Billy's gone.
Ruby Buckley's world ended with him.
But Hawkins isn't done with her yet.
When strange deaths begin again, Ruby is pulled into the heart of the storm. Between shadowy nightmares, the town's newest outcast, and someone she was never s...
( songs for the chapter ) time in a bottle // jim croce angeleyes // abba
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Ruby ran like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Her feet barely touched the floor as she tore down the attic stairs, lungs burning, heart hammering loud enough she thought it might give her away.
The house groaned around her, old wood protesting each step, the sound echoing too loudly in the narrow stairwell.
She hit the main floor and bolted for the front door, the one with the stained glass she'd memorized by heart.
She yanked it open.
Wooden planks stared back at her.
Screwed in tight. Fresh. Unforgiving.
"Shit," she breathed.
Her hand stayed on the knob as she spun, panic blooming sharp and fast in her chest.
At the top of the stairs, he stood.
Vecna tilted his head, studying her like something pinned beneath glass. Unhurried. Certain. He didn't rush, he never had to.
Ruby ran.
She darted into the nearest room, then another, sprinting through narrow hallways and open doorframes, the house rearranging itself just enough to disorient without offering mercy. The dining room chandelier flickered violently as she burst through, crystals rattling, light stuttering in time with her pulse.
She tried the door there.
Planked.
She shoved at one board anyway, fingers scrabbling for leverage, but it didn't budge. Screws bit deep into the wood, immovable.
She ran again.
Room to room. Door to door. Every exit sealed. Every path closing. The back door, the side hall, even the narrow service entrance, all barricaded, all impossible.
Her breath came ragged now, panic clawing its way up her throat.
Then she burst into the living room.
She skidded to a stop.
The door there wasn't boarded.
It was blue.
Peeling paint. Metal hinges. A small, grimy window set at eye level.
The sauna door.
Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.
Chains looped around the handle, heavy and rusted, cinched tight. Orange light glowed faintly through the fogged glass, warm and sickly and wrong.
