Thunderstruck | Steve Harrington

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE: WORRY

Chapter Sixty-One: Worry

(Will The Wise, Pt. 3)

***

Darkness surrounded Alistair, thick and pressing, smothering him. It was cold, colder than anything he'd ever felt, as cold as death. Shapes shifted in the dark, quick as a flash. White eyes, staring at him, empty, like the life and joy had been hollowed out of them, above gaping, void-like mouths. Shapeless and formless, except for the creeping, glacial fingers, sharp and clawed, scraping at Alistair's skin and clothes. Alistair's heart thundered in his chest and fear paralysed him, as those mouths began speaking—whispers at first, scraping and clawing out of dead throats, sliding into Alistair's ears, as soft and thin as the wind, yet as sharp and cutting as a knife, words indiscernible except for one.

Alistair.

Alistair froze. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. He wanted Hugin, his sister, his aunt, Will, his friends, but they weren't here, they couldn't come here. He was trapped in the darkness, with only hollow-eyed ghosts for company.

Alistair, they whispered as their void-mouths grew wider, wider, wider, shapeless forms glitching in and out, hands shifting from pale, human-like hands to something monstrous. Alistair Alistair Alistair ALISTAIR!

Alistair slapped his hands over his ears and sunk to the floor, screaming, go away go away go away leave me alone LEAVE ME ALONE but they didn't and the ghosts pressed in, the dark was suffocating Alistair, hands were grasping, clawing, scratching, hollow white eyes glaring at him and mouths of gaping shadows hanging wide as the whispers screeched into wails that froze Alistair's blood and guttural screams that ripped apart Alistair's brain, tears streaming from his eyes as the screaming and wailing kept growing louder and louder, as those icy hands tore apart his skin, as the darkness pressed in further and further, drowning him, crushing him under it, funnels of shadow pouring into him, there was nothing but darkness and the screams of the dead and his screams and a haunting, evil presence that he could feel lurking somewhere and his mind shrieked Not here not here shouldn't be here get it out get it out get it out GET IT OUT and this icy, deathly cold, there was so much cold, too much cold to be alive, he was so cold and something wanted him to be cold, he liked it cold, he didn't want to be cold, why was he cold, cold cold cold COLD—

***

Alistair jerked awake with a strangled scream. Sheets were tangled around his legs, his curls and pyjamas were sticking to his sweat-slicked skin, and his chest was rising up and down rapidly, sucking in lungfuls of air. Alistair's eyes roved wildly, vision adjusting, seeing his room. A worried croak and Hugin was in front of him, worry bleeding from the raven into Alistair as he heard, Alistair okay? Scared? Hurt?

"I-I'm fine, Hugin," Alistair mumbled. 

Hugin didn't look convinced, and he barrelled into Alistair's chest. Alistair immediately wrapped his arms around Hugin as the undead raven gave comforting caws, Alistair taking in the feeling of Hugin's ragged feathers and the bits of bone sticking out as his heartbeat calmed down, the terror of his nightmare fading.