my prof: crawford is an important secondary character because he works as a reader surrogate, since most of us think like crawford and not like will graham.
me, an autistic with pages of notes on the importance of specific numbers in red dragon and how all the numbers can be reduced to various combinations of 2, 3, and 5: .....sure.
hey so "erebus" is the name of the greek god of darkness and gloom and he's the son of chaos. so what exactly did these dudes think was going to happen when they headed for the arctic in ships named "terror" and "darkness"?
Warnings: Mentions of death/dying, The Creep being The Creep (I know he changes names after he kills someone, but I’m sticking with “Josef” for this fic)
You followed behind Josef, the camera capturing shaky images of his form as he hurried up the mountain trail ahead of you. You didn’t know you’d be hiking along a rugged path through the forest, so you hadn’t packed your hiking boots. You were attempting to keep up with the man while only wearing a pair of Keds, which were killing your feet now.
Josef wasn’t wearing anything much better. Black jeans, an orange turtleneck sweater, and black tennis shoes. The shoes had looked worn and thin when he put them on back at the house. It was a little strange that he picked that pair since he had a seemingly brand new pair of hiking boots sitting right next to them. (Of course, it wasn’t strange when he did it. It was only strange in hindsight, when you had spent at least twenty minutes following after him with your camera, badgering him for information, and being ignored.)
“How much farther is it?” you called after him, but he didn’t answer. He just kept pushing forward, practically sprinting up the barely-worn path that cut through the large pine trees.
Your shoes slipped (you’d had these Keds for about five years now and they had almost no tread left) on the dirt and you landed hard on your palms and knees. The camera tumbled out of your hand and into the underbrush.
You cursed under your breath as you rolled back onto your heels and examined your palms. They were scraped up and bleeding, but you’d survive.
Searching through dead leaves and broken branches, you eventually found the camera. It was unharmed, and it was still recording. You turned it toward yourself and caught a glimpse of your face. It was dirt-streaked and sweaty, your hair unkempt, mosquito bites covering your cheekbones.
“Nice,” you muttered, turning the camera around and scanning the path ahead of you. “Josef? Where did you go?”
There was no answer. You fell silent as you listened to the world around you. Birds trilled to one another, but it didn’t sound much like music. It sounded almost frantic. Almost anxious. Red and yellow leaves rustled in the breeze and then spiraled to the ground. Then the birds stopped altogether. And so did the insects.
“Josef?”
A wolf leapt out of the trees, brandishing an axe up high. You screamed (and, you were pretty sure, it screamed) as you tumbled backwards, slipping off the edge of the dirt path and down a leaf-covered embankment that led down to a ditch. You stopped rolling halfway down the slope, dizzy and disoriented. Out of your spinning vision, you could see the wolf standing on two back legs, axe still raised.
You scrambled to your feet, slipping in the damp foliage. You were about to throw yourself down the rest of the slope and into the ditch when you heard a muffled voice shouting after you.
“Wait! Wait, don’t leave!”
Heart pounding in your ears, you grasped onto the trunk of a tree to keep yourself steady. You watched, horrified and confused, as the axe was slowly lowered to the ground and the wolf’s head was removed. Josef stood on the trail, beaming down at you as if he’d just told you wonderful news.
“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”
“What …” you panted, lungs burning. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I thought we were having fun.”
“What part of that was fun, Josef?”
The man continued to smile down at you, the axe resting against his leg, the wolf’s head in his hands.
“Come on up here. I’ll show you — it’s just a mask.” He waved the item in the air, the long gray hair shaking with the motion. “I want you to meet it.”
“Meet it?”
“Yeah. Come on.” He waved you up the slope with his free hand. “Come on! It’s not gonna bite.”
You dug your nails into the trunk and considered your options. If you were being honest, you were not faster or stronger than Josef, especially if he had an axe (you were praying that that thing wasn’t real, but you were seriously doubting it). You also had gotten turned around in the woods, even with following the thin, barely-worn trail. If you took off and tried to get back to the house on your own, you more than likely would actually get lost. And if Josef didn’t track you down in the forest, he could just as easily make it back to the house first and wait for you. And he might not be in such a good mood after watching you run away from him. (He had hired you to film his entire day, after all. Good, bad, and weird.)
“Come on,” he said again, waving you up eagerly. The smile never left his face. That was somehow worse. “Get up here.”
“I have to find my camera first.”
Josef bent over and picked something up. When he stood, he held your camera. “You dropped it up here. Come on.”
No other options now. You hesitantly made your way back up the leaf-strewn slope and to the trail. You kept a good distance between yourself and Josef, eying him with caution. He held up the mask and turned its twisted face toward you.
“This is Peachfuzz. Isn’t he so friendly?”
You glanced at the mask with its creepily bright eyes and unsettling smile. You almost laughed out loud when you realized it had the exact same smile as Josef.
“Peachfuzz won’t hurt you. Promise. Here, why don’t you hold him?” Josef held out the mask to you. He stared at you expectantly, patiently.
“That’s okay …”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, shaking the mask gently. “He won’t bite.”
From the look in his eye, you knew Josef wasn’t going to drop it. You took one step forward and grabbed the mask. The hair was coarse and dry, the face plasticky.
“See? Peachfuzz is a really good friend. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
You felt silly being scared of such a cheap Halloween mask, but you also hadn’t been expecting Josef to jump out wearing it while wielding an axe. “You’re right. He, uh … Peachfuzz?”
“Yeah.”
“Peachfuzz is very nice. Have you had him long?”
“Oh, a very long time. He’s practically family.” He paused, then added, “You can wear it, if you want.”
“That’s okay,” you said, handing the mask back to Josef. “Thanks, though. Could I … get my camera back?”
“Oh. Sure!” He placed the camera in your hands. “You know something? I feel really good about this.”
“About what?”
“This. Us. I just had the feeling you were the right person when you answered my ad. I just …” He inhaled deeply through his nose and smiled again. “We were brought together for a reason. I just know it.”
You studied Josef’s face and felt a twinge of guilt settle into your body. He was just lonely. Weird, but lonely. Living all the way out in the middle of nowhere, dealing with his health crises, thinking of the end of his life. You supposed you might also act a little crazy if you were confronted with your own impending death. Who wouldn’t?
Besides, you had told Josef that you loved scary movies, and Halloween, and the occasional prank. You’d even listed off all the haunted houses you’d visited over the years. Maybe he just wanted to share a moment like that with you, since his prognosis had said he would be gone before Halloween even arrived. Maybe it was just easier facing the inevitability of your own death when you could pour that anxiety and frustration into scaring someone else.
“Why don’t we go back to the house?” you offered. “I’ll make us some lunch and we can do some more interview segments. If you want.”
“That would be great.” He tucked Peachfuzz under his arm and picked up the axe.
“I could carry that for you.”
“Which one?”
“Either. Both.”
Josef grinned and blushed excitedly. “I have an idea.”
“Okay. What?”
He quickly exchanged his axe for your camera, and placed the Peachfuzz mask on your head. Through the eyeholes, you could see him as he held up the camera and filmed you. Your grip tightened around the handle of the axe. Even resting on the ground, it was incredibly heavy. How had he managed to lift it over his head and chase you? He must have been a lot stronger than he looked.
“That’s so great!” Josef said giddily. “Let’s walk back to the house like this. I’ll film you while you’re walking.”
“I don’t know how to get back to the house.”
“That’s okay, I’ll direct you from back here. You look great! Peachfuzz is really happy. You’re the perfect person to wear that mask. You see, I knew there was something special about you.”
Hoisting up the axe to carry it in both arms, you headed back down the trail, shoes slipping in the loose soil and wet leaves. You could hear Josef behind you, directing you through the forest and back to the house.
To your surprise, he managed to direct you right to it. You were hot and sweaty under the mask, and your arms ached from carrying the axe, and your relief was palpable when the house came into view.
Josef popped into your vision, eyes bright. He pulled the axe out of your arms, dropped it onto the ground, and drew you into a hug. His body was warm and his arms strong, but he was surprisingly gentle. Not surprising for how he looked, but surprising for how he’d acted over the last two hours of your hike.
“Thank you so much,” he whispered, his voice barely audible through the plastic mask. He stood back and put one hand on your shoulder, the other hand still holding your camera. “Tonight is going to be a really great night. It’s going to be unlike any other. I can feel it.” He inhaled deeply again and closed his eyes. “I’m so glad it’s going to be you with me. It was meant to be.”
You reached out and gently touched his upper arm. His eyes opened and he stared into yours. It was impossible, as all he could see was the mask, but you were sure of it. He was staring straight into your eyes.
Even behind the mask, you smiled.
“I think you’re right, Josef. I think we were meant to be.”
After what seemed like the world’s longest wait, the leaves were finally changing color. It was your favorite time of year — autumn — but it never felt like autumn until it was cold outside and the trees were a blazing array of reds, oranges, and yellows.
Of course, you were a transplant from much farther north than Woodsboro, which meant you were used to the leaves changing early and the cold settling in not long after August ended.
It was October now and things were finally starting to look the way they should, at least to you. You were killing time in the movie rental store where your friend Randy worked, waiting until his shift ended so you could rent half a dozen movies and spend the entire weekend loaded on soda and candy.
“Randy,” you followed him around like a duckling, following him from aisle to aisle as he shelved VHS tapes, “you’ve got to pick at least one modern movie.”
“No, I do not,” he retorted as he pushed the cart loaded with VHS tapes to the thriller section. He shelved two copies of Jacob’s Ladder and one copy of Presumed Innocent. “I can choose all classics if I want to because, guess what? I’m the one who gets the free rentals. Not you.”
“Yeah, but we’re watching them at Stu’s house, so maybe he should get a vote.”
Randy turned and frowned at you. “If Stu had a say, he’d probably pick straight-up pornos.”
“And you’re telling me that Halloween doesn’t count as one?”
“No, of course not. Just because a movie has nudity and sex doesn’t mean it’s a porno. It has to do with plot!”
“My pornos have plots,” came a voice. You both turned to see Stu leaning against the VHS shelf, smirking at you. He twirled the stick end of a sucker that was in his mouth. The corners of his lips were stained blue. “Watch ‘em if you don’t believe me.”
Randy turned a shade of pink and pushed the cart into another aisle. You went to follow but Stu was quicker, boxing you in against the shelf.
“You pick the movies yet?”
“No,” you said, glancing away from him. You felt heat spread across your face and chest. Everyone in school — probably everyone in town — knew you had a crush on Stu. It didn’t seem to bother him, though he hadn’t jumped at the chance to date you like everyone claimed he would. (You’d gotten a lot of cautionary tales about how Stu was a serial dater and would break your heart before the end of the week. It’d been about a year now, and you were still waiting for it to happen.)
“Why not? You’ve spent all day here.” He wasn’t totally exaggerating. It was a half-day at school and you’d pretty much stalked Randy to the video store as soon as class was let out.
“Randy wants to pick all classics.”
“You mean, like, Frankenstein?”
“Yeah, and The Wolfman and Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
Stu snorted and tapped the blue sucker against his bottom lip. “Randy’s the creature from the Black Lagoon.”
You bit your bottom lip to keep from smiling but Stu saw it.
“Ah!” He grinned, leaning down so he was eye-level with you. He was so tall, it drove you crazy. “That was a smile. I saw it. It’s okay. You know you can make fun of Randy, right?”
“He’s my friend, Stu.”
“So? I make fun of him all the time.”
You stared up at him, trying to paste a look on your face that said you were unamused. You could feel yourself failing miserably. “I don’t think it’s the same. Anyway, he won’t listen to me. But I said you should get a say in the movies we watch because we’re watching them at your house.”
“You’re right. I should get to choose.” He tapped the sucker against his lip again then popped it into his mouth. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing your wrist.
Your heart leapt into your throat at the sudden contact, but you weren’t going to fight it. Stu dragged you into the horror section of the store. To your dismay, he released your hand and began scanning the shelves, his eyes darting over the covers of the VHS tapes. He grabbed one and then another, stopping only to drop them into your hands.
Misery. Poltergeist. Videodrome. Ghost Story. The Exorcist. Carrie.
Stu was just putting a copy of Black Christmas into your arms when Randy came around the corner.
“No, no, no! What are you doing?” Randy growled, grabbing the top two VHS tapes out of your hands. “These aren’t any of the films I wanted to watch!”
“Too bad. My house, my choice. The lady said so.” Stu punctuated this with a nod to you.
Randy looked at you, betrayed, and you blushed deeply.
“I said he should get to choose at least one,” you retorted. “I already told you that, Randy. We don’t have to get all of these.”
“You can’t watch any of these together!” Randy continued, looking at the tapes. “These are different eras, different directors, different actors. They’re even different seasons.” He grabbed the last tape Stu handed you. “You can’t watch Black Christmas in October! Or Misery! It has to be snowing outside. And Poltergeist is a summer movie. What are you doing?”
Randy began putting the tapes back on the shelves, looking distraught. Stu snatched the copy of Videodrome out of Randy’s hands and held it high in the air, too high for Randy to reach.
“We’re keeping this one.”
“Why? I haven’t even introduced you guys to Cronenberg yet. You won’t appreciate it. You won’t get it!”
“It’s that chick from Blondie, and she’s into BDSM. What else is there to get?” Stu asked, staring boredly at Randy.
“Her name is Debbie Harry and that’s not even half the plot.”
Stu placed the tape back into your arms, then he stood behind you and wrapped his arms around yours, blocking the tape from Randy’s grasp. He rested his chin on your shoulder and, from what you could tell, grinned at Randy.
“Well, too bad. The lady and I agree that we’re watching this one.”
“But—”
“We’ll watch it last, after you’ve passed out,” Stu said, his breath warm against the side of your face. “So don’t worry about it. She and I could use some one-on-one time, anyway.”
“Debbie Harry?”
You imagined you were giving Randy the same unamused look that Stu was giving him. But yours was likely complicated by the hot streak of blush over your face and the trembling of your hands. Stu was practically hugging you, his body not just warm, but hot, against your own. And he was indirectly flirting with you.
It was such a bad time to remember every single warning you’d received about him.
Stu stood up but kept his arms wrapped around you. He pulled you back into his chest, almost protectively.
“Pick your stupid movies, bro,” he ordered, “so we can get back to my place. My mom’s gonna be pissed if we take too long. She’s ordering pizza tonight.”
Randy begrudgingly picked a few more movies, none of which had been the ones Stu had chosen. But that was okay. You still had your copy of Videodrome wrapped tight in your arms.
The three of you walked toward the front of the store so Randy could scan the films and mark them as “Checked Out.” While you waited in line, Stu draped an arm over your shoulder and kept you close. He twirled the sucker in his mouth again and then pulled it out.
“You want it?”
“What? No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” you stammered, trying to avoid the look Randy was giving you as he bagged up the VHS tapes.
“Okay,” said Stu as he popped the sucker back into his mouth. “I’ll give you something else you can suck on later.”
You turned red up to your ears as you shoved Stu’s arm off your shoulder and made a break for the parking lot. You could hear Randy chastising Stu for saying something so gross to “such a classy lady,” and you could hear Stu howling with laughter.
Yeah, Stu Macher was going to break your heart, but at least it’d be fun.
Warnings: Death/murder, Catholic guilt, priest kink, vampires, whump, lots of blood, non-explicit sex in blood, chronically ill Reader, Father Paul cries a lot. Did anyone else see Father Paul covered in blood and want to kiss him? No? Just me? Okay. There's a lot going on in this fic.
Inspired by THIS ART by @feredir!! I just saw it and had to write a fic where someone kissed Father Paul while he was covered in blood!!
***
You pushed open the door, practically falling into the tiny house. You stopped short when you saw the body on the floor, the blood streaking across the wooden planks.
Wide-eyed, you took a step forward and peered down into the face. Joe Collie. There was still shock in his eyes. And the blood was everywhere, but especially over his head and neck. The smell was overwhelming. Metallic and pungent and ripe from hours of exposure.
In the corner, hidden in a shadow, you finally saw the other man. He looked as shocked as Joe Collie, and he was covered in just about as much blood.
You stepped past the body and sank to your knees in front of the man.
“Father Paul,” you whispered.
His dark eyes were distant, looking at something not in the room. Perhaps not even in the world. He was curled into the corner of his kitchen, blood coating his mouth and chin. It looked vaguely like dried raspberry juice.
You reached out and ghosted your hands over his face.
“Father Paul,” you said again.
He finally looked at you. His eyes came into focus. He still looked scared. And he smelled like blood and fear. Your nose twitched at the strong scents.
His lips parted for him to speak, but all that came out was the scent of blood – still warm and wet on the tongue.
You grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss. Your tongue rolled over his mouth, tasting the blood.
Father Paul grabbed your arms and pushed you back, horrified. “What are you doing?”
You wrangled an arm free and dragged your fingers over his blood-stained chin.
“It's in you, too.”
“What?” he shuddered, pushing your hand away and trying to crawl farther back into the corner.
“Father Paul–”
He looked past your shoulder to the body splayed across his living room. You shifted your body and cupped his face.
“Don't look at it, Father Paul. Look at me.”
His eyes darted to yours again. Your own eyes moved to the blood on his clothes. You fought the urge to kiss him again, but you did lick your lips.
“It's okay,” you said softly. “Just keep looking at me. Joe Collie is gone. Did you kill him?”
“N-No – No! I didn't.. It was an accident. I …”
“It's okay, Father Paul. I believe you. But you drank, didn't you?”
He looked down at his clothes and hands. He burst into sobs.
“I'm so sorry. I should've – I didn't mean –”
You pulled him into a hug, cradling his head against your chest. “It's okay, Father. It's okay.”
He clung to you, holding tight to your waist. You buried your nose into his dark hair and breathed deeply.
When he'd calmed, you stroked his head and sat him back up.
“Look at me, Father.”
He did so. His eyes were red and puffy. The blood covering his face was now streaked by tears.
“I came to see you tonight for a reason. You've done something, haven't you? At the church. It's not just Leeza Scarborough or Riley Flynn's mom, is it?”
His eyes were huge and he shook his head in guilt. Then it was as if something finally clicked. He stared at your face, then your body.
“You're here.”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean … here. You're …. You should be home. You're out here ….”
“I know.” You gently held his hands in his lap and smiled. “That's what I came to tell you. I don't have any pain, Father. None. It was the weirdest thing. I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought it was from the pain. I was getting ready to take a pill when I realized I didn't have any pain.. My head, my back, , my legs … It was just gone. And I knew … it was you.”
Father Paul studied your face, freeing one hand to brush hair away from your face. His fingers were so gentle as they traced your neck and shoulder and arm.
“No pain? At all?”
“None. And I had this feeling … I just knew I could eat whatever I wanted, too. And so I went for a walk and Erin was sitting on her porch – you know, she doesn’t sleep much – and –”
A look of horror crossed Father Paul's face. “Please, don't …”
"I didn't hurt her,” you said, still smiling. It felt like you'd never be able to stop smiling. “She invited me in and she has all sorts of things I can't eat. Things I'm allergic to. And I ate all of them. And I didn't get sick. I didn't even get a stomachache. I–” You held his one hand tighter. “Whatever you did, you cured me. You healed me.”
He reached out and brushed your cheek with the edge of his palm. A watery smile appeared on his face. It was a smile you'd seen time and time again from across the church. You'd secretly called it the Wentworth smile. Half agony, half hope. And so, so full of something you yourself more-than-half-hoped was akin to love.
“I didn't do anything. It was the Angel.”
You began stroking his hair again. “We're alike now, aren't we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Joe Collie. You were hungry. It's how I felt before I got to Erin's, and I thought food would help. But I felt even hungrier after I left. I didn't know how it was possible, but I knew it wasn't something regular food could help. I came here to tell you that you healed me, Father, but when I got close to the church, I smelled the blood. It was instant. I knew that's what I was supposed to be eating.” You looked at his mouth again, the dried blood on his skin. “But it's more than that. It's everything. It's hunger. It's thirst. It's …” You kissed him again.
He pushed you back, eyes confused.
Then he kissed you. Softly. His lips parted and the taste of blood teased your senses.
Suddenly, he pulled back. “No. It's wrong.”
“Which part? The blood? The healing? The touching?”
Father Paul was conflicted.
“It's a miracle, Father,” you murmured, ghosting your mouth against his. “We were made new. Who are we to question that?”
He grabbed your waist again as he kissed you. Wrapping one arm around your back and using the other to support himself, he carefully laid you on the floor. He moved over you, frantically kissing you, and settled between your legs. His heartbeat was so loud, you could hear it, feel it. Your body thrummed to the tune until your heartbeats matched.
He hovered over you and briefly broke the kiss. When you looked up at him, his face in shadow, his eyes glowed a shimmering iridescent color.
He grabbed your wrists and pinned your arms above your head. The backs of your hands splashed in a cold puddle. The thick, sticky blood seeped between your fingers. You spread your hand open flat and Father Paul slid his open hand over yours, dipping his own fingers into the blood.
“I'm so hungry, Father,” you breathed, staring up at Father Paul. “It's like I've never eaten in my entire life.”
Father Paul's fingers slid between yours, lacing your hands together.
“Please,” you said.
He lifted his hand and stared at the dark, thick blood coating his fingers. He turned his hand over, examined his palm. His eyes continued to glow iridescent.
He looked down at you, protective and predatory at the same time. Lifting his fingers to your face, he pressed one blood-soaked digit to your mouth. Your lips parted and accepted the tip of his finger, your eager tongue racing to lick it clean.
Warmth burst through your body. Everything was brighter, more vibrant. You didn't just taste Joe Collie's blood or Father Paul's skin, you tasted everything – the sky, the air, the vibrations of Father Paul's heart and lungs, the electricity of his body.
He pressed another finger into your mouth, then a third. You sucked them clean. Then, quickly, frantically, he withdrew them and pressed his mouth to yours in an open kiss. Your tongues rolled over each other, spreading blood over teeth and the inside of cheeks.
He grabbed your hand again and pressed it into the pool of blood, lacing fingers together. His lips pressed against yours. He rested his body weight on top of you and yanked your hand up, still tangled with his. He brought it to his mouth, tongue lashing out to lap up the blood covering the skin.
You wrapped your legs around him and squeezed, lifting your mouth to where his was latched onto the back of your hand. When he kissed you again, he smeared blood across your face. And something else. Something warm and gentle and wet. He made soft noises as he hungrily held your mouth against his, your bodies becoming a mess of clothed limbs and blood. And then he parted for a moment – to breathe, to look at you, to drink more – and you saw it. The tears running down his face, welling up in his eyes. Mixing with Joe Collie's blood.
He grasped at your clothes and you grasped at his. Before long, you were covered in nothing but a thin coat of drying blood.
****
You didn't know how much time passed, but eventually you were waking up against Father Paul, your body sticking to his everywhere your bare skin touched. When you stirred, Father Paul's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, seemingly confused, until he saw you. Instead of a warm rush of excitement coming over him, it was the same fear-based sadness he had earlier. This time, it was accompanied by the unmistakable look of shame.
You gently shook one hand free and reached up, caressing his face, running fingers over heated skin and sticky tears.
“What's wrong?”
“Have I done a bad thing?”
“A bad thing? No, of course not.”
“But I killed someone. And this …” He looked down at you. His face twisted in guilt. He began sobbing again, hiding his face in your neck.
You soothed him, cooing gently, until he was put together enough to listen to you.
“Father Paul.”
He wiped his face, leaving darker stains of blood over his cheeks and eyelids. His eyelashes were coated with it, making them look longer and darker and even prettier.
“Look at me. Did you do a bad thing? You freed me. From my pain. From being stuck in my bed. I didn't walk here tonight to tell you that. I ran. I haven’t run in years, Father Paul. You didn't do anything bad. You gave me a miracle. Me.”
“No one was supposed to die, though. I thought I could stop it. I thought …”
“We don't know the end of it, Father. Joe Collie could still be a part of this miracle. In a way, he already is.” You touched his lips. “He'll be a part of us, too. Whatever we are. Whatever this is.”
Father Paul sniffled and blinked out a few more tears. “The church won't understand. Not yet. It's not the time for them to know, yet. I … I don't …”
“Let me take care of it.”
“I can't let you do that –”
“Yes, you can. You don't know what it's like inside my body right now – the strength I have, the power I feel. I can take care of Joe Collie. You just stay here and clean the floor. I'll be back after a while.”
“What if someone sees you?”
“It's the middle of the night, Father. The island is asleep. I'm sure even Erin is. I'll be back before sunup. Promise.” You stood, dressed, and moved to Joe Collie's body, assessing just how to move it. Before you got the chance, though, you heard something. Footsteps.
Stealthily, you peered out the window of the tiny house. Bev Keane was walking up to the church, undoubtedly getting things ready for the service. The sky was still dark, but rapidly becoming a pale slate-blue. The sky would be up soon. People would arrive in a few hours. You'd slept longer than you thought, and certainly longer than you intended.
“It's Bev,” you said. “She's at the church.”
Father Paul, suddenly behind you, grabbed your arm. “Leave. Now, please.”
“But, I–”
“No. Bev can't see you here – and she can't see Joe Collie. Please, go.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don't worry about me. Just …” He cupped your chin and kissed you again. “Go home. Celebrate your miracle. And wash up before anyone sees you.”
“You should do the same.”
“I will. Now, go.” He opened the door and ushered you out.
Bev had disappeared, likely somewhere inside the old church. You ran quickly and silently back down the dirt roads, away from the secret you and Father Paul now shared, all the way back home.
Egon made a face at the group of children passing by on the street. It wasn’t a mean face, it was a face of surprise, and a bit of pride. Ever since he and the other three had started their ghost-catching company, they had become local celebrities. And every day, they saw more and more people who could be considered “fans.”
The children that were passing by the two of you were dressed up in homemade Ghostbuster costumes, complete with backpacks attached to vacuum cleaner hoses to imitate the proton packs that Egon and his coworkers wore. There were several of them, enough to make two or three Ghostbuster teams. You grinned at the kids as they raced by, an early autumn wind scattering multi-colored leaves across the street. They didn’t even notice Egon as they passed, probably because he wasn’t wearing his famous uniform. He was dressed down in black slacks and a burgundy-colored sweater. You matched in a pair of black tights, a black skirt, and a maroon blouse. You liked matching with Egon, even though Ray and Peter often made fun of Egon for it.
As the kids skirted past you, you nudged Egon in the side.
“You should say hi to them.”
“Why?” Egon asked, staring at you from behind his large glasses.
“They’re obviously fans,” you said, turning back to look at the children as they raced up stoops to catch imaginary ghosts. “It’d be really cool for them to meet their hero.”
Egon scoffed and you frowned at him.
“What? Why’d you do that?”
“You really think that I’m their hero? I bet they like Ray or Peter better. Even Winston. You know, the guys people actually know about? The ones they remember?”
“People remember Peter because he’s loud and obnoxious,” you noted, grasping Egon’s hand in yours. “But I have no doubt people know who you are. You’ve been in practically every magazine and news article, and on every TV station. You’ve even been on the radio!”
Egon shrugged and tried to pull you down the street away from the children. “Yeah, but I never really did those interviews. That was all Peter and sometimes Ray.”
You watched Egon carefully, feeling his embarrassment and annoyance radiate out of him in cold waves. There was always one forgotten person in a group, and the Ghostbusters happened to have two: Egon and Winston. You’d tried several times to convince Egon that his invisibility was only in his own mind, and that most people actually did know about the quirky, awkward Ghostbuster who had saved the entire city (and on multiple occasions at that).
You pulled free of Egon and swiveled around on your heels, seeing the kids start to take off down the sidewalk toward the corner.
“Hey!” you shouted, waving an arm in the air. “Come back!”
Both the children and Egon looked surprised.
“You guys like the Ghostbusters, right?” you called after them and they exchanged looks. It was hard to tell if they were wary because you were a stranger, or if they were in disbelief that you didn’t immediately know they were Number One Fans.
“Yeah,” said one of the boys cautiously. He had wily black curls and tortoise-shell glasses that were too big for his face.
“Well, come here,” you said, waving them back. “You probably didn’t recognize him because he’s out of uniform, but this is Dr. Egon Spengler—”
You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence before the children came hurtling back toward you and Egon, their vacuum hoses flapping wildly against their backpacks. They were on you in an instant, chattering excitedly and staring up in wonder at Egon, whose face had turned the same color as his sweater.
“Mr. Spengler, I—” one kid started.
“It’s Doctor,” another corrected sharply, elbowing the boy in the ribs.
“How do the proton packs really work?”
“What’s the scariest ghost you ever saw?”
“Everyone says Dr. Venkman is the leader of the group, but I think you are.”
“Dr. Spengler, I got new glasses to look like yours. Do you like them?”
“Could you take us with you on your next ghost hunt?”
“My mom says our apartment is haunted. Will you come see?”
Egon was overwhelmed but clearly flattered. He cleared his throat and held up one hand, silencing the crowd almost instantly. A pleased smile crossed his face.
“I can only answer one question at a time. You’ll have to take turns, so raise your hand if you have a question.”
Every hand shot up. Some of the children held up both hands. Egon paused for a moment to think it through and then nodded to one of the stoops where curled leaves had gathered on the steps.
“Let’s take a seat. I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while.” He sat on one of the middle steps and the children crowded around him like water filling every empty crevice. They stared up at him with wonder and admiration, every hand still up. He pointed to a little girl with pigtails.
“Dr. Spengler,” she began with an even, patient voice, “how exactly does all this ghost stuff work? Like the ectoplasm and stuff? I tried to ask my grandpa but he thinks it’s still just a bunch of hooey.”
“A lot of people do,” Egon said with a serious nod. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It can be hard to explain, but …” He looked around the stoop and found an uncarved pumpkin, about the size and color of a basketball. He pulled it into his lap. “Imagine this is the world we currently live in. All of our apartments and businesses and cars …”
You leaned against the stair railing and watched him, smiling to yourself. The longer he talked, the more animated he became, and the more excited the children got. Within a few minutes, he was positively beaming.
How could he have ever thought that no one knew who he was?
