This is an event for those of us who felt that the Duffers let Neil Hargrove get away with being an abusive sonuvabitch, that his abuse was ignored, and even forgiven in a sense in Season Four.
It’s a low pressure, no sign-up required creative event to torment Neil Hargrove as he rightly deserves!
To avoid overlapping with Mungrove Summer Bingo, and any possible Halloween events, this is a one week event, running from October 1st through the 7th, 2023.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson
Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Neil Hargrove
Additional Tags: Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Revenge, Violence, Protective Steve Harrington, Protective Eddie Munson, Eddie might be enjoying fucking Neil up a bit too much, Slurs, Canon-compliant slur use by Neil, Established Relationship, The boys are soft with each other, With Neil not so much, Neil is his own warning
Summary:
Neil takes a beating on Billy too far and his boyfriends have something to say (and do) about it.
For the @fallofneilhargrove / Fall of Neil Hargrove event (missed posting yesterday for the free day prompt)
Haunted (The Camaro), Public Scorn, "What Happens in Hawkins, Stays in Hawkins."
CW for veiled mentions of alcohol abuse, abuse and death.
He doesn't think much about it after the fact.
It was just a car, and now it's just a wreck. A ruin in the vague shape of the loud, fast car that had been leverage against the wreck of a son he could never hammer into the proper shape of a man like himself.
The squeal of tires on asphalt, spitting gravel and dust; the desperate, helpless fury of his protests, they were the same.
Pointless noise. Feeble attempts at rebellion.
He doesn't think much about him after he signs the death certificate.
He never had a son, not the one he wanted. He took after his mother, and just like her, he was gone, a pointless life that winked out of his without trying to be better.
It was easy to forget him, to move on. It had been a momentary annoyance, knowing that he'd failed to get the boy to be anything other than a self-absorbed, violent little delinquent, but that wasn't his fault.
He took too much after his mother.
He doesn't think much about the car once he signs it over to be scrapped.
The town notices his lack of mourning. The whispering, busy body women that eyed the boy like a piece of meat mourn the loss of something so fine, taken down before even hitting his prime… and they notice how his father never shed a tear.
They went to his funeral, and noticed he was only there long enough to half-heartedly toss a few grains of dirt on the grave -a grave the mall had paid for, as part of the settlement.
He never would have paid that much money otherwise. A waste of money for a waste of time, a waste of a boy that never became a respectable man, and never would.
He notices the tracks in front of the house a few weeks after the service. They're familiar, but he brushes it off. Leftover skid marks from the many times the car went peeling out of the driveway.
He dismisses it, and doesn't think much about it.
It's her fault, really. She looked up to him, and picked up his smart mouth. She blames him for his death. She says the town is starting to put it together, starting to see what he really is.
The blood on her lip is bright, brighter than he remembers blood ever being, and it would unnerve him, but he's had one too many beers.
He doesn't think much about it.
He's out later and later each night. Alcohol doesn't seem to work anymore- and when it does, all he can think about is the lock on the door, swinging whenever he looks at it.
No one has been in his room since he died and it was cleared out. No one goes near it. Not even her.
He dismisses it as the wind, or the shifting of the house during the change of seasons, and tries not to think much about it.
Headlights seem to follow him every night when he goes to the bar. He swears they're familiar, but when he stops, pulls over to let it pass, they're gone. When he makes a turn and waits to see it pass, it never does.
The town is getting more folks moving in, or coming to pry, curious about the supposed curse on Hawkins. He dismisses it as another tourist playing lookie-loo and getting lost on the winding backroads.
He tries not to think about it, but he can't shake the feeling he's being watched.
He stops coming home entirely some nights, going to the Motel 6 to sleep off the alcohol that makes him slow, makes him heavy, but doesn't let him forget, won't make him numb, not the way it used to.
He doesn't get sleep.
He keeps seeing headlights pass back and forth past his window.
He peers through the curtains, his heart pounding in his chest, soaked in cold sweat that reeks of alcohol and fear, and he sees the car idling in the parking lot. He can't see the color, or even the shape, but he recognizes the headlights.
They're the same headlights that have been haunting him for months.
He locks the door and shuts himself in the bathroom, curled up in the bathtub with a pillow and blanket ripped from the bed. He spends the night shaking in a fetal position, hearing the barest hint of the car's engine idling outside all night.
It's gone as soon as the sun begins to rise, and the silence it leaves behind is deafening.
He can't stop thinking about it.
It has to be a prank. One of the meddling teenagers in town, maybe one of his whores, one of the delinquents he drank with, trying to drive him out of town. It has to be. There's no other explanation.
The new chief of police is skeptical when he comes forward with the complaint. The man lifts a brow, taking in his haggard appearance, the smell of alcohol that has become part of his natural odor. He doesn't take the report of a stalker seriously, but in a placating, sympathetic, almost mocking tone, he says he'll look into it, and advises him to go home and sober up.
He changes his work shift to nights. He's safe at work at night, and when he drives home, the sun will illuminate the thing that has been stalking him. He just has to switch his sleep schedule, so he takes a weekend off to rewire his clock.
He still can't stop thinking about the car.
She's gone more and more, and she takes her daughter with her. She's been doing that ever since that evening, with it's bright, bright, vivid scarlet, fixed in his mind.
He wants to lay hands to them both for daring to abandon him. For her daring to shirk her wifely duties, for her to be anything but a dutiful surrogate daughter figure.
They're both like him and his mother, and he hates them for it.
He can't sleep, and finds himself at the bar again. Before he knows it, night has fallen, and he has no choice but to drive- to the hotel, or home, it doesn't matter, he has to drive. He can't stay at the bar. It's closed, and his tab has been cut off until he pays it off.
It doesn't matter. Alcohol doesn't work the way it used to.
Adrenaline keeps him far more sober than he'd like.
Home isn't home. It never was. He hasn't had a home since she left and made him feel like he failed, because he couldn't hold onto her. Not her, with her daughter, but her, leaving, instead of submitting, leaving her son because she knew if she took him, he'd have a grasp on her until her son turned 18.
He had turned 18 and died, and there was no one to blame but him, and it was her fault the blame was on him. It was her fault the town whispered about him.
Drunk.
Wife beater.
Child abuser.
Fragile ego.
Failure.
The whispers circulate through his head, and he gets home, drunk on impotent rage rather than alcohol, and he starts throwing things into a suitcase. If she can leave, so can he. He won't be held accountable for another failure, for another child becoming a useless delinquent, a dead child that was a waste of time and money. Especially one that wasn't even his.
He tosses his luggage into the truck and starts driving. He doesn't even know where he's going, not precisely.
He doesn't think about it. He just wants to get the fuck out of Hawkins. Away from the whispers, the gossip, the pitying and skeptical gazes, the accusatory rumors, the too-bright blood on a girl's split lip, a grave he didn't pay for, and a car that should have been compressed into a metal cube.
A car that sits in the road, headlights dazzling, blindingly bright, blocking his path out of Hawkins.
He slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt. The sun will rise soon, and the car will disappear. It always does. It has to, because it's not real. It's scrapped. It's gone.
He stares at the car in the road, watching exhaust trail from the tailpipe, curling into the air like dragon's breath, dissipating like his sanity into the late night air. Above him, the stars seem to spin and dance, as if bouncing in glee, watching from the heavens in anticipation of what will happen.
He doesn't leave the truck. He's never liked horror movies, but he knows the main rule: never get out of the car.
The last bit of clouds drift away, revealing the full moon, and the cold white light glints on the curves of the car, and there's no mistaking the shape.
It's the Camaro.
And it's empty.
His mouth is dry, his throat stuck, and his tongue feels like sticky clay between his jaws. His eyes hurt from being open so wide. His heart is pounding at his ribs like a jackhammer, and fear grips his stomach like ice cold claws of iron. His pulse is heavy in his ears, but somehow it won't drown out the sound of the Camaro's idling engine.
The headlights flare, brighter than he ever imagined, blinding him, as the engine lets out a sound that could only come from something born of Hell- a metallic screech, a mechanical scream, and a roar from an engine that was supposed to be melted down months ago.
The car leaps at him like a wild animal, and in the throes of terror, flooded with adrenaline, he does the one thing he knows he shouldn't do.
He doesn't think about it.
He abandons ship, leaping from the truck to avoid being crushed inside it, hoping the impact of metal on metal will distract the impossible vision from his absence, that will spare him enough time to escape into the woods where it can't possibly follow.
It knew. It knows.
It swerves, tires screeching on the asphalt, smoke reeking of burnt rubber, and comes right after him.
Moments before the fender collides with his body, he stares through the windshield into the empty Camaro, only to find himself locking gazes with a pair of eyes that stare back at him with rage, sorrow, and bitter satisfaction.
He locks eyes with her son, only for a moment, before he's gone again, before the car breaks his spine, crushes his ribes, ruptures his innards, and sends him flying into the trees, plunging him into darkness that he sought so long in the bottom of his cups, but never found.
The police never know what to make of it. Neil Hargrove's truck is parked in the middle of the road, door open, luggage in the back. Skid marks trail away from his truck and towards the woods, but there's no evidence of the other vehicle actually leaving the road.
What they can't understand is why the truck is left where it was, and where the tracks started and stopped where they did.
There was a clean line, where the truck stopped, and the tracks began.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
@fallofneilhargrove Day 6: (Prompt: Wrath of God/ “You reap what you sow”)
Summary:
After noticing all the bruises and other various injuries Billy would suffer on a weekly basis, Jason cornered him, questioning him until he finally admitted that his father was abusing him. Jason decides that Neil needs to be punished. He plans to kill Neil and wants Billy to assist him with the deed.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
@fallofneilhargrove Day 5 (Prompt: Monsters / "What is this place")
Summary: In order to gain full control over Billy, the mind flayer gives him what he wants.
Note: Please be wary of the tags!
AO3 Tags: Violence, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Abusive Neil Hargrove, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Neil Hargrove Gets What Neil Hargrove Deserves, Mild Gore, Gore, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mind Control, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Dismemberment
My entry for day 5, and maybe day 6? Of the @fallofneilhargrove! I know I'm two days late, but better late than never! "Supernatural" was the prompt, and you reap what you sow and this was the resulting chaos!
TW: mentions of abuse, murder, mild gore i think?
“Please, you have to help us!” Billy begs, Steve helping support his weight as the howls start up again, looking wildly around. The stench of fear is heavy under the scent of decomposing leaves and the last of the season’s flowers being churned up with the brisk wind. The boys look up at the figure perched on the branch above their heads.
What would be an ordinary raven, is twice the usual size. The eyes gleam like topazes in sunlight, and the edges of its feathers are fuzzy, with tendrils curling up like smoke. They weren’t expecting to come across a Watcher of the forest, but they’re glad they did.
The tales told in their small village tells that any animal twice the normal size, with eyes that gleam and a fur or feathers like shadows are the eyes and ears of the Guardian of the forest and mountains. Some say she’s an old crone, with hair like snow and skin as tough as leather, eyes like flint in a wizened face. Others, a woman in the prime of her life, holding a child on her hip and another in her belly, laugh lines around eyes that look right into your soul. A few outliers say they see her as a young maid, thick black hair down to her hips and mischief in her eyes but a kind smile on her face, with eyes that flash gold in the light.
Billy and Steve didn’t dare hope that they’d come across a Watcher when they fled into the woods, all they wanted was to escape from the clutches of Billy’s father.
A well established lord in His Majesty’s service, Neil Hargrove rules his household with an iron fist, with his son on a tight leash. His stepsister Maxine is given leeway as she is still a child, but Billy is of age, the only problem being that he enjoyed the sons of his father’s contacts as well as the daughters.
That changed when he fell for Steve, the only son of a duke his father had struck up a business contract in the past year. Hosting him in their home was a personal favor for the duke, getting his son out into the country and away from a broken engagement. Billy is sure his father didn’t expect them to fall in love, having only heard tales of conquests of the female persuasion from Steve’s father.
Because before Billy, Steve had only had eyes for the fairer sex. But once he saw Billy, with his eyes like sapphires and curls as golden as wheat, his heart started to beat a staccato in his chest, captivated by his crooked grin.
Likewise, Billy was entranced by Steve’s pale skin dotted with moles like stars, and eyes as wide and dark as a doe’s. They grew close, then couldn’t help themselves. Which is why they are currently being hunted, for Neil caught them in the throes of passion. They barely escaped his hands, and now they might not escape the demodogs summoned by his personal warlock. Billy knows the only reason they are ever summoned is when Neil doesn’t plan to take their prey alive.
The raven cocks it’s head, staring down at them. They don’t know if it’s looking at the fact that they’re only wearing tunics and trousers, boots hastily thrown on as they fled, with scratches along their faces and arms from stray branches they were too distracted to see. Or if it sees the leftovers of their tryst staining parts of their clothing, both with love bites along exposed collarbones.
“Please, we need your help,” Steve tells it, and both boys fall to their knees in terror as the chattering howls grow louder. They cling to each other, terror seizing their limbs. “Please, we beg of you, sanctuary!”
The raven stares at them, before it spreads its wings and flaps once, twice, and then vanishes. A groan of horror escapes Billy’s throat, clinging to Steve with a white-knuckled grip. Steve clings back, arms wrapped around Billy like bars of iron.
The howls and hissing growls grow louder, and Billy and Steve press themselves back against the ancient oak tree that they are sure will be their tombstone, for the demodogs creep into the grove from the tree line. Right behind the creatures with the heads that open like flowers, with rows of teeth that will tear their skin, rides Neil Hargrove atop his warhorse.
“Time and time again you have disappointed me, William, and this will be the last time!” He scowls at his son, face like a thundercloud.
“My father is going to find out about this, you’ll never get away with it!” Steve yells, shaking as he clings to Billy.
“A real tragedy, Duke Harrington’s only son being killed in a tragic hunting accident. And my own son dying by his side like a true friend, what a tale that will be for your father to learn about.” Neil tells him, adopting a false, sad expression and shaking his head. “I’m sure he will be very convinced, especially when I tell him we should honor our dead sons with a permanent business contract. Staying friends like our sons being joined in death. Very tragic indeed.”
“You’re so full of shit I can smell it from here.” A voice says, and from around the tree Billy and Steve have plastered themselves to steps a maiden about their age, clad in a long green skirt and an embroidered tunic, held tight with a leather belt around her waist. Her feet are bare as she steps in front of the boys, and her hair is loose. It’s pitch black, and falls to her hips.
“How dare you?!” Neil growls, drawing his sword with a scowl on his face. “You’ll pay for that, you wretch!” One of the dogs leaps at the maiden, and the boys gasp in horror.
With a flick of her wrist, she swats it out of the air like a fly. It lands with a sickening crunch against a boulder, splattering across the forest floor like an ink stain.
“How dare I,” she muses, inspecting her nails like she didn’t just turn a demodog into a paste. “Hm, counterpoint. How dare you, for bringing this filth into my forest, on my lands, with plans to kill these two boys simply for what, loving each other?”
A snap of her fingers pierces two of the demodogs with thick tree roots, impaling them in midair. “How dare you, hunt your own child down, with the intention to kill him.”
“How dare you,” she continues, a flick of her index breaking the necks of three more, “not only pursue them with these horrid creatures, but intend to lie to the father of the other boy you intended to kill.” The rest are crushed together into a bleeding, mass of flesh with a simple squeeze of her fist.
Neil whirls his horse around, heels digging into its sides to escape, but he’s grabbed from behind and tossed from the saddle, while his horse stampedes off into the forest, fleeing without its master.
“And how dare you, for doing all of that, and not even apologizing for it.” She tells him, shaking her head in mock sympathy. She leans closer, lips spreading into a wolf like grin, eyes gleaming like a predator’s and fangs starting to peek out from her mouth. “Go on. Apologize.”
Neil stares up at her, eyes wide with terror and shaking like a leaf. A wet spot spreads over the front of his trousers from where he pisses himself. “Please,” he starts, pupils turning to pinpricks, and fear in his voice. “Please, forgive me! It wasn’t my intention to trespass madam, my son made me lose my temper! I wasn’t thinking clearly, let me go and you will not regret it!”
Her grin goes wider as she leans in, fangs fully bared and her eyes starting to glow like twin lanterns. “Not good enough.” She says in a mocking tone. Neil crumples and starts babbling, and she starts to hum, and then to sing.
Billy and Steve don’t understand what she’s singing, but Neil starts screaming, scrambling at his ears and contorting on the ground. She sings louder, the shadows stretching and bending around her like a giant pair of wings, before it wraps around Neil and his screaming is muffled as it tightens around him like a shroud. It slowly sinks into the ground, taking him with it until the ground is flat again, and Neil is gone. She reaches down, picking up something that gleams and turning around.
She extends her hand to Billy, and he sees that she’s holding his father’s signet ring, with the Hargrove family crest on it. Billy collapses to his knees, Steve going with him to the ground as they cling tight to each other. Tears fall down their cheeks as they start to babble out their thanks to her, words a jumbled mess but sentiment coming through strong as they both lean forward, setting their foreheads against her hand in supplication.
She croons to them, gently shushing them as she sets the signet ring on Billy’s finger before setting a steady hand on each of their heads.
“Be well, be well sweet boys.” She tells them. “No need for all this fuss, it was my pleasure getting rid of those despicable creatures and their master. Now look at me.” They both go silent except for the occasional sniffle, looking up at her with watery eyes.
“You must never think of this as being your fault. Your father made his choices on this, and he reaped what he sowed. You survived.” She tells Billy. She looks to Steve. “You were so brave, staying by the side of the one you loved to try and protect him from harm. It was a noble endeavor, and you did well.”
She lays a gentle kiss on both of their brows, and warmth envelopes their bodies and their eyes grow heavy. She hums what sounds like a soft lullaby as they welcome the darkness, falling into a deep sleep.
The next day they wake up in Billy’s bed, with the sun shining through the window. The servants are in a panic for his father had supposedly died in his sleep, his personal warlock having disappeared. Steve and Billy would think the previous night merely a dream, if not for the raven feather waiting for them on the windowsill, held down by two small stones that are dark in the shadows, but turn into molten gold when held up to the light.
For the Fall of Neil Hargrove, day 4. Prompt: "Justifiable police brutality"
~~~
When Hopper gets to Cherry Lane, the boy is black and blue
It’s clear, by ways of welts and cuts, what Billy has been through
An eye that’s black, a lip that’s fat, a shoulder dislocated
He whimpers when he’s touched, a sound that can’t be fabricated
Neil Hargrove’s cuffed, off to the side; his knuckles are all bruised
He watches paramedics treat his son, and looks amused
Jim Hopper had a dad himself, the asshole long since dead
He used to hurt Jim just like this, and beat him ‘til he bled
No one will beat Jim today, he’s big and strong and tough
But he remembers how it felt when nothing was enough
Remembers feeling hopeless, and like there was no way out
Asshole dads and pain is something Jim knows all about
He takes Neil Hargrove by the arm, and leads him to his car
It’s just out through the door, across the yard; it’s not that far
It’s strange, then, how the man can’t seem to keep himself upright
How he keeps tripping – Hopper asks, voice flat, “Are you alright?”
“You tripped me!” Hargrove spits, then groans and squeezes his eyes shut
(It’s hard to keep on shouting when a boot is in your gut)
Jim yanks the man upright again, ignores the way he swears
His fingers might leave bruises but it’s not like Hopper cares
He gets the man into the backseat then, but not before
He accidentally bangs his head against the Blazer door
Slamming the door shut, he just makes sure that Neil can’t flee
It’s really not on purpose that he clips the bastard’s knee
He gets behind the wheel and drives, then suddenly, he brakes
Neil Hargrove crashes forward and Jim hopes that something breaks
“Ooops,” he says, without remorse, and puts the car in drive
He’s not a monster; when he’s done, Neil will still be alive
But Jim is just a man, and he cannot resist temptation
He decides that he will take the long way to the station
Neil gets what’s coming to him / dies a gruesome death fics - (a non-exhaustive list)
*disclaimer: I have read some of them, but not all of them so don’t come at me. If you want me to add any to this list, send me an ask or a DM
Updated 4 October 2023 to say there is an event catering to this very special trope so go give @fallofneilhargrove a follow and read to your heart’s content!!
My entry for day 3 of @fallofneilhargrove ! I used "don't make enemies of the local knitting club" and "I always knew there was something off about that man."
TW:mentions of abuse
“Did you hear about that Hargrove man?” Joyce Byers hears on the other side of the grocery store aisle, and she’s no longer focusing on the half off cans of green beans. Now all of her attention is on the pair of older women that she can barely see past the creamed corn. Mrs. Newsom and Mrs. Pritcher, a pair of octogenarians who’ve both been widowed for about a decade, and both members of the Hawkins knitting club.
“No!” Agatha Pritcher, Aggie to her friends, tells Mrs. Newsom. Her short, steel gray curls move as she shakes her head. “What did that man do now? I swear, every time I see him I always get a chill down my spine. I don’t like the look of his eyes.”
“Well listen here. You know how his son is dating that nice young girl, the one who’s mother owns that unusual shop downtown?” Mrs. Newsom says, her eyes made all the bigger by the thick glasses she wears. Joyce rolls her eyes, knowing how Hawkins feels about anything that isn’t the norm.
“You mean Alondra Belmont’s eldest daughter? Yes, she’s a sweet girl. I bought the prettiest little jewelry box at their shop just last month, it’s carved from mahogany with chips of little black stones in it.” Agatha tells her. Her friend looks at her aghast.
“Aggie! I didn’t know you frequented her shop.” Joyce can hear the chastisement in Mrs. Newsom’s tone.
“Oh hush Lucille, that woman is a delight and her children are very charming. Her younger daughter gets along quite well with my granddaughter Sarah. Just last week she brought Isabelle over, and she actually curtsied when she was introduced to me! And she had brought a dozen of her mother’s chocolate raspberry cookies, and they were absolutely divine. And when her sister came to pick Isabelle up, Rascal actually came up to her and started begging!”
At that even Joyce was surprised. Agatha Pritcher’s bulldog is know for his grouchy disposition and habit of baring his teeth first and sniffing later.
“Well good gracious!” Lucille boggles at Agatha. “And here I thought the only person Rascal liked was you! He only tolerates me, and I’ve been your friend for sixty years!”
“I know, and if I didn’t see it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it either! He went right up to her and started wagging his tail and dancing around her feet! And she went right down to his level and started petting him and scratching him behind his ears like he likes, and he about turned into a puddle at her feet. He whined at her when she was leaving with her sister.”
Lucille gapes at Agatha before clearing her throat, and continuing her story. “Well do you know Hargrove’s son William? He goes by Billy though.”
“Not personally no, but my grandson is on the basketball team with the boy, so I’ve heard a few stories. What does the son have to do with the father?”
“Well he’s a rather nice boy in my experience. Just the other day he was walking past my house, seeing as they live on Old Cherry Street, which is only about two blocks from my home, and he saw me struggling to mulch my flower beds. He stopped and offered to help, and not only did he do that but he also fixed my garden gate so it no longer squeaks, and fixed the shutter that fell off during the last thunderstorm.”
“Well! A rather handy boy indeed!” Agatha laughs. “That gate of yours was an awful racket, especially on a windy day when you forget to latch it. But get to the point, Lucille. What did the boy’s father do?”
Lucille looks around, before leaning in. “He hit Alondra’s daughter.” Joyce goes cold, and then starts to burn in anger.
“He WHAT?” Joyce can hear the anger in Agatha’s voice, and sees the scowl on her face. “Why on earth did he hit her?!”
“Apparently she got between an argument between the father and the son, and the father was aiming for the boy but hit her instead. I guess his son missed dinner or something, so the father went looking for him and found him with the girl at her mother’s shop. He took her clean off her feet, and she hit her head on the way down. The boy rushed his father to get him away from her, but the man overpowered him. He had his son on the floor, and was beating him, when their family dog came out from the back and attacked the man!”
“Well I certainly don’t blame the dog for that! I know Rascal has certainly protected me from a fair share of things. What happened then?”
“Well, the dog tore up his arm rather badly, and got him away from the boy. Next thing you know, the man is knocked out! The girl got up and hit him over the head with one of the canes they keep for sale. I believe the one she hit him with was the one with topped with the ram’s head.”
Agatha laughed. “And I was just admiring that exact cane when I went in the other day! Good on her, I always knew there was something off about that man. The audacity of him!”
“Well he’s currently in the hospital, but I hear not for much longer. Once he’s checked out, the Sheriff will be having words with him.” Lucille nods, and Joyce copies the motion. The last time Hopper had words with a man know for hitting his children like that, Lonnie was run out of town.
“Well in the meantime, I propose we get the rest of the girls together and go visit the Belmont family to show our support. I just finished a blanket made of the prettiest spring green yarn, and it’s as soft as a lamb’s wool. I’ll bring that and a shepherd’s pie to them tomorrow, to wish Magdalene a speedy recovery. And congratulate her on a mean swing!”
“Wonderful idea, Aggie! I’ll bring one of my sugar cream pies, and the lemon yellow mittens I just made last week. I’ll call the rest of the girls tonight!”
“Good. And we’ll spread the word, that Neil Hargrove is no longer welcome in this town when he gets out of the hospital.” Agatha gives a decisive nod, which Joyce echoes before going back to grocery shopping with a little more speed than before. After all, she has a message to help spread.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
@fallofneilhargrove event day 2 (prompt: lingering essence)
"GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN"
Those were the words chiseled into the headstone that rested above his son's grave.
Gone.
But not forgotten.
Neil couldn't help but scoff as he brought the bottle of whiskey he'd been nursing all afternoon back up to his lips. He didn't consider himself an alcoholic. In fact, despite what many townsfolk might believe about him, he wasn't much of a drinker before all of this. He just had a short temper. What was the issue with that? He did what he thought was best, could anyone really blame him?
Anytime he went into town, they’d watch him, judging him with their cold gazes.
It made him sick.
It made him want to drink.
When he drank, he could numb everything. It was easier to ignore the blur of faces passing him by. Easier to pretend that their disapproving murmurs were not about him.
At least, in this graveyard, he could finally find peace. He couldn’t help but wonder if the same was true for his son.
“I did my best.” He murmured faintly, placing his hand on top of the chilled stone.
Anger rose within him. “I did my best! Why can’t anyone see that? What did you tell them? What did you say to make them think that I did this!?” His voice was almost a growl as he spoke, the bottle of whiskey rattling away in his grip. “You fucking brat, you were the one who went out to the mall that night! It's your fucking fault!”
He brought the bottle down over the headstone, watching as it shattered, the contents within it pouring over the stone, before soaking into the ground below.
The cemetery wasn’t crowded but it wasn’t empty either. There were a few individuals nearby paying their respects to the loved ones they’d lost. They couldn’t help but look up at Neil’s outburst, either seeming concerned or just flat-out annoyed.
Neil could feel their eyes on him. Everyone was always judging him but he did the best that he could do. No one understood the struggles he went through raising Billy. He was a good father… fuck them for thinking that he wasn’t.
With a frustrated grunt, he kicked at the shattered glass before stomping away back to his truck.
It wasn’t until he slipped inside as silence engulfed him that he finally heard it.
Neil Hargrove was having pretty fucking good day. He had been to work, had Susan cook him a proper meal and had sat down to watch football. Like a proper man does.
Sure, things had gotten a bit sticky when attempting to get Billy to be a proper man again but that’s just what Neil had needed to do. Really the bruises were the boys fault. His lack of respect to his elders was a serious problem and there was only one way Neil could sort that. Eventually the pussy had to learn respect.
The game was on full blast and his fresh beer was nice and cold when Susan edged into the room. Neil’s forehead creased. That damn woman was ruining the game.
She stuttered out a “Neil. There… There’s a package for you.” She held out a brown, lumpy package addressed to him.
“Fuck off, woman. Can’t you see the game is on!” He snatched the package out of her hand and ignored her gasp of pain.
He ripped open the paper expecting a awful jumper or something. A belated birthday gift from a aunt or something.
Instead, he got an equally cushy lump of knitting. He scoffed and thought what grandma made this shit? The lump of brown knit unfurled in his hands revealing a bunch of what resembled letters. Neil twisted it around in his hands trying to make out the letter. Ne lnow vhol gau’re dainy. What? He looked a little closer and his blood ran cold.
We know what you’re doing.
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Click, click, click.
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It was the next week and Neil had put the knitting out of his mind. It was probably a mistake or a prank. Neil had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. He was certain of it.
In fact he was so sure, he had burnt the knitted monstrosity outside. He wasn’t scared of some stupid message.
Which was why when Susan slipped in holding an identical brown package to the one the week before he paid her no mind. No, he certainly didn’t pause the TV to scream at her and snatch the parcel away from her.
He tore open the now familiar brown wrapping to see a flash of blue. He pulled the knit outside of its wrapping to show off the blue hat. The half he was holding looked normal.
The red lettering he revealed by turning the hat spelt was again hard to read. Or perhaps the reader was a little bit drunk.
Asshole.
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The crunch of bourbons filled the air.
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Wednesday had arrived again. Neil didn’t have the football on this time. He wanted to see if what he had did stopped the knitting.
He had been so sure it was some type of prank. It had to be one of the people in his house. Of course, his pathetic excuse for a son was first. Perhaps he should have held off on the punishment before searching his room to find nothing.
The next day he had been down to the craft shop of Hawkins. According to Claud or whatever her name was from the shop, the boy had never set foot in that shop in his whole life. She would have remembered as she was the only worker there. Neil felt the urge to smack her rise again. Alas he couldn’t smack another man’s wife. He’d go to jail because there would be obvious proof.
Next step was to check his stepdaughters room. An unlikely culprit but one to try anyway. The girl wouldn’t get into anything suiting for girls no matter what he did. She wasn’t going to start just to knit him stuff. Clear.
He told Susan not to go anywhere near the mail box today. There was no way she could have knitted them without him knowing.
He pulled himself up from the couch. Time to see if his counterfeit measures had worked. He opened the post box.
Lo and behold a brown package was crumpled in there. His hands had a slight shake to them as he pulled out the package. It was slightly bigger than the rest.
He unwrapped it in the living room. A green jumper came out of the mess, on it knitted a sentence.
Arrest me. I deserve it.
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Giggles in the background as the net tightens.
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Neil refused to sit this Wednesday. He stood looking out the window. It was package time. On a Wednesday.
The postman stopped at a house. Then the next. And the next. Geez, this guy was slow.
Finally, he arrived. Neil watched like a hawk as he produced the brown package filling Neil’s mind with dread.
In fact, over the course of a week when thinking about the package Neil had a) spilt boiling water all over himself, b) accidentally shaved off half of his moustache, and worst of all c) accidentally screwed up the biggest work project of the season. He was lucky to not get fired. He had gone everywhere feeling like everyone was looking at him. The paranoia of not knowing who was sending the packages. What did they know. Whoever it was had to be ruining Neil’s life.
As he looked out the window he though about who it could be. The lady from the supermarket with the wart? That woman with the blonde hair walking down the road Or maybe next door who he was constantly in a argument with? The odd pair of friends with ten cats down the road? Or that guy he beat at poker the other week? Or the man with the moustache and glasses sat in his car outside? One of his stupid boy’s friends? Or maybe one of Maxine’s friends? An unknown stalker?
Whoever it was still eluded him.
In his thoughts he had managed to collect the parcel. He held the thing in his hand and looked hard at it.
His hands shook as he pulled back the paper. A pair of red gloves fell out of the package. They lay side by side on the floor as if someone was wearing them with their palms facing upwards.
The black text clear for all to see.
Abuser.
Neil jumped as he heard a shout at the door and a group of men entered.
“Freeze! Police!”
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The sloshing of wine as a toast to victory. But work wasn’t quite done.
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Neil Hargrove was sat down again. It was the next Wednesday after his entire life had changed.
His orange jumpsuit itched and his bunk mate snored loudly. His bunk mate wouldn’t cower under him. The large man had left a bruise on Neil’s cheek from the only time Neil had tried to enforce his way on the man. It was supposed to be his house, his rules.
But jail certainly wasn’t his house.
And the worst thing was that he didn’t know how. How had it gone so, so wrong? The police had presented him with the photos and the files. Weeks worth of photos, videos and even recordings all painstakingly took. A solid lot of evidence to sink him down. Each strike left on his son. Recordings of his screams slid over his soul. Videos of what he did in his own house.
It had to be connected to the knitting. The evidence hadn’t started collecting until a mere week before that. The calendar in the background of so many photos had proved that.
And here he sat another brown package in hand. This time delivered by a prison guard.
Neil felt like weeping. But of course he didn’t because real men don’t cry. And Neil’s a man.
A orange scarf trailed out of the package. A perfect match to his prison garb. More bold black letters stared out at him.
You got what you deserved.
The contact card of the Hawkins Knitting Club lay forgotten on the floor.
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Four beings of pure rage sat around a table six weeks ago.
Joyce a woman who had lived under a man like Neil. She had children living under a man like Neil. She wouldn’t let him get get away with it.
Claudia who had lost her husband but loved all the more fiercely because of it. No one would hurt a child under her watch.
Sue who was largely unspoken but Sinclair's fight for those who can’t. No matter what Sue didn’t let it slide and she would always fight.
Murray who ran on rage and spite. He was always ready to take people like Neil down. It was his shit, his life’s goal.
They raged in a circle when Joyce had met the brother-sister duo of Max and Billy. When she saw the signs. Neil had crossed the wrong club.
Don’t make enemies of the local knitting club.
So they did what they did best. They knitted.
Not only that but they were patient. Knitting was a craft of patience.
Murray and Joyce sat outside of the house. Everyone went out and they went in. They had plenty of experience planting cameras and listening devices. Murray continued watching and took photos when he could. Claudia made sure to put salt into that man’s coffee every time he asked for sugar. He never remembered her despite seeing her serve him at both the craft show and the coffee shop. Men like him never noticed women like her. Sue was the one who made the call as she compiled evidence meticulously. Erica obviously got it from her mom. She wouldn’t miss a single moment until this guy was finished. And all of them knitted. They knitted until their fingers felt like bleeding. They had a lot to knit as they needed to make this perfect. And perfection takes time.
In the end it was the rage of the knitting club that tore Neil Hargrove down. Because you should never underestimate a bunch of mothers and a journalist who are thriving off coffee, bourbons and wine.
For the Fall of Neil Hargrove, day 2 prompt; "The Camaro"
~~~
The car is an object; not living per se
But sentient, maybe, perhaps, in a way
She knows her boy’s touch from the many repairs
Knows that he loves her, and knows that he cares
He fixes her ailments and fills her with gas
Washes her paint job and polishes glass
Until they sparkle, until they gleam
Together, they make such a glorious team
He’s a good driver, she’s a good car
Together, they’re great; they go fast, they go far
She doesn’t know feelings like hate and thereof
But loves him, as much as a car can feel love
Some nights, he is hurting inside her, she knows
His driving is reckless and angry, it shows
On some nights he screams, on others he weeps
Sometimes, he curls up on the backseat and sleeps
One night, he is shoved to the driver’s side door
And held there, and screamed at, then shoved to the floor
Another man enters her, sits in the seat
And backs her away from her boy, to the street
The man drives her off, he is angry and strong
His grip is abrasive, he drives her all wrong
She knows; this is he who has caused her boy’s pain
She knows; she will not let him do it again
So she speeds up, though the man tries to brake
She turns on her own, and she drives to the lake
She knows these roads well, and she knows where she’s going
He tries the handbrake, but she is not slowing
Right up ahead, there’s a turn in the road
They’ll crash, and they’ll drown, and they’ll sink and corrode
She speeds through the fence and then they’re in the air
The man in her seat screams, but she doesn’t care
She is an object; not living per se
But sentient, kind of, somehow, in a way
She doesn’t know feelings, but maybe it’s glee?
She feels as she dies, and her boy is set free
