𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟏𝟎. 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬

𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

The path to the outhouse was covered in a thick trudge of wet brown leaves, which you stumbled through the best you could without falling over and landing flat on your face in a pile of slugs. Every noise in the near distance made you freeze and flick off your flashlight, holding your breath until they eventually ceased.

When you finally came upon the illuminated outhouse, you rolled your eyes and tucked the flashlight handle into your back belt loop. The door latch had been wedged shut with the business end of a screwdriver, which now bore the damage of being banged on from the inside by none other than Sheila Martin. Leaning against the side of the building, you pried the screwdriver out of its slot and toss it aside before pushing the door inwards.

The entire interior of the outhouse was slathered with half-dried red paint. Massive insects scurried across the dirty wooden floor toward freedom and you did your very best to avoid them as you made your way inside. As much as Ziggy deserved her moment of revenge, you really wished she could have waited until tomorrow. Or even next summer, when you would have already sent in your application to the ice cream shop in downtown Sunnyvale.

Axe murderers didn't hang out in ice cream shops. No one ever got cursed in an ice cream shop.

You couldn't help but gag at the smell of dead roaches mixed with the toxic haze of craft paint "Sheila?" you croaked, clinging to the tops of the stalls as you navigated yourself into the shed.

The stall door at the very end of the row opened and Sheila shuffled out, hair splattered with a gross combination of paint and bug guts. For the first time since you met her, she wasn't sporting that obnoxious smirk. Instead, she looked tired and angry, dark eyebrows furrowed as she took you in.

"Counselor (Y/N)?" she asked, eyes weakening. At that moment, you remembered that these were only children. Assholes, most of them. But children. And they were all in danger.

"Show's over," you said, nodding toward the open door. "Get back to the mess hall."

"Did we win?"

We, she says. It was easy to forget that you wore a red Sunnyvale shirt under all that blue paint. "You lost," you find yourself saying, just because you can. "Go. Mess hall. Now."

Sheila darts past you without a second glance and you find yourself holding your breath as she does so. The smell of rot on top of everything else might just set you over the edge. 

Once you're sure she took off in the direction of safety, you bend over to assess the damage that the walk did to your ankle. The once white bandage now resembles a red handkerchief loosely draped over your leg and the only source of comfort came from pinning your knuckle between your teeth hard enough to defer the pain. 

With your back to the door, your whimpered softly. It was harder to tell yourself that you could make the walk back to the mess hall when there was no one else left for you to convince.

Wet leaves churned under heavy footsteps at the base of the steps and the outhouse door whined as something pushed it outwards. You stood up straight, wiping the helpless expression off your face before turning around to face who you could only assume was your least favorite camper. "Sheila, I said go—"

You knew who it was before you could even fully turn around. It was the smell that hit you first — the rotten and metallic smell of blood. Tommy resembled a statue in the dim doorway. His entire frame was dripping with thick, red gore. You could barely make out the goosebumps rippling across the exposed flesh of his arms, reminding you of the heavy flannel jacket you were still wearing and how it didn't always belong to you.

You sank to the outhouse floor, scrambling backward until your spine made contact with the wall. He took your submission as an invitation to enter, swinging that ancient rusted axe by his hip. It was so red with blood that it looked painted. Fake. But there was nothing fake about the countless handprints melted into the yellow fabric of his shirt from where his victims had used the last of their energy to mark him.

You couldn't scream as Tommy approached you, but you were breathing so loud and fast through your nose that you might as well have. His grip on the axe handle loosened and it slipped to the floor. Tears bubbled in your waterline and you craned your neck to look away, unintentionally exposing your throat to him as he stopped directly in front of you.

There was no other sound in the room but the wood creaking under Tommy's heavy hiking books as he crouched down low in front of your face. You felt a single tear roll down your cheek and sting the thin cuts that had crisscrossed down your face.

A solid hand reached out, shakily, and gripped your chin. You didn't fight it as Tommy guided your face back toward him. His hand was wet and sticky, hot with blood. Whose? You had no idea. Another tear rivered down your cheek and joined the new handprint on your jaw.

"Shhh."

Tommy's whisper startles you and he flexes his hand around your jaw to keep you steady. The sound was so low that you barely recognized it over his guttural breathing. Hesitantly, you allowed your eyes to flutter open until you could take in all of his bulking, heaving frame at once.

His pupils were blown, fully eclipsing the whites of his usually honey-colored eyes. Blood had trickled into every last crevice of his face and made him look like an animal. Like something wild. Something primal. When he realized he'd finally won your attention, he smiled and your throat went tight.

That was Tommy's smile, the one you knew all too well. The one he would flash you in school whenever he caught sight of your pigtails bobbing in the distance. Seeing Tommy's smile on this psychopath stranger's face made you physically ill.

"Tommy," you said carefully, daring yourself not to gasp as his hand released your jaw and slipped down your throat, thumbing the skin at the base of your neck. He groans in what you can only assume is recognition and something alive stirs behind his black eyes.

"Tommy, I know you can hear me." You space your words, speaking slowly and carefully. "I know...I know this isn't your fault. It's okay. It's okay."

Against your better judgment, you reach up and cup your hand around the left side of his face — conveniently the one with the least amount of blood splatter. He instantly leaned into your touch with a low whine, eyes fluttering shut in what could only be described as vulnerability.

"It's okay," you repeat, more for yourself than him. You're not entirely sure if he can even understand you, or if the witch revoked his thoughts along with his actions. "It's okay, it's okay."

You try not to wince as he presses his tacky forehead against yours before inhaling deeply. With his eyes shut, you could imagine that this was your Tommy, not the possessed murderer that he'd been reduced to. You studied him with your heart thundering in your chest, waiting for the moment he would decide you didn't need to be alive anymore and reach behind him for that fucking axe.

He seemed so intent on tearing you to shreds in the caves. What happened between then and now? What changed?

You wanted to test the limits of the witch's curse. Maybe you could coax him out from under his trance, bring him—your Tommy—back to the surface. But you knew it was hopeless when he lifted himself off of you the very moment the thought entered your head.

The urge to call after him was strong, but you were too frightened to say a word that might draw his attention to you. The blood he'd painted onto your body was quickly drying and the axe blade made a terrible grinding noise as he lifted it off of the outhouse floor. Tommy's head stood rigid between his shoulder blades and you could hear his heavy breathing start back up as he marched down the steps and into the woods.

He smelled his next victim, and you could only pray that it wasn't Nick. 

(A/N: I've been looking forward to writing this chapter for like forever. I think its so sweet and deserved because we've really been robbed of Tommy content in the long run. I can't wait to start 1994. The plot is just so juicy and UGH i can't wait. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Tell me what you think!)