Join Me in Death {Hellcheer Halloween Special}
Warnings: Death, Dark Fiction, Abusive Relationship (with Jason Carver), Violence, Blood, Sex [+18] The Crow and Phantom of the Opera AU @hellcheerweek
Summary: In the haunted town of Hawkins, Chrissy Cunningham must restore the old theater to help her husband, Jason Carver, win the mayoral election. However, upon entering the abandoned venue—site of numerous deaths and murders over the past 50 years—she realizes that it is not just a town tale. Inside, she uncovers much more than just the killer. “Would you die tonight for love? He would—and kill, too.”
In ancient myths, it is said that a crow carries the soul to the world of the dead. However, when death comes wrapped in a pain too deep to bear, the soul remains trapped in the shadows of the living world. And if it does not stay there, it returns too soon, in another body. Elizabeth, a name that brings grace and light, also carries sorrow. Her essence lingers among yellow flowers that bloom in silence, each petal a whisper of her return. She is guided by kindness, called to restore what has been shattered. Upon stepping once more into the fragile world of the living, she bears the weight of love and the presence of the messenger with black wings, the one who first loved her soul.
Hawkins, Indiana, October 7, 1992
On the days when she cried, Chrissy didn’t fix her bangs, nor did she wear yellow or dresses. That day, she took a deep breath, dressed in pants, a white shirt, and a small gray vest, ready to clean without dirtying her favorite clothes. Or to die. She didn’t know what to expect when she entered that damn theater.
She was without bangs, her eyes tired and slightly swollen. Without bangs... and the bangs were the only thing that distinguished her from Elizabeth—or at least from the photo of that woman.
Chrissy took a deep breath, standing in front of the theater, trying to muster the courage to go in. Her sad, anxious eyes fixed on the building, where a dark cloud seemed to linger perpetually, and a single crow watched the gate. It could have been the brightest sun in the world on the road, but above the theater, it felt like eternal darkness. She stared, as if that would help her prepare.
She felt calmer when she saw that the stained glass windows in the wooden doors only reflected emptiness, but the calm lasted only seconds because she knew very well that the place was far from unoccupied.
It had been a week since she last slept well, reliving the image of Elizabeth in her dreams, and it was impossible to forget since she saw that photo. She knew now that ghosts were real—and they could be dangerous killers. Edward Munson, if it really was him inside the theater, seemed more like a bitter spirit, a murderer who continued to kill even after death. All the newspapers she read said he was responsible for more than 50 deaths, and she didn’t want to be another one. Since then, she carried the headlines in her mind, obsessed with the story, yet frightened at the same time.
Chrissy brought candles in her bag and, this time, a very sharp knife, although she knew it would do little good if the ghost of a strong, vengeful 27-year-old man was lurking, ready to attack her with a shotgun larger than she was, along with an army of crows guarding and locking the doors.
The fear was strong; her hands trembled as she pushed open the rusty gate that creaked. Chrissy parked the car closer, left it open in case she needed to flee, and took one last look before entering the cursed place once again, where the saying went that once you entered, you could never leave.
She would have preferred to be anywhere else right now, but everything changed when Jason, in his campaign for mayor, discovered that she planned to back out of the theater renovation. After a confrontation and a new mark on her arm, Chrissy understood that she had no choice.
Facing this theater now felt less scary than facing Jason Carver.
She swore she would never return, but here she was again.
Her heart raced, fear pulsed, and she didn’t know if she would come out alive by the end of the renovation on October 31. Today, however, she didn’t plan to stay until nightfall; before the sun set and the crows took over, Chrissy would be far away.
With fear and trembling hands, Chrissy carefully stepped onto the muddy floor at the entrance and advanced slowly, glancing back constantly, afraid of a single crow that watched her like a doorman. And now she wondered, on that night, where those 50 crows had come from. And why had they flown away the moment that monster dropped to his knees before her? Too many questions; she felt like she was losing her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she felt the key in her hand, fitted it into the rusty door, turned it twice, and swallowed hard. When she opened it, Chrissy was so nervous that her chest rose and fell rapidly. She stood still, trying to gather her courage. She squinted her eyes; there was no turning back now. She pushed the door and stepped inside once more.
She saw the empty interior just as she had left it. If she hadn’t been so scared, she might have smiled a little, as it looked cleaner and tidier compared to the first time. Her footsteps echoed in the empty theater. She slowly closed the door and made sure to place a small stone to prevent anyone from locking her in, or the wind from shutting it, letting daylight filter through the stained glass and cracks in the windows. She swallowed hard; her heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out her own thoughts.
Chrissy looked around, fearful, taking deep breaths as she searched for any sign or shadow of the monster. And she admitted that, despite her fear, she just wanted to see his face again, just to confirm that he wasn’t the man in the newspaper photo, that he wasn’t Edward Munson. In fact, she prayed that nothing would happen today and that she would find out that, on that day, it was just a teenager messing around, some crazy person with a toy gun obsessed with the story.
But deep down, she knew... she knew it was all too real. She knew everything was too interconnected to be mere coincidence. She had read everything in the newspapers and... Edward, it was Edward. She was almost certain; she wished she was wrong. But she knew she wasn’t.
She shook her head, trying to push those thoughts away. Trembling, she walked through the empty space, her footsteps echoing on the floor. She crouched down slowly, trying to calm herself. She knew he would only appear at night, like the crows, creatures of darkness. If he was a "crow keeper," he knew that too.
She was counting on that—that he wouldn’t show up in the morning and that while the day lasted, she would be safe. That’s why she planned to leave before the sky began to darken. That was her escape plan.
Today, Chrissy didn’t want to listen to music; she preferred to stay alert to any noise. After ten minutes inside, in complete silence with daylight illuminating everything, she began to calm down. She was there to work on the restoration, but as she fidgeted, she realized she wouldn’t be able to fix everything. Many things were up high and required strength and heavy labor. Tomorrow, if she was alive and returned, she would bring a ladder to reach the top.
After a while, Chrissy became fascinated by the tall, red velvet curtain that hid the stage. She wanted to pull it aside to see every detail of the stage: what was up there, the size, and what it must be like to stand there. Something inside her called her to do it. When she was a silly, dreamy teenager, she participated in school plays and always loved to sing, dance, and act. But that dream died within her, along with her marriage.
Chrissy tried to pull the curtain, but it was too big and heavy. The only time she attempted to move it, she coughed loudly and had to step back from the dust. She reflected, realizing that there was so much to do and that she had no idea how to remove such a tall curtain and connect all the electrical installations of the place, understanding that the restoration would take much longer than she expected. But now, all she wanted was to open the curtain, thinking that by doing so, the theater would become a real theater again, filling with life. She was also eager to see the stage, to step onto it, just to remember the thrill in her stomach that she always loved when performing in school plays.
After cleaning a lot, exhausted, she sat on the floor near the window, dusting off some old chandeliers. She looked up at the ceiling filled with golden details, with gold plaster—it was beautiful but abandoned and marked by tragedies. She wasn’t sure if people would have the courage to enter again when it was reopened, but she hoped so; after all, the last death had been over ten years ago. Maybe the place could finally stop being a stage for tragedies.
She looked around; everything seemed so gray. Chrissy hadn't brought her yellow flowers today—her beloved daisies, her favorites, which she believed had the power to brighten everything and bring happiness. Since childhood, she had loved yellow, but it was the yellow daisies that had always fascinated her the most.
She observed the stained glass windows and was startled by a noise. Any sound made her nervous, but she soon realized it was just the rain.
It started to rain, and before the fear of thunder could take over her again, she noticed there was no thunder at all. The rain was falling outside as well, not just in the theater area. This calmed her.
Looking through the old stained glass, she wiped the dirty, ancient glass to see better and saw the road, the rain outside, and the faded colors. It felt like being in an old movie. Chrissy sighed as she watched the heavy rain fall, knowing she wouldn’t be able to leave now; the road could flood, trapping her tires in the dirt, and she didn’t want to be stranded without help for hours. She took a deep breath and glanced at her small wristwatch; it was still 3 PM. She had time before it got dark.
But amid the sound of the rain, she felt that bad thing again, that sudden chill that froze her stomach, a shiver down her spine. The feeling of being watched returned.
Chrissy trembled in fear. The sound of the rain echoed, only worsening the sensation, but the daylight still illuminated the space; it couldn’t be possible for him to appear in the daylight. He should be a creature of darkness, appearing only at night, like a crow, and not in the middle of the afternoon. Her plan to leave before sunset, when it was still light to ensure safety and avoid seeing him, seemed to have gone down the drain.
The safety plan had failed.
The feeling of being watched by something invisible sent chills across her skin, as if unknown eyes were following her every movement.
She turned quickly, despite her fear, as if she could catch something, but found nothing but the empty theater and the abandoned seats. The silence enveloped her like a thick fog, amplifying the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Each creak of the old building sent her pulse racing, and she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was not alone.
She looked out the window again, trying to distract herself and convince herself that it was just in her head, but once more, that feeling gripped her tightly. She knew, you knew, we all knew how terrible it felt to sense something watching us from behind, like an invisible presence that our bodies could perceive and react to. She felt it.
Chrissy slowly turned back to see if she could find something to make the icy knot in her stomach disappear, but all that happened was a chill creeping up the back of her neck. She could have sworn there was something watching her from the shadows of the curtain behind her. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest like a drum. Her breath came in quick gasps, and a cold shiver ran down her spine, making her tremble.
Startled, she scanned the theater again, her eyes desperate for any sign. She saw nothing, but she felt it; she wasn’t crazy. She sensed the tension in the air, felt someone behind her, an invisible presence watching her. There was no sound, but the feeling was all too real, as if someone were right there, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.
In another situation, she might have said it was all in her head, but she knew it wasn’t. Chrissy trembled; she hated that feeling. Her cold, shaky hands gripped the candelabrum as if it could protect her. The pulse echoed in her ears, each beat resonating in her mind. A wave of anxiety washed over her, tightening her chest as the air felt thicker and heavier.
She was alone, but she didn’t feel lonely, and that was the worst part. Because she knew someone was there. She hoped that the events of the previous week had just been a delusion or a cruel Halloween prank by some troublemakers. But she felt it, as if he were a shadow, something supernatural, as if he embodied the entire haunted theater. The sensation followed her, churning her stomach and chilling her body, and even without seeing him, she felt that something was watching her.
Again, Chrissy felt observed, as if he were in the air surrounding her. She quickly stood up, refusing to feel vulnerable. She went to her bag, thrust her hand inside, and felt the cold blade of the knife against her palm, as if it were sweating. She swallowed hard, her heart racing, glancing around desperately, fearing that he might suddenly appear before her again, scaring her to death like he had the week before.
She knew he only showed up at night, and it was still light outside; he shouldn’t be here now. In fact, that’s what she thought, but she wasn’t sure of anything.
But she sensed a presence, something watching her. And she knew it was him... she knew... or was it just in her head?
She desperately hoped it was the latter. But considering her life, everyone knew she had no luck.
A voice in her head nagged at her, reminding her that she had been there for hours. It said that if he hadn’t killed her yet, maybe he wouldn’t. Or perhaps he was angrier now, wanting to kill her more slowly. Torture her, get revenge for last week. She was sure he would remember her; killers were calculating and intelligent. Someone who had killed as many as he had and never let anyone escape—except for a lunatic and now her—would not make the same mistake twice.
The knife in her hand felt useless when she thought of his height, the power he had to create thunder within the theater, that weapon, and the fact that he was over 70 years old but seemed trapped at 27, that he was not something human that even prayers could heal. To make matters worse, she was shaking so much that she could barely hold the knife.
She felt watched, a presence behind her, and a bad feeling grew in her stomach—fear, tension—as if the walls of the theater were closing in around her, turning it into a cage. The rain was pounding outside, likely flooding the dirt road, which would make it impossible to drive away without getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. Even if she tried to escape, she knew she couldn’t leave now.
There was no way to flee.
Trembling, a survival instinct kept her alert and restless. Chrissy preferred to rip off the Band-Aid quickly. Afraid that her racing heart would kill her from panic, she decided to find out if she was going to die and stop putting it off. The tension from was torture. She needed to know if someone was there or if it was just in her head, spurred on by last week’s fright and everything she had read.
“Hello?” Chrissy called, her voice trembling and low, filled with fear.
The voice echoed in the empty theater, the quiver betraying her weakness, fear vibrating in every syllable. She would have preferred to die quickly than to be the protagonist in this suspenseful game of murder. She was certain he would recognize her. But what if no one was there? What if it were just a product of her imagination, fueled by fear and loneliness?
But that didn’t make her happy; obviously, a killer wouldn’t respond to her. He would strike from the shadows, just like last week, and perhaps finish what he hadn’t completed.
She shrank back, gripping the knife more tightly, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and doubts, remembering the terror she had felt that night. The tension in the air was almost palpable, as if the atmosphere itself was bracing for something to happen, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional drip of rain outside.
A wave of desperation swept over her, and Chrissy, overwhelmed with fear, decided to try calling him by name. She didn’t want to see him; she just needed to know if he would respond, to prove he was really the ghost of that man, the Edward Munson of 1947. And she had no idea what she’d do if he appeared, if her call confirmed he was indeed the murderous ghost, and that she was surely his next victim.
“Edward?” she tried, forcing his name out with difficulty. Her voice came out weak, trembling, nearly a whisper that echoed softly in the empty theater.
Chrissy was terrified of what she was doing; she didn’t know why she’d done it. Calling him felt like admitting she knew him, and killers don’t like leaving loose ends. Her hope was that he would respond, manifest himself somehow, so she could confirm he was the Edward from the newspapers, the ghost, the lost soul haunting this place—and that she wasn’t just losing her mind. Honestly, she hoped desperately that she was wrong, that nothing would happen.
“Edward?” she tried again, and suddenly, she heard a noise that cut through the rain and sent her heart pounding.
She froze, instantly regretting it. She heard the sound of steps creaking on the wood behind her, near the stage curtain, from where she had felt herself being watched.
The sound of heavy boots on the old wooden floor.
Chrissy kept her eyes fixed on the door, making sure it was still propped open by the small stone she’d wedged there, that she could run at any second—if only her legs weren’t frozen in place.
The steps drew closer, and panic tightened around her like a vice, as though he’d been behind the curtain the entire time. The thought terrified her—him here, watching her every move, waiting to kill her from the moment she arrived. Chrissy gripped the knife tightly, feeling the cold metal press against her skin, as though it might somehow protect her, as if she knew how to use it to hurt anyone. Her breath turned ragged, each heartbeat pounding in her ears, a reminder of her vulnerability, of his power, his height, his looming presence.
“H-hello?” she stammered again, her voice barely a whisper, strangled by fear. The anticipation gnawed at her; she didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want him to get closer. She only needed to know if he was that man who should’ve been dead for 50 years, if he was real, if he was still that lost spirit. The idea that he might not be just a figment of her imagination terrified her even more.
Silence stretched around her, but something in the shadows seemed to shift, and all she could hear was the creaking of his steps growing louder, as if in response to her call.
The footsteps grew closer, clearer. It was as though he were walking right inside her mind, his heavy boots echoing with each step.
And as if answering her call, he slowly emerged from behind the red curtain. Tall and dressed all in black, just like last week.
Her eyes widened. Trembling with fear, she gripped the knife tighter. Chrissy didn’t say another word. Her heart pounded erratically, lodged high in her throat, as if she might spill it onto the floor at any moment.
He stopped, taking two steps beyond the curtain, then stood still, silent, a dark statue against the heavy red drapes from which he’d emerged.
Today, she realized he’d approached slowly, different from last week when he had appeared with a thunderclap, deliberately scaring her. Even though he stayed at a distance, she still felt her fear flare, because she knew he wasn’t human. He was a monster, a haunting presence, a killer—something deeply, irrevocably wrong.
Trembling with fear, she began to cry softly, almost without noticing, her entire body prickling with terror. It felt like an overwhelming weight pressed against her chest, suffocating her, making her gasp for air. Every part of her shook with shuddering jolts of dread, as if she couldn’t contain the fear any longer. Her knees felt weak, as if they might give out under her at any moment.
He was real. She could see him again. He was here, and now she saw him in the theater’s clarity—not cloaked in shadows as before.
And in daylight, he was even more horrifying.
In the soft light, he seemed taller than she remembered—tall, imposing, and powerful in a sinister way, as if he could crush her with just one hand. Dressed all in black, she noticed the leather glinting faintly in the dim light.
He wore a long black coat, nearly skimming the floor, and heavy boots that creaked against the old boards. His hair was long and disheveled, hanging down to obscure his face, which was angled downward and eerily still, yet painted in a way she would never forget. The white paint remained, as she remembered, with dark smudges under his eyes that trailed down like endless black tears. His lips were painted black, the color bleeding from the corners, forming a sinister, clown-like grin. She wondered what had transformed him into this, because in the newspaper photo, none of this had been there. He looked like a normal man, only with the horror of war in his eyes. But there was no painting, none of that.
What unnerved her most was the crow perched on his shoulder—the same one she had seen guarding the gate when she entered.
Edward stood motionless, like a statue, unblinking, unmoving, simply existing there. It was as if the ominous sound of a church organ might fill the silence any second, deepening the thick tension between them. He looked at nothing, a figure poised like a statue waiting to spring to life. That was what frightened her most: what he intended to do, what he had in store for her.
Chrissy almost felt relief seeing that he carried no weapon today. But even so, his frozen, statue-like stance—his sinister, waiting stillness—terrified her more than if he’d rushed at her.
Chrissy looked at his hands, searching for any weapon or object he might use to hurt her. But his hands, covered in black leather gloves, looked so large and strong that she knew he didn’t need anything else. The gloves seemed to absorb the light, the leather gleaming darkly. He was dressed entirely in black leather—fitted pants hugging his tall frame, a long coat brushing the floor, and a strange black shirt beneath, almost like a bulletproof vest, covered in leather straps that wrapped tightly around him. His hair looked damp, falling messily over his face, nearly to his shoulders. She wanted to look directly at him, but couldn’t—some primal instinct warned her not to.
He kept his painted face hidden behind the cascade of hair, his gaze cast down, unblinking, while the crow on his shoulder shifted, observant and silent. It was larger than she’d realized when she first saw it at the gate, with feathers so black they seemed to absorb the darkness around them.
It was him. Now she could see it, despite the paint—his eyes, the shape of his face. It was Edward Munson, the man from the newspapers who had killed himself here in 1947, nearly 50 years ago.
Chrissy didn’t know how to process this realization; a wave of despair washed over her, and she felt as if she might faint from fear. Her body shook, her legs wobbled beneath her, and each breath grew more labored. She knew he had killed over fifty men who had wandered in here, and now, looking at him, motionless and foreboding, she couldn’t bear it. He terrified her, yet a grim curiosity pulled at her, making her want to see his face, to compare it to the photo, to understand what had happened to him, to know if he intended to kill her too.
He was still as a statue, unmoving, only staring at the floor, and somehow that made her even more afraid. Chrissy was paralyzed as well, though she trembled and wept, caught in an absolute state of terror. But she was so frozen that her sobs were silent, her chest convulsing in quiet, soundless panic as tears clung to her lashes, refusing to fall.
Desperate, she couldn’t take it any longer and broke into a run, her steps quick and stumbling. In her haste, her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she tripped over it, landing hard on the old wooden floor of the theater with a heavy thud. Pain shot through her elbows as she hit the ground, and she began to cry in despair, struggling to get up, gasping for breath, each sound catching in her throat as panic took hold. She looked back, terrified he might have followed, but Edward Munson remained exactly where he’d appeared, unmoving, as if he hadn’t budged an inch.
She tried to stand. Her legs shook, her arms buckled. The fear kept her glued to the floor. She took a deep breath, willing her muscles to obey, then glanced back. He hadn’t moved. She looked again, frantic, feeling her heart hammer in her chest, but he remained distant, like a fixed figure in the theater, a wax statue in a haunted house, sinister and unchanging.
She thought he’d start running after her at any moment, closing the distance in seconds. She was sure he was standing there so still because he was sadistic, letting her believe she had a chance to escape, only to catch her in the end. Maybe he enjoyed watching his victims, weak and pathetic, scramble for the door. It was all she could think.
Chrissy’s eyes darted to the door. It was slightly ajar. Just a few more feet. She crawled forward, struggling to keep her eyes on him. Any second now, he could start running. She forced herself not to hesitate.
As she clawed her way across the floor, grunting with desperation and glancing over her shoulder in terror that he’d be on her in seconds, she thought:
If he hasn’t killed me yet… is it because he isn’t going to?
She pushed herself toward the door, dragging herself across the floor, too afraid to stand, worried the crow would swoop down and attack. Relief surged as she saw the door still open, no dozens of crows blocking the windows like before—just the one perched on his shoulder, watching her.
She looked back, needing to know where he was. And then, finally, Edward lifted his face, slowly, and their eyes met. Terrified, she averted her gaze and scrambled faster, her body tense as if he were chasing her, though he hadn’t moved an inch.
She managed to pull herself to her feet and stumbled toward the door, almost there.
Chrissy trembled, trying to glance back to make sure he wasn’t after her, but she couldn’t hold her gaze for long and looked away, breathing heavily.
He still hadn’t moved a muscle, but suddenly, his raspy, ancient voice echoed through the theater, slicing through the silence and into her ears.
“You’ll be soaked in the rain. The sky’s coming down,” his voice rasped, deep and hollow, like an echo from another time. He stood there, unarmed, watching her as she hovered on the edge of escape.
At the sound of his voice, Chrissy froze. She shivered. She knew she should run. She was standing so close to the door, her hand nearly on the handle. All she had to do was pull it open and flee, but something kept her rooted in place.
The truth was, despite the danger, a part of her wanted to understand what kept him here, to know who he was, if he was real or a ghost, even with terror pulsing through her veins. If he wanted to kill her, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Still, she knew not to tempt a killer, knew it was foolish.
Chrissy shrank back, pressing against the door, poised to flee the moment she needed to, her heart pounding so hard it felt as if it echoed through the silent theater. Her sweaty palms clenched the handle behind her, but fear locked her in place. Her legs trembled so much that she struggled to stay steady, and her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm.
Even from a distance, he terrified her, his face painted pale, his gaze vacant, as if lost in another world. She didn’t want to look at him, but couldn’t resist. He stared back at her from afar, dark eyes framed by smeared paint that looked like shadows etched into his skin. Everything about him felt like it belonged to another time, another century. The floor-length black coat, the heavy boots, the dark shirt with almost military details—all seemed relics from an age long past hers. He was a figure from an older world, and his stillness radiated a darkness so intense that any movement he made seemed like it would be a threat.
He remained rooted, watching her with a peculiar gaze, as if seeing her through memories long buried. His voice filled her ears again, lacking the menacing, frantic tone it had held yesterday; now it was just a voice, worn and hollow, from another era:
“You never liked getting caught in the rain, my dear Elizabeth. Do you remember my coat between you and the sky?” he murmured, melancholy woven into every word. “You always loved the sun, and yet, here… there’s no sun at all. I always believed the darkness of this theater kept you away from me all this time. The flowers withered in the garden, but with you here… they might bloom once more.”
Elizabeth. He called her Elizabeth again.
She didn’t respond; she couldn’t. She didn’t even know what to say. Silence seemed her safest option, though she knew there were no truly safe choices here, only those that might delay her death.
He spoke as though he belonged to another time. And he did.
Could it really be him? Edward Munson from the newspapers? The one who died here in 1947? Could it be true that his spirit had never left this place? There was no way he could be human, standing before her, young and frozen in time.
It was him. Edward Munson, the one from 1947. Young, even though he should be well over seventy years old.
She continued to tremble, the fear overwhelming her to the point that his words barely registered. She didn’t know if he was simply insane or if this was the kind of game he played with his victims—pretending they were all his elusive Elizabeth.
The crow on his shoulder cawed suddenly, and Chrissy flinched, her whole body shrinking back at the unexpected sound. It echoed through the empty theater, amplifying her panic, a fear so overpowering that she wondered if she would lose control completely.
Desperately, she tried to summon the courage to run, but her legs felt paralyzed. Her mind raced in a thousand directions—was this all a game, a trap to kill her slowly? Tears streamed down her face, her chest quaking with the kind of silent, internal sobs that suffocated her from within, the kind too feeble even to escape as a cry. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could will herself out of existence, out of this place. But when she opened them again, he was still there, unmoving, his gaze still fixed on her as though he saw through her, through time itself.
Her eyes flickered between the looming figure before her and the empty space around her, uncertain whether it was better or worse that he seemed to think she was this Elizabeth. Tonight, he was unarmed, unmoving; he didn’t seem dangerous. Or perhaps he was one of those killers who enjoyed weaving a performance before ending things. She stared back at him, unsure of what to say, her voice caught between panic and uncertainty.
He had called her Elizabeth again, and Chrissy’s heart nearly stopped. She fought to respond, her voice weak and trembling:
“I… I’m not her, I’m not…” Her throat was nearly closed up with fear, and she clung to the door behind her, whispering, her voice barely audible, though he remained far off and gave no sign of moving toward her.
She didn’t know whether to look him in the eye, her instincts tugging her between the urge to look and the fear welling up in her chest. It was the feeling of a human seeing a monster for the first time, that unsettling mix of curiosity and dread—wanting to see, yet terrified of what she might find.
But he continued to hold her gaze with a steady, intense look, as if he saw something far beyond her.
His eyes were cold, hollow, filled with pain and a darkness so deep that it made her turn away. She couldn’t hold his gaze; there was something too raw in it, something that clawed at her chest, too intense to face.
“I knew you’d come back to me, my dearest Elizabeth. I’ve waited all these years for you, my beloved,” he murmured, each word dipped in a dark tenderness, the kind of courtesy a gentleman from another age might possess. “Time may have stolen you from me, but it has not taken my hope.”
He took one step forward. Then another, finally breaking his stillness. Chrissy froze as he began to move toward her, disregarding her whispered denial that she wasn’t Elizabeth.
He was coming. Her heart raced wildly, terror filling every beat. Chrissy, panicked, reached to push open the door to escape. But in a desperate, clumsy twist of her back, she slammed against the wood, closing it with a sharp, echoing click. The stone that had held it ajar rolled outside, leaving her locked in with him.
She slammed her fists against the door, trying to force her way out, but there was nowhere to go. Now, with her only escape blocked, a raw, paralyzing fear surged through her as she watched him approach, step by step.
Desperation coursed through her; she kept her gaze fixed on him, unable to look away, all she could see were his steady footsteps drawing closer. The crow perched on his shoulder, his coat trailing behind him, each step moving the fabric, his long hair slightly lifting with each stride.
Chrissy swallowed hard, terror pounding in her chest, her heart feeling like it would burst. He was so close now. Unlike before, when he lurked in the shadows, now, in the daylight filtering through the theater, she could see him fully. And with every step, her fear grew. Everything about him radiated death and danger. It wasn’t just the crow.
The closer he came, the more she shrank back, her whole body shaking, barely registering the press of the door against her back.
He didn’t stop, coming ever closer as though he might collide with her. She trembled harder, gripping the door behind her as if it could shield her, though it was no protection at all.
Now, he was so near she could smell the leather and something cold, an old scent, like a museum or a time long past. Chrissy’s eyes scanned his face frantically, searching for any trace of humanity, a flicker of expression—something. But there was only that vacant stare and a faint curve of his lips, like a shadow of a memory.
And then he stopped, just a few steps away, watching her in silence. Chrissy pressed herself harder against the door, caught between the overwhelming urge to flee and the terror that rooted her to the spot, her body trembling so violently she could hardly breathe.
Chrissy looked at him with trembling eyes, horrified, realizing… was he trying to smile as he drew closer? But instead of reassurance, the twisted, strained expression only deepened her fear. It was a smile that held no warmth, laced with a pain that seemed centuries old. He didn’t know how to smile; it looked more like a silent promise of death. The makeup on his face distorted it further, turning any hint of humanity into a monstrous visage, and a chill rippled down her spine. Every step he took was slow, deliberate, and under the daylight flooding the theater, his tall, imposing figure came into stark relief. The smudged, pale makeup brought out the haunted, melancholic look on his face, an expression carved with anguish from another era.
He was a monster. Not human. Not good. She could feel it. The newspapers hadn’t lied.
She pressed herself harder against the door, her heart racing, unable to tear her gaze away from him. The crow on his shoulder regarded her too, tilting its head, as though it was part of him, a single entity with a dark, ancient consciousness, watching her alongside him.
For a moment, he halted, and in a slow, rehearsed motion, he spread his arms wide, embracing the emptiness of the theater around him, as though offering himself to the shadows or to the memory of something lost.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment…” His voice was rough, laced with longing. “Finally, Elizabeth… finally, you’ve returned.”
He didn’t understand that she wasn’t Elizabeth; he wouldn’t listen.
Then he stepped back twice, expanding the space between them to five paces, though it was hardly enough to give her a sense of safety. He made no attempt to touch her, only stood there with arms open, as if inviting her into an embrace. But she couldn’t move; all she could do was stand there, clinging to the door, confused and weeping with fear. She thought his arms might call the crows outside, as though he were a scarecrow summoning them to land on him.
A minute passed in tense silence before, slowly, he let his arms fall, having received nothing of what he hoped.
She didn’t understand, too terrified to think straight. Chrissy watched him, seeing the melancholy etched on his face, a confusion in his eyes. His head drooped, as if wounded, and he clutched at his chest like he’d been struck by some invisible blow. But despite the sadness in his expression, the entire scene—the dark clothes, the painted face—was too terrifying for her to think anything sympathetic.
Still, beneath the smeared black paint, she caught a glimpse of something deep and hollow in his eyes, a torment long buried. His face held anger, and an even deeper sadness.
“Elizabeth… my dear,” he whispered, looking downward, his hand clenched against his mouth as if holding back some raw emotion. Even if he’d once loved the woman he was waiting for, Chrissy saw him now for what he was—a madman, a killer. His eyes betrayed the insanity, the lost look of someone untethered from reality. “I’ve waited, resisting time… resisting even oblivion.”
His voice filled the room, an echo from a different era, and he waited for her to respond, but she remained frozen in place.
Chrissy’s heart raced faster as he and the crow held her in their eerie gaze. She noticed his face looked different than it had last week—today there was sadness, though the terror was still overwhelming.
Gathering a last shred of courage, she looked up just as his heavy boots moved forward once more. He closed the distance between them, three steps now.
She couldn’t bear to look up. Instead, her gaze dropped to his boots—large, battered, the combat kind—and they were much too close to her own delicate yellow flats.
Then, to her horror, he kneeled, coming down close to her level. She tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go.
Chrissy, trembling, looked down and saw the fragile, haunted desperation in his eyes. Beneath all the madness, his gaze held a deep sadness, something akin to longing, tinged with an old wound and a desperation barely contained.
“Elizabeth, my Elizabeth,” he murmured, emotion flickering behind his cold eyes. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, and Chrissy shrank back, avoiding his gaze. “I waited for you here, night and day, knowing you’d return. How did you leave that night? When I saw you, I thought you were a mirage, my beautiful lady. I can’t leave—I never could. Tell me how you did it. I’ve been trapped here, counting every one of these endless 365 nights without you.”
"A year?" Chrissy frowned despite herself. The absurdity of it made her curiosity almost overcome her fear for an instant.
“I… I’m not her,” she said, her voice cracking with a tear slipping down her cheek as she tried to push through her fear, the words barely a whisper. But he didn’t hear her; or if he did, he refused to listen.
He was a killer. She knew it. He’d murdered more than fifty people and had almost claimed her life, too. She remembered the terror in his eyes that night, the way he held that shotgun, the horror of seeing those black crows fluttering in the shadows.
He ignored her denial, again.
Chrissy didn’t know what to do. Should she pretend to be Elizabeth? Maybe, if she could make him believe it, he wouldn’t harm her. But what if that made things worse? What if he took her captive here, unable to let her go? Or what if he killed her, thinking she truly was Elizabeth, just as he’d likely done to the original?
Swallowing, she shook her head. “I—I’m not her, I’m not.”
“You’re only lost, my dear. In the beginning, I, too, didn’t understand who I was… but in time, my memory returned.” His voice was filled with a strange patience as if speaking to a confused child.
She fought the urge to look at him, trembling. This was too much—a ghostly killer, clinging to the delusion that she was a long-lost lover he’d murdered. He thought she was Elizabeth’s spirit.
And he noticed her shaking.
“I won’t hurt you, my love. Don’t be afraid. It’s me, your Edward,” he said, attempting a smile, though it was clear his face had forgotten how. The smile was ghastly, more a shadow of a memory than anything real. “Look at me. I know…” he hesitated, as though aware of his monstrous appearance, “I know you didn’t know me this way, but losing you took my mind from me.”
"My love…" His words hung in the air.
He wouldn’t kill her....or...But should she continue denying she was Elizabeth? If she fed into his illusion, would it save her or seal her fate? Chrissy recalled General James’ words: Edward had been so obsessed with Elizabeth, he’d murdered her. That had to be why he called her my love.
She shivered, pressing herself against the door, her teeth chattering as fear paled her skin. Dressed in a white blouse, she realized she must look even more ghostly in his eyes, playing into his deranged fantasy.
Chrissy tried to steady herself enough to speak, wondering if there was any chance he’d let her go. Or maybe he’d just keep her here forever, chained to his twisted memories. She needed to know if he really was the killer, even if it was already obvious.
“D-did you… did you kill all those people?” she whispered, wanting to know her fate. If he admitted to it, she would know that it was over for her.
She expected him to get angry at the question, but he just continued to kneel on the floor in agony.
“I lost my mind, my love. I wasn’t like this, not before…” He slumped further, as if worshipping her, the depths of his madness only making Chrissy more certain of his guilt.
Beneath the layers of makeup and years of torment, she could see it now—the brokenness that had twisted into something monstrous. He’d taken lives, torn apart by the very obsession that kept him trapped here. The man she’d read about in the newspapers didn’t exist anymore; he was a creature bound by his own madness.
His voice was a cracked whisper as he continued, “I left that cruel world to find you, my love. Finally… finally, we’re together again. One year without you, and my mind unraveled.”
There was a strange rhythm to his words, almost hypnotic, yet Chrissy’s terror blocked her from sinking into it.
She shivered, her heart pounding as she realized his obsession went far deeper than she’d feared. His sense of time was warped, his memories stretched and tangled by the years. He didn’t know how long it had truly been. He spoke of “365 days,” but the reality was so much more—45 years separated the last night of his life from now, the jump from 1947 to 1992 a vast gulf he couldn’t see across.
Trying to catch her breath, Chrissy felt a dreadful chill seize her throat, paralyzing her with a primal, instinctive fear.
"Did you… kill them?" she asked again, even though she already felt he had practically confirmed it. She couldn't tell what scared her more: the ghost in front of her, or the realization that this ghost had killed over fifty people and now believed she was the spirit of the poor girl he had also murdered, just as the newspapers had said.
"Forgive me." He shook his head in a lost, disturbed way, so unsettling it was frightening. He was completely insane; it was clear in his eyes. Now Chrissy understood why the town had always thought him mad. Had he always been like this, or had something turned him into this?
He had killed. Yes, it was him. He’s been killing people here for years.
He stood up, moving closer, his face almost pressed against hers.
Chrissy flinched and shivered, pressing herself against the door as if trying to escape. The crow followed him, perched on his shoulder, and the smell of old leather lingered. She trembled, barely able to withstand his closeness. He was too tall, powerful yet powerless. She shrank back even more, terrified.
Suddenly, she saw his hand rising toward her face. Chrissy closed her eyes, fearing he would strangle or hurt her. She trembled, tears already streaming down her face, but all she felt for a moment was a single, slow touch on her cheek, just the tip of his cold, gloved finger in a near-gentle caress.
He pulled his hand away, lowering it, but stayed close, his gaze softened, pained by her reaction.
"I can’t believe you came back to me, my Elizabeth. Look, my love, I’ve kept it safe for you. See? I’ve held onto it all this time. I feared your family might not bury you with it, take it away from you forever."
Chrissy opened her eyes and saw a shining ring resting in his palm, supported by the thick black leather of his glove. In a quick glance, she noticed bloodstains on the glove—from the people he had killed before her, or so she thought. Maybe he believed they were all Elizabeth; maybe he enjoyed playing this game before ending their lives.
He held the ring carefully toward her, and the brilliant stone caught Chrissy's attention, standing out starkly against the leather.
“Come, my love, let’s leave this cruel world behind,” he said, holding the ring as if he were about to slip it onto her finger, but Chrissy remained frozen "Come, there's something I want to show you. Let's go outside; you'll be fascinated, my dear. I can’t wait to see the look of wonder on your beautiful face when you see what I’ve prepared to welcome you."
Ghosts shouldn’t be able to touch people, and yet she was still reeling from his touch on her cheek—it had been so real, everything felt so… tangible. She could still feel the cold leather glove on her skin, even though he no longer touched her. Chrissy trembled and cried, pressed against the door with him standing before her.
“Oh, my darling, don’t cry. I’m here,” he whispered, mistaking her tears of terror for tears of emotion. This Elizabeth must have loved him, or perhaps he was just a madman who had killed the poor girl, leading him to think she was crying from happiness and not seeing the horror in her eyes.
“I—I’m not her,” Chrissy said quickly, fear in her voice, nearly shouting to see if he would understand. “I’m not, I’m not Elizabeth!”
“Of course you are. I’d know you anywhere, my Elizabeth…”
“It’s 1992!” she could barely speak now, shouting for the nightmare to end, her voice breaking with despair. “It’s 1992, not 1947!”
He froze, looking at her with a strange, terrifying expression that made her skin crawl. His eyes changed, dark and troubled beneath the black paint, seeming utterly lost.
She kept trembling, barely able to speak.
“M-my name is Chrissy, Chrissy Cunningham, Christine. I’m not Elizabeth. I—I was born in 1967, and I’m not her. I’m not Elizabeth Campbell. I’m not! I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for…”
The look on his face changed, filled with anguish, despair, and darkness, and he began to tremble, cutting off her words.
“No, my love, you must be confused. It’s normal; I was confused too when I came back. We’re in 1947; I lost you a year ago.”
“N-no, no, look!” Chrissy pointed at the newspaper that had fallen from her bag on the floor, the one she had read that morning. Her arm trembled so much that she couldn’t hold it up for long. “October 1992. See? I’m not her, I’m not! I’m sorry, but I’m not!”
He walked over, his heavy boots echoing like a funeral march, and saw the date. His expression twisted into confusion, pain, and rage. She saw the light in his eyes shift, heard his breathing quicken, and witnessed the despair wash over him as the crow on his shoulder flapped its wings in a desperate manner, making her scream.
Terrified, Chrissy watched as he crushed the newspaper with force, tearing it apart and throwing it away as if it were on fire.
He turned and unleashed the most insane, terrifying scream she had ever heard in her life.
“IMPOSTOR!” he shouted, slipping into a frenzy of rage, his voice piercing through the sound of the rain and echoing like thunder. “HOW DO YOU KNOW? HOW DO YOU KNOW HER NAME? HOW DARE YOU? HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY ELIZABETH, ELIZABETH CAMPBELL, EVEN HER MAIDEN NAME BEFORE SHE BECAME MINE?”
In response to his roar, crows began to swirl in the sky, flying in a chaotic whirlwind. Dozens of them crashed through the window with their heavy wings and entered the theater.
Chrissy screamed in fear as the crows poured in and spiraled around him like a hurricane, creating a maelstrom of feathers and shrill cries. He shouted in fury, and the sound blended with the storm outside, as if the sky itself were responding to his pain. Fifty crows flapped their wings in unison, resembling an army of lost souls. The rain intensified, each drop pounding against the ground.
Knowing she was going to die, Chrissy began to pray in fear, hoping to secure her place in paradise. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy will be done. Please grant me a place in heaven.”
“Fuck your God; your good God doesn’t exist, didn’t exist when He took my sweet Elizabeth.”
Startled, Chrissy closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. She was terrified—not just of the crows but of his pain and desperation. She had never witnessed such a scream; it was more agony than rage.
When she opened her eyes, he was no longer there, but the sense of terror lingered, lurking like a shadow. The last thing she saw was his tall figure walking away, dressed entirely in black, without the overcoat, facing the shattered circular window that the crows had broken. A thunderclap echoed in the sky with even greater force amidst the rain and she saw the way he clenched his wrists, as if he had a very bad plan in mind.
Suddenly, something warm, orange, and intense emerged, and Chrissy opened her eyes to see. Fire. She panicked; it was fire. But she calmed down when she saw that the flames were only outside, and she could see through the broken round window the tall, dancing fire that not even the rain could extinguish. Never before had she seen so much fire battling against the rain in this way. Through the stained glass, she watched the fire consuming the abandoned lot behind the theater, its flames reaching skyward like malevolent fingers.
Struggling against the fear that paralyzed her, she dragged herself to the back window and pulled aside a torn curtain, her breath quickening and her heart pounding erratically. She cried out in terror, watching the fire.
The fire was away from her, confined to the garden she had never known existed in an abandoned, lifeless theater.
Outside, Edward burned it all: brush, trees, and now what appeared to be remnants of a dark past. The crows, now in a frenzy, continued to circle around him as if they were harbingers of calamity. He ripped things from the ground with unbridled fury, his expression twisted in despair and pain, a lot of pain.
The scene was surreal; she had never seen rain and fire simultaneously; it was as if the sky were both angry and weeping in a chaotic symphony feeling his pain.
She had never seen a man cry before, and now she saw him cry, while destroying everything, with hatred, pain, screams of agony, in the middle of fire and rain.
And that's when…oh my…in that moment, Chrissy finally discovered what he was destroying and setting on fire.
Her eyes widened, and for just a fleeting moment, fear evaporated, replaced by a strange and painful sensation. Chrissy understood, amid the whirlwind of crows, rain, fire, and his screams, where her gaze was fixed.
It was a garden, but not just any garden—it was a garden of yellow daisies.
Her favorite flowers, Chrissy’s favorite flowers, and now she was seeing hundreds of them—the largest garden she had ever seen in her life. Cultivated for fifty years, but the flowers weren’t large because the soil was poor. They were wilted, their petals faded and contorted like lost souls, all of them closed; they had been born but never bloomed. And now there was a vast expanse of yellow flowers that he was burning while screaming in the midst of the storm.
The scene was terrifying: the flames devoured the daisies with a crackling pop, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in their wake.
This was what he wanted to show her when he called her to come outside for a few seconds, because he wanted to show her something that would fascinate her. If it weren’t for the fire, she would have been fascinated by what he called a welcome surprise. But it wasn’t for her. Flowers. Yellow. Daisies. Yellow. Chrissy's favorites; they always had been. Chrissy froze, wondering... could he really not be crazy for calling her Elizabeth? She didn’t believe in reincarnation or any of that, but... no, she stopped thinking about that nonsensical madness. They were just flowers. It was mere coincidence; many people liked yellow daisies; they were the most basic flowers in the world.
Deep in her mind, a question echoed: did she and Elizabeth have more in common than just a love for yellow flowers and that photo? Had he really killed Elizabeth, or had he gone mad and lost his mind because he lost his Elizabeth? Chrissy remembered him saying that “God took her.”
And now, as he destroyed everything, she felt a knot form in her throat. The garden he tended, the only thing that could have brought him any comfort, was being consumed by fire and madness—a fire that he himself had ignited.
Through the window, she saw him begin to walk back inside, and Chrissy clearly saw the moment he passed through the fire unscathed, as if he were immortal, a spirit that nothing could kill. He passed through the window and re-entered the theater, the crows flying around him.
Chrissy, desperate with fear, noticed a murderous look on his face as he walked in, the fire reflecting off his leather clothes. He entered, soaked to the bone, with wet hair falling over his face, the flames casting an orange glow on his painted face, now even more smudged with black, as he roared with hatred and rage like an animal ready to attack. It was the most hateful look she had ever seen in her life.
She was certain she was going to die now that he knew she wasn’t Elizabeth.
Chrissy trembled so violently from fear that she felt she might faint. It was as if he were coming for her, roaring.
No, she couldn’t faint now; she tried to reach for the door, but she felt weak, her strength slipping away. She couldn’t faint and surrender to a killer; she couldn’t faint in front of a murderer and give herself up like that. If she passed out, she would die. She was trying to hold it together, but the fear was overwhelming.
"I can’t faint; if I faint, I’ll die. If I faint, I’ll never open my eyes again; he’ll kill me, and it will all be over," she thought desperately as darkness began to cloud her vision, everything spinning. The ground felt as if it were shifting beneath her feet, and the walls of the theater seemed to close in on her. If she fainted, she knew it would be the end. Chrissy felt her strength draining, her head spinning, her vision blurring. And then, everything went dark.
As the saying goes, no one who enters the Hawkins Theater comes back to tell the tale.
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