#road to hell

Steve couldn't help the grimace that flashed across his face. Jesus, he really needed to stop watching PBS every morning. Robin was already giving him shit over his admittedly narrow scope of cinema. The interview for Family Video could have gone smoother, sure, but he had nothing to prove. So what if Keith didn’t think he was a real Star Wars fan—whatever that meant. He’d been telling the truth. Those little bear aliens were cool. They reminded him of Dustin, which he had not liked one bit when Steve had brought it up during their Sci-Fi-Bananza. Plus the third movie had space bikes? That was pretty cool, too.

Whatever. 

Either Keith would have hired him or wouldn't have. Take it or leave it. Obviously, the place had been short on staff for a while, considering the jerk was already titled as management after leaving the arcade. Steve had a feeling it was partially to blame for no one in town willing to work alongside the lump.

Back in the quiet of his home, Steve tossed the green uniform vest—so much better than the sailor suit—along with his keys at the table in the entry. He sauntered over to the kitchen to snag a beer before flopping onto the more worn in corner of the couch. Here the den was hit with a lazy late afternoon sun and the dust motes scattering in the air reminded Steve of his neglected chores.

His deep sigh broke the silence of the house. Occasionally, the air conditioning unit would kick up before falling back into an ignorable hum. The high of getting the job started to dwindle. He should probably call his mom. Give her the good news. But then he worked through the potential steps of calling first the Indianapolis office secretary, being forwarded to the New York branch, then reminded of the current location for his parents gauntlet of business networking, only to be circled back to a hotel receptionist to leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Harrington to return when next available—yeah, Steve's good mood shrunk just a touch more.

Slouching into the soft cushion of the couch, Steve rested the bottle of pilsner on his chest. The glass tinked against the necklace charm tucked under his t-shirt. The sound made him think back on the last few weeks.

The bruises were mostly gone now, with only the scabbing cuts serving as an itchy reminder to the horrific start of July. Sleep was still escaping Steve. Each night slipped through his fingers as he grasped at his sweat-soaked sheets. His room seemed to vortex the groans of a too-empty house deep into his eardrums. Trying to bury his head while lying face-down caused his stomach to swoop like he was yet again free-falling down elevator shafts. Staring up into the dark ceiling of his room caused imprints of fireworks to explode into his vision. Nightmares would rattle him awake in the early hours of the morning.

And then as he would lay there pretending he wasn't hearing the distinct ebb and flow of a half-formed conversation nearby, Steve would talk back. Sort of. Really would talk to himself. Or sometimes listen to the kids chatter in the walkie if he felt like switching it on. Anything to drown out the voices murmuring curses and encouragements at his side table.

It was fucking pointless.

So yeah, he was fucking tired. Maybe that's why so many of Hawkins’ finest had turned him down for their job listings. Steve Harrington was starting to crack, and the festering panic of his soft insides was slowly oozing out for all to see. Bless Robin and her surprising attachment to him. He really did adore her even if she was a stubborn jerk in the best way. He didn’t deserve her patience with him lately.

She had been quite insistent they kept on working together. Two peas in a Commie-tortured pod. Truth serum and bonesaws really brought people together. Robin joked that she wanted to be nearby in case more inter-dimensional horrors wanted to pop up for Labor Day. The holiday sales at Melvald's were always killer.

Steve thought maybe Robin needed the reminder she was alive and breathing, too.

Draining the dredges of his beer, Steve hoisted himself out of the couch. Tossed the bottle a little on this side of too rough just to hear it loudly bounce in the trash. He decided he'd at least change out of his sweaty clothes with nothing else to do for today. Even with the air chilled around him, the humidity from scouting across town had caused his hair to flatten to the back of his neck.

Halfway towards the second floor he recognized the growling.

The lights in the hallway were cycling again. Their flickering almost mirrored the tempo of Steve’s heart as he followed. It was with a despondent acceptance that he saw them inevitably lead to his bedroom. The chattering that he swore was only of his overactive imagination brought on memories of dank tunnels. Brought back a phantom smell of rot that tickled his nose. A looming dread hung over him as his feet dragged forward. His hand twitched for the bat. For fire. His bedroom cast a yellow glow of warning into the hallway.

Steve reached the opened doorway and all of hell broke loose.

The guttural noises of a demodog were louder in his room. Steve lunged for the bat leaning just within his closet. Nearly popped the sliding mirror doors off their track in his haste. How many? Where were they? They were right on top of him.

Steve spun around, shoulders tensed in anticipation—attack at the ready. The lamp at his dresser flared wildly. Nothing was there—he couldn’t see anything—but he heard them. He felt fucking crazy but Steve’d rather be admitted than dead. He squinted from the blinding lights, whipped at the air while checking the corners at the ceiling. 

The dresser skidded to his left and Steve swung wide. The nails of the bat dug into the wood with a sharp crack. The landline he kept in here jumped from its cradle. Instead of the usual dial tone, the whirling noises of otherworldly beasts doubled in volume through the receiver.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” 

Steve kicked the dresser as he yanked back the bat. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned towards the closet and watched in dumb horror as Billy Hargrove lunged—a switchblade reared back in his bloody hand.

Steve startled so badly that he overshot with the bat, hurtling backwards. He realized what he was actually seeing was only in the mirrors lining his closet door. It didn’t stop the most unsettling sensation of what could be described as a swoop of cold wind passing through him.

He looked down at his shirt to check that nothing had actually pierced through. He was okay? The cracks in Steve’s psyche continued to spread as he stepped back. The mirrors served as a bizarre window to Hargrove fighting a goddamn demodog in Steve’s childhood bedroom. 

The visage of the creature was gaped open—a horrific flower that only promised gore. Rows upon rows of teeth dripped with a slime Steve had been all too familiar with last November. And there it was attacking his fallen classmate. He wasn’t quite sure which of them was the true star of his breakdown.

Noise from the phone continued to provide matching audio. The living dead played a fucked up little stage show just for Steve. It was as the beast finally flung itself towards the closet to dodge Billy when the glass splintered at impact. Steve gave a shout and rushed to the closet only to see it still was not ‘here’ and was still ‘there’ (in Steve’s head?).

Inching closer to the reflection, Steve watched as the mirror’s Hargrove kicked and destroyed his dresser out of frustration in the rotting visage of his room. The noise crackled behind him, following along with a slight delay. The out of sync nature of it caused the insanity to continue bubbling up Steve’s spine until he finally kicked at the destroyed door. Glass rained on top of his bare feet. He didn’t really care.

“Hey!” Steve shouted. “Quit that shit out, asshole! Just stop it already! Go away!” 

The guy haunting Steve’s summer didn’t fucking notice him. Steve kicked the sliding door again for good measure before stumbling back to the phone. Glass crunched under his shoes. He could hear the heaving sobs that had to be from Hargrove as Steve raised the transmitter to his mouth.