so i'm celebrating by sharing a scrap of a fic that may go nowhere, or may become a series, or may be the world's longest one-shot. enjoy đ (tagging as x reader and x oc because I haven't actually decided yet)
vibes are very wuthering heights-ish / ~800 words
***
Haunted, or hunted?
Steve Harrington wasnât sure which of the two was happening to him.
It started six months after they tried to kill Vecna the first time. At the time, Steve attempted to distract himself from the looming threat of that beast (and from the fact that Max was still comatose) by throwing himself into his studies.
He was a first-year student at the local community college now, same as Robin. For English class, they were assigned to read Wuthering Heights by Emily BrontĂ«. The text was a little more complex than the fare Steve usually gravitated towardâwhatever comic Dustin forced him to readâbut Steve enjoyed it just fine. A story within a story, his professor had called it a âframe narrative.â
Late one September night, Steve found himself drifting off to sleep while reading about Heathcliff and Cathyâs insanely fucked-up relationship dynamic. He rubbed his eyes and shut the book, figuring heâd finish the chapter at breakfast tomorrow.
He stood from his desk chair, stretched, and crawled into bed. As for the hope of sweet dreams, Steveâs would be anything but.
He dreamed of drowning in choppy oceans, of being shot point-blank by an evil government agent, of being chased by a bloodthirsty demodog. Steve woke with a start just before his dream self was torn limb from limb.
The horror continued when he heard a scratching at his bedroom window, which caused him to flinch. The shadows of tree branches danced behind the thin white curtain, looking like claws reaching for him as they hit the glass.
âItâs the tree,â Steve mumbled to himself, in the hopes to slow his pounding heartbeat. He rubbed his eyes. âJust foliage. Youâre afraid of foliage, you big pussy.â Â Â
He started to roll over, but the scratching got louder and louder.
Angry and scared and stressed, Steve huffed and stomped over to the window. Maybe he could use his bat to knock down those pesky branches, andâ
He tore open the curtains and gasped, stumbling backward and falling on his back.
There was a woman floating behind the window.
A woman, wearing a long white nightdress, hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes and mouth were open wide, as if she was silently screaming for something. Like a banshee.
Her fingernails clawed at the glass, desperate to get inside.
Paralyzed in fear, Steve could only watch from his spot on the ground as she eased the window open and clamored into his room. She was barefoot, and Steve could now see that her legs and the bottom of her white dress were caked in mud andâŠwas that blood?
She staggered forward a la Frankensteinâs Monster, and something flipped in Steve. He dove for the nail bat resting by his closet door and held it aloft, ready to swing.
But he hesitated, because the woman wasnât chasing after him. She stood in the middle of the room, arms outstretched, but she was completely still.
Steveâs chest heaved as he panted, unsure of what to do. He adjusted his grip on the bat, opening his mouth to demand her explain herself, when she rasped: âHeâheâhelp.â
âHelp?â Steve repeated, lowering the bat. âYouâŠyou need help? Youâre not here to kill me, or something?â
âHelp,â she rasped again, still unmovingâexcept for a quiver in her lower lip and tears rolling down her cheeks.
When she was outside the window, her ghastly appearance gave the impression that she was much older than she really was. Now, just a few feet from Steve, she looked to be in her early 20sâjust like him.
And she looked completely terrified.
Steveâs common sense blew away with the wind. He cautiously put the bat down and inched closer, justifying his possibly idiotic decision by reminding himself that maybe this was another dream. A dream-within-a-dream. His very own frame narrative.
âI can try to help,â he said gently. âJust tell me your name. And, uh, what youâre doing in my house?â
âHeâs going to find me,â she whispered. âHeâs going to take me back.â
Alarm bells rang out in Steveâs head.
âWho?â he demanded.
âPlease, help.â
âYeah, I know, you need help,â Steve said, frustration seeping into his tone. âBut I canât help you unless you give me some more information.â
The woman shivered from head to toe.
âLet me get you a blanket, or something,â Steve said. Against his better judgment, he turned his back to her to open his closet. He pulled a handmade blanket from the back and turned to give it to herâ
But the woman was gone. The only sign that she had ever been there at all was the still-open window and the sound of whistling wind.
i'm not american but i have been so anxious this whole day. i worry about my us-based oomfs, all women and queer folk, all pocâeveryone who is at risk in this upcoming administration. i'm really scared of what this will mean for the rest of the world.
sending everyone my love. please take care of yourselves and take a break if you need to. my dms are open always if anyone wants to chat.
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