Chapter Text
You see, the thing is—as soon as Chrissy starts to levitate in the air, Eddie knows he’s fucked. He screams, because of course he screams; a girl that probably only weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet is pressed up against his ceiling like the fucking Exorcist, her limbs out in some fucked-up parody of a crucifixion before they bend like pipe-cleaners—of course he screams. And when her eyes burst inside her skull like peeled grapes—
He almost vomits, lurching to the side as Chrissy’s body drops to the floor, a sickening thud in the otherwise quiet trailer. He scrambles away from her, clammy back pressed against the refrigerator door, his eyes squeezed shut. It doesn’t help, the image of her mangled body still fresh in his memory. He shoves his hands in his hair, rocking back and forth as he whimpers; what the fuck is he supposed to do? How the fuck can he explain to anyone that a girl a whole foot shorter than him started levitating off the ground and just—imploded? Got broken like a fucking KitKat? He can’t. He can’t.
He’s starting to hyperventilate, the panic in his chest choking him out—so much so he doesn’t register the frantic pounding on his door, a muffled voice calling out to him. He jolts as the door is shoved open, the fucking Mayfield kid staring back at him in horror. Eddie watches with growing hysteria as her eyes dart from him to Chrissy to his ceiling, her face further draining of color. Her hand comes to cover her mouth, eyes wide and glossy; Eddie feels sick again, giving into the urge to throw up. He can feel tears running down his face, his hands shaking as he tries to speak.
“K-kid, please—”
She shakes her head, backing away from the door. Eddie lets his eyes shut, resignation and fear and despair filling his lungs—she’s going to call the police, and he’s up shit creek. He thinks about running—he could pack up his van, get the fuck out of dodge, hide out somewhere out of town or somewhere upstate—but his uncle. If he leaves, would they come after his uncle? Pursing his lips to try and stave of another wave of nausea, Eddie flinches as the door to his trailer bangs open again, Mayfield’s voice cutting through the air.
“—don’t care anymore, it’s a code fucking red—”
He looks up at her, her body trembling as she speaks rapid-fire into a walkie-talkie. Something about the phrase sparks at a memory of his, something he’s heard somewhere before. She reaches down to grip his jacket, tugging him away from the refrigerator, closer to the door. He scrambles up, stumbling outside on shaky legs; he collapses on the steps, scrubbing at the bile and tears coating his skin.
Mayfield is still barking into the walkie-talkie, her hand still clenched in his jacket. Eddie watches as her arm trembles, her knuckles straining bone-white against her skin.
“What am I doing?” he whispers, staring down at his trembling hands.
Mayfield sits on the step below him, listening intently as static comes over the walkie. She jumps a little as a voice cuts through it, Eddie almost immediately recognizing Henderson’s voice.
“We’re coming—shit, go faster, Steve—Over.”
“What—”
Mayfield shakes her head, pressing down on the walkie, “We’re outside. It’s real fucking bad. Over.”
She looks up at Eddie, her face still ashen, still scared. She slowly uncurls her fingers from his jacket, reaching down to grip his hand. He flinches, the touch unexpected. After a few moments, he grips her hand like a lifeline, his body trembling as adrenaline and fear still course through him.
“Your ceiling,” Mayfield grinds out, “has it always had that crack?”
A razor-sharp bark of a laugh claws its way out of Eddie’s throat, his expression melting into incredulous disbelief.
“That’s what you ask, kid? About my fucking ceiling?”
“Yes, asshole,” Mayfield growls out, “has it always been there?”
“No, no it fucking hasn’t been there. Not that it fucking matters, since there’s the slight issue of a fucking dead person in my goddamn trailer.”
Mayfield opens her mouth to snap something back, whatever she was going to say drowned out by the sound of tires screeching down the pavement. Two cars skid to a halt in front of them, a swarm of people spilling out. He recognizes the kids—of course he does, he sees them every Thursday and Friday for the campaign. But the three older teens that step out. Well. Eddie can’t be bothered to think about them right now. Mayfield starts to stand, her hands held out in a placating gesture just as someone comes marching forward.
“Guys, be careful.”
“Eddie, oh my god, Eddie—”
Henderson practically slams into him, body shaking as he wraps Eddie up in a hug. Fisting his hands in Henderson’s shirt, Eddie lets himself fall apart just a little bit, scared and terrified and suddenly angry that Mayfield called him.
“What happened.”
Picking his head up from Henderson’s shoulder, Eddie can only stare uncomprehendingly as Nancy Wheeler comes stepping out of her car with a fucking shotgun. She’s pale-faced, eyes hard as she stares his door down. He’s hit with a sudden memory of her in his sophomore English class, quiet and sweet and nothing at all like the downright terrifying person in front of him. Henderson lets go of his death grip on him, pressing up against his side as he sits down. Eddie breathes in, exhale shaky as he looks up at Nancy.
“Chrissy Cunningham is d-dead in my living room.”
Henderson sucks in a breath, hand tight on Eddie’s arm. Eddie dimly registers the raised voices around them trailing off, listening as he speaks. Blinking away tears, Eddie pushes on, his voice breaking a few times.
“S-she…she wanted to buy some weed off me, at first, b-but something had her freaked. I mean like r-really fucking on edge. Said she w-wanted something stronger, s-something to help her f-from losing it. I told h-her, I told her I’d have to f-find it—I d-don’t. I don’t keep it on me at s-school, and m-my uncle can’t…he can’t—so I went to get it, and I c-came back out. S-she was…she was…”
Nancy purses her lips, nodding a bit as Eddie struggles to get through another wave of nausea. He squeezes his eyes shut, the hand not trapped by Henderson coming up to grip at his hair.
“She started f-floating. Like, her feet were off the f-fucking f-floor. A-and then, she w-went up—her back h-hit the ceiling. A-and her bones—I d-don’t know, I don’t know—and I was s-screaming, and then sh-she fell—”
Nancy glances towards someone behind her, her expression taut; Eddie doesn’t look up, his gaze trained on his shoes. Henderson grips his arm tighter, pressing more firmly against his side. Biting off a whimper, Eddie clears his throat a few times, his knee bouncing.
“I think there’s a gate on his ceiling,” Mayfield says, her voice almost a whisper.
It’s like an explosion of noise, after that. Everyone is talking over each other, shouting and panicked and Eddie can’t deal. Vision tunneling, he shoves his head down by his knees, his breath coming out ragged and wheezy. His hearing is going in and out, Henderson’s alarmed voice far away and muddled. Eddie lets out a keen of distress as something solid settles on his back, warmth bleeding through his denim jacket.
“Breathe, c’mon, Munson. Deep breaths.”
He sucks in a lungful, coughing it back out a second later. The voice is soothing, commanding; slowly, Eddie can feel his lungs contracting normally, his breathing growing steadier.
“That’s it, you did it, man. Good job. Can you let go of your hair now?”
Slow as molasses, Eddie unlocks his hands from his hair, his scalp burning where he’d been tugging. The voice praises him again, the hand rubbing small circles on his back. Glancing up, Eddie feels his breath hitch again, Steve fucking Harrington staring back at him in concern.
“What the fuck,” he croaks out, coughs pouring from his ravaged esophagus.
Harrington’s eyebrows furrow a little, a concerned look on his face.
“Munson? You good?”
Nodding his head jerkily, Eddie watches as Harrington leans back on his haunches, his hand still pressed against Eddie’s back. Henderson is watching over his shoulder, one hand tight around a—
“Is that a b-baseball bat with fucking nails in it?”
Henderson nods tersely, staring at the door to the trailer with a determined look on his face. He takes a step towards the stairs, Harrington’s arm shooting out to stop him. Thoroughly done trying to process everything else that’s happened tonight—let alone contemplate Steve Harrington—Eddie just watches the little display with a lost expression on his face, hand up to bite at his thumbnail.
“Cool it, Henderson. You’re not going in there. Gimme the bat.”
Henderson gapes at him, an argument clearly geared up as he opens his mouth. Harrington shakes his head, withdrawing his hand from Eddie’s back as he stands, yanking the bat out of Henderson’s hands. Eddie wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into denim. He sees—oh, it’s Buckley—Buckley off to the side, her eyes darting from Harrington to Nancy to Harrington again before she huddles closer to Mayfield, talking to her quietly.
“No, don’t fucking argue with me, kid. Who’s the fucking adult here?” Harrington gripes, gently pushing Henderson back an inch.
“Nancy,” Henderson bites back, crossing his arms.
Pursing his lips into a little moue, Harrington quirks a brow after a moment, acquiescing.
“Okay, fair.”
Nancy’s joined Buckley in speaking to Mayfield, a supportive hand on her shoulder; the kid looks sick to her stomach, nodding as her eyes flicker towards the trailer door. Their gazes lock, something ancient and sorrowful and hurt in her gaze; tearing his eyes away, Eddie looks back at the two in front of him, still arguing.
“Eddie…”
Sinclair.
Clearing his throat, Eddie tries to give the kid a smile, though judging by the look on Sinclair’s face, it’s not even remotely successful. Wheeler is also there, surprisingly quiet and non-combative as he nudges his friend closer. Sinclair takes a half-step forward, hand reaching out; he falters after a moment, shoving his hands in his pockets of his letterman. Eddie looks away, his knee bouncing again.
“Heard you won,” he says quietly, fingers digging into the seams of his jacket.
Sinclair nods, kicking at a rock on the ground, “I—yeah, we did. Heard Erica won the campaign…Look, Eddie—”
Shaking his head, Eddie hunches in on himself a little more, shuffling over a moment later as Harrington nudges a foot against his. It’s weird, all of it is so fucking weird and he can’t not think about what’s behind the door; Harrington holds out an arm when the others try to get closer, his bat raised up defensively. They all seem to hold their breath as he pulls the door open, collectively letting it out as nothing jumps out. He slips inside, closing the door softly behind him; still, they can all hear the muffled ‘Jesus Christ’ he lets out, Eddie’s eyes slipping shut once more.
Harrington comes back out a minute later, hand pressed against his mouth. He settles down on the ground across from Eddie, running the hand up through his hair a moment later. He locks eyes with Nancy, giving her a small nod; she lets her eyes flutter shut for a moment before reopening them, nodding to herself.
“Max, I need to borrow your telephone.”
Mayfield nods, leading her and Buckley silently back towards her own home, the outside light flickering a couple of times. Harrington lets out a loud exhale next to him, clapping his hands together after a moment. It startles Eddie, his first instinct to take off running; Harrington winces, an apology on his face.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Eddie shakes his head, fingers twitching. He reaches into his pocket, fumbling for his pack of cigarettes. Unsteady as a newborn, he pulls one out, fingers catching on his lighter as he tries to light it. Gently coaxing it away, Harrington flicks it on, holding it out for Eddie.
“Are they calling the police?” Eddie asks quietly, jutting his chin towards Mayfield’s house.
Harrington shakes his head, watching quietly as Henderson, Sinclair, and Wheeler huddle together, their anger and resentment from earlier in the day seemingly gone in the face of Eddie’s dilemma. Scrubbing his hand over his face, Harrington leans back a little, knee pressed against Eddie’s.
“Maybe. Probably making a call to California, though.”
“Why the fuck—you know what, I don’t care. I can’t deal with this. Any of this.”
Harrington snorts humorlessly, eyes darting around; Eddie catches on that he’s scanning for any threats, keeping an eye out on everyone outside while watching the door to Mayfield’s house. It’s bizarre, is all so fucking bizarre and fucked up.
“This kind of thing…this is insane,” Eddie says quietly, eyes trained on the ashy end of his cigarette, “what the fuck am I gonna do?”
Harrington glances at him, quiet; a few moments later, Mayfield, Nancy, and Buckley reemerge from the trailer, hurrying across the street to rejoin the group. Harrington hands Eddie back his lighter, gently patting him on the arm before he gets up; he pulls Nancy and Buckley away, talking to them in hushed tones. Eddie watches as he shakes his head, gesturing towards his own limbs; growing sick, Eddie turns his head away, looking at the kids.
Mayfield sits next to him, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. He thinks she’s going to take a drag from it, a bubble of unease brewing in his stomach at the thought; instead, she puts it out against the side of his steps, flicking the butt away towards the road. She grips his jacket sleeve, lips pressed in a tight line.
“Why’d you call the crack a gate?” Eddie whispers, hands flexing around his knees.
Mayfield looks at him, her eyes scanning his face. After a moment, she answers, her voice just as hushed as his.
“Because it—it looks like something we’ve seen before. And it’s always bad.”
Eddie shudders, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s such an ominous statement, said so casually as if this is an everyday occurrence for these kids—like it’s not the stuff out of his worst nightmares, horror movies, the campaigns. Mayfield keeps a hold on his jacket, her eyes lost in thought. Eddie’s seen her at school—mostly keeps to herself, ignores the rest of the kids even when they call out to her—it made him wonder what she’s seen that got her so tensed up. Now, he’s not so sure he wants to know.
“I called Murray,” Nancy says, though the name means nothing to Eddie’s racing mind, “said he’s gonna try and contact Owens, see if he can’t help us out. Apparently…apparently there’s something happening in California, too, with Joyce.”
Immediately, Wheeler is striding up to his sister, expression worried as he asks her what’s happened. Nancy puts a hand on his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze that seems to quell whatever panic was brewing. Eddie glances at Mayfield, hoping she’ll explain. She doesn’t. She’s still staring out into nothing, though every so often she’ll sniff her nose or a tremor will run through her body. Gentle, Eddie pries her hand from his jacket sleeve, holding it in his own. After a moment, she squeezes their hands together, her other one coming up to cup their joined hands.
Buckley wanders over, squatting next to the two of them, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She offers him an awkward smile, the expression slipping from her face after a few moments. He nods back at her, blinking rapidly and licking his lips. She holds out a pack of gum, offering the two of them their pick. Eddie lets Mayfield go first, watching as she shoves two sticks into her mouth immediately; Buckley offers her a little chuckle, holding the pack out towards him. He takes one gingerly, fingers carefully peeling back the wrapper. He’s almost proud of himself—his hands barely shake. He shoves the gum in his mouth unceremoniously, teething it so aggressively he feels a pinch in his jaw.
“What about my uncle?” Eddie asks softly, fingers folding and unfolding the gum wrapper, “how the fuck do I explain any of this to my uncle?”
Buckley purses her lips, eyes kind as she struggles to find something to say. Eddie’s always liked her—felt a connection in that silent, awkward way you feel for other outcasts in the crowd. He thinks they might have been grouped together on a project, once, or existed in the same space together at some point. Maybe she loaned him a pencil in the library, or he let her cut in front of him at lunch?
“He’s working right now?” she asks, crossing her arms.
At Eddie’s nod, she rubs her hands up and down her arms, the uniform for Family Video doing little to fight off the night’s cold; hastily, Eddie pulls his jacket off, offering it to her silently. She smiles at him, something small and soft and pretty—it’s a good look for her, can see why Harrington watches her so closely.
“When does he get back?” Mayfield asks, still huddled next to him.
Eddie glances at his watch, legitimately shocked it’s only been an hour or so since he got home from D&D, meeting Chrissy here.
“He works overnights, at the plant,” he says, looking from person to person, “think he said something ‘bout someone calling out, having to work a double.”
Nancy nods to herself, uttering a quiet, “We can work with that.”
“What are you thinking?” Harrington calls, a hand on Henderson’s shoulder.
Nancy pulls the group closer together, making sure to keep her voice level as she says, “We’re going to call the police.”
It’s like ice water gets dumped on Eddie, the way a chill goes down his spine. He can dimly hear Henderson, Sinclair, and Wheeler arguing against it, Nancy trying to calm them down. Even Buckley and Harrington look a little upset with her, which surprises him even more. The only one who seems to be thinking it through is Mayfield, her hand now loose around his wrist.
“Guys. Guys!”
Eddie will hand it to her, Mayfield’s got a set of lungs on her. She huffs a little—maybe he said that out loud, oops—squeezing his wrist once before she stands, the additional height of the step she’s on making her appear like she’s taller, rising higher—
Eddie doesn’t allow himself to finish the thought.
“Listen, we don’t have that many options here,” she says, looking from one person to the next, “we can have Eddie call the police about finding Chrissy like this, or wait for her family to file a missing person report which lands us right back here. At least this way, we can come up with an alibi or something so Eddie’s not a suspect.”
“How the fuck do you know that,” Harrington says, a note of alarm in his voice.
Mayfield shrugs, gesturing towards her trailer, “Mom watches a lot of Columbo.”
“So we lie,” Henderson says, nodding after a moment.
Sinclair and Wheeler share an uneasy glance—he knows how bad their acting can be, having seen it first-hand with the latest campaign. Buckley also seems to be on board, tugging a little at her vest underneath Eddie’s jacket.
“Maybe…maybe you were watching Max, as a favor to her mom,” Nancy says slowly, trying to figure out a story, “and you came back here to grab something, and you found her.”
“And then you panicked, and called the first person you thought of—me,” Henderson offers, “and since I can’t drive, I asked Steve to drive me.”
“No,” Steve shakes his head, pushing Henderson towards the other kids, “the less people involved, the better. And you, Henderson, are a shit liar.”
“What the fuck!” Henderson exclaims, whirling around to face Harrington, “I’m a great liar!”
“Oh yeah?” Harrington taunts, “like when you told me you got an ‘A’ on your Latin test? Or when you told me you didn’t take The Exorcist when I told you you couldn’t watch it?”
Henderson’s mouth falls open, sputtering a little, “H-hey!”
Harrington raises an eyebrow, his hands on his hips as he stares Henderson down. It startles a spark of amusement in Eddie—it’s such a fucking mom pose, Jesus Christ. Mayfield sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, Buckley holding her arms out in a sweeping gesture, “My daily plight.” The absurdity of it startles a sharp little chuckle from him, his laughter growing as Harrington and Henderson turn to give him twin looks of exasperation.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out, tipping his head back to stare up at the sky, “This is the worst fucking night of my life, and I finally find out where Henderson gets that little stank face from.”
It causes a ripple of giggles among the kids, the tension in the air lifting just enough that Eddie doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. Well, not immediately anyways. Even Harrington and Nancy seem to relax a little, which should not feel like such a major accomplishment, but it is. At least to someone like Eddie “the Freak” Munson.
“I think it could work,” Harrington says slowly, glancing at Mayfield carefully, “so long as Max is okay with it.”
Mayfield hunches in on herself a little, looking at Nancy and Buckley. The three of them glance between themselves, nodding after a moment. Mayfield gives a final nod, sighing wearily as she sinks back down on the step, holding Eddie’s arm again.
“My mom, she—she hasn’t been handling things well since. Since last year,” Mayfield grits out, her tone extremely reluctant.
Sinclair takes a small step forward, hand reaching out to rest on Mayfield’s shoulder. She shakes it off, pointedly ignoring the hurt that flashes across his face.
“She’s been drunk a lot, so. We could lie, say I saw Eddie come home, needed his help moving my mom into bed.”
“Does your mom need help into bed?” Harrington asks quietly.
Mayfield pauses, her expression shuttering; after a moment, she shakes her head, clearing her throat, “No, no. Nancy and Robin helped. Earlier.”
Harrington nods, though he doesn’t look wholly satisfied; still, Harrington drops it instead of pushing, which says a lot to Eddie. It amazes him, how different this Harrington is from the one he knew in school. How this version clearly cares about these kids, about the depth of trust they have in him and vice versa. (Eddie only feels the slightest bit of jealousy at the way Henderson stares at Harrington. Only a little. Really.)
Nancy nods, picking up her shotgun and walking back towards her car, stowing it in the backseat. She comes back to the group, putting a hand on Wheeler and Henderson’s shoulders. “Mike, Dustin, Lucas—I’ll take the three of you home. Steve—”
“Yeah, I can—Robin was closing Family Video, and I offered to drive her home, like usual. Max called the store, asked me to come by, here we are.”
Buckley nods along, her hair flapping along her ears, “We can figure it out while we wait.”
Nancy nods, ushering the kids towards her car. Henderson splits away, rushing up to give both Eddie and Harrington quick hugs before going back. Huffing a little laugh, Harrington waves to them as they drive off, Buckley and Mayfield whispering to each other. Eddie glances towards his door, dread still lining his stomach.
“We can do this, we can totally do this. I’m not panicking, I’m not a shit liar, we’ve got this,” Buckley says, clapping her hands together meekly, “let’s go over it one more time?”
Harrington nods, leaning against the wall of the trailer, his expression focused.
“Okay—Max, you’re comfortable telling the police about your mom?” Mayfield nods, though her grip on Eddie’s arm tightens minutely, “Okay, then we’ll say Max called me at the store, which is explains why Robin’s here, too. She and I can say we closed the shop together, rushed over here; Munson, you okay with everything so far?”
Eddie nods jerkily, knee jittering a little. Harrington gives him a small nod, getting back into his explanation.
“Good, good. Eddie, you were getting home from you’re…the, uh—”
“Hellfire Club—it’s D&D, man.”
“Right, right. So you were coming home from Hellfire, and you saw me and Robin helping Max. And you came over to see if you could help.”
Mayfield gives a small nod, clearing her throat before saying, “You guys helped me get my mom in bed. Robin and Steve stuck around to help clean up, and Eddie you came back here to go inside—”
“And that’s when I found her,” he finishes, looking around at the others for confirmation.
“And your uncle—he works with other people? He wouldn’t be alone?”
Eddie shakes his head.
“Uh, yeah, he always talks about these two guys he’s with, Richards and Lowell, I think.”
“Where exactly does he work?” Buckley asks, “Just so we know.”
“Wabash River power station. It’s uh, like, maybe an hour away? And he left at four, I think. So…so he should be okay, right? My uncle—they won’t go after my uncle?”
Harrington shakes his head, his voice soft, “Nah, Munson, they won’t get your uncle.”
Eddie lets out a stuttered sigh, leaning back into his steps, “Good. That’s—good.”
Mayfield squeezes his arm again, getting up a moment later. Buckley helps her down, keeping their hands locked together as they wait for Harrington and Eddie to move. Despite the horror behind him, Eddie is a little reluctant to move from the steps. If he moves, it makes this all real—it means Chrissy Cunningham died in his living room when all she wanted was to feel less scared. Psyching himself up, Eddie shoves himself away from the steps, mouth twitching as his body aches a little after sitting for so long. Still, it’s better than—right. Don’t think about it too much, Munson.
“Okay, I’m going to move my car closer to Max’s house,” Harrington says, digging around for his keys, “you guys head over to call the police. I guess just…be as honest as you can, but stick to the story.”
The others nod, Eddie slowly trailing behind the girls as Harrington veers off for his car. It’s weird, entering Mayfield’s trailer; the layout is practically the same, but there’s something hanging in the air that makes it—weird, different. Mayfield points him towards the phone, settling down on her couch. Buckley perches next to her, slinging an arm around Mayfield’s shoulders. She’s saying something quietly to her, Mayfield’s hands fisted in her pajamas—Jesus, Eddie thinks—she was in her pajamas the whole time?
Picking up the receiver, Eddie licks his lips before punching in the police department’s number. He closes his eyes as he waits for the line to be picked up, a gentle click and the soft sound of static coming over the line.
‘Hawkins Police Department, how can I help you?’
Eddie glances up, watching as Harrington enters the trailer, settling in on Mayfield’s other side. Sandwiched between the two, she looks younger than she has all night—scared, frightened, small. She looks over at him, something on her face making Eddie’s gut tighten unpleasantly.
“I’d, uh—I’d like to report a murder, I think.”