD COURSING THROUGH YOUR VEINS WE WOULD HAVE NO QUALMS IN CONSUMING YOUR FLESH.”
It dropped him, a gnarled talon curling around the back of his matted hair and pulling him from his seat, slamming his face down into the marble floor
Again.
And again.
Deliberately soft enough that his skull wouldn’t split open, but he could feel the blood rushing from his nose and pooling in his mouth. Spat out teeth in one of the short periods of grace within the onslaught. When his father—or whatever that thing was—dropped him again it took care to shove his face back into the floor for good measure, to taste himself. His back arched as he spat up a mouthful of near-black blood, groaning and trying to army crawl with the arm he could still feel. If he could just—
What?
If he could just what?
Escape? Lead that thing to Sal? He stopped.
“GO AHEAD, LAMB. KNOW THAT YOUR FATE IS INESCAPABLE. YOUR FUTURE WAS WRITTEN LONG BEFORE YOU WERE BUT A SEED, YET TO BE SOWN IN YOUR MOTHER’S WOMB.”
“My mother..?”
Blackness surrounded his vision, swallowing the little he could see behind the bloody haze. He twitched like a dead insect, speech mangled by the missing teeth in the front of his mouth.
“What did you—”
“YOUR WOMEN ARE DERELICT. THE FRUIT THEY BEAR FAILS US TIME AND TIME AND TIME AGAIN. SHE HAD TIME TO CORRUPT YOU WITH EMPATHY, NOW WE MUST RIP IT FROM YOUR CORTEX BEFORE IT HAS TIME TO FESTER WITH THE CONTAMINATION OF YOUR NEW BLASPHEMOUS ILK.”
The last things he saw before passing out were its eyes, their sickly glow lingering behind his vision as it went dark.
Travis woke up to a horrible, searing pain in his back. His eyes shot open and, before he could even process what was happening, screams of agony tore through his throat. Robed figures surrounded him, chanting in a tongue that was neither Latin nor Hebrew but something far, far older that he couldn’t—nor did he want to—understand.
He couldn’t see what was happening behind him, but he could hear it in the periods of rest between his wails. The wet sound of skin and muscle being carved into, followed by metal slicing through the air. Balling his hands into fists, which were chained in front of him to an intricate stone altar along with his upper torso, he tried to suck in his breath and move away from the blade to no avail. He could hardly, if at all, move his body. They needed precision.
It felt like hours had passed before the carving stopped. He was left heaving, slowly being unchained from the altar as a familiar hand kept him pinned by his head.
“It is your birthright,”
He could distinctly hear The Devourer’s voice lingering beneath his father’s, now that he knew what it sounded like. It was as if the two of them had become more than a host and its vessel; something iniquitously singular. Travis groaned, throat raw and unable to form coherent speech.
“You belong to US .”
Something wet and rotting smacked the stone in front of him and Kenneth released his grip, allowing his son to scramble back, broken arm hanging limp in front of him as he whirled around to take in his surroundings.
He couldn’t go anywhere.
Turning back to where he’d been facing before, a goat lay lifeless on the altar; its eyes cloudy and glazed over, its mouth stuck open and tongue hanging out. He gagged at the smell, backing away before being shoved forward once more to face it.
Kenneth picked it up by the horns, holding its limp body up as he circled behind his son and placed a boot on his back which was slick with blood, again pressing him down into the altar. Travis heard something slice through flesh again—though not his this time—and the boot left his back as something else splashed onto it.
It took a second for the burning to start. He could almost hear his blood sizzling as it came into contact with the goat’s stomach contents. He gagged and heaved as blinding pain overwhelmed his senses, still gnawing at him from the inside out even after he’d been doused with cold water to wash it off. It clung to the insides of his wounds, his nails filed down and now bleeding as he clawed desperately at the rough stone beneath his hands.
He could vaguely hear the sound of hair being cut over the chanting and unwavering hymns. Bleached strands fell around his face as the back of his head was manhandled, a ritual knife sliding through layers of growth he’d been so eager to run his fingers through only weeks prior.
Adding more salt to the wound, another great bowl of water was released from above onto his head, the torrential downpour pinning him for a few moments before it stopped. He gasped for air, shivering under what must have been the weight of the world.
“HE IS REBORN.”
Travis groaned, barely clinging to lucidity when The Devourer leaned toward his good ear to whisper in his father’s voice,
“You’re ours .”
His eyelids were fluttering, irises rolling to the back of his head before focusing again on the room in front of him.
In and out, in and out.
He couldn’t keep his composure for long. It felt like he was slipping away and every attempt to hold onto consciousness was met with resistance. Eventually, the world around him melted together into a darkness he knew all-too well and he lost himself.
The familiarity of the basement was almost comforting, after what he’d been through. The cold floor lent a sense of relief after spending hours kneeling on the unnaturally hot stone of the church, and he felt himself leaning into the coolness on his cheek.
Small victories, he thought.
His back ached. A dull, throbbing pain that turned sharp and pulsed like lightning with every movement. His mouth was swollen and he could feel deep indents in his tongue when he ran it over smooth, wet gums where teeth should’ve been.
Another small victory; he hadn’t bitten it off.
A centipede crawled over his cheek and he reached up to pull it off, a trembling hand releasing it into a crack splitting through the space where the wall and floor met. Sitting up would be an ordeal in its own right if he tried, but he’d have to get used to the edges of his wounds widening and rubbing against each other with every movement if he wanted to be useful.
He had information, finally. For better or worse, he’d learned more about his father in the past 12 hours than he had over the course of 20 years. Whether it helped Sal and his friends solve Nockfell’s mysteries or finally encouraged them to run far away from the not-so-sleepy town—it would make a difference.
His train of thought was cut off by a gruesome realisation; the memory of the previous morning and his strange sickness bubbling forth once again, followed by already-distorting images of the thing living beneath the church.
The pitch-black, gelatinous features of both overlayed one another in his head.
What was he ?
Chapter 19
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
???
Fuck.
Her hands searched through the disorderly chaos frantically, haphazardly throwing objects behind her in the search for her keys.
Fuck .
She never thought she’d have to use them again. Hell, for all she knew, the locks had changed since she’d last been there. It was late, she was tired, and where the hell did she put her keys? Slamming drawers closed and opening the next one in line with gusto, she felt herself growing more panicked the more time was wasted.
There were no signs . There was no indication that he’d pull this kind of stunt so early. Now rage settled deep in her core somewhere beneath the panic. Crying out in frustration, she slammed her hand down on her desk and heard a familiar metallic rattle. The drawer practically flew open, and she grabbed the key with little time to think before flying out of the apartment with her shoes halfway on bare feet. She hadn’t even worn a coat.
“Mary!” She called out into the open door, “Get everything ready! Now!”
She couldn’t help but cuss quietly to herself as she barrelled down the rickety old stairs, including some quiet disdain for her landlord not fixing the elevator yet under her breath. Blasting through the doors, she unlocked her old pickup truck and swung herself in the driver’s seat, still buckling in as she backed out of the driveway far too quick to be safe.
The reservation was a stone’s throw from Nockfell, but in order to stay relatively unseen she had to take the backroads. The old truck grumbled in protest as she sped down dirt paths in the dead of night, nothing to illuminate her surroundings but her headlights; one of which had been duct-taped on and would flicker every few seconds. When she reached Nockfell she took care to park a block away from her destination, flinging herself from the truck—nearly tripping on her way out—and sprinting down the road.
The old house was exactly as she remembered it. It hadn’t aged a bit, as though it’d been stuck in an alternate reality all these years. She had half a mind to think she’d look the same as she did 13 years ago as soon as she crossed the property line. That the boy inside would still be 7-years-old, digging up worms in the backyard.
It wasn’t the time to be nostalgic.
Old, worn running shoes hit the porch steps so hard they nearly fell through. She fished her old key from her pocket and slipped it into the lock, turning it and—
Click
Thank god it still worked. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to climb through the windows anymore.
As soon as the door creaked open, her demeanor changed. Her footsteps became soft and quiet as she made her way through the old house, stepping on the floorboards she remembered wouldn’t creak—though there were a few more that did since last time, much to her dismay.
The door to the basement had been refurbished, she noted, as she turned the handle and slipped down the stairs into a dark abyss she still had nightmares about every so often. She was glad Mary had been spared from such dreams.
TRAVIS
He hadn’t been facing the stairs, the thunderous noise of his blood throbbing in his ears masking the sound of footsteps behind him. He was none-the-wiser until a pair of large hands slid under his side and were scooping him up.
His first thought was to kick, thrash, and bite at his assailant. His elbow hit their side and they flinched but held on tight, hoisting him up while trying to keep him at a distance. Fortunately for them, he stopped attacking fairly quickly.
They were stronger than him. He couldn’t do anything.
The person, whose face was obscured by shadow and the angle they held him, carried him out of the house. The key they used to lock the door made his blood run cold; they must have known his father.
After walking for a long while, he was heaved into the back of an old pickup. He groaned at the impact of the seat and his kidnapper seemed to falter before closing the door and getting into the driver’s seat, pulling out and stepping on the gas as they shifted gears.
He thought he’d fall asleep again, but the bumpy roads hurt his back. Blood trickled out of some of his wounds as the scabs cracked open, and the pain was enough to keep him going.
As soon as he heard the radio crackle to life, probably to mask his ragged breathing and occasional moans. Fear mixed with adrenaline coursed through his veins and he quietly shuffled up to one of the doors, the rearview mirror too cracked and the night too dark to see what he was doing. Pulling the small lock rod out of its cubby, the door clicked loudly enough for the driver to hear over the radio and whirl around about 5 seconds too late.
“JESUS CHRI—”
He’d flung the door open and barrel-rolled out onto the dirt road, running no more than a few metres away before his ankle buckled under his weight and he toppled to the side like a sack of bricks. The driver slammed on the brakes and the truck snarled rather than screeched to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Not a minute later, their hands were sliding under his armpits and carrying him, again, back to the truck. This time he sat in the passenger seat, a bungee-cord keeping his chest fastened to the back of it.
Turning his head to the side, now, he could clearly see the assailant was a woman. Her long, narrow nose jutted out in front of her face, giving her a strong silhouette that honestly intimidated him a little. Something about her seemed familiar, but he’d need to wait for better lighting if he wanted to understand why.
They drove for about 20 minutes, the radio silent with occasional crackles and pops coming from the speakers. Her jaw was set and he wondered to himself if it was because she was angry or if something else was bothering her. The friction of the seat against his back broke more scabs, and if he didn’t know better he’d think she was wincing with him each time she hit a particularly bad pothole.
Eventually, the truck pulled up to a dingy driving lot just outside of a small apartment complex. It couldn’t have had more than 15 units, he thought, as she slunk out of the driver’s seat and removed his restraints to pick him up again. Kicking the door closed, she brought him into the building and stepped uneasily up the stairs while eyeing her feet over his shoulder, unlocking what had to be her door with a different set of keys and stepping inside backwards.
Instead of being stuffed in the garbage chute or thrown into a grey room with no food or water, he was gently placed on a worn and lumpy old couch. Something smelled delicious, over the scent of his own blood and sweat, but he couldn’t recognize it and doubted he’d be fed if they knew his father.
The woman had stepped back into the room, another girl trailing behind her who looked about his age.
Wait.
He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to speak and ending up with little more than a quiet ‘mnhhrn’ sound, his throat aching from even that.
She was the woman from the street. The one who’d been watching him for over a year. She looked older than she had, though. Stressed. The girl behind her had even more familiar features than she did, paired with jet black hair and dark makeup. Her shirt—a red-black striped tank top—looked torn, and her jeans were far too skinny to be comfortable yet still were held up by at least 3 belts.
“Here,” she pulled a cylindrical object wrapped in thin paper out of a brown bag, followed by a box of french fries and bottled water, setting them all on a TV tray which she pushed up to him.
“Eat.”
He had half a mind to think it was poisoned. He shouldn’t have eaten any of it. Should’ve thrown it back in her face and screamed at her, demanding to go home.
He didn’t.
Opening the burger wrapper, he practically scarfed it down in 3 massive bites, even in spite of the missing teeth. The fries had a similar fate, and he chugged the water without taking a second to breathe. He was left still feeling hungry, but he knew he’d be spewing it all over the floor if he ate much more than that.
Even without the side effects of malnourishment, the memories of his night up until then clouded his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure he’d keep that meal down, but he hoped he could. Gripping his stomach, he looked away from the two women and bobbed his head as thanks. He still couldn’t squeeze a word out from his larynx.
“We need to clean you up.”
He stared wearily, unable to shake the feeling they’d drown him. Or worse. He clung to the bottom of his shirt and the older woman smiled slightly, reaching forward to brush his hand. He jerked away.
“You don’t have to undress. Just your face and upper body, and we’ll leave you to clean up everything below the waistline in the washroom.”
He frowned, but nodded. She reached around to pull his shirt up, causing him to cry out and suck in through his teeth as it peeled off of the reopened wounds on his back. Shushing him quietly, she was quick to dab up fresh blood as it gushed forth.
“Your arm. Did F— your father patch that up?”
Glancing down at it, he nodded again. A plaster cast held it at a 90 degree angle and in place.
“He hasn’t changed.” She mumbled under her breath. He’d hardly registered it before. His arm was cleaned about an inch above the cast, suggesting it was inside as well. The rest of his body was filthy.
‘I will not have a cripple for a son,’ Father’s words rang out in his head.
She used wipes; antibacterial wipes he assumed she’d stocked up on from a pharmacy, the type you might expect to use working at a nursing home. She cleaned his face and neck, backing off when he’d recoil from her touch and slowly reintroducing herself to the spot. His back took the longest, but eventually she’d been able to dab it clean and wrap his torso in gauze. She paused around his ribs, frowning to herself, before helping him into the washroom with the wipes and sitting him on the closed toilet seat. There were clean, folded clothes on the floor in front of him, which just reminded him of Sal.
“You can handle the rest, alright? Ring when you’re done.”
She smiled as she tapped a little hotel bell on the kitchen sink, then slipped quietly out of the door. He was grateful for the privacy, but more confused than ever; unable to stop thinking about the way she’d taken him. How, and why, did she have a key to his house?
When he’d finished and painstakingly slid himself into the new outfit without falling over, he rang the bell. She took less than 10 seconds to open the door and scoop him back up, carrying him back into the small living room and onto the couch—which had been opened up into a pull-out bed, now taking up the majority of the room.
Two gummies and a glass of water were set on the TV tray next to the bed. The woman sat on the end of it and exhaled.
“I know you’re confused. You don’t trust us, and you have no reason to.”
She gestured to the gummies.
“It’s melatonin. I can take both and get you more from the jar if you don’t trust it, but it’ll help you sleep. I know how hard that is to do sometimes.”
Something about the way she spoke made him less suspicious of being poisoned. He shook his head and reached forward, touching her shoulder lightly.
Thank you.
Taking the melatonin, he gulped down the water yet again and laid down. She chuckled and pulled the blankets out from under him, throwing them over his stiff body.
“These’ll help.”
With a small pat on the mattress, she stood up and walked into another room. He could hear the two of them talking on the other side of the wall as his eyes slowly closed, and his rigid body started to relax.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. He’s just …”
Sleep crept in faster than he'd anticipated.
Notes:
WOO LET'S GO CHAPTER 19!!! Somehow I managed to cobble together another one after work this week, and am currently like 1/3 of the way through another. If I don't end up deleting the work in progress I might not have as long of a hiatus when I go back to university!
Anyways, I finally got to write nonverbal Travis. I've literally been waiting ages to depict that but thanks to his upbringing it takes a LOT to actually get him there. Hope you enjoyed, stay tuned for next week <3
Chapter 20
Summary:
“It's unrelenting. Every day there are changes. Every time I look in the mirror, I'm someone different, repulsive.”
“I'm an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over, and the insect is awake.”
—Seth Brundle, The Fly
Chapter Text
“Hey, you,” a soft voice chimed from above as his eyes slowly opened, “you’re finally awake.”
Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his face and groaned something inaudible. Words formed easily in his head, but he couldn’t relay them with his tongue. It was starting to frustrate him just how hard it was to communicate.
“You talk in your sleep, you know. A lot .”
The younger of the two women stood above him, TV tray—the top of it at least—in her hands, and a plate of hash browns and eggs on top. She set it on his lap and sat herself on the edge of the bed, staring off into space as he dug in.
“What’s he like?”
The sound of metal scraping against ceramic stopped cold. Her eyebrows furrowed quizzically down at the floor before continuing.
“I don’t reme—”
“Mary, don’t ask him that.”
She nodded, shame curling her lips. The older woman walked in and sat beside him, crossing her legs and wiping his mouth with Kleenex.
“We owe you one hell of an explanation, Travis.”
They did. He had a million questions he couldn’t ask. Who were they? Why did the younger one—Mary—look so familiar? Why were they helping him? Why did she stalk him? Was he trapped there?
“Nnyuhh,” was all he managed to squeeze out.
Again, nodding, she gestured to herself and the younger woman.
“My name’s Madeleine, this is Mary.”
Fishing a photo out of her pocket, she set it down on the TV tray. He recognized his father immediately, standing to the left of a far younger lady who had her hands on the shoulders of a little boy—a toddler—and a girl who couldn’t have been more than a year older. Beside her was a teenaged boy in a military-esque outfit.
“That’s Mary,” she pointed to the girl, “you,” the boy, “your mother, Kaya,” the lady, “and me.” The teenager.
He’d been reeling over the fact he’d forgotten his mother’s face when, finally, he registered the last statement. Squinting up at Madeleine, he raised an eyebrow. There wasn't a need for him to speak for her to get the gist.
Are you fucking with me?
“I know. I look different.” She laughed. His face contorted more and he shook his head.
She was definitely fucking with him.
“My name was Joseph. Kind of fucked up for Father to name us after the biblical couple, but the joke was on him, I guess.”
He vaguely remembered the names. Of course he was aware of the fact he had siblings, just hadn’t thought of them in so long. He assumed they were dead and buried alongside his mother. But this woman, as far as he knew, could not possibly have been Joseph. He shook his head again. Mary looked like she was stifling laughter, and Madeleine was (rather poorly) hiding a funny expression as well.
“I told you, I look different. A lot’s changed.”
“I’ll say,” Mary snorted.
She did look like him. Her face had changed drastically, but her nose and eyes looked the same—he just couldn’t wrap his head around what possibly could’ve happened. Was she a shapeshifter?
“It doesn’t matter. You can believe whatever you want—that I’m Joseph’s long-lost twin sister that Father never told you about. Either way, I’m your half-sister.”
What happened?
The words sat at the edge of his tongue, spilling out yet again illegibly. She needn’t know what he meant, already inhaling to prepare her speech.
“
After my mother killed herself, Father decided I was a failed attempt at whatever he was planning, and he sent me to military school. He remarried shortly after, but the first child he had with his new wife was a girl—Mary—and he was furious. 8 months later, when your mother had you, he was a little more subdued, albeit different. I’d already seen it, of course, but your mother hadn’t yet. You were the new son, but your ‘imperfections’ made him angry. As far as he cared, he was settling for you when he’d given up on me.
Your mom tried to make everything better. Give you the best life she could, trapped in that house. I think she knew if she tried to run, all three of you would end up dead. When Father had Mary put into foster care, she was furious. She spent the next three years sending me letter after letter of schemes to get your sister back, and get you out. We’d all run far away and live happily ever after.
Obviously, we didn’t get that far. I managed to get Mary out of foster care as soon as I turned 18, but getting you was a different story. Your mother was gone and I couldn’t find you. Father left me on the side of the road with one hell of a beating, so I took your sister and left.
I tried, Travis. I swear to god, I tried to get you back. He wouldn’t budge—he’s a powerful man, and Nockfell is his domain. I’ve spent the last decade researching and studying and, most importantly, watching you. Making sure he hadn’t… Done this, yet.
I know, it's a lot.
”
It was a lot.
He sat, dumbfounded, staring at her. He still had questions he needed answered—explanations she hadn’t given. He pointed to his mother in the photo.
“I don’t know what happened to her. I know Father killed her, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.”
The sickening crunch of bones being crushed by a powerful maw reverberated in his skull, and within seconds the memory had faded back into obscurity. He winced though he didn’t know why, nodding.
“But we have you now. You’re safe.”
Shaking his head, he pointed to the door. He couldn’t stay there.
“It’s alright. We can—we can run. We’ll buy an RV.”
She sounded like a child. He couldn’t blame her, opening his mouth to protest, but Mary beat him to it. She knew what he was going to say—or would say, if he could.
“He’ll find all of us if we do that. We’ll die, the world will end, and Travis might have a year of calm before that happens. It’s the same reason mom couldn’t leave with us.”
Madeleine hugged herself. He could tell she hated the idea of driving him back . He’d gone through the same ordeal with Sal several times.
“I can’t just leave you with him. Not again.”
Her breath was uneasy, shoulders shaking as tears welled up in her eyes. He wasn’t good with people’s emotions—he didn’t know what to do, so he put a silent hand on her knee. That’s what Sal usually did, right?
“It was impulsive to grab him before we’d gotten rid of the cult, anyways,” Mary said with a sigh, glancing at him apologetically. He understood.
“But they—he—”
“It’s taken longer than we wanted it to. It’s impossible to dig up information on them and they’re elusive fuckers, too.”
Patting Madeleine’s knee to get her attention, Travis pointed to himself and gave her a thumbs-up. He’d dealt with this his whole life; morbid as it was, he was used to it. Yesterday had been especially brutal, sure, but if anyone was meant to undo the sins of his father, it was him. He’d be fine, all things considered.
It had taken more convincing, but eventually she let up. She’d clearly known they were right , just hadn’t wanted to let him go. If his back weren’t so marred, she’d hug him, but instead settled for a curt pat on the side of his good arm. For that, he was grateful.
By noon, he was being led back to the truck. She let him in the back so he could lay down, and pulled slowly out of the driveway to return to Nockfell. Both of them were quiet, and the radio was off for the duration of the car ride.
SAL
He’d been paging Travis’s walkie for four hours with no response. Irrationally, he considered the possibility that his friend was dead—that Father Phelps was finally on his last straw and murdered his son. He knew that wasn’t the case, realistically, because the cult needed Travis for something. Otherwise he wouldn't have been there in the first place. Hopefully he hadn’t just been used for that something.
Calm down, he thought to himself, fidgeting with the small radio, it hasn’t been that long. He’s been silent for longer.
The way he’d acted the morning prior was getting to Sal. It made everything feel more severe, not to mention the sudden addition of Antonio to their little group. He couldn’t catch a wink of sleep that night, either, and he'd been in the same spot on the couch since.
Absent-mindedly, he paged again. Instead of a radioed response, a familiar hesitant and oddly gentle knock at the door snapped him out of his stupor.
He sat up as quickly as possible, throwing himself at the door and opening it with an enthusiasm he immediately regretted when he laid eyes on the boy in front of him.
TRAVIS
Raising his hand in a silent hello, his weight settled primarily on the ankle he hadn’t sprained. It’d taken him several hours at the pond, sitting with the spiders, to get his voice back, but it crackled painfully in his throat when he used it.
“Sorry,” he rasped, holding out a smashed walkie-talkie. Father must have found it after…
Sal ushered him inside. He didn’t need cleaning or medical attention, but he looked awful. The coffee pot was already brewing by the time he’d been seated at the kitchen table, and the same strange yellow-faced mug was placed in front of him as Sal sat in the chair across.
“What happened?”
“A lot.”
“You can tell me tomorrow. You sound terrible”
He thought about his father. About the reaction the man might have if he returned home that night. It terrified him, yes, but what would change if he stayed home? The facade from before had clearly been dropped. Kenneth didn’t care if Travis broke the rules, he hurt him that time because he needed—and wanted—to, for some reason or another.
“Okay. Where’s..?”
“Antonio? At the vet. He’s getting an operation done on that crusty eye of his.”
Instead of coffee, Sal poured hot water into his mug. It hadn’t boiled as long as it should’ve, but steam still rose from the top. A tea bag was dropped in, and he watched as brown tendrils swirled around in the water.
“You clearly don’t care how hot it is when you start drinking, and I don't want you to burn your mouth, so have some hot-ish tea.”
Honey and a small amount of milk were added as well. He bowed his head in thanks and sipped at the drink, his throat too raw to down it quickly like before. His hand trembled violently each time he lifted the mug, and Sal reached out to steady it.
“Your hair, too?”
Travis nodded. He hadn’t looked at the mirror in his sister’s apartment because he knew he’d hate the thing staring back at him. He could feel how short it was; nearly cut to the scalp, uneven and messy. Almost none of the blonde was still present, only speckled throughout in some of the longer chunks, but he knew it wouldn’t last.
“It’ll grow back, don’t worry.”
That wasn’t the problem, but he nodded again anyway. The last thing he wanted was for Sal to feel worse for him, and he knew the other could tell that wasn’t really why it bothered him. He just hadn’t known what to say, is all.
“I have information,” he croaked, “About.. Father.”
“That’s alright. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”
He didn’t think it could wait. He didn’t want to wait, but couldn’t deny how painful it was to speak. He nodded again.
“Why don’t we watch something tonight? It doesn’t have to be a horror. I know I’ve been forcing you to watch a lot of—”
“Horror’s okay,” He slurred, the word ‘horror’ barely legible coming from his mouth. Sal’s eyes smiled for the first time since he’d gotten there, and that made it all worth it.
None of those movies ever bothered him, really. Reality was far more terrifying, and Sal seemed to hold the same philosophy. When he’d finished his tea, he was guided over to the couch.
“Alright, I think you’ll like this one, Frankenboy. Kronenberg also likes his scientific abominations.”
‘The Fly’, he read on the cover of the VHS. Sal slipped it in and fell backwards onto the cushion beside him, pulling him in by the side to use his shoulder as a headrest. He’d never admit it, but it made Travis’s mind buzz, and he’d hardly been able to pay attention for the first 10 minutes of the movie.
The rest of the runtime, however, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the screen.
Notes:
Two more pre-written chapters to go! Even if I manage to write another, I'm warning ahead of time that the weekend of August 30th (and potentially some weekends after) I will not have anything posted. I'll be driving back to my university which is halfway across the country from where I live now (Canadian provinces are massive) and pretty much all of my freetime will be spent getting books, moving into my apartment, etc. As soon as I get my bearings I'll start writing again! Hopefully it won't be a long hiatus.
Chapter 21
Notes:
HEY SORRY SO AO3 glitched or something?? And put chapter 21 at the beginning of the index. I had to delete both this and chapter 22, I'm just reposting them now. Sorry again especially if you're one of the people with notifications on for this haha
Chapter Text
It’d taken longer than he anticipated before he was ready to talk about what had happened, though Sal didn’t seem to mind having him over for a few more days. His gaze was distant and wide-eyed when he finally managed to start talking, which still proved harder than he’d initially thought. Due to his mouth being far less populated than before, the words all slurred together and he couldn’t pronounce anything quite right. He hadn’t even noticed before, but now that he was forced to speak for longer intervals he could clearly hear how awful he sounded; short sentences seemed to catch on easily enough, but as soon as he talked for more than a few seconds it all melted into one big incomprehensible mess. It was frustrating. By the time he’d finished, he was left wondering if it would’ve been a better idea to try at a game of charades, instead.
“It’s okay,” Sal said quietly, a hand resting on his, “I understand… Kind of.”
His face was still terribly swollen. It had certainly gone down since, but was clearly painful to move and the other seemed to hate watching him in pain. It wasn’t like he could write either; his left arm was broken, and if he looked at it for too long he’d remember seeing the splintered bone piercing his skin. He gagged at the thought.
“You don’t have to tell me everything right now, Travis. We need to figure out how to… How to fix this.”
He’d assumed that Sal meant the situation with the cult. He was wrong.
“Maybe we can pool some money together for a good dentist. My dad might be able to help, we can —”
“No.”
“You can’t just say no .”
“I am.”
“Just,” he sighed, “if your father doesn’t fix this, we will. I don’t care if he hunts us down for getting you dentures, you’re not living the rest of your life without the front of your mouth.”
A sigh and a reluctant thumbs-up. He was trying to avoid talking, because the sound of his words made him want to throw himself from the roof and become a pile of meat on the driveway, but if he could have argued more, he would’ve.
Antonio zipped past the two, rolling across the floor with a toy mouse in his mouth. Fresh stitching lined his previously infected eye, and he was clearly better for it. He ran circles around Gizmo—who was rather confused by the whole debacle—before rolling onto his back and kicking at the toy with his hind feet. Before long, he’d locked eye with his father’s sock, pupil dilating to a comical size as he flipped over and reared back before pouncing, biting and clawing at it.
Though instinct told him to kick his beloved fluffball away, Travis simply chuffed and leaned down to pull Antonio’s little claws out of him, scooping him up and setting him down on his lap, where the black speed-demon rolled around in a futile effort to eat his own tail.
‘MIIIIIIIU , ’ cried the beast when it’d finally bitten down on the appendage.
“Cute,” Sal snorted and reached over, scratching Antonio behind the ears and earning a playful bite in return.
Travis’s gaze left the kitten and fell upon Fisher’s obscured face, taking in the featureless object he’d come to associate with his best friend. He wanted to tell him that whatever was underneath didn’t—Couldn’t possibly —matter. Sal had taken him as he was and peeled back sinewy layers to speak eye-to-eye with the disgusting, rotting thing underneath, and he’d never once expressed horror or hatred at what he saw.
And yet, why should he be trusted, either? What kind of a hypocrite would ask someone to reveal a part of themselves before having been truly and completely open in the first place? He found his tongue roaming the front of his mouth nervously, as he wasn’t able to chew it like normal, but stopped when it slid over something hard.
What?
NEIL
The past couple of days had been rather hectic, or so he gathered from Todd’s incessant worrying and the constant requests for fresh bandaging from Sal. He’d been hunched over his desk, quietly writing away at an assignment when he heard some commotion from downstairs about five minutes before the aforementioned blue-haired metalhead came barreling into his room at a breakneck pace, wheezing and holding Travis like an infant—a rather amusing sight, considering their difference in height—before setting him down.
“What in the—”
The sound of Todd’s shriek from behind him caught his attention, the redhead quickly covering himself—previously laying face-down wearing nothing but alien-print underwear—with their sheets. He couldn’t help but stifle a snort before turning back around to face the two, and hadn’t had time to reattempt the line of questioning before Sal word-vomited.
“Can people grow their teeth back??”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You’re a nurse.”
“Student…”
“Yeah, close enough. Can people grow their teeth back? ”
“No.. You’re born with most of the teeth you’ll ever have in your skull and the rest develop soon after. What is this about?”
“Show ‘im.”
Sal nudged Travis forward, who looked dreadfully uncomfortable and shuffled towards him, opening his mouth. Neil sighed and leaned forward to take a look insi—
Oh.
What?
They were unmistakable. Four new incisors just hardly pressing through the gums, sticking out by a half-millimetre. That absolutely should not have been possible. He raised an eyebrow, grabbing Travis’s face without thinking and pulling him down to get a better look while the other let out a shocked cry.
“That’s… Not normal, no. I wish we had an X-ray. Todd, are you hiding an X-ray with all of your ghost trinkets?”
A muffled, still-embarrassed “No…” resounded from under the covers.
“Shit. Yeah, no. Not normal. Can I run some tests?”
“That’s up to him, I guess.” Sal answered.
Travis nodded.
“Sick.”
Getting everything ready took very little time, as all he needed were his lab kit and a safety pin that’d been cleaned in alcohol. It would have been easier to do everything in the bedroom, but his boyfriend’s buttcrack was still out (he wasn’t complaining, though Todd certainly would), so he set up at the kitchen table instead.
“Alright, I’m going to take a cheek swab and a small blood sample. Just enough to see if anything’s abnormal.”
“Blood sample?” Sal practically threw himself up, standing defiantly.
“I’m pricking his finger, that’s it. You alright with that, Trav?”
A shrug, followed by a nod.
“Cool. Now stick this in your mouth and roll it around your cheek.”
Neil handed the other a cotton swab and kneeled beside him, taking his hand and blocking it from his face so he wouldn’t actually see the small pin going in. Collecting the drop of blood on a glass slide, he took the swab back and rolled that onto another. Both were then pressed under a thin plastic cover and he slid into his seat to look at them under his microscope.
“Do they hurt?”
“Hm..?”
“The teeth. Do they hurt? Like a painful pressure in your mouth?”
“...Yeah.”
“Did they yesterday, too?”
“Mhm.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sal interrupted.
“Mouth already hurt.”
“Fair enough,” Neil continued, “Do you uh… Want something to chew on?”
“No.”
“Alright, alright. No shame if you, uh, do, though.”
His eyes flitted from Travis’s samples to the pictures in his textbook. Nothing looked off like it had for Larry, though his red blood cell count was through the roof, making it appear almost black in colour.
“You should probably stop smoking. Your blood is really, uh, hemoglobin-y.”
He’d been trying to get Travis to stop smoking since he’d seen the first cigarette. None of his attempts had been successful and he doubted this one would be, either.
“Aside from that, you look normal. Not the same as Larry, at least.”
Honestly, that left him with more questions than answers. Humans couldn’t just grow new teeth in adulthood—and though his ‘tests’ were rather barebones, he had a sneaking suspicion a genetic analysis wouldn’t reveal much else.
TRAVIS
Neil’s tests did little to comfort him, and Sal’s reassurances hadn’t done much, either. Could he speak more coherently, he’d talk about the inky vomit from several days ago, or the fact he sometimes felt like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. He sat wistfully in that chair for a rather long time, barely registering anything being said to him as he stared off into infinity.
“Are you hungry?”
That caught his attention. He turned to Sal, furrowing his brows. Why wasn’t he being kicked out? Scolded? Screamed at?
He’d told Fisher what his father was. The monstrous thing that’d emerged from the old man’s near-corpse. If he was something similar, did that not make him dangerous? The information he had was already given to them. They didn’t need him anymore, and they shouldn’t have wanted whatever he was.
His expression must have given away at least some of what he was thinking. Sal’s eyes softened and he set the boxes of Krap Dinner down before making his way over.
“You’re not your father, Travis.”
“I am.”
His face contorted in quiet anger as he pointed up at his mouth, at the juvenile bones he shouldn’t have had , before his expression turned to that of anguish and he felt tears he couldn’t blink away start to well up in his eyes. The hand he could use clenched, head slumping to the side and rolling downwards to avert his gaze from Sal’s as he choked out a sob.
“I am .”
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t.
“Travis,” a hand cupped his cheek and turned it up. He did little to resist, wet eyes hesitantly meeting with a sympathetic gaze.
He sniffled. Why couldn’t Sal just yell at him? Punch him? Anything. He’d be more equipped to deal with that .
“You’re beating yourself up for something you haven’t done.”
“ Yet, ” he spat.
“You don’t know that. You’re just assuming whatever your father is made him an abusive asshole. He was probably already like that!”
“It’s inside .”
Sal looked frustrated. He jammed a finger against Travis’s chest, gentle yet insistent.
“How do you know ‘it’ is inside you? Is it talking to you right now? You said it’s a separate being from him, right? That it talks to him. So can you hear this thing? Have you ever?”
“...No.”
“Then calm down . Even if you are possessed by a giant ink puppy, we wouldn’t just leave you to deal with it alone, okay?”
He looked down.
“...Okay, Travis?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Now are you hungry, or what?”
“Y—yeah.”
He wiped his nose and mouth, trying to swallow down any evidence he’d been crying by the time Neil and Todd had made their way down for dinner. He was so pathetic.
“I can smell you self-deprecating over there.”
That genuinely scared him. He jumped a little and stared, dumbfounded, at Sal, who was laughing by that point.
“I’m kidding. But seriously, you’re not subtle.”
He couldn’t sleep. Thoughts swirled around in his tornado of a head, surfacing for mere seconds before giving way to the next dreadful concept. What was his father? What was he? What if he was dangerous? What if he hurt Sal?
Sal.
Old feelings nipped at the corners of his mind and he winced.
The same fear he’d felt in high school resurfaced. Irrational, he knew, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong . Coupled with the thought of ruining a good thing, he turned away from such fantasy and focused again on what was important. Shifting to lay on his side, he curled in on himself.
“Hey,”
He nearly screamed.
“Sorry—” Sal whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. You either, huh?”
“..No.”
“You mind if I, uh..?”
“No.”
Fisher sat criss-cross behind him, slowly reaching over and touching his hand.
“I’m sorry this is all happening. I know it probably still would’ve if we weren’t friends, but—”
Turning back around, he sat up, head hanging as he stared at the floor.
“I wouldn’t give this up for anything,” he mumbled, trying to articulate well enough to be understood. He couldn’t say this in just a few words.
“Trav…”
“I mean it. I couldn’t even imagine having people who cared about me, before. Now it’s hard to think of a world where I don’t. I know that’s a selfish reason, but I—”
Before he was able to finish, thick arms pulled him into a loose embrace. His nose nestling into Sal’s shoulder, he could smell laundry detergent mixed with the faint odor of Larry’s skunky apartment as well as his own cigarettes. He frowned, swallowing back another crying fit and lifting his own arm up to the other’s upper back.
“It’s okay,” Sal half-whispered.
If he could stay like that forever, he would. Something else was bothering him, though.
“Does your mouth hurt?”
“...No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get some ice.”
Chapter Text
Halloween, 1995
He, Sal, Ash, and Larry were all sitting on the floor in the back of Todd’s Volkswagen, crammed between camping gear, with Neil in the passenger seat and the redhead driving. A conversation had been stirring, and Sal gasped at his previous statement.
“What? I thought you’d love the Frankenstein movie!”
“Absolutely not. It invented the concept of the Monster being this mumbling, groaning beast and completely misconstrued the original meaning behind the story! In the novel, he learns to speak by watching people, but he speaks eloquently . He’s poetic and philosophical, and only becomes truly monstrous when exposed to man’s scorn because that’s what makes a monster . Making him into something that just says ‘Raaaagh! Fire!’ not only makes his eventual wrongdoings less impactful but it removes all of the parallels between— why are you looking at me like that?”
Sal had his head propped up in his hands, staring at him with an odd look in his eyes.
“No reason. Continue.”
And he did. For he found it extremely important to get his point across, in spite of the weird stare. In fact, he spent most of the car ride babbling away about the novel, only stopping once they’d pulled up to their lot.
Travis had never been to the campground before. He hadn’t really known that Nockfell had one, though supposed it was inevitable. Even if there weren’t an official site, teenagers and rowdy college kids would’ve made their own long ago. The group’s lot was deep into the forest, clearly used recently—legally or not—as there were several empty beer cans littering the ground. As soon as he’d gotten out of the car, he started picking them up.
“Chill, dude! We’ll set up the tents first, then we’ll worry about that. We brought trash bags, remember?” Larry called as he stumbled out of the van.
He didn’t want to just drop them back onto the ground, so he formed a pouch with the bottom of his sweater and collected them in that, holding it up with the casted hand.
“Isn’t it a bit late for camping?” He postured, glancing at Sal.
“Yup! So we have less hillbillies to worry about. Plus, we’ve all got sweaters and Todd brought a generator in case we need to break out the heaters.”
Seemed reasonable enough. Nodding, he wandered over to help set up their tent, where Larry was looking incredibly experienced in wielding a mallet until he nearly flattened his own finger trying to hammer a nail.
“JUH-HEEZUS!”
“You alright?” Travis shuffled over, picking at a scab on his knuckle.
“Yeah. Almost got me, but everyone knows I’m invincible.” He looked tired.
“Is there, uh, anything I can do?”
“Your hands look a little full, bud.”
He glanced down at the cans in his sweater, which he was still holding up.
“...Right.”
“All good. Sal ‘n I have done this, like, a gajillion times! We got it.”
He didn’t like standing around uselessly. Huffing, he stumbled over to the van and rummaged around for the trash bags, pulling one out when he’d finally found them and letting his beer can collection fall in. Within seconds, he was behind Larry again.
“ Now is there anything I can d—”
“AH?? DUDE.” He watched Johnson almost fall flat on his face, before whirling around and laughing when he saw the culprit.
“Sorry.”
“Fuckin’ snuck up on me. It’s alright,” snorting, “sure. Take those metal stick things and shove them into the little holes at the bottom of the tent. Keep shovin’ till it’s all the way in.”
“That’s what she said,” Sal interrupted. Travis had no idea what that meant.
“...Ash??”
“God, I hope not.” She chimed in, feigning offense and covering her mouth, wide-eyed.
What the hell were they talking about?
Once the tents had all been set up, Travis helping minimally (in spite of his insistence that he could do more, nobody let him), they took a small trek and sat out by the pond. Neil, Larry, and Ash were wrestling in the water—though a sign read ‘DO NOT SWIM’—while Sal and Todd sat quietly in lawn chairs. He’d wandered off at some point or another, crouching down by long fronds of grass and picking out a praying mantis he’d spotted earlier on the rocks. It swayed and reared up on his hand, as if it could harm the giant abducting it.
“Hey, little buddy,” he whispered, “I’ll put you down in a second.”
The insects and arachnids that called this place home had always brought him a sense of tranquility. He took a moment with his new friend, then set it down on a different plant.
“You’ll blend in better, here.”
“Are you talking to bugs?”
He screamed, falling backwards onto his ass and looking up at Sal who, for once, was towering above him.
“I— no.”
“...Riiight. Well, I was wondering if you were feeling any better. How’s your… Everything?”
“Fine. Better, I guess.”
“Your back?”
“Still bad.”
“We got an extra cushion for you, so you can sit by the fire tonight without hurting it too much.”
“...Thanks, Sal.”
“No probl— woah, is that a mantis?”
Before he knew it, his friend was crouching beside him and staring at the creature as well.
“Yeah,” his shoulders relaxed and he was about to push himself up, when he was hoisted by the back of his shirt and onto his feet by Larry, yelping.
“Shortstuff,” Johnson snickered and ruffled the little hair he had.
An inch. An inch.
“How did you even—”
“I’m like an alligator. Also you’re deaf, so I just came from that side.”
Goddammit.
“Maybe we should get him a hearing aid,” Sal wondered out loud.
“Stop trying to spend money on me, good lord.”
“I’unno, maybe some old lady is selling her husband’s old ones at a yard sale? I’ve seen it before. Crazy shit. I think some weird kid bought them for a costume or something.”
“...Ew, no.”
“Okay, okay. Stay deaf then, I guess.”
“I’d rather be deaf than wear a dead person’s hearing aid…”
“I’m wearing a dead person’s eyeball!”
“No you’re not.”
“No, seriously, I got this one at a discount because they made it custom for some guy but he got gunned down before he could pick it up.”
“... gunned down ?”
“New Jersey is crazy, man.”
They were interrupted by a large splash of water dousing Travis as Larry cannonballed back into the pond. He sucked in through his teeth at the feeling of dirty—probably contaminated—water soaking into his sweater and gauze.
“SORRY!” The culprit yelled. He waved it off in response, but gave Sal a look.
“Right, yeah, we’re going to have to change those.”
“Fuck.”
“That’s why I brought so much of it. And you called me paranoid. Tsk tsk.”
Sure, changing the gauze had become routine, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing. He groaned and followed Sal back to their lot.
The fire crackled intermittently and illuminated a small area with warm light, smelling of gasoline—which Larry had thrown in earlier to kickstart the lighting process—and occasionally shooting puffs of sparks up into the air above. Travis watched with his eyes glazed over and forgot, just for a moment, the macabre happenings of the past couple of weeks. He often got lost in the flickering of small flames, but such a large specimen kept his attention in a vice grip, only being pulled from his trance by a tap on his shoulder.
“You alright? You look out of it.” Neil had been checking up on him more recently, particularly since his teeth had started growing back. They were nearly finished, just barely shorter than the rest.
“I— yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Fair enough.”
He wanted to tell them about the rest of his experiences, but how? He wasn’t about to ruin the mood, and the chance to bring it up seemed to slip away with the more distance put between him and the last bombshell he’d dropped. What could he do? Stop everything and ‘I see dead people’ his way into a new conversation? ‘Oh, hey guys, by the way, I threw up what I’m pretty sure was a glob of my father’ ?
Whatever the case, he had to say something before his chance slipped away entirely. Exhaling, he turned to Sal and opened his mouth to speak when something was unceremoniously shoved into it.
“Sh’more,” Fisher stated, his own mouth full as he did so.
He forgot about everything he was going to do the instant that whatever-it-was hit his tastebuds. Leaning forward, he braced himself against his knees as he chewed with a stony expression, then inhaled and pressed his forehead into his fists.
Holy shit.
“What,” he turned towards Sal, “What was that…?”
“I told you. S’more! Graham cracker, marshmallow, and chocolate. But I use Peece’s peanut butter cups because I’m a genius , so mine are even better than normal.”
“HEY!” Larry barked, “ I gave you that Peece’s idea!”
“You were high, so it doesn’t count!”
As the two bickered, his eyes wandered off to the side where he spotted a figure standing in the distance. It was hard to make out from there, particularly because his sight was starting to get quite poor on the left side, but was approaching. Looking back at the group, he counted everyone there, so who…?
When he next looked, it was standing right in front of him. He flinched a little, staring up at its massive, somewhat discoloured body.
Its skin was an odd greyish-purple tone, bloated and dripping, and there was harsh blackened bruising around a neck that hung limp, leaving its head to dangle. It drew long, heavy, ragged breaths, the faux-air whistling as it escaped the man’s mouth. Unlike Calvin, it wasn’t asking for help. It crouched down and grabbed at Travis’s arms, not saying a word, just breathing and staring at him. Its lips curled into a grotesque smile at the fact it could touch him, nails digging into his arms through the useless protection of his sweater.
“Stop,” he mumbled, trying to keep his voice down.
It just stood there, holding him, gasping for oxygen it didn’t need, its eyes rolling to lock with his.
“Choome.. Ssswiihmm… Wiiith… mhheeeee…” It strained to speak, vocal cords visibly vibrating through the thin, marred skin of its neck. Its voice was deep and oozed from its mouth like molasses.
“S..Stop…” Again, he mumbled, this time at a barely-audible whisper. Sal was looking over at him now, though he didn’t notice.
All he could hear was its breathing. It wouldn’t let go of him, squeezing his arms tighter and letting out a haunting, wheezing laugh.
“Iiiiit’s.. Bheeeen… Soooo… Lllhooonngg…”
It touched his face, a slimy hand grabbing at his cheeks and holding his head still so he couldn’t look away, leaning in and contorting its body so its eyes were level with his. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“STOP!” He screamed, covering his ears.
It was unfazed, though from the corner of his eye he could see the others staring at him. Sal stood up, reaching through its body and towards him.
“Trav..?”
He shook his head, still covering his ears and shut his eyes tight. He could already feel the drowned man trying to pry them open. Sal was rummaging through his bag for something and eventually pulled it out. A familiar musical tune played as the gearboy booted up and he heard the sound of the ghost’s body turning inside out and back in again, just inches away from him, along with the frantic scrambling of the others as they ran to pull him away.
Fortunately, its large hands were no match for that of five others. He panted, choking through each breath as he held on tightly to Ash.
“Yhhouuu.. Shooould… Aaahll… Cooohmmee… Swwiihmmm…” It moaned, gurgling as it did so.
“CREEP!” She yelled, throwing a rock through its head with one hand and clutching him with the other.
It hadn’t taken very long for it to eventually slink back off into the woods, dissuaded by the mob of people it couldn’t touch guarding the one it could. Travis didn’t think he could be quite as scared of something as he was of his father until then. He hadn’t let go of Ash, and she hadn’t let go of him.
“Are you alright, Trav..?” She whispered.
“I don’t know.”
Sal ran over. The sweaty hand brushing his was enough to make him flinch, whimpering as he clung to his friend for safety.
“Shit— sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he barely whispered, trembling.
“You could see it? Touch it??” Larry spoke up, standing a few yards away and still keeping an eye out. His eyes scanned the forest and then fell upon Travis.
Sal hadn’t told them about Megan…?
“I thought—” Sal sat on his chair, holding his head in his hands. “I thought that was because you were so hurt . I—is it? Is that all it is? Are you still—”
“No, no.” He exhaled and slowly unstuck himself from Ash, wiping his eyes. “I see them all the time. I wanted to tell you guys, but then everything happened and—”
“Jesus Christ Travis, we don’t care about that .” Sal hissed, “We’re worried! Because you just got fucking— assaulted by a ghost! And we couldn’t tell!”
Looking down, he grabbed onto his casted hand with the good one, stopping them both from shaking so much.
“I’m… I apologize.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine. Are you okay..?”
“I think so. It didn’t do anything, much. Just…” Scared him. Badly. Ash was staring at him like he was a lost puppy and he hated it.
“That’s… Good, at least.”
“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Larry interrupted, “Travis can see ghosts ? Am I the lame alien here? Where are my special powers?”
On one hand, he didn’t want to leave the tent alone. On the other, he really needed a smoke, and didn’t want to wake anybody for such a stupid thing.
Exhaling, he shuffled out of his sleeping bag, careful not to wake Ash, and started slowly unzipping the little doorway. As soon as he’d crawled out, Sal was standing in front of him, arms crossed.
“What are you doing?”
“Need a smoke.”
“Cool, I’ll come with.”
Nodding, he stepped out and closed the little door again, fishing in his pocket for the pack of marlboros.
“How long have you been smoking?” Sal eyed him quizzically. He shrugged and lit it, propping it between his lips as they walked, talking while his fingers held it in place.
“Since I was, like, fourteen?”
“And you’ve had no problems with it?”
“No, not really. Neither has Father until recently, but I suspect that has more to do with… Y’know.”
“Ah, yeah. Makes sense.”
For a while, they stayed like that, the small light of Travis’s dwindling stick of tobacco illuminating his face.
“You like bugs, right?” Sal broke the silence as he put the bum out on his cast. It had accrued quite a collection of ashy smears since he’d gotten it.
“Well, yeah, I guess. But insects aren’t all bugs, you know. True bugs are things that have mouthparts for piercing or sucking—like mosquitos—so, common misconception, all bugs are insects but all insects are not bugs. I also like myriapods and arachnids.”
“Well, duh on the arachnids. You’ve been protecting that spider in our bathroom with your life, dude.” Sal was not about to ask what the hell a myriapod was.
“... You’re the one who named her.”
“Gertrude loves her name. And me. And probably also you, I’ve seen you put flies in her web.”
“Gertrude can’t feel things like love. But she probably has a fondness.”
“Whatever. You like, Uh…”
“Arthropods.”
“You like bugs. I have something to show you.”
“W—” He got yanked a little too hard off of the trail, nearly falling forward when Sal caught him and dusted him off.
“Sorry, got too excited. C’mon!”
Dragging him further into the forest, Fisher took more care to avoid going too fast, glancing back every so often in case his ankle started to hurt again.
Eventually, they’d made it to a small clearing. They were still by the pond, but on the other side, standing amongst tall fronds of grass that were full of small, blinking, quietly buzzing lights.
Travis could’ve fainted. He stuck his hand into a thick patch of the grass and batted around, a thick cloud of lanternbugs rising up and flitting by, their pale bioluminescence barely enough to make an uncharacteristic smile on his face visible.
“I’ve never seen them up close,” he breathed, catching one in his hands and staring at it. He could see far better than Sal in the darkness, and could make out the odd-looking critter easily.
“I’m glad you like i— are you smiling? ”
“Am I?”
Fisher snorted and poked him in the arm, “You totally are. Holy shit.”
“We should get back, though, it’s…” The smile faded. He looked out over the pond, worried he’d see that thing again. And neither of them brought the gearboy.
“Right. Right, true. Let’s g—”
As the other turned on his heel, it got caught in one of the loose roots of flora surrounding the pond, causing him to tumble forward. A loud CRACK resounded, followed by a gasp and mumbling, “No… No, no, no no no no nonononono—”
Sal slowly lifted himself off of the ground, the two pieces of his prosthetic falling open and the straps slipping off of his head. He scrambled for them, trying to hold them together in front of his face, but couldn’t keep them from falling apart again.
“Sal—”
“DON’T LOOK!”
Shocked, Travis stumbled backwards. Though taken aback by the yelling, Sal’s hoarse voice was enough to keep him from being scared off. He furrowed his brows and stepped forward.
“Are you hurt..?”
He could smell blood.
Hurrying forward again, he crouched beside his friend who was covering his face with his hands, sniffling, eyes clearly wet.
“You’re bleeding. Where?”
“Go away—just—I’ll meet you back at the camp just go away please ,” he sobbed.
He took a moment to think. He didn’t want to force Sal to do anything, but he wasn’t about to leave him there either. Instead, he grunted and pulled him up, leading him forward while holding onto one of the arms shielding his face. He’d taken care to pick up the broken mask, as well.
The short trek back to their lodging was excruciating. He hated hearing the sound of Fisher sobbing behind him. Glancing down at the mask in his hands, he frowned. The faded pinkish part had broken off from the rest, though (thankfully) they were still held together by the straps, and clearly salvageable.
Sitting Sal down at one of the lawn chairs, he rushed to the tent to grab some first-aid. Since he wasn’t sure of the severity, he just piled everything into his arms and hobbled back with little care for his foot.
The fire had been put out, of course, but smoldering embers still sat in its wake. He splashed some of the gasoline Larry had used earlier over it and threw a single log in, along with paper to keep it burning. The other slumped away from the light and pressed his hands further into his face, where Travis could see blood trickling through his fingers.
“Come on,” his frown deepened. He reached up and touched Sal’s hands, not grabbing or prying them off.
“No.”
“Sal, I don’t care what you look like, I just want to make sure you’re okay—”
“ No. ”
He didn’t budge, and neither did Fisher. Not for a long while. Eventually, though, a light tug was enough to make the arms go limp and uncover what had been hidden so diligently behind the prosthetic for such a long time.
“Oh,” he blinked, confused.
That’s what he’d been so worried about?
The one side of Sal’s face was clearly terribly disfigured. A deep crater in his cheek branched out to the rest of the left side of his face, creating grooves in his jawline. Half of his mouth was torn open, his gums visible, and his nose—flat and seemingly less functional—had clearly been grafted on.
As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t that bad.
Rather than dwell on it, however, Travis grabbed a cotton ball and dabbed away the blood gushing from a nasty gash under his eye. It likely wouldn’t have been as bad if not for the scarring, of course, but that didn’t matter. It was bad. He washed it out with bottled water, then grabbed a square of gauze and medical tape, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth when he put it on. It had to be precise , because he didn’t want to rip it off.
“There.”
Sal was holding his mask, staring woefully down at it. He noted, with a strange excitement, that he could actually see the expression his friend was making.
He took the mask away from hesitant hands, grabbing suture glue—an emergency item from the first aid kit—and lining both pieces with it, sticking them together and holding them there.
“... What did you mean?” Fisher mumbled. What he’d previously thought was distortion from the mask had actually been a lisp, caused by the other missing most of his mouth.
“Hm?”
“You said ‘oh’.”
“Oh, uh,” shrugging, “just… Confused? Is all?”
“About what?” His demeanor had completely changed. Like the mask literally lent him enough confidence to be the person Travis had grown to care about so much. Still, he wanted to know this version of Sal, too.
“I thought it’d be… Like, way worse. The way you hid it, I was starting to think your face was a portal to hell, or something.”
“...What?”
“I mean, I guess I was just expecting that you’d actually look bad .”
Silence consumed the camp for a good several minutes, before Sal’s shoulders started to shake. Travis thought he was crying, again, before he started to chortle and burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his hand so they wouldn’t wake the others.
“You’re a weird dude, Trav.”
Taping the pieces of the prosthetic together just in case the glue didn’t hold, he handed it back.
“Sorry things went sour tonight. Twice.”
“ Please stop apologizing for things you can’t control.”
“I’ll, uh, try.”
How did it feel so warm on an autumn night?
Chapter 23: (NEW)
Notes:
I was planning to just wait until next weekend to post this (to keep the schedule and all that) but my university is currently on strike so I don't have classes for probably the rest of the month, and I'll definitely have time to write more.
WARNING: there are some gnarly descriptions of bodily decomposition in this chapter.
Chapter Text
November, 1995
The house was cold. Empty. As soon as he stepped inside he could tell there was a distinct absence of presence, and as he made his way through the foyer he was starting to notice several things missing from the space; most notably the old shotgun his father kept on the wall like a trophy.
Creeping through the oddly quiet space, he stepped on something that crunched under his heel and winced as he drew back, blood already gushing from his foot. He should’ve panicked, scrambled away, and called back for help. He didn’t. He stood, a small crimson circle growing beneath him, and stared at the picture he’d passed by nearly every day of his life.
It had slipped from the frame, which sat shattered on the hardwood floor, the corners unfurled to reveal his mother’s face.
Older, worn, tired-looking. The photo was far clearer than what his sister had shown him, and taken later in his life. She had one hand on a 7-year-old’s shoulder, while his father held the other.
His shoulder.
Rage swelled from within and he felt his face getting hot, breath ragged and deep through gritted teeth —the front four still ever-so slightly smaller than the rest, which made an odd whistling sound as he stared downwards with displaced scorn.
He wanted to scream. To kick the photo under the wooden drawer so he’d never have to see it again.
He looked like his mother. Uncannily so, like he’d taken her face.
He hated that.
Because he had taken it, hadn’t he? She didn’t have one anymore, not to him nor to the rest of the world, and she should’ve. He’d stolen her face, ripped it from her the moment fate had been written by his birth.
He wanted to tear it up. Rip it to shreds and burn it, along with the rest of the wretched place. Something nagged at the back of his neck, itching and burning, nearly bringing him to his knees.
Slowly, carefully, he reached down and brushed shards of glass from the glossy picture, ripping it in two and pocketing the side he cared to preserve, letting his father—along with half of himself—drift back down into a crimson pool.
Letting out a shaky breath, he turned back towards the front door and limped over to it, opening it as his expression fell back into the blank slate everyone had grown so accustomed to.
“He’s not here.”
“Perf—” Larry started, before being silenced by a hand on his shoulder. Sal’s demeanor had changed, his eyes resting on Travis with concern.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this…?”
“You’ve been in my basement, before.”
“This isn’t exactly playing board games in your basement, Trav.”
“It’s… It’s fine. Come in.”
Everyone hauled out of the car in a strange clump. Watching them step up onto his porch made him cringe, as though he was doing something wrong, but he stamped the feeling down and swallowed the lump in his throat to let them through the door.
“Are you— fuck, Travis! Foot!”
Oh, right.
“Sorry. I stepped on glass. It’s not as bad as it looks, I don’t think.”
“You took your shoes off?? ”
“It’s rude to wear—” He caught himself mid-sentence and stared blankly at his sneakers, frowning. “I’ll put them back on.”
And he did, though of course after some much-needed wrapping.
The search heralded few results. His actual bedroom, along with his father’s study, had been stripped bare. He found the remains of his old bed and the few knick-knacks he’d been able to keep hidden—a CD player and old headphones, along with the books that hadn’t already been burned—in an eviscerated pile of debris behind the house.
The message was clear enough; there was no point to feigning normalcy. No social workers the neighbors could call. He didn’t deserve the luxury to pretend he had a bed to sleep in.
There were no more crosses hung on the walls, either. Another facade that had been dropped, as there was nobody to pretend for. The etchings on his back itched, and he stumbled back inside before he could open the shed for the others. He didn’t want to relive the hundreds of hours spent in such a miserable place, and the gasp he heard as he walked away confirmed that.
“He made him…?” Ash’s words trailed off as he put more distance between them.
The scars on his palms, and knees, served as reminder enough.
Footsteps sounded behind him and a hand slipped around his own, fingers grasping at him before he whirled around, shoving it away with a fury in his eyes that quickly dissipated. Sal looked hurt, if only for a moment.
“I—”
“Don’t. It’s okay. If you want to wait in the car…”
“No. I want to do this.”
A lie, its blatancy plastered all over his face. He had to do this.
“..Okay. Is there anywhere else?”
Quietly, almost hoping Sal wouldn’t hear him, he mumbled a response.
“The attic.”
“Alright.”
The study had been off limits, of course, but there were times that his father had brought him inside. For lessons, or punishment, or to make an example of something. He recalled being locked there as a child, surrounded by taxidermy bears and deer, fearing that they’d come alive and eat him if he moved too much. Sometimes he swore he’d seen them move.
The attic, however, he’d never seen. Not once. He hadn’t a key, and wasn’t curious enough to find crafty ways to get inside. ‘Stay out of the attic’ had never been among the few rules he did break.
So watching Sal break the latch with no more than the legs of a chair, it felt almost comical. Almost. Fear trickled in along with the cathartic feeling of curiosity, and he nearly shoved his friend to the side in order to close it back up again.
The smell of rot was strong, sickly sweet, seeping through the hatch as soon as it’d opened. Sal gagged and covered the nose holes in his mask, but Travis was unnervingly used to the odor. His father let the first stages of necrosis set in before treating his injuries quite often.
“Should I get the others?”
“If—” Fisher gagged, “if you want to.”
He didn’t, so he shook his head and started up the ladder. Sal was quick to follow.
What struck him first was the state of decomposition all three bodies were in. Their skin was loose and thin, torn and sagging in some places while flies and maggots invaded the wilted flesh as well as surrounding fluids. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, but his body moved him forward like a marionette and he crouched to take a closer look, nearly choking on the thick air invading his lungs. It smelled far worse than an infected wound, now.
Ms. Grady and her two sons. They wouldn’t have been recognizable, if not for the small photos safety-pinned to their moist clothes. The bodies had never been hidden; they were left there for him to find.
The world around him felt like it was melting, colours swirling and distorting in his vision as he stood up and stumbled back, nearly falling through the hatch opening. He hadn’t realized he’d been out cold until his eyes shot open to a dizzy view of Sal’s expression—maskless—above him.
“Hey, hey c’mon man—” a shaking hand was rubbing his sternum, worry etched into the side of Sal’s face that could emote.
Eyes rolling to the side, he could vaguely see a black puddle seeping through the splintered wooden floor. He groaned, bile rising in his throat before he hurled himself over and vomited again—lucid, this time. That black mucus that gurgled from his throat splattered onto the ground as he heaved. Sal didn’t seem to notice, or care, about the consistency.
“Shit—shit, okay. Okay, uh… We can— fuck.”
Shaking his head, he groaned and sat up. He still felt rather dizzy, however, and nearly faceplanted into his own bile before being caught and pulled aside, held close and firm to Sal’s chest.
“Just… Fuck.”
He was acutely aware that they were sitting metres away from three corpses. This was no place to be cared for. Attempting to sit up again, though, he was pulled back down.
“Just wait . We can get out when you’re able to get yourself down the ladder, okay? I can’t call the others, and I’m not leaving you here alone.”
Minutes passed, and he could feel himself fading in and out. Sal kept dabbing a spot on his forehead with his sleeve, though he wasn’t sure why . Every muscle in his body was sore and he could feel his leg spasming every so often.
Dead insect , he thought, with a morbid sense of amusement. Just like the last time he’d been in that house.
Through the buzzing of flies and now-distinct noise of maggots burrowing through tender flesh, an odd sound broke their focus. A wet, squelching noise, followed by a low moan.
“Jesus Christ—J-JESUS CHRIST—” Sal yelped, scrambling back with Travis still in his arms, which inadvertently turned him towards the scene unfolding.
One of the bodies was moving.
Ms. Grady’s clouded eyes shot open and her detached jaw hung open, the skin around her mouth tearing as it unhinged. Her tongue lashed as she groaned frantically, trying to wake her sons, but the skin on her hands was so thin it was sloughing off and sticking to their shirts. She was too weak to shake them, hardly able to even grip their shoulders.
She began to wail, for it was the only noise she could make with vocal chords that’d been strained and stretched far beyond what a human should be capable of.
Muscles ripped with every movement, the sound like pulling a boot out of wet mud, and exposed the rotten sinew hiding underneath. When she’d spotted the two boys, she let out a rippling sob and reached out towards them
“HHHHEEEUUHH….EEEEE”
Help me
Her hoarse, gurgling voice sounded nothing like the gentle english teacher that’d replaced Mrs. Packerton. As she leaned forward, her shirt bulged at the stomach. He soon realized, even through his daze, that her intestines were falling out of the impossibly soft tissue that’d kept them inside. Long-neutralized acid and excrement spilled out, adding to the wretched smell.
Sal backed up again, heedless of what was behind him. Predictably, of course, this sent him careening back out of the open hatch with Travis clutched tightly in his arms in an attempt to get away from the living dead woman.
They hit the ground with a loud THUD . Thankfully, however, the others weren’t far behind.
Larry sprinted towards the two. Sal was making odd, awful gasping sounds as though he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. For a moment, Travis worried he was suffocating and tried to scramble off, but was pulled in closer yet again.
“SHIT??” Larry yelled, then knocked himself on the head and quieted down, still frantic. “What the fuck happe—”
As the others were speed-walking up the stairs, Ms. Grady’s body fell limp at the top of the attic’s ladder and slumped out of the open hatch, a wet SMACK resonating followed by the collective gagging and panic of everyone else. She was dead, again.
It took all but ten seconds for Johnson to grab the two boys and throw the both of them over his shoulders. Sal heaved something illegible, the only words he could make out being ‘careful… head…’
The rush back to the van was a blur. Neil was crouched over him in a heartbeat, though he shoved the young nurse away and pointed shakily at Sal.
“Hhhim.. First…” He squeezed out, words slurring together.
“He’s alright, buddy,” Neil assured him. “Just got the wind knocked out of him, is all. You hit your head.”
He did?
Eventually, the commotion died down and Douglas stepped back with a great sigh of relief, having performed all of his routine ‘are you severely brain damaged or did you just bump your head’ tests.
“He’ll be fine. Bumped his head and has a nasty goose egg, but aside from that— what happened up there, Sal?”
Having finally caught his breath, the shorter male answered.
“We found the bodies. Three of them. There—there were boxes up there, as well, but we didn’t get the chance to look. I think Travis got spooked—I mean, we were both fucking spooked—and he had a seizure and I couldn’t catch him in time so he just… And he was throwing up, and then—”
Sal fell silent, swallowing. They’d seen ghosts; they all had. Spectres were so common in each of their everyday lives that they’d all become rather desensitized to it, barring Travis’s new development. Living corpses, however, were another story.
He wanted to reach out and do something, to touch his shoulder or hand, but his back was unbelievably sore and every movement sent a bolt of pain through it. He frowned.
“And then one of them, uh, she , started moving. And talking, kind of. Like she was alive, but clearly she fucking wasn’t. And I—I left my prosthetic up there. Fuck.”
It hurt to watch his face contort when he’d realized he was missing the mask. Travis was moments away from (stupidly) volunteering himself when Larry stood up.
“I’ll get it. And the boxes, so we can look through ‘em at your place.”
“Larry, wait— it’s—”
“I’ve seen worse, dude. I mean, remember Dastardly Dead ? Disgusting ass movie. I’ll be fine.”
The look on his face when he came back told a different story. He didn’t say a word, dropping the mask on Sal’s lap and the boxes in the middle of the trunk before pulling his knees into his chest and sitting beside Sal, who was once again holding onto Travis.
“Are you…?”
“They were kids, man.”
That was all anyone had said for the rest of the drive.
It felt wrong how quickly things melted back into normalcy. Everyone was clearly still shaken by the events at his old house, but within several hours Todd was already cooking something that smelled amazing and Sal was chatting with Larry about Dastardly Dead . Distractions, he realized, as soon as he put more than an inkling of thought into it. As hard as thinking was.
Nobody touched the boxes. There was a silent, mutual agreement that if anyone should choose whether to open them, it was Travis.
Well, mutual among all but himself. He hated the invisible pressure weighing on him. As Todd was serving bowls of vegetable soup to hold them over for brisket, he caved.
Opening it was too much. He grabbed the infernal thing and tipped it over, letting the contents spill out onto the floor and hoping it wouldn’t be another body.
It wasn’t.
Another, smaller lockbox fell out onto the floor, along with a pile of tiny clothes. He raised an eyebrow, forgetting for a moment that humans did in fact come from infants and wondering why on earth his father kept doll clothes.
“You mind if I help open that after dinner? Just in case it’s, uh, gross.” Todd pointed at the lockbox. He shook his head.
“Sure. Sorry.”
He could hardly stomach the food. He hadn’t realized how sick he felt until he’d taken a bite and nearly hurled it back into the bowl. Sal kept staring at him like he was a lost puppy, which he didn’t much care for, but it certainly worked in getting him to eat.
Forcing each morsel down, he covered his mouth with a napkin to avoid gagging, though felt positively ill after he’d managed to finish. Were he less nauseous, he was sure he’d enjoy the food more.
“Alrighty then!” Todd sat with the box, a few strange tools in his hands. It took very little time to unlock, as it wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of security, and he handed it back to Travis to open.
Closing one eye and barely peeking at it with the other, he slowly opened the lid, expecting eyeballs or a severed hand.
“Oh my god…” Sal breathed from behind him.
Pictures.
A lot of them.
Of a tiny, barely viable newborn hooked up to oxygen with a gnarled gap from his lips to his nostril. A scrawny toddler with hands full of dirt and dandelions and worms. A child on his first day of school, wearing an oversized shirt with a cartoon spider on it. He was becoming increasingly aware of the growing number of people behind him, leaning over the back of the couch to peer at them.
A note.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the crumpled photo of his mother, staring at it before putting it in with the others.
“Is that…?” Fisher wondered.
“It is.”
“You look just like her.”
Suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
He took the note, its envelope old and yellowing. Part of him wanted to rip it open then and there, but another stopped him. His name was etched neatly on the front, in cursive.
His mother’s handwriting, no doubt. He didn’t want to ruin it.
“You don’t have to, yet.” Larry spoke up. “I get it.”
So, he didn’t.
Chapter 24: (NEW)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
To, My Little Dandelion
I’m not sure when, or if, you’ll find this. Frankly, I hope you never do. If you’ve grown up here for any number of days after I’ve written it, I’ve failed you. I’m sorry.
I hope I will be granted the blessing of apologizing in person, but the chances my life continues are dwindling each day. Your father has become angry—angrier than usual, that is. I think he suspects my betrayal.
I did not marry this monster. I would not have willingly bore children for the devil, I would not do that to you or Mary. Your father has a way of manipulating people that I fear is otherworldly; of making you choose to do something you never would have, otherwise. This manipulation squirms within my very flesh, and I fear my time will be up soon whether or not I succeed.
That man is not human. I hope by now you have not figured this out for yourself. I hope with everything I have left that you have remained blissfully ignorant to the truth, and this is your introduction to reality.
I would not give you up for the world, but I’m sorry I’ve brought you into it. I love you so, so much. No matter what happens, nothing will change that.
If nothing else, be kind. Don’t become the monster He wants you to be.
From the heart, Momma
P.S., I hope you still like spiders, my little entomologist.
December, 1995
Be kind.
The words sat like a rock in his stomach, ink bleeding through tear stains that threatened to damage the old, withered paper. He folded it back up and slipped it into the painstakingly-neatly opened envelope, shoulders trembling with each breath he took.
The monster He wants you to be.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Of course it wasn’t; he’d spent the past year doing everything to atone for the way he acted, being told it was okay, being forgiven.
For disregarding his mother’s last words.
Be. Kind.
A devil perched on his shoulder and whispered to him that he couldn’t have known. How could he? He hadn’t read the letter, hadn’t known it existed. He brushed it off and steeled his gaze.
Monster.
It was common sense. At least, it should’ve been. He’d felt the sting of cruelty and still willingly turned it towards other people; people who hadn’t deserved it the way he did.
What snapped him out of his stupor was the feeling of something wet, and cold, dripping onto his hand. Glancing down, he stared at an inky droplet trailing down from his palm and soaking into the corner of the envelope, causing him to drop it like it’d burned him.
Nausea overtook him and he leaned forward, trying to cover his mouth as he gagged on the black mucus bubbling forth. It did little to stop the torrent of slime from spilling forth through his fingers and onto the floor.
Vision blurring as his unstable legs forced him upright, he watched as more of the black substance dripped from his face and hands, soaking through the shirt he was wearing and pooling beneath his feet. He spun around and stumbled uneasily away from the couch, a strangled cry gurgling from his throat as he slipped on himself and hit the floor with a loud THUD. There was no room to think about the pain shooting up his tailbone at the impact; instead he groaned and watched wide-eyed as the trail left in his wake moved, approaching him.
Backing up, he hit the wall and whipped around at the sound of a picture frame shattering against hardwood when it fell. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but the sight of them—pitch black and melting like a candle that’d been left on far too long—did nothing to quell the fear roiling within him. Calling for help resulted only in strained, horrible groans tearing through a malformed throat.
His skin felt like it was burning, every nerve in his body screaming at him as though hundreds—thousands—of long needles were being driven through his flesh. His bones and joints crackled, popping and separating.
SAL
He felt a little bad for leaving Travis at home, but he wanted to surprise him. Besides, it’d probably be an awful idea to bring that man into a bookstore—he’d have been stuck there for hours, not that he didn’t appreciate Phelps’s long-winded rambles.
“I’m b—” CRASH
Shit.
Dropping the bags he was carrying, he sprinted through the kitchen into the living room, scanning the area for the source of the noise. He expected to find Travis, hunched over a broken vase or frame or something, probably bleeding as he tried to clean it with his bare hands because that was just the kind of person he was.
That’s not what he found. Not even close.
For a moment, he thought the room was empty, until he heard an odd and inhuman groan from behind the far end of the couch. Armed with newfound caution, he tiptoed around and nearly fell back onto his ass when he saw it.
It looked misshapen. An amorphous, sable figure curled in on itself, covering its ears beside a side-table that’d been knocked over and a bare wall where there’d once been a picture. He almost screamed; almost grabbed a broom and charged it, until he’d caught a glimpse of the thing’s eyes, wide and terrified, peeking out from its—his—dripping form.
“Travis?”
He recoiled, a distinct whimper leaving his impossibly wide mouth, which opened as though tearing through the veil of ooze surrounding it.
“Hey, buddy—”
The soft tone of his voice didn’t seem to help. Travis looked terrifying—and terrified, himself. As much as Sal tried to steel his tone he couldn’t completely hide the shaking in his voice, or the way his hands trembled when reaching towards him. He watched as his friend nearly flattened himself against the wall to avoid his touch, and drew a deep breath as he approached.
“I won’t hurt—”
In an impossibly swift movement, the other darted across to the other side of the room, backing himself against that corner instead.
“You won’t hurt me.”
Maybe the uneasiness in that statement showed through his tone, because Phelps seemed to shrink back even further. He wanted nothing more than to be telling the complete truth, but something nagged at him. What if Travis couldn’t control himself?
That thought, ironically, comforted him. Of course he could control himself; he was acting exactly as he always did when he was worried he posed some kind of danger.
Inhaling, again, Sal stood and walked back over to his shapeless friend, crouching a few feet away and extending a hand, not quite as uneasy this time.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Nothing. Travis shivered and gurgled out another strange sob, shaking his head. He unclipped his mask and set it on the floor, sitting cross-legged and waiting rather than scaring him off again.
Eventually—after what must have been half an hour—the amorphous figure slowly unlatched itself and sauntered forward. He smiled and reached out, pulling him in and doing his best to ignore the feeling of his hands sinking into his friend’s back. Despite how cold and uncomfortable he was to hold, however, Sal’s grip tightened just slightly. If this was how things were, then…
He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when he felt solid material again. It was slow and looked painful, the sound of bones and muscle reforming being drowned out by Travis’s wails, which were muffled by Sal’s shirt as he held firm through convulsions and involuntary spasms. All he could do was whisper encouragement and smooth back his hair, when it was hair again.
“It’s alright,” he mumbled, half to reassure himself as the other gripped onto him as tightly as he could—admittedly, not very hard. He hadn’t even realized there were tears streaming from his face until he reached up to wipe them away.
“It’s okay.”
A muffled sob, which he hoped was an acknowledgement.
“Let’s get you dressed.”
TRAVIS
He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling. Embarrassment? Fear? Relief, that he wasn’t stuck like that? What the fuck was he? Staring pensively off into space as he fidgeted with the end of a fresh sleeve, a gruesome truth swirling around in his head.
Sal was scared of him.
Terrified. Of him. And he couldn’t exactly blame the guy. He pulled his knees up towards his chest and buried his chin between them, eyes glossy and unreactive when the other approached to put a weary hand on his shoulder
“Trav…?”
He didn’t answer, turning his eyes away.
“Hey… Come on, don’t get all mopey on me now.”
The grip he had on his elbows tightened and he curled in on himself tighter. Sal didn’t leave, though.
“Alright. Alright, yeah, I guess you’ve got a right to be mopey.”
Sitting beside him on the bed, the other pulled his rigid form in to lean on him, a gentle hand rubbing up and down his arm.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that.”
“Don’t apologize. Anyone else would have done the same.”
“Yeah, but I did. Not exactly the best way to react, especially someone like me.”
“It’s not the same,” his voice got quieter, “You have an injury. I’m…”
What?
What was he?
“You’re Travis. I should’ve seen that sooner.”
“You should’ve run.”
“You weren’t going to hurt me.”
“What if I did?”
Silence. Loud, painful silence. The type that reminded him he shouldn’t have the right to open his mouth in such situations. He should’ve left a month ago.
“I was going to leave,” he interrupted it himself.
“What?”
“When we went to my house. After Ms. Grady… Attacked us. I was going to leave.”
“...Why?”
Swallowing, he pried himself away from Sal and put distance between them, leaning forward.
“Because it was a warning. An obvious one. He was saying, I can do this to your friends, too.”
“So, why didn’t you?”
The question hung in the air for a while. If he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure.
“The same selfish reason I always have. It’s hard to leave. He’ll take me eventually, I know he will, but—until then, I like this. I really, really like this.”
“We’re not leaving you behind, buddy.”
“You should. I mean that honestly, you all should. Especially now that—”
“Nothing’s changed. Nothing important, anyways.”
He raised an eyebrow. Sal looked far too calm. It was a lot easier to handle when he could just see spectres—helpful, even. This was a different beast, literally.
“You weren’t any different. I don’t know how you couldn’t tell, but you acted exactly how I’d think you would. You’re not possessed by anything—you’re not a liability, you’re just… A little fuckin’ weird, that’s all.”
“That seems like an understatement.”
THE DEVOURER
Deep within the shadows of the old church, beneath century-old stone and the statue of a false messiah, a true beast stirred. It rippled, slithering beneath an old man’s skin as it both sapped and supplied his longevity, every second spent in his body unifying both monsters more and more.
The offspring’s awakening wrought new threats, and new opportunities. It roiled and bubbled within its flesh-encrusted vessel, excitedly informing him of the new development. A perfect conduit.
Notes:
sorry this one's a lil shorter, hopefully since the last two were extra long it's not too big of a deal
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angryeelz on Chapter 3 Mon 18 Aug 2025 07:54AM UTC
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SleepDepived (Guest) on Chapter 4 Fri 18 Jul 2025 04:54AM UTC
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Yaderochka228 on Chapter 4 Mon 18 Aug 2025 02:48PM UTC
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angryeelz on Chapter 4 Mon 18 Aug 2025 03:23PM UTC
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m (Guest) on Chapter 5 Wed 15 Jan 2025 08:21AM UTC
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zigzag_the_clown on Chapter 5 Wed 15 Jan 2025 09:26PM UTC
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angryeelz on Chapter 5 Thu 16 Jan 2025 12:30AM UTC
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ojpriince on Chapter 5 Wed 22 Jan 2025 05:19AM UTC
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