Chapter Text
It was easy enough to brush himself off, toss the already-packed duffle bag in his car, declare that he didn’t need anyone, and drive off dramatically into the night. What came next was where the cracks started forming. That was the point where he was forced to actually acknowledge what just happened and what it meant. He managed to keep up a strong front at first. Anger and stubbornness kept him glaring through the windshield, hands clutching the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles ached.
But with no plan and no destination, habit took over and Stan found himself drawn to the beach. He parked the Stanmobile, ignoring the signs warning about being towed. He knew that only applied to the weekdays. Besides, even if it wasn’t a Saturday, no one would check it at this time of night. They wouldn’t bother trying to tow vehicles until Monday morning early. He’d memorized all the good places to park along the coastline almost as soon as he got his license; there was no way he would risk his car after working so hard to earn the money for it in the first place.
He kept it together as he eased the Stanmobile between the faded lines painted on cracked pavement. But as soon as he turned off the ignition, the waiting wave of emotions came crashing down. Stan screamed and beat at the steering wheel and dashboard. The stinging of impact did nothing to distract him from the aching in his chest or his burning eyes. He lashed out blindly for a few minutes before he simply collapsed against the steering wheel, face burying in his arms.
He'd messed up. Badly.
Stan knew that he wasn’t the good kid, the smart kid, the one with all the promise and an actual future ahead of him. He’d always known that. Ford once claimed that Stan liked taking shortcuts and that sometimes got him into trouble, but he was still a good person. He always seemed to believe that there was something about him that was worthwhile. He wasn’t just the extra Stan that was a poor imitation of his brother. But after tonight, not even his twin seemed to believe that now.
He didn’t mean to break the science fair project. Not on purpose. Yeah, he hadn’t liked the idea of Ford leaving him behind. And maybe he’d been secretly hoping that Ford would still choose their dream: treasure, babes, and adventure. He’d wanted Ford to choose the future that would have space for Stan in it. But Stan didn’t try to ruin the project to make it happen. He didn’t try to destroy his brother’s chances on purpose.
No one believed that. Absolutely no one. Ma probably assumed the same thing that everyone else did. That he was selfish and awful enough to…
Why wouldn’t they think that? He was the dumb, sweaty, and bad twin. He was the one with no potential, no prospects, and no worth. Why wouldn’t they assume that he would try to ruin Ford’s life and hurt him like that?
Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my future?
All you ever do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother’s coattails.
There had always been a buried fear that Pa didn’t like him. Taking up boxing and learning to stand up for himself made him almost forget that fear. He wasn’t taking home gold medals from the Olympics or anything, but he’d thought it earned Pa’s respect and— and—
But the duffle bag was already packed and ready to go before anyone even knew what happened to Ford’s project. As if he was waiting for an excuse. Because he knew that someday, Stan would mess up too much and he might as well keep that bag prepared for that day.
And Ford… His own twin believed that…
Stan bit his bottom lip. The sting of pain helped him focus and combat the unmanly sounds trying to claw their way out.
One mistake and everything in his life fell apart. His brother hated him and believed that Stan purposefully tried to ruin his future. Pa tossed him out and told him that he couldn’t return without millions of dollars to make up for what he’d done. His family didn’t want him, he no longer had a home, and he had no plan. All that he had left was his car, whatever clothes that were stuffed in his bag, and the five dollars in his wallet.
He didn’t know what type of future that he was supposed to have now that he was alone. He’d always been part of a dynamic duo. But if he couldn’t go home, Stan could only think of one place to go.
Taking a shuddering breath, Stan climbed out of his car. The full moon cast a pale light across the long and familiar stretch of beach, far enough from the pier and the slightly more picturesque sections that he and Ford normally had plenty of privacy. It wasn’t far from the original cave that they’d found boarded up all those years ago. The stretch of beach that he’d explored and memorized with his twin during long summers and so many afternoons during school. Hands stuffed into his pockets, Stan’s feet led him through patches of beachgrass and over the dunes until he caught sight of the wood of the Stan-O-War.
It wasn’t complete. He couldn’t just shove it out to sea and escape right that moment. The project turned out to be extremely time-consuming. Some of their earliest repair attempts had needed to be torn off and redone as they learned more about what they were doing. And wood cost money that they’d needed to scrape, scavenge, and earn. He remembered Ford talking about using oak for the keel and frame of the boat and pine for the planking, the two of them deciding that new wood was worth the cost rather than just whatever scraps they could find. Stan had even helped him look through books on how to fix up the boat because this was important.
But while there were still a few sections that still needed some work and the boat needed several coats of waterproof sealant to keep it from sinking, it actually looked like a boat now instead of a collection of firewood. Normally the sight of it filled him with pride and a sense of accomplishment. But tonight, seeing the boat that was supposed to take him and his brother on adventures together, it only made Stan more aware of exactly how alone he truly was.
He hauled himself up on deck, the only sounds being his tennis shoes scrambling against the wood and the more distant ocean waves further down the beach. Stan scuffed his foot across the light layer of accumulated sand, tracing vague swirling patterns. Any day that there was any amount of wind, a new faint dusting of sand (and rarely, tiny bits of glass shards that were light enough) would be blown across the deck. If they wanted to work on the boat or even hang around very long, they would have to drag out an old broom to sweep it off. Stan would always call it “swabbing the poop deck” when they were younger and would spend the time fighting off giggles.
Actually, he said it about a month ago. Ford had rolled his eyes, but he’d smiled like he always did.
Stan scrubbed at his burning eyes. He must have gotten some sand in them. Or maybe sea salt blown in from the ocean. Either way, it was making his eyes water. He did his best to dry them before allowing himself to sink down, sitting at the base of the mast and drawing his knees close.
What was he going to do? Certainly not go back to school on Monday and face Ford, the principal, and everyone else. It wasn’t like he would be able to graduate anyway.
He could try finding some buried treasure on the beach. That sounded like a quick path to the riches that he needed. Certainly faster than trying to earn it with whatever odd jobs that he could pick up on the pier. Searching for gold, silver, and other valuable treasure couldn’t take longer than a couple of weeks. A month at most.
Until then, he needed to figure out a place to stay. He might have been able to charm his way into staying at Carla’s place for a night or two— her parents didn’t completely hate him— but they were currently on the “off” part of their on-again-off-again relationship. Sleeping in his car for a little while should be fine as long as he picked the right parking spots and kept it locked at night.
Definitely locked. There’d been some type of news articles about homeless people being killed lately. Stabbed in the neck. Ma had muttered something about the streets not being safe anymore. But Stan wasn’t like them, even if he was technically no longer welcome in his own home…
He gave a weak and watery chuckle. Maybe he could just camp out on the Stan-O-War. No one would bother him there and there was enough space below deck. But that just felt wrong. The boat was supposed to be for both of them.
It was their dream.
Or maybe it was only Stan’s dream… Maybe Ford never wanted any of it. Maybe he only went along with the whole idea until something better came along.
Ford could clearly do great things when Stan wasn’t wrecking everything. Ford didn’t need him dragging his twin down. No one needed him. No one wanted him.
And until you make us a fortune, you’re not welcome in this household!
“Ahoy there. Any reason why you’re out here at this hour?”
Stan stumbled back up to his feet, hands instinctively curling into fists at his sides. He must have been stuck too much in his head because he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching the beached boat. But that might have to do with the black pants and black dress shirt that he was wearing, far too formally dressed for someone wandering the beach at night and climbing on deck using the closest dune for a boost. The stranger was a dark-haired man who looked like he was at least thirty and did not belong there. It was only once he was onboard and straightened up that Stan caught sight of the white collar. One of those fancy clerical collar things that meant he worked for a church.
That explained it. He was some type of priest. Undoubtedly looking for souls to save or whatever. That’s how it worked, right? And didn’t they also run soup kitchens and homeless shelters and such? Well, it didn’t matter. Pines men didn’t need charity. Stan could take care of himself. He didn’t need some stranger’s pity.
“Look,” said Stan carefully, “I’m sure there’s plenty of other saps who actually need your help…”
—Wait, what did they call these people? Pops? Papa? No, that wasn’t it—
“…Father,” he said awkwardly. Right, that’s what they called priests. “But I’ve got this under control. I don’t need whatever ya selling.”
Taking a step closer, the priest said evenly, “It is dangerous to be out alone at night. There are terrible rumors lately. There must be a good reason for you to be here instead of at home.”
“None of your business,” he snapped.
“If you do not want to tell me, perhaps you can accompany me somewhere more pleasant then? Somewhere you can rest with a roof over your head and a hot meal in your stomach.”
“I’m good here. And I’m not going anywhere with you.” Crossing his arms and rolling his eyes, Stan said, “Especially not some fancy church of yours. You’re barking up the wrong tree with me. So thanks, but no thanks. Now get off my boat.”
The priest chuckled in a way that abruptly made the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck stand up. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the formal dress that didn’t belong on a beach or the fact he was wandering around that late at night. There was something wrong about this entire situation. And the longer that he looked at the stranger, the more unnatural everything felt.
Stan hadn’t felt as strangely vulnerable and uncomfortable for a long time. He was an experienced boxer and puberty had gifted him with a rather solidly-built body, but some tiny voice in the back of his mind warned that the lean man drawing lazily closer was a threat.
Stan shifted into a more solid stance and raised his fists. He didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for the priest. If he tried anything, Stan would throw a solid left hook and make a run for his car.
He shoved away the quiet thought that he didn’t know where he’d go if he needed to make an escape. He couldn’t go home, after all.
“Last warning,” said Stan, trying to keep his unease out of his voice. “Get off the boat now. I’m not impressed by the weird collar or fancy title. Doesn’t mean a thing to me. I will punch a priest.”
And that only seemed to amuse him more. He actually threw back his head to laugh at Stan’s words. The uneasy feeling only got worse. There was something strange. Stan couldn’t quite explain what it was, but something about the priest’s appearance gnawed at him. What he was seeing wasn’t quite right. But it wasn’t until the priest snapped his mouth shut like a steel trap and bared his teeth in a predatory grin that Stan finally had something that he could name specifically as being wrong.
Moonlight catching at just the right angle, the priest’s dark eyes briefly flashed red. Almost like the green glow of a cat’s eyes at night. Ford would probably know the name, but Stan didn’t need it to know that human eyes weren’t supposed to do that.
“Holy Moses,” he breathed, taking an uneasy step back.
It was like the Jersey Devil that they encountered as kids. Something strange and unknown. And clearly dangerous. He might look human at first, but the priest was clearly something else. Something with creepy eyes and a grin that was unnatural.
“Feel free to scream if you like,” said the priest, his American accent melting away into something that belonged across the ocean. “No one is listening. No one cares about the fate of a runaway. The hunting has been plentiful these past few months.” He took a step closer, tilting his head contemplatively. “I will likely need to seek out a new territory soon, but there is nothing wrong with having… What is the phrase? One for the road.”
The unnerving laugh returned. Stan finally realized what was bothering him about that grin. Some of those teeth looked a little too sharp. Stan had watched enough old late-night movies with Ford that a crazy and terrifying idea about what he was facing began whispering in the back of his mind. No cape and slicked back hair, but…
Those things weren’t real. But then again, that’s what people said about the Jersey Devil and that fire-breathing horse-faced donkey-goblin was real enough to nearly kill them. So Stan forced himself to skip over the “this can’t be happening” stage and deal with the fact that it could be a monster. And if it was, escape was still the priority.
Stan took another step back, ignoring the pounding in his ears and his own rapid breathing nearly drowning out the sounds of the distant waves. His heel met a gap. The opening in the deck. Not the main way down, the ladder in the cabin. A section that they were replacing because the boards were too weak. And he didn’t dare look away from the priest long enough to navigate around it. That left him cornered and trapped. And those dark predatory eyes filled with smugness made it clear that the priest knew it.
Slipping back into a solid fighting stance, but keeping his arm defensively close to his body, Stan gritted his teeth. Whatever this guy was, Stan wasn’t going to make it easy on him. Stan had been kicked out of his family, thrown out of his home, and now had a monster looking at him like a cat with a mouse, but he wasn’t going to just roll over and die.
Swallowing, Stan said shakily, “So which are you hoping for? Trapped and helpless? Or are you hoping that I’ll make a break for it and you get to chase me down? ‘Cause hunting sounds like ya—” He cut off suddenly, eyes widening as he looked past the priest. “Lady, get out of here! Run! Call for help!”
The priest jerked his head around in search of the nonexistent witness. Stan immediately took advantage of the opening. A quick jab to the temple followed by a hook to the jaw. Stan might not be Sonny Liston, but he could still throw a punch. And desperation and fear added some extra power behind his swings. Hard enough to make his hand hurt and the priest stagger slightly. But when Stan tried to follow up with an uppercut— he wasn’t going to try running until his opponent hit the metaphorical mat— the priest lunged forward faster than expected. His hand catching and stopping Stan’s fist.
The world briefly slowed to a crawl. The priest yanked the trapped left arm towards him while slamming his other hand into Stan’s right shoulder. The impact made Stan twist hard, a sharp and agonizing pop erupting as pain radiated down his arm and especially around his left shoulder. The pain tore a scream from his throat and tears from his eyes. His knees tried to buckle as only the crushing grip on his fist kept him from crumpling to the ground.
As Stan struggled to clear his vision, he glimpsed the smug sharp-toothed grin and eyes so dark that they looked black. Then he felt the priest let go. Gravity took hold, sending Stan falling through the hole in the deck.
More pain shot through him as Stan crashed on his back and hit his skull, making his vision fill with stars and driving the breath from his body. He couldn’t move. He could only cough and gasp, struggling to breathe again. But he knew better than to stay down. It wasn’t a judge counting down while he lay sprawled on the mat. It was another glimpse of the glowing red eyes peering down at him before moving away from the gap above him. He needed to move.
His left arm refused to respond. Just dead weight throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat. His back and head were also pounding. Only a little moonlight made it below deck, so he couldn’t see much. But he could hear the faint creak of footsteps climbing down the ladder.
Too breathless to curse and blinking away tears, Stan started pushing himself backwards and away from the sound. Moving towards the bow of the Stan-O-War. There wasn’t any escape in that direction. He knew that. Only sturdy boards lining the hull. He knew that the only way out was the ladder. But maybe he could hide long enough and get lucky, staying out of reach until he could make a break for the ladder. Just stay in the darkest part of the boat and completely quiet.
Except that was easier said that done. He kept bumping against the keel in his backwards crawl. And they’d left various bent nails, broken slivers of wood, and other scraps from their repair efforts scattered across the lowest point of the boat. His attempts to scramble through the darkness ended up with him jostling and knocking them into each other. He winced at the faintest noises that he was making. And far too soon, Stan bumped against the narrow V-shape of the bow. There was nowhere left to go. He could only press himself silently against the solid wood, half-lying and tucked against the thick piece of the keel.
How could this be happening? He shouldn’t even be out here. He should be sleeping in his bunkbed, probably with a blanket pulled over his head because Ford was reading. If he didn’t accidentally break that science project and ruin Ford’s chances with his fancy school, then Stan would be at home instead of hiding from a monster on their boat. He wouldn’t be alone, in pain, and trapped.
It was Stan’s own fault that this was happening. He’d ruined everyone else’s life, so why shouldn’t he do the same to his own?
Stan shivered as he heard the creak of wood. Slow and stalking footsteps. And despite knowing it wouldn’t do him any good, Stan held his breath in an attempt to be silent. His pounding heartbeat sounded deafening enough that he was surprised it was echoing through the entire boat. It was like the worst game of hide-and-seek ever. He desperately tried not to draw attention. After all, there was a slight chance that the monstrous priest didn’t know exactly where he was hiding. Maybe.
“I will admit that I was not expecting much resistance. I am afraid that I’ve allowed myself to grow complacent,” said the priest slowly, definitely moving in his direction. “You surprised me. I will not repeat that mistake.”
His left arm was useless. The priest had done something to it. Broken or dislocated his shoulder. It might as well not exist if it wasn’t for the pain still throbbing through it. His right one worked though. He and Ford were both equally good with either hand, but his left hook tended to catch his opponents off guard more often; they were used to fighting people who were better with their right hands. Surprise was always a powerful ally in a fight. The priest might think that he wasn’t going to make any more mistakes, but he couldn’t predict everything. One more surprise might be exactly what Stan needed to get past him and make it to the ladder.
Bracing himself against the hull, half-inclined because of the angle, Stan listened carefully to the almost mocking footsteps. The wood creaked quietly. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. The priest was simply a slightly deeper shadow that was stalking towards him, far too confident. But Stan could clearly picture him in his mind. He knew how tall he was.
In boxing, it was illegal to hit below the belt. But outside the ring, anything was legal when the cops weren’t around.
Stan kicked out hard. And even if the priest wasn’t actually human, he was still close enough to a man to yelp and curse when he made contact. Stan slammed his foot again, hoping to kick his face while the priest was hunched over. Third time proved to be a risk too far. The merciless hand grabbed his ankle mid-kick. Stan shouted in horror as the priest yanked, dragging him closer across the floor.
And then the priest was on top of him. Pinning him in place. The man didn’t weigh much, but he was far stronger than he should have been. Because Stan was struggling and bucking and fighting the hold, but it didn’t even jostle him. He couldn’t do a thing.
“Get off me,” shouted Stan, trying to sound threatening instead of terrified. “Let go!”
“I grow weary of your obstinance,” he said, annoyance coloring his voice. The darkness hid his face, but the tone made it clear that he was glaring down at Stan. “You might as well accept your fate and submit.”
“No,” he snarled.
Stan couldn’t move much with the monster perched on top of him, pressing against him. A cool and unyielding figure that made his skin crawl. But through the panic and pain, he could tell when the priest leaned down. And Stan slammed his forehead into the priest’s face.
His vision filled his stars again— his head exploding in pain because headbutts never work out well for anyone— and he heard another curse. Stan hysterically thought about how religious people weren’t supposed to curse and he got the priest to do it twice already. The brief breathless laugh was immediately cut off by a sharp backhand that felt more like a blow in the boxing ring. His ears rang, he tasted the sharp metallic of blood, and he could feel his face immediately starting to swell. Then the priest released his right arm, grabbing Stan’s head and wrenching it to the right.
“Of course I managed to chose the plump meal too foolish to know when he’s already dead,” muttered the priest.
Gasping and making weak pathetic sounds that Pa would be ashamed to hear from him, Stan fumbled blindly with his right hand. Clawing both at the clerical dress shirt and the wood beneath him. The priest didn’t seem to even notice the efforts. And as his fingers found a long sliver of splintery wood, something sharp stabbed into the left side of his neck.
Teeth. Sharp teeth and a hungry mouth latching on, burying into the exposed flesh like a knife. Agonizing.
Stan tried screaming, but it came out gurgling with the sharp coppery taste worsening. He wanted to grab at his throat. He fought the impulse, tightening his grip on the piece of wood in his hand. One fast move. Felt more than seen or planned. Stabbing the wood into the priest at an angle, sliding under the ribs and up.
The priest jerked, tearing free of Stan’s throat roughly. Doing more damage. Warm fluids pour and spurted in a fast rhythm. Stan clutched at the wound as the priest gave a ragged gasp, spasming on top of him. Seconds later, the weight vanished off Stan and dust filled his mouth and mixed with the rest of the sticky mess.
Pain consumed him as Stan coughed and choked, trying weakly to swallow everything away. Tears cut their way down his face. Struggling to breathe, shuddering, and smelling nothing except copper instead of sea salt. And everything seemed to spinning and unsteady. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t concentrate. He could barely keep hold of the spurting wound.
That was important, right? He needed to stop it. He vaguely knew that was important. Stop the bleeding and spurting. Everything would be fine when it stopped. Stop it and he’d get to go home, right?
He wanted to go home. That thought managed to linger even through the increasing fuzziness and the darkness that somehow seemed darker than before. Stan just wanted… to… go… home…