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Chapter Text

The bitter cold bit at your nose as you huddled against Eben’s snow-speckled parka, the crowd shuffling in the same direction. Everyone in Barrow was headed for the quintessential first stop during the festival: the hot drinks tent. 

It was a white canvas tent that nearly blended in to the snowy background and pale blue sky, but a banner flapped in the breeze that stood out in stark contrast to the white above and below. 

CIDER! HOT CHOCOLATE! COFFEE! 

Everyone went to the hot drinks tent first, got their preferred beverage, and then visited the other vendors. It was nearly impossible to shop during the festival without a hot drink to keep their hands warm. 

People started to push past you both, then noticed it was you and Eben. They apologized in embarrassment for having cut off the sheriff, and let him ahead. You typically didn’t like to take advantage of Eben’s position as a police officer in the small town, but sometimes it had its perks, like now. 

Eben pulled you through the crowd and to the front of the line where three people were taking orders. 

“A cider and a coffee,” he ordered, his breath pluming out in white clouds. His nose was already turning red and his fingers trembled as he pulled off a glove to get money from his wallet. 

“Sheriff doesn’t pay,” said Raymond, one of the workers at the tent. He handed over two steaming paper cups. One of them was filled with a rich black liquid; the one one was amber-colored. 

Eben gratefully took his coffee while you took your cider. You noticed Eben drop a few dollars into the tip jar anyway. He passed his coffee cup to you while he pulled his glove back on, took the coffee back, and led you away. The air was filled with the sound of snow crunching under boots, the breeze whistling over icicles, and dogs barking in the distance. 

You kept one arm looped through Eben’s while you sipped your cider. It was hot and tinged with cinnamon. It instantly made your insides feel warm, like someone had lit a fire inside of your stomach. 

“Oh,” you said, taking another sip. “I’d drink this every day.” 

Eben sipped at his coffee as you walked arm-in-arm across the snow. It wouldn’t be long until winter settled in over Barrow and there was no more sun for over a month. Eben could never figure out if the stretch of darkness was better or worse than the nearly 90 days of straight sunlight that Barrow faced each summer. 

It disappointed you a little to see that Eben was leading you away from the other vendors and towards the outskirts of the crowd. He turned and began scanning the group, his shoulders stiff, head on a swivel. Always looking out for threats. Always taking care of other people. 

“Stop thinking so much,” you said playfully as you leaned against Eben’s parka-clad arm. You could smell the intense acidity of the coffee and it made your nose twitch. 

“What am I supposed to do instead?” 

“Pay attention to me.” 

Eben looked down at you and smiled. His eyes softened and his shoulders relaxed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your icy nose, and then your lips. 

“Okay. I’m paying attention.” 

“It’s going to be a long time before we see the sun again,” you began matter-of-factly. “Everyone is going to pretty much holed up in their houses until the sun rises again.” 

“True.” 

“So, you’ll have plenty of problems to worry about then.” 

“Who said I was worrying?” 

You stared at him, unamused. “I know you, Eben. Right now, you just need to enjoy one of our last days of sunlight. Some of these people won’t come out of hibernation until that first sunrise. It could be a month or two before we see them again.”

 
“Okay …” 

“So … stop being Sheriff Oleson right now, and start being Eben. Go talk to people. Go buy some overpriced desserts. And stop worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”

“I’m not worrying.” 

You rolled up to your tiptoes, kissed Eben on the lips, and said, “Yes, you are. Now, if you don’t take me to go get your grandma’s fudge or Janey Whitlock’s homemade bread or one of the suncatchers that the elementary kids made, I will be filing an official police report against you.” 

Eben laughed and slipped his arm out of yours to wrap it around your waist, pulling you close to him. “Fine. I’ll be Eben Oleson for the next two hours. And I’ll buy you whatever you want.” 

You leaned up and kissed him again. “Good.” 

Chapter Text

Golden leaves cascaded down from the trees in the park where dozens of booths had been set up. The Harvest Festival was in full swing, and it seemed like half the city was trying to get into the park. Live music played from the bandstand in the center of the park where folding tables had been set up with chairs. Almost every seat was already occupied, but there were a few benches scattered around the park, hidden under cool shadows of trees. 

About half a dozen men were barbecuing, and another half dozen were serving food from a different folding table. Other booths had portable stoves with large silver pots of chili cooking away, and some had steamers filled with tamales and ears of sweet corn. The savory smells wafted on the air and mingled with the sweet scents of the candy booths close by. There was a vendor making kettlecorn, another making ice cream with a John Deere tractor engine, and another making wispy piles of cotton candy. 

You clasped Francis’s hand as you walked through the fairgrounds together, taking in all the sights and smells. Francis had never been big on attending things like this, mostly due to his social anxiety and his self-consciousness about his appearance. Even though you’d assured him multiple times that you loved how he looked (and that no one cared), he was still hesitant to show his face outside of his workplace. You’d finally convinced him to attend the festival by gifting him a black surgical mask, which seemed to comfort him some. 

“What do you want?” Francis asked. You could hear his soft breath moving through his teeth and over his scarred lip, his nostrils flexing to produce the correct sounds. You squeezed his hand and leaned against him. 
“I kind of want a candy apple.” 

Francis scoffed and you grinned up at him. 

“What?” 

“Those things will rip your teeth out.” 

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out if he wanted you to laugh or not. You knew he was sensitive about his cleft palate and the dentures he had to wear, and you’d never make fun of that fact. Francis looked down at you and there were crows feet around his eyes. He was smiling under his mask. 

“You’re so mean,” you sighed, nudging him toward the apple stand. You could see in the distance that there was also a barrel filled with water and apples. You’d heard about bobbing for apples before, but it had always seemed like a sort of myth made up by movies. 

The lady at the apple stand smiled warmly at you, her golden hair braided around her head. She wore a white apron over her clothes and black nitrile gloves on her hands. 

“What can I get for you?” 

“A caramel apple, please,” you said, as your eyes scanned the laminated menu on the table. “You offer sliced apples, too?” 

“Sure do. Not everyone likes biting into a whole apple, especially with candy on it.” 

“Could we also get a plain apple that’s sliced?” 

“Of course. Gala or Granny Smith?” 

“Gala, please.” 

The woman placed a caramel apple on a paper doilie and handed it to you, then she pulled out a pinkish orange apple and cut it into eight small slices. She placed it in a paper bowl and handed it to you as well. Francis paid for the apples and you moved off to the side. 

“Here you go,” you said as you handed the bowl to Francis. 

“Oh.” He hesitated as he held the bowl in his hands, staring down at the apples. He remembered trying to eat apples when he was younger. He remembered how difficult it was, how painful. It’d almost seemed like his grandmother had given him the apple just to see if he really was a circus freak. He remembered nothing of the taste or texture, just the feeling of being punished. 

“I thought you might like to try it,” you said sweetly, gently. “Caramel would definitely get stuck in your teeth, but apple slices should be easier to eat. If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.” 

Francis hesitated again, staring at the white slices gleaming in the autumn sunlight. He hooked his finger around the earloop of his surgical mask and pulled it off, letting one side dangle from the other ear. He picked up one slice — small, juicy, sticky — and examined it carefully. He’d put his “good” dentures in this morning, as he did every morning with you, but he still worried that something would go wrong. Would the apple tear his dentures out? Would it get stuck in them? Would his cleft palate open up and would the apple get lodged into his sinus cavity? Would he choke on the fruit? 

“You don’t have to eat it,” you said softly, watching him closely. You were beginning to regret buying him the fruit. Now that you thought of it, you didn’t remember ever seeing him eat an apple, whole or sliced. Had you ever seen him eat fruit at all? 

Francis cautiously placed the tip of the slice in his mouth and bit down slowly. He felt his false teeth split through the white flesh and pause momentarily at the skin. Then the skin popped and the piece of apple rolled into his mouth, getting crushed between teeth. A burst of sweet juice filled his mouth and washed over his tongue. Some of it dripped off his lip and down his chin. He chewed until he was certain the apple had been pulverized and then he swallowed. 

You held your breath as you watched him. The sunlight caught the bead of fresh juice on his lip, glinting almost white. Francis put the rest of the slice in his mouth, chewed for a long time, then swallowed again. He met your gaze and smiled. 

“It’s good.” 

You grinned wildly and threw one arm over his shoulder, pulling him down into a sweet, apple-tinged kiss. 

“I’m so glad you liked it,” you murmured against his mouth. 

He chuckled and kissed you again. “Anything for you.” 

When you let him go, he pulled his surgical mask back on to cover his face. You held his hand and couldn’t contain your smile. 

“Come on,” he muttered, tugging you through the crowd of people, “let’s go do something.” 

You motioned toward the row of games set up nearby. “Why don’t we try that? I’ve only ever seen it on TV.” 

“What is it?” 

“Bobbing for apples.” 

Francis turned and stared, unamused, at you. “Absolutely not. I’ve had enough apples for one day.” 

You laughed and followed him toward the ring toss. “It was worth a shot!” 

Chapter Text

Egon made a face at the group of children passing by on the street. It wasn’t a mean face, it was a face of surprise, and a bit of pride. Ever since he and the other three had started their ghost-catching company, they had become local celebrities. And every day, they saw more and more people who could be considered “fans.” 

The children that were passing by the two of you were dressed up in homemade Ghostbuster costumes, complete with backpacks attached to vacuum cleaner hoses to imitate the proton packs that Egon and his coworkers wore. There were several of them, enough to make two or three Ghostbuster teams. You grinned at the kids as they raced by, an early autumn wind scattering multi-colored leaves across the street. They didn’t even notice Egon as they passed, probably because he wasn’t wearing his famous uniform. He was dressed down in black slacks and a burgundy-colored sweater. You matched in a pair of black tights, a black skirt, and a maroon blouse. You liked matching with Egon, even though Ray and Peter often made fun of Egon for it. 

As the kids skirted past you, you nudged Egon in the side. 

“You should say hi to them.” 

“Why?” Egon asked, staring at you from behind his large glasses. 

“They’re obviously fans,” you said, turning back to look at the children as they raced up stoops to catch imaginary ghosts. “It’d be really cool for them to meet their hero.” 

Egon scoffed and you frowned at him. 

“What? Why’d you do that?” 

“You really think that I’m their hero? I bet they like Ray or Peter better. Even Winston. You know, the guys people actually know about? The ones they remember?” 

“People remember Peter because he’s loud and obnoxious,” you noted, grasping Egon’s hand in yours. “But I have no doubt people know who you are. You’ve been in practically every magazine and news article, and on every TV station. You’ve even been on the radio!” 

Egon shrugged and tried to pull you down the street away from the children. “Yeah, but I never really did those interviews. That was all Peter and sometimes Ray.” 

You watched Egon carefully, feeling his embarrassment and annoyance radiate out of him in cold waves. There was always one forgotten person in a group, and the Ghostbusters happened to have two: Egon and Winston. You’d tried several times to convince Egon that his invisibility was only in his own mind, and that most people actually did know about the quirky, awkward Ghostbuster who had saved the entire city (and on multiple occasions at that). 

You pulled free of Egon and swiveled around on your heels, seeing the kids start to take off down the sidewalk toward the corner. 

“Hey!” you shouted, waving an arm in the air. “Come back!” 

Both the children and Egon looked surprised. 

“You guys like the Ghostbusters, right?” you called after them and they exchanged looks. It was hard to tell if they were wary because you were a stranger, or if they were in disbelief that you didn’t immediately know they were Number One Fans. 

“Yeah,” said one of the boys cautiously. He had wily black curls and tortoise-shell glasses that were too big for his face. 

“Well, come here,” you said, waving them back. “You probably didn’t recognize him because he’s out of uniform, but this is Dr. Egon Spengler—”

You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence before the children came hurtling back toward you and Egon, their vacuum hoses flapping wildly against their backpacks. They were on you in an instant, chattering excitedly and staring up in wonder at Egon, whose face had turned the same color as his sweater. 

“Mr. Spengler, I—” one kid started. 

“It’s Doctor,” another corrected sharply, elbowing the boy in the ribs. 

“How do the proton packs really work?” 

“What’s the scariest ghost you ever saw?” 

“Everyone says Dr. Venkman is the leader of the group, but I think you are.” 

“Dr. Spengler, I got new glasses to look like yours. Do you like them?” 

“Could you take us with you on your next ghost hunt?” 

“My mom says our apartment is haunted. Will you come see?” 

Egon was overwhelmed but clearly flattered. He cleared his throat and held up one hand, silencing the crowd almost instantly. A pleased smile crossed his face. 

“I can only answer one question at a time. You’ll have to take turns, so raise your hand if you have a question.” 

Every hand shot up. Some of the children held up both hands. Egon paused for a moment to think it through and then nodded to one of the stoops where curled leaves had gathered on the steps. 

“Let’s take a seat. I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while.” He sat on one of the middle steps and the children crowded around him like water filling every empty crevice. They stared up at him with wonder and admiration, every hand still up. He pointed to a little girl with pigtails. 

“Dr. Spengler,” she began with an even, patient voice, “how exactly does all this ghost stuff work? Like the ectoplasm and stuff? I tried to ask my grandpa but he thinks it’s still just a bunch of hooey.” 

“A lot of people do,” Egon said with a serious nod. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It can be hard to explain, but …” He looked around the stoop and found an uncarved pumpkin, about the size and color of a basketball. He pulled it into his lap. “Imagine this is the world we currently live in. All of our apartments and businesses and cars …” 

You leaned against the stair railing and watched him, smiling to yourself. The longer he talked, the more animated he became, and the more excited the children got. Within a few minutes, he was positively beaming. 

How could he have ever thought that no one knew who he was? 

Chapter Text

It always shocked you how cold it was on the open sea, even during the height of summer in the Caribbean. The sun could shine down on the ship and its radiant heat would still be interrupted by cold blasts of ocean water spilling up over the sides. 

Of course, during calm, windless days at sea, the sun could often turn blistering and sweep through the ship in waves of stale heat. But most of the time, there was an air of coldness on any ship, but especially on the Pearl. (Of course, that could have also been because the entire crew was cursed with skeletonized immortality, who were always cold.) 

Most of the crew complained day and night about their condition, though few wanted to voice their issues with Captain Barbossa. Nothing good ever came from complaining to him. Even if the crew couldn’t die, Barbossa could still subject them to punishments that would kill an ordinary, non-cursed person. 

Barbossa also complained, but he did it in private, when only you could hear. You were the only non-cursed member of the Pearl’s crew, and that made you both valuable and vulnerable. While every other crew member could charge forth without fear of dying, you always had in the back of your mind that any day could be your last. That was also a constant worry of Barbossa, who rarely let you out of his sight even when you weren’t anywhere near danger. 

On the sea, he would tell you, there is always danger. 

And he was right. The danger of cannons and ropes and falling out of the crow’s nest and drowning and the ship sinking. Things that the rest of the crew didn’t have to worry about, but that could easily end your life. 

You weren’t sure why Barbossa liked you so much. You could have reasoned with yourself that it was because of your warmth (literal and figurative), but he couldn’t feel it. Even when he was pressed against you in bed, his arms wrapped around your body, you felt his cold but he couldn’t feel your warmth. It bothered you that all the time you spent together, he couldn’t enjoy anything — the taste of food or drink, the touch of your hand on his face, even the glow of the sun or the sting of saltwater. 

Still, you felt the need to at least pretend he could. If you thought too much about how he couldn’t feel anything, how he couldn’t enjoy life, it turned your mood sour. You also knew, however, that if he were a normal person, he would have been killed long ago. You were grateful that you’d been able to spend so much time with him, even if you were the only one who could truly enjoy it. 

During one particularly blustery evening, where the winds raged against the sails and the waves crested high over the bow and stern of the Pearl, you watched the crew scramble to keep the ship upright. You were not allowed on deck during times like these. Barbossa did not want you out on the deck where you could get swept overboard. So you spent a lot of time alone, in the captain’s quarters. During this evening, when the waves were so choppy that the ship reeled from side to side and sent you tumbling back and forth, you landed upon an old wooden chest that had been bolted down to the floor. You clung to it, hoping beyond hope that the waves would disperse soon and you could overcome the bout of nausea washing over you. 

When the waves finally did still, and the men could be heard moving about the deck, you pried yourself off of the chest and examined it. It was old, older than anything you’d seen before, and the metal braces looked nearly rusted through, thanks in no small part to its repeated exposure to saltwater. There was a latch with a lock on the front of it that looked equally rusty, but it wouldn’t budge despite your best efforts. 

Making sure that Barbossa was still supervising his crew, you went through every drawer and cubby in the captain’s room until you found a key that looked as out of place as the chest did. When you tried it, the lock opened easily and fell into your hand. You pushed open the chest and looked inside. 

It smelled of old wood, but not rotten wood. It was dry and earthy, warm and deep. The chest was filled with piles of clothes, each one folded neatly. You’d never seen these before. You pulled each article out, one by one, and unfolded them. There were waistcoats and trousers and jackets and dresses. Each item had detailed embroidery and mother-of-pearl buttons or gold filigree clasps. The fabric was soft and flawless. No gunshot holes, no powder burns, no knife cuts. And they were clean. It was as if the clothes had been purchased and then immediately locked away. 

Why would Barbossa have such a treasure on his ship? You’d never seen him wear such nice clothes. And you couldn’t imagine him wearing them before being cursed, either. They were the clothes of gentlepeople, the people who owned ships instead of stealing them, the people who invested in trade routes rather than ambushing them. 

At the bottom of the chest were a few accessories. A pair of women’s shoes, a belt, and a long snake-like coil of fabric. You pulled it out and it unfurled in your hands, cascading down to your lap. It was a scarf. It wasn’t made from fabric at all, but from yarn knit together. Judging from how soft and delicate the yarn felt, you guessed it must have been a very expensive — and very foreign — article of clothing. 

You pressed the scarf to your face and breathed deeply. It smelled of the wooden chest and spices, as if it had just been picked up at a market, instead of being locked away for who-knew-how-long. You wrapped it around your neck and felt warmth spread through you instantly. If only Barbossa could feel this type of warmth. If only he could feel anything … 

Barbossa shouted just outside the door, hurling curses at his crew. Your heart leapt into your throat and you stuffed all the clothes back into the chest, slamming the lid closed, and locking it. You fumbled with the key and hurried to the drawer where you found it, shoving it inside and slamming the drawer shut. You barely had enough time to throw yourself into a chair before Barbossa threw open the door. He stopped and stared at you, then looked around the room. 

You opened your mouth to say something, but froze instead. The scarf was still around your neck. You swallowed hard and felt embarrassment, and a bit of fear, creep up your face. Never before had you disobeyed his orders, so you’d never received his punishments. And while you’d never explicitly been banned from opening the chest (you didn’t even know it existed until a few moments ago!), you knew you weren’t meant to look inside of it because it was locked and the key had been hidden. 

Barbossa stepped into the room and closed the door. You avoided his eyes as he came closer. 

“I don’t suppose it was the waves that unlocked that chest,” he said evenly. 

You blushed and continued to avoid his eyes. “I’m sorry, Captain. I found it and I was curious. It’s no excuse.” 

“I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t been wearing that,” he continued, motioning to the scarf around your neck. “Why are you wearing it?” 

Your entire body felt hot with shame. “I forgot to put it back.” 

He said nothing for a while, just stood before you. Then he strode over to the drawer where the key was, pulled it open, and produced the key. 

“You’ll need to put it back.” 

You nodded as you hurriedly unwound the scarf from your neck while Barbossa unlocked the chest and opened it. You carefully folded the scarf over on itself until it was a small pile, then you set it gently on top of the other clothes (which you hadn’t folded as nicely when you returned them). Barbossa closed the chest and locked it, tucking the key into his coat pocket. 

There was a long moment of contemplative silence between the two of you when you finally decided to speak up. 

“That scarf … it was really nice. It was warm. All of those clothes are nice.” 

“I know. That’s why we took them.” 

“Right …” You chewed your bottom lip, studying Barbossa from the chest down. You still didn’t want to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, again, Captain.” You didn’t voice how you felt it was a waste of good clothes, warm clothes, clean clothes. What was the point of having them if they were just going to be locked away in a chest? 

Barbossa hummed and headed for the door. He stopped halfway and looked back at you, catching your eye as you dared to look up at his retreating form. You blushed but didn’t look away. 

“The clothes, you can’t wear them on the ship. It’s no point to be wearing nice clothes like that when you’re on the Pearl.” 

You nodded. “I understand.” 

“But,” he continued thoughtfully, his eyes sparkling mischievously, “the next time we make port, you’re welcome to wear what you want from that chest.” 

Stunned, you blurted out, “Really?” 

“’Course. You’re the only one on board that don’t look much like a pirate, and we could use someone with a good disguise, if we’re landing in a not-too-friendly place.” 

You grinned at him, unable to contain your excitement. “Thank you, Captain.” 

He rolled his eyes in exasperation at you and you knew to correct yourself. You crossed the room to him, rose up on your toes, and placed a kiss to his cold cheek. 

“Thank you, Hector.” 

Chapter Text

You only knew him as The Grabber. That had been the name the news anchors had given him on late-night TV when they reported that another child had been kidnapped. You’d known he had worked around your neighborhood because there had been kids you’d known in passing who had been taken by him. It had been over the course of years that these children had been taken — usually only one every once in a while, and then there would be frequent bursts of kidnappings. Each one was accompanied by a news report and a Missing Child poster. 

You were the only adult The Grabber had kidnapped. At least, as far as you knew. Children were always reported missing because there were people who missed them: parents, friends, teachers. But it was much rarer for adults, especially ones who were loners and misfits, to be labeled as missing, especially in a day and age where adults young and old alike were known for jumping into their vans and heading off into the Great Unknown for once-in-a-lifetime adventures. 

Of course, it had barely been a decade after the moon landing, Woodstock, and the Manson Family murders, and society was trying to reconcile the fact that all of those things had happened the same year. Technological advances, free drugs and loose sex, and cold-blooded murder in an attempt to start a race war. 

Maybe people weren’t as free and loose as they were pre-1969, and maybe people were much more cautious around strangers, and maybe the go-getters had shifted mindsets from “go-getting American freedom” to “go-getting office jobs and high rise apartments.” 

In any case, you were still a loner, a misfit, and an outcast, and no one was missing you. You doubted people even noticed you were gone. You doubted very much that your name and photo were being broadcast on the evening news. And you knew that there were no search parties combing through the neighborhoods in search of clues. 

To be fair, it was your fault that you’d been kidnapped. You’d been tracking The Grabber for about two years. How were you supposed to know that when you were coming home from a grocery run that he’d come up behind you, blind you with some sort of powder, and throw you in the back of his van? 

Really, you were more shocked by the fact that The Grabber knew who you were. It wasn’t like you advertised yourself when you were investigating him. But word obviously got around some way or another … 

Long story short, you were now locked up in his basement, shackled to a dirty mattress, sitting in the dark. You weren’t sure how long you’d been here, probably a handful of days, but it felt like weeks. Your eyes had already adjusted to the darkness of the basement, and it burned whenever the door swung open and light pooled down the steps to you. 

You were in the middle of going through yet another scenario on how to escape this basement when the door opened and The Grabber’s shadow cascaded down the basement stairs. He took methodical steps into the darkness, his mask fixed firmly onto his face. His entire front was cast into shadows, but the light behind him illuminated the horns on the mask. He held a dinner tray with a plate and cup on it. He had long ago replaced the glass cup with a plastic children’s cup after you had smashed the glass against his mask and tried to stab him in the throat. You’d suffered more damage than he had, and now your hand was tied in a dirty bandage that hadn’t been changed once. You were certain the cut across your palm had an infection by now. 

“Are you going to behave today?” 

You stared back at him silently, studying his movements. The mask was full, complete with the devil horns and smiling face. This was what he wore when he came to check up on you. The first day of your abduction, however, you’d been greeted with a mask without a mouth. Sometimes you only got the smiling lower half, and sometimes you only got the upper half with horns. But you never got to see his full face all at once. 

“Yes,” you said, knowing he demanded an answer. You didn’t want to anger him any more than you already had over the past several days. 

“Good. I made you breakfast.” 

“Is it morning?” 

“Does it matter?” He set the tray on the end of the mattress and stood back, far enough away that you couldn’t reach him. “I saw your photo in the newspaper today.” 

You looked up at him, startled. “How?” 

“How else would I see it? I looked at it.” 

If you hadn’t been stuck to a mattress in a serial killer’s basement, you might have rolled your eyes and called him a name, but instead you tried to appeal to him. 

“I mean … how did anyone know I was missing?” 

“That’s what I was wondering. I’ve studied you almost as long as you’ve studied me. There is no one in your life. No one to miss you, no one to report you gone. So how did that happen?” 

You didn’t respond, trying to gauge if this was a test. Was he lying about the photo in the newspaper? He hadn’t brought it down to show you. Was he seeing if you would crack and admit that you’d told someone about your research into The Grabber? What was his game? 

“How did that happen?” he repeated, voice hard. 

“I-I don’t know. Maybe someone saw you take me.” 

The Grabber stared coldly at you from behind his mask. His eyes didn’t match the creepily happy smile on the bottom half of the mask. 

“Who were you working with?” 

“No one. I told you. I don’t have anyone.” 

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it when people lie to me.” 

“I’m not lying. I didn’t tell anyone. I swear.” 

The Grabber suddenly lunged forward, throwing himself onto the mattress. He wrapped his hands around your throat and slammed you back against the mattress, your head narrowly missing the basement wall. 

“Don’t lie to me!” 

You gasped as you writhed against him, clawing at his hands. The mask smiled down at you as if it were happy you were being strangled. 

“I’m … not!” you managed to wheeze out. Pressure built in your head as your vision began to darken. Sunbursts of white light popped at the corners of your eyes. 

His hands squeezed harder. The last bits of air escaped your lungs. Your eyes began to flutter shut, perhaps for the last time. 

And then he let go. 

You coughed so hard you felt blood vessels burst in your eyes. Tears welled up as you panted for air, rolling over to press your face into the dirty mattress. Feeling returned to your body in prickling tingles through your limbs and face. 

The mattress shifted as The Grabber stood up. You heard him calmly collect the plate, cup, and tray that he had knocked to the floor when he leapt onto the mattress. When you finally looked up, you saw food and water were spilled across the floor, but he didn’t make a move to clean it up. 

“I’m glad that I can trust you,” he said, holding the tray with both hands. “It’s so hard to find people who tell the truth.” 

He stood and stared at you as if he were waiting for you to say something. You could barely catch your breath, let alone talk. So he continued, unprompted. 

“The look on your face when you heard that your picture was in the newspaper told me you were being honest when you said you had nobody in your life. But I needed to make sure. People will tell you all kinds of secrets when they think they’re going to die.” 

“I … honestly don’t know how they got my photo,” you managed to say through a sore throat. “I don’t.” 

“That’s my secret,” The Grabber said, and his voice rose in pitch with delight. “Your photo wasn’t in the newspaper. It wasn’t anywhere. It’s just as you said. No one is looking for you.” 

Coldness wrapped around your body as you stared at the man. Your stomach churned. If you weren’t afraid of what he’d do, you’re certain you would vomit. 

“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into his back pocket with one hand and tossed something onto the mattress. It was a dark green and black plaid strip of fabric. “You should swap out your bandage for something with a little more … longevity. You’re going to be here for a while. If you’re good, I’ll give you the rest of the shirt it came off of for you to wear. You look like you could use a change of clothes.” 

He turned and walked up the basement steps. The door closed behind him, leaving you in darkness. 

Chapter Text

You stared up at the banner that Colin had painted the night before, which was now pinned above the doorway leading into the gym. 

Pumpkin Festival - 6pm - Midnight 

“It’s weird we’re having a festival at the school,” you commented as Colin joined you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulled you close and kissed the side of your face. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, we usually have dances here, but it’s weird to have a whole festival here at the school.” 

Colin shrugged and steered you through the double doors and into the gym. Some of the volunteer staff had already arrived and were getting decorations set up around the room. Booths wouldn’t be set up until Saturday morning, the day of the festival. Until then, the gym floor needed to be clear so that kids could still run laps and practice dodgeball. 

“There you two are,” said Needy Lesnicki. She was a pretty girl with wheat-colored hair and glasses that magnified her eyes. “I thought you’d bailed on us.” 

“We wouldn’t do that,” you said as Colin walked you over to where Needy was unraveling orange and brown crepe streamers. 

“How can we help?” Colin asked, his hand still wrapped around you. Since you’d been dating, he almost always had at least one hand on you at all times. He’d gotten in trouble for it more than once, but neither of you cared. The preppy couples did far worse in public and none of them got reprimanded for it. You suspected you were being targeted merely on your looks. 

“Can you try to make little pumpkins out of this crepe paper? I want to hang them from the ceiling, if we can. And from tables and the booths.” 

“Do you want us to crumple it up?” Colin asked as he took a roll of orange paper from Needy. 

“I thought if you took several pieces of the orange paper and stapled the tops and bottoms together, you might be able to make a pumpkin-ish ball. Then we can add brown and green paper to it later. But whatever works.” 

“How many do you need?” 

“As many as you can make before your next period.” 

You and Colin had both gotten a free period this year, and you’d made sure it was at the same time. Usually you left the school to get something to eat or to spend time at the park, but you’d been roped into the festival committee by Needy. 

You and Colin took the crepe paper and found a quiet spot by the bleachers where you could sit and work together. Colin cut long strips of orange paper while you went in search of a stapler, eventually having to borrow one from an English teacher whose room was across the hall from the gym. 

Colin kept his knee touching yours while you worked together. He cut paper, you stapled it. Soon, you had a pile of deflated pumpkins that more or less looked like what Needy wanted. For good measure, you also crumpled up several pieces of the orange paper to make back-up pumpkins, though they were significantly smaller and not nearly as nice. 

Before you knew it, the bell rang and your free period was over. Now Colin would have to go to math and you would have to go to biology. It was unfortunate that the rest of your schedules hadn’t lined up, but at least you would be in the same hallway. 
You helped pick up the scraps of paper leftover and dumped them onto a table beside the bleachers. Needy collected both the flat pumpkins and the wads of orange paper, and you set the borrowed stapler and scissors on the table. 

As the two of you were preparing to leave, a group of students filed into the gym, getting ready for their class. Among them was Jennifer Check, Needy’s best friend and one of the preppy girls who got away with everything. She made eye contact with you as she passed by, and she broke off from the group to stand before you and Colin. 

“What are you two doing here?” 

You felt Colin tense up beside you. You knew that he used to have a crush on Jennifer, and possibly still did, but she’d been more than cruel when she rejected his invitation out to a movie. You grasped Colin’s hand and held it tight. 

“We’re on the festival committee. We’re helping make decorations.” 

“Oh. I thought maybe you were really into sweaty, post-dodgeball sex. That’s what you smell like, anyway.” 

Colin gripped your hand tighter, and out of the corner of your eye you saw him turn his head away from Jennifer. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jen,” you said. “You must be smelling yourself. I know how hard it is to get clean clothes when you’re too dumb to operate a washing machine.” 

Jennifer sneered at you and then flicked her hair over her shoulder, staring at Colin. “What’s wrong with you? 

“Probably nothing worse than what’s wrong with you,” you snapped. “Come on, Colin, we’re going to be late.” 

“I think they have a morning-after pill for that,” Jennifer called after you as you dragged Colin out of the gym. 

When you were safely out of earshot, you growled angrily and said, “I hate her so much sometimes!” 

“It’s okay,” Colin said, dutifully directing you toward your classroom. He always took you there first, dropped you off, and then went to his own class, even if it made him late. “It doesn’t bother me anymore.” 

“Well, it bothers me.” 

“It shouldn’t. Jennifer is just a mean girl who has nothing exciting going on in her life. The only thing she can do is bully people. We’re easy targets because we’re different.”

“I don’t get why Anita is still friends with her. It’s not like Jennifer is nice to her, either.” 

“They’ve been friends practically since the womb. It’s hard to break up friendships like that, especially when you’re the outsider.” Colin spun you around and planted his hand on your hips, staring into your eyes. He smiled, his tongue darting out to play with his lip piercing. “You’re not gonna, like, be all pissy about this for the rest of the day, are you?” 

“Maybe. Depends on how biology goes.” 

“Well, there’s no possible way you can tank your quiz. You’ve been studying all week.” 

“Yeah, but you know there’s always at least one question on the quizzes that aren’t in the books.” 

Colin smirked and leaned down to kiss you. “Alright, if you flunk, we’ll just have to have a biology lesson of our own.” 

“And if I pass? Which, I totally will.” 

He shrugged and kissed you again. “Then you can tutor me in biology. I’m pretty sure I’m taking this class next semester. I could use all the help I can get.” 

“Okay.” You grinned at him before pulling him into another kiss. 

Someone passing in the hallway groaned and tossed something at your head. Colin swatted it away without looking. 

When you pulled away from the kiss, you traced your finger over his lips, wiping his silver piercing free of your lipstick. 

“It’s a date,” you said. “Now get to class before you’re late.” 

Colin grinned crookedly and took off down the hall, the tardy bell ringing loudly. 

Chapter Text

“You have got to be kidding me!” 

You would have rushed out of the kitchen to see what was wrong if you weren’t currently standing in the middle of a pitch-black room. Every single ounce of electricity had fled from your home, like water swirling down the drain. From what you could tell, the entire street was out, too. 

“Power outage,” you said, as if it weren’t obvious. You instinctively turned off the stove and felt your way out into the dining room where Monroe was setting the table. 

“I can’t believe this,” he said irritably. “The one time we’re able to have a nice dinner together and we lose power.” 

“Do you want me to get the candles?” 

Monroe sighed. “Yeah. They’re in the pantry.” 

“I know. Just give me a second.” You felt your way around the kitchen until you found the pantry. Your fingers moved clumsily through the dark as you felt over cans, bags, boxes, and finally … There were several different kinds of candles, as Monroe was pretty much prepared for any event. Colorful birthday candles, fat holiday candles, decorative tea candles, romantic tapers. You grabbed a few of the tapers and the candelabra, as well as a box of matches. 

Back in the dining room, Monroe was trying to guide you to the table without letting you run into the chairs. 

“I got you,” he said, his large hand landing on your waist, stopping you in your tracks. “Okay, give me the candles.” 

You handed him the candelabra instead, then fixed the tapers into the nozzles. Then you struck a match and lit all the candles. You were surprised to see that they were red, not the creamy white you were expecting. 

“That’s a little ominous,” said Monroe, looking at the tapers. “These must be the Halloween candles. Well, whatever works.” He set the candelabra in the middle of the table, allowing it to filter light over the place settings. “Was dinner close to being done?” 

“Pretty much. I mean, we can still eat. We just won’t really be able to see each other all that well.” 

“I still can’t believe this. I hope we get power back soon. I don’t want everything in the fridge to spoil.” 

“I doubt we’ll be without power that long. Help me get the food to the table?” 

Monroe snagged one of the tapers from the candelabra and held it tight in his hand as you both walked back into the kitchen. The meager light helped just enough that you could move the sheet pan and two pots to the dining room table. Monroe put the candle back in the nozzle and sat down at the far end of the table. You took your place at the other end and frowned. 

You could barely see Monroe in the dim light, and the flicking tapers were so tall that they blocked most of his face. It was still possible to have dinner this way, but it wasn’t going to be fun. 

“I have an idea.” 

“What?” Monroe asked, his eyes catching the light and glowing green briefly. It reminded you of a predator’s eyes in the darkness. Of course, he was a Blutbad. 

You stood with your plate and dished food onto it. Then you dished food onto Monroe’s plate. Holding both plates and the silverware, you said, “Take the candles and follow me.” 

Monroe did as he was instructed, though he was clearly baffled. You led him into the living room where you set the plates on the coffee table. 

“Put the candles there,” you instructed, pointing to the middle of the coffee table. 

He did. You knelt on the ground beside the table, ignoring the couch, and motioned for him to join you. He sank to the ground and gave you a quizzical look, which was so much easier to see now that the candelabra was only a foot or so away from the both of you. 

“Much better,” you said with a smile. “And much more romantic.” 

Monroe’s eyes seemed to brighten as he looked from you to the candles and back again. “Oh,” he said, realization kicking in. “You’re right. It is much better.” 

You gave him a quick kiss. “Alright, go ahead and eat.” 

He took a bite and nearly melted. “Okay, you’re definitely telling me how you made this.” 

“If I do that, you’ll be able to break up with me and make it any time you want. Sorry. You’re not getting this recipe until it’s printed on my gravestone.” 

Monroe laughed. “Oh! Let me go get some wine.” He hurried into the kitchen and returned with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. As he poured wine into the cups, he asked, “What do we do if the power comes back on? Go back to the table?” 

“How about we turn off all the lights and pretend we’re still stuck in the dark?” 

“You know what?” Monroe smiled, his eyes softening in the gentle candlelight. “I think that’s the perfect idea.” 

Chapter Text

After what seemed like the world’s longest wait, the leaves were finally changing color. It was your favorite time of year — autumn — but it never felt like autumn until it was cold outside and the trees were a blazing array of reds, oranges, and yellows. 

Of course, you were a transplant from much farther north than Woodsboro, which meant you were used to the leaves changing early and the cold settling in not long after August ended. 

It was October now and things were finally starting to look the way they should, at least to you. You were killing time in the movie rental store where your friend Randy worked, waiting until his shift ended so you could rent half a dozen movies and spend the entire weekend loaded on soda and candy. 

“Randy,” you followed him around like a duckling, following him from aisle to aisle as he shelved VHS tapes, “you’ve got to pick at least one modern movie.” 

“No, I do not,” he retorted as he pushed the cart loaded with VHS tapes to the thriller section. He shelved two copies of Jacob’s Ladder and one copy of Presumed Innocent. “I can choose all classics if I want to because, guess what? I’m the one who gets the free rentals. Not you.” 

“Yeah, but we’re watching them at Stu’s house, so maybe he should get a vote.” 

Randy turned and frowned at you. “If Stu had a say, he’d probably pick straight-up pornos.” 

“And you’re telling me that Halloween doesn’t count as one?” 

“No, of course not. Just because a movie has nudity and sex doesn’t mean it’s a porno. It has to do with plot!” 

“My pornos have plots,” came a voice. You both turned to see Stu leaning against the VHS shelf, smirking at you. He twirled the stick end of a sucker that was in his mouth. The corners of his lips were stained blue. “Watch ‘em if you don’t believe me.” 

Randy turned a shade of pink and pushed the cart into another aisle. You went to follow but Stu was quicker, boxing you in against the shelf. 

“You pick the movies yet?” 

“No,” you said, glancing away from him. You felt heat spread across your face and chest. Everyone in school — probably everyone in town — knew you had a crush on Stu. It didn’t seem to bother him, though he hadn’t jumped at the chance to date you like everyone claimed he would. (You’d gotten a lot of cautionary tales about how Stu was a serial dater and would break your heart before the end of the week. It’d been about a year now, and you were still waiting for it to happen.) 

“Why not? You’ve spent all day here.” He wasn’t totally exaggerating. It was a half-day at school and you’d pretty much stalked Randy to the video store as soon as class was let out. 

“Randy wants to pick all classics.” 

“You mean, like, Frankenstein?” 

“Yeah, and The Wolfman and Creature from the Black Lagoon.” 

Stu snorted and tapped the blue sucker against his bottom lip. “Randy’s the creature from the Black Lagoon.” 

You bit your bottom lip to keep from smiling but Stu saw it. 

“Ah!” He grinned, leaning down so he was eye-level with you. He was so tall, it drove you crazy. “That was a smile. I saw it. It’s okay. You know you can make fun of Randy, right?” 

“He’s my friend, Stu.” 

“So? I make fun of him all the time.” 

You stared up at him, trying to paste a look on your face that said you were unamused. You could feel yourself failing miserably. “I don’t think it’s the same. Anyway, he won’t listen to me. But I said you should get a say in the movies we watch because we’re watching them at your house.” 

“You’re right. I should get to choose.” He tapped the sucker against his lip again then popped it into his mouth. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing your wrist. 

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sudden contact, but you weren’t going to fight it. Stu dragged you into the horror section of the store. To your dismay, he released your hand and began scanning the shelves, his eyes darting over the covers of the VHS tapes. He grabbed one and then another, stopping only to drop them into your hands. 

Misery. Poltergeist. Videodrome. Ghost Story. The Exorcist. Carrie. 

Stu was just putting a copy of Black Christmas into your arms when Randy came around the corner. 

“No, no, no! What are you doing?” Randy growled, grabbing the top two VHS tapes out of your hands. “These aren’t any of the films I wanted to watch!” 

“Too bad. My house, my choice. The lady said so.” Stu punctuated this with a nod to you. 

Randy looked at you, betrayed, and you blushed deeply. 

“I said he should get to choose at least one,” you retorted. “I already told you that, Randy. We don’t have to get all of these.” 

“You can’t watch any of these together!” Randy continued, looking at the tapes. “These are different eras, different directors, different actors. They’re even different seasons.” He grabbed the last tape Stu handed you. “You can’t watch Black Christmas in October! Or Misery! It has to be snowing outside. And Poltergeist is a summer movie. What are you doing?” 

Randy began putting the tapes back on the shelves, looking distraught. Stu snatched the copy of Videodrome out of Randy’s hands and held it high in the air, too high for Randy to reach. 

“We’re keeping this one.” 

“Why? I haven’t even introduced you guys to Cronenberg yet. You won’t appreciate it. You won’t get it!” 

“It’s that chick from Blondie, and she’s into BDSM. What else is there to get?” Stu asked, staring boredly at Randy. 

“Her name is Debbie Harry and that’s not even half the plot.” 

Stu placed the tape back into your arms, then he stood behind you and wrapped his arms around yours, blocking the tape from Randy’s grasp. He rested his chin on your shoulder and, from what you could tell, grinned at Randy. 

“Well, too bad. The lady and I agree that we’re watching this one.” 

“But—”

“We’ll watch it last, after you’ve passed out,” Stu said, his breath warm against the side of your face. “So don’t worry about it. She and I could use some one-on-one time, anyway.” 

“Debbie Harry?” 

You imagined you were giving Randy the same unamused look that Stu was giving him. But yours was likely complicated by the hot streak of blush over your face and the trembling of your hands. Stu was practically hugging you, his body not just warm, but hot, against your own. And he was indirectly flirting with you. 

It was such a bad time to remember every single warning you’d received about him. 

Stu stood up but kept his arms wrapped around you. He pulled you back into his chest, almost protectively. 

“Pick your stupid movies, bro,” he ordered, “so we can get back to my place. My mom’s gonna be pissed if we take too long. She’s ordering pizza tonight.” 

Randy begrudgingly picked a few more movies, none of which had been the ones Stu had chosen. But that was okay. You still had your copy of Videodrome wrapped tight in your arms. 

The three of you walked toward the front of the store so Randy could scan the films and mark them as “Checked Out.” While you waited in line, Stu draped an arm over your shoulder and kept you close. He twirled the sucker in his mouth again and then pulled it out. 

“You want it?” 

“What? No.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes,” you stammered, trying to avoid the look Randy was giving you as he bagged up the VHS tapes. 

“Okay,” said Stu as he popped the sucker back into his mouth. “I’ll give you something else you can suck on later.” 

You turned red up to your ears as you shoved Stu’s arm off your shoulder and made a break for the parking lot. You could hear Randy chastising Stu for saying something so gross to “such a classy lady,” and you could hear Stu howling with laughter. 

Yeah, Stu Macher was going to break your heart, but at least it’d be fun. 

Chapter Text

You followed behind Josef, the camera capturing shaky images of his form as he hurried up the mountain trail ahead of you. You didn’t know you’d be hiking along a rugged path through the forest, so you hadn’t packed your hiking boots. You were attempting to keep up with the man while only wearing a pair of Keds, which were killing your feet now. 

Josef wasn’t wearing anything much better. Black jeans, an orange turtleneck sweater, and black tennis shoes. The shoes had looked worn and thin when he put them on back at the house. It was a little strange that he picked that pair since he had a seemingly brand new pair of hiking boots sitting right next to them. (Of course, it wasn’t strange when he did it. It was only strange in hindsight, when you had spent at least twenty minutes following after him with your camera, badgering him for information, and being ignored.) 

“How much farther is it?” you called after him, but he didn’t answer. He just kept pushing forward, practically sprinting up the barely-worn path that cut through the large pine trees. 

Your shoes slipped (you’d had these Keds for about five years now and they had almost no tread left) on the dirt and you landed hard on your palms and knees. The camera tumbled out of your hand and into the underbrush. 

You cursed under your breath as you rolled back onto your heels and examined your palms. They were scraped up and bleeding, but you’d survive. 

Searching through dead leaves and broken branches, you eventually found the camera. It was unharmed, and it was still recording. You turned it toward yourself and caught a glimpse of your face. It was dirt-streaked and sweaty, your hair unkempt, mosquito bites covering your cheekbones. 

“Nice,” you muttered, turning the camera around and scanning the path ahead of you. “Josef? Where did you go?” 

There was no answer. You fell silent as you listened to the world around you. Birds trilled to one another, but it didn’t sound much like music. It sounded almost frantic. Almost anxious. Red and yellow leaves rustled in the breeze and then spiraled to the ground. Then the birds stopped altogether. And so did the insects. 

“Josef?” 

A wolf leapt out of the trees, brandishing an axe up high. You screamed (and, you were pretty sure, it screamed) as you tumbled backwards, slipping off the edge of the dirt path and down a leaf-covered embankment that led down to a ditch. You stopped rolling halfway down the slope, dizzy and disoriented. Out of your spinning vision, you could see the wolf standing on two back legs, axe still raised. 

You scrambled to your feet, slipping in the damp foliage. You were about to throw yourself down the rest of the slope and into the ditch when you heard a muffled voice shouting after you. 

“Wait! Wait, don’t leave!” 

Heart pounding in your ears, you grasped onto the trunk of a tree to keep yourself steady. You watched, horrified and confused, as the axe was slowly lowered to the ground and the wolf’s head was removed. Josef stood on the trail, beaming down at you as if he’d just told you wonderful news. 

“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” 

“What …” you panted, lungs burning. “What the hell?” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I thought we were having fun.”

“What part of that was fun, Josef?” 

The man continued to smile down at you, the axe resting against his leg, the wolf’s head in his hands. 

“Come on up here. I’ll show you — it’s just a mask.” He waved the item in the air, the long gray hair shaking with the motion. “I want you to meet it.” 

“Meet it?” 

“Yeah. Come on.” He waved you up the slope with his free hand. “Come on! It’s not gonna bite.” 

You dug your nails into the trunk and considered your options. If you were being honest, you were not faster or stronger than Josef, especially if he had an axe (you were praying that that thing wasn’t real, but you were seriously doubting it). You also had gotten turned around in the woods, even with following the thin, barely-worn trail. If you took off and tried to get back to the house on your own, you more than likely would actually get lost. And if Josef didn’t track you down in the forest, he could just as easily make it back to the house first and wait for you. And he might not be in such a good mood after watching you run away from him. (He had hired you to film his entire day, after all. Good, bad, and weird.) 

“Come on,” he said again, waving you up eagerly. The smile never left his face. That was somehow worse. “Get up here.” 

“I have to find my camera first.” 

Josef bent over and picked something up. When he stood, he held your camera. “You dropped it up here. Come on.” 

No other options now. You hesitantly made your way back up the leaf-strewn slope and to the trail. You kept a good distance between yourself and Josef, eying him with caution. He held up the mask and turned its twisted face toward you. 

“This is Peachfuzz. Isn’t he so friendly?” 

You glanced at the mask with its creepily bright eyes and unsettling smile. You almost laughed out loud when you realized it had the exact same smile as Josef. 

“Peachfuzz won’t hurt you. Promise. Here, why don’t you hold him?” Josef held out the mask to you. He stared at you expectantly, patiently. 

“That’s okay …” 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, shaking the mask gently. “He won’t bite.” 

From the look in his eye, you knew Josef wasn’t going to drop it. You took one step forward and grabbed the mask. The hair was coarse and dry, the face plasticky. 

“See? Peachfuzz is a really good friend. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” 

You felt silly being scared of such a cheap Halloween mask, but you also hadn’t been expecting Josef to jump out wearing it while wielding an axe. “You’re right. He, uh … Peachfuzz?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Peachfuzz is very nice. Have you had him long?” 

“Oh, a very long time. He’s practically family.” He paused, then added, “You can wear it, if you want.” 

“That’s okay,” you said, handing the mask back to Josef. “Thanks, though. Could I … get my camera back?” 

“Oh. Sure!” He placed the camera in your hands. “You know something? I feel really good about this.” 

“About what?” 

“This. Us. I just had the feeling you were the right person when you answered my ad. I just …” He inhaled deeply through his nose and smiled again. “We were brought together for a reason. I just know it.” 

You studied Josef’s face and felt a twinge of guilt settle into your body. He was just lonely. Weird, but lonely. Living all the way out in the middle of nowhere, dealing with his health crises, thinking of the end of his life. You supposed you might also act a little crazy if you were confronted with your own impending death. Who wouldn’t? 

Besides, you had told Josef that you loved scary movies, and Halloween, and the occasional prank. You’d even listed off all the haunted houses you’d visited over the years. Maybe he just wanted to share a moment like that with you, since his prognosis had said he would be gone before Halloween even arrived. Maybe it was just easier facing the inevitability of your own death when you could pour that anxiety and frustration into scaring someone else. 

“Why don’t we go back to the house?” you offered. “I’ll make us some lunch and we can do some more interview segments. If you want.” 

“That would be great.” He tucked Peachfuzz under his arm and picked up the axe. 

“I could carry that for you.” 

“Which one?” 

“Either. Both.” 

Josef grinned and blushed excitedly. “I have an idea.” 

“Okay. What?” 

He quickly exchanged his axe for your camera, and placed the Peachfuzz mask on your head. Through the eyeholes, you could see him as he held up the camera and filmed you. Your grip tightened around the handle of the axe. Even resting on the ground, it was incredibly heavy. How had he managed to lift it over his head and chase you? He must have been a lot stronger than he looked. 

“That’s so great!” Josef said giddily. “Let’s walk back to the house like this. I’ll film you while you’re walking.” 

“I don’t know how to get back to the house.” 

“That’s okay, I’ll direct you from back here. You look great! Peachfuzz is really happy. You’re the perfect person to wear that mask. You see, I knew there was something special about you.” 

Hoisting up the axe to carry it in both arms, you headed back down the trail, shoes slipping in the loose soil and wet leaves. You could hear Josef behind you, directing you through the forest and back to the house. 

To your surprise, he managed to direct you right to it. You were hot and sweaty under the mask, and your arms ached from carrying the axe, and your relief was palpable when the house came into view. 

Josef popped into your vision, eyes bright. He pulled the axe out of your arms, dropped it onto the ground, and drew you into a hug. His body was warm and his arms strong, but he was surprisingly gentle. Not surprising for how he looked, but surprising for how he’d acted over the last two hours of your hike. 

“Thank you so much,” he whispered, his voice barely audible through the plastic mask. He stood back and put one hand on your shoulder, the other hand still holding your camera. “Tonight is going to be a really great night. It’s going to be unlike any other. I can feel it.” He inhaled deeply again and closed his eyes. “I’m so glad it’s going to be you with me. It was meant to be.” 

You reached out and gently touched his upper arm. His eyes opened and he stared into yours. It was impossible, as all he could see was the mask, but you were sure of it. He was staring straight into your eyes. 

Even behind the mask, you smiled. 

“I think you’re right, Josef. I think we were meant to be.” 

Chapter Text

Russell rolled over in bed, blindly feeling the expanse of mattress for your warmth. He found only an empty space and the cool sheets where you’d been only moments ago. (Or, at least in his mind, it had only been moments ago. He’d fallen asleep last night and now that he was waking up in the morning, it really had been hours ago.) 

He cracked open one eye and frowned. You were gone. You were never up this early when he had the day off. If he was working, you’d wake up early enough to pack him a lunch (he never insisted on it, but he certainly appreciated it). But if he had the day off, you spent almost all day in bed together. Why on earth would you be awake this early? 

He closed his eye again and rolled onto his back, hesitant to leave the warmth of the heavy blanket you both shared. Autumn was settling into the town and mornings were getting colder and colder. It was always a little warm when you went to bed, but it was practically freezing when you woke up, and Russell hadn’t quite remembered to wear a t-shirt to bed yet. He was used to sleeping in only his boxers during the summer, which he was now regretting having done last night. 

Floating in and out of sleep, Russell was awakened by the sharp tinge of cinnamon in the air. He looked at the clock, groaned, and finally rolled out of bed. Goosebumps immediately covered his body and he rushed to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. He noticed that one of the police sweatshirts he usually wore during the autumn was missing. You must have been wearing it already. 

Russell found his way into the kitchen where the scent of cinnamon was sharper, and laced through with the smells of sugar, coffee, and vanilla. He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He planted a kiss to your neck, his moustache tickling your sensitive skin. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmured against your neck. “What smells so good?” 

You melted into his touch, leaning back against him. You let him press a few more kisses to your throat before you answered. “I made cinnamon rolls for breakfast. I was just about to wake you up.” 

“What’s the special occasion?” 

“No special occasion. I just wanted to do something nice. Besides,” you turned in his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck, “it’s fall already. I want to start making more fall recipes. Cinnamon rolls seemed like the perfect thing.” 

“I agree,” he said, capturing your mouth in a kiss. You giggled against his lips and he held your hips tight, digging his fingers into the fabric of his sweatshirt that you stole. 

The oven beeped and you tried to pull away from Russell but his mouth chased yours. You giggled again and moved your hands from around his neck to his chest, pushing him back. 

“Russ, I have to get the cinnamon rolls out of the oven before they burn.” 

“You should’ve thought about that before you woke me up.” 

“I didn’t wake you up, you woke up on your own. Let me go — just for a second, Russ!” You finally pried yourself free and pulled the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, setting them on the stovetop to cool. 

Russell came up behind you again and pushed your hair out of the way, placing more kisses on your neck. 

“Russ,” you tsk’d at him half-heartedly. “I’m trying to do something here.” 

“So am I.” 

“I have to frost these and then pour the coffee and—”

“You’re not supposed to frost ‘em until they’re cool,” he retorted, kissing the side of your face. “Even I know that.” 

You grumbled under your breath as Russell kept peppering your face and neck with kisses. “Jeez, Russ. Did you get bit by the love-bug when you were asleep or something?” 

“Or something. I think cinnamon’s an aphrodisiac, you know.” 

“I don’t think it is,” you murmured as his hands skated over your stomach. “Okay, Russ, I actually am hungry, okay? I woke up really early to make these. I’d like to eat them.” 

“I thought you said they had to cool.” 

“Okay, smartass. But I’m not going back to bed until I’ve eaten and had a cup of coffee.” 

“Well, then, I have an idea.” Russell finally peeled himself away from you and grabbed a cup and bowl from the cupboard. 

“What are you doing?” 

Chapter Text

Movie, popcorn, drinks. The only thing missing was Steve, who was somewhere in the house. He had disappeared a few minutes earlier even though you said you were ready to watch the movie. 

No scary movies. 

That was the deal you had to make with Steve when autumn came around. He claimed that he didn’t like anything scary, but it drove you crazy having to watch sappy romances and overly dramatic thrillers during fall when all you wanted to do was curl up and watch a good ol’ fashioned horror film. 

But, fine. Whatever. You were happy to do whatever your boyfriend wanted to do. You could always watch a few scary films on your own when he was at work, anyway. 

“Steve! Hurry up! I’ve got a movie waiting and the popcorn is getting cold!” You held the large pumpkin-orange bowl in one arm, munching on handfuls of popcorn. 

“Just a minute!” 

You flopped onto the couch and loudly sang out the Jeopardy theme song until you could hear Steve hurrying out of your bedroom and into the living room. 

“I’m here, I’m here. Sorry, I had to drag this out of storage.” He held up a large blanket that you’d never seen before. It was custom-made, clearly, because it had the image of every one of the animatronics from Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria printed onto it. Front and center was the yellow rabbit you had come to know as Spring Bonnie. It had some wear and tear on it, the image a little faded from years of use, but it was otherwise in good condition. 

“Steve,” you said, sitting up and admiring the blanket. “I’ve never seen that before. Where did you get it?” 

“Ah, you know,” he shrugged. “I knew the guy who owned the pizzeria. He used to have all types of merchandise at the place. Had to get rid of a lot of it when it shut down. I managed to snag a few pieces, you know, just for memory’s sake. This was one of them.” 

“That’s great,” you grinned, reaching out and touching the edge of the blanket. It was incredibly soft and plush. “It’s a shame that place closed down. It sounded like it was really cool.” 

“It was,” sighed Steve. He sat beside you and draped the blanket over his lap and yours. The popcorn bowl settled perfectly between the two of you. “I think you would’ve really liked the pizzeria.” 

“Maybe they’ll bring it back someday. I mean, if someone with the right amount of money—”

“And nostalgia.” 

“Right, and nostalgia. If they were willing to invest in it, even just in one location. That’d be really cool. I’d definitely get a job there. Even just to say that I worked there.” 

Steve smiled warmly at you, his eyes soft. “You’d fit right in there. It’d be a perfect place for you.” He leaned over and kissed you gently. “Alright, let’s get on with the movie.” 

You played the movie as you snuggled against Steve. He fed you popcorn, piece by piece, his arm wrapped securely around your body. You allowed yourself to enjoy the non-horror film. There would be plenty of time to watch scary movies on your own. Right now, you just wanted to enjoy the evening with the love of your life. 

Chapter Text

The field stretched all the way to the horizon, where tall pines snaked up toward the sky. Thousands of pumpkins and gourds followed the rows plowed into the earth, each one nestled into a covering of hay. 

There were already half a dozen people picking their way through the field, making beelines for what they considered choice carving pumpkins. Everyone was in a hurry, worried that the “perfect pumpkin” would be snatched up by someone else before they could get to it. 

You and Travis were the only ones who seemed to be taking the time to actually examine the pumpkins and gourds, walking lazily through each field, enjoying the cool breeze that came through the trees and curled through your hair. Residual heat wafted up from the sunbaked earth, and each pumpkin was warm to the touch. 

Two couples brushed past you and snatched up the three largest pumpkins just ahead of you in the row. They threw looks over their shoulders (not apologetic, more like apprehensive, as if they were afraid you would lunge at them and tear the pumpkins from their arms), tossed the pumpkins into a utility cart, and jogged off. 

“I thought this was supposed to be fun,” Travis said, watching as more and more people sprinted across the fields to snag the orange fruits. “They’re acting like it’s a competition.” 

“I guess it is to some people.” You crossed over to a row that held misshapen yellow and green longneck gourds. You picked one up and looked it over. 

“You can’t really carve that,” Travis said, following you. 

“I know, but it’s cute. We could use it for decor. Set it out on the porch around our jack-o-lanterns.” 

“If you want to.” 

You turned and lifted yourself up on your tip-toes to kiss Travis on the lips. 

“What was that for?” 

“You always let me do anything I want. At least when it comes to decorating.” You passed him the funny-looking gourd and found three more, each one more twisted, each one covered in little wart-like bumps. 

“We should’ve grabbed a cart,” said Travis and he watched, almost enviously, as people dragged carts behind them through the field. “We still need pumpkins to carve.” 

“I know,” you said, scouting the next row, and then the one after that. Travis was slow to follow, juggling the four gourds in his arms. He watched you as you walked up and down the rows, turning over the pumpkins to check for rotten spots, seeing if they sat sideways or rolled over on flat ground. 

Eventually, you came back to Travis without a single pumpkin. 

“Is there one you liked?” he asked. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his hairline. Despite the cool breeze, it was beginning to get hot out in the field, and both of you were wearing sweaters. “If you hold these, I’ll go carry the ones you want back to the car.” 

“No,” you said, taking two of the gourds from his arms. “I think … maybe this year we don’t need to do pumpkins.” 

“But that’s what we came out here for.” 

“I know, but …” You shrugged, cradling the two gourds in your arms as if they were babies. “There’s too many to choose from. We haven’t even seen a fifth of this field. And everyone’s going a little crazy about it.” 

Travis looked around the field. You were right. People were practically getting into fights over the selection of pumpkins. And more people were arriving. SUVs were packed with adults who were quick to grab the returning utility carts and break off into groups of two or three, heading to different parts of the vast field. 

“Hold these for a second.” Travis passed you the other two gourds and went marching across the field. You watched him as he scanned each row with precision, stooping to examine a few of the pumpkins. A few times, people went to cut him off (believing he was about to take “their” pumpkin), but they stopped and sheepishly greeted him, realizing they were about to bowl over the sheriff. 

Finally, Travis squatted down, looked over a lonely pumpkin, then stood and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He carried it back to you, looking as serious as ever. His sweater rode up as he held onto the pumpkin, exposing the smallest bit of his stomach and the top of his jeans. 

“You found one?” 

“Had your name written all over it,” he said. You hear the self-satisfied smile that was trying to creep across his face. “Are you okay if we only get one? We can carve it together. If not, I’ll take this to the car and find another one.” 

“No, it’s perfect! It’ll be fun carving it together.” You teetered on the tips of your toes again to kiss him. “Thank you, Travis.” 

“It’s nothing,” he said, though he knew it was everything to you. “Let’s get these to the car and paid for. It’s starting to kill my shoulder.” 

“Ah, so that’s the excuse you’re going to use.” 

“What excuse?” He looked at you quizzically as you both walked back toward his car. 

“When you ask me for a massage later tonight. Your excuse is going to be the pumpkin.” You grinned at him, biting your bottom lip. “But let’s be honest, Travis. You know you don’t need an excuse.” 

“It really is a heavy pumpkin,” he said, shifting the weight of it on his shoulder. “It actually might take a couple of massages to loosen up all these muscles. It could take the rest of October before I’m feeling better.” 

You laughed as you popped open the trunk and set the gourds inside. Travis rolled the pumpkin off his shoulder and into the trunk. You were quick to grab his waist and pull him toward you, smiling flirtatiously up at him. 

“Well, then, I guess we better head home and get started. I’d hate for you to be in pain all month.” 

Travis held the back of your head with one hand. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching (he hated PDA almost as much as he hated emoting in public), then he pulled you into a deep, lingering kiss. Your entire body felt on fire, and you gripped at his waist tighter, trying to pull him closer. 

He drew back and smirked down at you, knowing the effect he had. “Let’s go get these paid for, then we can go home. Does that sound like a plan?” 

You grinned and pinched his waist. “Sure does, pumpkin.” 

Chapter Text

Half a dozen people were already heading into the corn maze ahead of you, each one wrapped up in sweaters and beanies. It was cold, far colder than either you or Nick had anticipated, and it was made even colder by the atmosphere. 

Every year, you vowed to go to the corn maze. And every year, you failed to do so. It wasn’t from a lack of trying. Things usually got in the way, such as work, or the end-of-year cold, or sheer exhaustion. One year, you’d even twisted your ankle the morning you’d decided to finally go through the maze. It was as if fate was keeping you away for some reason. 

Now, this year, you were finally here. Unfortunately (or, fortunately, depending on how one looked at it), it was the haunted maze that you were about to enter. The regular, family-friendly corn maze had ended about two hours before, while Nick was still at work. You knew that if you didn’t go today, though, you’d never manage to make it this season. And so you went, even though it wouldn’t be the romantic stroll you imagined. 

It was already dark out, the moon providing just enough light to illuminate the cornfield in a sickly bluish-white tone. Headlights cut through the haze of night, bouncing back off the wooden sides of barns and other outbuildings. There were a few solar-powered lights posted around the edge of the cornfield, but there didn’t appear to be any on the inside. 

“Come on, love,” said Nick, urging you forward. “We’re not going to finish the maze by just standing here.” 

You hesitated just long enough for Nick to realize that something was wrong. He placed his hand on your lower back and drew you closer to him. Despite the low light, you could see worry written across his face. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

Just then, a bloodcurdling scream tore across the sky and echoed across the fields. You practically jumped out of your skin, throwing yourself against Nick’s warm, safe body. His arms wrapped around you and kept you shielded from whatever had produced that horrific scream — which, he could easily deduce, was either a scare actor or an unfortunate patron of the haunted corn maze. 

You tucked your face against his neck and blushed deeply in embarrassment. You could hear a few people around you chuckling, not-too-quietly commenting about how scared you were. You clung to Nick’s sweater as you leaned back and looked him in the eye. 

“I’m sorry. I’m being a big baby.” 

“Don’t apologize for being scared. That’s what this maze is for, isn’t it? I imagine it’s quite a big compliment to the actors, you know. They are getting paid to scare people.” 

“Yeah, but I haven’t even encountered any of the scare actors. I just heard someone else scream.” 

“It was a rather terrifying scream,” he offered, trying to comfort you. It didn’t help much. Nick always got this tone when he was trying to make you feel better about something silly. It wasn’t a mocking tone or anything, but there was just something about it. It bordered on the verge of pity, and it drove you crazy. 

You peeled yourself away from Nick and looked back toward the maze. Small beams of light, presumably from phone flashlights, bounced around throughout the maze. Every now and again, a light would spin frantically and someone would scream. More and more people lined up for the maze, chattering excitedly about what they might experience. 

“If you don’t want to do it, we don’t have to.” Nick reached out and grasped your hand. “It’s perfectly alright if you’d rather go home and watch a movie.” 

“No. We came all this way and … and this is the only time we’ll be able to do it this year.” 

“That’s not true. We can always make time on the weekend to come out. We can come earlier and do the regular maze. If you don’t want to be scared, you don’t have to do this one.” 

“But I want to. I mean … I at least want to try.” You squeezed his hand, feeling jittery as a man hollered from the middle of the cornstalks. “If you’re willing to, I mean.” 

Nick smiled and kissed your forehead. “I’m willing to try anything for you, love. C’mon.” He pulled you into the line, letting you stand behind him with your arms wrapped around his middle. “I’ll keep you safe when we go in there. I promise — nothing is gonna come between you and me.” 

You hugged him tightly from behind and pressed your face into his back, breathing in his scent. “I know,” you murmured. “You’ve always protected me.” 

“And I always will.” 

Chapter Text

The room was small, but comfortable. The wall that displayed a moving image of a vast park that sloped down to a glistening lake made the room feel a bit bigger, and the ambient noise of birds and distant human chatter almost seemed real. 

Being on a space station was difficult for most people, especially people who hadn’t gotten used to the long stretches of loneliness that space brought. The room had been designed with newcomers in mind; the ones who were on the verge of going stir-crazy in the cramped apartments, who had nothing to stare at except for the vastness of space and the occasional glimpse of a distant planet. 

Almost everyone was asleep right now, as Earth time said that it was nearing midnight. It was important for people in space to function by a specific Earth clock, or else they really would lose their senses altogether. With space being the same day and night, every month, every season, it was nice to be able to look at one of the many clocks on the wall and say, “It is 6pm in London, October 14th,” or, “It is noon in the Sahara desert, during the spring equinox,” or “It’s Christmas in this half of the world, and Christmas hasn’t yet come to this other half of the world.” (This was especially crucial when people were on ships deep in space, where they didn’t have Earth to look at, even from a small window.) 

But since everyone was asleep on Gateway Station, the “park” was free to use. There were, after all, some people on the space station who didn’t need sleep, such as the androids. And you had been restless for the last three days, anxiously awaiting your orders from the Weyland-Yutani company. It felt like you were in purgatory, waiting until you were either released back to Earth or sent out on a ship into space. 

Bishop had felt your restlessness and had come up with a solution. The apartments were small and uncomfortable, especially when one wanted to pace, so he took you to the park room. If no one was in it, the screen displaying various wildlife scenes (including a jungle, a suburban neighborhood, and the aforementioned lake) was off. When you’d arrived, however, it was on, and the ambient noises were playing overhead. 

Bishop had arranged a midnight picnic for you. The bench was draped with a warm, autumnal-colored blanket, and there was a red-and-white checked blanket spread on the ground. On top of the checked blanket was a small array of freeze-dried snack foods and bottled drinks, mostly water and juices. Gateway Station was limited on its options, but it was never meant to be a permanent habitat for people. But it was perfect for a spontaneous midnight space-picnic planned by the person you loved the most. 

“I thought it might help,” he’d said when he first brought you into the room. “I know that it can be hard to sit around and wait. Gateway Station isn’t the most comfortable place to be stuck.” He’d nodded to the screen with the display of the lake. “It was the closest thing I could find that matched the season.” 

The image of the shifting lake was framed by trees covered in gold leaves. They rustled in imaginary wind, and a few of the leaves swirled away to the grass below. The already-cool temperature of Gateway Station (mostly kept low to keep all electronics, including the androids, in prime working condition) helped sell the idea of a crisp autumn afternoon. 

Now you sat on the bench, curled up next to Bishop, admiring the fictional lake with its golden trees. The earth-toned blanket was wrapped around the both of you, and you listened to the soft humming of Bishop’s internal components, his equivalent of a heartbeat. Most people on Gateway Station had gotten used to your and Bishop’s relationship, though there were a few people who still thought it was odd. Their opinions didn’t bother you as much during moments like this, when it was just the two of you. 

Bishop kept his hand around your back, keeping you safely tucked against his body. He enjoyed the physical contact as much as you did, though he was much more cautious about it. As an android, he had much fewer rights than humans did, and he didn’t take your relationship for granted. Every day, he marveled at how someone like you would even be friendly toward him, let alone have romantic feelings. 

Your eyes fluttered open and closed, exhaustion finally settling over your body like the blanket you were wrapped in. You snuggled in closer to Bishop, holding on to his chest. The ambient noises continued; birds tweeting softly, the breeze moving through dried leaves, the lap of lake water over a distant shore. 

In moments like this, it didn’t matter if you were stuck on Gateway Station for the next hundred years. You’d be happy as long as you had Bishop. 

Chapter Text

Even outside of the game, you called him “Doom-Head.” You found it kind of sexy, kind of scary. Of course you knew his real name (you’d been with him a staggering three years already, which was a record for both of you), but when you’d discovered his nickname, it had just stuck. It was so him. 

You were at a haunted house, just in time for Halloween. He wasn’t working the game this year (that was what the two of you had started calling it, since it was so much easier, and safer, than calling it what it actually was), so you’d had all October to spend with him. You especially loved it when it got closer to Halloween, as his more aggressive side came out. 

“It’s stupid to go to these things,” he complained as you waited in line with everyone else. Both pre-recorded and real-life screams could be heard echoing through the haunted house, which had been advertised as the scariest one in the state. “What’s the point of going if you know none of it’s real?” 

“Because,” you said, nudging him in the arm, “it feels real to most people. Not everyone has the same … interests … as you, babe.” 

He gave you a stony look. In private, you could call him anything you wanted. You could do anything you wanted. But when you were in public, only he was allowed to use pet names, and only he was allowed to initiate physical contact. 

“Look,” he complained, nodding toward the back of the line where a woman with two kids had appeared. “This can’t be that scary if there are kids here. We oughta leave.” 

“Oh, come on,” you said, lightly tapping your hand against his. You really wanted to grab it, but you knew his limits. “I read the website. No one under eighteen is allowed in. She’ll get turned away any minute now. Besides, you promised.” 

“I must’ve been high if I promised to take you here.” 

“You were, and you did. I’ve only ever been to one haunted house before, and you’d never let me participate in the game, so …” 

“’Cause I don’t want someone to tear your guts open all over the place.” 

You caught a glimpse of the group behind you, all shifting away uncomfortably. Whether they took it literally or as a euphemism, they were still visibly disturbed by his comment. Doom-Head, however, didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Likely both. 

“So, then, you owe me this. I never get to be scared, and I never get to scare. I just want to spend one Halloween doing something scary with you.” 

“Every day’s scary with me,” he said, grabbing your butt firmly and pulling you close. “How scary do you want me to be?” 

You opened your mouth to answer when your earlier prediction came true. An usher dressed as a zombified clown marched down the side of the line and stood beside the woman with two kids. 

“Eighteen and up only,” he said. “You can stay but the kids have gotta go.” 

“Where are they going to go?” the woman snapped back. “They’re kids!” 

“Not my problem. They’re not supposed to be here in the first place. Find a place for ‘em or you all can leave.” 

The woman issued a few colorful curses at the clown (which Doom-Head repeated against your ear, his breath sending pleasant shudders through your body) as she dragged her crying kids out of the line. 

Once the spectacle was over, and people’s attention was no longer on the woman and kids, Doom-Head let you go. He slicked back his dark hair and rolled his eyes up to the canopy covering the long line. 

“’s taking forever,” he griped. 

“No, it’s not. The line’s moving fast enough.” You prodded him forward, which earned you another cold stare. He turned away and ignored you for the next few minutes. 

As you got closer to the entrance, another usher (this one dressed as a scarecrow) came walking down the line, giving instructions and asking for proof of ticket purchase. He stopped at each person and checked their wristbands, then told them the rules of the house. No touching the scare actors. No breaking anything. No flash photography. No food or drinks in the house. Anything not consumed by the time they reached the entrance had to be tossed. No stopping and going back the way they came. Everyone had to move forward and keep moving. Stalling or holding up the line inside the house would result in an immediate “emergency exit,” which included a security guard dragging you through the back halls and out the side door. 

When the scarecrow got to you, he grinned from ear to ear. 

“Hey, cutie,” he said. “Mind if I check your wristband?” 

“Go ahead.” 

He grabbed your hand and pulled it up to examine the band in the limited light. He continued to smile at you. “Is this your first time here?” 

“Yeah. How’d you know?” 

“Just a guess. I’ve worked this house the last five years. I’d remember if you’d been here before.” 

“Maybe I came a day you weren’t working.” 

“That’s impossible. I’d remember if you came.” He winked at you. 

In between heartbeats, Doom-Head was between you and the scarecrow. He loomed over both of you, tall and thin and intimidating. Even without his signature makeup, he was a scary man. And you could tell from the look on the scarecrow’s face that Doom-Head was smiling. He never looked scarier than when he was smiling. 

“Now, what’d you go and do that for?” Doom-Head asked, looking down at the other man. 

“Do what?” The scarecrow’s voice trembled as he took a step backward from the line. 

“You flirted with my lady. Right in front of me. It wasn’t like you couldn’t see me. I was standing right there. Now I’m standing right here. What’d you do it for?” 

The scarecrow’s eyes looked toward you for help, but you gave none. You shrugged. It didn’t matter if you wanted to help him or not. When Doom-Head got in this mood (his “I own you” mood), there was nothing you could do about it. 

“I-I wasn’t flirting. I was just making conversation.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Doom-Head said, his voice starting to lighten. That was somehow a worse sign than if he’d screamed it. “I hate liars.” 

“I’m not lying, mister. I was just making conversation. I didn’t know you were together.” 

“So, which is it? You were just talking to her? Or you were flirting and didn’t realize she was mine?” 

“I—” Scarecrow stumbled over his words while Doom-Head stared him down. 

“You know, I can see it in the eyes. A thief always shows it in the eyes first. The way they look at the things they plan on taking. You got that same look. And you’re looking right at my gal. You planning on stealing her away from me?” 

“N-No! Of course not!” 

“Then what were you looking at her for?” 

“I was just checking her wristband!” 

“You checked it. Why were you still talking to her? She’s not yours. She’s mine. Why were you talking to her after you checked her wristband? Why’d you wanna know how many times she’s been here?” 

The tension surrounding the three of you was so thick, it had spread clear to each end of the line. No one was comfortable. But the other ushers, and even the security guards, stood by and watched. Scarecrow was all alone in this confrontation, and Doom-Head was about to devour him. 

You finally decided you had to do something. You pushed yourself between Doom-Head and Scarecrow, turning your back on Scarecrow. Placing your hands on Doom-Head’s chest, you looked up at him, but he ignored you. 

“Why don’t we go home? I think you’re right. I think maybe this isn’t the place for us.” 

“You want her?” Doom-Head continued, tilting his head to the side. A few strands of dark hair fell over his forehead. You wanted to reach up and push them out of the way, but you knew better than to stick your hands near his face at the moment. If you weren’t careful, you were liable to get your hand bitten off. 

“Please, dude,” Scarecrow said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I promise I won’t talk to her again.” 

“You’ll have to kill me to get her. Do you want her that badly?” Doom-Head’s hand slid down toward his jean pocket where you knew he kept a knife. 

You’d had enough. You grabbed Doom-Head’s wrist and he finally looked at you, fury written across his face. 

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m working.” 

“You’re not working,” you snapped back. “You’re scaring someone who made an honest mistake.” 

“I haven’t even tried to be scary yet.” 

“Well, it doesn’t take much, does it? We’re going home.” 

“You don’t tell me what to do.” 

“Any other night, you’d be right. But tonight, you’re wrong. We’re leaving before you do something stupid.” With your own wave of fury washing over you, you grabbed Doom-Head’s arm and dragged him out of the line, back toward the dark road where you’d parked. 

He shook himself free of you and spun you around, wrapping his large hand around your throat. He didn’t squeeze, even though he could have. 

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he repeated slowly, emphasizing every word. “Especially not in public.” 

You stared up at him, your mouth set in a hard line. His fingers slowly flexed against the flesh of your neck. 

“You don’t scare me,” you said. 

“No?” 

“No. You don’t scare me at all.” 

“Well, then,” he said, finally applying pressure to your throat. He leaned down to look you in the eye, his breath hot over your skin. “I guess I’m doing something wrong. I better fix that.” 

In seemingly one motion, he released your throat and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you to the van. Instead of putting you in the passenger seat, Doom-Head tossed you into the back and slammed the doors. Then he climbed into the front and drove off. You wondered if anyone heard your laughter as Doom-Head spewed curses out the window at Scarecrow before speeding off back home. 

Chapter Text

Cooper’s side of the bed shifted as he sat down on the mattress. You heard him quietly remove his shoes and slide them under the bed, then strip off his jeans and shirt. He crawled under the covers in just his boxers, rolling over to drape an arm over your waist. His bare chest was hot, a welcome reprieve from the coldness outside. How he could manage to sleep in just his underwear during the fall was a mystery you’d never solve. 

He pressed a kiss behind your ear and pulled himself closer behind you, breathing in the scent of your hair. 

“I missed you,” he said softly. 

“Missed you, too,” you murmured, acting as if you’d just woken up. In truth, you never slept until Cooper was back home. And these days, he was usually never home before midnight. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you up.” 

You shrugged loosely, not bothering to answer. You had the feeling Cooper already knew that you didn’t sleep without him in the bed. If it bothered him, he never said so. Maybe he liked it — liked knowing that you tossed and turned and fretted over his safety while he was out in the world, doing whatever it was that Cooper Adams did in the middle of the night. 

“I got you something nice,” he said between kisses to the side of your face. “Do you want it now or later?” 

“Later.” You closed your eyes and savored the feeling of his lips against your skin. His hand lay flat against your stomach, keeping you pressed against the length of his body. You never felt safer than when you were in his arms. 

“Nothing crazy happened while I was away, did it?” 

“Nope. All quiet here at home. Did anything happen while you were away?” 

Away. You never asked what happened while he was at work, because you knew that most of the time he wasn’t at work. It had been about two years since you grew suspicious of Cooper’s extracurricular activities, a year since you more or less figured out what he was doing, and about three months since you came to accept it. It’d broken your heart when you thought he was having an affair, but it was something entirely else when you realized he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t prowling around in the night looking for sex. He was looking to kill. And it had frightened you. It had confused you. And then, gradually, it comforted you. 

Cooper could have just as easily killed you, if he wanted. But he didn’t want to. He treated you so gently and with so much love, you never feared that he would even think about hurting you. And if he did have those urges, that impulse, to harm you, he obviously took it out on other people. 

In a perfect world, you wouldn’t be married to a prolific serial killer. But it wasn’t a perfect world. It was a world in which you somehow managed to meet, fall in love, and marry a man who felt at home in his own body when he was covered in someone else’s blood. And you’d grieved for his victims — past and future — but you’d also thanked them. It was because of them that you and Cooper could be together. Without their (admittedly, unwilling) sacrifice, you would be just as dead as the rest of them. 

Cooper pressed his lips against your ear and stayed there for a while, not answering your question. Did he know that you knew? Surely he did. He was smart. He had to be smart so he didn’t get caught. And he must’ve noticed how you’d changed over the course of the last two years — at first needy, and then distant, and then back to your old self. Or maybe a better version of your old self. One that felt completely loved and completely safe. One that wasn’t looking for the “other woman” in the face of every person who passed by. One that didn’t flinch away from her husband’s touch when she thought of the pain he inflicted on others. 

If he knew that you knew, you wondered if he’d eventually confide in you. You were curious, after all, how he got away with it. Murder was a messy business and so many people got it wrong. How did your husband manage to get it right? 

You were still waiting for Cooper’s answer when you realized that he’d fallen asleep. His arm still draped over you, his face buried against your neck. Whatever he’d done, it wore him out. Maybe he’d talk about it tomorrow, after he’d gotten some rest. Or maybe not. You were okay with the ambiguity of this part of your relationship. Whether Cooper was having an affair or was killing people in cold blood, it was going to be okay, because he always came back to you, and he always would. 

Chapter Text

Amity was empty of tourists this time of year. Summer had been successful and so the entire town was secure in the knowledge that autumn and winter would be safe and comfortable. 

That didn’t mean people stopped working, though. Some people’s stores shuttered up for the season, and they took on their winter jobs, but most people living on the island kept working the same job night and day. One of those people was Quint. His living was increased during the summer, but it didn’t end there. He was a fisherman and a sharker no matter the season or the weather. 

October was not an especially popular time for tourists (except for the stragglers who wanted to wait until the summer season was over, and they had their choice of hotels and restaurants), but that meant you got to spend more time with Quint. When space was limited on the Orca, you often had to stay behind, watching from the shore as the ship sailed off into the ocean. But during the quiet season, you got to stand on the deck and watch the shoreline disappear. 

During the autumn, Quint especially liked night fishing. The mayor often allowed him to do this during autumn and winter, as there were no sleeping tourists to disturb with the sound of boat engines rumbling and churning after midnight. It was secluded, safe, and beautiful out on the water during the night. And you were always invited. 

Halfway through October, you and Quint went night fishing together. You sat on the deck of the Orca and stared out across the black expanse of sea and sky. The moon rested overhead, reflected in the rippling waves below. And the stars above looked like they were mirroring the glistening waters. 

The line on the fishing rod creaked as the boat rolled gently from side to side. Quint sat in his fighting chair, the butt end of a cigarette glowing in the dark. You could smell the cigarette, diesel, and sweat on Quint’s clothes. It was a smell you hadn’t just gotten used to, but had come to love. It was the smell of a hardworking, blue-collar man who would do just about anything for you (even if he wouldn’t admit it). 

“You gettin’ cold?” 

You looked up from the water toward Quint’s silhouette. His face was colored a silvery blue from the moonlight. 

“I’m alright.” 

“You sure? Gotta blanket, if you want it. Or my jacket.” 

You’d take his jacket over a blanket any day, but you shook your head. “I’m fine, really. It’s nice outside. Kind of makes me want to go swimming.” 

Quint chuckled and extinguished the cigarette on the arm of his chair. “Wouldn’t wanna go into the water this late in the year. You’d freeze.” 

“I know, I’m just saying.” You were curled up on the deck, your arms resting on the transom as you stared out over the water. It was comfortable here, and provided a bit of security. As long as you could feel the wood under you, you weren’t too afraid of accidentally miscalculating where the boat ended and sea began. 

There was a long stretch of silence and then Quint lit another cigarette. 

“Nothing’s biting?” you asked, glancing back at him. 

He gummed the cigarette for a moment and blew smoke out between his lips. “No. But that’s alright. Got a pretty big catch earlier this morning.” 

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“You oughta,” he said, voice rising in amusement, “you were the one who helped bring it in.” 

“If you don’t catch anything soon, are we going back to shore?” 

“Why? Do you wanna?” 

“No.” You tilted your head up and admired the endless diamonds of space. “I was just curious. We should cut a skylight into the roof of your place, Quint. We could sleep under the stars every night.” 

“We could,” he murmured, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. Then he laughed and said, “Better put glass in it or you’re likely to get wet. Can’t just have a hole cut outta your roof, not on an island.” 

You grinned at him in the dark. 

He stretched in his chair, put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and propped his arms behind his head. “I’m gonna take a nap. Wake me up if somethin’ happens.” 

“Aye, aye, captain,” you teased. Then you looked out over the still waters and waited for something to emerge from the moonlight. 

Chapter Text

Ed Harley didn’t believe in witches until he met Haggis. She’d always been a sort of myth, a half-truth, that people talked about. He’d thought she had been something made up just to scare kids into behaving, just like Santa Claus. But she was real. 

He knew that she was real because he climbed through Razorback Holler and found her home (if it could be called a home), and he stood before her crippled form and looked into the fireplace that glimpsed Hell, and he believed. She offered him revenge. She offered him blood. She offered him everything that his heart wanted in the wake of Billy’s death. 

But he didn’t take it. 

Why didn’t he take it? 

It had been a week since that trek up to Razorback Holler and he still didn’t entirely know why. Perhaps it was the fear that had been rolled into him when he was still just a baby; the fear of witchcraft and dark magic and hellfire. The fear of damnation and curses and all the evil things men were blind to. 

It would have been so easy to say yes. He barely had to do anything. The work would be done for him. His hands would be clean. (His soul? Not so much.) But it was worth it, wasn’t it? To get revenge for Billy? To get revenge for himself? 

Still, he didn’t do it. 

He woke up every morning and went to bed every evening wondering why he hadn’t done it. There was still time to do it. He was sure there was. He might even do it now just because it’d been a week and those teenagers hadn’t turned themselves in to the police, hadn’t taken responsibility for killing a child. 

Ed occasionally wondered if the reason he hadn’t done it was because of you. You’d never been Billy’s official stepmother, but you were the closest thing he had. Really, the closest thing he had to a mother. Over the last two years, you’d shown up for Ed in ways he didn’t know he needed. Help on the farm, with the store, with Billy. Ed had just about cursed himself when he realized that you were a year into running the store with him and he hadn’t even once made you dinner.

Things just fell together after that. It was like you’d always been a part of the small family. And after the first night together, Ed suddenly couldn’t remember what life was like without you. 

He couldn’t go through with Haggis’s deal, not now. You were hurting, too. You were grieving in the same way as Ed. And if Ed went through with it, he’d be leaving you all alone. You would lose both of them, and that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right. 

So the night after he came back from Haggis, Ed curled up into your arms and cried. You grieved together. The night lasted a lifetime and then the sun came up, and the hollow sadness came like waves again. His anger would flare back to life and he would scream curses up and down the property, chasing phantoms of teenagers and the lonely ghost of his son. He’d sleep for hours, and then bouts of insomnia would grip him for the next few days. Life went on. Then life would stop. The world forgot about Billy and Ed and you. The world kept reminding you of what you lost. The pain disappeared. It returned and swallowed you whole. 

The first week went by, and then the second. And then the third and fourth. Then the months went by. And then the one-year anniversary. That day felt like a wound the length of Ed’s body had been torn open and everything he was had been spilled out into the fields. And then the night came and the day came and it was the next morning and Billy was still gone but Ed was still there. 

And then two years went by. And then three. 

And each day was like the fading of a bruise. If something came along and pressed right in the center, right where the black and blue skin was still tender, then the hurt came right to the surface. But if something prodded along the edges, where yellow and green had already faded away, then it was less painful and more curious. Just checking something out. Just passing by. Just looking for a reaction. 

And on year four, Ed woke up the morning of the anniversary in your arms, and he looked at your face and wondered about where you’d come from and why you’d stayed with him. Maybe, he thought, you were a witch, too. A good witch. One that took pain and transformed it into something else, something beautiful. One that crafted love out of loneliness, and peace out of anguish. Maybe you were the reason he hadn’t made the deal with Haggis. Not because he was afraid of leaving you alone, but because you’d been with him the entire time, protecting him with your spells from the influence of Haggis, protecting him from hellfire and damnation and bloody revenge. 

Ed Harley didn’t believe in witches until he met Haggis. But now that he did, he was thankful that there was more than one kind, and that he had chosen the right one. 

Chapter Text

Please, please, don’t let him find me. 

You chanted the prayer over and over in your head while your heartbeat pounded in your ears. You were convinced that he could hear your heart echoing through the abandoned barn. And if he couldn’t, he could surely hear your ragged breaths as you tried to calm yourself down. 

Don’t breathe so hard. Be quiet. Shut up! 

Your inner self, the part of you that was somehow still rational despite everything else, was trying so hard to keep you alive. And it was hard for the other part of you, the part that was crouching behind a broken-down tractor while holding a rusted pickax, to listen. 

The barn door creaked open and moonlight shone through the gap. It soon vanished with the black silhouette of him. You didn’t know who he was or where he had come from. All you knew was that he had killed all of your friends and he was coming after you now. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out and watched in horror as the man slowly walked into the barn. He turned his head back and forth, almost like a bird listening for a predator (but you knew he was listening for prey). He stared into the barn and grinned impossibly wide. 

When you first drove out to the farm with your friends, you were intending to spend the night running through a haunted corn maze and letting random guys buy you drinks. But when you arrived, there was nothing, nobody. No corn maze, no haunted house, nothing. All that remained on the acres of untilled land was a ramshackle house (where two of your friends had been killed), the horse stalls (where another friend was killed), and the barn (where you were currently hiding). 

Tears rolled down your cheeks as the man — you knew he was a man purely because of how tall, thin, and strong he was, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to tell with the black and white clown costume — crept into the barn with exaggerated motions. He was behaving like a mime, but this wasn’t pretend and it wasn’t for fun. 

Your legs ached as you squatted into the dark corner and gripped the pickax tighter. You were hoping beyond hope that this weapon would work. You’d seen one of your friends fire two bullets from an old shotgun right into the clown’s chest and it had barely slowed him down. 

The bullets were old. They were just blanks. The gun misfired. 

The rational side of you had lost the battle in that moment because nothing was rational about a man walking away from two gunshot wounds to the chest. 

The clown slunk around the far side of the barn, poking at the hanging instruments (shovels, pitchforks, hoes — all now terribly obvious weapons for him to use) and banging his hands and feet against the walls. The sound was horrible. The echo of his footsteps, his labored breathing, the sticky wet sound of blood on his hands. 

You glanced at the barn door. It was still partially open, just barely enough for the clown to have fit through. If you were fast enough, and quiet enough, you might be able to sneak out of the barn before the clown noticed. 

Rolling silently onto the balls of your feet, you shifted the weight of the pickax in your hands and focused on the door. It was quite a distance, you were at the back of the barn, but it was doable. Maybe if you could get a third, or even half, of the way to the door before running, you could make it out and get back to the car. You didn’t have the keys but you knew that the spare had been kept in a magnetic box under the back bumper. 

Hay crunched underfoot. You looked up. The smiling clown swung an axe down at you. 

A scream tore through your throat as you jolted awake in bed, covered in sweat. Your body trembled as you stared blankly into the darkness of your bedroom. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog began barking wildly. 

A nightmare. 

Another one. 

Exhausted, you flopped back into bed and looked at the clock. It was barely past three in the morning. This was the fourth nightmare you’d had about that clown with the black and white makeup and blood on his face. You’d searched high and low for information about it after the first two nightmares, but you’d found nothing. He wasn’t a character from a film you’d seen, he wasn’t a new animatronic from Spirit Halloween, he wasn’t anything. 

You rubbed a headache from your temples and stared up at the ceiling. Someone had to know who, or what, he was. You knew you didn’t just conjure him up out of nowhere. If you were having nightmares about him, there had to be other people who could explain why, other people who knew exactly what you were going through. 

Sleep-deprived but restless, you opened your laptop and found a forum dedicated to dream interpretations. You began typing your first post. 

I’ve been having recurring nightmares about this guy. He looks like a clown, but dressed in black and white. The dreams are all different, but they all end the same. Everyone dies. Including me … 

Chapter Text

You awoke in the dark of the large bedroom, shadows reaching every corner. There was no moonlight to shine through the open windows and ban the darkness, so you laid under the covers and listened for what had woken you. 

A voice? Maybe. But not a regular voice. It would have been soft, delicate. A whisper on the breeze that rattled tree limbs against the glass window. What did it say? Not words, not anything. But there must have been emotion behind it because you awoke a little sad, but not frightened. Not like you’d been disturbed by a ghost, but that you’d walked in on a friend crying. 

You slowly sat up, perched right in the middle of the endless mattress. The comforter was nearly black in the night, but it was a lovely emerald in the morning. The drapes around the four-poster bed matched, as did the curtains, the wallpaper, and the sconces. But everything was so inky at night, you might as well have been dropped into the bottom of a well. 

Holding your breath, you strained your ears and listened again for something in the dark. 

The ticking of a clock. The creak of the house. The scritching of branches on glass. The breeze in the leaves. 

You threw the comforter off of your body, put on slippers and your robe, and went to the bedroom door. It took all your strength to pull it open. You poked your head out into the hallway and listened closer. 

Ticking, creaking, scritching, whooshing. 

You stepped into the hall, tying your robe closed. It was cold out here. It was cold in every part of the house, but some spots were particularly chilly at unparticular times. Right now, the hallway was cold. Dr. Marrow might have suggested that it was a cold spot, perhaps caused by a ghost. Perhaps just a draft from an old house that was falling down around itself. 

Something tugged at the center of your chest. You felt it from the inside trying to get out, pushing you in one direction. You followed the feeling and it led you down the staircase and to the front door. Your hand rested on the door when the feeling suddenly pulled back, wriggling against your spine. 

You spun and headed through the first floor of the house, mazing through the doors and halls until you reached the kitchen. It was empty, always empty this time of night (or was it day? You hadn’t looked at a clock), but the back doors were straight ahead and you felt the sensation in your chest grow warmer. 

You unlocked one of the glass doors and stepped outside. The breeze instantly tickled your exposed skin and danced through the fabric of your robe. There were thousands of stars but not a sliver of moon. 

Walking to the edge of the porch, you squinted to look into the distance where the trees rose up and continued rising up to the hills. Among the low branches of a cluster of trees, you could see a light. Small, round, white. It bobbed up and down like a fishing float in the water. Its edges were smudged and soft, reminiscent of the halo of icy light around the sun in winter. 

The voice that wasn’t a voice spoke to you again. There were no words, just feelings. There was a promise somewhere in that soundless voice. A promise for you. 

You stepped off of the porch and your slippers sank into the grass of the unmown yard. The light flickered and let sparkling white trails of glitter as it danced in the air. Your legs seemed to move with your having to tell them to. You walked across the yard toward the light. It never retreated, but it also never got any closer. 

You were almost to the first row of trees when arms wrapped around your middle and you were thrown sideways onto the ground. You screamed and thrashed against the heavy body, suddenly very aware of where you were. 

“Get off of me! Help! Somebody help me, please!” You threw your palms out to hit jaws or noses or chins, but you only hit air. 

Finally, someone grabbed your arms and yanked them down. When you looked up in fear, you saw the panicked face of Dr. Marrow. 

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice hard. 

“Dr. Marrow?” you panted, staring up at him. “What’s happening?” 

“I told you not to do that,” he said. 

“Do what?” 

“Not to leave your room.” He rolled off of you and allowed you to sit up on the grass. “I was very specific. No one was supposed to leave their room at night.” 

“I …” You shuddered as your entire body felt like it had been dunked in ice water. You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I’m sorry. It didn’t feel like I was actually doing it.” 

Dr. Marrow ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “Where were you going?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He paused and looked at you. Despite the low light, you could see the outline of his sharp features. His jaw, cheekbones, nose. There was just enough starlight to illuminate the darkest part of his eyes. 

“Were you following something?” 

“Yes,” you admitted. 

“A person?” 

“No, I don’t think so. I mean … It could have been.” 

“Explain it to me.” 

You pulled your legs up to your chest and stared up at Hill House. It looked like a great beast in the dark. All wrong angles and crooked corners. There was nothing beautiful about it. 

“It was like a voice, but it wasn’t a voice. I didn’t hear it. I only felt it. And then I came outside and I saw …” 

“A person?” 

“No. A light.” 

“Like a lamp? Or a fire?” 

“It was sort of like a lightning bug, but that wasn’t it. It was white and it was floating just by the trees. But when I got closer, it seemed to get farther away. It wasn’t moving, it just wasn’t getting any closer.” 

“And it was going into the woods?” 

“Yes.” 

Dr. Marrow rubbed his face and stared blankly at Hill House. He sat with his shoulders hunched and head set forward. He too was dressed in a robe, but he was barefoot. 

Now that you noticed, you were barefoot too. He must’ve knocked your slippers clean off when he tackled you. And why did he tackle you? 

“Come on,” he said, standing up with a groan. He grabbed your hand and pulled you to your feet. “Let’s get back to bed.” 

“Are you going to tell me what I saw?” 

He looked back at the forest and then at you. “I can tell you tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow might be too late, Doctor.” 

“David,” he said. “You can call me David. How about I tell you while you’re getting into bed?” 

“Alright.” 

You followed him back into the house, through the kitchen, and up the stairs. He pushed open your bedroom door and walked you to the bed. Neither of you bothered turning on the lights. 

You crawled into the bed, pulled the comforter up to your lap, and looked at Dr. Marrow. “Well? What was it?” 

He rubbed his chin again and studied you. He was quiet for a long moment before speaking. 

“I think it was an ignis fatuus. As silly as that might sound.” 

“What’s that?” 

“A will-o’-the-wisp. It’s sort of like a ghost light. It usually occurs around marshes and bogs.” 

“Is it someone’s spirit?” 

“No, nothing like that.” He walked to the end of your bed and back again. “At least, not always. It could be nothing. Didn’t Eleanor and Theo find a river or something out that way?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“There could be pockets of methane or similar gases under Hill House that caused that light. That’s what an ignis fatuus really is, anyway, scientifically speaking.” 

“And unscientifically speaking?” 

Dr. Marrow looked at you in surprise. He floundered for a long moment, deciding to pace the length of your bed again. 

“Dr. Marrow?” 

“David, please.” 

“David,” you said softly. He looked at you. “Why were you outside?” 

“Because you’d gone outside. I saw you were headed for the woods and I needed to stop you.” 

“How did you know that?” 

“What?” 

“How did you know I was outside, headed for the woods? I didn’t pass by your room when I left, and you weren’t in any of the rooms downstairs when I was there. How did you know?” 

Dr. Marrow stared at you in silence. It seemed like a lifetime passed before he answered. 

“It’s hard for me to sleep most nights. That’s what this is, isn’t it? An experiment for insomniacs? Sometimes if I can’t sleep, I’ll sit out in the hallway for a bit. Maybe walk around. I … saw you leave your room. I thought maybe you were going to make tea or find a snack, but … something felt wrong, so I followed you.” 

“Is that all?” 

“What do you mean, is that all?” 

“You followed me because you thought I was going to get a snack? Doctor—”

“David,” he said, exasperated. 

“David.”

“What?” 

“Are you sure there isn’t another reason you knew I was out of my room? Another reason you followed me? Another reason you’re here with me right now?” 

“I wasn’t following an ignis fatuus, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, shifting on his feet, avoiding your gaze. “You know, it’s a good thing I did notice, because you might have disappeared in those woods and who knows if we’d find you.” 

You reached out and brushed your fingers against his hand. He pulled it back and tucked it under his arm, clearing his throat. 

“Please,” he said, “don’t leave your room again tonight. We all need to try to get some sleep.” He hurried to your bedroom door then turned to look at you. “You should … lock this behind me.” 

“I’m not afraid anymore,” you said gently. “And I don’t think I’ll be leaving my room again tonight.” 

“Yes, well, we don’t really know what … or who … will try to make its way back in here, do we?” Despite the darkness, you could just about see his expression. A little confused. A little sad. 

“Goodnight, David. I promise I’ll lock my door when you leave.” 

“Good. Good.” He nodded and pulled the door shut. 

You waited until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall. You locked the door and climbed back into bed. Lying back, you stared up at the top of your four-poster bed and its heavy emerald drapes. The ignis fatuus sparked in your mind. 

You’d felt something in that voiceless voice when you first awoke. A promise. It wasn’t a promise of something, it was a promise of someone. And you felt it was very close to coming true. 

Turning over, you fell asleep and dreamed of skies and forests full of lights. 

Chapter Text

You could feel eyes on you. It felt as if someone were watching you from the shadows, from the chaotic pattern of wallpaper, from the dim bulbs screwed into the ceiling lights. 

It’s just my imagination. My imagination and my paranoia. 

It had been a long time since you’d traveled out of state, and even longer since you stayed in an out-of-the-way motel. But circumstance had led you here and you were grateful to be out of the cold and the rain, even if the young man who had taken your money and shown you to your room seemed a bit … odd. 

You shook off the feeling of being watched and stripped off your soaking wet clothes. You plunged your body into the hot water of the shower, letting yourself melt into a puddle of sore muscles and bruises. You’d gotten quite beaten up when you’d tried to push your car out of a mud puddle back on the highway, and when it had finally popped free of its prison (with the help of a burly gentleman who wished he could stay to help but couldn’t), you’d rode it downhill to the unexpected motel. You’d been more than thankful to find it open, vacant, and attended. 

Out of the shower, you dressed in slacks and a sweater, pulling back dingy curtains to look out at the storm that had descended upon the motel and your car. You shuddered to think what would have happened if you’d been stranded out on the highway, and closed the curtains tight. 

A peal of thunder roared overhead and you just about jumped out of your skin. At the same time, someone knocked on your motel door. 

You latched the bolt, pulled open the door slightly, and peered out. Norman Bates, the young man you’d met in the office, stood just outside your door with a crooked smile on his face. He’d gotten soaked by the rain and his dark hair was plastered to his head. 

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you were alright in there.” 

“Yes,” you said cautiously, looking him up and down. He was thin, but tall and broad-shouldered. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Oh, well, sometimes the power goes out during storms like these. I wanted to come by and drop off some candles for you, just in case.” He held up a few tapers and a box of matches.

You waited a moment then closed the door, unlatched it, and opened it. “Come on in.” 

Norman stepped into your room, apologizing for dragging water all over your carpet, and set the candles and matches on the dresser. “It sure is storming hard out there. Sometimes we get weather like this during the summer, but”—he huffed hard, puffing out his chest and smiling—“it sure is something right now, isn’t it?” 

You nodded and crossed your arms, returning your own hesitant smile to the man. “Thank you, Norman. For the candles.” 

“Of course. I was going to ask you earlier if you’d eaten already. I have some sandwiches made up. I could bring one back to you. If you wanted.” 

“That’s alright, I’m fine. But thank you.” 

Norman smiled again, this time it was incredibly shy. He glanced at the ground and played with the cuff of his jacket. “Some people get really scared when they’re alone during storms like this. Are you like that?” 

“No,” you said, then jumped when another roar of thunder echoed overhead. You blushed when you saw he was staring at you. “Not usually, anyway.” 

He grinned at you, dark eyes shining. “That’s okay. I get scared during storms, too. I’m better now, but I’m not fearless. When I was a kid, man, my mother would just—” He stopped, smiled softly to himself, and turned to look at the room. 

“Your mother?” 

“Oh, yes,” he said, acting as if he’d just remembered he was telling a story. “My mother, she’d help me through all sorts of storms. She was very brave, my mother. Is. She was then and is … now.” He looked away from you and began fiddling with the tapers and box of matches. “I hope we don’t lose power tonight. It can get awfully cold at night here. I should have brought you more blankets, just in case. I can go get some—”

You stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Norman.” 

He looked at you, cheeks the lightest shade of pink. 

“I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I think I’ll be fine. I’m not very cold right now.” 

Norman nodded and set aside the tapers and matches. “I better get back to the office. You never know who’ll show up on a night like this.” He laughed and smiled at you. “Like you. Who would have guessed you would have shown up here tonight?” 

“I didn’t plan it,” you admitted, “so it must have been fortune.” 

“Fortune?” 

“Yeah. Fate. Destiny. Something bigger than me that decided I should be here tonight. I’m really thankful I made it here tonight at all. I thought I was going to be stranded on the highway. I was really worried about being hit by someone if they didn’t see my car parked on the side of the road.” 

“I’m glad you made it here safe, then. Whether it was fortune or fate or destiny … or something else.” Norman picked at his fingernails and then moved past you, opening the door. “I’ll let you rest now. Please, find me in the office if you need anything. I should be there most of the night.” 

“Thank you, Norman.” You watched him walk back down the walkway toward the office. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and his silhouette, just before he ducked into the other room. When he was out of sight, you closed the door, but you didn’t lock it this time. 

Perhaps I will call on Norman later on and share a meal with him. He seems interesting. Certainly shy. I wonder what kinds of stories he had to tell about working in a place like this. 

You reclined on the bed and closed your eyes, relaxing into the mattress. You thought of Norman’s shy smile and the way he tried to make himself smaller so he didn’t take up too much room and how eager he was to help. 

And you completely forgot about the feeling of being watched. 

Chapter Text

Despite all the work that needed to be done around the hotel (which, you tried to explain to Emitt, wasn’t a lot because he always took care of things before they needed to be taken care of), you had convinced him to take one late afternoon and evening off of work. 

“It’s nine days until Halloween and we haven’t decorated at all.” 

“What are you talking about?” He’d asked, motioning to the lobby and out the glass doors toward the sidewalk. “The entire place is decorated for Halloween.” 

“You know what I mean, Emitt,” you’d said. “I mean our place.” 

Your place was still technically in the hotel, but it was more private than the rest of the hotel. You had a permanent residence in the hotel on one of the top floors, away from most of the floors where guests booked rooms. Even though you could have easily found your own place, you really didn’t have much choice if you wanted to be with Emitt all the time, seeing as he never really did (or could) leave the hotel. 

That was fine with you, though, since you got to see him every day, and he always returned to you at night. And even though you knew who he truly was and what he did to survive, you didn’t mind as much because you knew he would do anything to keep you safe. And he did. 

He would also do almost anything you asked of him. And that included the night’s current event: carving pumpkins. 

You were set up in the large kitchen of the suite you lived in, newspapers spread out over the counter. You were soaked up to your elbows in pumpkin guts, and the knife kept slipping between your fingers as you attempted to follow the black Sharpie marks of a face you drew on the orange gourd. 

Emitt had taken off his jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to participate. When he saw just how messy it was getting, he’d stolen one of your half-aprons and now had it tied around his waist. 

“Let me do that,” he said, reaching for the knife. 

You turned it toward him and teasingly stabbed the air with it. “Back off, Emitt. I’m armed and I’m dangerous.” 

“Armed, yes. Dangerous? That’s debatable. Maybe to yourself. You’re going to get cut if you keep trying to cut the pumpkin like that.” 

“It’s not my fault it’s so slimy. And sticky. And hard to carve.” Frustrated, you finally jabbed the knife into the thick orange rind, but you missed the outline of an eye and ended up stabbing it in the middle of its forehead. “Okay. He’s going to have a third eye now. He can be a psychic pumpkin.” 

Emitt chuckled softly, moving beside you and pushing you aside with his hip. “Let me do it.” 

You pouted but allowed him to pull the knife out of the pumpkin and begin the slow, difficult process of carving out the eyes, nose, and mouth. He made it look easy. One large hand held the pumpkin in place while the other grasped the knife, expertly maneuvering it around the Sharpie outlines. 

“I’d ask how you got so good with a knife, but I’m not sure I want to know.” 

He chuckled again and pushed the triangle eyes and nose pieces out of the pumpkin. They plopped onto the soaked newspaper, and Emitt began working on the mouth. When he finished, he set the knife aside and turned the pumpkin to face you. 

“There. Good enough?” 

“It’s perfect, Emitt. The most beautiful, terrifying Jack-o-lantern I’ve ever seen.” 

“Good. Now,” he said as he shook seeds and stringy bits off of his hands, “you still have some guts in there you need to get out. But once that’s done, we can put a candle in it and set it out in the hall.” 

You feigned a gasp. “Emitt, I’m surprised at you. A candle? I can’t believe you’d violate safety codes like that.” 

“Battery-powered candles,” he said, pointing to the plastic bag of supplies sitting on the other end of the counter. “You know I’d never jeopardize the safety of this hotel or its guests that way.” 

“Of course not,” you said with a sly smile. “When we’re done with this, you want to help me clean and bake those pumpkin seeds? It’d be a shame to waste them.” 

Emitt quietly got out a colander and placed it in the sink, scooping the clumps of sticky seeds into it. “Anything else you’d like to do while we’re at it?” 

You grinned at him. “Babe, I have a whole list of things I want to do before Halloween. Question is, are you willing to do them with me?” 

Leaning over you, he captured your mouth in a kiss. He smelled exactly like a freshly-massacred pumpkin. Earthy, a little sweet. 

“Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.” 

“Promise?” 

“For you? Yes. I promise.” 

Chapter Text

The scream echoed down one of the many hallways of the house, vibrating and cascading over itself in a kaleidoscope of sound. You jolted up in bed and goosebumps pinched your skin so tight, you were afraid you’d start bleeding. 

Clutching your comforter to your chest, you sat in the large bed and listened. The scream slowly died down, like the last bits of an air raid siren fading away, until there was nothing left but the sound of blood rushing through your ears. 

Your entire body trembled under the blankets. Every nook and cranny and the room seemed to possess the invisible body of a woman ready to scream. Every sigh of the house as it settled into its foundation was the drawing-in of a breath, the expansion of lungs, the pause before an ear-shattering bellow. 

But nothing happened. 

Finally, bravely, you slipped out of the bed and stood beside the door. You pressed one hand flat to the wood of it, and kept one hand on the handle. You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against the jamb.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand … 

You slowly opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. It was dark and quiet. And empty. There wasn’t even the lingering presence of a ghost there. 

Feeling a bit more brave, you opened the door more and stepped out into the hallway. At the far end, you could see a light glowing. At first you were convinced it was a will-o’-the-wisp come to lure you outside into the night, into the forest, to die. But then you heard voices, real voices, and knew it was the other guests who had come to check up on you. 

The first was Cathy, holding up a battery-operated lantern. Her eyes were wide and full of worry. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, rushing over to you. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Did you hear that scream?” 

A mixture of relief and despair crossed over her face. “We were wondering if you were the one who screamed.” 

“Would that have been better or worse?” 

“Could go either way,” Steve admitted, his pale face floating out of the dark behind Cathy. “We were hoping you just screamed because you were scared. But if it wasn’t you—”

“And it wasn’t any of the rest of us,” interrupted Sister. 

“Then it was the house,” concluded Steve. “Again.” 

“Or,” Nick said, looming behind the group, “it could have been something else.” 

Cathy turned to shine the light in his direction. He was even paler than Steve in the cool light, but his eyes shone brightly. Almost mischievously. 

“What do you mean?” asked Steve. “Do you think someone else is in the house? Like someone snuck in?” 

“No, I was thinking more along the lines of a banshee.” 

“A banshee?” Pam scoffed, though it wasn’t an entirely skeptical sound. “What do you mean by that?” 

“You hear a lot of stories growing up in England. A lot of supernatural things. Banshees are one of them. They’re more of an Irish superstition, but the legends kind of blend together after a while.” 

“What is a banshee?” Sister asked, pulling Annie closer to her and wrapping her in her arms. 

“It’s a spirit that wanders the hills and screams. Usually it’s a woman, and her screams are usually a sign that someone is going to die.” 

Everyone cried out, upset. 

“It’s just a myth,” Steve cut in, glaring at Nick. “And we’re not even in England. Or Ireland. What we heard could have been anything, but I know for a fact, it was part of the house. Now, no one is missing, right?” 

Cathy and Pam took a head count and confirmed that no one was gone. 

“And none of us are dead, right?” 

Again, they confirmed. 

“Alright. So there’s nothing to be worried about. The house plays tricks on people and it likes to scare them. The more scared you are, the easier it is for the house to use your energy. Now, we all need to just go back to sleep and pretend nothing happened. Okay? We can review all the recordings tomorrow morning after breakfast.” 

Cathy, Pam, and Sister all looked uneasily at each other. 

“I don’t feel very safe going back to my room,” said Cathy. “Even if I have Pam with me.” 

“I agree,” said Pam. “I think maybe … maybe we could make bigger groups. Just for tonight. Annie, Sister, would you be willing to share a room with me and Cathy tonight?” 

“Of course,” said Sister, and Annie smiled. 

“Well, I’m gonna stick with the people who know what the hell is going on,” Emery said, moving to stand beside Steve. “And far away from the ones causing it.” He glared at Annie. 

“Where’s Joyce?” you asked, finally taking note of who was in the hallway. 

“She went downstairs to listen back to the recordings,” said Steve. “I probably won’t be able to get her back to sleep tonight, but …” 

“And where’s Vic?” you asked. 

“Sound asleep,” said Nick. “I don’t think anything could wake him up. He’ll be quite surprised come tomorrow morning and find that Emery and I have relocated.” 

You looked at the groups that had formed around you. Cathy, Pam, Sister, Annie. Steve, Emery, the absent Joyce. Emery and Nick had been sharing a room, and if Emery was going to move into Steve and Joyce’s room, then it sounded like Nick would be doing the same. 

That left you all alone. 

Cathy and Pam must have realized this at the same time because they smiled softly at you. 

“Do you want to stay in our room?” Cathy offered. “We don’t mind three to a bed. It’ll be snug, but it won’t be bad.” 

You contemplated declining, but you weren’t really keen on staying in a room by yourself tonight, anyway. Even though you’d spent the majority of this trip alone, anyway. 

“We’ll share a room,” Nick said before you could open your mouth. 

You looked at him in surprise and he smiled back at you. Another mischievous look crossed his eyes and you wondered he was seeing something you weren’t. He was precognitive, after all. Was he peeking into the future, your future? Did he know something that he wasn’t willing to share with the group yet? 

“That’s fine with me,” you said. “As long as no one else minds.” 

No one did, and soon they all departed for their rooms. You led Nick back into your bedroom and he seemed surprised to find there was only one bed, albeit a king-sized one. 

“Almost every other room has two beds,” he said as he stood beside the bed with his arms crossed. “I apologize for offering to stay here tonight. I wouldn’t have if I knew we’d have to share a bed.” 

“You have something against sharing a bed with me, Nick? I promise, I don’t toss and turn that much. And I don’t talk in my sleep. I don’t think.” 

Nick chuckled softly and pulled back the covers, climbing into one side of the bed. You climbed into the other and huddled under the blankets, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and a little frightened. 

What if Nick was right, and it was a banshee that had been screaming? What if someone was about to die? 

You shuddered. 

“Are you cold?” 

“Oh, no. Sorry. I was just thinking.” 

“About ghosts?” 

“Why would you say that?” 

Nick shrugged and turned on his side, looking at you. You followed his direction, turning onto your side. 

“It’s hard not to think of them when you’re here, isn’t it? A haunted house full of psychics is bound to stir up something.” 

“Do you really think it was a banshee?” What you meant was, Do you really think one of us is going to die? 

Nick studied your face for a long, quiet moment. You subconsciously moved closer to him. 

“I think it was a warning, yes. But it could have been anything. Pipes, steam, an owl. We all heard it. Except for Vic, of course. And no one seemed to have any sort of psychic reaction to it. Everyone reacted out of fear, I think.” 

“Everyone? Even you?” 

“Yes, even me.” 

“I find that hard to believe. You don’t seem like you’re afraid of anything.” 

He smiled. “I’m terrified. Truly.” 

“You hide it well.” 

“I hide a lot of my feelings well. Most of the time, anyway. It gets a little tricky to do that when you’re surrounded by mind-readers, though.” 

You laughed and drew yourself even closer to him. He seemed to move closer to you, too. “I promise that I’m not a mind-reader, so you don’t have to worry about that with me.” 

“No, but we do have to be careful with someone like Pam around.” 

“She’s post-cognitive. Not a mind-reader.” 

“She can see what’s happened in a place just by touch — a doorknob, a wall … a bed.” 

You stared at Nick and he stared back. He was close enough that you could reach out and touch him. You didn’t. Your psychic powers had been a little on the fritz since you’d arrived at Rose Red. You were afraid of what would happen if you made contact with the man lying across from you. 

“Maybe I should be worried about you,” you said softly. “You can see the future. You know what’s going to happen in a place.” 

“I do,” he said. 

“Do you know what’s going to happen on this trip?” 

“Not everything, no.” 

“Do you know what’s going to happen tonight?” 

“Some of it.” 

“Do you know what’s going to happen in this room?” 

“Yes.” 

You studied his face again. His bright eyes, his soft lips, his broad shoulders. He reached out and brushed hair away from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek. 

If you survived ‘til morning, you would have to remind yourself to thank whatever — ghost or banshee or water pipes — had put you two together. 

And then you would have to keep Pam from touching anything in your room. 

Chapter Text

Your heart pounded in your ears, thudding hard against your ribs as you sprinted through the deep snow. Moonlight illuminated your path toward the woods that rose up as a black sheet against the star-speckled sky. 

You nearly lost your balance as you hit a particularly deep bit of snow and you tumbled forward, your body fighting hard through the packed snow. Somewhere behind you — close behind you — was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. You didn’t dare look back. You knew exactly what you were going to see. 

Barefoot and freezing, you forced your body forward through the snow and toward the woods. It wasn’t the best idea but it was your only idea. He could see at night, sure, but at least you’d find a place to hide, even temporarily. If you stayed out in the open, there was no chance you’d escape. 

The footsteps grew closer. He wasn’t walking. He was running. Faster than you were. He’d catch you soon. 

You finally reached the treeline and you dove under the black shade of pine trees. The snow wasn’t as deep under the trees, but not by much. Your feet cut through the snow and hit piles of sharp pine needles, jagged rocks, and other objects that dug into your frozen limbs. A sudden warmth under your toes let you know that you were bleeding and leaving a trail for him to follow. Not that he needed it. 

An invisible tree root nestled under the snow and caught itself around your ankle. You flew forward and rolled through the snow, down a hill. The moonlit world spun above you, turning into a swirl of black and silver light. When you stopped rolling, the world kept spinning. Snow drifted down over your eyes. 

A branch snapped in half up the hill. You sat up quickly and looked through the dark. A shadow loomed on the hill, standing between two pine trees. He tilted his head up to the sky and sniffed deeply, tracking your scent. Your blood. Your sweat. 

You scrambled backwards on the palms of your hands and tucked yourself against the far side of a large tree, pulling your knees up to your chest. This part of the forest was thicker, darker. The moonlight didn’t shine as brightly here. 

He walked through the snow slowly now. Snow was crushed under his feet. He was also barefoot but it didn’t affect him the way it affected you. It never did. He sniffed the air again, scratched his nails against the bark of a pine tree, snapped a branch, slowly walked down the hill toward your hiding spot. 

Did you run? Did you stay hidden? 

Low and slow. 

That was what you’d been taught, ironically, by him. But he’d taught you that at a different time, when he was different. When it wasn’t a full moon like tonight, he took care of you. He taught you how to survive. He taught you what you needed to do to stay alive through all sorts of situations. 

Including this one. 

You’d been through it before. Every month. But this month was different. Some months he would lock himself up. Some months he would lock you up (these were the months when the urge was so strong, he needed to hunt). But this month, he’d decided it was time. He wanted to hunt you. 

He, of course, wouldn’t hurt you. He had the potential to. But even in this form, he knew who you were, he knew why he was chasing you through the woods. That was part of the fun. In this form, he was bigger and stronger and faster. And, because he was not hunting for food or sport but for something else, he would remember it the next day. He would remember the thrill of the chase, the snow against his body, your heartbeat under your skin, your body against his. He would remember everything. And so would you. 

Low and slow. 

Your cut likely hadn’t stopped bleeding, but your feet were too frozen to tell that you were in pain. You crouched low and moved quietly through the snow toward the next tree. You paused behind it for a moment, then moved to the next. You crawled through the woods this way for ten minutes, until your knees were too stiff to move anymore. 

All the while, he was right behind you. Following your scent. You knew he could hear everything — the pull of your clothes, your breathing, your blood rushing through your veins. And he moved so slowly behind you, stalking you like the predator he was. 

Finally, you sat back against a tree and waited. Snow drifted lazily off of the branches above you. The moon had completely disappeared from this part of the woods. No animals made any noise for fear of being caught in the middle of the hunt. And he breathed slowly, evenly, as he approached. 

No, you couldn’t just sit here. It wasn’t sporting, and it wouldn’t be enough for him. He needed the chase. Needed to tackle you to the ground and hear you scream. You rubbed your knees until they were limber enough to unbend, and you hoisted yourself to your feet. He was just on the other side of the tree, but it didn’t matter. One last push and that would be it. It was, after all, his fantasy. You were just happy to be a part of it. 

You felt his hot breath on the back of your neck and you took off running. Your legs were solid and stiff, but you kept running. He howled behind you, loud and excited. You kept running. His footfalls were loud and fast behind you. Only a second later were you sprawled out on the ground, face-first in snow. 

He flipped you around and pinned you to the ground. You stared up at him, breathless and terrified and euphoric. His eyes glowed bright yellow, and he bared his teeth at you. You reached one hand up and grabbed a fistful of thick, white fur. He growled, but it wasn’t a warning. It was approval. At the same time, he placed one large hand — paw, really — against your neck, the long claws wrapping around your throat. He squeezed. A single tear slipped out and ran down your cheek, freezing almost instantly. 

He tilted his head back and howled again. Snow cascaded off of the branches and down around you, encircling you in a halo of frozen white glitter. 

It was going to be a very long, very cold, very memorable night. 

Chapter Text

You lay curled up against Erik’s warm body on the couch, his strong arms wrapped around you. The TV played an old black-and-white horror film in the background of your conversation, the scenes flickering shadows over the dark living room.

“You really don’t think vampires could be real?” you asked, looking up at the man. He was even prettier with the grainy gray light from the TV shining on his face. 

“You mean, like, 30 Days of Night vampires? Or Dracula? No. Definitely not.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it just doesn’t work. I mean, it’s cool, yeah, but it’s not real. Getting burned up by sunlight and having to drink blood to survive?” 

“People can be allergic to the sun, and I dunno, maybe they’re anemic. They need the iron in the blood.” 

Erik smirked and looked down at you, twirling a piece of your hair between his fingers. “Sure. Whatever you say. Tell you what, I think those Twilight vampires could exist.” 

“Wait, really? Out of all the vampires in media, Twilight is the one you believe?” 

“Sure. Creepy dude who thinks he’s cool hanging around teenagers? Totally plausible. I think I went to school with an Edward Cullen.” 

You grinned and kissed Erik hard, enjoying the sensation of his scruff scraping against your smooth skin. “I love that you know the main vampire’s name.” 

“Of course I do. How else am I supposed to impress the ladies?” 

You slapped Erik on the chest and tried to sit up, but he held you tighter and pulled you back against his body. He rolled over on top of you, pushing you against the couch cushions. He settled his body against yours and brushed hair out of your face. 

“What’s with the sudden interest in vampires, anyway?” 

You shrugged and wrapped your arms around Erik, pressing your nails into his back. “It’s almost Halloween, babe. It’s practically a law that you have to be thinking about vampires this time of year.” 

“Uh-huh. And werewolves and ghosts and zombies.” 

“Yeah, but nothing’s as sexy as vampires.” 

“Sexy?” He quirked an eyebrow at you and nipped at your bottom lip. “How’re they sexy?” 

“The biting, first of all. Duh.” 

“Duh. Right.” 

“And it’s all really … sensual. The mind control, the hypnosis, biting on the neck. And it all revolves around consent.” 

“Consensual mind control? Okay.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Being invited in, dumbass. You have to invite a vampire in. If you don’t, he kinda has to respect that wish. You don’t think it’s sexy?” 

“I didn’t say that,” he said as he kissed your jaw. “You’re right, it’s very sexy. Do you want to play vampire now?” His lips grazed against the soft spot of your throat. “I can bite, if that’s what you’re into.” 

You laughed and dug your nails into his back, earning a hiss in response. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled his face closer to your neck. “Hmm, I dunno. I don’t know if I’m ready to invite you in yet.” 

He growled against your throat and the sensation sent goosebumps up and down your body. “Not funny, babe.” 

You laughed again and tilted your head back, exposing your neck. “Fine. Yes, I’m ready.” 

“Gotta be a little more specific than that,” he whispered against your neck, leaving a trail of kisses behind. 

“I consent.” 

“Consent to what?” he teased. 

You grabbed a handful of his dark hair and yanked his head up. “Bite me, smartass.” 

He stooped down and latched onto your neck, first grazing his teeth over the skin, and then biting down. The feeling was like nothing you’d ever experienced. It was dull at first, and then sharp. His body kept you pinned against the couch, and you grasped at the fabric of the back of his shirt, throwing your head back. 

“Erik,” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut. 

He was still biting you. Teeth sinking in deeper. Harder. Sharper. 

“Ow! Erik, what are you doing?” 

You felt a gush of warm liquid against your neck, and then the broad strokes of his tongue running over the skin. He lapped at your neck a few more times and then pulled back to look at you. He grinned, droplets of ruby blood on his lips. 

“You actually drew blood,” you marveled, reaching up to swipe a finger over his bottom lip. 

His eyes flashed brightly, an unnatural color. It looked as if they were glowing on their own. And then they returned to normal. 

“You said I could,” he said, grasping your wrist. He smiled at you as he stuck your index finger into his mouth and sucked off the drops of blood. “You should know by know that you only say what you mean when you’re around me.” 

You stared at him in awed silence, your hands now clinging to his sides. “You know, Edward never drank blood.” 

“You’re right. He was reformed or whatever.” 

“I don’t think you believe in Twilight.” 

“No? What do I believe in?” 

“I dunno.” You stared into his eyes, waiting for them to glow again. You could feel your blood buzzing just under the surface of your skin. You knew he could feel it, too. It also seemed that you could feel his blood under his skin, running through his veins. It felt like fire. Like electricity running through you. Like the beginning of hunger pangs. 

He licked his lips while he watched you. 

“Near Dark? Fright Night?” You searched his eyes. “Daybreakers.” 

Erik grinned and his incisors glistened in the glow of the TV. “C’mon, babe. You and I both know vampires are just made up for movies. And I told you — burning up in the sun? And needing blood to survive? That’s all crap.” He captured your mouth in a kiss and you tasted blood. He pulled back and for one brief moment, his eyes glowed again. “Trust me.” 

Chapter Text

You sat in the chair just beside Abe’s large water tank, wincing as he knelt beside you and unwrapped the bandage around your thigh. He tilted his head from side to side as his cold, damp fingers prodded your skin. 

“It doesn’t look like it’s getting any worse. Of course, it hasn’t been that long since I last checked it.” 

“It feels like it’s getting worse,” you said, hissing through your teeth as he pressed against the edges of the wound. 

He looked up at you earnestly. “That is likely due to the bruising around it. Admittedly, it could also be because I keep checking it.” 

“But it doesn’t look wrong, does it? I mean … it looks normal, right?” 

Abe turned his dark eyes back to the wound and poked at it again. You jolted in your chair, nearly kneeing him in the face. 

“That hurts, Abe!” 

“I’m sorry, but you wanted to know if it looked normal. I want to know if it acts normal. And it seems to. Time will only tell if it’s actually normal, however.” He swapped out the old bandages for new ones, pinning them in place. “The chances of that man being an actual zombie are very slim, you know.” 

“I know that,” you said, watching Abe stand up in front of you. “But he still bit me. He could have rabies or something. Normal people don’t just bite other people, Abe. Well, maybe in some cases, but that’s usually a lot more fun and a lot less …” You motioned to your bandaged injury. “How long do you think it’ll take to tell if something’s wrong with me?” 

“There is no precedent for this,” he admitted, looking sheepish. “No one here has really seen anything like that before. You’re lucky the only thing he did was bite your leg.” 

“Right. I’ll remember that after my next rabies shot.” 

Abe helped you stand and draped an arm around your waist, holding you up. “Does it hurt to walk?” 

“Sometimes, but I’ll be fine.” 

“If something is wrong with you, it’s best that you stay close so I can monitor you.” 

“I don’t want you staying out of your tank that long, Abe. Even with your suit on, that’s not fair to you to stay out of the water. I’ll be fine.” 

He held you tighter and smiled down at you. “I appreciate your worrying about me, but I’m not the one that was bit by a strange man while out investigating. If it is something contagious, then I want to be the first person there to help you through it.” 

“That’s very sweet of you, Abe.” 

You couldn’t raise up on your toes yet, so you wrapped an arm behind his neck and gently pulled him down into a kiss. It was cold and wet and a little salty. He made a happy chirping noise through his gills that came out as bubbles through his breathing apparatus. You laughed and let go of him. 

“But if it’s contagious, you’re the last person I want to infect.” 

“No, I think Hellboy is the last person you want to infect. I don’t think any of us would survive if he turned into a flesh-hungry zombie.” 

“Fair enough. But I still don’t want you spending the night in my room, Abe. I’ll lock my door and tell one of the guys to just stand guard overnight. I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, then you’ll be fine.” 

Abe shook his head, placing both hands on your hips and turning you toward him. “Normally I would respect your wishes, but you’re wrong in this instance, so I have to insist that we stay together. And I believe that the best way to keep everything contained is that.” He nodded to the side. Your gaze followed the motion. 

“You want me to sleep in your tank tonight, Abe?” 

“Yes,” he said, and more bubbles danced through his breathing apparatus. “If you’re okay with that.” 

You’d slept in his tank before, much to the BPRD’s chagrin. It wasn’t as complicated, or scary, as people made it out to be. You’d been fitted with your own breathing apparatus (this one provided oxygen, not water) and an insulated diving suit that was comfortable enough, and safe enough, to sleep in. You were incredibly buoyant in the water, however, and it was uncomfortable to float at the top of the tank all night. Abe had thought of the idea of installing a strap similar to a surfboard leash. It was anchored to the bottom of the tank, and the strap went around your ankle. You could bob in the water all night but never float to the top. It was easy to attach and easy to release. 

Abe also had a very specific sleep configuration when you were in the tank with him. You affectionately called it the “otter position.” While you were asleep in the tank, Abe was asleep right next to you, holding your hand, the way otters held hands to keep each other from floating away. It was by far your favorite way to sleep, in and out of the water, but it’d gotten plenty of sarcastic comments from Hellboy. 

“Abe,” you said sweetly, placing your hands on his chest. “Of course I’m okay with it. I’d love to spend the night in the tank with you.” 

He smiled again and stooped down to kiss you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held him close. 

“Who knows,” you said playfully, “maybe this zombie bite will cause a mutation where I grow gills and have to live in the water. Then I’d never have to leave you.” 

Abe stared at you, large eyes shimmering in the light. “You know … I wouldn’t mind that. Actually … I think I’d like that.” 

You kissed him again. “So would I, Abe.” 

Chapter Text

You sat in one of the booths, head propped up in one palm, elbow planted on the table, while you watched Benson sweep the diner. It was past closing and everyone else had left, which was fairly typical. If it wasn’t Benson, then it was Randy who was left to close up by himself. 

You’d met Randy a few times and he was nice enough, but you couldn’t tell if he was shy or antisocial. He never made eye contact with you and he never tried to hold a conversation for more than the necessary 5-second greeting between the two of you. And the only reason he ever greeted you was: 1) because sometimes you were a customer, and 2) because you were dating Benson. 

Benson disappeared into the back room and returned with a mop and bucket. Water sloshed over the floors as he began mopping in long, circular motions. He kept his head down as he worked, his back to you. 

“Hey, Benson?” 

“Yeah?” he asked, never looking up at you. He kept mopping, under tables and chairs, along the trim where the wall met the floor. 

“Did you ever figure out what you wanted to be for Halloween? It’s coming up soon.” 

“I thought you wanted to do couple’s costumes.” 

“I did, but you never decided. I can’t pick a costume if you haven’t.” 

“Well, why don’t you pick something and I’ll go along with it?” 

“I tried that,” you said, tapping your fingers on the table. “You rejected every one of my ideas.” 

“Right. That’s because they were terrible.” 

You stuck your tongue out at him. Even though he was turned around, he knew you well enough, and he paused only long enough to flip you off without looking. You laughed, which earned a quick glance over his shoulder at you. He was smiling. Just a little bit. 

“Actually,” he said, turning down the aisle and headed toward you in your booth, “I have been thinking about it. I think I want to dress as something … scary.” 

“Okay. I can do scary. What do you want to do?” 

He stayed silent as he mopped toward you. When he finally reached your booth, he propped his hands over the end of the mop and leaned his weight on it, staring at you. You couldn’t help but grin up at him. He was so pretty all the time, even when he was in his work uniform, covered in sweat and grease, dark bags under his eyes. 

You fluttered your eyelashes at him teasingly. “I don’t know if you can be scary, Benson.” 

“No? Why not?” 

“I think you’re too pretty.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile that he fought off, but he did look away from you. “I’d wear a mask.” 

“Oh, yeah? What kind of mask? Like, Ghostface? Because I can do that. I mean, we could tag-team as Ghostface, since there are two killers in the movie. Or I could do Sidney or Casey or even Tatum.” You sat up and smiled at him. “I’ll do anything you want to do. Ghostface is really hot.” 

He leaned forward and flicked you in the middle of your forehead. “Not Ghostface. He’s not scary.” 

You stuck your tongue out at him again. “Fine. Michael Myers? Freddy Krueger? Freddy’s kinda hard to be scary if your mask isn’t super realistic.” 

Benson began mopping around your booth then leaned against the mop again. “I wasn’t thinking a movie character. I was thinking about something like … a ghoul.” 

“A ghoul? Like, a generic monster?” 

“It’s not generic,” he said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He passed it to you and watched, almost nervously, as you unfolded it. 

Sketched onto the paper was a portrait of a creature. It was surprisingly detailed, and it showed a pale, thin face with deep-set dark eyes, and sharp teeth. At the bottom corner, you noticed Benson had signed it. 

“You drew this?” 

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, avoiding your eyes again. “I thought of it a week or so ago. If we could find something kinda like that, it’d be cool. But it might be hard. There aren’t a lot of places that sell costumes around here.” 

“I don’t mind driving to find something,” you said, running your finger delicately over the drawing. You knew Benson liked to draw, but you’d never seen any of his work. You were honored, and surprised, that he shared his art with you for the first time. “If I had time, I’d try to make it for you.” 

“I know you would.” He suddenly plopped down in the booth across from you, letting the mop clatter to the floor. He smiled at you gently, his eyes bright. It was the first time today he seemed to look somewhat alive. The job at the diner was draining, and it was even worse at home with his mother. “So … you like it?” 

“Yeah, it’s really cool, Benson. But …” 

“But? What? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t really know what a ghoul is.” 

“Oh. It’s a creature in mythology that robs graves and eats people. Well, bodies. It eats dead bodies.” 

“Oh. Sexy.” You grinned at him and gently folded the piece of paper back up, passing it over the table to him. When he reached out to grab it, you brush your fingers over the back of his hand. They were rough and dry, but warm. He pocketed the drawing and held your hands. 

“So, you’re okay with it? If I do that for Halloween?” 

“Babe, you can do anything you want to do for Halloween. If you want to be a ghoul, then I’m going to find you the best damn ghoul costume on the planet, okay?” 

He smiled shyly and squeezed your hands. “Okay.” 

“Now, the issue is … how do I make it a couple’s costume? What’s the female version of a ghoul?” 

“A ghulah.” 

You stared at Benson in surprise. “Excuse me?” 

“I … sorta looked that up, too. A ghulah is a lady ghoul.” 

“And does she also eat dead bodies?” 

“Yeah, but she … she actually lures men into her house to eat them.” 

“And by lure, you mean … seduce?” 

“Yeah, probably.” 

You tilted your head to the side and caught Benson’s gaze. You were always surprised at how reserved he was in your relationship. You suspected his overbearing mother had something to do with it. 

“Do you think I’m seductive, Benson?” 

His cheeks turned pink and he laughed nervously, looking anywhere but at you. “No. I just thought if I was gonna be a ghoul, I should figure out how to make it a couple’s costume.” 

“That’s very sweet of you.” You leaned across the table and tilted Benson’s head up, kissing him. He reached up and palmed your neck, digging his fingers into the base of your skull. You parted half an inch and said, “If you’ll be my ghoul, I’d love to be your ghulah.” 

Benson’s hand moved up and his fingers wrapped around your hair. He pulled you in to another kiss. 

Chapter Text

“Alex, please, can we stop talking about our movies for one second and just, you know, do something else? Anything else?” 

Alex frowned as he looked at you from across the small table. You stared back at him from over the rim of your plastic cold cup, sipping your first pumpkin spice latte of the season. It was ridiculous. It was only a few days until Halloween and you hadn’t done anything Halloween-y all month! You hadn’t even done anything fall-related. The closest thing was drinking spiced coffee out of a plastic cup decorated with black bats around the side. 

“You know how important the movies are, though,” he said, picking up his own coffee. Although he seemed to be immune to the powers of the PSL, he did settle for a blended caramel coffee. 

“I know they are. Trust me. I have to make one, too, you know. But I just want one day, just a single afternoon, where we can talk about anything else. Please. You and I haven’t had a conversation since the semester began that hasn’t revolved around our movies. You know that, right?” 

Alex frowned deeper as he stared down at his coffee. “I just want to make it perfect.” 

“I know you do, and I do, too. But sometimes you just need to take a break so you can let your brain rest for a bit. Besides, I want to talk to my boyfriend, not my director.” 

Alex looked up at you, a little surprised, a little embarrassed. You were right and he knew that. He’d spent the last few months going a little bit (or a lot) crazy over his project and he’d been neglecting you in your romantic relationship. He’d been so focused on directing, that he’d forgotten he was also your partner. 

He’d also forgotten that you also had a movie you had to direct, and you had been too busy being his producer, assistant director, PA, gopher, and fill-in actress that you hadn’t had much chance to work on your own project. You were remarkably calm about it, considering it was due in about a month and a half. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, wiping condensation from the cup off his palms and onto his jeans. “You’re right.” He leaned his elbows on the table and looked at you. His eyes were intense and bright, and you could see that he was still directing in his mind. Maybe not his movie, but this moment. Figuring out the lighting that cascaded over your face, the drape of your hair, the background noises, how the other cafe customers moved through the scene. 

Maybe you never could turn that part of his mind off. After all, his movie wasn’t just a random school project. It was his major. His career. It was the beginning of all the things he wanted in life. If he succeeded with this film, then there was no telling what would happen in the future. And you knew you’d be seeing a lot less of him as time went on if he became the famous director he always dreamed about being. 

You had to be okay with it. You had no other choice, because if you weren’t okay with it, then you’d have to break up. And you weren’t going to do that under any circumstance. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Alex asked, his eyes flashing behind you. He was taking notes about the scenery. Could he use this location in this next movie? Could he parse the best parts of the conversations happening around him and put them into new dialogue? 

You reached across the table and grabbed his hands, grabbing his attention in the process. “Alex. Can we do something for fall, please? It doesn’t have to be big, but it feels like fall is practically over. I had a whole list of things I wanted to do this year and I haven’t done one.” 

“Like what?” 

“We were supposed to go up to the farm and do hayrides and corn mazes. And we were going to go up to that cabin one weekend and go hiking and make s’mores. We haven’t even gone on a walk to look at the leaves.” 

Alex motioned to the trees lining the sidewalk around the cafe. “You can see the leaves here.” 

“Alex.” 

“What?” 

You pulled your hands from him and put them in your lap. “Sometimes, I swear, you drive me absolutely …” You looked at your cup. “Batty. You chased me all last year and had your friends hound me until I agreed to go out with you, and now you can’t even bother to hold a conversation with me when we’re dating? I know you’re distracted, but our movies really aren’t that serious. It’s a good stepping stone, yes, but it’s not the end of the world, Alex.” You grabbed your purse and stood from the table. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here to waste your time. You can go back to working on your movie. I have stuff I need to be doing on my movie, anyway.” 

“Wait—”

“Call me if you need something, I guess. I’ll see you later, Alex.” You headed off down the sidewalk, frustrated at Alex and yourself. Knowing something and going through it were two different things. You could tell yourself all day long that you knew Alex was obsessive and a bit selfish and hyperfocused on his work, but going through it was rough. 

You were at the street corner waiting to cross when someone grabbed your elbow and spun you around. It was Alex. His eyes were earnest and worried. 

“Are you leaving me?” 

“I’m going back to my dorm so I can work. I have a ton of stuff I need to do, and so do you. Didn’t you say you were going to rework the last half of your script?” 

“Yeah, but … I thought you were going to help me on that.” 

You sighed. “Alex, that’s the problem. I am also in this program, okay? I also have to make a movie. I have to find actors, and producers, and sets, and shooting locations. I have to direct. I have to write a script. I have to do these things, Alex, for my own project. I can’t be what you need me to be right now, and I realize you can’t be what I need you to be right now. And that’s fine. That’s fine.” 

“Are you … breaking up with me?” Worry crossed his face so quickly, you were almost scared at the transition. 

“No. Of course not, Alex. But I think you and I need to just … work on our stuff. I thought it would be a good idea for us to reconnect as a couple on a coffee date, but that’s not working. So let’s just finish our movies and we’ll go on a date after that. Okay?” 

Alex looked lost. For a moment, you had the thought that he had been living in another world, caught up in his fantasy of being a big-time director, and then he’d been thrust into the real world — the one where he was just a college student and you were his girlfriend and he hadn’t even completed one short film — and he was disoriented. He gripped your hand tightly. You saw the glimmer of tears forming in his eyes. 

“Would it … be okay if I walked you back to your dorm, then?” 

“Of course, Alex.” 

“You know, we could … look at the leaves on the way there. I won’t even comment on how they’d look good on camera.” 

You laughed, your own tears welling up in your eyes, and leaned against him. “Okay. Deal.” 

Alex pulled you into a hug and kissed the top of your head. You heard him sniffle against your hair. “You know, there’s going to be a Halloween party at one of the frat houses this year. I mean, you know, a big one. One that we’d be able to go to. Do you wanna go? With me?” 

You leaned back and looked him in the face. He quickly wiped away tears from his cheeks and forced a crooked smile. 

“Alex, I don’t care what we do, as long as we’re together. And, honestly, I don’t mind helping you on your movie. I don’t. But sometimes I don’t want to be your production assistant. I want to be your girlfriend.” 

He nodded. “Gotcha. So … do you want to be my girlfriend and go to this dumb frat party on Halloween? I’ll let you pick my costume.” 

You reached up and wiped a stray tear from his cheek, replacing it with a kiss. “I’d love to, Alex. But you’re going to regret letting me choose your costume.” 

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. There’s a lot I’m gonna regret, but that’s not one of them.” 

Chapter Text

Your toes and fingers were already numb even though you’d only been in the freezer for about twenty minutes. You could feel your body ache down to your bones and your teeth were chattering together. Dennis wasn’t much better, slouched on the ground with a t-shirt wrapped around the end of where his arm used to be. 

“That thing looks like a spider,” you muttered, peering through the frosted glass into the convenience store. It was gone now, but you knew it was waiting just outside. The moment you left the freezer, it would jump on you — or whatever it did. It was only a hand, so it wasn’t like it could bite. 

Right? 

“It ain’t no spider,” Dennis said, wincing as he shifted positions. The t-shirt was already soaked in blood, and it was beginning to drip down to the concrete floor. You shuffled closer to him on your knees, hesitantly reaching out but never touching him. You weren’t just afraid of hurting him, you were afraid that he was still infected and it would spread to you — even though you were covered in his blood already. 

Embarrassingly, he seemed to read your mind. 

“It’s all good,” he said with a strained smile. “You don’t have to check on me. You can sit over there if you want.” 

You blushed, if it was possible in such cold temperatures, and shook your head. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared. But I know we both are.” 

“I ain’t scared,” he said, puffing out his chest with another wince. “Worst thing that coulda happened to me already did.” He motioned toward his missing arm. “Far as I’m concerned, everything’s peaches after this.” 

You sat back on your legs and looked at Dennis. How did it come to this? You’d just been passing through town, trying to get back home. And Dennis had been on his way to deliver money to someone, a widow. In ordinary circumstances, your paths never would have crossed. But they had, and you’d spent the better part of the last several hours getting to know the man in front of you. He was messed up and angry and dangerous, but he also strangely kind and thoughtful and protective. 

There’d been more than one time that he’d risked his life to keep you safe while trying to get away from that thing outside the freezer. You didn’t even know what it was or where it’d come from, and neither did Dennis, but that didn’t stop him from putting himself between you and it. That must’ve been how he’d gotten hurt, why you’d had to take a knife and cut off his arm. 

Your own hands were still stained with his blood, now cold and sticky. But didn’t you owe him? He’d sacrificed his own safety for yours, and the least you could do was bloody your hands a little to keep him alive. 

You sat next to Dennis, on his good side so you didn’t knock into his injured arm, and pulled your knees up to your chest. “What is after this?” 

“Huh?” 

“You said that everything’s peaches after this. What’s after this?” You looked around at the shelves of frozen vegetables and microwave dinners. You’d always imagined the end of the world and how you’d survive it. You’d build a bunker and stock it full of food. You’d have blankets and battery-powered radios and cases of bottled water. But it didn’t happen that way. You weren’t prepared, you weren’t ready. It happened on a routine run to a gas station in the middle of the night, and you were stuck in a freezer with a felon. 

Dennis shrugged and winced at the same time. “Dunno. But whatever it is, it’s gonna be better than this.” 

“I hope so.” 

“Hey, look at me.” 

You turned to face him. His cheeks were turned pink from the cold, his lips fading to a pale shade of blue. His own teeth were chattering. You imagined you looked much the same. 

“It’s gonna be better than this. Promise.” He lifted his hand and stuck out his pinky. “Swear it.” 

A shaky laugh caught in your throat as you linked pinkies with him. “A pinky promise?” 

“Sure. Why not? It means more than my word does at this point in my life.” 

He unlinked your fingers and moved to put his hand back in his lap. You stopped him, wrapping your hand in his. There was still the tiniest bit of warmth in it. You leaned against him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder. 

“You know what I heard?” you began, squeezing his hand to try to gain just a bit more warmth. “I heard that when you freeze to death, it’s not actually cold. You actually get really warm. It feels cozy. Like falling asleep under a ton of blankets.” 

“Hey,” he said gruffly, shouldering you in the cheek. You sat up, startled. “We ain’t dying. You hear me? You’re not and I’m not. We’re gonna get outta here. We just gotta figure out how.” 

“But it’s—”

“I don’t care what it is or what it isn’t. We’re gonna get outta here, alive. Got it?” 

You nodded even though you didn’t believe him. “Okay.” 

Dennis huffed and settled back against the wall, nodding toward his shoulder. “You can lay back down if you want.” 

You hesitated before doing it, but his body was the only source of comfort in the entire place. And if you were going to die, you’d rather do it next to him than on your own. 

A few minutes passed in silence. Your trembling got worse. So did Dennis’s. He let out a sudden laugh and you jumped, looking at him. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. Then he corrected himself. “Actually … a lotta things. But what I was just thinking about was the irony of it all.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean … How come I finally meet a decent person — someone kind and smart and funny and pretty as hell — on a day like today? I mean, there are loads of decent people, better than me anyway, but none of them, you know, would glance in my direction. And here you are, sitting with me in a freezer.”

You opened your mouth but he cut you off. 

“And I know, it wasn’t like you had much of a choice. I’m sure you wouldn’t be here if you could change it, but you also coulda left me to die. You coulda tossed me outta the freezer, used me as bait, and saved yourself. But you didn’t. You stayed with me.” He paused, then added, “’Course, you mighta not thought of that ‘til now. Guess I gave you an out, kid. If you wanna take it.” 

You grasped his hand, running your thumb over the back of it. “Dennis, I never once thought about leaving you behind, and I’m still not thinking of doing it. You saved my life, more than once. I owe you. And if that means we’re—”

“We’re not dying.” 

“If that means we’re staying here for a while,” you said, “then that’s what it means. And … I want you to know that you’re a good guy, Dennis.” 

“No, I ain’t.” 

“Yes, you are. You may have done some bad things, but you’re a good guy. A good person. You’re definitely not the person I thought I’d be spending the zombie apocalypse with, but … I’m glad it ended up being you.” 

Dennis huffed a halfway decent smile and turned his hand over, squeezing yours. “I’m glad you’re my end-of-the-world partner, too, but damn if I don’t wish we’d met earlier.” 

You smiled softly at him, reaching out with your free hand to stroke the side of his cold face. “Me too, Dennis. Me too.” 

Chapter Text

You rolled over in bed and caught sight of Joel’s profile illuminated by blue moonlight. His dark eyes glistened and shifted toward you. He was awake too. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” you murmured, reaching out to place a hand flat against his warm chest. He turned his head on his pillow toward you, his face suddenly shrouded in darkness. 

“Why aren’t you?” 

“I asked you first.” 

The rest of his body followed, rolling over to face you. He placed a hand on your waist and held you there. You had the feeling he was checking to make sure you were real. He’d been doing that a lot lately. The recent deaths he’d been investigating had taken a toll on his health, physical and mental. Every day he came home and looked as if he’d seen ghosts. Now, whenever he woke up, he had to check to make sure you weren’t one of them. 

The ironic thing was that he was the one who looked like a ghost. He’d gotten thin and pale, even paler than usual, and he had dark bags under his eyes. Apparently, it was because he wasn’t even sleeping at night. 

“Just couldn’t sleep,” he said, running his hand over your back and pulling you closer. He rested his palm against your spine. “Now, what’s your excuse?” 

“You know me,” you said, admiring his face in the dark. “I toss and turn and hope for the best.” 

“Mhm.” He smiled softly at you, rubbing small circles over your back. “You’re not going back to sleep, are you?” 

“Neither are you.” 

He lifted his head to check the clock on your bedside table. “It’s too early to get ready for work, but I can make us some coffee if you want.” 

You traced your fingertips over the side of his face, feeling the stubble along his jaw. “I don’t mind lying here for a while. I’m not in any rush.” 

“Good. Neither am I.” He pulled you against his body and kissed the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. You curled up against him, melting into his warm body. 

“Joel?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You know you can tell me anything, right? About work. About anything, really.” 

“I don’t wanna bother you with that stuff. It can get pretty bad.” 

You leaned your head back to look at him. “I know that, Joel. But you can still tell me. You don’t have to go through it alone.” 

He didn’t look at you. You knew he wasn’t going to tell you. He never did. It was his way of keeping you safe, shielding you from the horrors of the world. It didn’t seem to matter how much you saw on the news or on social media or heard through word of mouth. Joel wasn’t about to be the person to expose you to the evil things he saw day in and day out. It was his job to protect you, and he was going to do that, even if that meant keeping everything bottled up. 

You kissed his chin and he glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth curling up in a small smile. You kissed his jaw and he turned his face down toward you. When he was close enough, you kissed his mouth. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you amended softly against his lips. “But I’m here for you. Even if you can’t tell me anything, you can still come to me. I’m always here.” 

“I know.” He wrapped his arms around you and held you tight against his body, burying his face in your neck. He breathed in deeply and you thought you heard him sniffle. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cried after a long week at work. “I just want you to know that I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Joel.” You ran your fingers through his hair. He tightened his grip on you, his facial hair scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck. 

How many ghosts did he carry with him? What was it that always seemed to haunt him? Why wouldn’t he just let you in? 

You held each other, the blue light outside slowly fading into pale yellow as the sun rose. At some point, Joel had fallen asleep. You were grateful for that, even if it was only for a few hours. Soon your alarm would go off, Joel would leave your bed, and the world would tear him down again. But for this brief moment, when you were together, at least you could pretend that everything was okay. 

Chapter Text

You lost count of how many vampires were in the castle ballroom after one hundred. It was hard to keep it all straight in your head, anyway, while you were being spun around the room that glowed with candles and crystal chandeliers. Despite the crowd of people, it was still so very cold in the castle, and it always was. 

Dracula’s hands moved over your waist, running over the soft silk of the ball gown you were in, keeping you close to his frozen body. Even though he was dead, or undead, or whatever he was that caused him to live forever and drink blood to survive, his eyes seemed to sparkle when they looked at you. 

At first, that look had caused your skin to crawl. 

And now, one week after being kidnapped by his two remaining wives, you had grown fond of that look. You’d first thought it was because he wanted to devour you, to sink his fangs into your throat, to drink your blood. But you knew better now. It was more than that, different than that. He did want to devour you, but not physically. Mentally, emotionally. He wanted to occupy your every thought, be the only touch your body desired, have your complete and total loyalty. 

A single week of being isolated from the real world, and you had already fallen under his spell. It surprised you that he hadn’t already turned you into his kind, making you his new wife, but he seemed to have a reason for it. 

That reason was becoming increasingly clear as the night went on. He’d wanted to wait until tonight, during the masquerade ball, to turn you into his eternal bride. What better night than Halloween? A night when every spirit, every ghost came back to wander the earth, when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. 

Dracula kept your body close to his as he moved across the polished floor. He stared at you so intently, you could feel the force of his desire move through you. He stopped in front of a mirror that reflected only you, alone in an empty ballroom, dressed in silks and ribbons. 

“Do you feel lonely?” he asked, voice soft. Yet, you could hear him perfectly clear. His voice was in your mind, now. He gently grasped your chin between two fingers and tilted your head toward the mirror. “The only living creature in this entire castle. The only one who will grow old and wither away. The only one who will die.” 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, both amazed and terrified at the sight. An entire room, full of candles and glistening chandeliers, and you all alone. You felt Dracula’s hands crawl up your body as he turned you to face the mirror completely, but you didn’t see them. You didn’t see any part of him as he stood behind you, one hand on your waist, the other circling your throat. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you felt his mouth graze over your ear, “but still so alive. It would be a pity to let tonight pass by without finishing what we started.” His fingers ran under your jaw and tilted your head back. Your eyes stayed locked on yourself in the mirror. It was unnerving to see yourself be manipulated by invisible hands, to feel rather than see the person controlling you. 

Music continued to play throughout the large room. From the corners of your vision, you saw dozens of vampires dancing and chatting. No one paid you any attention. Was that part of his power, too? To turn both of you invisible to the rest of the vampires in the room? Or was everyone else just so well trained that they knew to ignore Dracula during moments like this. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt Dracula’s body press against yours, the hand on your waist moving up to run over your stomach and chest. He ran his fingers along your exposed collarbone, gripping the edge of your top and pulling it down your shoulder. Cupping your chin, he tilted your head to the side and teasingly ran his mouth over your neck. 

When you’d first been taken, you had spent every waking moment praying that Van Helsing would save you, that he would find the castle and destroy every monster within it. Under the influence of Dracula, it hadn’t taken long for you to change your mind. Life hadn’t been bad in the castle. It was cold and lonely and isolated, but it wasn’t bad. Dracula treated you well, he clothed you, he fed you. 

He was a monster, but only because he’d been turned into one. Even at his worst, however, he was still a gentleman, and he had treated you like a lady. Not even the men of your village had done that. Not even Van Helsing had done that. 

Your eyes opened and you looked at yourself, all alone in the mirror. You felt Dracula’s mouth ghost over your skin, his fingers holding your head in place. You knew what he was waiting for. Not a full moon, not a perfect storm, not for the clock to strike midnight. He was waiting for you. For your permission. Your desire. 

Despite it all, he was giving you a choice. You could join him in eternity, or you could remain human and live only as long as he wanted you to (which, judging from the number of hungry vampires in the room, wouldn’t be long). 

You reached up, running your fingers over the back of his head. He moved his mouth against your ear again. 

“What do you want?” he asked. “What is your”—he tightened his grip around your throat, but not enough to keep you from speaking—“desire?” 

“You. This. All of it.” 

Dracula shuddered against you as he tilted your head to the side even more to expose your throat. “As you wish.” 

You felt the pain of teeth sinking into your skin, and you let out a sharp cry, but the following sound died in your throat. A burst of warmth ran through your body, like soaking in a bathtub of hot blood, and your eyes rolled back in your head. Your head lolled back and Dracula held you up, keeping you in place. 

The heat in your body was threaded through with icy coldness, and then it was completely replaced by it. Every sound and sensation disappeared, and then came bursting into life like an explosion of noise and color and feeling. Your eyes snapped open and Dracula held you by your throat, pointing you toward the mirror. 

There was nothing there. 

You were invisible, even to yourself. 

You looked down at your own hands, the warm tone of life blood drained from it. But you felt stronger, like every glass part of your body had been replaced with steel. And you didn’t feel the cold of the castle down to your bones anymore. Nor did you feel the loneliness of isolation. You felt, almost, at home. 

Dracula turned you around to face him. His eyes were dark, but shining. A smear of blood covered his thin lips. He cupped your face in his hands, running his thumbs over your cheekbones. He turned to face the crowd, his hand on your lower back. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the two of you. 

“I present to you, my beautiful new bride.” 

There was thunderous applause and excited hissing from several guests. 

“She will need to feed. Now, take her. Go. Give her her first meal.” 

The eyes of every vampire flashed black and their fangs extended, faces turning pale gray and hollow. Hunger moved through you like a snake, filling every part of your body. You felt your own fangs begin to grow, brushing against your bottom lip. Dracula turned you toward him once more, capturing your mouth in a kiss. You tasted your own blood on his lips and wanted more. You chased after his mouth when he pulled away. 

“He’s near,” he said, holding your face in his hands again. 

You knew he meant Van Helsing. It had taken him too long to get to the castle. Too long to find you. It was too late for him, too, now. 

“Find him, and feed. He will be your first.” 

You ran your tongue over your fangs, over your lips, and grinned. “Yes, my master. Whatever you say.” 

Dracula pushed you into the crowd of vampires. In an instant, you were transformed and caught up in the air, flying towards the sound of a human heartbeat, driven forth by nothing more than primal hunger and the desire to feed.