The Devils Bargain | stuilly | billyxstu | stuxbilly

Chapter 1

When someone dies, that is it. They are the lucky ones, no more pain, no more drama, no more dealing with a lonely home with a drunkard for a father. Billy Loomis died on September 9th, 1996. He no longer felt pain, and he didn't care about drama to begin with and it was supposed to stay that way.

Funny how 'supposed to', never seemed to stick.

When he woke up, the odour of rotten oak hit Billy's nose like a sledgehammer. It wormed into his head, leaving an earthy rotten taste on his ashy tongue with everything feeling muffled and fuzzy as if someone had muted the movie while it kept playing in the background.

Cracking open his eyes and expected to be met with Stu Macher's ceiling but instead, found himself in a complete void like darkness, his lungs protesting with each cough as he struggled to move. Pain flared in his head and he gingerly gripped at his forehead, his fingers cracking the hair stuck on his skin, sticky with some unknown substance--corn syrup most likely. Gradually, the ache subsided, allowing him to take a shaky breath.

Attempting to move his hands forward, his knuckles were met with a wooden ceiling, recoiling instinctively. A flood of memories crashed over him as he shook the pain of out his hand-- He was shot.. he was shot a lot actually. But most importantly, he got shot right, smack in the forehead, there's no surviving that.

How was he even alive?

Taking stock of his surroundings, Billy touched around the wood, feeling over the corners and tried not to gag when his fingers felt something wet, moving and slimy until he realized he was confined within a box, a decrepit coffin. The wood, rotted and saturated with time, betrayed the hasty and inexpensive burial he'd been given. Clicking his tongue in frustration and a healthy mix of fear, he furrowed his brow.

"Help..!" his voice emerged hoarse and raspy, his throat burning from disuse or perhaps dehydration, most likely both. Sticky residue clung to his skin, deeper than corn syrup, penetrating his muscles and leaving him stiff and sore.

A strange energy pulsed through him, heightening his awareness of every nerve and muscle. He could almost feel the bones in his fingers move under his skin or his lungs stretch out his ribs.

Despite never considering himself claustrophobic, the confines of the coffin triggered a creeping panic within him, hearing his heart begin to hammer and a slow wash of adrenaline flow up his spine and arms. Frantically, he pounded on the rotting wood, the sensation of it yielding slightly under his pressure offering some reassurance, but not enough to quell his rising fear.

Perhaps the shoddiness of the coffin was a blessing in disguise. Billy's relentless clawing gradually splintered the weakened planks, allowing dirt to cascade into the coffin. Terrified of being buried more permanently, he dug with renewed urgency, his breaths now mingling with the earthy scent of soil.

Driven by panic, he continued to claw through the soft dirt, each breath a struggle as he fought against the encroaching darkness. Finally, a sliver of light pierced through the blackness, accompanied by a rush of fresh air. Relief flooded through Billy as he pulled himself out of the grave, grabbing at the grass and long weeds like a zombie out of Day of the Dead, his muscles protesting with each movement.

Collapsed on the ground, his head resting on the grass and dirt as he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, gasping and feeling the cold air against his clammy skin.

Billy sat there, absorbing the surreal reality.

You couldn't keep a good horror icon down and if this wasn't proof enough that something in the universe believed him to be just that, he didn't know what would. Billy wasn't deluded enough to equate himself with the likes of Pennywise or Chucky, but evidently, the world recognized him as someone who didn't go down easily and who was he to argue?