Latest Posts by patrickispinky - Page 5

Gonna come back to this tomorrow cus I'm really drunk

October Moon

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

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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 she hadn't visited 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 gone.

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. 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, "I didn't remember," as if that solved the problem. A band-aid over a bullet wound, as true as it was. You'd been tested several times at your mother's stubborn hand for dissociative amnesia, unable to reconcile how you'd remembered Aiden's. A lethal fall down the farmhouse stairs. A farmhouse in town, abandoned, on your way home from the elementary school. You'd gone in to escape the rain and he'd wandered off on his own. Had hit his head so hard on the stone wall, he'd bled out at the bottom of the stairs. You'd watched his spirit rise and then vanish. It was in your statement to Xavier's father. It was how you'd remembered it, in vague flashes, for the six years it'd been since it'd happened.

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

Xavier collapsed to his knees in front of you, devastated, "How? How could 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 shaky 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.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Quinn Wu smiled as they greeted the next customer at the box office. It was Friday. They'd planned on checking out Horror Con with their friends. On finally letting loose and enjoying a weekend like a regular teenager. That was until their mom had stumbled in drunk right as they were about to leave, their mom clearly unable to work her shift at Jitterbug Theater. It wasn't busy. They could've called their mom in sick and the other staff could've easily made do.

But their family was hard up for money and the rent was overdue by several days, the threat of eviction already made clear like blood painted on the doorframe. So, there they were, giving their best customer service smile to the next in line.

The woman was old but pretty, her hair tucked under a hat that reminded Quinn of something one would see in the 20s. She wore large sunglasses accessorized with chunky rhinestones that glittered in the fluorescent light. Her cashmere sweater was a simple black, her mink shawl a bright Barbie pink. She hobbled in tall, spiky heels toward the counter, her weight balanced on a cane that matched her sunglasses.

She was fabulous, Quinn thought, certainly the most interesting person they'd ever seen. The woman joked with Quinn as she waited for her tickets to print.

And then...then the world seemed to go quiet. The woman leaned in, her hand grabbing Quinn's when they offered her the tickets. With a grey-toothed grin, she said, "I'm so sorry your mother doesn't love you enough to let you have your own life," truly sympathetic. She lowered her sunglasses on her nose, sparkling blue eyes gazing deep into Quinn's.

Strangely, Quinn wasn't alarmed. Or offended. Or disturbed. They were resigned. As if the woman's words expressed a universal truth they couldn't escape. Quinn nodded, their eyes casting to the countertop.

The woman leaned in further and assured, "Don't worry, pet, I can make it all better."

Quinn's eyes flashed up to hers, hopeful. "Really?"

The woman nodded, "Just be sure to go to school on time and don't skip any classes. Be a good student," the woman instructed, very serious, "and I'll make sure you get everything you want." Her smile remained sweet while her eyes turned sharp. "I promise. But do you?"

Quinn pondered the question, tilting their head and staring at the woman in front of them who could give them everything they wanted. After a few silent seconds, the beat of their heart getting louder in their ears, they answered:

"I promise."

💀___________________________

OCTOBER SUN PT.27 - PART ONE

note: for those who don't know, Quinn is a character who will be making her/their debut in S2. i'm using they/them pronouns to respect the actor as i don't know anything about Quinn yet. but anyway...*cracks knuckles* let the challenge BEGIN. i swear to all that i am that i WILL finish this nutjob of a fic before next Thursday if it's the last thing that i do ☠️✍️🔥🚒

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS.

I know no one asked but I'm writing Pt.4 of Sex, Drugs, Etc. and I'm on a 1.5k word flashback that I'm actually really proud of cant wait to post it :)

Help Ikhlas and her young daughter Eileen overcome their hardships

My name is Ikhlas Mahmoud Samara, I am 29 years old, and my 3-year-old daughter, Eileen, is my world. We were living a simple yet hopeful life until the devastating war on Gaza turned everything upside down. I lost my beloved husband, Abdullah Al-Boubou, who was just 31 years old, when he was martyred during the heavy bombing. He was our sole provider and source of strength.

We were forced to flee from northern Gaza to the Mawasi Khan Younis area in the south under relentless bombing. Now, we are living in a tent that offers no protection from the scorching heat of summer or the freezing cold of winter. Later, I learned that our home in northern Gaza was completely destroyed, leaving us homeless and struggling to survive.

Since losing my husband, we’ve been facing severe financial difficulties. I am doing my best to stay strong for Eileen, but we desperately need help.

I am launching this campaign to secure our basic needs and provide a dignified life for me and my daughter. Your support, no matter how small, can make a tremendous difference in our lives.

Please donate and share our story with others. Together, we can give Eileen a better future.

To whom it may concern

First, please watch this video:

That targeting was two days ago Do you see, my friend? Were you astonished by the size of the bombing? Did we really deserve all this? That was a small part of what happened that night. Imagine the amount of these explosives falling on the bodies of innocent people, after the army asked them to leave their homes and migrate to this safe area, as it claims. If You saw that, my friends, people were burned to death, screaming, and there was no one to help them.

This explosion was only about 500 meters away from our tent. As you know, the tent is made up of some scraps and wood. Shrapnel and rubble scattered on us, and some of people’s tents were burned. I was slightly injured as a result of that, not to mention the tent’s failure.

I kindly ask you guys to help me achieve my goal and help me and my family leave this place, otherwise our fate will be like the fate of those innocent people who were killed for no reason. We need to live a better life than this. We do not have to endure all that. Please, guys, do not leave us. We die this way💔

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Samir Survive A Famine, organized by Adam M

Hello guys, this fundraiser was created with the help of my friend Adam. Our goal is to help th… Adam M needs your support for Help Sami

Campaign verification link 1 :

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@myceliacrochet @shartmaster4200 @theinconvenientlifestyle

🚨Take a moment to imagine your child or loved one. What would you do for them? How far would you go to protect them and shield them from pain, loss and despair🚨

I am Marwa, a mother of three girls, Belasan, Joan and Nada, ages 7 to 14. 🔊🔉🔈I will take a moment to share my story.📢📣

My children and I lived under bombardment and aggression. We had a safe home full of dreams and a bright future for my daughters.

But everything changed when the war on Gaza began. Our house, which we built with strength and effort before the war, was destroyed.

We lost our job, which was our only source of income. The journey of displacement and moving from one place to another began without the minimum necessities of life. We faced difficulties in providing healthy food and clean water. We lived in fear and terror. My daughters could no longer sleep from the intensity of fear.

My mother-in-law suffers from serious lung infections and chronic diseases, and we find it difficult to provide appropriate treatment for her, especially in the winter and the bitter cold. She is part of our family after losing her husband. We are now without shelter, moving from one place to another, and struggling to survive. Today we have no income, no life, and no work. We are determined to rebuild our dreams, secure our future, and rebuild our home. We cannot do this alone and we need your help in building our lives. Your support, no matter how small, can make a big difference. Thank you for helping us find hope on our journey.

gofundme.com

Donate to Help build girls' futures, organized by marwa nasla

Take a moment to imagine your child or loved one. What would you do for them? How far would you … marwa nasla needs your support for Help bu

Vatted by

@bilal-salah0

🚨 We Need Your Kindness to Survive 🚨

Hello, I am etaf, a Palestinian living now in Egypt with my family after we managed to escape from Gaza when all our property was destroyed, and we returned from scratch in this life. When we escaped to Egypt, we did not think of anything other than feeling safe from the fear we were facing in Gaza, but unfortunately I did not expect that life would become this difficult, after we left with nothing, no home, no money, no clothes, no family, we are facing something beyond human imagination. When I ask for help, I cry a lot because we are not used to that. We used to live in beautiful palaces, have a job, and a beautiful life, and now we have become nothing!💔

Our source of income was destroyed and the new merchandise was burned. 💔

We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, 💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income. 🍞 Basic Needs: Food and Children's needs, rent, education, and other basic living requirements. are becoming harder to afford with rising prices .

📚 Dreams on Hold: Loss of family and loved ones Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive. 😢

How You Can Help:🌹🫶

I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $5 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.

What This Means to Us:

Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.

Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.

With all our gratitude, Etaf Al-Qataa and Family ❤️

✅️ Vetted by ✅️

@gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #88 )✅️

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Donate to Please help us get out of life's crises and the woes of war., organized by Etaf Alqattaa

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@janzoo @someguywithaname-blog

🚨 We Need Your Kindness to Survive 🚨

Hello, My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.

The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.

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We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, like food, clean water, and a safe place to sleep. The harsh realities of life here have replaced our dreams with the constant fight for survival.

Our Current Situation:

💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income. 🍞 Basic Needs: Food and water are becoming harder to afford with rising prices and scarce resources. 📚 Dreams on Hold: Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive. 😢 Unimaginable Loss: Losing 25 loved ones has left a void that can never be filled.

How You Can Help:

I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $5 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.

Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.

What This Means to Us:

Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.

Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.

With all our gratitude, Mosab Elderawi and Family ❤️

✅️ Vetted by ✅️

@gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #309 )✅️

gofundme.com

Donate to Help me saving who's left of my family, organized by Mosab Derawi

Hello Everyone, I am Mosab Suleiman Al Derawi, 28 years old, my wife Nadine Adel A… Mosab Derawi needs your support for Help me saving who's

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Desperate Plea: A Call For Relife‼️ 🥀

Hello, It's Momen Al Madhoun, writing from the most miserable area in the whole world, I am deeply thankful to all of you. Your support means the world to my family

🍉🍉🍉 I urgently plead you to keep sharing our campaign with your friends, family, and acquaintances

15 months have passed as if it were 15 years, and suffering increasing day after day 😔 Our health is decaying, we have NO IMMUNITY to fight diseases. No healthy food to feed our worn cells. Finding a quiet, clean place for us to get some rest is IMPOSSIBLE! I'm in urgent need of serious financial support so that I can take action and save my family! Our faces speak the misery we're going through! my children can't bear the ruthlessness of war life… pain and cold does not allow either of them to sleep 💔

I found in drawing a way to relieve stress and describe what we are experiencing, but even this i was deprived of, due to the difficulty of obtaining good internet and electricity for a sufficient time If you are interested in art, you can check I my blog I and find my artworks, i hope you will share them and support me to continue fighting and trying Every share and donation brings us one step closer to saving my family's lives. Your support, no matter how small, holds the power to rescue my loved ones from grave danger There are no words can describe how many times we have been displaced The situation we're living now is really hard to imagine Where do we Go?

Imagine the vastness of this universe, we cannot escape to a safe place far from the war

🍉🍉🍉 We rely on your donations to have a shelter and provide basic daily necesseties. We need your contributions and support with us, no matter how small it may be for you, but it makes a difference for my family 🙏🏻 Please, Support us with 5$, 10$, or any donation you can make and it will be really appreciated 🙏🏻

🌟 Our campaign is vetted by 🇵🇸 @/gazavetters List at #291

Donation link 🙏🏻

you guys made luigi mangione trend for days and I need to see the same energy for brianna boston. she is a 43 year old mother of three who ended a phone call with blue cross blue shield (after being denied a claim) “delay deny depose, you people are next” and is now being held under a 100,000$ bond and could face FIFTEEN years of prison if charged. she has no weapons, her record is clean, and yet she is being held behind bars. they are afraid of the public and are trying to subdue. do not let them!!!! be outraged that our freedom of speech is being threatened!!!!! deny defend depose! free brianna boston!

Sex, Drugs, Etc.

Pt.3

Warnings: Talk of drugs/Drug use. A lot of plot. EXTREME Canon divergence. Before Maddies time. Set in 2022. Sleep Paralysis. Panic attack. Blood. Hearing voices. Disassociation. Suicide? Drowning. This is NOT meant to romanticize addiction or mental illness. (This chapter turned out a little darker than I wanted it to. I was kinda just going with the flow and this is how it turned out. I never really have a plan when writing so sorry if this isn't what was expected and sorry that Wally hasn't been shown a lot. I know its a Wally Clark x reader but I mainly write for plot. I don't recommend reading if any of the warnings above could possibly trigger you. Take care of yourself lovelys)

2.1k words

Pt.2

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The impending doom that creeps over you when you realize you can’t move is a feeling you didn’t miss. Like the grim reaper himself was looming over you, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea, maybe he could take you away from this place, make you not feel so trapped. 

Sleep was rare, but when it did come it wasn't peaceful. He stood there, not moving a muscle, almost like he was teasing you. At some point you started considering him a friend, he didn’t like that very much. The sight of him slowly creeping forward left you short of breath. He couldn’t hurt you, you knew that but it didn’t change the way your stomach fell to your ass. Throat begging to be able to make a sound, limbs feeling completely numb. 

The sound of his steps like gunshots getting louder and louder the closer he got consumed you. “Bang! Bang! BANG!” You shot up, taking deep breaths as you got a grip of your surroundings. It was still dark and you were more over to the edge of the lockers, almost falling off. The cold sweat dripping down your forehead makes you consider getting up and taking a shower, the sleepiness completely erased from your body. But you couldn’t, it was too similar to where- A shiver ran down your spine at the thought. 

As you jump down from your place on top of the lockers you don’t feel the dizziness you normally would from such a movement, no blood rush to your head or weakness in your knees. Guess being dead has its perks. 

It was hard to see, no light from the windows or fluorescents blinding you. You didn’t know what time it was, having learned that your phones still stuck on the time you took your last breath but you assumed you still had a few hours before the halls would be filled with tired teens. 

Something about the silence that bounced off every corner left an uncomfortable feeling in the far end of your mind. Silence was normally comforting, peaceful, but something about this absence of sound made you want to scream, fill the emptiness with your own noise. It was suffocating, or maybe it was just lonely, either way you didn’t like it. 

There's nothing to do here, the one thing you wanted you couldn't get your hands on. You're alone, truly honestly fucking alone. The realization felt like being stabbed, not in the heart but straight through your stomach where you'd be left to bleed out. As the tightening in your chest began to form you ran, as fast as you could to the first exit and pushed it open. The cold December air like a wave of relief as you took deep intakes of breath. Chest still feeling like it was being crushed by a semi truck as you let your body fall down to the ground, and that's when the tears fell. Not baby tears, no, sobs. The type that makes you want to throw up. “FUUUCK!” Your fists hit the pavement repeatedly as you feel your face go numb from crying. You laid there, for god knows how long, beating the pavement until your knuckles were bleeding and no more water could physically escape your eyes. 

As you sit there, no longer able to feel anything you hear the sound of the door open behind you. “That kind of aggression can be really dangerous.” The voice didn’t seem too familiar. As you turn you see the big eyed redhead who gave you the idea of sleeping on top of the lockers. You didn’t know what to say as she sat down beside you, her 70’s hippy aesthetic reminding you of a group you used to hang around. “You know I meditate when I'm upset.”

You let out a soft chuckle at the idea. “Yeah, my uncle Roscoe used to make me meditate.” A smile grows on your face at the memory, your eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you. “He said ‘it will heal your inner spirit’ it was kinda nice actually.” The image of his smile when you finally agreed to trying it after months of him begging you to was burned into the back of your brain. 

“Your spirits all you have left now, it's important to take care of it.” There was a spacyness to her voice, like she wasn’t fully there. Her mind drifting off into a different reality. For the first time since she came outside she looked at you, really looked at you, like she was staring into your soul and feeling your pain. “Take care of yourself.” 

“Thank you” Those were the only words you could muster up, the back of your throat dry and sore from screaming and crying. Without waiting a beat she stood up, going back inside almost like she was never there, the door closing with a click. It was silent again, but this silence was peaceful, content, the type that makes you feel safe. 

After about 10 minutes you decide it's time to go back inside where it's somewhat warm. As you go to open the door it doesn't budge. “Shit” You deliver a few frustrated kicks to the door before giving up. The redheaded girl already long gone. As you slide down, back to the door already accepting your fate, you let your head hit the cold metal with a thud. What a great fucking night. 

-

Wally was sleeping peacefully in the teachers lounge on the second floor when a scream awoke him. “FUUUCK!” This made him sit up, looking around confused, eyes still not adjusted to the dark.

“What the fuck?” He jumped up, stumbling over to the window due to not being fully awake. As he looked out he saw you, on the ground punching the pavement, it looked like you were crying. He knew it would happen eventually, he even overheard Rhonda and Charley making bets the day you died on how long it would take you to break. Grief was weird, especially when you’re grieving your own death. Nothing could ever prepare you for it. 

He debated on whether or not he should go out there and check on you. You seemed like the type of person who liked to be alone with your pain, it didn’t stop him from wanting to wrap you in a big hug and tell you it’s gonna be alright. 

He watched your movements slow as you grew tired, the anger and adrenaline wearing off, no doubt leaving you feeling more empty than you were before the outburst. Even though your breath evened out and the blood on your fists disappeared he could tell by the way you sat there, not moving that you still weren’t okay. Who could be? Nothing about anything was okay. 

The sight of you stiffening as someone crept out behind you made him nervous until he saw the red haired bimbo he knew as Dawn sit down beside you. He didn’t know much about Dawn, she was just kinda there, some would call a drifter doomed to never pass on. Though he wasn’t sure if anyone would really pass on. 

Whatever Dawn said to you seemed to make you feel at ease, your body loosening as you let your guard down. A comforting sight, you’re always on edge. Wally hasn’t seen you just let go since you got here, hell even when you were alive it was like you had a steel wall around you. The wall was still up but something about Dawn seemed to make you trust her in some odd way he couldn’t understand. 

Wally decided to let Dawn handle it, he didn’t want to overwhelm you by having too many people around you. He understood how sensitive death makes people, even if you constantly try to act as though it doesn’t bother you he could tell you were slowly crumbling under the pressure. 

He crept back over to the couch, wanting to get a little more sleep before the morning bell would ring, serving as an alarm for every resident of Split River high. 

 ⚠This is when it gets really dark so read with caution ⚠

It wasn’t until 30 minutes later when Mr.Mandela showed up, unlocking the front door, that you were finally able to re-enter the school. It was still quiet and dark, the sun yet to make an appearance, but this was a different silence. The screams in your mind that didn’t get to make their way out with the rest of them filled it perfectly. But these weren't screams of anger, no, these were screams of desperation. Desperation for a way out, desperation for true silence, desperation for the fuzzy feeling that creates a barrier of protection, that makes you so numb you can't think. 

Then the screams turned dark, mind frantic as they came up with new ideas. ‘The pool’ This one was a whisper, somehow making its way past the louder voices. ‘The gym’ and that's when it came to you. As you made your way to the gym the screaming didn’t stop, they knew what was best for you. At least that's what you convinced yourself in this moment of desperation. 

The sound of your heavy breaths and the screaming was all you could hear as you frantically pushed the gym door open and made your way to where they hold weight lifting classes. You grabbed two 50 pound weights that would normally be difficult to lift but something in you made them feel like feathers. It might have been adrenalin, from what exactly? You didn’t know, but nothing could stop you from whatever your plan was. The voices became jumbled, all screaming the same thing just unsynchronized. ‘ROPE!’ Where the hell were you supposed to get rope? The theater.

Your brain was in overdrive, your thoughts not your own but the voices that drowned together to create a deafening screech. You don’t remember walking to the theater, it's like you blinked and you were there. Again you blinked and there was a rope in your hand and a stage light on the stage floor in front of you. There was a girl screaming at you about something that became muffled due to the onslaught of noise she couldn’t hear. With the weights on each of your shoulders, hands clutching them tightly and the rope placed over the back of your neck you rushed to the pool. Thinking that if you could run fast enough you could get away from the blurred together screaming. You knew it was pointless, it was a part of you, constantly reminding you that even death couldn’t fix you. 

The world was a blur, your movements somehow in slow motion but frantic. As you pushed the door to the pool room you no longer felt like you were in control of yourself. Your limbs were moving on their own as you set the weights down, grabbing the rope, you tied it around your neck tight, making it almost impossible to breathe. 

Nothing felt real, everything around you was distorted. You reached down, tying the weights to the end of the rope and within a blink you were in the water, the coldness shocking your system. Your brain had no time to process as water filled your ears, eyes burning from the chlorine. Your mouth clamped shut, not allowing the water in as you realized what was happening, finally becoming conscious as the voices began to settle. You tried to swim to the top but the weights held you down, thrashing your limbs violently as your lungs began to sting. 

You attempt to untie the rope from your neck but your bodies grown weak from the lack of oxygen. The world went blurry as your head felt like it was going to explode. The pressure became too much, your limbs thrashing violently as you tried to escape the ropes tight grip. You couldn't take it anymore, your brain felt like it was turning into multan lava and with no other option your body forced you to do the one thing you had refused to do.

Your mouth opened, taking a deep breath. Water filled your lungs and your body felt like it was on fire. Hot panic soaring through you as you tried to cough up the water only for more to fill your lungs. This was it, you didn’t know what ‘it’ was exactly and that made it worse. The unknown, such a scary thing that you allowed yourself to walk right into. 

Time felt like it was moving too slowly as you began to slip in and out of consciousness. At least now you’ll get some more sleep right? Fuck. Your body began to grow limp, no longer fighting your fate. The cloudiness in your head took over, unconsciousness taking you easily as everything went black.

Pt.4

Felt this in my core

if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.

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 blast his soul into oblivion—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 encased 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 four industry men who'd founded Split River in 1850.

"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 one 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."

"Noah, 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 a protocol had been established between Deputy Baxter and Sheriff Stallow when it came to your family. A grandfathered in whatever it takes that often involved doing things off-book.

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 window, his room pitched black, and his mom 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 mom 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 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 because M-Maddie's gone, she needs s-someone else now and that she still wants Sissy. But 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.

No, Mina hadn't partaken, much too responsible, but she'd wanted to participate in some way even if that was just being there. 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 so snooty and uptight, God, Mina, chill out."

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 vault 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 had someone canvas 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. I'm doing what I can to keep the kids present, like you said, and I need to concentrate on that. I've already noticed a shift in sentient ones since Maddie joined us."

Mr. South—Amelia—snarled, "I'm not asking you to participate in a search and seize, Everett. 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."

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. 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 live and well 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 and he didn't want to be on the wrong end of her wrath.

Virtuously, Amelia commented, "You'll have to find me another to replace that one. So, two more, I suppose,. And we need someone to step in for Janet," breezy, as if she'd killed nothing more than a house fly. "And soon. We can't have any more delays." In Mr. South's lumbering body, she picked across the floor like a debutante, "Time is running out." She finished, already out the vault door and returning 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 his whole world had been turned upside down. More so than it already had been, that was. 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 lifted the hood of his sweater and turned 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 Canadian tuxedo. 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?"

You at least had the decency to look apologetic.

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

"So can you." You shot back, but it didn't sound like your heart was in it. In fact, you looked just as rattled as Xavier had 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, you, Maddie, and 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 watched 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—Canadian tuxedo—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."

Simon was beginning to double-down on putting together a personal bestiary à la Teen Wolf just to aid him in navigating this shitshow.

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 her 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 closed 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, you shuffled closer to her on the windowsill 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 your eyes still looked haunted.

"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 hopped down from the windowsill 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.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Mr. Martin was surprised when Rhonda marched into the gym and pulled up a seat. It wasn't the first unusual thing Mr. Martin had noticed of his Support Group that night, though.

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 Mr. Martin suspected there was more to it.

Charley hadn't made any sarcastic comebacks to Mr. Martin's purposefully cheesy jokes about the film before Mr. Martin had started it, either. Keeping an eye on Charley and Wally, Mr. Martin 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, Mr. Martin 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 everything she believed in to do it.

"Is everything alright?" Mr. Martin probed when she didn't say anything. His first priority was always his students' wellbeing, no matter what Amelia felt about it.

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 would examine what she'd revealed too closely.

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

"—I've made my peace with it because nothing changes...but now..." Mr. Martin 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 Mr. Martin 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 Mr. Martin to help her before being disintegrated into nothingness.

When Rhonda admitted, "I'm willing to try anything," Mr. Martin 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. There was nothing else for it, his hand forced, because everything was easier when the participants were willing. But Rhonda needed to say it right. She needed to mean it without Mr. Martin's direct interference.

And, just like that, she did.

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

Mr. Martin felt Rhonda's words vibrate through the veil, the gears shifting as the pieces on Amelia's board were recast.

Mr. Martin 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 this earth.

He'd had no choice, a milder, more detached part of him reminded, and it's too late to undo what'd already been done. There was no going back.

All Mr. Martin could do now was offer Rhonda his bowl of popcorn and tell her, "I'm glad to hear it."

💀___________fin.____________

PART TWENTY-SIX - OCTOBER MOON

note: i will definitely be tinkering away here tomorrow 💀

Act 1 was written to The Night We Met (Slowed & Thunder Storm) by Lord Huron. Act 5 was written to You're Somebody Else by Flora Cash. finally, Act 6 was written to Willow Tree March by The Paper Kites.

i can't believe it, guys. we made it. (ignoring that i now have less that 3 weeks to accomplish Series 2 before the second season airs...) thank you everyone who's still clinging for their lives on the sides of this chaos canoe. you're all legends and i love each and every one of you to the moon and beyond 😭

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: y'all know, it ain't a thing around here anymore due to the overuse of ritual magic, some demon-summoning, and an unfortunate sacrifice that resulted in more technical issues than tumblr could handle 🔮🗡️ if you'd like to be kept up-to-date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. we have fun here (•¯ ∀ ¯•)

I just finished reading all 3 books from the A Good Girls Guide To Murder series plus the prequel and all I can think about is how in the first book on the literal second page with the rules for Pips project it says "There is to be NO CONTACT made with either of the family's." And the first thing she did after having the topic approved was go and knock on Ravis door. 😭😭😭

October Sun

summary: Wally had lost his grip on reality. Even for a ghost, what had transpired in the theater had been messed up. What the fuck had happened? Where had you gone? Where had everyone gone? How had he ended up in a dirty, cramped cellar that had looked like something out of a horror movie? And who had been the people he'd been stuck with?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: manslaughter. depictions of lethal violence against a child. eventual smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

⏰we continue...🐾 we clocked in at 6818 words. for anyone triggered by violence or murder, especially involving children, the plot will still make sense if you choose to SKIP that scene. it begins in Act 3 when we return to Wally's POV. i have indicated that act with "‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗" to avoid confusion. if you wish to back-arrow out but would like a summary of events, please DM me and i'll happily catch you up in a gentler way 🧡

stay safe & bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.26

Question Three.

Why did the Monster seek revenge?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The supernatural wind hit Wally like a solid force, a blunt and brutal strike that propelled him backward, flung through the air, and spat through the farmhouse door. His back slammed against something hard and immovable, head cracking against the uneven surface. Grunting in pain, he fell forward, breath kicked out of him, barely catching himself before his face met the ground. He lay there for a few beats to allow a wave of nausea to settle before, on a shaky arm, he pushed himself up.

"Jesus Christ," He coughed, sitting back on his haunches, and closed his eyes to center himself. It took too many deep breaths before the throb at the back of his head receded and he felt stable again. In the absence of pain, Wally's other senses returned and he realized something was different. Wrong. The light too bright and the air too damp. He pressed the meat of his hands into his sockets, blinked rapidly, and then opened his eyes fully to take in his surroundings.

Dazed, he uttered, "Uh, okay..." and hoisted himself to his feet to look around.

He wasn't in the theater.

Exposed stone walls, low ceiling, packed dirt floor. Wally did a circuit of the space, as sparse as it was, and tried to find some clue as to where he'd ended up. A weathered work table sat against the wall to his right, its contents the typical accouterments one might find in a hobbyist's garage—drill, crowbar, hammer, welding torch. Totally normal. Except for the chemistry set assembled across the back of it.

"Weird," Wally muttered, fingers ghosting over the looping glass tubes and empty beakers. He picked up a beaker and sniffed, his face instantly twisting into an expression of disgust, "Gah!" He shoved the beaker back on the table, panting through his nose to expel the pungent odor. "Nasty."

Moving around, he saw a metal-framed shelf boasting three-deep rows of jars containing a variety of dried plants, all labeled—datura, rose, groundcherry, tobacco, mandragora, and more—and tightly sealed. That explained the reek from the beaker, Wally thought, cringing as it lingered in his nostrils. It was so bad he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. Heady and floral. Like licking soap.

Eventually, he came to a stop where he'd appeared, nothing else of interest in the space apart from a bare, stained mattress lying in the middle of the floor and a pile of wood under the staircase. Rising on his toes, he peered out one of the high windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar; a landmark or sign or anything. But there was nothing. Just trees and unpaved road and more trees.

As he sank back to the flats of his feet, the world around him flickered like film in an old VHS. Fast as a blink. Gone then there. Wally's eyes widened and he staggered a short distance, stunned that things had gone from milky daylight to dark and stormy in no time at all. As if the day had been sucked away as night forced its way in. And more shockingly, Wally wasn't alone anymore.

"Fuck. FUCK." Someone shouted. A deep, male voice that belonged to a man in uniform who was pacing a groove into the floor, gesturing wildly; hands gripping his head, beating the wall, tugging his military jacket. Agitated. Feral. Eyes blazing as he climbed the stairs, banged on the closed door at the top, kicked and punched it, "LET ME OUT!!" and then descended again.

Wally cleared his throat, cautious as he approached the man, "Erm...hi?" He started, hands raised like he was about to engage an angry lion. "Dude, are you okay?"

The man didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even seem to hear Wally. Which, sure, Wally was used to after decades of being ignored by the living, except that this man wasn't the living. Wally felt it in his bones the same way he always did. That lack of physical pressure that arced from living bodies. Yet, even when Wally stepped directly into the man's space to force his attention, the man didn't bat an eye. Continued cursing and lashing out at everything within reach. Everything but Wally.

"What the hell?" Wally murmured, peering at the man and then around the cellar. He tried again, waving his arms, getting right in the man's face, "Hellooo~?"

Nothing.

The man continued his rampage, grabbed the hammer off the worktable, and began to smash the jars on the shelf, yelling with every strike. They reset in seconds and he'd do it all over again. And again. And again.

"Cool." Wally swallowed, "That's cool," a tad more anxious than he had been moments before. Being dead and trapped and ignored by the majority of people he was surrounded by, he could handle. Being dead and trapped and completely invisible to everyone, including other ghosts? He didn't like that at all. He had to get out of here. Now.

Wally charged up the stairs two at a time, his breathing ragged as he began to panic. He grabbed the door handle and twisted to wrench the door open, only it seemed he needn't have bothered as someone on the other side was already on their way in. Wally reared back as the door was kicked open, stumbling a few steps down before he pressed himself against the wall to make room for that arc of physical presence that pushed outward from a living body.

When Wally glanced at the person, his mouth went dry; his eyes bulged; his heart stopped mid-tick. He hadn't felt this lost or confused since the first few minutes of his death.

"H-holy fucking Christ." Wally stammered, watching the man—who Wally was pretty fucking sure was still downstairs breaking shit—shove through the door, his steps laden under the weight of what he carried. Wait. Not what. Who. "Holy. Fucking. Christ." Wally repeated, syllables breathless and strained.

One body slung over the man's shoulder, the other, much smaller, tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. Both limp, unconscious, limbs loose and heads swaying with every encumbered movement. The man ranted, words punched out of him as he stomped down the stairs one heavy step at a time, briefly stopping to adjust the body on his shoulder before continuing.

"—and had I known, you useless little bitch, I would've taken care of it while he was still in the womb." The man spat at someone who'd remained upstairs, just out of sight. Almost regretfully, the man added under his breath, "Save us both from the pain of doing it like this."

Wally's attention snapped to the bottom of the steps when an identical voice shouted, "What the hell are you doing!?" And then, "Jesus," distressed, "they're just kids!!"

Twins? Wally questioned of the two men who were identical down to their military-issued boots. He followed Living Man down the stairs, watching as Living Man teetered slightly at the last step before correcting his stance. While the two men might've been mirror images of each other, Wally noted that Living Man moved differently than Dead Man. Dead Man was straight lines and authoritative strides. Living Man, on the other hand, was strangely graceful despite his bulk. Sort of...feminine.

Living Man scowled at Dead Man, biting out, "You have no idea what is really going on, you ignorant fool," as he moved further into the cellar, dropping the body tucked under his arm unceremoniously onto the mattress before trudging to the back wall. With more consideration, he lay the second body down, pillowing the head and placing the arms and legs in a comfortable position. He caressed a cheek, gaze softening as he muttered, "We'll get this all fixed, child." A shuddery breath, "I still need you, after all."

Wally frowned as he noted another difference. The way Living Man spoke felt unnatural in that voice. The care in each intonation, the antique vernacular. Dead Man didn't speak like that. He was rough, gritty; belly-deep pitch, and sawed off suffixes. A sensation of wrongness crept up Wally's spine as he thought about it. There were many weirdnesses setting off alarm bells in Wally's brain—the fact that Living Man, like you, could commune with the dead and that Living Man had apparently abducted two people and delivered them to a creepy cellar. But also...something Wally couldn't yet identify.

He shifted closer to Living Man and the body, the person, on the ground, leaning over to look at who Living Man had spoken to so apologetically. And, oh God, no, no way. How!? He sprung forward, dropped to his knees, immediately taking Living Man's place when he stood and walked away.

"Baby!"

Although you looked younger by a few years, he knew without a doubt that it was you. His stomach flipped, heart beating at triple speed in his chest, hands near your face as he tried in vain to rouse you. But his palms wouldn't touch. A thick halo of energy repelling his efforts. You looked pale, sick, a frail little thing drenched to the bone and Wally whimpered in dismay when he couldn't hold you. All he wanted in that moment was to scoop you up and run, to get you far away from whatever sinister plot was unfolding around him.

"Fuck." He choked, "Fuck, what did he do to you?!"

Then he smelled it on your rattled breath. Heady. Floral. Like licking soap.

At the bottom of the stairs, Living Man called up, "Hurry up! I didn't bring you here to sit idly in the kitchen, I brought you here to learn!" But Wally was too busy trying to figure out how to wake you up, how to help, he needed to help. Distantly, he heard faint footsteps descending, mild and even.

"What are you going to do to them?" Dead Man asked in a tone that edged on fear.

Living Man didn't respond, simply moved toward the mattress. Rather, a new voice answered Dead Man's question, a voice that made Wally's blood run cold. All-American, sweet as sugar, an amused hum before a statement that, on the surface was friendly, but beneath was cold and unaffected. "Isn't it obvious?" A pause. "She's going to kill them."

Time stopped. The world narrowed as Wally turned slowly to confirm the impossible. Standing primly at the end of the mattress with a darling dear smile on her face was someone Wally had seen every day since his death. Every day, that was, until last Friday.

"Janet..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You froze when the man held out his hand, staring right at you with a soft, private smile that made your skin crawl. It didn't look right. A sharp, twisty curl to its corners. You didn't know what to do. Running seemed pointless. Never mind that you couldn't—fuck, please—make your feet move. Couldn't make your tongue work or your lungs expand or your heartbeat slow. The man's smile widened, uncanny and odd, and he shifted closer.

"Amelia," He said with a fond lilt.

Finally, you budged your foot a scant half-step back, muscles stiff with fear. In your periphery, you saw something reach toward the man's waiting hand and then a voice like birdsong replied, "Alastair," with equal fondness. Your attention snapped to the right, the fear abating somewhat, and took in a vision of a woman. About your mother's age, auburn hair pleated and pinned; eyes that sparkled with an attractive combination of mischief and mirth; and a pink petal smile that grew as she placed her delicate hand in Alastair's.

Beside her was a much older woman whose severe features shared a resemblance to Amelia's. Beneath her wrinkles, the roundness of her face was the same, and her eyes held that same youthful sparkle. However, unlike Amelia, and the other female guests, who were draped in tasseled frocks and strings of pearls, the woman wore a beautifully beaded floor-length gown, her hair fluffed and wrapped in matching Gibson Girl style.

"Anabelle," Alastair bowed in deference, plucking her gloved hand in his and bussing a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm so pleased you were able to join us."

Anabelle's only response was to nod her head and take back her hand. She swept her gaze to Amelia's and the two appeared to have an entire conversation with their eyes in the time it took you to process that, no, Alastair hadn't been looking at you, he'd been looking through you.

A blessing as much as a curse, you thought grimly, still uncertain as to where the hell you were and what the hell was going on. You watched in fascination as the crowd parted for Alastair and Amelia, their hands joined and raised as if they were stepping onto a ballroom floor, about to engage in a waltz. Anabelle glided along behind them at a close distance, hands clasped, eyes trained ahead, unflinching. Instinctively, you followed, observing how the crowd closed the space behind you and positioned themselves in an arc that faced a raised platform you hadn't noticed before. They moved in perfect synchronicity. A sci-fi hive mind that made a cold chill trickle through your veins.

When you turned again to creep along behind Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, your gaze snagged on what was at the center of the formation. Almost choked on your own saliva. Your brain seemed to malfunction as your eyes absorbed the image of three low stone altars set into the shape of a triquetra. On each altar—holy hell—lay a person. Two young women and a young man. Unbound, eyes closed, skin like porcelain. Serene in repose. If you had to guess, they couldn't have been much older than you, possibly even the same age, and all were strikingly beautiful.

Sacrifices. The reality hit you like a punch. Casting about, you began to understand exactly what was going on, Ajay's voice echoing in your head: "The Something-Something of Dagda."

The unconscious teenagers were dressed in ceremonial robes, green velvet with gold clasps at the waist, but were otherwise nude beneath. Their chests were exposed, ash smeared like ink down their sternums in the same triskele pattern you'd seen on the broaches in the portraits. There were other symbols across their collars, over their hearts, wrists, ankles, and foreheads. Similar to the bastardized symbols you'd been investigating with Ajay, except more elegantly drawn and with flourish.

You approached the young woman closest to you, blonde with a dusting of freckles across her nose, and crouched beside the altar to inspect her. When you leaned in, a bold, flowery smell tickled your nostrils. Heady. Familiar. Like Aurora's horrible tea but worse.

"Dearest friends," Amelia began, projecting her voice to be heard in the large space. She stood behind a podium on the platform, Alastair and Anabelle flanking her. Amelia's smile was gentle and kind as she regarded her congregation. "Tonight, you will bear witness to what we have all been working so hard toward." The crowd applauded, some of the men declaring hear hear! while the women tittered daintily. "Though not all of us could be here tonight, I am pleased with our number." She paused, expression softening, "After all, it takes the power of many to change the world, does it not?"

Again, applause which Amelia silenced with a faint gesture of her hands. "Before we get started—" Anabelle and Alastair turned on their heels in synch, striding to a ceremonial table at the back of the platform, each lifting a carafe of what appeared to be red wine before stepping down from the platform and starting to replenish the crowd's empty coupes. "—We drink to the Father who will deliver us into a new and glorious future."

Everyone waited patiently for Alastair and Anabelle to finish and resume their places on either side of Amelia with their own coupes in hand. Amelia raised one that had been set for her on the podium, stepping out in front of it to admire the crowd who mimicked her action in one hybrid motion.

"To youth and revival!" Amelia saluted and the group returned the claim in a boastful chorus.

You glanced around as everyone chugged their drinks in unison, the sound of indulgent slurping spooky in the large, echoey space. Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, however, didn't take more than a refined sip, watching on with secretive smiles as the crowd downed the wine and then placed their empty coupes on the floor at their feet. Dainty clinks against the marble and the shuffling of cloth all made as if by one person. Vaguely, you pondered if they'd learned the choreography like churchgoers learned at what intervals to stand and sit.

Amelia began to speak again, but you weren't listening. It was the usual culty drivel anyway: We're here to celebrate the Father's approval; we're going to live forever with His blessing, blah blah blah. Rather, you stepped onto the platform and moved toward the table at the back, wanting to get a better look at the items laid across it. The whole thing—steeped in pomp and circumstance—felt contrived. As if put on to give the crowd's devotion value. Shallow. False. Orchestrated. A script and a stage to give a convincing show.

You weren't sure where that thought came from, but the longer it lingered the more certain you were that you were right. The pieces on the table were neatly placed; the carafes equal distances from the centerpiece—a green silk cushion with a wooden box upon it—a couple of blunt daggers that, so far, you didn't see a use for; and an arrangement of tarot cards—the Juggler, the Lovers, the Wheel of Fortune, and the House of God. Major Arcana. Set out to look important but meaningless within the context of the ritual unfolding behind you.

Thump.

Your head shot up and you spun around, marching to the front of the platform to stand between Amelia and Anabelle.

Thump. Thump. Thump thump thump—

One by one, Amelia's flock collapsed, some clutching their throats, red eyes bulging, cheeks flushed, lips purple. Others simply fell like puppets whose strings were cut. Meanwhile, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle remained poised, monitoring the proceedings with mild expressions until each member of the crowd was a mass on the floor, their bodies forming a perfect arc. Although no one could see or hear or sense you, you took several steps back, away from the danger that had manifested; away from those you knew had to be responsible.

At her sides, Amelia turned her palms face-up, closing her fingers around Alastair and Anabelle's hands when they took hers. "Let's begin," She said in a tranquil tone, lifting her chin as she led Alastair and Anabelle in a chant. The words were soft around the syllables, drawn and pretty and entirely foreign. A language lost to time that was only resurrected for this purpose. You gasped as the bodies on the floor jerked and quivered, chests arching up to release amorphous balls of bright white-gold light that floated above the bodies they belonged to.

Not lights, you corrected, souls.

"Shit." You croaked, watching in horror and fascination as the souls swelled and bled into each other, forming a dome around the altars at their center. A breeze fluttered through the space, quickly turning into a wind and then a roaring gale like the one that had flung you out of the theater and into this nightmare. Amelia continued to chant, louder and louder as the gale found its strength, her knuckles white as she gripped Alastair and Anabelle's hands, the vein in her neck throbbing, eyes rolling back, shouting the spell into existence.

You raised your arms against the gale, shuffled further away, and crouched in front of the table, trying to glimpse what was happening through the building supernova ahead. The light grew more intense, bigger and brighter, and Amelia kept chanting, ferocious now, practically foaming at the mouth as she screamed above the powerful noise of the gale.

And then, as the roar increased, her voice diminished and together, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle took a step forward. And then another. Slow. Deliberate. Down the few platform steps, shedding their skins like old coats. Their bodies dropped in heaps on the platform behind them as they continued forward, unphased. Two more thoughtful steps, then the light embraced them.

Unlike how it had started, it ended abruptly. The light expanded to the edge of the arc of bodies as if trying to escape before popping like a balloon. Shattered into fine dust that glittered in the air, but turned to motes of dry ash when they reached the ground. The sudden silence was heavy, weighing down on your shoulders as you pushed yourself to your feet, short of breath in the aftermath.

Just as you climbed down from the platform, you heard a sharp inhale, followed by a second, followed by a third. Simultaneously, three pairs of eyes flew open. The colors in them waned, changed from one to another. Amber to blue. Hazel to blue. Brown to seafoam green. Features subtly shifted, freckles faded or appeared, lips pinked or paled, hairs leached new hues.

On the altars, the three teenagers sat up; stiff and labored.

Alive.

But no longer themselves.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Four.

What happens as a result of Frankenstein's ambitions?

‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗

Wally stared, stunned, as Janet strode to the top of the mattress and knelt as if about to pray, setting her hands modestly in her lap. She was exactly as Wally remembered her. Brown hair perfectly groomed, outfit tidy, blue eyes sharp against a sedate expression. She studied Living Man as he hovered above the small body he'd deposited on the mattress. It was a little boy, Wally realized, dread sinking into his bones. Adorable and pudgy, no older than six or seven. Tiny beneath Living Man's bulk.

"No!" Dead Man cried out, flinging himself at Living Man but tripping and dropping to the ground on his side before he could make contact.

Janet laughed, nails on a chalkboard, "Idiot. You're a ghost. You can't touch the living." A smarmy smile and then, "Even if it is your body."

Wally gawped. Because that wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. People couldn't steal bodies like that...could they? And it couldn't be a ghost thing, definitely not. Wally couldn't get close enough to walk through a living person, never mind shove their soul out so he could wear their body like a meat suit. The only conclusion he could draw was it had to be magic, something you might know about—you you, the you he knew, safe and healthy back in the theater where Wally hoped to God you still were.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, on guard between you and the rest of the room as if it would do any good when Living Man decided to do whatever he planned to do with you. It didn't matter, Wally had to try. You looked one strong breeze away from crumbling to dust and he couldn't live with himself if he sat back and watched, a silent audience to a movie he never wanted to see.

"I'll get you out of here." He promised you, jaw tense, determined against all odds, "I don't know how, but, I swear, I'll figure it out."

Dead Man hollered in frustration, hit the ground with his fist before hauling himself upright to attack Living Man again. Failed. Tried three more times before he fell back on his ass, elbows on his knees, head hung in defeat. Throughout the commotion, Living Man hadn't so much as flinched, totally transfixed on the little boy beneath him, thumb stroking his cheek, eyes brimming with sorrow as he muttered, "You shouldn't have come back...you self-righteous bastard," the last word spat in a hush that Wally's ears almost hadn't picked up.

"He's just a kid." Dead Man implored, broken. "He hasn't even lived yet."

Living Man snorted, "That's where you're wrong, Christopher." Living Man turned his head to pin Dead Man—Christopher—with a dark stare. "You should know better given your family's connectedness."

Christopher growled, "I told you before, I don't know anything about that! We aren't magic! We're normal people!"

"Wrong again," Living Man rolled his eyes derisively, "Your family has been a thorn in my side since the earliest days of the Order. How else could I have taken your body so easily?"

Shaking his head, pressing his palms into his eyes, openly annoyed, "What fucking order? What do you even mean!?" Christopher dropped his hands, casting about, arms gesturing wide, "My grandfather was a beef farmer. My grandmother was a seamstress. My dad worked at the gravel pits. He was a loser and a drunk who beat my mom until she never woke up, what the fuck makes us so special!?"

"Your bloodline." Living Man stated, the hardness in him abating when he returned his gaze to the little boy. "It's funny, you know..." Living Man began conversationally, "I thought I'd taken care of all the loose ends last time. Turned out I was wrong and now I've spent the best parts of this life snuffing out every. single. one of them. all over again." He chuckled, dry and without humor, "You should be glad that I need your daughter or she'd be next." At the last part, Living Man shot Christopher a grin that would look at home on the Devil's face.

"You piece of shit," Christopher hissed, "You'll never lay a hand on her!"

"You won't be around to stop us." Janet chimed in blithely, leaning forward to put her hands on the little boy's shoulders as Living Man instructed her to. She seemed surprised that she could touch him, giving Living Man a brief look of amazement.

"They're the same," Living Man explained. "It's part of their connectedness. Death ushered them into the world and left a piece of himself within them." Living Man continued, fitting his big hand around the little boy's small neck, not tight, but with intention.

"You can't hurt him," Christopher pleaded, "He's six, he doesn't know anything. He can't do anything!"

Janet piped in, voice thick with undisguised condescension, "The thing about souls, Chris-to-pher," A lovely smile, "Is that they're infinite." She deferred to Living Man, "Right?"

Living Man appeared reluctant to agree, like Janet was a fly he couldn't swat, bothersome, eager for approval. "Yes. And, regrettably for dear Aiden, his knows too much, whether or not he remembers." Living Man sighed, burdened, "You are already too powerful, child. I cannot risk letting this go on any longer..." His hand began to tighten around Aiden's throat. "May God forgive me..."

Wally spurred into action, pivoting to lean over you, "Hey, hey, come on sweetheart, you've gotta get up. Please....fuck, please, get up!" He remembered what Living Man had said, that you were still part of some bigger plan, but Wally didn't trust it, gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard Aiden start to protest, clearly coming to when his lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen.

"Stop!" Wally shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks (when had he started crying?), his hands over his ears to muffle the sound of Aiden's gasps, choking, begging for his big sister—"S-sissy May..." Please no, please no, "I'm so sorry, kid, I'm so sorry." Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop, stop, stop. Wally hacked a feeble whine, a kicked dog of a sound, hating himself, hating the world, because he couldn't do a damn thing to make it "STOP!"

When Wally cried out, a pulse of energy burst through the room, emanating from Aiden's tiny body. Below Wally, your eyes shot open and you inhaled as if sucking in that first breath after being held under water. You heaved and coughed, rolling over to leverage yourself upright on your arm. You were disoriented and muzzy, movements drunk.

"Ai-Aiden?" Your head hurt and your limbs were wet-paper weak, mouth tasting like soap. You had no idea where you were. The last thing you remembered was the back seat of Christopher's car; accepting a juice box after handing one to Aiden and helping Aiden puncture his with the straw. "Aiden, what's...?" You squinted your eyes to hone your vision and then screamed when you grasped what was happening, "AIDEN!"

Janet shrieked, "She's awake!" just as you launched yourself at Living Man, tackling him like a linebacker.

Commanding Janet, Living Man released Aiden, "Hold him down! Don't let him go!" to fend you off. It didn't take much, you weren't strong enough against his mass and still weak from whatever you'd been dosed with. A mouse against a bear. Aiden sobbed, Janet kept her hands firmly on him so he couldn't crawl away, and Living Man managed to push you off with little to no effort. One punch and you muddled backwards several steps to crumple onto the cold, packed dirt.

"You can't stop her!" Janet sneered at you, "You're just a twig!"

On the other side of the mattress, Christopher rose, snarling under his breath, "But I can."

Seconds. That's how fast everything happened. Wally barely had time to jump out of the way (not that it would've mattered) as Christopher rushed you, propelled himself forward, fueled by adrenaline and anger, and hurled himself at you. No. Into you. Your ghost lurched out of your body, stammering into the wall behind you where you sank to the ground, eyes as wide and frightened as Wally's.

Living Man yelled at Janet, "You stupid girl! You didn't make it strong enough! You didn't listen!"

"I did exactly what you told me!" Janet insisted, struggling to keep Aiden in place as he writhed and jerked, wailing to be released, pleading for his Sissy May, for his mommy, for home, he wanted to go home, snotty and tear-stained and so, so small.

Without hesitation, Living Man seized his tiny neck again and squeezed with renewed vengeance. "You have to die, you bastard. You made me do this! It's your own fault!" And Janet held down his arms when he tried to claw Living Man's wrists, gagging, gasping, apologizing for something he thought he'd done to cause this, wanting desperately for it to end.

In your body, Christopher swayed on your feet, the sensation of going from massive, military-built to preteen featherweight dizzying. But he still had his strength, he knew that, to his very core he knew that and Wally could tell Christopher knew that without having it said aloud because his eyes—your eyes—bled to hazel, the same color as Christopher's, as Living Man's. Wally knee-walked closer to you, to your ghost. You were wobbly, fragile as a fawn, calling Aiden's name over and over as you wept.

Christopher turned your head to look at you and then—Wally's breath caught—he looked directly at Wally. In the eye. No questions, no uncertainty, no confusion. Just a firm order. "Don't let her see." And he sprinted forward. Wally didn't second guess it. He shifted his body to shield you from whatever the fuck was about to happen, his chest tight, a lump in his throat that strangled his words as he said them.

"Don't look, sweetheart," He choked, vision starting to blur as he was forced to watch you in agony, helpless to save Aiden. Remarkably, when you caved to your knees, reaching toward the nightmare unraveling behind Wally, you and he made contact. "God, f-fuck," Wally stuttered, catching you, grabbing your head, and pressing your face into his chest. "Don't look, I've got you, I'm here." Every word felt like cinder in his mouth. Meaningless. Empty. Because a little boy who meant so much to you was dying and all Wally could do was hold you as it happened. "I'm sorry," He whimpered, "I'm so sorry."

And then Wally heard Janet shout, "Amelia!" in warning, followed by a bloodcurdling squelch.

Wally chanced a look over his shoulder. Christopher in your body had a crowbar in his hands, raised to deliver another strike, stance set, face twisted in rage, and something else...something like grief. It's his body, Wally thought despondently. May God have mercy. Christopher kicked Living Man onto his back on the other side of the mattress, Living Man groaning and disoriented. Janet was hysterical, scurrying into a corner to hide.

"You piece of shit," Christopher bit out as he positioned himself above Living Man, one foot on either side of Living Man's ribs. "You will never. use me. again." And he swung the crowbar with the strength of a grown man, the forked tip stabbing Living Man's temple. Again. Again. Again. Over and over until Living Man's face—Christopher's face—was caved in, a pulpy mess of sinew, blood, and bone.

In Wally's arms, you cried. You cried like the world had ended. Like love didn't exist. Like all you'd ever feel again is hollow and hurt. His arms tightened around you as he rocked you, wet sniffles and a broken heart, shushing you softly. "It'll be okay, you'll be okay." He didn't think it would be. Didn't know how you'd survived this, how you had a life after this with laughter and friendship and trust.

If murdering a ghost was possible, Wally would've killed Janet. He wasn't sure if his ability to touch you extended to her—she certainly hadn't indicated that she'd seen him—but if he could, he'd beat her into oblivion. Because she'd been here, she'd participated. Wally had always had a sense about her; that she was twisted and ugly beneath the America's Sweetheart mask she'd worn around Split River High's dead.

In a voice that grated Wally's nerves, "Wh-what have you done!?" Janet panicked and scrambled toward the mangled corpse on her hands and knees. "You've ruined everything!"

Christopher tossed the crowbar aside, giving Janet a mean look as he voiced Wally's thoughts, "If I could kill you too, I would." And then, he turned on your heel and marched with purpose toward the worktable. In one swipe, he sent the chemistry set to the ground where it shattered. Next, he toppled the shelf and stomped on the jars that didn't break on impact. Finally, he stumbled back to you and Wally. He—you—was covered in blood, hair stringy and matted with it, skin stained red, speckles and smears across your face and hands and soaked into your clothes. Wally would never be able to unsee that image.

The cellar was eerily silent apart from Janet's sniveling and your weak sobs.

"I'm sorry, kid." Christopher lamented, placing a hand on your shoulder. He looked at Wally and said quietly, "You have to let her go now."

Wally swallowed, "You can see me?" as if that mattered right now.

Christopher snorted as if it was somehow funny, "It's him," he nodded to indicate behind him. "You're here but not here. I'm here but not here. A loop he dragged you into. A cry for help."

"I don't understand," Wally said, further securing his arms around you, unwilling to let you go.

"You will," Christopher assured, and then it was like he switched, got back into character, an actor on a film set redoing his lines when the director called action. "You have to let me in, kid." He told you, gentle, parental, taking your spectral face in your own physical palms. "You have to let me in so I can get out."

You didn't even protest. Simply closed your eyes and evened your breathing; embraced your physical body like a friend and melted back into it while Christopher slumped out.

Wally attempted to take your hand and give you some comfort, but, as it'd been before, he couldn't get a grip, unable to touch you, repelled by that thick halo of living energy.

Christopher crouched in front of you, blocking your view of the mattress, of Janet who was scooping flesh and brain back into the gored face of Christopher's body as if she could piece it back together, a sick cat with her dramatic wails. "I need you to do something for me, kid," Christopher said, pausing for a moment, expression apologetic, "There's something in my pocket. I...I need it to find it's way to my daughter."

You nodded, but it was clear you were only half there. Your eyes were glassy, gaze distant. Christopher didn't seem to mind as he continued, "Please, tell my daughter I'm sorry." His voice sounded pained. "Tell her...Tell Maddie I love her," and you nodded as if you understood. As if the request was as normal as pass the salt.

Before Wally could react to what he'd heard, his wrists and ankles were suddenly restrained, pitch black shadow clutching him and yanking him back through the farmhouse door before it slammed closed and vanished.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"It worked!" The boy declared, excited, admiring his new hands with a lopsided grin.

You couldn't know for certain who was who, but it didn't take a genius to deduce that the boy was likely Alastair. The girls, however, were impossible to distinguish, both moving with the grace of a grown woman of high social status. Neither seemed as taken by their new skins as Alastair; another day, another body to wear.

"We need to finish the ritual," One of the girls said primly, brown curls getting lighter with every moment that passed. The girl glided to the platform, up the steps, and to the table at the back. She stood at the box on the cushion. Opened the lid and retrieved whatever was inside, concealing the object in the folds of her robe.

Meanwhile, the other girl padded to the podium and fetched three glass vials from the cupboard in its reservoir. Corked. Filled with clear liquid.

Alastair cocked his head as he watched the girl at the podium come to him. "What else is there to do?" He asked, brow furrowing when she handed him a vial.

"We have to bind our souls to our new vessels," She smiled prettily. "Drink up."

Trusting the instruction, Alastair uncorked his vial and poured the contents into his mouth. You glanced between the girls, but neither one followed suit, merely observing Alastair as if he were a monkey performing tricks in a big top. They shared a look similar to the one you'd seen Amelia and Anabelle share earlier; a whole conversation passing between them. Alastair didn't notice, swishing the liquid in his mouth before swallowing, frowning at the vial.

"I thought their souls were what bound us to the bodies." He said after a few beats.

The girl who'd gone to the box shook her head. "Oh, no," She said, speaking as one would to a child, "That was merely to cast the lambs from their flesh."

It sounded like a lie, you thought, peering between the girls.

The first girl lifted her hand to cradle Alastair's soft jaw, "There you go, good boy," She praised when he started to look dazed.

"What's happening?" He breathed, strained.

The girl regarded him sympathetically, "You truly were marvelous, Ali." She sighed, "But mama thinks it best that you don't come with us." Amelia. It had to be.

Alastair swayed on his feet, "I don't understand," and if he could muster concern or shock or anything more than groggy confusion, you were sure he'd make a run for it.

The other girl—Anabelle—spoke, stepping into Alastair's space and presenting him with the object she'd removed from the box. A shiny silver revolver. She pressed it into his hand, curled his fingers where they needed to go, her smile somehow simultaneously wicked and gentle. "We couldn't have succeeded without your connections, Lord Belgrave, and, for that, I thank you." Anabelle took Amelia's hand to lead her away, "However, my daughter is correct. You are a loose thread that needs snipping."

Alastair began to shake, scraping together a sentiment to Amelia, "But...I loved you."

Pitying, Amelia answered, "I know."

Anabelle lifted her chin, authoritative and commanding, voice smooth as she directed Alastair to, "Put the gun to your head." Which he obeyed, the metal rattling as he put the barrel to his temple, the action obviously made against his will.

"Please," He urged, "I could help you. I know more like them."

Amelia exhaled sharply and reminded him, "But they don't know you."

"Enough," Anabelle said, forcing Alastair's attention back to her.

Again, Alastair begged for his life, "Please, I don't want to die like this."

"You don't have a choice," Anabelle said, and then, "Now be a good boy and pull the trigger."

One thin, shallow breath.

Two.

Three.

BANG.

And you were snatched back through the farmhouse door.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FIVE - PART TWENTY-SEVEN

note: unedited. written at midnight. you know the drill: i will most likely come back to tinker at the bits i think need fixing 😅

this chapter was written to Daylight (Cinematic) by David Kushner (Act 3). parts of Act 3 had also been inspired by Devil Devil by Milck, specifically the violence that unfolds when Christopher Nears attacks Living Man. the last act was written to Outta My Head by The Eagle Rock Gospel Singers. if anyone is interested in an October Sun playlist, it will be released upon completion of the story (i.e.: after PART 27)🥲🥀

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: y'all know, it ain't a thing around here anymore due to the overuse of ritual magic, some demon-summoning, and an unfortunate sacrifice that resulted in more technical issues than tumblr could handle 🔮🗡️ if you'd like to be kept up-to-date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. we have fun here (•¯ ∀ ¯•)

A little life update that no one asked for. I took a break from writing and the internet entirely for over a week just so I could pull myself together and decide what I wanted going forward. I've always struggled with my mental health and knowing when to take a break and breath and I didn't realize I was struggling until I called my therapist crying because I was scared of relapsing. I'm back up and writing pt.3 of Sex, Drugs, Etc. and I'm really excited about it. I'm learning slowly how to take care of myself and make sure my mental health doesn't suffer because I'm blinded by passion. During my finals my schedule was waking up, going to class and taking my finals, coming home to get ready for work, going to work, coming home again and studying, writing, cleaning, and then going to bed. I was exhausted and didn't allow myself a break. I'm back and ready to continue my little project. Even though no one asked I just felt like saying it.

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

Sex, Drugs, Etc.

pt.2

Warnings: Talk of drugs/Drug use. Possible smut in the future. SH. A lot of plot. EXTREME Canon divergence. Before Maddies time. Set in 2022. Almost panic attack. This is NOT meant to romanticize addiction or mental illness.

2.4k words

Enjoy :)

Pt.1

-

It was like any other Friday night. A crowded living room filled with loud teenagers, music so loud your brain went numb, the strong scent of booze and grass filling the air, kids pissing on the carpet and throwing up in the backyard, the perfect party… well almost perfect. There was something missing, something no amount of alcohol or smelly plants could fill. 

Your head was spinning, not from the shots of vodka some girl you just met brought you, but from the people. Parties were supposed to be fun, a chance to drink and dance but the overwhelming crowd left you short of breath. No one forced you to show up, hell you weren't even invited, but you’d take any chance to get out of the house. 

“Hey I’ll be right back” You say to the random blond girl, not giving her enough time to respond before you walk away. Weaving through the drunk teens to get to the back door, you frantically fiddle with the handle, air becoming something almost non-existent. Swinging the door open you step outside, taking deep breaths of air. To anyone walking by it just looked like you were calming yourself down from a bad trip.

“Hey you alright?” The sound of a familiar voice fills your ears. “You look like you've seen a ghost” (I'm so funny) It was Josh, you’d buy weed from him sometimes, though you haven't really talked outside of small talk to make your interactions feel less illegal.  

“Um yeah. I'm great.” Your breath was still ragged, words coming out rushed despite how hard you tried to make them sound casual. 

“Come on, sit down” He grabs you by the shoulder gently, leading you to a coach that had been pulled out into the backyard. A chick with black hair sitting on the far end of it and a dude passed out on the ground in front of it. You sit down awkwardly, Josh comes over and sits between you and the girl, holding two beers and hands you one. 

"Thanks" You take the beer, your original plan of getting some air and going home ruined. 

"You're a little young to be here, aren't you?" This is the first time anyone has questioned you on your age. Normally they'd give you a weird look but leave you alone. 

"I'm old enough for you to sell me bud." He let out a little laugh, 14 was probably too young to be drinking and partying but who's gonna stop you? 

"Got me there" He takes a sip out of the glass bottle. "You don't look like you're having fun." 

“Not really” The only fun thing about parties was getting too drunk to even remember where you are, something you didn’t get the chance to do. 

“You know I'm in a good mood, I got something for you.” He reaches into his pocket, holding out his hand waiting. You look at him confused and after a few seconds he rolls his eyes, but his smile grows. “Go on, take it.” You reluctantly put up your hand for him to drop whatever he has into it. When he does you realize what it is, a little pill. 

“What is this?” The confusion is clear on your face, never having shown any interest in taking pills before.

“Its percocet, 10 milligrams.” You recognize the name, your grandma used to take them. What you didn't understand was why he was handing you a pain pill. 

“Oh um, I don't have any money.” Which wasn’t a lie, but also a good excuse to get out of this awkward situation. He laughs again, clearly high out of his mind and way too friendly. 

“Don’t worry about it, it's on the house.” Now that was what really concerned you, taking a free pill from someone who you barely knew sounded like a death sentence. “You look like you need it.”

The girl sitting next to him scoffed. “Since when are you interested in giving out free shit?” She clearly wasn't in as good of a mood as he was. 

“Come on Gina, the poor girl looked like she was gonna pass out earlier.” That doesn't help with the bitter look that grows on her face.

“Oh so your girlfriend has to pay but you'll give it out to this random kid?” The tone of her voice clearly pissed off, to be fair it was kinda fucked up. 

“Gina-” She doesn't give him a chance to speak before getting up and walking away, mumbling to herself. You sit there awkwardly, pill still in your hand. 

“Should you like, go after her?” Wanting to get up and walk away too, not knowing what to do after accidentally being involved in a potential break up. 

“Nah, she’ll be fine.” He seemed calm, not worried at all at the fact that his girlfriend just stormed out on him. Maybe this was a normal occurrence, either way you decided it's none of your business and opted not to ask any more questions. 

“So what do I do with this?” You gesture to the hand with the pill in it. This was probably in the top 10 most confused you’ve ever been in your life. No one has ever handed you a random pill before. 

“Take it?” He looked at you like you were dumb, like this was the most normal thing in existence. 

“I don’t- I don’t think that's the best idea.” It wasn't the idea of taking a perc that scared you, it was the fact that he could have easily been lying. You’d seen enough true crime to know that this is how you end up on the news. “Here” You hold up the pill, trying to hand it back to him. “It's late, I should head home.” 

“Keep it, I got plenty.” You give him a small nod, sliding the pill into your pocket as you stand up, looking down at the guy passed out on the ground. 

“Uh-” You were gonna ask if he was okay but decided not to, looking back at Josh. “Have a good night.” He ghost (hehe) cheers his beer at you as you walk away, going home confused. 

(“1 fish, 2 fish, this flashbacks been too long bitch” - My Brother, 2024) 

The sound of the final bell rings as you head to the gym where Mr.Martin was planning for tomorrow's movie night. You open the door and see him writing in a notebook as he sits on the edge of the stage. He looks up noticing you as he slides down onto his feet. “Hey, is that your obituary?” He points down to the folder in your hand, a sickeningly sweet smile on his face that feels somewhat intimidating.  

“Yeah, Wally helped me write it.” You hand him it, watching him open it, eyes gazing over the pages. A smile still on his face as he closes it.

“I figured he would, he's such a little helper.” He puts the folder on the stage beside him. “I will sit down and read that later, but for now how are you feeling?” Like shit, but you couldn’t tell him that.

“Great actually, I think this helped.” If anything it made the hunger worse, apparently even death couldn't silence the craving. You made the fake smile on your face look as convincing as possible. 

“Any plans for today?” Another attempt at getting you to talk to the others. He's already suggested several ‘bonding activities’ in the two days you’ve been here. 

“Yeah actually.” The way his face lit up like a christmas tree was almost comical. “Wallys gonna teach me how to swim later.” 

“Oh well, isn't that lovely?” Something about the old fashioned way he talked reminded you of your grandpa. The familiarity brings an odd sense of comfort. 

“I should probably um-” You gesture to the door on the other side of the gym, hands in the pocket of your hoodie, a habit you picked up to keep you from picking at the delicate skin that covers them. 

“Yeah, go on. Have fun.” He waves you off, smile turning more cheesy like a supportive father watching his daughter leave for her first date.

“Okay, great” You turn awkwardly, making your way out.

“I expect to see you tomorrow.” He yells as you're halfway across the gym.

“Of course.” You yell back without turning around. Reaching the door you step out, entering the now empty halls. You weren't supposed to meet up with Wally until later but needing some alone time you opted for the library where you spent most of your day already. A quiet place where you can escape your own thoughts with a simple little book. 

Going the same route you did earlier, except you were alone this time. Something about the quiet school halls felt almost uncanny, somewhat unnatural. You attempt to brush off the uneasy feeling as you reach the library. It was one of your favorite places in the school during your life other than the old locker rooms, but that wasn't really an option anymore. 

The cool air hits your face as you open the door, the sweet librarian Gilinda always kept the ac on specifically for you. Kinda funny to think about the fact that she doesn't even know you're gone, nobody does, how the hell has nobody noticed? I mean isnt it fucking obvious? Do they even care? The silent tear dripping down your cheek snaps you out of thought, rubbing it away with your sleeve quickly. Emotions were always so weird, feelings were something you always tried to hide away into the farthest parts of your mind, leaving you completely and utterly numb. It was the safest option. 

You made your way into the fantasy section, easy and simple. You look around for a little bit before one catches your eye ‘Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children’ A token you had read years ago. The graphic story probably wasn’t appropriate for your 12 year old self but something about it sparked something within you. (Ooooh so edgy) There was this little corner you always sat in, it was quiet and not a lot of people came near it, not that it really mattered considering the library was empty but it was your little spot. 

It had been a while since you got to sit down and read a book, your brain being either too wired or too relaxed to concentrate so this was a good feeling. A simple little book, in a simple little corner, in a simple little weird ass situation. What a fucking life… well death. 

The spine was worn down from years of being passed around by different messy highschoolers, pages somewhat torn, leaving the sweet smell of old paper. You read through the first chapter, then the second, then the third, until you forgot about the world around you. Completely immersed in the weird fucked up tale. It was like time didn't exist, nothing did except the little images you created in your mind. It was the only way of escaping, forgetting about life, about death, about cravings, descending into a different world like nothing else matters. It wasn't until you reached the last page that you realized how late it was, though you didn't feel tired. It was like the times you did adderall, nothing could put you to bed. 

“Oh shit” You whispered quietly to yourself when you realized you were only supposed to be there for an hour, your plans with Wally had been completely forgotten about. You stand up, rushing out the library, not bothering putting the book back where it belongs. The halls were dark, no light from the windows filling them, you didn’t know what time it was, just that it was late and way past when you were supposed to meet up. What a great first impression. 

You made your way to the pool room only to find it empty. Of course it was, no one in their right mind would wait hours for someone they didn't even really know. Well this was shitty, he probably thinks you're a total asshole. Who could blame him? He spent his entire afternoon helping you write your obituary and you accidentally blew him off. Asshole behavior. 

It's not like you could find him and apologize, he was probably asleep right now. Something Mr.Martin had advised you to do when you first got here. It was probably a good idea. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a good sleep, normally getting woken up by nightmares or stomach pain. A side effect of pills that they fail to mention. 

You doubted that there were any empty couches, but Mr.Figueroa always kept blankets in his classroom in case someone got cold. His classroom was just down the hall, one of your favorite places to be during c block. He always let you hang out in there even if you were supposed to be in class. The door was locked, but if there was one thing you learned at this school it was that all you had to do was slide your id through the crack and it would pop right open, an important life skill. Charley was sleeping peacefully on the little couch in the corner of the room. You were careful not to wake him as you snuck over to the closet. It was filled with board games and little props he’d use  to teach, at the bottom was a pile of folded up blankets. A fuzzy gray one at the top that you always used, it even smelled like you. 

As you made your way out the classroom, blanket in hand, you tried to figure out where you were going. That's when you saw her, a red haired girl sleeping on top of the lockers. You’d seen her before but never introduced yourself since she wasn't in group. It wasn’t a bad idea, seemed peaceful. You walked down into a different hall, not knowing if there was sleeping territory. It was probably the safest option to go where your locker was. 

It wasn't too high up, a little hard to climb but you managed. The medal was a little cold and you didn’t have a place to rest your head so you took your hoodie off, scrunching it up so you could use it as a makeshift pillow. It wasn't the most comfortable option but it would have to do for now, at least until you fingered out the rules of the afterlife.

(Had to conjure up my inner edgy teenage self for this one, and yes the flash back did in fact happen to me. It was really awkward)

Pt.3

No Safety or Surprise

Wally Clark x Reader

Following a double death at Split River High, two souls acclimate with their new reality and the fellow ghosts that inhabit the school's grounds.

Word Count: 3k

Tags: Aftermath of sexual assault, no flashbacks to SA, mention of SA, reader's death is overlooked but Wally 's isn't, angst, comfort

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC, mentioned), Mr. Martin, Rhonda (brief), Janet (brief), Jasmine (OC, brief), William (OC, brief), David (OC, brief)

Read it on AO3!

Taglist: @xocellyy, @maggiecc, @pancake-flipper, @littlestxli, @trinitybaby6666, @somethingsomethingcranberries, @sst4r-ddu5t, @ghostlyaccurate

Want to join (or leave) the taglist? Click here!

A/N: The Doors title. Sequel to 'The End', which has gotten so much love that I don't even know what to say! Super thank you to everyone who wanted to be tagged, ya'll might make me cry. Thank you for clicking/reading my story, and I hope that you enjoy this one! This is my first time writing a sequel to a story, as I'm more partial to one-shots writing-wise. Unbeta'd, please heed the tags, and enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

You left Wally without saying a word, climbing to the top of the bleachers and curling in on yourself. You wanted to spit in his face and tell him that Dalton wasn’t the perfect teammate, average-grade goofball he played himself to be, that he had taken your life, soul, and body in one fell swoop. Instead, you left him more confused than before, still clutching at the stolen jacket draped on your shoulders.

Your non-beating heart ached for the first time since you found yourself on the locker room floor. For every second you spent with your legs up to your chest, heaving, a deeper hole was burying its way through your chest.

Your death went twenty-three minutes unnoticed, and when you were finally found, it was only because the football team was told to change after the game stopped.

You didn’t know how long you were up on the bleachers, finally praying for the first time in your life before someone approached you. You assumed it was Wally, hoping that he had finally realized what had happened to you, but you turned your head to see an older man dressed in a tweed jacket and glasses walking up to you.

“Y/N?” the stranger asked, sitting a level below you to meet you at eye level, “is that your name?”

He was skinnier than most teachers you knew, and his suit outdid anything they would be wearing.

He’s dead too.

Nodding your head, you brought yourself to sit on the bleacher level above him, scooting down to make distance between him and you. He didn’t move, instead placing his hands in his lap and sighing gently.

“My name is Mr. Martin. As I assume you’re already aware, you’ve passed away.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.

“I’ve been a local of Split River since the 50’s, and-”

“Are you some kind of grim reaper or something? You finally get off your ass to bring me to whatever’s supposed to happen after I die?” You interrupted harshly, glaring at your reflection in his square glasses. His slight trans-atlantic accent in his voice ticked you off on top of how you already felt.

“-Unfortunately, I’m not here to take you to the great hereafter,” he said, his voice a touch softer, “I am, however, here to offer you support if you are willing to take it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You asked.

“I know what happened to you, Y/N.” He said matter-of-factly, adjusting the way he was sitting as if he was uncomfortable with the statement he’d made.

Chills crept up your spine. “What?”

“I was there when the paramedics brought your body out from the locker room,” he rubbed above his lip tensely, “I’m here to let you know that there are others here that can help you get through this, a support group for the ghosts of Split River High.”

Scoffing, you move to get up and away from him and his proposal of an afterlife anonymous meeting. He didn’t follow you, instead raising his voice so you were able to hear him.

“If you change your mind, we meet in the gym every afternoon. Nothing formal, but it seems to have helped others in similar situations to yours.”

People speculated if you and Wally’s deaths were connected in some way- a jealous ex that found out the two of you had been together, a suicide pact; someone even started to say you poisoned him and then yourself because you were hopelessly in love with him.

No matter what people said, somehow, the blame always landed on you and never Wally.

It took three days for you to work up the courage to go back inside the school. Every time you approached a door, your feet wouldn’t move. When you finally got the courage to go inside, it was because the rain pouring outside pelted against the metal of the bleachers, and the sound was going to deafen you if you heard it any longer. It didn’t register that you were in the building until you saw the back of a familiar football player, no longer wearing the gear he died in.

“Wally?” You called out to him, making him spin around to face you.

The air of confusion he’d carried the night you two died was gone, instead replaced by a brightened smile and somewhat brighter eyes.

“Y/N, hey,” he walked towards you, mirroring posters plastered to the wall mourning him, “I was worried you weren’t going to come in any time soon.”

You knit your eyebrows, shifting at his open display of friendliness after not talking to you for the twelve years you were in school together. You knew of him— it was impossible not to, and the two of you had been in a few classes as you’d grown up.

He stood before you, hands tucked in his pocket, as you turned to look at the posters on the wall.

Rest in Peace - Wally Clark.

Son, student, friend to all.

Memorial - September 31st, 4:30 PM, Gym

Poster after poster, taped to every few lockers and pinned twice or three times to every corkboard. His graduation picture lined the halls and mocked you every step of the way. Wally’s death rocked the school like a thunderclap, and any whispers of your tragedy were drowned out by an outpouring of grief for the star athlete.

No memorial. No justice. Not for you.

Hundreds of posters, his locker transformed into a shrine, and there were even some candles lit despite the fire code of the school. All the while, your locker remained untouched—just another metal door collecting dust.

A hand gently touched your shoulder, causing you to spin on your heel and jerk your attention to Wally once more.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, taking a step back, his hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

The phantom beating of your heart thudded dully in response. You hadn’t been touched in days, not since your body was hauled out of the locker room like a broken piece of equipment.

“What do you want, Wally?” you asked, sharper than you intended. His brow furrowed, but his smile didn’t waver.

“I wanted to check on you,” he said simply. “Mr. Martin said he talked to you, but you didn’t come to the gym. Thought I’d see if you were okay.”

You let out a harsh laugh, glancing back at the posters. “Do I look okay? I’m dead, Wally. Just like you.”

And yet, it seems no one gives a shit that I died.

He tilted his head, studying you like you were an unsolved puzzle. “Yeah, but… you don’t have to do this alone.”

“And you’re suddenly the expert on post-death coping mechanisms?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Why do you care anyway? You didn’t even know me.”

Wally flinched, his smile faltering for the first time. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly. “We were in different worlds, yeah, but I knew who you were— who you are. And I know what the living are saying about us. None of it’s true.”

“Which part? The suicide pact? Or the one where I poisoned you because I was obsessed with you?” You spat the words like venom, your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

“The part where they act like you’re the villain,” he said, his voice steady. “Like you’re not worth mourning.”

That stopped you cold. You stared at him, waiting for the sarcasm, for the punchline. But his eyes held nothing but sincerity, and it made your stomach twist.

“You don’t owe me anything, Y/N,” he continued, stepping closer. “But I’ve been to that group a few times. It’s weird, and Mr. Martin talks like he’s out of some old self-help movie, but it’s… not awful. And it’s better than being alone.”

You wanted to snap at him, to tell him to back off, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you swallowed hard and looked away, your eyes falling to the scuffed floor.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unyielding. Wally shifted, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor. His patience grated on you, not because it annoyed you, but because it chipped away at the courage you’d been building up for the past two weeks.

“What’s the point, Wally?” you muttered, your voice cracking. “What’s the point of sitting in a room with other dead people, pretending like it makes any of this better?”

He exhaled sharply, almost like he’d been holding his breath. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he admitted. “But it’s not about fixing it. It’s about… not letting it bury you. We don’t have to be forgotten, Y/N.”

Your throat tightened at his words. The posters, the memorial, the tears shed for Wally Clark—they felt like they came from a different world. A world where your name didn’t matter, where your death was just a footnote. But his voice, steady and sure, pierced through the bitterness threatening to consume you.

“Fine,” you whispered, the word barely audible. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, the bright sincerity in his eyes almost painful. “I’ll go. Once. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Wally’s grin returned, slow and genuine. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The gym was plain, almost too small for the group of souls that had gathered. Mr. Martin, with his stiff posture and small accent, sat in the corner, his hands folded neatly in his lap. The group was sparse, and each person’s presence piled more and more nerves as you swept your gaze over them.

You felt the tug of skepticism as you sat in an empty chair. The group didn’t move to acknowledge you, a few eyes lifting from their spots, but no one spoke. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but the lack of judgment felt almost alien.

Wally had sat next to you without a word, his presence oddly comforting as he simply offered a silent companionship. His clothes matched yours, save for his jacket, which you still had yet to remove. Some of the ghosts looked your way, but one’s gaze lingered between the two of you. She sat next to Mr. Martin, dressed in a short, colorful, and rectangular dress similar to things your older cousins would wear to events.

Mr. Martin cleared his throat gently, breaking the silence.

“Hello, everyone. I want to again thank you if you’re a returning member and welcome you,” he shot his eyes at you, “if you’re a new member. Since there are newer faces here, why don’t we go around the circle and just say our names.” He smiled, something uncanny lingering on his mouth as he turned to the girl staring between you and Wally.

“I’m Janet.” She said simply. Her voice was soft and concise, crossing her legs as the rest of the ghosts in the group introduced themselves.

“Hi, David,” said a man dressed in construction clothes, who was noticeably older than others in the group.

A boy not much younger than you piped up, a tie peaking past a Letterman jacket he was wearing, “I’m William.”

“Rhonda,” said one girl dressed like your estranged beatnik aunt, who had a seemingly never-ending supply of blow pops.

“And I’m Jasmine.”

The group wraparound had landed on you. You looked between everyone, searching out the chance they’d just let you past the introductions. Rhonda shot you a look of Come on, we’re waiting, and your lips were moving.

“I’m Y/N.” You hated how much your voice shook after you died, but the calm washing over you as Wally prepared his introduction was enough to make you forget it.

“I’m Wally.” He said, the sound of his golden smile ever-present in his words.

“Well, since we have a newbie,” Mr. Martin began, his voice soft but carrying pressure that you found hard to ignore, “Y/N, why don’t you start by telling us what brought you here today?”

All eyes turned to you, and the overwhelming need to jump from a top-story window returned a shock to your senses. The group waited once more for you to speak, some members exchanging glances that you’d catch in social settings when you were alive. Before you knew it, your lips were parting again and spurting words you were regretting the second you said them.

“I didn’t want to be here,” you started, your voice unsteady but not cracking. “I didn’t want to be dead, either. But what does it matter? It’s not like anyone cares about why I’m gone. They’re all too busy mourning him.”

You slung a hand towards Wally, not looking up, unable to see the faces in the room as you continued. “Wally gets all the posters, all the memorials. He was the star. The one everyone is giving a damn about. And I— I don’t even get a proper goodbye.”

Wally shifted beside you, but you didn’t want to hear him. You leaned your elbows on your knees and played with your fingers as you let the silence around you linger. You didn’t want to hear the words he or any of the other ghosts were going to say, and yet you prayed for the silence to end with something.

Mr. Martin, for once, didn’t jump in. Everyone around you was dead silent— pun not intended— and before you knew it, you were moving out of the gym and to a bench in the hall outside, tucking your knees under your chin.

You had no idea how long you sat there, your legs curled up underneath you, eyes fixed on the dirty hallway doors. Your chest felt hollow, and the anger had boiled down into exhaustion so deep you didn’t know if you could ever feel whole again.

The silence in the gym had crushed you. It wasn’t the kind of silence that made you feel at peace; it was the kind that forced you to confront all the things you hated about yourself, about how little people turned their heads at your murder. You’d never felt more alone, even when you were alive with your family as your only friends. Here, stuck behind glass to witness the aftermath of your death, you couldn’t do anything but watch as you were forgotten to time.

But you weren’t truly alone for long.

Wally’s presence, soft but steady, came through the gym doors, and you didn’t need to look up to know it was him. You felt his gaze on you before you saw it. His footsteps came slowly, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach you this time.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice unsure, though his usual easygoing nature had managed to bleed through.

You didn’t answer at first. The weight of everything was still crushing you.

You didn’t know what to say to him. All of it—every question, every unspoken feeling—was stuck in your throat.

“I just…” you began, the words coming out in a rush, “I don’t get it, Wally. How come it’s all about you? We both died, and yet there aren’t any memorials held in my honor or any remembrance of me being alive in the first place.”

Wally sat beside you, quiet for a moment. He didn’t touch you, didn’t speak right away. But you could tell he was thinking, his mind racing for something to say that wouldn’t make everything worse.

“Dalton surely isn’t going to forget you, I’m sure he’s already planning something in your honor— something, something better.”

Your resolve cracked suddenly, shattering in one fell move as you bowed your head and cried for the umpteenth time. Wally was silent but tried to offer a comforting hand on your back that you scooted away from instantly.

His presence was steady, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. You didn’t look up to see if he needed confirmation as to what your body was telling him.

“He… he was a monster. They’re letting him get away with it, I know they are, and it’s like no one cared that I was left for dead. People didn’t call me an ambulance or even see my body when it was still warm. Heleft me to rot in that locker room, and now he’s just strutting around like he’s lost something great, and I’m-” you hiccupped as you smeared tears away from your eyes, “I’m starting to feel like I’m going crazy because no one’s going to ever believe it happened. Even when the cops check out me, I just don’t think they’ll believe he’d do that kind of thing.”

Wally remained silent as you turned to look at him, his face pale and mouth slightly agape. Part of you wanted to know what he was thinking, what he wanted to say, and the other part wanted to burst up from your seat, run through the side doors, and condemn yourself to an eternity of sitting on the bleachers.

“I believe you.”

Out of everything you thought he was going to say, that didn’t even reach your mind. You turned to him, face beating to the rhythm of your heart, probably soaked from your tears and red from your crying.

“What?” You asked.

“You’re not crazy, Y/N. If anything, I think you’re braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“What?” You asked again, a small smile turning the slightest curve in your lips.

Wally laughed softly, slowly raising his hand to your face and thumbing the tears off your cheeks.

“You heard me,” he brought his hand to rest against your face, and you could feel the suffocating heat starting to leave you.

“What’s bravery have to do with any of this?” You questioned heat flooding in from where his palm remained against your cheek.

“It’s got to do with you sitting here, telling me,” he brought his other hand to lightly skim over the top of yours, “it’s got to do with you coming in and standing in these halls and bearing witness to the aftermath. I know you think the rest of the world is going to forget you, but, Y/N, I’m going to give my damnedest so you’ll never feel like that, ever again.”

Go give @whoopsyeahokay some love, they my #1 hype person. This shit made me feel so special.

Hey luv bug, I started my first fic I'm gonna @ you on it cus you inspired me. I might not be nearly as good at writing as you are but I'm really proud of it so far. I'm at 1.3k words rn and cant wait to post it. Just wanted to let you know that you truly are an inspiration and gave me the motivation to write. Hope you start feeling better soon. :)

my beautiful autumn soul 🌰😇🍂 i am so beyond proud of you for doing the Thing! and please listen to me when i say, in all my novice wisdom and experience, writing isn't about the words you use. it isn't about how you construct the sentence or whether or not you repeat words 1000 times. it's about translating an image onto a page and imbuing the emotion beneath that. it doesn't matter how. remember, you're unique therefore your writing will be unique, incomparable, no one will ever do it the way you do so you can't hold yourself up to any standard you believe exists.

to everyone else, i read the first sentence of our bb's story and it was already 👏 fucking 👏 diamond 🗣️ for those who are triggered by drug use and addiction, this gorgeous story is a very real, very impactful representation of that. it's beautifully written. submersive and visceral and dense with emotion. like, i cannot praise this enough. *whips @patrickispinky with a soft wooden spoon of love* child, do not ever in my presence say you can't write again bc those are lies that need to be ejected from your brain.

i literally can't express how incredible Sex, Drugs, Etc. (Wally Clark x reader) is. literally. our sweet bae has managed to capture the hollow despair and numbness of addiction, especially in someone so young, and it shook me.

again, if you're triggered by those themes, take leave and stay safe, but for those of you who aren't, i highly highly recommend. check it out and give our lovely summershine soul some love 🫶 this community is kind and mature and i thrive here knowing that we understand as a collective that if something isn't our thing, we're responsible for our own filtering; we have the faculty to back-arrow out of where we feel isn't our space; it's no one else's job to make the world a padded room for us 👍

to my bae, thank you for sharing such a profound and personal story with us. it can be scary and vulnerable but know that i'm along for the ride and i've got you 😉 doing something we enjoy though feel too new at takes courage, and to expose ourselves on such a public forum takes even more courage. you fucking slayed it, love ⚔️💖

Sex, Drugs, Etc.

October Sun

Sex, Drugs, Etc.

Warnings: Talk of drugs/Drug use. Possible smut in the future. SH. A lot of plot. EXTREME Canon divergence. Before Maddies time. Set in 2022

I got a lot of inspiration and motivation from @whoopsyeahokay series called October Sun if you haven't read it yet I recommend you do its amazing, you can find it on tumblr and Ao3. October Sun

(This is very self indulgent and based on things ive been through and how I could have very easily ended up as a ghost. This is NOT meant to romanticize addiction or mental illness. This is a judgment free zone so I want no bullying or hate on anyone. I'm not the best writer so be nice)

1.9k Words

Enjoy :)

-

Two days, two fucking days you’ve been rotting and no ones come to find you. Well no one alive at least. 

It started off normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Just another boring school day with the same washed out boring people. Tired eyes and even more tired souls. So what changed? A little slip up on the same thing that had almost claimed your life many times over the years except this time no one was there to save you. 

You were 14 when you first learned the only way for your brain to stop spinning, trying to find a new way to obtain peace was with a very simple little thing. Weed, this wasn't what was deadly, no it was what started the cycle. First it was weed, then it was alcohol, then it was late night parties, until one day it fell into the palm of your hand. A simple little pill, how could it cause so much damage? Things were fine until one pill turned into two then two turned into three and then you ended up on the patio of a stranger's porch foaming out the mouth. 4 days in the hospital and 2 weeks in rehab was enough to scare you for a while, but not enough to make you forget about the relief that came with it. 

That's how you ended up here, sitting in a circle sharing stories about life and death, a group of highschool boys who had no idea you were even there, playing basketball behind you. Should have just gone to group like you were told to, at least then you would have been with people who understood addiction. Now judgmental eyes fall upon you because you caused your own death. As much as you wanted to find someone, something to blame you knew you couldn't, this was your fault. The spinning hasn't stopped. At least ghosts couldn't go through withdrawal, doesn’t change the fact that the empty feeling you tried so desperately to fill is more presint than ever.  

The sweet voice of Mr.Martin fills the room. Like white nose until you heard him call your name. Head shooting up to look up at him. “Have you started working on your obituary?” Ah yes, ghost homework. you would have never thought that you would have been asked to write your own obituary yet here we are. Not as easy as it sounds.

“I’ve got some ideas” Like when you got so drunk you threw up on your friends cat, or when you were so high that your brother convinced you the plane flying over your house was a UFO, fun memories. Apparently you were supposed to write about the good parts of your life but that's kinda hard when the only good memories you had were caused by what put you in this situation to begin with. 

“Take your time, if you need to im sure some of the others wouldn't mind telling you about what they wrote, for motivation.” You give a simple nod, wanting all the prying eyes around you to look away. And they do, except a certain pair that had been watching you since you got here. 

Wally Clark, a sweet boy, bright future, died to soon like everyone else in this fucked up version of your own personal hell. He asked too many questions, it wasn't a secret how you died, just something you didn't want to talk about.  He respected that, like most of the others, most. Doesn't stop him from prying, staring with curious eyes. 

“I think that's all for today,  don't forget tomorrow's movie night as always our newest member will be picking the movie.” You give an awkward smile before standing up and turning to leave along with the rest of the group. Heavy footsteps creeping up behind you and the sound of your name being called stops you as the tall boy catches up.

“So um do you need help with your obituary? not to brag but I think I did a pretty good job on mine.” Wally was quite attractive, tall, with big brown eyes, and slick back brown fluffy hair. No doubt having made girls fawn over him during his lifetime. You and him weren't exactly friends but the idea of having a little help writing… well, a self obituary wasn't bad. 

“Sure, we could go to the library.” An excited grin grew on Wallys face, not expecting you to say yes. 

“Yeah, yeah the library sounds great” It was kinda cute how he acted sometimes. Not like a typical jock, a pure golden retriever. 

“Cool” You stand there kinda awkwardly, hands in the pockets of your red zip up hoodie as you gave him an expecting look. 

“Oh like now?” He was somehow the most confident yet most awkward person in the world. “Um okay yeah that works” 

You tilt your head sideways towards the door leading out the gym, indicating for him to follow you out. Taking the lead and making your way out, opening the door for him. “Ladies first” He let out a small chuckle at your attempt at a joke, considering it was the first time you really talked to anyone since everything happened. It wasn't that you didn't like people, you just didn’t understand the point of friends. It might sound depressing but having a small group of people that you know will stick around is better than hanging around people that barely know you. Yet here you are, stuck with strangers for eternity or until you finally move on, however long that’ll take. 

The hallway was filled with loud teens, some rushing to their next class others going out the back door, more than likely skipping. “So how does this work?” You look over at him.

“What? The afterlife?” He looks at you, a little nervous. “I don’t think im the best person to explain it to you, that's more of Charley's thing.” Charley was sweet, the first person you met when you woke up. Some sort of after life guide. 

“No, a self obituary.” The words felt weird coming out your mouth. “I know I'm supposed to write about all the great things in life but I don't think huffing nitrous in my uncles bathroom on thanksgiving really counts as a good memory.” 

“Nitrous? like the shit in whipped cream?” He gave you a sideways look, a concerned but humored smile on his face. 

“Yes, the shit in whipped cream, I don't recommend. I passed out and almost had a seizure.” As we reach the library he opens the door, allowing you to go in first. 

“Okay, maybe don’t include that in your obituary, how about” He thought for a second. “Write about your friends and family, I'm sure you have some good memories with them.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh as you sat down at a table, Wally sitting down across from you as you take off your backpack, pulling a pencil and the folder Mr.Martin had given you. “That's too much work, do you think Mr.Martin would notice if I just copied yours?” Wally laughs a little, his straight white teeth showing.

“No, he’ll totally believe that you played football and lost your virginity in your moms car.” Now you’re the one laughing, his sentence coming out way too casually. 

“You lost your virginity in your moms car?” You take a few seconds to process before you look at him judgmentally. “You included how you lost your virginity?” Though the smiles’ still apparent on your face. 

“Happy memories, remember?” And there's the jock attitude you were waiting for, somehow a bit surprising but not unexpected. “You could just write your feelings.” You have a whole journal for that from when you got sober… soberish. 

“This may come as a shock to you but I'm not exactly a feelings person.” Not totally true, it was just easier to not feel anything at all, especially with the situation you're in right now. 

“Really? I couldn't tell” The sarcastic tone in his voice very apparent. “Alright fine, if you were happiest when you were high then it's worth writing.” 

“Great, so high stories, got it” Though it wasn't the best idea, you had to write something so Mr.Martin would get off your ass about it. Reminiscing was a slippery slope, you were holding up decently so far but contrary to what all the others think it hurt deep down. “How about the first time I tried molly?” Probably one of the best ‘happy pills’ you tried in your lifetime. 

“What was it like?” He clearly had no intentions of finding out first hand, just curious of the experience. 

“It made me really aware but like in a good way.” There was no real way to describe it without going into depth. “And kinda trippy I guess, does that make sense?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” He knew he could never truly understand, no one could unless they experienced it themselves. As you begin to jot down the memory Wally peaks over, looking at the page though it's not very useful due to the fact that he doesn't possess the skill to read upside down. 

“Nosey” You laugh a little at his attempt to get to know you better. “You know if you want to get to know me, maybe there are better ways to do it then helping me write my own obituary” Yep, still didn't sound right.  

“Oh um yeah, this is probably a really weird first hang out.” He laughs awkwardly at the realization that this is still new to you. It wasn't like he had never been around a new ghost before, he knew he was supposed to be slow, supportive, ease them into it but with the way you acted sometimes made him think you were more used to this than he was. In a way you were, death was something that you had imagined so many times so when it actually came the idea of being trapped wasn't one you hadn't thought of before. “How about after we're done with this I could take you down to the pool?” 

You smile, the sentiment was sweet. “Thanks, but I don't know how to swim.” You were never taught and it didn't seem important in life so you just never learned. The surprised look on Wallys face was priceless.

“How the hell are you 18 and don’t know how to swim?” It wasn't judgmental, just a little surprised, but the grin on his face indicated that he had an idea. 

“Oh god, what are you thinking about?” You knew what was coming, he wouldn't be him if he didn’t jump at the opportunity to help a new friend. Wally was very readable and you didn’t know if that was a good thing yet. 

“I could teach you.” And there it was, of course he wanted to teach you. “It could be fun, plus you don't have much else to do.” 

“You know what fuck it, you’re right there isnt shit else to do.” Especially with your body still laying cold in the old abandoned locker rooms aka ‘the brain cave’. 

“Great, you should keep writing, the faster you get it over with the less weird it feels.” And that's how it started, you were never the friend type but as much as you hated to say it you needed someone. Sure that someone is very attractive and the idea of seeing him in nothing but swim trunks was a nice image but who could blame you? The afterlife is lonely.

Pt.2

The worst thing about writing isn't writers block its not knowing how or where to stop. Like how am I supposed to end this without making it 5k word? I don't wanna write that much.

Currently writing a school spirits fic that's very personal to me. Don't know when its gonna be out but I'm really excited about it.

Because he is

Sometimes I wonder if my psychiatrist even knows me.... That might be caused by me not telling her about the fact that I created so many fake scenarios in my head to the point that they all get jumbled together and keep me awake at night... But yeah it's my psychiatrist fault that she can't put a name to what I have.

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Have y'all seen the new school spirits trailer? New wally content!!!! I feel like we're gonna get some flashbacks of his death and actually see what happened. Maybe this will be right before he moves on like how Dawn had to think back to how she died before she moved on. I can't wait!!!

I feel like we're gonna get flashbacks to wallys death, him on the field looking scared might be when he realizes he's dead and him getting sprawled out on the field might be him getting sent back to where he died after trying to leave school grounds. I'm so excited.

the very MINUSCULE shots of Milo Manheim as Wally Clark in School Spirits Season 2 Teaser

We can all blame Allison for acting shitty in s3 of the umbrella academy but what we can't ignore is what she went through. No one paid attention to the way she struggled. Losing a child is something i can't even imagine, sure you can argue that she got her back but the emotional turmoil must have been unbearable for her. She tried to make herself happy and pretend everything was alright but at the end of the day she's just one woman that was going through hell. Of course this doesn't excuse everything she did but it does make it understandable, to me atleast. I don't have kids, but if I did I would do unimaginable things to make sure they were happy and safe even if that makes me a bad person. I relate to Allison and I understand. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

My head aches as I look around at all the surprised faces staring down at me. I laugh a little until I see tears fill my teammates eyes, confused I look around seeing the surprise turn into horror and a gut wrenching scream. I didn't think it was that bad of a fall, what the fuck is happening? That's when I notice, they're not looking at me they're looking through me. I turn around and that's when I see it, my cold lifeless body laying on the ground with blood gushing from my skull.

Might write a wally x reader fic with this prompt idk yet