#simon elroy smut

[whoopsyeahokay]

Boyfriend Simon Elroy (NSFW)

prompt fill. (request)

Simon Elroy x fem!reader

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Simon is exactly the type of romantic who takes your favorite color or favorite movie or favorite holiday very fucking seriously. Everything you tell him, he commits to memory. Tattoos it on his brain so he'll never forget. You only eat the green M&Ms? He'll pick them out of every bag and hand them to you like treasures. You hate it when the sauce touches your spaghetti before you can mix it yourself? He'll replate everything over and over again until you smile. And he does it all like it's no big deal, nothing to see here; mid-conversation, making a joke, totally whatever.

Simon is exactly the type to be sarcastic, wields his dark sense of humor like a test—none shall pass—but knows when to brighten himself up if you need a boost. He'll defend your honor against anyone, disguising sharp remarks behind a smile as he cuts down the passive-aggressive idiots who try to make you rethink your values. He's soft words in harsh tones; observations collected over hours spent together; always studying you, always learning, always finding new ways to make you feel like the sun.

Simon is exactly the type to keep a hand in your back pocket and kiss your neck after he walks you to class. Yeah, he knows you're independent, but he doesn't give a shit, gimme your bag, babe, or suffer the consequences. He isn't into soft affection for the sake of it, but he'll find reasons to touch you. Funny enough, despite that quirk, he does like to roughhouse at the drop of a hat. Grab you around the waist and bodily move you where he wants you. Throw you over his shoulder when you suffer decision fatigue and have been standing in front of the squishmallows for twenty minutes.

Simon is exactly the type to make the little moments significant. Celebrates every achievement like it's the cure for cancer. He'll put together backyard picnics under the stars because he can't afford a restaurant. He'll set up a blanket fort around his bed to watch scary movies in the dark after you admit you've never seen The Ring. Even secretly calls your phone right as the end credits start to roll and cackles when you jump a foot in the air. Bundles you up and rocks you, kisses you until you say you forgive him.

But Simon is also the type to get obsessed. He isn't controlling, just wants to make sure his girl is okay, taken care of, happy at all times. Because if she isn't, there will be hell to pay and Simon will gleefully be the one to unleash it. He would go to the ends of the earth for you, no questions asked. You want sushi from that place in Milwaukee—an hour and a half away, and closed on Sundays—Simon WILL make that happen. He's the first one there and the last to leave, helps clean up the basement after everyone exits Game Night. Doesn't expect anything in return. You know that if you get hurt, he'll nurse you back to health, a bit of a helicopter mom, and that he'll also fucking murder whoever's responsible. (You've never seen the school patch a crack in the pavement so fast...)

Simon is also the type who doesn't get jealous. He isn't territorial. He doesn't worry about you if another guy decides to make his move; watches in amusement because he knows dickhead Dom Sawyer can't do what Simon does for you. He simply raises a brow at the guys who try to pretend Simon doesn't exist. It's only if and when you get uncomfortable that Simon intervenes, "You okay, beautiful?" and extricates you from the situation, a protective arm around your waist.

Simon is exactly the type who makes promises he doesn't break. If he swore to make you scream his name, that's exactly what you'll be doing, no matter how long it takes. "Come on, beautiful, I know you can be louder than that..." He's methodical, thorough, has done the research and gathered the evidence, your honor, this is what word to spell with his tongue to make you squirt. And Simon loves to make you come as many times as you can take, groaning as he tastes you, his lips and chin dribbling, his eyes rolled back in his head as he tries to get his tongue deeper. He listens to you, knows your limits, won't cross them even when his curiosity is begging him to. Giving you pleasure gives him pleasure, and sometimes he won't even have to fuck you to get off. He doesn't get embarrassed, is sure of himself, just gives you a wolfish smirk and starts all over again. Makes you taste yourself on his tongue before he decides to use his fingers this time. "You want to come again, love? Say it. Tell me what you want."

Simon is definitely the type to fuck slow when he does have you beneath him. He's traditional in some aspects. Prefers missionary to anything else because he needs to see your eyes, to gaze deeply into them as he rocks into you, angled perfectly to tease you. "You feel amazing, beautiful girl," he murmurs as he kisses your neck and pinches your nipple. "You're so perfect, fuck, I'm so lucky." And then, finally, he'll position himself just right to hit your g-spot, ram into it until you and he come together.

Simon isn't vanilla. He'll secret you away to a bathroom at the arcade or have you ride him behind the Peddie's barn when there's a tailgate. He just knows what he likes and that's all there is to it. But if there's something you want to try, he's more than willing, "Anything for you, love."

Simon is exactly the type who knows how to laugh during sex. He's silly and doesn't take himself too seriously. Honestly, he just loves the way you sound when you giggle, he doesn't care what's happening when you do. Simon doesn't get drowsy after, either. He gets hype; wants to play; loves to tickle you into submission and then snuggle the shit out of you as he talks to you about plans he's made for you and him to travel to New York Comic Con. He tucks your hair behind your ear, blushes at his own gesture—like he can't quite believe he's allowed to be that intimate—and then smothers you in kisses so you won't notice how red his cheeks are.

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also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

[patrickispinky]

Simon Elroy x Afab! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral (receiving) Overstimulation, Dacrophilia.

(Fuck I did it again. It was just supposed to be headcanons I swear 🥲 whelp to late now. Enjoy the mini one-shot)

I'm the wise words of @whoopsyeahokay he's a ✨giver✨ (thx for the input by the way. I was struggling to find out how to write this)

I feel like he's the type to be nervous at first. Not wanting to make the wrong move in fear of scaring you off. He's also like this in non-sexual aspects of your relationship but that's for another time.

You have to take things slow with him, let him know that you're not going anywhere. Poor boy has slight abandonment issues.

Sweet little makeout sessions behind the bleachers or in the locker rooms while skipping gym that leave him going to his next class with an obvious tint in his pants that he knows his friends are gonna tease him about.

Cherry hot kisses in your car when you were just supposed to be giving him a ride home from school that somehow moved from your lips to your neck, red marks forming that will soon turn purple.

Innocent young romance that keeps teetering on the edge of what you both so desperately want but don't know how to start. Until you do.

It was late, you were dropping Simon off after a football game Clair had dragged you to when he asked if you wanted to come in and re-watch terrifier with him. Nothing out of the ordinary just you, your boyfriend, and a small late night movie date.

So how the hell did you get here? Simon between your thighs, tears rolling down your cheeks after cumming for the upteenth time. Blame Simon for having wandering hands.

It wasn't entirely his fault, you walked out in that incredibly low cut shirt that he couldn't take his eyes off the entire game. Sometimes he wondered if you did shit like that on purpose.

It drove him insane watching you flant around like nothing was wrong. Jumping up and down, cheering when The Split River Bandits scored, tits bouncing with every move. He needed you, he needed you more than anything. More so he needed to make you feel the same kind of mind melting grip you had on him.

And oh boy did he do that. With something as simple as his tongue. Delicate slow movements around your sensitive overstimulated clit, lapping over and over and over again. Not giving you a single second to think about anything other than him and the way he's making your eyes roll back.

Nothing but pure bliss. The sound of your broken half whimper half sobs drowning out the tv playing in the background. In that moment it was just the two of you in the world, your brain turning to mush, forgetting everything you've ever known outside of Simons living room.

You danced in the line of insanity, not knowing if you could handle another orgasm but the thought of pushing him away made you want to scream. It was all too much. You felt your mind blanking, that perfect place of ecstasy so close, taunting you.

You were broken. This sweet precious boy that was always so gentle, broke you and it was the most amazing thing you've ever felt.

Hips grinding up into his face, hands gripping the soft cushion around you, mind absolutely destroyed and in one foul movement you felt absolute heaven crash over you. A deadly mix of pleasure and pain that left you breathless.

You laid there, shaking, tears streaming down your face as you tried to regain your composer. After a few beats of silence you felt Simon pull away, body creeping up to lay next to yours as he propped himself up on his elbow.

You took a few deep breaths before looking at him, seeing the lower half of his face drenched and the biggest ear to ear smile. "How'd I do?"

(I fear I ate and so did Simon apparently... Im so not funny 😭)

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[patrickispinky]

Masterlist

This will grow and include more fandoms and characters in the future.

School Spirits

Separate Masterlist

Includes Wally Clark, Rhonda Rosen, and Simon Elroy.

Prom Pact

Ben Plunkett

For the freaks

Study Date

Scream

Charlie Walker

NSFW Headcanons

Avatar

Spider Socorro

Headcanons

Characters that aren't on the list but I'd write for if requested:

Dan Copper

Ethan Landry

Billy Loomis

Brahms Heelshire

Thomas Hewitt

Jennifer Check

Zed Necrodopolis

(My requests are open. I write for every character on here for Smut, Fluff, and Angst. Please note that I'm still trying to get the hang of writing and am better with headcanons. I have also never written for a male reader but I would be open to it. I do NOT write for actors or real life people only characters they play.)

[patrickispinky]

School Spirits Masterlist

Wally Clark

Period Comfort

Valentine's Day

Freaky Ahhhh Headcanons

Random freaky thoughts 🤔

Read me losing my mind

Period Sex

Getting his ass ate

Sex, Drugs, Ect. - series

Simon Elroy

Oral

Headcanons

The After Party

Rhonda Rosen

Headcanons

[whoopsyeahokay]

Can u write a simon elroy smut or nsfw headcanons pls!!

i gotchu

sweet Nonny, i'm sorry it took so long! i hope it's what you wanted 😉

thank you so much for the request!

biggest love ~ 🤎

Boyfriend Simon Elroy (NSFW)

[patrickispinky]

The After Party

Sub!Simon Elroy x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Porn with the tiniest speck of plot, Obviously smut, Edging, Overstimulation, Dacryphilia.

Your hand was wrapped around the base of Simon's cock, moving with slow strokes that made his brain melt as desperate whines fell from his lips.

He was laid back on a bed that belonged to whoever's house you were in, while you sat on his thigh, having a perfect view of his face. You had dragged him to a random party, convincing him that it was gonna be fun. Dancing, karaoke, and a few drinks. That was all it was supposed to be.

But the way you bumped and grinded on him in front of everyone drove him crazy. The tightening in his pants becoming almost unbearable. His hands digging into your hips, dragging you off into a random room.

He couldn't help it, he needed you. The buzzing in his head from the few shots you convinced him to take made him not care where you were, the only thought occupying his mind was the way you made him feel with something as simple as your hand.

His tip had grown from a light brownish pink to a deep red, precum leaking from the angry head due to the amount of time you had brought him almost to his peak and denied him the pleasure of release.

"Baby" a deep whine left his lips. "Please" He reached out to grab your hand but you pushed him away, giving him a stern look as he let out a sob.

You lightly slapped his cock making him jump, another quiet sob racking his body.

"you wanna cum?" Fake sympathy laced your voice, a mocking pout forming on your lips. He nodded vigorously, body shaking slightly with the force of his movement. "Words." A rule you had made a while back, no words, no release.

"Yes! Yes, please" His words were jumbled, strewned together through ragged breaths and quiet cries. "Need it" The pout that decorated his face and his teary brown eyes are what made you give in.

Without a word you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock for the millionth time tonight and delivered hard fast strokes. Desperate cries left his lips, throwing his head back as he screwed his eyes shut.

Your free hand reached up, grabbing his jaw and angled it towards you. "No, look at me baby." Your voice was gentle. You saw his lip quiver, it took everything in him to force his eyes open. A far away fucked out look filling them.

You leaned in, giving a soft gentle kiss before pulling away, a huge smile on your face. "You're so fucking pretty when you cry." The praise is what pushed him over the edge. Thick, hot ropes of cum covering your hand as you worked him through his orgasm. His desperate cries, hopefully being covered by the music playing downstairs, filled the room.

After his body finally relaxed, limbs turning into jello beneath you, your hand unwrapped from around his cock, whipping it off on the strangers sheets.

You leaned your forehead against his, pecking his lips softly. "You did so good for me baby." You could still hear the music playing downstairs as Simon slowly drifted off to sleep.

[whoopsyeahokay]

I'm so happy that Simon anon finally got the fic they requested - you are the best!

thank youuu 🤎 i hope they enjoy it 🥹 it was fun to write! as wrapped up in Wally as i am, i maintain that Simon is my favorite character 🥰

and if that anon is looking for more, our dearest @patrickispinky wrote a lil spicy something-something, too. a Simon x afab!reader that is scrumptious down to the last word 👩‍🍳🤌💋

he needs more love. and once October Moon is done and dusted, i'm gonna make sure to pay our sweet bean more attention. WE LOVE YOU IN THIS HOUSE, SIMON, I SWEAR TO GOD 😭

Boyfriend Simon Elroy (NSFW) | October Moon

[whoopsyeahokay]

Masterlist

October Sun

Wally Clark x fem!reader

you had a secret. one that you'd been sworn to keep since your first conscious thought. you hadn't planned on making your abilities known, but when devilishly handsome Wally Clark—died October 1983—accidentally reveals that your classmate and friend is among the community of ghosts haunting your high school, you throw caution to the wind. suddenly, you find yourself completely immersed in the mystery of Maddie's death while also at the mercy of a wayward lust connection between yourself and Wally, desperate to keep your head above water as your relationship to the spiritual world is tested.

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

below is the complete list of chapters of October Sun. you can also find all related content HERE as well as reformatted chapters on AO3.

~ 🧡👻

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9 | PART 10

PART 11 | PART 12 | PART 13 | PART 14 | PART 15

PART 16 | PART 17 | PART 18 | PART 19 | PART 20

PART 21 | PART 22 | PART 23 | PART 24 | PART 25

PART 26 | PART 27: SEASON FINALE

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.

.

Masterlist

October Moon

Wally Clark x fem!reader

following the events of October Sun, Xavier isn't speaking to you, Simon can see ghosts (all of them), Rhonda's suddenly open to Mr. Martin's guidance, and you and Wally don't know how to make heads or tails of any of it. The Something-Something of Dagda is still out there, you believe, and you're no closer to uncovering who the bad guy really is and where they stashed Maddie's body. if that's even what happened to it since now you know, terrifyingly, that bodies can be stolen and there's a woman still out there who knows how to do it.

warnings: smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

below is the complete list of chapters of October Moon. you can also find all related content HERE as well as reformatted chapters on AO3.

~ 💜👻

PROLOGUE | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

PART 9 | PART 10 | PART 11 | PART 12 | PART 13

PART 14 | PART 15 | PART 16 | PART 17: SEASON FINALE

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Masterlist

October Betweens

Wally Clark x fem!reader | Ajay Khatwani x Mina Volkov | Wally Clark x Dawn Burton | Simon Elroy x Maddie Nears

a collection of scenes that were referenced within October Sun and October Moon, but ended up on the cutting room floor.

warnings: smut lite. (tags to be added as chapters are uploaded)

below is the complete list of chapters of October Betweens. you can also find all related content HERE as well as reformatted chapters on AO3.

~ 🧡👻

It's Just Biology, Wally | October Sun Canon Images |

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Moon

summary: as you had gotten ready for the Homecoming dance, you'd finally confronted your sister about her creepy, Ken Doll husband. meanwhile, Xavier had continued to notice differences in his dad's personality while Claire had probed for answers.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.4

At home, you were curled up on your desk chair, Aurora behind you wielding her hair curler, bobby pins poking out from the corner of her mouth as she styled your hair for the Homecoming dance. Your dress hung on the back of your door. Emerald green satin and spaghetti straps, structured bodice and A-line skirt. It had pockets.

Aside from being your personal hair stylist and makeup artist, Aurora had also opened her closet to you and lent you a pair of tall, chunky heels that matched the color of your dress. You weren't much of a heels girlie, but Wally had height and you wanted to kiss him without folding him in half.

Unbeknownst to him (and everyone except Xavier who'd given you the keys to his truck), you had a plan. A plan that involved a blow up mattress and a pile of blankets to cover your body in the bed of the truck while your ghost made merry with Wally unhindered.

Was it risky? Yeah. Was it worth it? Hell yes. You'd make appearances here and there as your living self—you had to, the band was scheduled to kick off the party—but, ultimately, you wanted spend a stress-free night in the arms of your very sexy date.

"You feel pink, little sister," Aurora commented around the bobby pins. "You excited to see Simon?"

Right. That.

Simon had agreed to meet you at the house and pose as your date. It had been a semi-awkward conversation throughout which he and Maddie had teased you. There'd been an item of negotiation. Namely, you'd had to take a folded up note from Maddie and pass it to Simon for a reason neither disclosed. But, in the end, Simon had been happy to be of service.

Nicole would drop him off in—you glanced at the boysenberry Kit-Kat Klock above your desk—twenty-five minutes; he'd say hi to Andrew, Aurora, and Ginny, act a little lovestruck, and then you'd drive to the school in Xavier's truck.

Everything was working out perfectly.

Except the matter of Aurora's mug of tea sat on your desk, the nasty stench doing its level best to overtake your perfume. It wasn't as bad as being trapped in the confines of the car with it, your window open and your room much bigger. Still nauseating, though. You stared at her mug and deliberated whether or not to ask Aurora about Dave who was now, in your mind, suspicious as hell and who also happened to enjoy a cup of tea—that may or may not be related to an evil cult—with his breakfast.

Seeing Dave at the school last night, sneaking around the basement like he was on a mission, had made you uneasy and you realized you didn't know a damn thing about the guy who slept two stories below you.

Glancing at Aurora in the mirror, you ventured, "Rory...how'd you meet Dave?"

She seemed ecstatic that you'd finally asked, plucked the pins out of her mouth and giddily said, "Feeling romantic, huh? And you kept denying it when I called Simon your boyfriend!" After she'd seen you on the swings with him that night he'd found the money in Mr. Anderson's classroom.

You tried not to cringe, "Sure, let's go with that."

"Well," Aurora began, twirling a curl into a roll atop your head and pinning it in place, "We met when I was in New York. Obvi. I actually met him through Carol—" Xavier's mom "—when she was there for a realtor's mixer. They worked together."

"Dave's from Split River?" You were surprised. He didn't sound like he was from Wisconsin. He had a very proper way of speaking. Controlled. Crisp. More Big City Society than Small Town Midwestern. Perhaps it was something he'd learned to do in order to charm prospective investors.

"Born and raised," Aurora confirmed. "Anyway, I went to meet Carol for lunch and Dave tagged along. The rest is history."

"That's it? You ate lunch together?"

Aurora dismissed your cynicism with an eye roll, "No. We stayed in touch after he left. You know, texting and Skype. And then he transferred to the NYC branch of his company. We moved in together after two months," She sighed as if reliving that era of their relationship.

"If you know, you know." You muttered, not sure that Aurora had known, however that wasn't for you to say.

"Exactly."

Staring at the tea again, "And then you brainwashed him into drinking this stuff?" You indicated to her mug.

Again, Aurora rolled her eyes, "You know, this superiority act is getting old. You drank it, too."

"And then I found my brain and stopped."

Answering your question, "No," Aurora said, "Dave was as bad as you're suddenly being about it." Aurora pondered, "But then work stress caught up to him—the pace in New York is no joke—and I suggested he try it." Her reflection smiled at you. "I mean, it helped mom, it helps me, it helped you until you got all holier-than-thou."

"Helped me how?" You frowned at her through the mirror, "I wasn't stressed." Which further made you wonder why you'd been drinking the stuff for so long.

"Oh, come on, you remember. After—." Aurora abruptly stopped.

After Aiden, she didn't say, her face telling you that she was uncomfortable bringing up the memory since you'd always blamed yourself for his death. Because she knew what you'd thought had been the truth; that he'd fallen and busted his head open. Not what'd actually happened.

"Well," You cleared your throat, "I guess I'm over it now, huh?"

"Guess so," Aurora murmured, attention entirely on the curl she was shaping in your hair.

There was a brief lull before either you spoke again. Prodding, "And Nanna still drinks it because...?"

"It helps her focus her divination. The way she puts it, she has too much time to herself these days to think."

The more you learned about your family's motives to drink the tea, the more you realized everyone was using it as a mild sedative. Which, okay, it probably was, but usually the natural stuff didn't work that well.

Though certainly not as strong as what you'd smelt on the sacrifices in the cavern, Wally had claimed that he'd smelled exactly what the tea smelt like on younger-you's breath on the other side of the farmhouse door. It could be as he'd suggested, that your family's tea was missing a key ingredient, but was otherwise identical.

Maddie had given you the list of ingredients, tucked between the pages of your Math notes, and you were more determined than ever to compare what was in your family's tea to what Wally remembered seeing on the shelf in the farmhouse cellar.

"Do you know what's in it?" You asked Aurora who'd relaxed since bringing up Aiden.

She hummed and then, "Sort of. We started to carry most of the floral ingredients at the shop. But some of them I have to get from the holistic place on Randolph." A main drag in one of three upper-middle-class boroughs in Split River.

"So, we make it ourselves now?"

"Oh, yeah, we've been making it for years. The place that used to sell it went out of business a few years ago."

Should've taken that as a sign, you mused.

"I can feel your sassy thoughts, you know." Aurora reminded you, giving you a flat look through the mirror.

You grinned, "I'm not sorry."

"I know you aren't."

There was one more thing you wanted to know, something that had been nagging at you since last night. There was a chance Aurora would rat you out to your great-aunt or mother, but, at that point, it didn't matter. You were seriously unnerved by Dave's behavior. By the fact that he'd driven around town supposedly looking for you by his lonesome, without Aurora...?

And then last night, Dave who never attended a single sports event ever suddenly appears in the school after the Homecoming game wearing Andrew's clothes? Nah, the guy was up to something. Maybe not cult-related something, but something.

"Rory?"

"Yeah?"

"Did Dave mention anything about last week?"

You watched her carefully through the mirror, the genuine confusion on her face as she thought about it.

"No? Why? What happened last week?"

Here goes nothing, you swallowed, took a deep breath and then, "I snuck out last Thursday and Dave found me. He brought me back home... He didn't mention it?"

Shock-horror flit across her face in stages as she processed what you'd said. She was so stunned that she almost burned your hair, the curler on for too long.

"You did what?"

"I'll take that as a no." You said, turning to face her properly. "Oh, like you didn't do the same thing when you were a teenager."

Aurora gaped, "I absolutely didn't, are you crazy!? This is Split River! Your friend is literally missing and you thought it was a good idea to just," She gestured widely, face puffed up in frustration, "wander around the town after dark!? Are you dumb!?"

Right. Normal people worried about things like kidnappers and murderers. Normal people didn't help their friend's ghost investigate the circumstances surrounding them being stuck in an In Between. Because normal people, even if they could see ghosts, didn't put themselves in danger when there were people trained to do that sort of thing.

Oops.

Placating, "Nothing happened. I'm not drinking or having sex or doing drugs. I was hanging out with friends." Kind of. "Can we please talk about how Dave snuck out to come find me and never told you about it?"

Aurora went through the motions of unplugging and setting aside the hair curler, tidying up the unused bobby pins, and uncapping the hairspray before she said anything. Either she couldn't process what you'd said or she needed the time to come up with an excuse.

"He probably heard you," She started, "And he might've woken me up to tell me, I just don't remember. You know how I am, I'm like a zombie when my eight hours are interrupted."

"Strange how you used to wake up when I breathed too loud in my room across the hall with the door closed..." You quipped and gave her a hard look.

Aurora scoffed, "You get to your thirties and tell me if you're the same as you were when you were younger."

"Where's Dave now?" Because he hadn't come home at half-past six as was his routine.

Visibly uncomfortable with receiving the third degree, Aurora shot back, "At the office; he has a meeting with clients on the West Coast. What the fuck? You think he's cheating on me or something?"

You hadn't realized that that could explain all of Dave's weird behavior. Jesus, you were so far down the rabbit hole, the average slimy husband angle hadn't even blipped on your radar and yet it made the most sense.

Ashamed, you tried to salvage what you could of the conversation, "I mean, I don't think so. But, I think he's lying to you about something. He was at the school after the game last night. Did you know that?"

Aurora didn't answer, her eyes darting about, "Maybe he went to pick you up?"

"I didn't ask him to. You obviously didn't ask him to. And when has he ever done anything for me from the kindness of his heart?"

"Why are you being such a bitch!? Dave is a good man. I wouldn't have married him if he wasn't."

You got to your feet, gesturing to emphasize your point, "Good or not, Rory, he was sneaking around the basement at school last night."

"You followed him?" Aurora frowned at you, "Did you see anything?"

You chewed your lip before admitting, "I lost him. Which is why I'm asking you." God, was Dave cheating on Aurora? With someone who liked high school football and basement trysts?

Aurora stepped back until her legs hit your bed. She sat down, pushed her hair out of her face and mulled over what you'd exposed about her husband. You joined her, sat close, studying her expression as she struggled to piece together a plausible explanation that didn't make Dave the bad guy.

"I'll ask him," She finally said.

"You think he'll tell you the truth?"

She shrugged, "If he doesn't, I'll know." According to Aurora, lies were painted in shades of grey and smelt like burnt rubber.

Aurora assisted you through everything else; fixed your hair, perfected your makeup, zipped up your dress. Throughout it all, she remained quiet, obviously thrown into internal hysteria, mentally seeking out what red flags she'd missed from Dave in the past.

You felt horrible. Sort of. Dave wasn't Mr. Anderson who'd been desperate to get out from under a mountain of debt that wasn't his. He hadn't hurt anyone; had actually helped raise that money and had provided new uniforms as promised.

On the other hand, Dave was being dishonest with Aurora. Sneaking around and acting like finding you behind the school near the woods was totally legit.

"Rory." You murmured, "I'm really sorry for bringing it up."

Aurora smiled at you, small and sad, and pulled you into a hug, "I'm glad you told me," She said. "I'd rather know now than be taken by surprise later."

A knock at the door and Andrew peeked in, "How's she lookin'?" He asked Aurora and then entered the room fully. His eyes widened and a grin spread across his face, "Wow. You fix up nice, beans."

You chuckled at the old nickname, "Thanks, Drew," and tried to ignore how his eyes misted and his smile wobbled.

It was sweet, and Andrew basically filled in all the gaps your father left behind whenever he was deployed or stationed away from home. But you'd never been good at handling that kind of emotional attention; preferred jokes and laughter to happy tears.

Andrew cleared his throat, glanced away, and said, "You're date's here, by the way. Ginny's got her paws all over him, so you might wanna hurry up."

"We'll be down in a sec," You grinned back, "Just make sure Ginny doesn't eat him, please."

"Can do," Andrew saluted and stepped back out of your room to rescue Simon from your great-aunt's clutches.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier listened at the banister as Claire fished for clues. He wasn't convinced she'd hurt Maddie, but she was definitely hiding something. Something worth whatever amount that cheque she'd handed Xavier's dad had on it.

He watched the tendrils stretch between him and his dad (blue), him and Claire (a swirl of green and red). His dad's blue was steady tonight, unlike earlier when Xavier had come home with the suit bag and his dad's credit card. No words had been exchanged, just that annoyed stare his dad sometimes fixed him with, like he couldn't wait until Xavier left for college. And that black thread suspended between them, linking them.

"This year has been...unreal. First Maddie, and then Mr. Anderson."

"Yeah...it's nothing you kids need to worry about. The police are on it." His dad told Claire, sounding human for the first time in weeks. Sure, it could all be a show for Claire who had the money to fund his dad's campaign, but Xavier remembered when his dad used to speak to him like that.

Austin Baxter was being real. Himself. Not whatever made that thread between he and Xavier black as pitch.

Claire responded, "It's hard not to wonder, though, if we'll ever have any answers." A pause. "Are there any updates?"

Xavier continued to eavesdrop as Claire prodded about Mr. Anderson, clearly desperate to find out if Mr. Anderson had said anything about her to the police.

Xavier knew Mr. Anderson hadn't, had seen it in the file his dad had brought home one night to finalize (along with a few others, including Maddie's). That was even stranger, now that Xavier was thinking about it. His dad had been meticulous about following every letter of the law; had taken his responsibilities very seriously.

The state specified that no officer, not even the Sheriff, was allowed take home case files unless authorized by a court under tightly controlled conditions. Yet, Xavier's poking around had yielded results twice. First, unmarked evidence in Christopher Nears' case, and then earlier that week, case files that should've stayed at the station.

Either his dad was that narcissistic to believe he could do whatever he wanted, or he was beginning to slip.

"—be sure to tell your folks we're very thankful they're cooperating while we continue to search the abandoned property."

Xavier pushed away from the banister and descended the stairs, eager to get moving. He wanted to get answers as much as Maddie and Simon, but he couldn't do that if they stuck around trying to coax information from his dad.

Claire complimented how well he cleaned up, and he even managed to get what constituted as praise from his dad. Xavier ushered Claire to the door, shooting one last look over his shoulder at his dad, and watched in mild hope as the blue thread between them shimmered a resolute and brightening blue.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon rang the doorbell, shifting from foot to foot. He was nervous. He'd never been to your house, had never met your family—waving to your sister from a swing set while she yelled at you through an open window didn't count—and he wasn't sure what to expect.

To be clear, he wasn't sure what to expect from a family of, "we're not witches, Simon, stop."

In that case, a family of magical people whose abilities ranged from seeing ghosts to acute empathy to psychometry to, what the hell was it? Oh yeah, full-fledged divination.

You'd rattled off who would and wouldn't be there; your mom had been called last minute by a friend to help look after an elderly relative; your Nanna was minding the family flower shop on behalf of your sister who was home to assist you with your nails or lashes or whatever.

If Simon recalled correctly, that meant he had to be wary of your sister the empath, your uncle the psychometrist, and your great-aunt the astral Traveler.

He could do this.

In the last two weeks, he'd been arrested, questioned by police, turned the tables and had his teacher arrested, manifested clairvoyance, embarked on a quest to dismantle a death cult that may or may not have resurfaced, and passed a history test on no hours of sleep. If he could overcome all that, this would be a cake walk.

When the door opened, he was greeted by an elderly woman who he identified easily to be your great-aunt. And, wow, she knew how to make an impression. Beautiful, looked younger than her age with rose gold hair and bright blue eyes, tiny frame swimming in satin. She smiled warmly at him, levering him into a hug before she ushered him inside.

Appearing from the kitchen, wiping his hands with a dishtowel, was your uncle, Andrew. He shared a lot of your great-aunt's features. Same eyes, same impish smile, but he was much taller and broader. He stepped up to Simon and held out his hand for Simon to shake.

"I'll go get the girls," He said after introducing himself, laughing when he added, "And whatever Ginny says, ignore it."

Simon chuckled in response and nodded. "Sounds good," He said, nervous, and followed your great-aunt into the living room after she flapped a beckoning hand at him.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Simon," She said, her voice rich and deep for a woman, at odds with her pixie-like appearance.

Politely, "It's nice to meet you, too, ma'am," he replied.

She gestured for him to take a seat at the corner of the couch as she fell into an armchair beside him; legs crossed, eyes openly grazing up from his shoes to his hair. He felt his ears burn when she at last settled her gaze on his.

"Call me Ginny," She offered, "A friend of hers is family here."

Simon smiled, "Thanks."

He liked her. There was something magnetic about her. Fun. Interesting. He wanted to sit with her over coffee and listen to her tell him her life story. Without knowing anything about Ginny, he could tell she'd lived an exciting life, probably filled with African safaris and cruises around the Mediterranean. She just had that aura about her.

As they chatted—Ginny posing the usual small-talk questions and Simon dutifully answering—he noticed the pendant on one of her necklaces. He wouldn't have been drawn to it had it not stood out against the long strings of bejeweled costume jewelry. In comparison, it was plain, understated, a very simple piece that didn't match the rest of Ginny's aesthetic.

A round piece of silver with a design that reminded Simon of the sun.

She must've noticed him staring because, "It's lovely isn't it?" she said, leaning forward and holding the pendant away from her collar for Simon to see. "An heirloom. Once part of a pair." At Simon's questioning gaze, she elaborated, "Earrings. But one of them wandered off somewhere along the line, so I strung this one on a chain. I simply couldn't part with it."

"It's beautiful." Simon said as he admired the pendant. "Does the symbol mean anything?"

Ginny nodded, "Actually, it does. The compass is to keep your soul on the right path, the sun beneath it represents clarity in this case, to ensure your vessel remains clean. And the flower," She used her Victory Red pinky nail to indicate, "is another layer of purity." She chuckled, "Essentially, it's to ward off any bad juju that tries to enter your body or mind."

Simon listened closely, curious if she wore it because she was a Traveler, like you'd told him. Her soul could walk out of her body on a whim, which, to Simon, suggested something else could walk in. Including but not limited to bad juju as she'd put it. Was that possible? He really wanted to ask, but knew he couldn't.

The click-clack of heels on hardwood turned Simon's attention to the hall. He stood, smoothed his suit jacket and stepped around the couch, eyes widening and jaw going slack when he saw you descending the stairs.

"Wow."

You looked...gorgeous. Stunning. He'd never seen you done up like that before, makeup that enhanced your features rather than made a statement, hair in loose curls that fell down your back, a cocktail dress in a color that complimented your skin. He was, to put it lightly, gobsmacked.

Wally was a lucky guy, Simon thought.

Your sister giggled and whispered something to you that sounded like, "He's pink, too," which...did that make sense? Because he didn't understand. He'd have to ask you when you and he were safely alone in the truck.

He saw Andrew roll his eyes, "Not now," and knock your sister's shoulder as he passed her to stand with Ginny.

Behind him, Ginny snickered to Simon, "We want her back in the same condition she's leaving in," to which Simon blushed to his roots.

Knowing something you didn't, he could only stammer, "I—yeah. I promise. No funny business."

Your sister seemed to disagree, squinting at him before she whispered to you again, this time telling you, "He's red now," then louder, for everyone to hear but directed at Simon, "Remember to keep room between you for the holy spirit."

Oh god. Simon's collar suddenly felt too tight. Andrew barked a laugh. Ginny cackled and patted his shoulder, assuring him not to listen to your sister as she winked salaciously.

When he turned back to you, you had your hands over your face, grumbling, "I hate you so much," to your sister and Ginny.

Grinning, Simon held out his arm to you, a charming, "Milady," as you banded your arm through his.

"Milord," You grinned back, "Let's go before they make us take pictures."

He agreed, wishing Andrew, your sister, and Ginny goodnight, and escorting you to the door. You grabbed a peacoat and a guitar case on your way out, waved to your family and bid them goodbye, groaning like the teenage girl you were at whatever, "You'd better still smell like jasmine tomorrow!" meant.

💀___________________________

PART THREE - PART FIVE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Moon

THIS IS THE SECOND INSTALLMENT OF A 2 PART SERIES to understand the plot, you MUST read October Sun.

summary: in the aftermath of the theater of terrors, there'd been a single, short moment of silence when everyone had been too stunned to speak. too frightened confused sick horrified to say a word. and then everything had descended into chaos.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON prologue

There was a single, short moment of silence before the commotion began. A moment of confusion and sick loss that weaved its way between and through everyone until it thinned into a desperate need to understand what they'd all just been through.

"He was so alone," Charley whimpered, pitiful, arms curled around his middle as he tried to forget the little boy who'd needed someone to stay with him so badly, "I didn't want to leave him..."

Rhonda scowled, "How could she not know!?" Spitting her anger through gritted teeth, gesturing widely as if the air was too close and she had to push it away.

Wally was frantic, hands moving as fast as his mouth, "I saw Maddie's dad—"

"What?" Weakly, tortured, "Where? Why did you get to see him and I didn't?" And Maddie began to tremble because she'd always known her father had died but she and her mother had never been given more than a feeble, 'it was an accident'.

An accident that had rendered her father unrecognizable and dead. An accident that had driven her mother to the bottom of too many bottles and away from her daughter. An accident Maddie had never believed because she'd known, she'd KNOWN, it was a lie. But rather than see him, she'd been stuck in a hospital room with a twelve-year-old girl and her great-aunt, forced to watch as Then Deputy Baxter held his hat to his chest and declared a little boy dead.

It wasn't fair and Wally held her even as he explained, "Janet was there," to Charley and Rhonda who stared at him in disbelief.

They all talked over each other, "What was she doing there?" - "Do you think Mr. Martin knows?" - "Maybe that's why he helped her move on; he knew she was dangerous!" - "He can't know, if he did, he wouldn't have let her near us."

Meanwhile, Ajay was urgently scouring the rows, under every seat, down every aisle, calling out Mina's name before disappearing at a run to the back of the stage, into the rafters, "Mina, Mina, Mina!" Over and over, heart in his throat, where was she, she never left the theater, where was she!?

But all of that faded into the background when you heard a weak, strained voice ask, "Why didn't you tell me?"

On your knees on the stage, staring blankly at the spot the farmhouse door had been, you tried to make your mouth work. There was no evidence of the supernatural wind; no smashed stage light, no cuts on your skin, nothing. Slowly, you panned to Xavier who stepped toward you, his face pained, his brow creased and eyes filled with so much sorrow it felt like a kick to the heart.

Meekly in return, you confessed, "That's not how it happened," as if that solved the problem. A band-aid over a bullet wound, as true as it was.

No, you'd snuck into one of those old heritage properties near the elementary school to get out of the rain. Aiden had wandered off when you'd tried calling Nanna to pick you up. He'd fallen down the steep steps and hit his head so hard on the stone wall that he'd bled out at the bottom of the stairs. You'd watched his spirit rise after tumbling down yourself.

It was in your statement to Xavier's father. That was how you'd remembered it, in vague flashes, for the past six years.

"I didn't......it wasn't like that." You repeated, forcing the words out around the lump in your throat. "I didn't remember..."

You couldn't even be sure Xavier was talking about Aiden and not about connectedness and how you didn't seem at all confused about a door that had appeared from the ether like a ghost. His face told you everything, though. It was indeed about Aiden.

Xavier collapsed to his knees in front of you, devastated, "How? How do you not remember that? How could you not tell me?" It wasn't harsh or mean or loud though part of you wished it was. It was a quiet expression of betrayal. And then, a breathy whisper, "He was my brother, too."

Maybe not biologically, but emotionally, spiritually, it was true. Xavier had held Aiden as a baby; had held Aiden's hand on his first day of kindergarten; had taught him big words to impress his teachers, and how to kick a ball into the net, and how to skateboard like a big boy, and how to—you shook, eyes welling with tears as Xavier continued to look at you like you'd just shattered his whole world.

"Xavier," Maddie said softly, her own voice rattled with grief, "It's not her fault."

Xavier exhaled deeply as he turned his head to Maddie, pressed his lips together, suddenly appearing anxious beneath the pain, "When did you get back?"

Maddie shot you a helpless look and you took the responsibility from her, saying in a wet tone, "She didn't, Zav."

Xavier was confused for a long minute, staring at Maddie as if he could piece her together like a puzzle.

He blinked several times, looked—really looked—at the students he didn't recognize, noticing their outdated apparel, their pale complexions, their...not-really-thereness. All at once, it struck him, a knife-twisting epiphany while your voice in his mind, carefree and purposefully teasing, told him and Mathilda about your hot football player ghost. He gazed at Wally Clark, the number 57 on the sleeve of his varsity jacket, and then swallowed.

Xavier's eyes closed almost as soon as his gaze returned to rest on you; his lips pressed together so you wouldn't see how the bottom one wobbled. His shoulders tensed, and, when he opened his eyes again, he couldn't stomach to look at you. In that moment, he understood like common sense exactly where he stood with you and it hurt.

"Zav," You whimpered, reaching for him, but he shifted away, shaking his head. "Zav, please," You attempted, shuffling forward on your knees. He stood, stumbled back a step and then grabbed his head, breathing heavy.

"No." He said, then louder, "No, no way." You clambered to your feet as he jumped off the stage. "It's too much," He said and you could tell he was fighting tears, "I can't do this."

He marched to the top of the center aisle as you called after him, pausing only for a second to glance back at you over his shoulder, his expression utterly destroyed, and then he opened the door and left.

You made to run after him, but Wally grabbed you, pulled you to his chest.

"Let him go, baby," he said, calm and soft, and when you struggled, wailing, folding forward, and falling to the ground, he went with you and cradled you in his arms. Let you cry out everything that had happened; with Aiden, with the farmhouse cellar, with the cult, and Amelia and Anabelle. All of it. Wally held you through it, shushing you, holding your head to his chest, rocking you, kissing your hair between variations of, "I've got you, baby, I'm right here."

As you began to recover, thick sniffs and small whimpers, you burrowed into the safety and comfort of Wally's arms, not wanting the others to see you like that. Unfortunately, you didn't have a choice. Your phone vibrated in the back pocket of your skirt. Wally shamelessly retrieved it, handing it off to Maddie without a word.

"Simon's here." She said, as somber and morose as the rest of them.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Nicole had been a saint. Picked Xavier up even though he'd been late, had allowed him to sit stoically in the car the whole drive. Until something that'd been nagging at her had finally prompted her to ask how he'd known about Claire's hot-and-cold behavior.

He'd been too...fuck, defeated? Hollowed out? Numb, really, to care that Nicole had deduced in his silence that he'd cheated on Maddie with Claire. Xavier had barely tried to defend himself. Stopped talking after a few words when it'd hit him that it hadn't fucking mattered.

After everything that'd happened in the theater, the shit he'd seen. The murder and then—Jesus Christ—the cover up, Xavier hadn't been able to muster a single fuck to give.

He was still disturbed by his dad's reaction to the evidence Xavier had found in his home office. A bagged and bloodied patch, black thread stitched into khaki spelling Maddie's last name. He thought he was going to be sick, lowering the window and sticking his head out for some air.

Nicole had ordered him to stay in the car while she searched the crowd at Horror Con for Maddie. Who she wouldn't find because Maddie was a ghost at school which meant she was dead. How long had you known?

He didn't want to talk about it with you. Didn't think he was capable of looking you in the eye right now after everything he'd experienced and learned. The sheer extent of the shit you'd been keeping from him for years. Who even were you? What even were you? A witch? A medium?

Did it matter? His mind asked and Xavier clenched his eyes shut, fists balled in his lap. Whatever you were, you'd hidden it from Xavier for over a decade of friendship. And it fucking hurt. You were the only person in the world he could trust, who he'd believed would be there for him through anything and everything.

Through his dad's profound betrayal... How was he going to get through that? He'd seen it with his own eyes. Austin Baxter, Deputy favored to take over Sheriff Stallow, forcing a dead and mangled Christopher Nears behind the wheel of his car and rolling it off the cliff into the quarry for pit workers to find the following morning.

Xavier's stomach rolled.

His dad hadn't said it, but the timing made sense. Xavier's mom probably found out and that's why she'd left. Why she'd abandoned Xavier, he didn't know, but that barely stung in the face of everything else.

What had caused Xavier the most distress during the encounter with his dad, though, had been the weird, flickering threads of light that kept appearing in the air. Faint and glowing. First blue then spun black, then blue again. Strung between Xavier and his dad as if it connected them.

He'd seen one between he and Nicole when he'd climbed into her car. A soft yellow that hadn't seemed established, so dim and loose. He'd nearly asked her to take him to the hospital for an MRI, but decided against it. Some instinct deep in his soul told him it wasn't a tumor. That it was so much more than anything that could be explained by medical science.

Xavier sat in the car for almost twenty minutes, his brain a maelstrom of anger and grief and hurt and anger again. He'd seen Maddie. She'd been there. Probably knew about Claire. Probably hated Xavier's guts. God, she'd probably told you about it, too, and now you didn't care if Xavier was upset or not because you hated him as much as he hated himself for what he'd done.

Unable to marinate in his thoughts any longer, Xavier ditched the car and charged into the crowd to find Nicole. He felt horrible that she was worrying herself sick trying to find someone who wouldn't be found. He knew she hated the horror stuff as much as Xavier did, yet she was in there, doing it scared because she loved Maddie more than Xavier had.

He grabbed a Pennywise mask off some rando on a bench and donned it, tried to blend in. He didn't want anyone from school to see him, they still wanted his blood for whatever had happened to Maddie. Murderer, they called him behind his back.

Maybe he was. God. Was it...his fault that Maddie was dead?

Those fucking threads kept blinking into and fading from existence, linking strangers to each other. Webs of relationships that made Xavier dizzy trying to follow them. He felt his chest tug and glanced down, saw that thin, pale yellow thread pulling ahead.

Taking a leap, he followed it until he saw Nicole.

He reached out, she shoved him away, terrified. Xavier ripped the mask off, having forgotten about it in his amazement over the delicate thread connecting him to Nicole.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" She demanded, visibly shaken.

"Looking for you." He said, stepping an inch closer, worried at how close to a mental breakdown Nicole seemed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," She croaked between hard breaths.

Xavier gave her a concerned look, "Are you sure? Because you look a little shook up."

She didn't appreciate that, "Just go back to the car, Xavier."

It unraveled from there. The next thing he knew, she was yelling at him, accusing him of failing Maddie—"Yeah, it definitely has the whole 'someone who's supposed to look after you fails' thing going for it," you'd said—and he cast his gaze to the ground, ashamed and overwhelmed with guilt.

"She's nowhere, she's gone!" Nicole cried, movements frantic.

"I know that!" Xavier said before he realized. He did know. He knew where Maddie was—her ghost, at least—and he knew Nicole wouldn't find her at Horror Con, and he knew he was probably to blame for all of it. But...he still couldn't tell her everything. Fuck, she'd think he was crazy, anyway, so he exposed different vulnerable flesh and said, "You're right. I failed her."

It was an appeal for forgiveness.

"And if I could take back what I did, I—" He thought of Aiden. He thought of you. He thought of Claire and Maddie. "But I can't. I have to live with that." He looked Nicole in the eye, desperate, "So, if it makes you feel better to hit me, then please, swing away."

Xavier couldn't stop thinking about Aiden's little body being put in that ambulance. Blue lips and alabaster skin. Dead. And all the blood that'd covered Christopher Nears' body, all the blood that had gushed out of the hole that had once been his face, shoved behind the wheel of his car by Xavier's dad.

His voice cracked, "I just... I'm sorry."

Nicole turned, didn't say a word, and didn't protest when Xavier quietly followed her from person to person, showing them Maddie's photo until she burned herself out.

Sitting together at a picnic table, Nicole said, "I really thought she would be here."

"I know." Xavier sighed, eyes down, regretful and biting his tongue.

A long, tense silence and then Nicole croaked, "I think Simon might be right.

She didn't need to elaborate. Xavier knew that Simon thought Maddie was dead. Nicole had ranted to Xavier about it yesterday when they'd finalized plans to search Horror Con for Maddie. Before he knew the truth.

He didn't have it in him to break her heart and tell her that, yeah, Simon was right. Instead, he stared at that thin, warming thread, the color deepening into a soft orange from his chest to Nicole's. Xavier placed his hand palm-up in the space between him and Nicole on the bench, staring blankly ahead as he tried to suppress what he'd seen in the theater. How he felt about it. How he felt about you.

Moments later, without a word, Nicole placed her hand in his.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Derek Anderson hated this fucking town. He hated what he'd had to resort to. The man he'd become. The cards he'd been dealt. He was done.

He'd used his one phone call to beg forgiveness and ask for help from the one person he could trust with everything. Your Uncle Andrew. Derek's best friend since their early rowdy college days. Andrew was two years older than Derek, but had started college a year after. Had taken time off to backpack across South America and live like a nomad.

The guy was nuts, a free spirit, and exactly who Derek needed right then. He stared ahead, at the mirror he knew was a window, the deputies behind it discussing his fate. The state appointed attorney had been of little help, but had assured Derek would be released on bail within 24 hours.

Fuck.

What was he going to do now?

His whole career had been blown up in a matter of seconds because Simon Elroy was convinced Derek had murdered Madison Nears. He should've seen it coming. Had known the kid was hellbent on finding Maddie, and had already discovered the cash Derek had been hiding in his classroom.

Yeah, fine, he should've been more careful, but how the hell had Simon found it in the first place?

Derek dropped his head into his hands and tried to breathe slowly. A suggestion from Ms. Chung who'd been at the staff meeting when Simon had monologued Derek's guilt. She'd also been the only person to show him any sympathy, his other colleagues immediately putting distance between themselves and him, the new Split River scandal.

"Don't worry," Ms. Chung said, rubbing his back as Derek waited for the cops in Principal Hartman's office. "Everything will work itself out. Just be honest."

"That entails telling them that I did actually commit fraud." Derek chuckled, dry and flat, his world crumbling. "God, Meredith, what am I going to do?"

She didn't tell him. Didn't have any advice. Just another placating, "It'll be okay," that did nothing apart from make him more anxious.

The door to the interrogation room opened and Sheriff Baxter entered. Derek huffed a humorless snort, shaking his head in disbelief. A boy who'd been picked last in gym class had become the town's protector. A boy Derek had been guilty of bullying in elementary school, so the Sheriff got him back years later by marrying the woman Derek had seen a future with.

He'd never felt more fucked in his life.

"Your friend called the front desk," Sheriff Baxter began, taking the seat across from Derek. "He's arranged for his sister to stay with the old man tonight. Is there anyone else who could take him on, long term, you think?"

Derek shook his head. "No. No one. My aunt died a year ago, I don't have any siblings. He'd be left to the state."

"Alright," Sheriff Baxter said after a long lull, "Look, we're going to keep you for the next twenty-four hours while we investigate the accusation Simon Elroy brought against you." He paused, studied Derek as if waiting to see if he'd spit excuses or threats. Something vile that Derek wasn't feeling. When he didn't, Sheriff Baxter continued, "After that, there'll be a bail hearing and, if you post it, you'll be closely monitored pending a trial. Unless the school is virtuous enough to drop the charges."

Derek nodded, eyes on the metal table, heaving a sigh that made his bones ache. "Got it."

"Okay, then, let's get you settled in for the night." Sheriff Baxter stood, came around the table and hooked his hand under Derek's arm to pull him to his feet.

He was escorted to one of the private holding cells, uncuffed and locked in. A lumpy cot and thin, itchy blanket, flat pillow, and moonlight. He hated everything in that moment, but most of all himself.

Why had he done it? It hadn't even occurred to him to try something so misguided until he'd heard a story about how easy it'd been to get away with. You can do anything on a computer these days, and, why shouldn't I have trusted them, they were so nice!

That woman who'd known his dad back in the day and still visited every weekend. Darcy Behr. She'd been nattering his father's ear off over iced tea when she'd let slip about a scam she'd been naïve enough to fall for.

He shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have glommed onto that of all things. He could've figured something out. Sold the furniture, his mother's jewelry, the fucking house. Instead, he'd resorted to fraud because it'd seemed so much simpler and less painful than parting with memories.

Derek sat on the cot and stared at the wall. If it weren't for his father, he would've gotten the fuck out of Split River years ago when he'd had the chance.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You and Simon had just retrieved Mr. Anderson's phone from the top of the lockers. It had been a joint effort, Simon lifting you, your ass pressed into his cheek while he grimaced toward the end of the hall, petrified that your, "dead boyfriend is going to kill me and then I'll be stuck here, too."

"He's not even here, Simon, calm down." You'd rolled your eyes as you'd grabbed the phone. Once he'd placed you on your feet, you'd handed the phone to Simon to hold on to.

Making your way out of the school, Simon asked, "Do you know what Xavier saw?"

You shook your head, "No," solemn, shrinking into yourself as you continued, "And I doubt I'll ever know. He's never going to talk to me again."

You felt Simon's arm drape supportively around your shoulders before he squeezed you into his side, smiling softly as he said, "He'll come around."

"Maybe," You said, not so sure. While Simon had taken the news of your abilities like it was just another day in the neighborhood, Xavier wasn't so quick to move on. He held grudges as if they were missions entrusted to him by the gods. He still didn't trust Hana enough to drink chocolate milk around her after she'd stolen one of his during recess in 1st Grade...

Simon moved the conversation along, "So, you think this Amelia person is still out there. What about that cult? Think she assembled a new team of yes-men to sacrifice?"

You pondered the question as Simon held the door open for you to walk outside. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I'll see what I can find about the Something-Something of Dagda when I get home." You turned your head to look at him, "I really hope that whatever reason she had to kill Aiden isn't connected to why Maddie's a ghost."

Simon nodded and then, quite absurdly, said, "And here I thought we were dealing with aliens."

You stopped walking, stunned into silence, mouth gaping as you absorbed his words. At last, after a second or two of staring at him like he'd grown a second head, you blurted, "Aliens?"

"Or mummies," Simon shrugged easily, snickering at you.

You couldn't help it. It began in fits and starts, and then a loud laugh bubbled out of you that was contagious, Simon snorting and laughing along with you. After everything that had happened in the theater, you hadn't been sure you'd ever be able to laugh again. It felt good. Liberating. Your spirit warmed and somewhat renewed in the wake of such a nightmare.

He opened the passenger side door of his car for you, but as he made his way around to the driver's side, you and he heard a frantic, "Simon!" followed by an equally as worked up, "Babe!"

Instantly, you spun around and Simon halted mid-step, both of you drawn away from the car as Maddie and Wally ran down the path from the school. You glanced at Simon and then shifted to meet Wally and Maddie in the bus shelter. Simon's brow furrowed as he waited for Maddie to explain.

All she managed between gasps was, "4-9-5-2-7-3."

It took a moment, but Simon got with the program quickly, pulling Mr. Anderson's phone out of his pocket. He punched in the numbers when Maddie repeated them more slowly. As he did, you unconsciously moved closer to Wally who strung his arm around your waist, stamping a sweet kiss to your hairline, his big hand engulfing your hip.

You snuggled into his side, weight leaned comfortably into him, and you felt him give your hip a little squeeze. When you looked up, he was already staring down at you, a soft smile on his face.

"Where does Mr. Martin think you are?" You wondered quietly, gazing up at Wally.

"I told him I was gonna make sure Maddie was okay. She bolted out of there and he was kinda worried." He explained into your hair as he pressed another kiss to your head.

You hummed and rested your head against his chest, happy to bask in his presence until "...You've reached Claire Zomer. Do me a fave and just text me, okay?"

Before anyone could react, you felt Wally tense. "Wait. Isn't that the chick Xavier was cheating on Maddie with?"

There was a pause. You looked at Maddie. Maddie looked at Simon. They both looked back at you. And you, so slowly, panned up to look at Wally.

"WHAT!?"

💀___________________________

OCTOBER SUN PT.27 - PART ONE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: it had been settled. everything had gone to shit and then everyone had had front row seats to watch how that'd happened. back in the theater, no one had known what to say, how to describe what they'd seen, how to reconcile that whoever had been behind the circumstances haunting Split River High could've been anyone.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.27

"Love this for me."

Charley scanned the area, confused, disoriented, nervous. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, he shuddered, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself as he began to trek in the direction he hoped would take him back to civilization.

This wasn't how he imagined finally being free from the school. Lost in the middle of nowhere, dense trees as far as the eye could see. There weren't many wooded areas around Split River. A couple of parcels here and there, wilderness parks, but not like this, and he had to wonder if the forest was actually native to the land.

Finally, he found a trodden path in the dirt and decided to follow it. What did he have to lose? There was no danger. He couldn't die twice. Food, sleep, shelter weren't required despite he and the others keeping up those habits in the afterlife at Mr. Martin's guidance. Still, what you'd mentioned on the rooftop the night before—about how your great-aunt or your mother could erase his soul from existence—made Charley paranoid.

What if he'd landed here just for an evil witch to use his ghost for some nefarious plan to make her young and beautiful again? He'd seen Hocus Pocus. And it didn't matter that he was technically too old for that spell to work. He was stuck at 17 until he moved on and he wasn't keen on having a wicked witch absorb him for the sake of vanity.

Which, okay, Charley reasoned, sounded ridiculous, but one couldn't blame him. After a tornado had manifested in the theater and he'd been transported to some creepy, dark forest alone; he wasn't going to criticize himself for the insane theories his brain churned out.

He followed the path until it brought him to a winding, unpaved road. Turning left, he trailed down the edge of it for what felt like hours. It'd started raining halfway through his journey to wherever the hell, and night had fallen before the road widened into a bare plot of land stretched in front of a dilapidated farmhouse, its shadow a fanged monster raking toward Charley's ankles.

"Oh, that's not freaky at all." Charley muttered, quickly glancing over his shoulder and debating whether or not to go back the way he'd come. The darkness blurring the unpaved road seemed to push toward him as if discouraging him from turning around. He groaned in despair, "I hate everything about this," wanting the universe to take pity on him and return him to—God help him—the safe and familiar halls of Split River High.

It was Movie Night, he winged internally, and Wally had agreed (with conditions) to watch Ghost—shut up—and Katelynn and Bernadette were in charge of snacks which meant there'd be a smorgasbord of good options because Mr. Martin always filled the table with carrot sticks and his homemade tuna salad ("Just like my mother's! Doesn't it taste like home?"—"Why is it in jell-o?"—the '50s were a heinous decade, Charley thought, green around the gills at the memory).

Today was supposed to be a good day. A day of progress. A day of togetherness. He and Rhonda and Wally, and now Maddie, a united front against the mystery of Maddie's.....well, not-death, Charley supposed, because you'd debunked that. But against the mystery of Maddie's situation, nonetheless.

Except he was here, wet and cold and lost; an Addams Family-esque farmhouse towering in front of him like a bad omen and no one to turn to for answers.

"It can't get worse," Charley sighed, about to ascend the first of the front steps.

As his foot set down on the wood, the screen door creaked and someone emerged, using their back to push the door open so they could exit. When they turned around, Charley nearly jumped for joy. He knew that face! That was your face! Your face... Charley reeled back. Your face was coated in blood. You were coated in blood. Hair, hands, jeans.

"What happened!?" He questioned, pitching toward you to scan you for injuries.

You didn't seem to be in any pain, not favoring a leg or curling over a gut wound. Beneath the thin red film on your face, Charley couldn't spot a gash, a cut, a scrape, nothing. He panned to the front door, speculating in startled flashes what lay beyond it. The color drained from his face as he thought about it and he decided, no thanks, he didn't want—didn't need—to know.

The most unnerving part, however, wasn't the Evil Dead amount of blood on you. It was how your eyes stared ahead, completely blank; the same dissociative gaze Charley had witnessed on Emilio's face in the wake of Charley's death. Like Emilio's mind had evaporated while his brain repressed every bad thing that'd ever happened just to keep him upright.

Charley wanted to ask if you were okay but the words lodged in his throat when he finally noticed that you had something—someone—bundled in your arms. Small, child-sized (probably because it was a child, Charley, he chided himself), wearing Spiderman rainboots and a Looney Tunes sweater. A queasy sensation flushed through him as he watched you fumble down the stairs, gaze fixed ahead, arms fastened around the little body.

When Charley shifted to follow you, the screen door creaked again then slammed closed. Another person hurried out, clomping down the steps to chase after you. Small. Child-sized. Spiderman rainboots and a Looney Tunes sweater. Charley's expression twisted with sorrow. He bit the inside of his lip as he turned and walked beside the little boy who contemplated his boots as he squelched through the mud.

"Where are we going?" The little boy asked you, stomping into and out of a puddle.

You answered, "I'm taking you home," your voice light as a feather and far, far away.

"Will mommy be mad at me?" The little boy paused, big green eyes on your back, worried that he'd be in trouble for...for what? Charley couldn't discern. For dying?

"No." You said, dragged your feet with effort, your Converse not made for soft, sinking ground. "She'll know what to do. She'll make it all better, Aiden, I swear." On the last word, your voice cracked, but your face didn't change, your gaze still distant.

Charley kept pace with the little boy, Aiden, until you came to the end of the unpaved road. You were shaking, probably freezing, soaked to the bone and in shock. The unpaved road intersected a tarred section of old, narrow highway, a rusted mailbox keeping vigil in the tall grass that lined the shoulder.

Part of the name was scraped away by time and weather. Still, Charley could make it out: Meheive. A name Charley had had hammered into his skull in Grade 7 History. The name of one of the three industry men who'd founded Split River in 1800.

"Oh," He commented mildly, "It gets freakier. Fantastic." Then, as he lifted his foot to continue after you, he simply couldn't. He tried again, again, again, walked in place as if on a treadmill while an invisible force kept him at bay. "Never mind," He gulped, "Now it's freakier." At least he wasn't being shot back to the cafeteria at speed, he mused glumly when he took the time to feel the identical vibrations he felt when he got too close to the barrier around the school.

Slanting his attention to the side, he saw Aiden standing alone, face pinched, lower lip trembling and eyes filled with tears. "Sissy May, wait... I can't follow you..." He stuttered several breaths, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Sissy May!"

You didn't turn around. "It'll be okay, Aiden. Mom will fix it. She'll know what to do." Charley heard you murmur, dreamlike, detached, as you began to walk along the shoulder of the highway, adjusting Aiden's weight in your arms. "She'll fix it..."

Charley came up beside Aiden, watching you blend into the dark the further away you got. Aiden sniffled, squeaked before he coughed out a sob. He craned his neck to look up at Charley in devastation. Briefly, Charley was surprised though that settled into sympathy the longer Aiden blinked those green eyes up at him.

"I don't want to be alone," Aiden whimpered and took Charley's hand, his grip limp, his fingers tiny.

There was nothing to say to that. Charley didn't want Aiden to be alone either, and if he had to stay with Aiden for eternity, he would. He knelt down and pulled Aiden into a hug, his voice wet as he said, "You aren't alone, buddy," the way he would've comforted his younger cousin, Luca.

Unfortunately, the moment the words slipped out of him, Charley was snatched away and dragged through the farmhouse door.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Where Charley couldn't follow, Ajay did. Down the shoulder of the unlit highway, stomach rolling as he observed how you swayed and stumbled as you pressed onward, Aiden's dead weight becoming more and more difficult to manage. A car had stopped, a woman had called out to you, and Ajay had heard her on the phone with the police, asking for help.

It was as if you hadn't heard her. Ajay doubted you had, the state you were in, mumbling gentle promises to your brother as you carried him home. "Mom will know what to do, Aiden..."

Twenty minutes came and went before an ambulance and two squad cars screeched to a halt meters in front of you, lights flashing, red blue, red blue, red blue.

When the EMTs tried to take Aiden from you, you put up a fight; kicked, gnashed, snarled, screamed. Not words, just noise, like a provoked animal. Deputy Baxter managed to get you in a submissive hold so an EMT could sedate you before he helped settle you into a stretcher. Strapped you in, just in case, the corners of his mouth severely turned down and his eyes shuttered to conceal the heartbreak Ajay had caught a glimmer of.

"Take them to St. Vincent's." Deputy Baxter instructed the ambulance driver. "I'll call their mother." He moved on to order the second unit that'd arrived with him to follow the ambulance, that he would check the road, "For anything that'll tell us what the hell happened here."

"Austin, are you sure you want to do it alone? If someone's responsible, they could still be out there. They could be armed." Deputy Hayes voiced her concern through the passenger-side window. She was new. Too new to understand that Sheriff Stallow had a protocol when it came to certain matters. Especially those involving your family and a handful of others.

A protocol that Deputy Baxter was responsible for overseeing himself. For a substantial fee, of course, pulled from a vault that had been collecting wealth since before Split River had been established.

Deputy Baxter shook his head and reassured, "I'm just going to see what I can find along the road. If anything comes up, I'll call it in." He straightened and peered down the highway in the direction you'd obviously come from, a deep-seated foreboding frosting beneath his skin.

He was at a crossroads, his gut told him. Something terrible waited for him in the dark and whatever choice he made to deal with it would change his life forever. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He just prayed to God that he'd still be able to be there for his own little boy in the after. That he'd have the chance to hug Xavier and tell him the world might not be safe, but his dad will always be there to protect him.

In the side mirror of his vehicle, Deputy Baxter stared at the retreating image of the ambulance and squad car as they blared down the highway toward the town. Once the sound of the sirens faded, he shifted the gear into drive, gravel crunching under the tires, and he drove to the only building in the area for miles.

Once Deputy Baxter was gone, Ajay vanished through the farmhouse door.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Five.

Does the Monster die?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon's eyes flew open and he jolted upright, waking abruptly in a cold sweat. The sky was dark outside his closed window, his room pitched black, and his mother was tugging at his shirt.

He barely registered her words, you told the police you'd return the phone tonight, get up, as she fussed over him, fuming, lecturing him in Tagalog as she switched on the overhead light and pinned him with a strict expression.

He scrubbed his face to wake himself up. Dragged his hands through his hair, eyes drifting to his closet. He could've sworn... Hadn't there been...? The door was open and, apart from the two rails of clothes and the shoe rack, it was empty.

"Hurry up, iho! Before your father gets home." His mother commanded before she turned on her heel and left the room.

In English, Simon responded, "I'm going, I'm going..." and rose from his bed. He felt weak, exhausted despite having apparently slept through the day. Again, his gaze settled on his closet as if the person who'd been crying in there had just tucked themselves in the corner and would pop out any second now that the coast was clear.

But nothing happened.

Taking a deep breath, Simon stood and treaded to his closet. Just to make sure; just to see if it had really all been a dream. There was nothing inside to indicate anyone had been hiding there. No displaced clothes to suggest Simon had shoved them aside to get a better look at the little boy who'd quivered beside the shoe rack. No puddle from the rain that had dripped from the little boy's hair and Spiderman rainboots. No scuff marks in the carpet. No mud. No little boy.

"She's gonna hurt him," The little boy wailed into Simon's hip. "She's gonna take him and she's gonna hurt Sissy!"

Simon tripped backward, away from the closet, breath suddenly ragged as the memory flooded his mind. Because it had to be that. A memory. He'd had vivid dreams before, but never like that. He could still feel the little boy's tight grip around his waist, could still feel the wet and cold of the little boy's body through his Looney Tunes sweater when Simon had instinctually returned the embrace.

"She wants t'take them!" The little boy sniffed thickly, "You gotta help! You can't let her!" And then he added as if he'd been reprimanded enough times by his mommy, imploring "Pleeease!"

"Who are you talking about?" Simon asked. Leaned back and crouched so he was eye-level with the little boy, his hands holding the little boy's boney shoulders, "Who's going to get hurt?"

Simon grabbed his sweater and his car keys, calling out, "I'll be back soon," to his mother who'd installed herself in front of Wheel of Fortune. He had to get to the school. He had to see Maddie. To tell her what he'd dreamt or prophesized or hallucinated because, guess what, he'd apparently graduated from unwitting medium to Nostradamus.

As he trotted down the front walkway, he checked his phone. 7 missed calls from Nicole. 2 missed calls from Mathilda. 3 texts from Nicole asking the same question—are you okay?—and a novel from Mathilda that detailed the lessons he'd missed and what he'd have to make up for over the weekend, but don't worry, I'll help you. And 1 text from you. Short and sweet, sent that morning just after Simon had returned home from the police station.

"We found something to get Mr. A. I'll meet you at the bus stop when you get here."

Simon hoped it wasn't too late. That you'd stayed behind to wait for him even though he hadn't answered you. Unlikely, but he tried to remain optimistic, even as he took a moment to collect himself once behind the wheel of his car. That dream...it lingered like a bruise.

The little boy's voice stuttered through rough breaths, "Sh-she said she needs to find M-Maddie, but Maddie's gone, and that she c-can't use Sissy without Maddie. She can't do it w-without trapping more people."

Simon started the car and pulled into the road.

"What do you mean, 'gone'? You mean because Maddie died?" Simon pushed, but the little boy wasn't listening, sobbing about 'him' and 'Sissy' and how they were in danger. Simon grabbed the little boy's face between his palms, soft but firm, and God, his cheeks were so cold. He looked the boy straight in the eye, "What can't 'she' do without trapping more people?"

He rolled down the window to let the fresh air soothe his anxiety.

Eventually, the little boy quieted though tears continued to stream down his face, "She can't have a new body." He said in a little voice. "Now she needs more people because Maddie got away."

And what the gentlest fuck did that mean?

Simon still didn't know who the 'Sissy' and 'him' were that the little boy had referred to. The little boy had been too distressed to divulge their names, talking as if Simon should already know everything. Just 'Sissy' and 'him'. 'Sissy' and 'him' and Maddie and someone named Janet.

Did Simon know a Janet? He wracked his brain, trying to summon the names of everyone in his class who could have a connection to Maddie's death. There was a Jessica and a Jennifer and a Jayden. No Janet.

Then there was the matter of 'she' wanting a new body. Because that was sane. And impossible. Right...? Fuck, what if Maddie's death had been some nutcase's idea of a ritual sacrifice. What if another teenage girl was about to be murdered because, lo and behold, magic isn't real and Maddie just died instead of ceding her body.

The devil on Simon's shoulder quipped, "But ghosts are real," which, fair. If ghosts were real, surely they weren't the only eldritch phenomenon to exist in the world.

Maybe there were cursed mummies or body snatching aliens out there scheming to take over America via its youth. No child left behind. Jesus Christ. Simon was spiraling, brain spitting random images of every creature feature he'd ever seen at him. Had the little boy been trying to warn Simon about mummies? Aliens? Was it aliens!?

As he stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, he stared—definitely too intensely—at the young woman who passed in front of his car. Like he could see straight to her bones and determine whether or not she was really human. The woman picked up her pace, shoulders up, head down, and folded her leather jacket tighter around her.

Don't be suspicious, Simon, he admonished himself, ashamed of his behavior, eyes darting to his lap until the woman was safely on the other side of the road.

"What even is my life anymore?" He wallowed. Ghosts and Mystery Inc. side-quests and pinning crimes on teachers. He felt he'd lived a hundred lifetimes in the last week and was seriously considering becoming a hermit the minute Maddie moved on.

There wouldn't be much reason to stick around after that anyway...

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Mina Volkov hadn't left the theater since 1987. She was a looper. She performed the same tasks every day, from morning to night to morning. She didn't sleep. She didn't eat—except for the paper bag lunch she'd brought with her the day she'd died. She didn't stray. Mina had to make sure that what had happened to her wouldn't happen to someone else.

There was safety in her loop. Not just for the living students she protected through her hard work, but for herself. Her loop allowed her mind to remain clear, focused entirely on the task at hand. She didn't have to think or reflect or question why her soul had lingered after being squashed by a stage light.

Rhonda had called it denial when she'd visited Mina a week after Mina's death. Rhonda had been sizing Mina up, prodding and poking to see how Mina would react.

Mina had simply gone about her safety checks and Rhonda had eventually gotten bored. And had never come back.

Sometimes, her loop veered off-course. Sometimes Mr. Martin came to check on her. Just to say hi. Never to invite her to those stupid meetings he hosted in the gym. The ones Ajay attended and would tell Mina about later when they picnicked on the stage or between kisses in the green room.

She liked Ajay. He was kind and thoughtful, and he respected her loop. He didn't complain when she prioritized double-checking the lighting cables and tightening ropes and cordage for the dropdown scenery. He'd simply sit and talk to her. Recite poetry or passages from books she never intended to read. Ajay was smart. Ajay was handsome. Ajay was...

Ajay was comatose. Slumped on the floor along with the others, his face, like theirs, twisted in anguish. Whatever measures Mina used to wake him up didn't work and she had no idea how to help. But she knew she needed to. Not because New Girl had brought Mina flowers. Or because Hawaiian Shirt Man had caused her so many headaches since the start of the school year and they'd found something to make him stop banging around under the stage. But because Ajay needed Mina to be brave.

He needed help and she was going to help him. Which meant Mina had to leave the theater. She had to find Mr. Martin.

Though Ajay often thought Mina didn't listen when he spoke, he was wrong. She held onto every word like a treasure that she'd tuck away in her heart and savor in the moments she was alone.

Mr. Martin took his privacy in the fallout shelter in the basement. Mina had been there before she'd died. Several times, in fact. It'd been an opening night ritual conducted an hour before curtain. The cast and crew piled downstairs and hid in the fallout shelter to pass around a spliff.

Mina hadn't been responsible back then, not like she was now. She'd partaken because she'd wanted to feel like part of the group when she'd so often felt like an outsider the actors and other crew members made fun of, "for being such an airhead, God, Mina, how many times do I have to repeat myself?"

Standing slowly, Mina regarded the theater door. Her heart slammed against her ribs, palms clammy as she tightened and loosened her fists. A comforting motion to calm her nerves as she stepped carefully to the door and placed her hand on the exit bar.

Mina hadn't left the theater since 1987. But today, she would.

For Ajay.

She spilled into the hall, the world spinning in her panic, and took off at speed to the other side of the school. Down two flights of stairs, through the door that led to the basement.

Most of the basement had been bricked off which had narrowed the hallway, making it feel like a catacomb. Poorly lit and spooky. The fallout shelter was at the far end, directly below the gym. Its door was open as Mr. Martin usually kept it. A practical solution given how regularly he had to come and go during office hours.

It hadn't been his idea originally. No. It'd been hers. The woman currently speaking through the janitor's mouth as she stared Mr. Martin down.

"I've canvased the area and several others every night since that traitorous little bitch escaped." Mr. South stated, "There's no sign of her."

Helplessly, Mr. Martin explained for the second time, "I don't know what you want me to do, Amelia. I've done everything you asked me. But my students need me to keep them present. I must prioritize the shift I noticed in the wakers."

Mr. South—Amelia—snarled, "I agree, Everett, but I'm not asking you to participate in a search and seize. I simply want you to tell me where that conniving piece of shit would have gone! She confided in you, you told me that. So, tell. me. where she's most likely to go!"

Mr. Martin shook his head, a cowardly expression miring his face, "I've told you everything I know, Amelia, please. I've given you her notes, her journal. Every piece of information I had is already in your hands."

Pained, "How have you allowed everything to unravel this much?" Amelia wanted to know

Quite unexpectedly, a frightened voice interrupted from the vault door, "Mr. Martin?"

Mr. Martin whipped his head to the side, his eyes going wide in panic when he saw Mina stood just over the threshold, inside the fallout shelter. What was she doing there?

She looked ashen. Scared. Shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her brown eyes slid away from Mr. Martin's face to rest on Mr. South for a second before returning to Mr. Martin.

Mr. Martin swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, anything to explain why he was mid-conversation with the living school janitor, when suddenly it didn't matter anymore.

Mr. Martin choked as he watched Mina glance down her body. Her chest seared like paper in a candle flame. She looked back up, fear contorting into betrayal, before she quietly burned away into oblivion.

Unable to reconcile what he'd witnessed, Mr. Martin merely stared at the spot Mina had just been standing, expression slack in horror. His chest rose and fell heavily, "Why?" he rasped, and it took every ounce of self-preservation not to lash out.

Behind him, Amelia lowered Mr. South's hand, scoffing, "Oh, don't look so sad, Everett. She didn't feel a thing," but Mr. Martin didn't believe it. Still, he was too intimidated to argue. He knew what Amelia was capable of.

Virtuously, Amelia commented, "You'll have to find me another to replace that one. So, two more, I suppose. I need someone to step in for Janet," A look of distaste, "Since it appears you truly are hopeless at managing things here on your own."

"I—" Can't, but he choked on the word, unwilling to say it aloud.

Amelia rounded on him, beautiful blue eyes flashing in anger, "I gave you everything you wanted, Everett, and, yet you repay me with failure."

"I haven't," Mr. Martin argued weakly.

"Oh? You've forgotten the teacher you let slip out of your grasp when we were so close to securing him. A problem I must now fix." She reminded him, "Don't forget this, you silly, little man. I can take away everything I gave you like this." She snapped her fingers as she stepped closer, Mr. South's nose practically touching Mr. Martin's. "You will do as I tell you, or all your little lambs will be slaughtered and I'll leave you here to rot. Alone."

And then she turned on her heel, her demeanor shifting to breezy and aloof.

"Do it soon. I can't afford any delays." In Mr. South's lumbering body, she picked across the floor like a debutante, "Time is valuable, Everett, especially mine." Then she was out the door and around the corner to return Mr. South's body to the storage room Mr. South used as his office.

Alone in the fallout shelter, Mr. Martin buckled to his knees.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Operating with half his mind still on aliens and mummies, Simon waited in the bus shelter. He was grateful you hadn't left, had responded to the text he'd sent when he'd arrived at the school: "See you in 5," you'd told him. At the metal crack of the side entrance opening, Simon stood up from the bench and faced the school. He frowned when he saw who emerged.

Steps uneven, Xavier exited the school. He stopped when he noticed Simon, stood still like a deer in headlights. Damn, Xavier looked like he'd seen a ghost. Pale and bug eyed and jittery.

They watched each other for a moment. Simon nodded his head in greeting. Xavier didn't return the gesture. Instead, he gazed down at his chest and then followed a trail to Simon's.

With a frightened look, Xavier lifted the hood of his sweater and veered toward the parking lot, skulking off with his head down.

A minute or so later, the door opened again and this time it was you. And Maddie. Together. Followed by a tall guy in a varsity jacket, a girl in a newsboy cap, and a boy with frosted tips wearing a lot of denim. The trio of strangers stayed by the door to watch as you and Maddie—together—approached Simon.

When you and Maddie were within earshot, Simon said, "Okay. What the hell is this?" To Maddie specifically, "How can I see you right now?"

Maddie shrugged, glanced at you, but you just kept your eyes on the ground.

"Not sure." You murmured, voice like air. You at least had the decency to look apologetic when you finally brought your gaze up to meet Simon's.

"So you can see ghosts." Simon stated, irritated.

"So can you." You returned, but your heart wasn't in it. In fact, you seemed as rattled as Xavier had been when he'd come out of the school.

Although he wanted to chew you out for having lied to him, Simon wanted to make sure, "Are you alright?"

His demeanor softened as he took you in. Puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, red nose. You'd been crying. And Simon would never be angry enough to let that trump being there for a friend who needed him. He bundled you into a hug, one hand rubbing your back, and asked Maddie with his eyes what was wrong.

In his periphery, he saw Varsity straighten and move to take a step forward. His friends each grabbed an arm and appeared to shut whatever idea he'd had down because he shifted back before shaking them off.

Urgently, Maddie told Simon they'd discuss everything, "Later," and ushered him back into the bus shelter. He kept an arm slung around your shoulders, a shoulder to lean on, though had to release you when you decided to lean against the interior glass. Simon took what was becoming his usual seat on the concrete base and Maddie folded herself onto the bench.

When neither you nor Maddie spoke, Simon took the lead, "Mr. Anderson totally played us," he began, glancing between you and Maddie. "I mean, the cops are convinced I helped Maddie run away."

Maddie immediately defended, "Seriously? That's—"

"I know. They only let me come back here because I promised I'd get Anderson's phone and turn it in."

You cleared your throat, "Okay, well, before you do that..."

Maddie continued where you trailed off, "I think we might've found something that can help maybe keep the cops off your back." She fished something out of her back pocket and handed it to you which you, in turn, handed to Simon.

Stunned, Simon gawked at the piece of paper, eyes darting between it, you, and Maddie several times before finally resting on the paper. "We're just...not going to acknowledge how insane this is?" He sputtered, flapping the paper to indicate what he meant.

"Just go with it for now, Si." Maddie implored, "Let's take down Mr. Anderson first."

"Yeah," Simon agreed and examined the paper. It was a receipt for new band uniforms.

He pulled out his phone when Maddie informed him he'd have to call the company the receipt was from and punched in the number. As the line connected, Simon cast to the three people at the school entrance. "Quick question, and not to alarm anyone, but who are they?" He asked as he waited for someone to answer the phone.

You and Maddie looked to the three people then at each other, Simon, the three people, each other, and ended with open-mouthed stares at Simon.

"They're dead, aren't they?" Simon deadpanned. You and Maddie nodded. Simon kissed his teeth. "Of course they are."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

After all was said and done, Simon had watched Wally—the tallest of the three ghosts Simon had seen outside—drape his varsity jacket over your shoulders and stamp a kiss to your head. Simon had seen Wally hold you protectively in the wake of Simon's impassioned announcement to the table of Split River High staff.

He'd heard Wally whisper comforting words and stroke your cheek with his thumb and, wow, you hadn't been joking about saving yourself for the hot ghost on campus.

It was a mindfuck, to be sure, but Simon adjusted. Or he was in shock. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.

Wally had mentioned to the group at large as they huddled in the hallway that he and Charley—denim on denim—had needed to go lest Mr. Martin—whoever that was—get suspicious of their absence at Movie Night. Which could've been dead dove, do not eat, or could've been ghost code for watching the living go to the bathroom.

"Dude, we don't do that." Wally had cringed, offended.

Charley had raised his brows in consideration, "Well, not all of us."

Afterward, you, Simon, and Maddie had holed away in a classroom to watch Mr. Anderson be escorted into the back of a squad car. In a line at the window. Discussing in solemn tones what you and Maddie had seen in the theater. How it related to Mr. Anderson. How whoever was behind Maddie's death—no, not-death, Simon emended, since you'd brought him up to speed. How whoever was behind Maddie's missing body could be literally anyone.

That was if Maddie's circumstances were related to the terrors you and she had experienced in the theater earlier.

"What do you think's gonna happen?" Maddie asked faintly as she watched the deputy close the back door of the squad car.

"He'll be questioned," Simon said. "Probably arrested."

Angry, Maddie replied, "But not for abduction. Not for bodily injury." A weighted pause. "I swear to God, if he did this to me over some stupid band uniforms..."

His voice tinged with hope, "Maybe he'll confess."

"Or," Maddie offered the alternative, "You'll hand that phone over to the cops and we'll never know who he was working with. Or why he said he gave me money... I'll never know what really happened to me."

Maddie turned. As soon as she settled against the windowsill, you shuffled closer to her and put a supportive arm around her shoulders. Fuck if that didn't make Simon's heart ache. He wanted so badly to be the one to do that for her. To be there for her. To comfort her.

"We'll figure it out, Mads." You reassured, though you still looked haunted. You glanced over your shoulder, watched the flashing lights until they faded and then sighed. "This is going to sound awful right now, but..."

"You don't think Mr. Anderson has anything to do with me. Do you." Maddie said, and closed her eyes against the fact that there was so much more at play now. After the theater, it seemed Maddie agreed.

You shook your head apologetically, "I don't."

"And that's not just because he's your uncle's friend?" Simon ventured, studying you closely.

You shook your head, "No. I swear, Simon, I really think Mr. Anderson and whatever's actually going on are two separate things."

Simon believed you.

"Whatever he's involved in, maybe it'll bring us one step closer to what actually happened. We can't rule it out." He implored as he gazed between you and Maddie.

It couldn't be for nothing that they stumbled upon Mr. Anderson's secret. He might not have been involved in hurting Maddie or relocating her body without her in it, but he'd given her money for something.

"At least for now," Maddie said, gazing up at Simon, "some of the heat will be off you."

Her words struck Simon's soul. After everything she'd been through, she cared about what happened to him, and it made him yearn to show her how much that meant to him. Seeing you in Wally's varsity jacket gave him an idea. Slowly, he peeled off his sweater and hung it over the back of a chair. It wasn't enough, but at least he could do this.

"What are you doing?" Maddie asked.

Voice rough with emotion, Simon said, "I was thinking... I can't hug you, but my sweater can."

You pushed away from the window and positioned yourself between Maddie and Simon, voice pitched just as low as Simon's as if not wanting to disturb the somber atmosphere that had befallen the classroom.

"I can do you one better." You said with a small smile and placed one hand on Maddie's shoulder. Your held out your other hand to Simon which he took, curious as to what you were going to do. It seemed Maddie knew because she came closer and then—God—she wrapped her arms around Simon and held him tight.

Without a second thought, Simon returned her embrace with his free arm, putting everything he had into it. All the grief, all the solace, all the love. He hiccupped a weak sound of overwhelm and pulled Maddie as close to himself as he could. She felt warm. Alive. Like she was right there in her body.

With wet eyes, Simon peeked up at you, "Thank you."

"You're my friend, Simon." You said easily, "I'd do anything for you in a heartbeat."

He dragged you into the hug; you and he and Maddie holding each other, leaning on each other, needing each other. And for that small segment of time, the weight of the world didn't feel so heavy.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Everette Martin had always needed to be needed. Something he'd been denied in life.

His parents had never supported him, teaching a job for women, not men. The school had let him go due to a rumor that another teacher circulated when she'd caught him outside of school and misunderstood that he'd been helping a student. His fiancé had turned her back on him because she couldn't 'see a future' with him anymore as a result.

All he'd ever wanted was for people to look to him for guidance, accept his help, rely on him. Life had been a disappointment.

In death, however, he thrived.

He loved his students like his own. He knew Amelia had her reasons for collecting them. She'd framed it as a gift. Allowed Mr. Martin to nurture them so long as he stuck to a short list of rules. Rules he agreed to because, if he didn't follow them, his students would inevitably leave him just as everyone else had.

Yes, Everett knew Amelia had something sinister up her sleeve, likely involving his students, but it'd already been 65 years and nothing had happened, so he assumed her plans didn't involve him or them. That she needed them simply to exist within the school to keep it sick. The presence of lingering death has that effect on a place, Amelia had chuckled prettily.

Amelia's powers were connected to the sickness in the land, and to maintain them, Everett had to maintain the status quo amongst the school's ghosts. A job he took seriously as well as reveled in.

He was so proud of them all, even the loopers. Such a contrast of personalities somehow finding common ground in the afterlife. It was marvelous to behold how they sparked friendships they probably wouldn't have had in life.

Especially Rhonda. Her death had turned her sour and Everett had had to be extra patient with her. At least she continued to join the Group sessions, and had made friends in Charley and Wally. Anything else, though, was a hard sell. She stubbornly refused to participate in activities unless they resulted in chaos and drama.

Which was why Everett was surprised when Rhonda marched into the gym and pulled up a seat.

It wasn't the first unusual thing Everett had noticed of his Group that night. He had the sense that something felt off. Ajay had been morose when he'd entered, but Bernadette and Katelynn had puppy piled him on the stack of gym mats and were comforting him with cuddles.

Always upbeat and charismatic Wally had been reserved until halfway through the film. Perhaps he was truly taken by Demi Moore's performance, though Everett suspected there was more to it.

Charley hadn't made any sarcastic comebacks to Everett's purposefully cheesy jokes about the film before he'd played it, either. Studying Charley and Wally, Everett had entertained the idea that the two had had a falling out. Teenagers were fickle beings. Even those in their forties and fifties.

Of course, Everett could be seeing things that weren't there. Reading too much into every small shift in behavior because he'd been on edge since Amelia's impromptu visit. A shiver ran through him, cold as ice, as he recalled what he'd witnessed and what he'd been ordered to do.

Banishing the memory, he forced a smile to his face, "Rhonda. You usually boycott movie night."

Rhonda stiffened in her seat, gaze fixed determinedly on the screen even if it seemed to go against every value she'd upheld up to that point.

"Is everything alright?" He probed when she didn't say anything.

Rhonda took her time to answer, but eventually, "I've been here for sixty years. Sixty graduations," She explained, jaw tense, as if her words were being forced out of her.

Rhonda rarely shared and, when she did, she'd smother the sentiment beneath myriad barbed wire remarks and threatening stares so no one examined what she'd revealed too closely.

As Rhonda disclosed what had motivated her to join Movie Night, Everett heard Amelia's voice in his head, "I need someone to step in for Janet."

"—I've made my peace with it because nothing changes...but now..." Everett listened, giving Rhonda his full, undivided attention. Rhonda didn't elaborate on how her views had shifted, rather redirecting to claim, "I know I'm not always a joiner but," her voice was raw, "I gotta get outta here."

She was outright doing her damnedest to hold back tears and it shook Everett to his core. The sight made Mina's image flash in his mind, the pain and fear in her eyes as she'd silently begged him to help her before being disintegrated into nothingness.

When Rhonda admitted, "I'm willing to try anything," Everett was brought back to the present, Mina fading from his mind.

What Rhonda said next made his smile falter, a pang of regret in his heart. He wasn't sure how he felt about 'replacing Janet'. He had a vague understanding of what Amelia had been doing with Janet and it unsettled him.

But, there was nothing else for it, his hand forced, because Amelia would find a way, with or without him, and without him could potentially be brutal.

It was easier when the participants were willing. But Rhonda needed to say it right. She needed to mean it without Everett's direct interference.

And, just like that, she did.

He ignored how his gut wrenched as he heard Rhonda speak into the ether, "So, whatever you did to help Janet, I want in."

He felt Rhonda's words vibrate through the veil. He forced another smile. However, turning back to the screen, his smile faded completely as Mina's final moments crowded his mind again. The fear. The helplessness. One of his students...gone.

His conscience kicked and screamed and berated him. Challenged him. Brought his face right up to the hundreds of mistakes he'd made leading up to Mina's permanent erasure from all planes of existence.

Everett had had no choice, a milder, more detached part of him reminded, and it was too late to undo what'd already been done. If he wished to continue guiding his students—teaching them, guiding them—he had to stay the course.

With that in mind, he offered Rhonda his bowl of popcorn and told her, "I'm glad to hear it."

💀___________fin.____________

PART TWENTY-SIX - OCTOBER MOON

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Simon had wondered what any of it had meant. Maddie's death, why he'd been the only one who could see her. And then he'd learned that, perhaps, everything that had happened...it hadn't been about him or Maddie at all.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.25

A roaring white noise erupted in the theater, smothering all other sounds. A TV static howl that seemed to come from within your own head, building and building until it was unbearable. You slapped your hands over your ears, gritted your teeth, pulse thundering almost as loud as the unnatural noise in your ears.

Muffled as if through cotton fluff, you heard someone yell, "What's happening!?" but no more than that, the voice swept away by the bellow. You lifted your head away from Xavier's shoulder and turned your body as much as you could within the tight band of his arms. Where the trapdoor should be, rising like a nightmare from its grave, the farmhouse door materialized in the middle of the stage. Your eyes widened in horror as the familiar screams from behind it began to gnash at the edges of the noise like teeth, "STOP! COME BACK! STOP! LET ME OUT!!"

You cast around, saw Maddie and Wally huddled together, Charlie tucked between two rows of seats, Ajay shielding Mina with his body, and Rhonda with her arms crossed in front of her face as the noise crashed through the theater like a physical force; a tempest of rage and violence that pierced the veil. The ground and walls shook, windows rattled, a stage light fell and smashed on the stage. The quake vibrated through your bones, motivated you to act, but you couldn't move. Xavier clung to you both protectively and in terror, his eyes pleading as he seemed to figure out what you planned to do. He trembled, fingertips bruising into your flesh through your sweater.

You'd never seen him so scared. Not once. Not ever.

Driven by adrenaline, "I'm sorry," you shoved Xavier off you, spun and rose in one fluid motion, and charged at speed down the center aisle toward the stage. The wind was sharp and stinging, pieces of glass and metal from the shattered stage light picked up and whipped about, but you didn't stop. Hurdled into it. Leapt onto the stage. Close, so close. Hand extended, fingers brushing the knob, about to brace against it to keep the monsters from escaping.

The door ruptured at its center, fragments of wood bursting outward and immediately captured by the storm. The force of the sudden explosion sent you sailing backward, followed by a tsunami of blinding, iridescent light that fell from the breach in the door and reached toward you. Cold. Clutching. You barely made out your name being shouted in varying degrees of desperate concern and fear. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Because as soon as you landed, hard—enough to knock the air from your lungs into your throat and choke you—the world shifted on its axis and went black.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question 1.

Why did Frankenstein create the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon lay in bed and stared at the ceiling above him, cracked and pillowed, a yellow-brown rash bloomed in patterns that he tracked in meditative circles with his eyes. He needed to shower, he thought dully. He hadn't had time that morning before being chauffeured to the station for another damning interrogation by Deputies Hayes and Stewart.

"Where is she, Elroy? Where's Maddie?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to us, kid, it'll only make things worse for you."

"I'm not lying, I don't kn—"

"God dammit, quit playing dumb!"

"That's enough," Mrs. Grace had snapped before Stewart's jaw had shut with an audible click. "Without substantiated evidence, this is all hearsay. Simon has given you everything he knows in his statement. Unless you intend to further make fools of yourselves, we're leaving."

Simon needed to get up. Get up. Get up. Get. Up.

He didn't move. Couldn't; his limbs grafted to his sheets, muscles like stone, bones elastic. His back was sore, his skin ached and he wanted to move around, stretch the discomfort out of his body, but...he didn't. Instead, he kept staring at the ceiling as the morning looped in his mind. Questions and suppositions, two manilla folders, one map, and then a tense drive home where he'd felt little-boy scared of his parents—his father—for the first time in years, their disappointment and anger palpable in the tight confines of the car.

Simon had been shown Maddie's file. A couple of graphic photographs that looked staged for a prime-time procedural drama. His best friend's blood splattered on the boiler room wall, evidence of the pain and torture she'd incurred when she'd been killed. Murdered in the bowels of the school while Simon had been three floors up in homeroom, bored and bleary-eyed, dozing on his backpack, mentally preparing for a night at the APEX with a group he felt a little on the outskirts of.

"Fuck." He choked, eyes stinging, rubbing over them with his wrist.

The photographs were seared into his retinas; there even when he tried to distract himself or ignore them or pretend that Maddie was still within reach and not one resolution away from vanishing forever.

Blood. Her blood. From a swing so violent that it'd projected onto the wall when the weapon had been hitched for another strike. How many blows had been delivered before Maddie's eyes had dimmed and her breath had stopped? His stomach lurched, but still, Simon didn't move.

The deputies thought Maddie was out there. Not enough blood on the scene to warrant a murder investigation, Stewart had informed Simon as if suggesting that Simon and Maddie might've tried to fake her death so no one would look for her. It was half-assed and ridiculous. Even Hayes seemed to think so, though she wouldn't have admitted it aloud.

Desperate to repress the images, Simon tried to remember the other file he'd been shown. The deputies insisted the cases were linked: Maddie's "escape" and a string of break-ins that spanned two neighborhoods that would've been one if it weren't for a railway track splitting it down the middle like a stapled wound. Simon had recognized the first immediately. Riverden Heights. A low-income area that had been chosen by the town council for regentrification, spearheaded by none other than Claire Zomer's stepfather.

The other, Warren Meadow, had taken him a moment to recognize, but when he did, it'd been a feat to conceal his surprise. He'd been there the night he'd found Mr. Anderson's stash, sat on a swing in the play park behind the house you called home.

What did it mean?

As he pondered the possibilities, a crisp gust of wind coasted over him, disturbing the curtains and ruffling the posters on his walls. At last, he moved, prompted to investigate because he was sure he'd closed it. He swallowed thickly, tense, heartbeat ratcheting up a notch. Propped on a hand, he looked in confusion and dread at his, yeah, closed window.

A slow, eerie creak snapped his attention toward his closet, the door open a sliver when he knew that, too, had been closed. The darkness within seemed even blacker than was natural. Inexplicable. Otherworldly. A shiver ran down his spine. Similar to the feeling he'd had when he'd caught Maddie's reflection in the classroom window on Monday.

The floorboards squeaked when he stood. Simon took one cautious step after another, muscles flexed, not prepared at all for an attack but willing to be brave.

Two. Three. Four. Five steps. His chest was tight. Hands shaking. Breathing shallow. As he hooked his fingers on the door to open it further, it started. The sound was faint and he had to strain to hear it, but it was unmistakable. Wet and rattled, punctuated by thick sniffles.

Someone was crying.

Someone was crying in Simon's closet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Rhonda remained couched, braced against the wild, unholy wind until, bit by bit, she realized it'd stopped. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in shock, collapsing forward onto her hands. The world around her had changed; the theater was replaced by a span of paved ground enclosed by a chain-link fence, painted games bright against the black asphalt. A tingle crept down from her scalp to her nape, goosebumps pebbled her arms, and she panned her head to glance over her shoulder.

Panicked, she spun, landed on her ass, shoving herself backward with her feet to put distance between herself and the eerily suspended door. The void at its center flickered. It felt like a black hole trying to drag her into oblivion.

Rhonda flipped over and pushed herself up. Ran. Ran harder and faster than she'd ever done in life or death. Down the side of the building she'd found herself behind to skid around the corner and come to an abrupt stop.

She turned this way and that, disoriented, chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to suck in enough air to keep her upright.

"What the hell is happening?" She wheezed, every alarm in her brain going off at once as she began to process her surroundings: Outdoors. Too dark for how early she felt it should be, the air thin and cold, biting, and the sky obscured by a dense layer of gunmetal grey clouds. It was raining in sheets so thick Rhonda could barely make out the line of British inspired maisonettes on the opposite side of the street. "Where—?"

She cut herself off when the wide, double-door entrance to the building opened, releasing a soft glow from within that illuminated the pathway ahead of it. Children in raincoats and rubber boots bounced down the front steps, giggling as they jumped and splashed through puddles on their way to join clusters of adults who waited under umbrellas on the sidewalk.

"No. Fucking. Way." Rhonda walked toward the pathway, jaw slack, gaze fixed on the words etched into the stonework. She nearly tripped over her own feet, only just managing to correct herself as she turned fully toward the building.

Adelaide Meheive Schoolhouse for Boys.

The brick and mortar was as old as Split River itself, named after one of the town founders' wives. The school had been reestablished as Adelaide Meheive Elementary in the early '40s, ten years before Rhonda's family had moved from rural town Romania to Wisconsin. Rhonda had still been curious then, unjaded and excited and eager to learn. Her fourth grade desk had been right there, beside that window. Where she'd daydreamed as she'd stared at the houses across the street and had wondered what it'd been like to live somewhere so unlike her own home in the low-income district that bordered the factories.

Pressure stuffed her nose, her vision blurred, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the memory, instantly missing her parents, her sisters, her grandmother in a way she hadn't in countless years. Unfortunately, she didn't have more than a moment to grapple with it before her attention was forced back to the school's entrance.

Two figures emerged, one was small, obviously a child. A little boy, Rhonda discerned, with a Spiderman backpack and rainboots to match. The second was taller, slender, the hood of their sweater up so it concealed their face. They hauled the little boy by the hand as they complained, "Come on, stop messing around, I want to go home," as the little boy kept trying to gleefully splash his way through every puddle on his way to the front gate.

A spike of foreboding shot through Rhonda as she watched the pair.

She found herself trailing after them as they turned onto the sidewalk. That sense of unease continued to worsen, churning in her stomach like a bad premonition. Although it felt like every other bad gut feeling she'd experienced in her young life, it was somehow distinguished. And when the taller figure got so frustrated by the little boy that they pushed their hood off and threatened, "I'm so serious right now, I will leave you here and tell mom you ran away," Rhonda was once again stunned into stillness.

The taller figure was a girl, no older than eleven or twelve with features identical to ones Rhonda had seen mere moments before the theater had turned into a category 5 hurricane zone. Your hair was longer and your face was rounder, softer, yet you looked exactly as you had when Rhonda had joked about getting Wally a new wardrobe.

You began to tug the little boy along again, your foul temper tween-girl extreme to the extent Rhonda questioned whether or not it was really you. Regardless of whether or not it was, Rhonda decided, she needed help, needed an explanation. Where the fuck was she? When the fuck was she? How did she get here?

"Hey!" Rhonda yelled after you, "Wait!"

You didn't notice Rhonda. In fact, she was entirely nonexistent to you as you yanked and heaved Aiden every single step forward. He enjoyed being a pain in your ass, always elbowing his way into every sleepover, usurping attention, whining until you gave in and put on movies for babies because he didn't like what you and Xavier and Hana wanted to watch.

You'd already been grumpy when your mom had called to ask that you collect Aiden from school on your way home, consumed by thoughts of Xavier and Hana ditching you to hang out with another couple because, apparently, that's what boyfriends and girlfriends did.

Your face twisted in displeasure, jealousy seeping into your veins like toxic sludge as you barked again, "Aiden, come. on. Stop it!"

Xavier and Hana hadn't even kissed on the mouth yet, you grouched internally. Plus, they were still going to Dave & Buster's with Mrs. Baxter like all three of you did. As a group. Every Friday since 1st Grade. It wasn't fair that just because you didn't want to be kissed or have some gross boy who smelled like B.O. hold your hand like that, you weren't allowed to go too.

The rain came down harder, thunder rumbled overhead and lightning cracked across the sky. Aiden continued to resist, stomping in and out of the stream that flowed along the curb. Stupid mom being held up at work. Stupid Aurora being at university. Stupid Andrew for being away. And stupid, stupid Aiden, not listening to you when you were obviously in a bad mood.

"Aiden!" You yelled, tugging him back onto the sidewalk, "I said stop it!"

Your clothes were drenched, your limbs were frozen, and all you wanted to do was go home, rant to Nanna, and have her comfort you and tell you to forget Xavier and Hana and their dumb relationship had ever happened. Just as you were contemplating how upset your mom would be if you abandoned Aiden right then and there, you heard a car pull up behind you and a male voice call, "Hey, can I give you a ride?"

Rhonda stopped when she saw the car stop. More specifically, when she saw the face of the man behind the wheel. She didn't recognize him and he looked normal enough. Buzzed, military brown hair and a friendly smile and eyes that crinkled charmingly at the corners. Rhonda moved to peek into the open passenger window, squinting at him. Despite how normal he appeared, there was something inside her soul, a niggling feeling that made her gums itch, that told her that the man's aura was several shades of wrong.

Clumsily, she reared back and turned to urge you, "Don't go with him," as that prickly sense of unease increased, blaring like an air raid siren in her brain. Rhonda couldn't tell if you were familiar with the man and decided quickly that it didn't matter, "I know we aren't exactly besties," She said, standing directly in front of you now, "But you have to listen to me."

You looked right through her.

Leaning across the console was a man wearing a uniform like your dad's, his face familiar though you couldn't quite place it. Your grip tightened around Aiden's hand and you narrowed your eyes at him. A thousand and one speeches had been delivered throughout your life on the subject of which strangers are good and which are bad. And random men in cars were at the top of the bad list.

"You don't remember me?" The man chuckled and then explained, "We met at the barbeque on base. I'm Christopher." He raised an amused eyebrow, "You got me with your water gun a few times."

Rhonda's gaze ricocheted between you and Christopher as you hesitated, tilted your head, and chewed your lip, studying Christopher like a Wanted poster. That nagging feeling in Rhonda's gut swelled into a sick panic when the tension bled out of your shoulders, showing signs of finally recalling who Christopher was.

"Oh yeah," You grinned and stepped closer. Christopher was in the same unit as your dad. He'd been at the barbeque with his wife and daughter, the latter having hung out with you and Xavier all afternoon while the adults drank beer and got rowdy. "Xavier pushed you in the pool."

Christopher snorted and hung his head in mock shame, "That's me."

Rhonda shook her head, her mind screaming at her to stop you from going with him. That if you did, all the happiness and joy and pure, unconditional love in the world would be snuffed out as easily as the flame of a candle. Rhonda had felt similarly when Mr. Manfredo's demeanor had shifted in the split second before he'd revealed his true colors.

"Don't go with him," She repeated, trying and failing to grab your hand, shoulder, face, anything. But her hands kept missing, sliding away, your energy and hers two like poles that would never connect. "You need to listen to me!"

You smiled down at Aiden, "A ride would be great, right Aid?"

Aiden wasn't paying attention, staring off into space. He did that whenever you asked him to stop being annoying. Acted like he hadn't heard you or that you weren't there. Glaring at him, you repeated the question, only for Aiden to tug your hand so you had to bend to his level to hear him.

"What?" You demanded under your breath.

Aiden whispered, "I don't think we should go with him."

Relief flooded through Rhonda, however, it was short-lived.

You rolled your eyes, "Seriously, Aiden?" God, could he just not? For once, one time, could he be on your side instead of making everything difficult? You knew he was complaining just so he could keep splashing in the puddles, but you were over the wet and the rain and the cold.

Aiden stubbornly stared into space again—stared at Rhonda—and refused to budge until you poked him in the cheek. He reluctantly dragged his eyes to yours, looking up at you with a pout, "I don't want to, Sissy." Lip wobbly, brow furrowed. The same expression he pinched his face into when you refused to let him use your Switch.

You heaved a careworn sigh and put your hands on your knees as you spoke to him, forcing your voice to a sensitive register, "How about this: If you get in the car, I'll make you mac 'n' cheese with chicken nuggets when we get home. Alright?"

Rhonda lurched forward, "No no no!" She begged you to change your mind, to hear what Aiden was trying to tell you, her voice strangled, throat closing. "Don't!"

Aiden chewed his lip as he considered your proposal, eyes on the ground. At last, with an apologetic glance into the middle distance, he nodded. It was a small gesture, almost disappointed, and he mumbled, "Okay."

You grinned and hugged him, praising him for listening to you as you opened the car door and helped him into the backseat. Once he scooched over, you climbed in after him, thanked Christopher for his kindness, and made Aiden do the same.

"Thanks," Aiden muttered, staring at his lap, looking for all the world like he'd just been told he wasn't allowed dessert ever again.

Though she knew it was useless, Rhonda bodily flung herself at the car when you closed the door, banging and slapping the window with her palms until they stung bright red. "Don't! You have to get out! GET. OUT!"

You buckled your seatbelt, then Aiden's, and the car pulled away.

Rhonda stumbled into the street, shouting after you. Her hands gripped her head in panic, pulse racing. She watched the car stop at the corner and saw Aiden rise to peer out of the back window, chubby hand up as if he was waving goodbye. The emotion in his big, green eyes—

She inhaled sharply. Without any doubt, Rhonda understood that she'd just witnessed a child's future turn to ash. And she felt in her bones that Aiden knew it, too.

"Come back." She begged, tight and weak. Then, with everything she had in her, "COME BACK!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, an ominous creak drew her attention behind her. The farmhouse door. The deep, black void at its center. Eyes wide in fright, she shifted to run after the car but didn't get even a step before the blackness shot out, wrapped around her arms and legs, and wrenched her into its depths. The door slammed closed and disappeared.

In the backseat of the car, you asked Aiden, "What're you looking at?" when he continued to stare out of the rear window. You peeked over the seat in confusion, not seeing anything worth that much scrutiny.

Aiden slowly slid his gaze to meet yours and what you saw in them made your stomach twist, the look in them far too old for a six-year-old boy. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to brush it off, fixing Aiden in his seat after he'd lowered himself to sit properly.

"Nothing," Aiden responded, tone solemn. He began to draw a little stick figure in the condensation on the window, and then an upright rectangle with curly cues coming out of it.

You watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling uneasy. "You sure?"

Aiden nodded.

You wouldn't have believed him anyway.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Two.

Does Frankenstein learn from his mistake in creating the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You roused in pained stages, groaning as you hoisted yourself onto your hands and knees. The world was spinning, vision cloudy for a moment before the room settled around you. The damp and dark didn't feel right against you, pushing in from all corners like pressure in the depths of the ocean. Heaving a breath, you wobbled to your feet, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Even in the thin light filtering through the high windows, you recognized that, wherever you were, it wasn't the theater.

"Wally?!" You called out, "Maddie!?"

No answer.

"...anyone?"

It took a minute for your eyes to adjust. The space was wide and empty, the ceiling low, walls exposed slabs of thick stone. A cellar, you realized, stepping carefully across the packed dirt floor. Faded Persian carpets had been placed down in the center; thinner, longer ones like runners led from the base of the polished wood steps to the back wall, the tail end of the last carpet disappearing beneath the stone.

"Where am I?" You wondered, glancing about.

A few items of furniture stood against the wall directly opposite the staircase. A tall, fat cabinet with glass windows that displayed a variety of trinkets that reminded you of curiosities Victorian nobles had collected to be admired by their unworldly peers. Beside it was a sarcophagus, Egyptian-inspired but certainly not original. It was far too dark, menacing, the face demonic with ruby eyes that seemed to burn from within.

You kept a wide berth around it, its aura unsettling. Like walking into a forest after nightfall with no flashlight.

On the other side of the cabinet were wrought iron hooks nailed into the stone, neat rows of ten across, seven down. Most of them were bare, though a few still held gruesomely painted masks in the Venetian style. Some with long, pointed noses; others more feminine.

"What the hell is this place?" You murmured to yourself as you reached out to run your fingers delicately down the smooth nose of one of the masks.

It felt familiar. The exposed beams, the packed dirt floor, the draft that chilled you to the bone. You followed the runners to the back wall, turned, looked out the window above you. Twisty, naked branches speared the sky, a large gap in the middle where...where the road... Oh, God.

Your breath caught and you began to feel queasy, bile burning the back of your throat. This wasn't just any cellar. It was the farmhouse cellar. The place you'd been when you learned exactly how many minutes it took for a human body to die.

The room swam as your vision blurred and all at once, you doubled over, retching into the dirt, swaying on weak legs when it was over. Breath after breath felt like ice as you tried to get air into your lungs, your heart to calm down, your head to stop spinning.

"It's not possible," You choked, collapsing against the wall, "I shouldn't be here, this isn't right." You sank to the floor, completely devoid of energy in the wake of your realization. As if the darkness had sucked it all out. You sat there for minutes that dragged into each other, hitched little inhales and drawn, stuttered exhales. "I want to go home," You whimpered, but there was no one around to hear you.

In that instant, voices rose and the floorboards above creaked under the weight of several people. Panicked, you shot to your feet, casting about for something to protect yourself. Nothing good had ever happened in this farmhouse, you knew, and you doubted that now would be any different.

There was nothing. And when you tried to open the cabinet, a taser-like shock jolted through your arm and knocked you backward onto the floor. You didn't have time to question it, the door above opening—that door, the door, the one that had haunted you for six years—and the voices getting closer.

"Surely, Lord McNair, you jest. A stablehand!" A woman's voice spoke, sounding giddy as much as disturbed. "How on earth did that happen?"

A deep, male voice answered, that of Lord McNair assumedly, "I haven't a clue, Liza." He sounded dismayed, "He took off with all the money and my daughter, the wretched bastard." A pause before he growled, "I tell you, never trust a Clark."

"Certainly not." Liza agreed. "I had two in my employ, sisters. Irish though they weren't Catholic, and I wish I had known such an important detail before I had Beaty hire the little rats. They stole the diamonds right off one of my necklaces. Had they the fear of God in them, they wouldn't have done so."

"And they were Clarks?" A new voice asked, another male, though thick with an accent you could only describe as South Asian.

Liza answered, "Indeed. You'll have to be careful during your visit, Your Excellency. The poor have become a problem in recent years, I'm afraid."

You listened with half an ear as you scouted for a place to tuck yourself into. The sarcophagus was latched and the effort it would take to break the lock off would be both too loud and too obvious. You searched along the walls, in the shadowy corners. The best place would've been under the stairs but a large cord of chopped wood had been piled in front of the space.

The footsteps got closer as the group descended, talking amongst themselves. Swallowing thickly, you pressed yourself against the side of the cabinet, crouched beneath the rows of hooks, hands over your mouth to muffle your harried breathing.

A strange sensation passed through the cellar as the group stepped one by one onto the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. The air stilled and the shadows seemed to part for the group as they moved across the space. A man held out his hand to help a woman down her final few steps and then escorted her with her arm through his. The next man did the same for the next woman, and then the third man for the third woman.

All were dressed elegantly, the men in tuxedos with white ties and polished boots, and the women in beaded dresses that fell past their knees, gloves to above their elbows, and furs around their shoulders.

"It's truly wonderful that you were able to attend at last, Your Excellency," A new voice said, female, heavily accented. Eastern European, you believed, "My husband and I have been eager to introduce you to the leader of tonight's gathering."

"I appreciate it immensely, Lady Rose," His Excellency replied, "I was delighted to have received the invitation."

The sound of the men and women nearing made your pulse rush like a roar in your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut, turned to tuck yourself as close as you could to the wall, back against the cabinet, pleading that you wouldn't be found.

Closer. Closer. The footsteps and voices were right above you now.

"Here you are, Raj" Lord McNair said pleasantly as he claimed one of the nosed masks and handed it to His Excellency. "Your lovely bride can help you attach it, I'm sure."

With big, terrified eyes, you watched Lord McNair remove another mask, one without a nose, and hand it to the woman beside His Excellency. And no one—your brow furrowed—seemed to notice you. Not even the slightest acknowledgment that you existed.

You didn't want to push your luck, staying put with your hand remaining clapped across your mouth. However, you couldn't stop yourself from glancing up at the faces of the group gathered in front of you, helping each other tie the ribbons of the masks at the backs of their heads.

His Excellency turned around after helping his bride with her mask and you almost collapsed in shock.

"Ajay!?" You said before thinking about the consequences. You rose quickly and stumbled forward, attempting to clasp your hands around his forearms as he fiddled with the ribbon on the nosed mask he held. "Ajay, where are we? What's happening?" But...your hands passed right through him, his image distorting, coming apart like whisps of smoke before letting in again. "A-Ajay?"

With a strained whine, you studied his face and the longer you stared, the less he looked like Ajay. The resemblance, as uncanny as it was, was only that. A resemblance. And, furthermore, Not-Ajay, it appeared, couldn't see you. Couldn't hear you. In fact, none of the men and women paid you any mind whatsoever. To them, you were as real as a ghost.

"Fuck." The word punched out of you as you staggered back. The faces that hadn't been covered were eerily identical to ones you knew until you stared too long. Rhonda. Ajay. Maddie. And then the resemblances faded and left behind just the most subtle of like features. "What's happening?"

You were going crazy. Trapped in a nightmare of your own making after you couldn't keep the farmhouse door closed. God only knew where the others were. If the light that had ripped out from behind the farmhouse door had trapped them too. If they were experiencing the same thing. Or worse.

"Come along, Liza dear, we're already behind schedule." Lord McNair remarked, holding out his arm for her to take. He led the group to the back of the cellar, following the line of carpets before he paused at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, you trailed after them, observant though feeling faint as you tried to accept that you might never make it out of whatever coma or conjuring the farmhouse door had unleashed.

If this was a nightmare, you thought, there was only one way out. You had to see it through to the end.

You saw Lord McNair produce a pen-shaped piece of silver from his pocket. Sleek, smooth, nondescript, and rather unremarkable until Lord McNair pushed it tip-first into a tiny hole in the mortar that you never would've noticed on your own. When it was halfway in, you heard a heavy clank of metal then stone scraped against stone. Your jaw dropped as part of the wall sunk inward and then moved aside, revealing a steep stairwell carved into the rock, lit by a line of low-burning torches.

The group herded into the stairwell, continuing their conversation, the men attentive to the women as they descended down down down into whatever was below the farmhouse cellar. The stairs were uneven, some tall, some short, and you briefly marveled at the ease the men and women ahead of you exhibited as they gracefully carried themselves to the bottom of the staircase.

As soon as you entered the space below, you staggard in your steps. A shock of pitch black energy crowded against you, the same as what you'd felt when you'd put your hand to the tree last night. Dark and sinister. Evil.

It took a moment for you to gather yourself, and once you had, you stepped further into the space. What lay beyond the staircase took you aback. The sheer extravagance was so out of place for where you were.

The narrow walls on either side of the staircase opened into a massive cavern that had been structured and decorated to mimic a European palace. Italian marble floors, a grand fireplace with detailed carvings in the wood of the mantle, portraits of aristocratic men and women kitted in ceremonial costume.

Your attention lingered on the portraits. The subjects seemed to be related, some more distant than others, but they all shared the same piercing blue eyes and severe expressions. Ginger to auburn to mahogany hair. Sharp jaws and smooth skin. Not a wrinkle or blemish in sight.

The clothes were ceremonial as was usually the case when the rich were painted, but they were also...religious. In a way you had a difficult time putting your finger on. Not typical of the Abrahamic religions or Dharmic or Taoic. More Pagan. Celtic or Nordic, you weren't sure, but definitely Pagan.

The subjects wore cloaks and were ornamented with etched daggers and wooden laurels bent and shaped into antlers, and identical broaches pinned under the notches of their collars. Large, silver things with a symbol you'd seen in the pages of a book housed in your family's library. Three interlocking spirals. A triskele.

A tinkling sound, fine metal tapped on hollow crystal, echoed through the cavern, a man's voice calling out to announce, "Welcome all!"

You turned, gaze searching the crowd of what you guessed was about seventy people, one for every hook in the cellar above.

They stood in a semi-circle facing you though their focus was on the man who spoke. You couldn't see much of him since he had his back to you, poised proudly in front of the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered yet lithe, and had hair that had clearly once been blond though was turning grey.

"I am overjoyed that so many of you could join us on such a momentous occasion."

"Hear, hear!" The crowd exclaimed, lifting in unison their champagne coupes.

"My only regret is that my lovely wife seems to have gotten lost."

The crowd tittered at what you figured was meant to be a joke. Stepping closer, you tried to get a better look at the man, wanted to see if, like the men and women who you'd followed down here, he held any resemblance to someone you knew. Together, the crowd's focus shifted to something behind the man. He turned, a wide smile spreading across the part of his face that wasn't covered by his mask.

You went completely still as his eyes settled on you through the holes in his mask. They were striking; bright seafoam green that within them held a wisdom and respect that transcended time. You shivered as those eyes, far too old for the face they belonged to, burned through you, heart hammering behind your ribs.

Slowly, the man reached out his free hand, smile softening, and said, "Ah, there you are," in a quiet tone.

Private.

Just for you.

"We've been waiting."

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FOUR - PART TWENTY-SIX

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Moon

summary: it'd been time to do something you'd known would have to be done. but you hadn't been sure you'd been ready. Wally hadn't been in support of it, though he'd understood. mostly, he hadn't wanted you to have to rely on Xavier...but questions had needed answering and it'd been the only way.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.8

You were snuggled against Wally, back to front, between his legs on the floor at the back of the library. It was still too early on a Monday morning to worry about being caught sitting at a strange angle with air at your back, though, frankly, you were too tired to care.

Charley sat against the opposite bookshelf, cross-legged with his back against the American History section. Ajay was sprawled across the windowsill. He listened as he gazed outside forlornly, Mina's ongoing absence starting to take a toll.

Beside you, Maddie leaned against Wally, her head on his shoulder, arms around her knees, clearly battling with too many thoughts. Claire, Xavier; Mr. South, and his possible connection to Amelia, the Something-Something, and tearing Maddie from her body.

The bloody crowbar nagged at her as much as it did you. Something about it didn't sit right. If Amelia had been behind everything, you didn't think she'd have been careless enough to forget the crowbar. Maddie's body would've been inert—no threat of it escaping.

Ignoring the alibi Xavier insisted was true, if Mr. South as himself was responsible, same question. Why hadn't he cleaned the crowbar and put it back where it belonged? No one had been looking at him; he'd have easily gotten away with it.

Currently, Xavier stood at the end of the aisle, wary and alert and watching the door for anyone who wasn't on Team Parabnormal, as he'd labeled it. A loyal guardian.

He'd been at your side during stilted suppers around the Baxter table; Aurora a shell of herself, avoiding Andrew. Andrew, grey and vacant-eyed as he nursed the wound of his best friend's comatose condition. Nanna absent to keep vigil at Ginny's bedside. And your mother, ever the saint, off to heal the bereaved between pitstops at Mr. Anderson's house to check in on his father and the full-time nurse Andrew was shelling out for.

The cops hadn't found Dave. Dave who might not have been innocent, but who you'd determined hadn't been present when his body had pushed Mr. Anderson off the roof. True, he'd still looked like himself, but his mannerisms had been off. The way he'd used his features, wore his face, it'd been...uncanny.

After sneaking back into your house under the noses of the deputies stationed across the street, Xavier in tow, Dead Grandpa John watching on in interest, you'd found a book on—

"Golems?" Charley asked, head cocked like a confused puppy, "Like the clay monster things?"

"Yes, but not in this case," You offered, "In myth it means the clay monster things, but connected Circles use the term to describe someone whose body is animated by energy that's not theirs."

Never in your life had you been more informed about the Craft as you were then. You'd even discovered your family's library was warded when Xavier had commented, "How have I never been in here?"

Crazy. Because he'd grown up with you, had been over more times in a week than you figured there were days in a year. And yet, it was true, you couldn't recall a single instance Xavier had been inside the library.

Like the ominous symbols around the school, you'd found runes (normal ones, ones you could read) etched into the thin seams of the doorframe. Wards were a thing.

Bringing you back to the moment, Charley raised an eyebrow, "So, a possession."

"Nooo?" You had to think about it. Using golems was difficult to describe. At least, from what you'd read. It made sense, but ultimately also didn't. Comparing the two states, you finally settled on, "Hard no. Not like a possession."

"It's like that shitty John Malkovich movie." Xavier put forward, and even you gave him a funny look. He shrugged, "What you told me sounded like it. You know, Mind Cage or whatever." You continued to stare at him. He rolled his eyes, "You made me watch it."

"The one about the artist who can enter people's bodies when he draws them?" Maddie asked, glancing between you and Xavier. "That was a shitty movie."

"Oooh, yeah. Yeah, something like that." You agreed. "But minus the drawing part. You would have to have some serious power, though. It's basically long-distance hypnosis. The golem doesn't have any memory of the time they spent being used." You explained. "And it only works on people who have latent or fully developed connectedness."

Xavier scoffed, "You mean to tell me Dave has magic powers?"

"Trust me, I know." You mumbled, unhappy with the thought that you and Dave, innocent or not, had anything in common.

Wally piped up behind you, "Why bother hypnotizing or...taking over someone's body if Amelia can literally just go into one?"

"Like she did my dad," Maddie stared ahead, tone despondent, her brows knitted as she thought about Christopher and everything he'd missed because he'd saved your life.

You felt the pressure of guilt behind your ribs, tried to tamp it down. She never suggested she was mad at you for what'd happened to her dad, but it was difficult to believe. She should be, you reasoned. He'd died because of you.

Forcing yourself back on topic, you said, "From what the book said, golems are extremely difficult to maneuver. It takes finesse. The golem could wake up at any moment if certain conditions change. Like they get hit in the face by a bird or something."

"Interesting," Charley chuckled. "So, Amelia or Anabelle or both can make magical people their puppets from anywhere. Sounds like a great time to be alive."

"It's definitely easier than setting up a body swap," Ajay said from the windowsill. "You don't have to worry about the person's ghost getting in the way."

Everyone went silent again, that uncomfortable heaviness sweeping back in. No one looked at Maddie.

"It's temporary, but effective," You said after a moment, when the atmosphere became too much to bear. You sank deeper into Wally's embrace, as if trying to escape it altogether. He snuck a hand under your shirt, just enough for skin-to-skin, his thumb stroking your hipbone. "I kinda feel bad that there won't be a way to prove it wasn't Dave who pushed Mr. Anderson..."

"Really?" Xavier asked from his post, "I still feel like the guy is hiding a whole secret life. He's not normal."

You snorted, "No, he's not. But he's also not a murderer."

"That you know of."

You seesawed your head, "I really don't wanna think that Rory's that blind. Her empathy should be better than that." You recalled how she'd roused from her stupor long enough to gawp at you about the change in your aura. How you no longer smelled like jasmine...

Simon was never allowed around her again, if only to keep the truth of who'd altered your cosmic chemistry hidden. And for the sake of his limbs.

Ginny would be fine with it, knew you were old enough to choose what you did with your body and who you did it with. Nanna would just tease you. Andrew, your mother, and Aurora? They had streaks. And a weird over-protective quality that'd cemented itself in all of them since the farmhouse and Aiden.

"Do we know if any other teenagers have gone missing?" Maddie asked, clearly wanting to stay focused.

You shook your head, "There were a couple, but they were found pretty quickly. Runaways who popped up in Milwaukee and Detroit. If Amelia stole your body for another ritual, it might be the only one so far."

"Why not just use it now? Why wait?" Wally asked before realizing what he'd said. He cringed and offered Maddie an apologetic look, "Sorry, Mads." Then turned to scan everyone else, "But seriously, if she's got it, why not?"

"Because she wouldn't be able to keep it," You said, and when everyone gave you their attention, you continued. "The ritual she did, it was complicated. It required a helluva lot of energy."

"Hence the sacrifices." Ajay inserted.

"Yep. She used all those people to glue her, Anabelle, and Alistair into the bodies. If she just swooped in and took Maddie's body, her ghost would be rejected pretty quickly. The chemistry would have to be identical if she even stood a chance of keeping it."

"I thought you said you couldn't find anything on that ritual," Charley said, head cocked and eyes intense, "Did you find something?"

Again, you had to shake your head, "Not that specific. But forbidden rituals that complex aren't actually easy to hide. They require and affect a lot of people. Lots of moving parts."

"Lots of sacrifices."

You nodded at Ajay, "Lots of sacrifices."

Another long silence before, "What about the farmhouse?" Xavier wondered, eyes hovering somewhere over your head as he avoided your gaze. "There might be something there to explain the ritual. A book or instructions or something..."

You'd been thinking about that since yesterday. Heaving a weary sigh, you agreed, "Yeah. There might still be clues there. If we can get into that cavern, we could get a better sense of what happened and how."

Wally's hold on you tightened, fingers digging into your hips, "You wanna go back there?"

"Not really, but we're out of options. Our library doesn't have anything on forbidden rituals, and I don't exactly know any evil practitioners in the area." You twisted slightly to look up at him, "It's the only choice we have."

He hated the idea, you could tell, his face dark and unhappy. But you also sensed that he understood. You gave him a soft smile, craned your neck to kiss his cheek.

"We'll be okay," You assured, "If anything tries to eat us, I'll throw Xavier at them."

Wally perked up. Xavier's expression flattened.

"Thanks, kiddo."

You beamed at Xavier, "Anytime."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Group was tense, a static hum closing in on Wally as he sat in his seat, leg bouncing, studying Mr. Martin carefully.

Ajay had opted to stay in the library, unable to bring himself to join Group when he had so many conflicting emotions swirling beneath the surface. Wally couldn't blame him, but God, he needed Ajay's steadfast presence to keep his mind from going haywire.

Things had turned sour almost immediately after Wally had vetoed Mr. Martin's scheduled activity for the day. The Mock Trial last year had been a snooze fest, and even your presence this year couldn't sway Wally's opinion.

Sure, he enjoyed that you were close, that he could keep an eye on you; something he'd felt more inclined to do after Friday night for many reasons. But it'd been thirty-nine years of lackluster scenarios because the school didn't want to subject the youth to violence and gore.

You were adorable, curled up with your notebook at the front, Eli trying to engage you in conversation as he externally processed what he'd seen on Friday. Wally could tell you were uncomfortable, and he wanted to put himself between you and Eli just to get the guy to change the subject, but he couldn't.

Mr. Martin was right there. And acting weirdly evasive while also being insistent that everyone keep to the itinerary he'd put together for the day. Usually, Mr. Martin was easygoing (to a degree) about what the Group wanted or didn't want to do, but today he seemed stressed.

Jaw tense. Eyes wild and pleading. His feathers ruffled in a way Wally had never seen before.

The catalyst had been Maddie's threat to leave Group to find clues to clear Mr. South's name. Even Rhonda, who never gave a flying fuck about itinerary's and Group activities—I'm not a joiner—spouted uncharacteristically passive bullshit that made Wally want to shake her back to herself.

It sounded so contrived, as if she'd been fed the lines. All of it reminded Wally of things Mr. Martin himself would say if he weren't being ignored in favor of everyone asking Maddie penetrating questions about the holes in her memory.

Wally hadn't said anything to anyone—not even you—but he'd noticed a strange distance in Rhonda recently. Since the theater. At first, he'd chalked it up to how she was coming to terms with what she'd seen, what their haunt now knew about their circumstances, how shitty everything really was.

Yet... Wally couldn't get past this feeling of doubt that crept in whenever he heard her rattle off something he'd never imagined she'd say. He eyed her warily, unsure how to feel when she tried to assuage Maddie with some meditative it is what it is crap.

What the hell was going on?

Wally was startled from his thoughts when Mr. Martin urged to Maddie, "Whether your memory returns or not, you're not in a position to help the accused, Maddie." At which Wally and Charley shared a nervous look. "We have no influence over what happens in that world."

Wally flicked his gaze to the back of your head, visible above the back of the first spectators' bench. When his eyes returned to Mr. Martin, a chill wracked through him. Mr. Martin was looking right at you. It was fleeting, so quick Wally nearly missed it, but unmistakable.

"Do we?" Mr. Martin then prodded, eyes boring into Maddie's. When Maddie didn't answer, he repeated, "Do we have any sway over a living person?" And the expression on Mr. Martin's face might've been docile, but there was something beneath it. Something that made Wally uneasy. "Is there something we're not sharing with the group?"

One more there-and-gone glance at you by Mr. Martin, and Wally interjected, "Uh, speaking of repressed memories..." He leaned down to grab the psychology textbook he'd boosted from the library.

"We're not," Mr. Martin insisted.

Wally ignored him, desperate to pull Mr. Martin's attention away from you. Coincidence or not, Wally didn't like it.

"Well, we can, so I will." Wally presented the textbook and assured Maddie that, "We're gonna help you get through this, Maddie, okay?" A hand on her back, his eyes sincere. "We're all going to figure it out."

In the library, he and the others had agreed at Ajay's suggestion that they should start helping Maddie get her memories back. It gave Wally something to focus on that wasn't you and the farmhouse and good guy Xavier Baxter.

"Thank you, Wally," Maddie said.

What remained of the Group session was rocky and, either defeated or unsettled, Mr. Martin dismissed everyone earlier than he usually did.

Before vacating the circle, Wally leaned in to ask Maddie, "Quick question," his voice low to avoid being overheard. She resettled in her seat and slanted toward him, "The day you ended up here...you didn't by any chance drink tea that probably tastes like soap, did you?"

A hundred questions passed over Maddie's expression as she thought about how to respond. It wasn't totally random, and Wally figured it couldn't have hurt to ask. If that tea had drugged you and possibly made fifty to sixty wealthy socialites attend to the whims of a crazy woman, it very well could've been what'd caused Maddie to forget why she'd been in the boiler room in the first place.

Eventually, "No," she said, and she sounded worried about Wally's mental health. "You think Amelia snuck in somehow and drugged me?"

"I just wanted to make sure," Wally defended. "If Amelia was using Mr. South, he would've had access to things. Like drinks."

"Yeah, but how would he know which one Maddie would actually drink?" Charley asked quietly as he came to stand in front of them.

Wally gave him a pointed look, "Amelia's got serious magic, man."

"Connectedness," Charley and Maddie corrected in unison.

Wally flapped a hand, "We don't even actually know what that means. What people with strong powers can really do. Maybe she secretly convinced Maddie to take a specific can of soda or something."

"Disguised as the lunch lady?" Maddie asked with uncertainty.

It wasn't out of the realm of possibility, which made Wally, Charley, and Maddie shiver.

"I can't remember much about lunch that day," Maddie admitted, chewed her lip as she tried to recall.

"We should start there, then," Wally suggested as he shoved the psychology textbook into his backpack and zipped it closed. Briefly, he let his eyes fall on you, your attention on the teacher leading the Mock Trial.

God, he didn't want you to go anywhere near that farmhouse.

"You're making that face again," Maddie chuckled, fondness in her tone.

Charley griped, "He always makes that face now. It's the only expression I see when I look at him."

"Hey!" Wally snapped his attention to Charley, "It's not my fault my girl's sexy."

Maddie snorted, "And you're not looking at her like that because she's going on a roadtrip with my ex who kissed her?"

"He what!?" Charley gaped, pulling up the empty chair beside Maddie and dropping into it, his body angled forward, totally invested in the story.

Wally groaned, "How'd you hear about that?"

"Xavier told Simon who told me." Maddie grinned.

Mr. Martin and the others were long gone, Wally noticed with relief, and he relaxed. Well, except Rhonda, but she seemed content to linger in her seat, watching you watch the trial. Not hostile or judgmental. Simply observing, which Wally couldn't decide if he found odd or not.

"And how do you feel about that?" Charley asked Maddie.

"Honestly?" Maddie shrugged, "I don't really care. I know it wasn't serious. At least, she says it wasn't, and I believe her. And, Xavier actually apologized to me for it, too."

"He did?" That was news to Wally.

"Yeah," Maddie nodded, "On Saturday when he and Ajay were...hanging out." She slanted a knowing look at Wally. "I realized I really didn't care." And then, teasing, "I'm still not sure how I feel about him, but... He's your problem now."

"Don't remind me," Wally said, dark and adamant. He cast you another look, felt his face melt into something soft and gooey. "At least she won't be alone. That's the best I could ask for..."

"Could ask Simon." Charley inserted.

"His parents are still watching him like a hawk," Maddie said, her expression turning forlorn. "I wish there was something I could do."

Wally reached out and placed his hand on her back, "Everything's gonna work out, Mads, don't worry. We're going to get your memory back, stop a creepy death cult from kidnapping teenagers, break the barrier, and then—"

"Go to the mall to get a new wardrobe," Charley sighed whimsically.

Wally laughed, "Yeah, or whatever else we want because we'll be free."

It was such a hopeful thought, Wally was scared to let it settle inside him. He glanced up, his eyes finding you again, drawn like magnets, and he smiled.

"Face." Maddie, Charley and, now, Rhonda chorused.

"Shut up," Wally pouted as he stood, beckoning the others to follow him.

He had a plan to put into action to help jog Maddie's memory. He could ponder all the things he was going to do to you when he was free from the school later.

Right now, it was game time.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier was stunned when Wally willingly approached him after the last bell. He'd bobbed his head to indicate the necessity for privacy before leading Xavier into an empty classroom.

Wally didn't look too happy to be there, face set, eyes hard, hands fisted as his sides before he crossed his arms and leaned against the teacher's desk, one ankle over the other.

"I want you to keep her safe." He said at last.

Xavier stood there, dumbfounded, because duh. He'd never let anything happen to you. Ever. Whether Wally believed it or not, Xavier loved you and would destroy everything in his path to protect you from harm.

"I mean it," Wally continued. He exhaled sharply, glanced away, and Xavier realized, oh shit, the guy felt helpless and didn't know how to reconcile that. "If anything happens to her, Xavier, I'll find a way to kill you."

"Got it." Xavier nodded, held up a hand in scout's honor. And then, sincerely, "Look, nothing's going to happen. If there's even the smallest sign of trouble, I'm turning the truck around and bringing her back. She can kick and scream all she wants."

It was the first time he'd ever shared a sentiment with Wally that wasn't fear.

Wally seemed to relax. His jaw still ticked, but his shoulders lowered.

Finally, he nodded and looked Xavier in the eye. "Thanks."

And that was that. Moment over. Wally strutted out of the classroom to seek you out.

Now, Xavier drove in the direction of the old Meheive estate, the truck quiet except for the drone of the radio. He'd dropped Claire off at her house after the confrontation with his father in the 7-Eleven, and had picked you up outside his house.

He'd spent the first ten minutes of the journey filling you in on the lunchbreak escapade to the Sheriff's station; how he and Simon had found a clue that pointed to Nicole. As skeptical as Xavier was, you'd altogether refuted the idea that she could be involved with Maddie's abduction. However...it made a twisted sort of sense to Xavier.

Regardless of whether or not Nicole had been influenced by Amelia, Simon had described what he believed could be the root of Nicole's possible resentment toward Maddie. The pieces fit. Xavier could map out how one ill-timed remark led to an outburst that'd resulted in Maddie's out-of-body predicament.

"Not everything has to be connected to the cult," Xavier had said sagely.

"True," You'd agreed, yet, "But do you really think, after everything, it's not?"

Yeah, fine, maybe not, but Xavier knew people could be shitty all by themselves without magical intervention.

Twenty minutes later and Xavier turned onto a gated dirt road. The gate itself was dilapidated, yawned open, its iron panels slanted away from the frame as if trying to free themselves from their hinges.

He drove carefully down the dirt road, no lights to guide him apart from his high beams. The setting felt spooky, Xavier's blood curdling as he maneuvered around fallen branches and deep pits in the dirt. No lights. Just dark and trees and whatever hid within them.

One would think the town would've maintained the property. A heritage sight previously owned by the family of one of Split River's founders. Apparently, no one had had the incentive since, when Xavier drove to the apex of the horseshoe driveway, the house itself was completely run down.

It had the essence of grandeur in its woodwork and architecture, but he could tell it had long since been abandoned to the elements.

Unlike the school, where Xavier knew ghosts roamed, this place felt truly haunted. It emanated a profound melancholy that was almost physical, cresting into him and raising goosebumps on his skin. The air in the truck chilled considerably, and he felt as if a thousand eyes were watching him from every direction.

His whole body itched to turn around and go home, warnings to leave this place impressed between the squiggly folds of his brain. No voice, no distinct words, merely a loud creeping sensation. It was eerie, Xavier thought, the feeling like the one people got when they couldn't recall a word they knew. Dangling on the precipice of knowing.

He glanced at you, watched you for a moment as you stared through the passenger window at the front porch. After putting the truck in park, he reached over and took your hand to give it a firm squeeze.

"You ready?" He asked.

He couldn't imagine you were, but you were putting on one hell of a brave face. You inhaled a rattled breath and returned the squeeze before opening the truck door to climb out.

This couldn't have been easy. Back at the scene of your brother's murder. The last place you'd seen him and in the worst way possible. Xavier's stomach rolled as he got out of the truck, his heart leaden in his chest. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want you to be here.

He didn't have time to dwell on it because, quite suddenly, the world around him flickered. As soon as he joined you on the passenger side of the truck, the house had changed. Not drastically, but enough for Xavier to be alarmed. Its image was pristine. Turrets tall and proud, shingles restored, paintwork smooth.

"What the Jesus Christ is going on?" Xavier muttered in a mixture of awe and fright.

Without looking at him, "Even homes have ghosts if they had enough life made in them," you said, then smiled sadly, "This is how the house is perceived on the other side of the veil."

"Are you telling me we're in the land of the dead right now?"

"There's no life left here, so death moved in." You shrugged, simple as that.

Xavier gawped but went with it, not sure if he had the capacity for another magic lesson. Your voice in his head chided him that it's not magic, however, Xavier was having a harder and harder time believing it. A ghost house sounded like something a wizard would say. And wizards? Notorious for wielding magic.

"So, is this how I'm going to see every abandoned property from now on?"

"I think it depends on the property." You jerked your chin at the house and instructed, "Look closer."

Xavier peered at the house, but he didn't know what he was supposed to have been looking f—wait. There. Beneath the reminiscence was the decayed reality.

Two images overlayed to create a new composite. A house trapped between life and death. The holes in the roof were visible under the translucent image of perfectly intact shingles. The front steps were eaten away under clean, white planks.

"As cool as this is, I'm ready to hand back my magic powers now," Xavier mumbled.

He shadowed you as you proceeded up the front steps, minding the living-world gaps, before you carelessly trodded over the fallen screen door that was also in perfect condition on its hinges. Watching you pull it open while not pulling it open was a trip that made Xavier's head spin. The unnaturalness of it disagreed with his brain.

You hesitated with your hand on the main door's polished-tarnished handle. He saw the struggle on your face. After this, you'd know if Aiden's ghost had lingered or if mercy had been given and he'd crossed over.

Neither option brought peace, but, to Xavier at least, the former was worse. The little boy he'd thought of as his brother, trapped and alone, abandoned, neglected, hurt. Those things took a toll that Xavier had felt in fractions. He didn't want to believe Aiden had had to suffer them all at once.

The instant your breathing stuttered and your knuckles whitened on the handle, Xavier took over, wanting to absolve you of the burden.

As soon as his skin touched the brass, a chill zipped through his skeleton, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and, against his better judgment, he turned the knob.

When you and he stepped over the threshold, the interior flickered as it had outside. Stately and ruined; cozy and cold; marvelous and wasted. The air was thinner, the contrast darker. Xavier hated it on sight. While the mirage was the picture of wealth and classic luxury, the image beneath it spoke of endless horror and despair.

As he'd done at the place on 10th and Lasher, Xavier clasped your hand. For support. For safety. For comfort. For all of the above. He kept you close as you and he crept through the front of the house. Formal living room. Parlor. Games room. Study.

He thought he was going crazy when, moving closer to the kitchen, the light began to brighten. When he glanced around, he was mildly surprised to notice the epoch blend of candleflame and carbon arc light that had manifested.

The kitchen was empty when you and he entered.

"I don't even remember this," You said, casting Xavier a trepidatious look. "I don't remember walking out of here."

Xavier didn't say anything. What was there to say? Instead, he jerked his chin at a closed door across the room.

"Think that's it?"

You did. Together, you and he walked to the door. Opened it. The creak it released was ugly and sinister. Behind the door, it was pitch black, like all the shadows around the property had gathered there. Xavier took his phone from his pocket, switched on the flashlight, and took the first step down.

The stairs groaned under his weight, but they held. He kept your hand in his as you and he descended into the dark. At the bottom of the stairs was the shelf Christopher had toppled. There was the mattress, though it'd been burned; only the distorted wire remained.

Xavier caught you averting your eyes, quickly heading toward the back wall.

"This is where that lord entered the cavern," You said, dropping your backpack to the ground to pull out a pen. "Hopefully this'll work."

Xavier wasn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed when it did. He was certainly apprehensive, the dark that much darker. Again, he took the lead—not even a question, regardless of Wally's voice in Xavier's head—and stepped carefully down the narrow stone steps.

You stayed close, he could feel the heat of your body at his back, not giving more than a step of space as you and he kept hands on the wall to feel the way down. The staircase spiraled slightly and then, at the bottom, opened.

"Watch it," You warned, hand on Xavier's shoulder before he could move forward.

He glanced at the floor and almost shrieked. Thankfully, he had a second to process and was able to maintain his composure. A black sarcophagus lay battered on the ground, its face still horrifying, the ruby eyes glinting in the light of Xavier's phone. Scattered around it were masks with long noses and others without, as well as all kinds of trinkets Xavier could only call macabre.

Broken glass and tiny animal skulls and finger bones and whatever the hell else might belong on the set of The Blair Witch Project. Oh, Xavier hated this.

"Guess we're in the right place," He breathed, swallowing. He reached behind himself and found your hand again, pulling you around the mess and into the cavern proper.

It was huge, and the light from his phone wasn't enough to illuminate the kind of ground you and he needed to cover. Still, he was reluctant to release you so you and he could split up. Cautiously, you and he found the wall and felt about, doing a tour until, by complete luck, his fingers brushed a switch.

He flicked it and, instantly, the cavern lit up. Chandeliers burst to life from above, bringing the cavern to life. It was...not great, Xavier thought to himself, stomach lurching when his eyes fell on a large crescent of grey bones, all stacked and jumbled within clothes that had been eaten away by time.

The crescent seemed to shape outward from a raised platform that took up a good portion of the main wall. You were already on it, inspecting a table thickly layered in dust. Xavier's gaze temporarily returned to the crescent, more to the center of it where three raised altars sat.

He couldn't believe the whole thing was real. That you'd supposedly traveled back in time when Aiden had pulled everyone through the farmhouse door. Yet, here was the proof.

"You find anything?" He asked, stepping onto the platform as he pocketed his phone. Xavier glanced at the portraits on the wall, most of them no longer recognizable, but the few that were made his scalp tingly unpleasantly.

"Not really," You answered, fingers dancing over the few objects that sat on the table. "Nothing that means anything, anyway. All this stuff is gimmicky. Like the shit in mom's room." You turned to Xavier, "You know who we could really use right now?"

Xavier speculated, "Are you going to say your object-reading uncle who I now know can read objects?"

You gave him a small smirk, "I am."

"Too bad we can't ask him," Xavier sighed, spun about on his heel to take in more of the space. Across from the platform was a line of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Most of the were empty, but, right there, in the bottom-left corner, "Hey, I think I see something."

You followed Xavier to the bookshelf, "I don't remember seeing this."

"You were kinda busy watching a bunch of people die," Xavier reasoned, "I don't think I'd remember much either."

"Fair," You agreed as you crouched down. The second your hand touched one of the old, mangy books, you reeled back as if burned. "Holy fuck!"

Xavier jumped, got his head on straight, and then dropped to his knees to check you over, "You good? What happened?"

You shook your hand out, "It's like what I felt when I touched the tree," With the symbol on it, you didn't have to clarify. "It feels...evil." You said, giving Xavier a stressed look. "Blacker than black."

"That can't mean anything good."

You obviously agreed, leaning in again so slowly that Xavier was sure time had somehow overcranked itself. You plucked one of the books from the shelf and opened it carefully. Parts of the first page immediately crumbled under your touch, as gentle as it was.

"That can't mean anything good," Xavier wheezed. If it was all just going to turn to dust, there'd be nothing to find.

"No, wait..." You pulled a piece of paper from your backpack, slipped it between the pages of the book, and used it to turn the page. It wasn't foolproof, but it worked.

As you began to scan the pages, Xavier sat up and looked around, his eyes constantly falling back on the pile of bones. One in particular that sat just outside of the crescent. A silver revolver next to it.

Fuck.

"Here. Look." Your voice cut through his thoughts. Xavier leaned over your shoulder and looked at the page. As far as he could tell, it was all gibberish, swirly letters and pictograms that he couldn't make heads or tails of.

Except, "Those look like the symbols at school."

"Yep. And this is a guide on how to use them." You smiled for the first time since undertaking this journey, "Not so bad, after all, huh?"

"How about we just take this thing with us and get the hell out of here," Xavier suggested, feeling more and more like he was being watched.

You snapped a few pictures of the pages on your phone before very, very gently sliding the book into your backpack between your History notes and your copy of Frankenstein. You glanced at the other books on the shelf and fingered through them.

"This one looks like a grimoire," You said as if to yourself.

"Okay, that word I know, and it's associated to magic." Xavier said flatly, "Can we please just be honest with ourselves and refer to it as it is?"

You shot him a glare, maintained eye contact as you lifted the book from the shelf and placed it in your lap. "No."

Unlike the other book, that one was thinner, less fragile, and you were able to flip through it with more ease. Like the other book, however, it was also written in gibberish that Xavier couldn't translate. You either, apparently. Different gibberish, then, Xavier bemoaned.

"We'll take it anyway," You decided.

The last book was oddly mundane. A copy of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management.

"Does it...mean something?"

"Aside from how to run a household?" You responded, "I have no idea..."

You opted not to take it. Apparently had a copy at home, just like Xavier did. His mom had left it behind when she'd moved out. Of the house. And his life.

Just in case you flipped through the pages. There was nothing there that shouldn't be.

"Okay, let's get going," Xavier said, already halfway back to the staircase with you in tow. Those bones really freaked him out, and the portraits that still had eyes made his skin crawl.

Up the winding stairs and into the cellar, around to the steps and back into the kitchen. Only this time, the kitchen wasn't empty.

He stared in shock at the face that angled up at him, his heart in his throat. Grabbing your hand, Xavier released a heavy breath. He felt you shake beneath his palm, could hear the rattle in your chest as you stared down at the same little person Xavier was staring at.

"A-Aiden," You gasped.

Aiden smiled when you said his name, "Hi, Sissy." Like he'd seen you that morning. Like everything was normal and he wasn't a ghost clutching his stuffed lion, solid but dead in a kitchen he should never have been in.

Xavier's eyes stung, a pressure in his sinuses, and he cleared his throat. "Hey buddy."

"Hi, Zav," Aiden grinned, "Are we gonna play now?"

It felt like a kick to the gut. Xavier heard more than felt you drop to your knees beside him, your breathing now ragged as you tried to hold back the tidal wave of emotion he could sense within you. Slowly lowering himself, Xavier moved his hand to wind his arm around your shoulders.

When he looked at you, your eyes were wide, glistening, horrified.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You didn't know how to process what you were seeing. Aiden, dressed in his Looney Tunes sweater and Spiderman boots, apple-cheeked and pink as if he were still alive. Totally unchanged.

In a blink, you went from stone to a flurry of motion, lurching forward and dragging Aiden into a hug that he complained was too tight.

"I can't breathe," He grumbled, and that hurt more, made your stomach roll, and the back of your throat sting.

"I'm sorry," You sniffled, trying so hard not to cry; you had to keep it together for him. You loosened your hold on Aiden, but didn't let him go. Couldn't let him go.

Aiden beamed up at you, dimples on display, "You're staying for dinner, right?"

"Wh-what?" You asked and then you noticed a flicker in the corner of your eye.

Aiden wasn't alone in the farmhouse. Other ghosts seemed to materialize out of the ether. Translucent and silvery at first before solidifying as they moved around the kitchen. A woman at the stove dressed in clothes reminiscent of the 1940s. A man with muttonchops and a bushy mustache in dirty overalls. Another man, this one shorter and more put together in a three-piece suit.

More and more entered the space, each taking a dish from a stack on the kitchen table and carrying it to the stove where the woman ladled out something from a cauldron pot. The ghosts chatted amongst each other, totally oblivious to you and Xavier. Or perhaps they didn't care. You couldn't be sure.

"Sissy?" Aiden asked, frowning as he repeated, "You're staying for dinner, right?"

"I-," Had no idea what to do.

Xavier stepped in when you couldn't finish.

"We can't, buddy," And, fuck, his voice was as thick with emotion as yours. "We have to go, but maybe we could come back, and we'll play then. When it's not already dark out." He sounded so sweet and sincere. Gentle in a way few people rarely got to see.

"Why can't you stay now?" Aiden pouted, whined, clutched Limon closer to his chest, and glared at a spot on Xavier's shirt.

"Because my dad wants us to be home soon." Xavier said, rational and adult and not at all what Aiden wanted to hear.

He relaxed, but his pout remained, "Fine."

Xavier glanced at you quickly to get your support. You couldn't move, couldn't answer, still staring at Aiden in a crippling combination of anguish and shock. Your little brother was still here, trapped in the place he'd died. And no one had ever visited.

"Hey, kiddo, come on," Xavier urged, and yet you could barely hear him. Didn't matter, because a second later, "Oh, fuck."

Your head whipped up, and you saw what Xavier saw. A man in military garb whose face resembled Maddie's so much it was impossible to miss who he was.

"They're trapped here, too." You choked out, falling back on your haunches. "Just like at the school."

"How can you be sure?" Xavier whispered, shuffling closer, as close as he could get, as Christopher approached.

"Aiden was six," You said in equally as hushed a tone, "Little kids don't linger. Not unless something keeps them tethered to the earth. The Awen always, always takes them back."

Xavier paled, nodded, "Okay. Okay, so they're trapped."

"Look at them all," You gasped, trying to count the ghosts, but they kept bobbing and weaving between each other as they got their food and returned to the table to eat it. Got up again, got more food, returned to the table. A revolving door of actions.

All the ghosts except Aiden. Your eyes narrowed as you studied him. He smiled back at you, squeezing Limon; round, green eyes sparkling as they always had when he'd looked at you. Pure adoration for his big sister.

And you let him die...

Xavier must've understood where you'd been going with your earlier statement, because, once again, he stepped in where you couldn't.

"Hey, Aid...do you know if there are any funny symbols on any trees or rocks around here?" He asked.

Aiden cocked his head as he seemed to think about it. Then, to your surprise, "There's one by the pond. And one on the gate by the road."

"Awesome, buddy, thanks."

"Can we play now?" Aiden wondered, and, Jesus Christ, your lungs stopped working.

Xavier shook his head solemnly, "I'm sorry, we can't stay. But we'll come back, okay?"

Like he had before, Aiden pouted and stared at the ground, "Fine."

Without waiting for the loop to reset, Xavier hauled you to your feet and quick-marched you out of the kitchen. You stumbled, kept glancing back at the image of your brother, vision blurring as tears began to spill.

"Zav, we can't just leave him here," You whimpered, tried to pull away from Xavier, but his grip was firm.

"We can't take him with us right now," Xavier reminded you. His voice was level, kind, and you hated him with everything in you because he was right. "We'll try breaking the barrier at the school first. If it works, we come back and free Aiden."

His conviction helped soothe something in you, though it didn't mitigate the pain. Xavier helped you into the truck, slammed the door shut, and hurried to the driver's side. When you peeked out the window, you saw Aiden standing alone on the porch.

His eyes weren't...right. Bright green, but vacant. Holding Limon, mouthing a question: Can we play now?

Xavier drove like you and he were being chased by an inferno.

Halfway back to town, Xavier's hand a vise on yours, his phone buzzed. Using his knee to manage the wheel so he didn't have to let you go, he shifted and pulled his phone out, handed it off to you for you to read the text he'd received.

"It's Simon," You said, hollow, interest not even piqued when you read the message. And, damn, was it something. "At least we can rule Nicole out."

"Why, what does it say?" Xavier asked, sparing you a quick glance.

You reread the message before relaying, "Nicole took the video that Mr. Anderson and Claire thought was from Maddie." Wow. Okay. You were more aware now, the despondency slipping from your mind the further you got from the farmhouse, "She wanted the hush money so she could go to Chicago with Maddie and Simon."

"I thought she submitted a portfolio?"

"I guess it was rejected," You said, not seeing anything about that in the message.

A few beats of silence and then, "I'm glad she isn't one of the bad guys," Xavier admitted.

You watched him for a moment, a small smile on your face, "You guys are getting kinda close, huh?"

"She's the only one apart from you who doesn't try to remind me how shitty I am whenever I see them."

"You're not shitty, Zav," You said with ferocity, "You made a shitty mistake. That doesn't define who you are. At least...not to me."

He squeezed your hand appreciatively. "Thanks, kiddo." Another moment. "Hey," Xavier coaxed your attention, "Are you okay?"

"Define 'okay'," You murmured.

He didn't have to. Rather, he just continued to hold your hand as he drove, allowed the silence to hold you as you battled with yourself; with your thoughts and feelings and the reality of Aiden's presence still being at the farmhouse.

Aiden, stuck there amongst dead strangers and your friend's father. Aiden, suspended in time, exactly the same as he was the last time you'd seen him.

Exactly... the... same.

"Jesus Christ." You gasped, head shooting up. You turned to Xavier, whose attention you'd caught. He glimpsed between you and the road in concern. "We need to stop at my house."

"What for?" He seemed nervous.

Rightfully so, because, "Zav, Aiden didn't have Limon when he died."

💀___________________________

PART SEVEN - PART NINE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Simon had been on the verge of getting the fuck out of Dodge, the enormity of everything he'd found out starting to bog him down. He hadn't been able to do it alone, not anymore, not even for Maddie. Thankfully, the universe had heard him and had held out an olive branch.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.11

Simon crept to his car, a tactical advance, hunched low to the ground and clinging to the shadows as far as they would take him. He was afraid, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding in his ears; he didn't want Mr. Anderson to find him sneaking around the school a second time. Not after what he and Maddie had uncovered in the supply closet.

Mr. Anderson had propelled up Simon's short list of suspects to the top spot, the cache of money a sure sign the man was up to no good. Simon didn't have a lot of experience with society's seedy underbelly, but if movies had taught him anything, it's that normal people didn't hide stacks of cash outside of their homes unless they expected a police raid.

Was Mr. Anderson a drug dealer? Some kind of kingpin moonlighting as a high school English teacher? It was the perfect disguise. Cops would never think of a man who works with teenagers capable of that level of corruption. Although, Simon reckoned, Split River was a shitty enough place that turned good people rotten on a dime.

Still, Mr. Anderson had seemed nervous when Simon had heard him on the phone; a man forced onto a ledge at gunpoint. Threatened. Scared.

Okay, Simon reasoned, so Mr. Anderson wasn't a high-ranking drug lord. But he was definitely on the wrong side of the law and was obviously desperate. And desperate people were unpredictable when they felt backed into a corner.

He'd claimed he'd given Maddie what had sounded like a large sum of money. A bribe, maybe. One that, in the end, hadn't been enough to convince Mr. Anderson she wouldn't rat on him. The thought made Simon's stomach churn, bile burning the back of his throat.

Maddie had been wrecked by the discovery, hands shaking from a surge of emotion too enormous to contain. She'd held it together long enough to caution Simon not to contaminate the evidence by touching it, assuring him she'd count it after he was safely off school grounds.

She'd shooed him from the classroom, "You have to leave, now," eyes watery as Mr. Anderson's betrayal had finally seemed to sink in. "I've got this, okay? Just go."

Simon had done as ordered. What good would he be if Mr. Anderson took him out next?

He peeled out of the parking lot and into the road, lightheaded as a thousand and one questions flooded his brain. His chest tightened, breathing labored, and—God, shit, he hadn't had a panic attack since middle school but, since Maddie's disappearance last Friday, they'd made a grand comeback. Kept him awake at night when there was nothing left to distract him from what could've happened to his best friend.

"Fuck." Simon rasped, smacking the steering wheel with his palm. And then, increasing in volume and intensity, "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!" He beat the steering wheel, accidentally hitting the horn once and startling a woman walking her dog.

"Sorry!" He called, sheepish, through the open driver's side window, flashing a hand in apology. He didn't wait for a reaction, simply continued to drive home.

The thought of interacting with his parents put him on edge. He didn't know how he was supposed to stay quiet about Mr. Anderson. Noticeably off the last few days, Simon had already endured three separate lectures about drug use, depression, and sexuality respectively.

His parents' unconditional support, though amazing, made him feel like garbage—or, more accurately, a landfill—for causing them to worry to the point of draping a rainbow flag over the back of the couch and reassuring him that, "Love is love. We just want you to be happy."

Even if he could slip past his dad, his mother would undoubtedly pick up that whatever plot she suspected Simon of hiding had thickened. And, frankly, if she asked just right, Simon knew he'd crack and tell her everything. About Xavier, about Mr. Anderson...about developing The fucking Shining and assuming the role of Watson to his best friend's ghost.

Buying himself some time, Simon took turns he didn't have to; drove through random neighborhoods as he tried to think up a plausible excuse for his behavior that wouldn't result in another intervention. He didn't have it in him to watch his mother's face crumple as he lied to her again. The umpteenth time that week.

He needed to talk to someone. To get it out of himself and share the burden. His skin felt too tight and his bones too heavy and he couldn't carry the weight of Maddie's murder mystery alone.

And then, as if God had heard him, Simon's prayers were answered.

Without thinking it through, he pulled over and beeped his horn to get your attention before you turned onto the path that margined the small neighborhood greenspace.

Clambering sideways to get out of his car, his foot caught on a pedal, seatbelt still hooked, Simon called out, "Hey!" grunting when he was knocked back into his seat by the strap. He took a second to collect himself, unbuckled his seatbelt, and climbed out in a less frenzied manner.

"Uhhhmm, are you okay?" You asked, your face displaying how not okay you thought Simon was. You glanced up and down the street, puzzled, "What are you doing here? Don't you live in Cedar Bank?" A suburb on the other side of the river that bisected the town.

Simon debated whether or not it had been a good idea to stop, but he didn't think he could give you an excuse and drive away, either. He dimly sympathized with how Mr. Anderson had felt back in that classroom; splitting threads pulled through the eye of a needle.

He summoned his resolve and turned to face you, "I need to tell you something."

You cocked your head, looked Simon over, and nodded slowly. Simon could tell you were trying to determine what this was about. Realized as you walked him into the little playpark and took a seat on one of the two swings, that he'd come out of nowhere in a move that could easily be interpreted as stalkerish.

"I could give you a lift home if you wanna talk in the car?" He offered, settling into the second swing all the same. The park was deserted, dark, the glow of the streetlights falling short by a few meters.

You shook your head and hooked your thumb over your shoulder, "That's literally my backyard."

Simon followed your indication and saw the top half of an antique build, painted a deep royal purple and trimmed in evergreen, that peaked over a tall, bushy hedgerow. A wooden fence several inches shorter than your family's hedges divided the public space from private property, running the length of the park behind your house and a few others.

"Huh." Simon returned his gaze to yours, "Never mind."

"Did you talk to Nicole?" You asked, possibly thinking that that was what Simon wanted to discuss. But there was something in your tone, in your eyes, that suggested you weren't actually referring to Nicole. More like you were feeling Simon out.

It was unsettling.

Simon tried to calm down. Told himself it was nothing. That he was just paranoid because of who Mr. Anderson turned out to be. That you weren't actually peeling back Simon's skin and bones to divinate his organs, because when had you ever been anything but kind and sympathetic? Especially since Maddie...disappeared.

He fiddled with his hands, closed his eyes, and supported his head on the metal chain that held the swing up. "No." He stated honestly. He needed to tell you about Mr. Anderson. Just. Start talking. But the words kept sticking in this throat.

"Simon? You're starting to scare me, is everything okay? Is this..." You trailed off and when you spoke again, you didn't sound worried. Rather, you sounded searching. "Is this about Maddie?" As if you knew what Simon knew.

Which wasn't possible. He and Maddie had already gone down that road yesterday and you very obviously hadn't seen her ghost.

After another lull wherein Simon got his head together, "Kind of," he admitted, pressing the meat of his palms into his eyes. "Screw it," He spun the swing so he faced you completely and then uncorked the bottle, "I found a shit ton of money in Mr. Anderson's classroom. Like, wads of it. Probably thousands of dollars hidden in the wall in the closet."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

What the f u u u u u u ck.

One minute you'd been on your way home, trying to parse out why the connection between you and Wally had gone dormant as soon as you'd left him, and now, there you were, listening to Simon basically tell you that he'd unmasked Mr. Anderson like a Scooby-Doo villain.

Okay. This wasn't the confession you'd thought it would be, but it was big. Huge.

You weren't sure how to feel about your uncle's best friend being criminal, didn't know how to reconcile that your teacher was a criminal. But Simon wasn't a liar, so Mr. Anderson was definitely hiding criminal amounts of cash in his classroom.

And, "Maybe it has to do with why he freaked on me in the theater," you said, mostly to yourself though you knew Simon would hear it.

"He what?"

You looked at Simon, "Earlier, I was—" What had you told Mr. Anderson? Oh yeah, "—looking for something Tilly forgot in the theater and he found me. But, Simon," You stood, started to pace, "He was acting paranoid. Like...like he was hiding something. He practically threw me out of there." Which was, fine, a mild exaggeration, but Mr. Anderson's paranoia hadn't been. "I've never seen him like that. And he kept getting these phone calls that made him even more angry."

"Wait, what do you mean 'phone calls'? Did you hear anything?"

"No, just that he needed a minute. I guess to go find somewhere I wouldn't hear him."

Simon was standing now, pacing in a pattern the reverse of yours.

"He was on the phone when I saw him. Talking to someone about how he shouldn't have given Maddie money."

You felt like the sky had fallen on your head, "He gave Maddie money? And you think it's why she's..." You almost said 'she's not in her body anymore', fitting the pieces together. Had Mr. Anderson done something to her that had caused her ghost to exit her body?

Still not sure if Simon was actually able to see Maddie's ghost, you settled for: "Disappeared?"

Simon appeared to notice your hesitation, peered at you like a math problem, but didn't mention it, instead revealing, "It's a line of inquiry."

A line of inquiry...

You rubbed your temples to ease away the migraine that was building. Today had been too much; too many things unfolding one after the other: First hearing from Wally that Maddie was a ghost, and then just Wally and everything you had to unpack with that, and now Mr. Anderson's apparent criminal activity that may or may not have had a direct impact on Maddie's being a ghost in the first place.

At least, you reminded yourself, she wasn't dead because you couldn't see her. Which meant that, if he was involved, Mr. Anderson hadn't intended to kill her (that was good, right?). Wrong, since he still had to have done something to put her in a coma and then had to have hidden her body somewhere.

"Oh my God," You moaned dismally, "This is so f u c k e d." As the gears turned, a thought clawed for your attention. "Simon," you ceased pacing to lift your gaze and regard Simon closely, "Why were you snooping around Mr. Anderson's classroom?"

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon knew he had to give you something, but, Jesus Christ, he was nervous. He'd already decided not to admit he could see Maddie, unable to believe that you wouldn't tell a trusted adult. And he wasn't keen on getting pumped full of antipsychotics and locked in a padded room, thanks.

You watched him, eyes hard, jaw set, more serious than he'd ever seen you, "Simon, what the hell?"

He swallowed, opting for half-truths, because he'd come this far. He needed help. A confidante. Would've preferred Nicole but she'd galivanted off with Xavier, apparently, and took the choice out of Simon's hands.

"I've been looking for clues about what happened to Maddie," Simon confessed, a weight lifting from his shoulders. "Since the search on Monday, when Xavier got arrested—"

You interrupted, fierce, loyal, "He wasn't arrested, Si. His dad was just taking him to the station to give an official statement."

"In the back seat?" Simon deadpanned.

"There's no room in the front of the cruiser!" You threw your hands up as if dealing with the situation would drive you to drink.

"With the lights on?"

"Because there was a crowd of people practically throwing themselves at the car to get Xavier's face on video."

Simon conceded and resituated himself on one of the swings. You followed his example, though, this time, you shrugged off your backpack and dropped it in the sand beside you.

"So, what do we do?" Simon wanted to know, close to getting on his knees and begging you to take the reigns on this because he was exhausted.

"Alright." You shifted to straddle your swing, hands in front of you as you counted details on your fingers. "We know that Maddie went missing on Friday. We know Xavier had nothing to do with it." Your eyes narrowed, daring Simon to comment. He didn't. "We know that Mr. Anderson is hiding money and that he gave some to Maddie. To keep her quiet?"

"That's what we-" Simon tensed, quickly undoing his mistake, "I'm thinking."

That intense look of scrutiny was back on your face and Simon resisted the urge to gulp. Three days ago Simon had figured you for the only person who'd believe him about Maddie's ghost. My how times have changed.

"If he was hiding money in his classroom, he could be hiding other things around the school, too." You rationalized. "Like the theater. I bet you anything there's something in there he doesn't want us to find."

True. In fact, "Do you think he's hiding Maddie in there?"

You stopped moving altogether, still as a statue. "You think Mr. Anderson did something to Maddie? Apart from giving her money?"

Simon realized his mistake, revealing something too soon. He didn't have a choice, he had to say something, "I think so, yeah." And then, not wanting to open a magical can of worms, "Call it a hunch." You didn't look convinced, so he added, "Maddie hasn't called me since she...disappeared," He explained, using your wording. "I think something bad happened to her and I think Mr. Anderson is involved."

You once again seemed to study Simon closely, as if trying to read his mind for answers to questions you obviously weren't going to ask. And then, you just carried on, open to entertaining the idea that Mr. Anderson might've hurt Maddie.

"So, what, you think Mr. Anderson tied her up under the stage?"

God, he wished he could tell you the whole truth. It would make things so much easier. Make Simon sound less like an idiot as, no, hiding Maddie's alive body under the stage at school sounded dumb as hell. Regardless, you weren't calling him out on how dumb it sounded, and Simon was so fucking grateful that you were willing to talk this out with him, omissions and all.

"That'd be pretty risky," You said. "And the cops went through every room in the school with search and rescue dogs and everything. Wouldn't they have found her if she was down there?"

Simon deflated, "Good point," reluctant to add that those dogs probably weren't the type trained to find cadavers.

He heard you take a deep breath, saw you close your eyes, either to organize your thoughts or analyze Simon further, he wasn't sure, but you soon continued, tone weak, "Simon, if he did have something to do with Maddie...I take back what I said before."

"About?"

You shrunk into yourself, forcing, "Maddie being okay," as if the words had to be wrenched out of you. "I don't want to believe Mr. Anderson could've hurt her but..." You blinked a rapid dozen times up at the sky, visibly shaken as you considered the worst, "If he did..."

A lump formed in Simon's throat. He was all too aware of the painful truth. His vision blurred, nostrils prickled, the enormity of the situation closing in on him.

"Yeah," He sniffed, "Me neither."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Neither you nor Simon were aware that, only ten feet away, crouched in the bushes, a figure wearing Simon's best friend's face had heard everything.

Cold.

Hungry.

And staring at you with purpose.

💀___________________________

PART TEN - PART TWELVE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST