𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

¹⁵

warning: indications of sexual assault and gore. reader discretion advised.

There's a hammering on the door. Incessant and ruthless, holding no regard to the fact that Eddie and I were asleep. My slumberous eyes flit to the alarm clock adjacent to his bed. 4:44, the hands read. I reckon Steve, Robin, and Nancy weren't roused at such an hour — prom drew to a close at twelve o'clock, over four hours ago. Unless they were rapt in local bars — pursuing something to rid their minds of the imbecility invading them.

Another possibility was that it was Eddie's uncle, Wayne Munson. Eddie explained that his uncle works avid night shifts at the local plant, so 4:44 would be a plausible time for such a late shift to conclude.

When I crane my neck from the cordiality of his pillow, I'm greeted with a dire suggestion of his absence. My lips parting, brows creasing, I grope his side of the bed — the left — and feel the impression made in the mattress, also the lingering warmth of his body heat. But where was he?

The rapping on the door continues, and I exhale deliriously, scrambling to seize my clothes from the floor. "Alright, I get it, I get it." I'm only halfway through pulling my undergarments over my unclad body, before the jangling of the door handle stops — and I'm hailed by the meek, timid disposition of —

Chrissy Cunningham?

No — no, this was pure asininity. Chrissy is dead — I saw her autopsy, and the figure standing before me seems unscathed. No indication of any ailments that were present in those unearthly photos. Her face isn't gaunt — isn't that cryptic, alabaster tint that I saw in the photos. There's health in her cheeks — warmth and vitality. Her eyes are indeed intact, limbs as well. Not all warped and crooked — like in my imagery at Hawkins PD.

Emotions wrack through me. Frankly, I don't know whether to feel trepidation, or bittersweetness, complete and utter perplexity, or jubilance. So I allow them all to fuse. Meld and morph and revamp into this monstrosity that includes each one of them.

"Chrissy," I exhale, my voice coming out emasculated and echoey. "Chrissy, is that — you?" The familiar twinge of tears sting my cheeks, but Chrissy just sustains her mask of monotony — and still manages somehow to look amicable. "Chrissy — I," I stammer, the daunting image of her dismembered corpse flashing into my head at the sight of her chipper face. "Are you real? Was this — was this whole thing a cover-up? Are you a ghost?" I yearn for answers, so I can soundly elect which of my emotions to succumb to.

"Did you at least enjoy it?" She says in her strident, but kind voice.

"Did I enjoy — " I start, looking at her incredulously, the atmosphere growing thick with ambiguity. "Did I enjoy what, Chrissy? You hiding from me — ? Making me believe you were gone?"

"Sleeping with Chance." She says eerily, her voice growing prominently more shrill, more than what was usually present in her dulcet tones. She sounded like a nefarious child in the horror movies Steve and I used to watch, in the way her voice ominously raised in pitch with every gruesome word she spoke. I was shaking at this point, could you blame me? "Scorning me. Not questioning me getting in an inscrutable van. Dismissing it to go and fuck your dearest boyfriend. You're a bad friend, Melany. I hope you wallow in that guilt forever."

"Chrissy," I plea, my breaths seldom and shaky. "Y-You reassured me — you told me that everything was okay — and I felt like I was always up your ass about y-your predicaments."

All in one swift, jeering maneuver, it's just as Eddie initially described. Her eyes are yanked into her skull — substituting them with only a bloody void in her vacated sockets. The blood promenades down her lackluster cheeks, like an array of tears. I feel my supper trekking up my throat as I see her body disfigure itself — each limb absolutely mangling itself, a revolting crack sound coupling with the goriness.