no but wait. how does poltergeist!steve end. how long does eddie live there? what happens if he tries to bring someone home for a hookup? what happens when eddie goes on tour, does he feel guilty? what do gareth/jeff/goodie think of eddie's bond with a poltergeist? how do dustin/robin/max/everyone find out? does eddie already know them or is this how he meets them? does eddie have to put steve to rest? when does eddie decide to do that? how do the others feel about that? how does steve? is there any way this ends happy? is there any hope for resurrection? like is el able to bring him back, or is steve secretly still under the mall with new powers from russian drugs or something astral projecting into his old house and they just need to save him? or is it doomed from the start?
I absolutely LOVED this ask about this fic! Thank you so much for sending it in!
How much fun it was to continue thinking about this one in depth. Love, love, love where your mind went here.
Of course, I wish I had more answers to all your questions, but I truly don't know a lot of the answers. Sometimes with these short ones, I don't build a story further out or I'd never be able to stop at 1000 words, haha.
For the answers I do have:
Eddie doesn't know the Hawkins gang. He (and CC) recently moved to town, for whatever reason. Wayne? Cheap, haunted houses to live in? LOL.
I don't think it's doomed. How that looks, I'm not sure. Maybe Eddie slips and cracks his head tomorrow and they live ghostly lives together.
Maybe they become Reapers à la Dead Like Me.
Maybe you're absolutely right and Steve's just an astral projection, not a ghost. (That's a fun thought! I love that twist!)
Or, maybe Eddie lives out a long life with his ghostly companion, dies peacefully in his bed, and then when he pops into the afterlife, as young as the day he moved in, they spend an eternity together driving every new occupant of Harrington House mad.
However it ends, I don't feel like it's destined to be a sad story!
Thanks so much for asking! ❤️
The fic in question if anyone else is interested in poltergeist!steve:
Billy knew what he wanted as soon as he saw her. The car market had gone in the direction of making cars look like soap box derby contestants. He wanted a car that looked like a car. Like pizzazz on wheels, an exoskeleton of the driver, and a really stylish boom box for his superior taste in music.
She was a little retrofitted from other Camaro models, but Billy liked that just fine. No other car would look like his. Between her age, remodeling, and the fact that this car had been in an accident already, she was a hell of a steal. The biggest chunk of his money went into having her painted. Billy wasn't the type to have a random red door and a green bumper, but he could certainly enjoy the ever so slightly murky, sapphire blue that made his baby girl gleam in the early dawn light.
Billy learned his car inside and out. He knew how she purred, knew her high speed roars, and every tone and pitch of her tires on any surface...
Billy knows the sound of a human voice. There's something about the sound resonance of a voice that carries differently. A voice just moved a certain way on the ear; arrived at the ear with a tangible difference.
He could hear someone humming even with the car's speakers blasting. That's how it started. Billy kept hearing a voice in his car.
It drove Billy nuts. Scared the shit out of him first, thinking that someone had gotten into his vehicle without him being aware. Made him circle his vehicle like a pacing dog every time he came and went from his car.
One time, it was just a split second as he put groceries in the back of his car...but he shut the trunk and thought he saw a shadow in his rearview mirror. But he was seeing it through the rear windshield - plenty of glares on the curved glass and it was gone as soon as he blinked anyway.
His annoyance swung back into fear when the humming returned. Billy had been tired of his tapes so he indulged in the radio for once, at the risk of same old hits beating themselves over his brain. There were worst things than Fleetwood Mac to serenade the drive along the California coast...
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Billy blinked.
Taken by the sky.
Billy knew a voice over a speaker, over the phone...
Love's a state of mind.
Billy knew a voice right next to him. He looked in the rearview mirror, and saw the biggest brown eyes he'd ever seen. They were a little a little tilted...sad looking. Too young to be so sad.
Until those irises flicked to meet Billy's tropical water eyes, and smiled.
"Stop the car."
Billy didn't understand, until he realized he was driving off the road and toward the rocks that tumbled down into the jagged surf below.
A large hand reached past him, and turned the steering wheel the same time his car seized up. In an instant, Billy lurched to a stop on the ocean-side curb. Dirt and sand sprayed into the thorned brush, creating a beige cloud around him.
The voice was gone. Billy was the only person sitting in his car.
Billy didn't have a name for the cold, alarmed sensation gripping his spine. The only words he had made him feel stupid and paranoid. Regardless, he pulled an illegal U-turn and parked in front of the local library.
Hours went by, until his eyes burned from reading newspaper scans. His search was already a narrow funnel of variables, how could this take so long? A ghost haunted his damn Camaro, which gave him, at most, fifteen years of a window to find a car accident that would have killed somebody...
A piece. A piece is all that would be needed...right? His car had a lot of pieces, from all over the country.
Sometimes it wasn't the wreck that killed a person, but the wounds afterward.
Billy was at a loss and too exhausted to read anything else. On a whim, as he walked past the librarian counter on his way out, he asked, "Hey, did you ever hear about a car accident that killed a guy? Like a young guy. My age."
Her eyes widened as if she had already been thinking about such things. "Why, yes. People your age are too young to be dying. Of course I'd remember such a thing. Take your pick: there was that poor girl who died in her boyfriend's motorbike accident in Oregon. There was a whole VW bus of youths who drove into a lake - hot boxed out of their minds and unable to get out of the vehicle. There was another young man who died in Indiana under bizarre circumstances - "
"Him," Billy took a guess. "What circumstances?"
"Oh, well, from what I remember, there'd been children driving the car."
Billy's brows furrowed and she nodded. "My astonishment, exactly, but apparently he was already injured. The kids were trying to get him to a hospital, but the poor fools hadn't bothered putting a seatbelt on the young man. When they crashed, they all stayed put, but he didn't make it."
"Do you recall a name?"
"I'm afraid I don't - not the boy's name, at least. But Hawkins. Hawkins, Indiana is where it happened. Beautiful lake country."
"Thanks," Billy grinned, far too brightly after a discussion about teen catastrophe. He went back to the newspapers and found the articles immediately:
Hawkins Senior in Fatal Accident
Hawkins Sheriff's Department Pushes for Seatbelt Awareness
Hawkins Police Ticket Fees Go Up After Teen Fatality.
Steve Harrington's Obituary. With a picture and everything. It was his senior photo, grinning from ear to ear in some kind of rented tux jacket, shirt, and clip-on bowtie that all the men had to wear for the yearbook. His hair was inflated two inches above his hairline, and glossy under the photography lights.
Steve hadn't worn a tux in Billy's car. Billy couldn't believe he even retained such details after a scare like the one that morning, but...
A jacket. Steve wore a simple athletic jacket and a collared shirt. And a watch. A gold-rimmed watch had been on the hand that stopped the steering wheel.
Billy printed every article focusing on Steve, paid in dimes to the librarian, and jogged out to his car.
Billy drove to the beach. The horizon beamed with neon orange, shadows, and the screams of amateur volleyball players.
Billy gazed at the picture of Steve Harrington. He looked handsome, in a high school dreamy sort of way.
Steve Harrington.
Steve was the only son and child to Robert and Annette Harrington. He was a proud varsity student of Hawkins High School. Steve was co-captain of the swim team and the basketball team, as well as a contributive member of the Prom Committee, Student Council, Key Club, Future Business Leaders of America, as well as a beloved babysitter to the Hendersons and Wheelers. His parents are valued members of the Hawkins community, making Steve a bright light of prospects -
"I didn't have any of those."
Billy had been reading under his breath. Now he looked up at his rearview mirror at the young man sitting right in the center of his back seat. "Hey, Harrington."
He'd been looking out the window at a family packing up their car to go home after a long day at the beach. Then his attention rotated to Billy, who fanned his face with the papers. "I guess those little Hendersons or Wheelers were the ones who killed you?"
Steve blinked slowly, almost like he was tired. "I don't remember."
Billy shook his head gently, as if to say, You don't have to.
Instead, he asked, "What did you mean? You didn't have any what?"
"Prospects."
"With all these extra curriculars, nobody was offering you jobs? No schools lined up begging for your family name on their alumni?"
Steve shook his head, looking sad again. "I don't remember."
Billy exhaled a quiet huff. He pursed his lips, nodding as if coming to a decision. "Well, you seem to be a permanent resident in my car. How does that make you feel right now?"
"Like you have bad taste in music."
Billy couldn't help but laugh at his stupid luck. "Jesus," he cursed, setting an elbow on his open windowsill to prop his head. "I get a pretty boy all to myself and he's a total snob."
Steve's eyes squinted at him, like he was needing all cylinders firing to work through his thoughts. "Who are you? I know your music and I know your dates, but I don't know you."
Billy glared at him in the rearview. It wasn't great, having someone know about his cover-up dates with girls, the out-of-wedlock sex they had, or all the men Billy had in here. Then again, who was a ghost going to snitch to?
"Billy. Billy Hargrove."
Steve smiled. It was almost like the sunlight actually touched his skin. Almost.
Summary: You come back from another horrible date and your ghost roommate is there to comfort you. And maybe a little more.
Word Count: 1K
Warnings: oral sex f receiving, getting down and dirty with a ghost
---------------
Another failed date under your belt. What’s new?
The latest guy was a self-proclaimed entrepreneur talking about crypto and tech start ups and you, know, you really wouldn't understand what I'm talking about, it's a little complicated.
Yup. That's what he said to you, the woman who had two more IT degrees than he did.
So yeah, that didn’t work out.
The door to your apartment unlocked and you stepped in, closing and locking the door behind you before throwing your purse onto the island in the kitchen. You kicked your heels off by the fridge before stumbling to the living room and collapsing on the couch with closed eyes.
You could feel the cold spot in the air before you saw anything and didn’t have to open your eyes to know your roommate had settled next to you.
“How was it?” Steve asked. You groaned as if you were in pain and he seemed to get the message.
“That bad, huh?”
You simply nodded.
“Damn. I’ll get the ice cream.”
You opened your eyes and saw Steve walking over to the fridge. Fully in his corporeal human form, not the usual ectoplasm or whatever the hell ghosts were made from. He could switch back and forth without exerting too much energy. You tilted your head to the side to admire his firm ass for a minute before laying your head back on the couch.
Steve was a sweetheart and your only saving grace some days. He had been living in your apartment long before you moved here. Much long before. He had once mentioned that he was born in 1918. It was a bit startling at first having a ghost as a roommate, but he was a cool guy. Besides, he had been here first. Before you'd gotten used to him, you had considered moving. Then you remembered how the rent was uncharacteristically low for Brooklyn. That was courtesy of Steve terrorizing everyone who moved in. Steve gave up on attempting to scare you when it was three weeks in and the continuously slamming cabinets, things disappearing, ghastly moaning and flickering lights didn't seem to faze you. You would just keep typing away on your laptop or looking at your phone like he wasn't there.
Your relationship evolved into something more when he realized you were here to stay for the foreseeable future. He got to know you and you got to know him. Steve physically couldn't leave as he was bound to the building and you rarely left because you worked from home and hated going out. When you did go out, things tended to go as they did tonight.
Steve came over to you with a bowl of your favorite ice cream and a spoon in hand. Once he handed it to you, he sat next to you and told you to turn the other way.
"Wha?" you asked with a mouth full of ice cream. Steve turned you until you were facing away from him. He dug his strong fingers into your shoulders, pressing into all the tense spots you'd accumulated during the day. You moaned out a little, perfectly content with a massage and ice cream.
Why did the only guy you really liked have to be dead?
Once you finished your bowl, Steve got up to take it to the kitchen. He came back to sit next to you, putting his hands back on your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your neck. You smiled.
"Oh, you're up to something," you teased. You felt him smile against the skin of your neck.
"Don't pretend you didn't like the last time I gave you a...massage."
You rolled your eyes. He'd given you a hell of a lot more than a massage.
"Steve, shut up."
"Okay." Steve pushed you gently to lay down on the couch. His hands raked down your body and over your abdomen down to your hips. He pushed the hem of your dress up over your stomach and looked at you with a bit of shock.
"No panties?"
"Maybe I thought I was gonna get lucky,"
"Oh, you're going to get lucky alright."
Steve positioned himself so he was eye level with your pussy. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh and looked up at you. God, his baby blues were so gorgeous. He kissed your thigh again before licking a broad stripe up your folds. You shivered in response, eager for what he had in store. His tongue circled your clit, flicking at it gently. You bucked forward and he held your hips still.
"Someone's excited," he murmured against you. You nodded.
"You always make me feel so good."
His plump lips wrapped around your clit, giving it a gentle suck and you squirmed on the couch, hand going down to rake through his blonde locks. He licked through your wet folds again before pressing a finger to your entrance. It slid in easily, meeting almost no resistance and he quickly slid another in, pumping you slowly as he felt around for your favorite spot.
When he found it, you nearly jumped off of the couch. He focused his attentions there, rubbing it vigorously and taking your swollen clit back into his mouth. The combination of sensations had you keening and pushing your hips closer to him. You were wet enough that your arousal was covering your thighs and leaking onto the couch below you. Steve carefully slid a third finger in and you gasped at the fullness.
His lips formed a glorious suction around your clit, gently massaging it with his tongue.
You fell apart, grinding against his face. Your hips jerked erratically but Steve held you in place so you could ride it out. You collapsed back while catching your breath, throwing an arm over your face.
“Are you feeling any better?” Steve asked. You thought about it briefly and smirked.
“Hmm. I think sitting on your face might make me feel a little better.”
“I live to serve, doll.”
“Live? Maybe not the right choice of words, Stevie.”
Tony stands in his empty bedroom, wringing his hands. "Steve," he calls out. He waits impatiently for a reply but doesn't get one. "Steve," he tries again. He taps his hands against his sides and bites his lower lip. "Answer me," he darts his eyes everywhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He sighs and adds,"please." His eyes light up when he feels the temperature in the room lower.
His shoulders slump in relief. "I-I thought you left--which is okay, I guess, but I would like a heads up, y'know." Tony doesn't flinch or jump in surprise when he feels something brush against his shoulder. Tony smiles a genuine smile when he sees a familiar figure in front of him.
"Steve," he says breathlessly.
A tall, buff, blond man stands in front of Tony wearing a simple, blue t-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and work boots. "Tony," he says, there's warmth in his tone.
An overwhelming feeling of joy courses through Tony and he throws himself at Steve, hands spread out to wrap around Steve's torso. He yelps in pain when he collides with the floor instead.
Steve crouches down next to Tony and looks at him with sincere concern. "Tony, are you alright?"
Tony pushes himself to a sitting position and rubs his injured knees. "I'm fine. I just forgot I can't touch you anymore....again." He flashes Steve a reassuring smile and goes into a standing position. He looks into Steve's blue eyes, they are as bright and full of life as ever. "I really miss you, Steve."
Steve reaches a hand out and cradles Tony's face. Tony leans into the nonexistent touch. "I miss you too."
Tony raises his hand to hover over Steve’s as if he was going to cover Steve’s hands with his. (Oh how he wanted to, though.)“Seriously, Steven, I need a heads-up on the ‘Imma-crossover’ thing. I-I don’t want you to stay here if you don’t want to.” Tony had to stop himself from taking back what he said when he saw the sadness on Steve’s face. “I’ll be fine, babe…”
Steve leans down and places his forehead on top of Tony’s. “I know you will be, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Tony blinks away the tears forming in his eyes. “But, I won’t be. I’ll have you here in my heart and in my mind.” He desperately wants to throw his arms around Steve and never let him go, but he can’t. He can’t. When Tony sees that Steve is about to speak he cuts him off. “You of all people deserve to be at peace and not worrying over a forty-year-old man.”
Steve heaves a huge sigh, but the corners of his lips curl upwards. “I feel at peace with you though, Tony....and we both know you’re 48-years-old, honey.”
Tony does this weird combination of a hiccup and a laugh. “Wow, thanks for reminding this old man, Steve. God, I’m going to miss these lovely conversations, honey-bunch.”
Steve thins his lips as he stares into Tony’s moist, brown eyes. “You wouldn’t have to miss them if I don’t leave.”
Tony sighs and wraps his hands around Steve’s, he swears he can feel Steve’s warmth. “We both know it’s time for you to go, Steve. You’ve become more faded and can’t hold this form as long as you used to. You have to go.” His voice breaks when he says go.
Steve stares into Tony’s eyes, he sighs when he sees how heartbroken Tony is about the decision. He kisses Tony’s forehead, and then his cheeks, and then the tip of Tony’s nose, and finally his lips. “Okay,” he leans his forehead against Tony’s once again,”I’ll go. I want you to know that I love you from the bottom of my heart, Anthony Edward Stark-Rogers.”
Tony doesn’t even attempt to stop the flow of tears streaming down his face. “I love you, too, Steven Grant Stark-Rogers. I’ll find you once I’m on the otherside, big guy.”
Steve chuckles while nodding his head. “I hope I don’t see you too soon, and you better come and find me or I’ll go and find you.”
Tony hums,”I’ll live a long and fruitful life, promise. But, that wouldn’t be so bad. We’ll meet in the middle, yeah.”
“Yeah...goodbye, Tony.”
“Bye, Steve.”
Tony watches as Steve flickers and fades into nothing. When Steve is gone Tony breaks down and cries. He knew this day was coming, but he wasn’t ready for it. He’s happy that the love of his life gets to be at peace now.
-Many Years Later-
Tony wakes up with a gasp. The last thing he remembers is that he was on a hospital bed surrounded by friends and family. He had told them that he was tired and was going to sleep, so here he is now. He looks everywhere and it’s an endless road. He stands up and notices that backache he once had was no longer there, and his right hip wasn’t giving him any problems either.
Huh.
Tony looks down and notices how youthful his hands look. The liver-spots that once decorated them are gone. It would appear that he’s young again, maybe around the age of his early thirties. Wait, if he’s young again and there is this endless road does that mean what he thinks it means?!
Oh my fucking god, I’m dead...I’m dead….I’m dead...But if I’m dead then that means...STEVE!!
Tony didn’t know what possessed him to start running down the road, but he did. As he ran he saw the scenery change around him. He saw his childhood to his young teens flash before his eyes. He kept running and running. He had to meet Steve half-way.
Tony slows to a jog when he comes up to a house that looks oddly familiar.
It’s our house. IT'S OUR HOUSE!
Overcome with joy Tony storms up the wooden stairs and stops before the door. He reaches out to twist the golden doorknob, but he doesn’t move.
This is it. Steve and I will finally be reunited.
He didn’t know why he was hesitating. Maybe it’s because he felt ashamed for moving on with his life, for remarrying and having a wonderful life with them. Tony licks his lips and grasps the doorknob.
Steve will understand. He told you to live your life...he wanted you to move on. You did nothing wrong. Now, you can spend all of eternity together…
Tony takes a deep breath and twists the doorknob. The door opens with a soft creak and he enters. The house is exactly how it was when he and Steve were living in it. He leans his head against the doorway, taking it all in.
He missed this.
When Steve crossed-over Tony had sold the house a week later because he couldn’t live in their dream house without Steve in it. Now, they could live it together once again. Tony startles when he hears something crash to the floor. He rushes over and enters the kitchen. He spots someone squatting and picking up broken shards of glass from the floor. The person is quite large and has blond hair. The man is wearing a simple red T-shirt and black sweatpants with hot-pink fuzzy socks on. Tony couldn’t believe it.
It’s Steve. His Steve.
Before he knew it Tony was crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it when Steve turns around with a perplexed expression.
“I’m home,” Tony chokes out.
Steve’s face goes from confusion to one of sheer happiness. He drops the pieces of glass back to the floor and makes his way to Tony, and he does something that Tony has missed for a long time.
Steve throws his arms around Tony and hugs him. He hugs Tony so close to him that neither of them could tell where one began and where the other ended.
They grasp at each other like as if they would be torn apart.
Steve buries his head into Tony’s brown, curly locks and says,”Welcome home.”
Tony cries and nuzzles his head against Steve’s neck. “It’s great to be back.”
Steve laughs and kisses the top of Tony’s head. “Great to have you back. I’ve missed you.”
“Back atcha’, babe. I love you.” Tony is so happy that he doesn’t mind that his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
“Love you, too. How was life?” Steve leans back to look into Tony’s eyes, and he sees the pure joy that he’s feeling as well.
“Do I have a story to tell you, pumpkin.” Tony’s smile widens and the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Steve untangles their arms, entwines their hands, and then he tugs Tony to the couch in the living room. “We’ve got time. I would like to hear about it.” He plops down onto the soft leather couch and sits Tony on his lap while wrapping his arms around him.
“Good thing for that,” Tony states with a smirk. “Well, I sold the house and-...”
.
.
.
.
Steve and Tony were lost in their own world of eternity, and they lived happily ever.
Send help, I’m thinking of ghost!Steve where 1985 Billy buys a gold ring labeled “1920s wedding band” from a pawn shop and absolutely loses his shit at the guy who randomly shows up in his house looking just as terrified and confused.
Fast forward to them really getting along. Steve’s ghoulish hair has so much natural volume that it suits modern fashions better than the slicked back and weighted down retro/antique ones. He keeps track of Billy’s stuff and helps him find his car keys, lost spoons, etc. He knows Steve is haunting the ring, so he’s able to take Steve everywhere with him, and the guy really likes going for rides in the Camaro, going on hikes, and hell, even the grocery store is fun for him.
Some people give Billy strange looks for talking and laughing at nothing. Some people can see Steve, like the waitress who smiles at him at the diner and always asks if he’s sure he doesn’t want to order anything, but they don’t know.
As with most ghosts who are strong enough to haunt and be full apparitions, Steve is strong, and has turbulent emotions. Billy hasn’t figured out quite what triggers him to vanish, break glass, to blow out one of Billy’s speakers in his room and his car, but it’s getting worse. He wakes up one night to a sound like the roof’s coming off, but nothing’s changed and Steve doesn’t answer him when he calls out.
Ring left at home, Billy revisits the pawn shop and the dealer immediately japes, “Now, don’t you come back in here with that ring. I’ve been trying to sell it for decades. You got a fair price.”
Billy doesn’t even hesitate. “Tell me about Steve Harrington.”
The guy’s face goes pale and behind him, through the beaded curtain separating the break room from the rest of the shop, emerges his wife or mother, or Billy didn’t know who she was. But she looked ancient -
“How’s my son doing?”
Billy’s brows flew up. “Steve’s your son? You sold your son’s ring?”
She spoke in that slow way elderly people did; like their bodies officially couldn’t keep up with the speed of their brains. “He needs to move on. You’re attractive and capable looking. It’s been four months. Things can’t be that bad if it’s taken you this long to show back up here.”
“Listen, I’m not a paranormal savant or whatever, but I’m pretty sure Steve’s unique.”
“Of course he’s unique. I’m one hundred and three years old. Poor boy was cursed with unique right from the start.”
Billy didn’t like this discussion at all. “Listen, I’m not judging your son, but what about me screams queer, to you?”
"Darling, nobody with that hair isn’t a little bit queer, and you didn’t have the gift yet to see Steve strolling around in here the moment you walked in.”
That brought Billy up short. “What? I can see him fine. What do you mean I didn’t see him in here?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, taking care of my baby in a ring. He shows up when he’s restless, or when someone special walks in here. He isn’t always aware of it, himself, but he followed you to the guitars and turned on the juke box for you. Remember that?”
Unfortunately, Billy did. Even right now, the shop was unique in that it didn’t play music, but on the day Billy walked in, jazz had randomly started playing as he argued with himself about an old Gibson guitar. He’d bought the ring instead.
His mother continued, “What, is he ironing your jeans wrong or something?”
“No. He’s breaking things. A lot of things.”
This time, the pawn shop cashier heaved a gruff sound. “He always does that ‘round this time. It’s the first year I didn’t have to pack up our fragile inventory.”
“Why?” Billy pressed.
“Late summer isn’t a good time for him,” his mother confirmed.
Well that sucked, because summer was Billy’s favorite season, and he said as much. “What, because everyone’s outside and not spending time with a dead guy?”
“No, because he was murdered in July by his wife.”
*sigh* here’s part 2 of this ghost!Steve drabble haha
Maybe one day I’ll write it as a proper fic.
• • • • • • •
It was the clothes that made Billy’s stomach turn, what made him rush into the house’s bathroom and eject his breakfast.
Mrs. Harrington kept all of her son’s clothes. Billy supposed this would be an obsessive red flag if she weren’t able to talk to her son everyday for the last sixty years.
Despite her slowed speech and gait, her weathered, elegant hands cracked open a ginger ale for him. “Just be glad you missed the trial and error period. Trying to figure out what his soul had attached to was like waiting out another war.”
Billy leaned against the doorjamb as he sipped the cold soda. “How’d you do it?”
“Well he didn’t haunt his widow, thank god—”
“Where is she?” Billy asked before he could help it.
“Magnolia Cemetery. Good riddance to the bitch.”
His eyes widened. Mrs. Harrington was a classy lady despite owning a pawnshop, but with a son and husband long since passed, and one of them lingering around, Billy supposed she had the right to say whatever she wanted. “How’s she go?”
“Pleaded some mental disorder in court and spent her time in a hospital instead of prison. Then she married some sorry fool and got pregnant. I admit, she looked normal from that point on, and everyone thought the hospital did wonders. But I had my baby to tell me his side of things.”
Billy followed her back into the guestroom. “Steve hasn’t mentioned her.”
“No, he wouldn’t. I raised a sweet boy who turned into a gullible man. Which I consider a victory with a husband who had post trauma dripping out of his ears.”
“World War…one?” Billy recollected. This was all too bizarre for someone who skipped town on his eighteenth birthday to escape a father with Vietnam War bullshit.
“That’s right. My Johnny was a good man but he held expectations over Steve’s head. So Steve married too young and to the wrong person. I’m sure he loved her, but it was in the way young love is. Help me put these away.”
Merciless, he complained inwardly, but reached for white shirt and blazer-type jacket still bearing the brown bloodstains in which Steve had died. Then he paused. “Steve doesn’t wear these.”
“Pardon?”
Billy could see his ghoulish roommate easily in his mind’s eye. The white t-shirt that stuck up beneath the dark sweater, making Steve look as young as he’d been while alive. “Steve died in these, but the—however you want to say it—the clothes he wears now aren’t these.”
“Well, no. He loathed that suit. He could never get his hair to comb flat, and the new age denim was the only thing he didn’t tear right through. Back then, our circle of people thought he dressed below us. Really, he just wore what he liked and what served him. It’s what his soul imprinted on.”
Billy raised a brow at her lighting a pipe near the open window. He often smoked cigarettes, so he had no place to judge. She’d made it this long with her own methods.
“I suppose I have to ask…how’d it happen?”
“Bullet in the head,” she answered bluntly. “Steve and her side man got into a fight for the whole town to see. Then he went over that night to apologize, but she was there, cleaning up the wrong man. Steve claims something else was going on, but his memory is faulty. Ghosts aren’t good at remembering their last seconds alive, but it sounds like a typical cheating scandal.”
Billy frowned. “You…don’t buy it?”
She puffed away at the pipe. In the back of Billy’s mind, a tickle of mirth moved at the notion of having a smoking buddy.
“I was like you. Didn’t have much room in my thoughts for anything supernatural. Then my son was taken and returned. But I wasn’t the one who saw him first. My mother did. We didn’t have it in us to tell her, so she didn’t go to the funeral. Nanny, none the wiser. Then I came back, wearing my terrible black dress and ripping some black netting off my face—to see him sitting on the piano bench, making her almost go cardiac with laughter. Steve was always close to his Nanny.”
She sighed fragrant smoke and finished, “That old woman had the ring. That’s what took so long. She had to die before I pieced it together.”
“What did your husband think of all of it?”
For a moment, Billy thought she hadn’t heard him. Then, “Johnny couldn’t see him. He could hear the piano and the guitar going. He could argue with his son beyond the grave, making books fly off shelves and furniture tip over, but he couldn’t see him.”
Billy made a pfft sound with his mouth, returning to the task of setting Steve’s clothes in protective bags and boxes. “I guess he and I have the dad thing in common.”
“I reckon there’s more than that,” she said, almost to herself. “But that’s for you the two of you to figure out. Anyways, once the door’s open, you can’t stop the wind from moving how it likes. Once I saw Steve, I saw a whole lot else.”
Billy took the ginger ale can off the bedside dresser and sipped. “Do you think his wife was possessed by something?”
She turned away from the window and moved at her pace to exit the room. “I think the Wheeler clan has never held a drop of dementia in its blood except for that woman on that night.”
Billy let the soda in his mouth slip right back into the can. His stomach plummeted right down to his feet, unable to hold any more. “Wheeler? Like…Nancy Wheeler?”
“One and the same,” Mrs. Harrington confirmed, biting on her pipe stem to reach for a box labeled Photographs. “You just wait, darlin’. The family resemblance is uncanny.”
Yeah. Billy didn’t need a photo to know that. Because now Steve’s frequent requests to drive by the newsstand made sense. Billy thought Steve’s eyes got wet looking at the progress of editorial printing and photography. Or the seeing the little dates in the corners of newspapers just go on and on without him.
It never occurred to Billy that Steve wanted to see her.
Skinny Nancy Wheeler with pretty eyes, Billy had to admit, and a bit of an overeager, bossy quality that Billy didn’t fully understand yet. She was nice enough. Quick to retort, and argued with her equally lanky brother with no regard for audience around them. It reminded Billy of his own stepsister—
He took the frame without thinking about it. Nancy had short hair, where her relative had long, but…Abigail Thornton-Harrington was a shock to behold.
“The Wheeler men have all been dunces until lately,” Mrs. Harrington rattled off as mercilessly as ever, never giving Billy a chance to process or recover. “Whatever god exists, did me a favor by not letting Abigail Wheeler stick around this town after passing.”
As sick as Billy felt, for…more reasons than he was able to contemplate right now…he frowned. Why does Steve like visiting the spinning image of his murderer?
Billy doesn’t ask when he gets home. He showers the soft, old woman smell off himself, dumps his clothes in the laundry, and with the towel still around his hips, he calls out, “Steve?”
The answer he gets is the lamp beside the bed turning on. Beneath the cone of light, is a glass cup with a branch of wild roses more so hanging out of the cup than in the water. Billy’s neighbor landscaped with roses. Steve’s haunt circumference isn’t large, but it doesn’t obey property boundaries.
“Can I see you?”
The house stood quietly around him. The neighborhood may be old, but Billy lucked out in renting some of the houses that were rebuilt throughout the block. Foundational issues, age, and such. Now, though, he sighed. Did he have to wait for July to pass before he could see Steve again?
Billy didn’t like it, but he wanted to try something.
As evening fell over Hawkins, he put the ring on his finger and went to the newsstand. Surprisingly, Nancy wasn’t there. She was the type to be in early and clock out only when the doors were being locked for the night. Billy felt both annoyed and pleased. He actually liked Nancy—until recently, and he didn’t want to think too heavily on that—but this other guy was fine, he supposed. “Hey, Jonathan.”
The young man perked up from distractedly watching a younger kid sitting on the long booth along the wall. “Hi, Billy. Can I get you something?”
Billy pretended to care about the magazines his fingers flipped through but glanced at the booth. “Who’s that?”
“My brother, Will. My mom’s on her way to get him.”
Said brother perked up. “Hey! Are you the music guy?”
Billy had to crack a smile. He was the only one in this town with a shred of taste. Or so he thought. “Yeah, probably.”
Jonathan smiled and apologized, “Will likes music. And video games and stuff.”
“A mixed bag keeps boredom away,” Billy disregarded, but now he didn’t really have any reason for being here—
“My mom really liked your recommendation for Louis Armstrong. She’s always trying to make me dance with her, but that ‘la vie en rose’ song was really easy for me.”
Billy’s conversational smile faded as one second Will spoke to no one, and then the next, Steve sat next to him with his arm stretched over the back of the booth. In a room with ghoulish fluorescent lighting, Steve looked damn near human. Alive.
“Armstrong’s great. His slower stuff is famous now for some reason, but his faster stuff is incredible. Don’t get me started on Ella Fitzgerald. Most beautiful voice you’ll ever hear. They jammed a lot together. It’s all old stuff for you, but it’s timeless, you know? And—um—never mind, you might be too young to know how hot Josephine Baker was.”
“I’m thirteen,” Will scoffed benevolently. “Who’s that?”
“Will?” Jonathan said. Billy’s heart kicked up to his throat as he asked, “Who are you talking to?”
Billy clenched his fist, pad of his thumb pressing down on the gold band on his finger while he announced to no one, “I’ll be heading out. Thanks, Jonathan.”
“Uh, you’re welcome,” he said, perplexedly looking at the magazines, of which Billy hadn’t bought any.
“Steve,” he growled as soon as his door slammed in the car.
“What?” he finally got as his engine roared out of the lot and down Main Street.
“What do you mean, ‘what?’ You can’t just talk to kids!”
“Of course I can,” Steve refuted in the passenger seat. He leaned his arm on the door to hold his head up, as if arguing took too much energy. “Will and Joyce come into the shop all the time. I don’t judge them for it.”
“I’m not talking about money problems! I’m talking about this white bread town knocking on my queer fucking door because the kids are talking to air!”
Steve’s head rotated to look at him, and Billy realized, they’d never talked about this. They’d never talked about Billy having men over because once Billy knew Steve was around all the time, he stopped dating. Stopped hooking up. Stopped…being interested in anyone else.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Steve finally said.
“It does if you’re a bigot,” Billy deflated somewhat, focusing on the road. “They’ll grab their heirloom pitchforks and come after me. Hell raiser faggot. Corrupting the kids with my…ghosts and shit.”
For a beat of time, only the sound of the Camaro on nocturnal streets moved between them. And then Steve laughed. Laughed genuinely and mockingly, but not at Billy. “They should take that up with the occult shop on Maple Marsh Lane. Even in my lifetime, we had a rumor of some guy dying there before it was a shop. No one’s ever bothered that shopkeeper. Plenty of people gossip about the pawnshop ghost. And everyone’s a hypocrite because no one wants to admit that they can’t control their kids getting drunk or high in East Village. Queer part of town. That hasn’t changed.”
That was…a lot. Just like the rest of the day, Billy had a lot to process. Namely, how the hell Steve knew where the queer side of town was.
