Raising Hel | a Stranger Things fanfiction

Chapter 2

Timeline check: strats in the early hours of Saturday 22nd of March 1986 - between ST4 episodes 1 and 2

*

Eddie jerks his head toward a cracking sound. He holds his lighter at arm's length, but the flame can't pierce far into the darkness and after a while, he resumes his walk, hoping he's going in the right direction. Shouldn't already he have reached Lover's Lake? Ditching his van seems like the dumbest idea now...

He trips over a root for the tenth time, swears loudly. He should be playing his guitar, not wandering in pitch-black woods! His throat clenches. Not being on the run, with Chrissy lying dead in his living room. As the scene plays back in his head once again – the way she lifted in the air while he was trying to wake her up from her trance-like state, how her body twisted like a puppet, the sound of her bones snapping one by one and her eyes ... – the realization hits him. He remembers the article he read about how D&D player supposedly leaned toward satanism and murder. He's going to be the number one suspect.

New tears come running down his face that he can't find the strength to wipe. He's going to end up like his old man after all. For being nice to a girl who seemed in trouble. He swears again, this time in a murmur.

When he finally reaches Rick's place, he fails to feel any relief. He doesn't waste time on the main house since his drug supplier is currently in jail and enters the shed by the lake whose door doesn't lock. Exhausted, he sits against the wall, knowing his brain won't let him rest. It's stuck in a loop of Chrissy, the grotesque pictures of that article and his father.

As dawn rises, he thinks about his uncle who's going to come home to a dead body, and feels sick. Will he presume Eddie's guilty too? He's never felt so alone in his entire life. He curls up on the floor and finally falls in a troubled sleep.

*

Hunger woke Eddie around 9 a.m. but he wasn't able to find anything edible in the shed. The feeling has passed now, as if his stomach resigned to this forced diet. He could go back to his van and grab the snacks he keeps in the back but the idea of stepping outside is too frightening. He knows he's going to have to do it at some point, but for now he indulges himself with the bliss of the half-smoked reefer he left in his pocket. He spends most of the day doodling on the margins of old newspapers. Anything to keep his mind away from the fact that he's screwed...