Chapter Text
It had been about six months since Hawkins fell. The ground never stopped shaking, though it's been still for months now. No tremors, no sinkholes.. Despite all that, Chance swore he could feel a pulsating heartbeat beneath his shoes, as if the ground was alive. He always shook it off, convincing himself it was just nerves. Everybody was on edge after the earthquake, after all. Paranoid. So, he tried his best to ignore it.
The walk to church felt longer. It used to stand tall and proud over Maple Street, until its steeple was knocked clean off during The Quake. The reverend of the church, John Hayes, was crushed to death in the process. It laid sideways where it fell, blocking half of the stairs leading to the entrance. Someone had tried to re-attach the cross at the tip, but it stayed face down on the ground, like even God didn’t want to watch the evil unfold in this town. Chance saw Andy McDyer lean against the side of the church with his arms crossed as he passed. Andy used to be on the basketball team with Chance before he graduated earlier this year, now, Chance only sees him at church, guarding the doors. Apparently, Mike Wheeler and his family had made an appearance a little bit after Hawkins fell apart. Rumor has it that Andy had put threatening letters in the Wheeler’s mailbox, telling them if they ever stepped foot into that sacred place again, they’d be punished. By God or by Andy? Chance isn’t sure. He’s not even sure if it’s true, but he’s watched Andy kick dents into Lucas Sinclair’s locker and beat Dustin Henderson in the stomach while another guy held the boy back, so it's safe to say Chance wouldn’t be shocked if that were the case. Andy pressed his lips together in the semblance of a smile, bowing his head down in a nod as Chance walked past. He copied the movement, walking inside the doors.
The place was overflowing, making it smell like sweat. People who hadn’t gone to church in years suddenly showed up, Bibles clutched in their hands. Somehow, Chance’s family managed to find a place to sit. Mr. and Mrs. Carver sat in the pew across from them, and Chance gave them a polite wave. He tried not to dwell on the empty seat next to them.
The sermon began, Chance shifted in his seat, the hard wood digging into his thighs. The murmured prayers of the congregation filled the room like a low, steady hum.
“Grief is a burden we carry,” the reverend started, voice booming yet gentle. “A weight that tests our faith and strengthens our souls.”
Chance watched as the young Reverend Sanders spoke with his hands, emphasizing each syllable with a movement. Behind him in the pulpit sat Jennifer Hayes, Reverend Hayes’s young daughter, staring directly at Chance. She was a year younger, attending the same school as him. Before all of this, Chance remembers her being one of the more popular girls in school. She was kind, chatty, not too smart, but beautiful enough to the point where nobody bothered to care. All the boys had a crush on her, which Chance didn’t really get. She was very pretty, sure, but he doesn’t see why she had guys lining up for her.
After her father died, people mostly left her alone. All the boys who claimed to be in love with her stopped giving her attention, and her friends started to phase her out. She spent most of her time in the library, annotating her Bible. Chance spoke to her here and there, but their paths never really crossed outside of church. Chance tried his best to listen to the sermon, but he was too distracted by Jennifer’s wide-eyed stare. Even when he tried to focus on Reverend Sanders’s hands, he could still see her through his peripheral vision. Just staring. Chance shivered.
After the sermon, as Chance and his family were walking out the doors, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Chance?”
Chance turned around, and as he would’ve guessed, Jennifer stood there, her Bible still clutched against her chest, her blonde hair pulled back like she was trying to look older than she was. There was something in her eyes that made Chance’s stomach turn. Still, he remained friendly.
“Hi, Jennifer.”
By this point, Chance’s family had stopped walking, lingering around to see what Jennifer had to say. She hugged her Bible close to her chest, removing her hand from Chance’s shoulder.
“You knew Jason.” She said, in a scary monotone. Chance nodded in the affirmative.
“Yeah, I did.”
“He was a good man.” She said softly, “A believer. One of God’s toughest soldiers. I’m sorry you had to lose a friend like that.”
Chance swallowed, and nodded. He whispered a thank you, though it felt rough in his mouth. He doesn’t know what he was thanking her for. Jennifer reached into the pocket of her dress, handing Chance a periwinkle flyer. Chance furrowed his brows and looked down at the piece of paper.
HAWKINS YOUTH GRIEF GROUP
REDEEMER FELLOWSHIP CHURCH BASEMENT
TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS 3:30 PM
MATTHEW 3:4 "BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO MOURN, FOR THEY WILL BE COMFORTED"
ALL ARE WELCOME
Chance looked back up at Jennifer, who smiled kindly back at him. “I’ve noticed you’ve been down the past couple of months, I think this could really cheer you up.” She said, “A couple of the other members of last year's basketball team are part of it, they would really love to see you show. We all would.”
Chance looked back down at the flyer, watching as it wrinkled under his thumbs. He’s heard about the group, but couldn’t bring himself to go. Jason was like an older brother to him, and Patrick was one of his closest friends. The thought of having to talk about losing them in front of a group of people like that made him sick to his stomach. Jennifer probably could’ve seen on Chance’s face that he was struggling to find an answer, so she spoke again. This time, she leaned in and whispered.
“It’ll help you understand.” She said, “Just.. think about it, okay?”
Jennifer pushed her hair back behind her ears as she walked off, scurrying over to a boy around her age. Chance squinted, getting a better look before identifying the boy as sophomore Troy Walsh. He raised his brows in amusement. A couple months ago, James Dante, Troy’s best friend, passed away after falling into one of the rips in the ground. Rumors spread quickly, some say he tripped, some say Troy dared him to do it, but most believe Troy pushed him in. A couple people even claimed they saw him push James, though nobody can prove that. The rumor caused such a stir he was investigated by the police, and more guards were ordered to patrol the rips until they could be covered up. Nothing ever came of the investigation, mostly due to lack of evidence, but a potential murderer was definitely not the kind of person Chance pictures the reverend’s daughter to be hanging around. Jennifer probably got him to join the grief group, she believes in second chances like that. He made his way back to his family, his mother bouncing his baby brother on his hip.
“Whats that?” She asked, using one of her fingers to point to the flyer in Chance’s hand. He rolled it up, shoving it into the pockets of his dress pants.
“Jennifer invited me to her youth group,” He said, “ It's for teenagers who lost loved ones during The Quake.”
“Ohh,” Mrs. Perez smiled, “How kind of her. You should go, It’d be good for you.”
“I donno.” Chance shrugged. His father cleared his throat.
“When is it?” He asked.
“Tuesdays and Thursdays after school.”
“So it doesn't get in the way of basketball,” Mr. Perez pointed out, “There is no good reason as to why you shouldn’t go. Better than moping in your room all day.”
“I guess.” Chance mumbled, trying not to take much offense to his fathers tone. His good friend and mentor died just six months ago, and he didn’t seem to carry much sympathy for Chance anymore. Chance looked back over at Jennifer and Troy, who walked hand in hand back through the doors of the church. Troy hadn’t gotten into much trouble in the past couple of months, maybe this group was the reason why. It’d be nice to see old teammates again, too, he supposed.
It’ll help you understand.
Chance wondered what that meant. It was probably nothing, but something about the way Jennifer said it made him a little more curious to find out.
–
Tuesday rolled around, and Chance found himself standing in front of the church doors, not confident as to if he should knock or just walk in. He dragged his fingers along the fallen steeple, he’s not sure why it hadn’t fully been moved yet, it was only flipped over to retrieve the Reverend's body. Hasn’t been touched since. Looking at that every day must be depressing for his family, for Jennifer.
“Chance! You came!” A voice piped, Chance looked up from the steeple and smiled. Andy approached Chance and pulled him into a bro-hug, bumping their chests together. His hair, which used to be long enough it poked out of his hat, was shaved down almost to his scalp. Chance thought it made him look so much shorter.
“I was hoping you’d show up, man.” Andy said, pulling away from the hug. Chance shrugged and placed his hands in his pocket.
“Yeah, I figured it’d be a good idea.” Chance kicked some dirt under his shoe, “For Jason and Patrick and Chrissy, y’know? It’s what they would’ve wanted.”
The two stood in silence for a second, but only for a second.
"Lets go inside, yeah?” Andy pat Chance’s back and led him up the stairs. Chance looked back at the steeple once last time before following Andy inside.
In the church basement, folding chairs formed a circle in the middle of the room. There weren’t many kids there, only about ten or twelve, so there were plenty of open seats. Chance picked one of the chairs in the back of the room, feeling a bit underprepared when he noticed everybody else had a Bible in their lap. He’ll remember to bring his own next time. Jennifer stood next to the old piano, her late father's Bible clutched to her chest. She looked pale, almost translucent under the fluorescent light. Her voice shook at first when she started to speak, but it grew steadier as she went on.
“Before we begin,” She cleared her throat, “I’d like everybody to welcome Chance Perez, who will be joining us today.”
Heads turned in Chance’s direction. He smiled awkwardly and waved.
“Tell us about who you lost, Chance.”
Chance stopped smiling. He didn't want to speak. Instead of sharing, he just muttered, “Patrick McKinney and Jason Carver. Jason was my mentor. Uhm. My friend. Patrick and I were real close too.” and looked at the floor. He felt a hand on his back, Andy.
“Oh, Jason was brave.” A girl said, Chance didn’t know her name, “He saw what others didn’t. He was fighting something no one wanted to believe in.”
This got Chance’s attention. He looked up at the girl, who sat with her ankles crossed and hands folded neatly over her open Bible.
“What do you mean?”
“The Hellfire cult.” The girl said, stone cold, matter-of-factly. Chance’s stomach turned over slightly. Jason had been so sure about it. That the Hellfire Club was a cult, that Eddie Munson was the vessel, the Devil who hid behind long curly hair and a stained denim vest. Chance used to believe him, because Jason always made believing sound easy, like faith and fear were the same thing said in different tones. But Eddie was gone now, swallowed up in The Quake like Jason was, and still the lights flickered at night, still the ground whispered. If Eddie had been the vessel, then Hell should’ve died with him. Instead, it felt closer than ever. He leaned in.
“I thought..” Chance blinked, “I thought Eddie Munson was dead.”
“No shit.” Troy scoffed. Jennifer hit him with her elbow. He apologized under his breath.
“Just saying, Jason had the right idea and all, but Eddie Munson wasn’t his guy.” Troy said, “Do you seriously think the Devil would make himself that obvious?”
Chance’s brows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
“We believe Eddie wasn’t the ring-leader we all thought he was.” Jennifer whispered, but still loud enough to make her voice heard. “We think he was.. A puppet.. Of some kind.”
“A distraction.” Andy added.
“A goddamn scapegoat.” Troy hissed. Chance looked around the room, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“I thought this was a grief group.”
“It is,” Jennifer said, “It is.. But.. Grief shows itself differently in everybody. Some of us pray, some drink, and some look for answers.”
She folded her hands in her lap, eyes flicking toward the candle burning in the center of the table. “When people die the way our loved ones did.. when it’s that senseless.. you start to wonder if it’s really God’s Plan. Or if someone else.. Something else.. wanted it that way.”
Chance bit the inside of his lip. Truthfully, part of him believed Jason’s Hellfire theory was a desperate story fueled by the grief of losing Chrissy, but the more Chance watched Hawkins fall apart, literally, the more he felt his old logic snap into place. Maybe Jason had been right, the town had a wound and something crawled out of it, something that hid in plain sight. Chance didn’t believe in revenge, the Bible says justice belonged to God or the law. But, if there really was an evil in this town, wouldn’t it be just as evil to do nothing about it? To let it happen?
“Who?”
Jennifer looked over at Troy, who leaned forward on his chair, elbows on his knees. “Well, think about it, when did everything start going wrong in this town?”
“When Chrissy died.” Chance answered, Troy shook his head.
“No, earlier.”
Chance thought for another moment.
“When Barbara Holland died,” Chance said, “She was the first mysterious death, wasn’t she?”
“Wrong.” Troy spat, “Do you remember Will Byers?”
Chance nodded, “Of course I do.”
“That was the start.” Troy said, “Nothing weird happened until after that freak came back from the dead. Ever since then it's been one thing after the other. Chemical leaks, mall fires, not to mention a body that wasn’t his being buried in his name.”
“I went to the funeral.” Jennifer whispered, “Open casket. I saw his face. It was him.”
Chance looked at Andy, who was stone cold, focusing on the words leaving Troy’s mouth.
“Barbara Holland was Nancy Wheeler's best friend, Billy Hargove was Max Mayfield’s step brother, Bob Newby was Ms. Byers’s boyfriend, Chief Jim Hopper worked on Will Byers’s case very closely, and the wanted girl is his daughter. Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler worked for the Holloways, and before Mrs. Driscoll went nuts, neighbors say they saw Jonathan and Nancy leave her home.” Troy said, shaking his head, “All these deaths, they’re connected through these people. But there was always such a convenient explanation for everything, wasn't there?”
“The theory is,” Andy finally spoke up, turning to face Chance, “Will Byers did die that day, but gave his soul in trade for his life and became a vessel for the devil.”
“Very similar to what Jason said was the case with Eddie,” The girl from before said, “We just.. Reworked his theory as we got more information.”
Chance scanned the room once again, half expecting one of the kids to burst into laughter and reveal it was a joke. That never happened, the air in the room stayed deathly serious.
“So.. what, you guys think some fifteen-year-old kid did all this.?”
Jennifer opened her Bible to a page that was already marked, “ ‘And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light..’”
“Did you know he’s back in town?” Another boy spoke, this one appearing a little younger than the rest of the group, “Came back three days after Hawkins split into fourths, ever wonder why that is?”
Chance didn’t respond. Admittedly, that was very weird. Who would willingly bring themselves here? His throat felt a little tight, like the basement air had thickened around him.
“I mean.. Maybe he came back because his family’s here,” Chance said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Maybe he–”
“Maybe nothing,” Troy cut him off. “People die in this town because of him. You think it’s a coincidence the ground opened up right before he showed up again? You think it’s an accident his little friend group’s still walking around while the rest of us bury ours?”
Jennifer lifted a hand gently. “Troy.”
“No, I’m serious!” Troy’s voice cracked. “I’m sick of pretending like all this is just bad luck. There’s rot in Hawkins, Jen. It’s right under our feet. Jason saw it, and no one listened to him, and now look at where he is.”
Silence fell. The only sound was the hum of the flickering fluorescent bulb above them, the faint buzz of electricity.
Jennifer sighed and looked down at her father’s Bible, brushing her thumb over the edge of a page like she was smoothing over something fragile. “We’re not saying we know everything,” she said softly. “We just want to be ready. If the Devil’s still walking around, we’re not going to sit here and let him take more from us.”
Chance looked at her. The way her hands trembled just slightly, the way her lips pressed tight like she was holding something back. Anger, maybe? He swallowed hard. “What do you want to do?”
Andy’s eyes flicked up at him, dark and steady. “We’re not talking about doing anything stupid,” he said, though his tone didn’t quite convince anyone in the room, not even himself. “We just.. want to make sure they’re not who we think they are. That’s all.”
Jennifer nodded once, firm but hesitant. “We start with prayer. Then.. We keep an eye on them. Just until we know.”
Chance rubbed the back of his neck. The room felt colder now, like the basement was sinking further underground. “You think prayer’s gonna do much against something like that?”
Jennifer’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “Prayer is everything, Chance.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Right. Yeah. Just saying.”
The tension eased a little. Jennifer exhaled, closing the Bible. “Let’s end with scripture.”
The group joined hands, and Chance found himself gripping Andy’s on one side and that boys on the other. His palm was sweaty. His nails bit into his skin when she spoke the verse aloud with the others.
“‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’ ”
Chance’s voice caught on the last word.
After the meeting ended, the chairs scraped back, and people began murmuring their goodbyes. Chance lingered a moment longer, watching the candle in the center of the table flicker and die out on its own.
Andy clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, glad you came, man. Feels right, you being here.”
“Yeah,” Chance said. His voice was distant. “Feels right.”
He followed Andy up the stairs and out into the cold air. The steeple lay beside the church like a broken spine, and for a second, Chance thought he saw something standing in its shadow. But when he blinked, it was gone.
He looked around. Nothing but trees swaying, leaves flying in the wind. Chance walked faster after that, clutching the cross around his neck until his knuckles turned white.
–
Chance never liked art class.
He’d only taken it because he needed one more elective to graduate, and pottery seemed easy. Sit around, play with mud, listen to music.. it felt like a guaranteed A. What he hadn’t considered was that pottery was less about expression and more about control. Pressure, patience, precision. All things Chance had never been good at, even on the basketball court.
He sighed and slammed his palms down onto the spinning lump of clay, collapsing it into a flat, useless disc. Again.
The clay was dry now, gritty and uncooperative in his hands. He knew he was supposed to add water, but something about starting over for the fifth time made him too frustrated to care.
Across the room, someone’s wheel hummed steadily. Chance glanced up. Will Byers sat across from him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands guiding the clay with a quiet sort of grace. His expression was calm, not completely focused or concentrated, but peaceful, like his hands already knew what to do and the rest of him had just let go.
There was a softness to it, a rhythm. Like he was building something from instinct. It was hard to imagine this was the same kid about a dozen other people had spent a whole meeting accusing of being a vessel for the devil.
Will wasn’t small exactly. He’d actually grown a lot since Chance last saw him, taller, broader in the shoulders, not as breakable as before. But he still carried himself like someone trying to shrink out of sight. The rolled sleeves revealed hints of lean muscle beneath tanned skin, but Will held his body like a secret. Like he didn’t want to take up more space than necessary. Chance couldn’t figure out why he came back to Hawkins at all. The town had practically declared him a local myth. Everyone stared. Everyone whispered. He might as well have walked around with KICK ME tattooed between his shoulder blades.
Chance didn’t realize he was staring until Will glanced up and caught him.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Chance quickly looked down, his face warming, suddenly aware of the clay massacre in front of him. A shadow loomed at his side. Chance turned and found Mr. Reed peering down at his wheel, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn’t speak, just stared at the lump of half-dried clay like it had personally insulted him.
“William,” Mr. Reed said flatly. “Could you help Mr. Perez get a good start?”
Will didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the teacher, then back at his own work. After a beat, he gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “Okay.”
He turned off his wheel and stood up.
Chance sat straighter as Will made his way over, dragging a stool beside him. He sat down, pulled the clay into his hands, and began shaping it with quiet efficiency. Beneath the smell of clay, Chance could smell cigarette smoke lingering on Will’s clothes, although something tells him he doesn’t smoke. His hands moved quickly, confidently. Not showy, just sure. Almost like he just wanted to get it over with.
Chance watched him. Watched the way his fingers pressed, curled, lifted. Watched how his lashes caught the light when he looked down.
“What were you trying to make?” Will asked suddenly, eyes still on the clay.
“A vase,” Chance admitted.
Will turned to him, brows raised. “Really?”
Chance laughed, sheepish. “Yeah. I’m not good at this kind of thing.”
Will looked back at the wheel. “It’s.. fine.”
There was something oddly kind about the way he said it. Not patronizing. Just honest.
“The trick is keeping the clay wet,” he said, dipping his fingers into a bowl of water and pressing them back into the clay. “Otherwise it clumps.”
Chance nodded. “I was trying to smooth them out.”
“I know. You’re pressing too hard,” Will said. “Creates too much friction. Makes it worse.”
“Noted.” Chance smiled. “So.. wet clay, gentle touch. Got it.”
Will’s lips twitched, the tiniest hint of a smile.
Chance caught it and leaned into the moment. “Dude, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m supposed to have a bowl, a mug, and a vase done by the end of the week.”
Will’s hands paused. “What have you finished so far?”
Chance pointed at the sad lump in front of him.
Will blinked. “Why did you start with the vase?”
“I figured it’d be the easiest.”
Will actually laughed, soft and genuine. Chance doesn’t think he’s ever seen him smile before. “It’s the hardest one.”
Chance rubbed the back of his neck. “That tracks.”
“What’s your eighth hour?” Will asked, eyes still on the clay.
“Study hall.”
Will nodded to himself. “I usually come back here during last period. No one’s around. If you want.. I can.. Like.. help you finish everything.”
Chance looked up. “Seriously?”
Will gave a small shrug. “Yeah. If you want.”
“Better than doing nothing for forty minutes,” Chance said. “I’ll check in with my teacher and swing by.”
Will didn’t reply, just gave a quiet hum of acknowledgement and kept working. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the period. Chance didn’t mind, he enjoyed watching him. The way he moved, the way he thought with his hands. It was like watching someone exhale after holding their breath all day.
He wondered if this was what Will looked like when no one was watching.
When the bell rang, Will stood up, untied his smock, and hung it on the rack. He washed his hands, cleaned up his station, scooped up his bag, and walked out the door. Calm, methodical, precise.
Chance sat back in his chair, clay dust on his jeans, thoughts racing.
Troy’s wrong. They all are. Evil doesn’t move like that. Evil doesn’t have soft eyes or careful fingers or a voice like a kind whisper.
But still.. There was something about Will. Something quiet. Watchful. Like he knew things he’d never say out loud. Like there was another world beneath the surface of his silence.
And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.
Jason always said you had to trust your gut. That instincts were God’s way of whispering in your ear when things weren’t right.
Chance didn’t know what his gut was saying. Not yet, anyway.
–
The art room was quieter after hours. Chance stepped in slowly, backpack slung over one shoulder, the smell of clay and old wood welcoming him. Will was already there, but he wasn’t at a pottery wheel. Instead, he stood in front of an easel. Chance walked slowly, trying to get a peak at what he was painting. A close up shot of an eye, rolled to the back so it was mostly the sclera, white and pale pink with red blood vessels. The skin underneath the eye was being pulled by a hand clawing at it. Once Chance got closer, he noticed the sketch of what looked like a giant spider crawling from the eye, escaping. It gave Chance the heebie jeebies.
“Hey.” He said, setting his bag down on a stool.
Will flinched, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh. You came.”
“Didn’t think I would?”
Will smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you wanted to, I thought you were just trying to be polite.”
Chance shrugged. “Figured it’s about time I made something that doesn’t look like a.. Uhm..”
“Flacid clay dong?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were thinking it.” Will laughed to himself. He put down his brushes, and pulled the stool next to him close to the wheel. He patted the top of it like he was silently demanding Chance to sit. He dropped into the seat, of course, watching Will wet his hands and gently pat down a block of clay. He didn’t even put on an apron.
“First thing,” Will said, handing him a fresh chunk, “Center your clay. If it’s off from the beginning, it’ll throw off the whole shape.”
Chance nodded and copied him, though his hands felt clumsy next to Will’s. Will reached over without hesitation, guiding Chance’s hands into the right position. His fingers were cold and sure, but not forceful. Still, something in Chance’s chest stuttered. He focused on the spinning clay.
“So..” Will said after a moment, voice soft, “Why pottery?”
“Had to, If I’m behind on any of my credits, I’m kicked off the basketball team.” Chance admitted, “I thought it’d be easy.”
Will huffed a small laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, I suck at basketball way more than you suck at pottery.”
Chance grinned. “Good thing you don’t have to play basketball in order to be in art class.”
Will smiled widely, nodding toward the wheel. “Now, let it spin. Steady pressure. You’re not forcing it, you’re.. like– listening to it.”
Chance raised a brow. “That’s.. weirdly poetic.”
“I guess,” Will said. “My old teacher said art spoke to you, and you had to listen to be good at it.”
Chance glanced back over at the painting of the eye, and then looked back at Will.
“What does that painting say?”
Will looked over his shoulder, back at the easel. His shoulders tensed. Barely, but Chance saw it.
“I don’t know yet.”
The wheel spun under their hands, soft sloshes of water filling the silence between them. Will turned his attention back to the clay, with an intensity that was almost meditative.
“You ever think about leaving Hawkins?” Chance asked, not entirely sure where the question came from.
“I did,” Will said after a pause. “I actually lived in California for a while.”
Chance nodded. “Right. I remember hearing that.”
Will didn’t elaborate, so Chance pushed, gently. “So.. why come back?”
Will’s eyes stayed on the clay. “I guess my mom wanted to stay close by after The Quake, I donno.”
“But did you want to?” Chance asked.
Will finally looked at him, and there was something unreadable in his eyes. “Does it matter?.”
Chance frowned. “I mean, I’d like to think so.”
Will shrugged. They were quiet again. The vase on Chance’s wheel was slowly starting to take shape under their joined effort. Will leaned in to adjust a fold near the rim, and Chance caught a nasty scar near the base of his wrist. Pale and old, like a burn that had healed wrong.
“Is that from the Quake?” Chance asked before he could stop himself. Will’s hands paused. He glanced at his wrist, then pulled his sleeves down a bit without answering.
“Sorry,” Chance said quickly. “Didn’t mean to–”
“It’s okay,” Will said, voice a notch quieter. “People always ask.”
He didn’t say more. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it held weight. Like something had just been quietly buried between them.
“You ever think it’s weird?” Chance said finally. “That so much happened to one town in the span of, like, three years.”
Will didn’t answer right away. He just smoothed the lip of the vase and dipped his fingers in water again. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
“I think the world is full of things we’ll never understand. Guess Hawkins just happened to be a place where a few of those things broke through.”
That sounded rehearsed. Not like a lie, but like something Will had said a hundred times before, until he could almost believe it.
Chance tilted his head. “Like when you came back from the dead?”
Will didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to. Chance could see it in the way his shoulders tightened. In the way his hands stilled for just a moment too long.
“You ask a lot of questions.” Will mumbled under his breath.
“Only to interesting people.” Chance responded. Will looked back up at him and raised a brow.
“What, you mean freaks?”
“I don’t think you’re a freak,” Chance said, more quietly than he meant to.
Will’s shoulders fell, he looked less tense than before. There was a beat of stillness, something charged but soft.
“You don’t know me,” Will said.
“Does it matter?” Chance replied.
Will offered a small, cautious smile. The last bell echoed faintly down the hall before Will could respond. Neither of them moved.
Chance looked down at the vase, slightly crooked, but recognizably a vase now. His first real success, thanks to Will.
Still, something itched in the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t really name. Not fear exactly, but unease. The way Will answered questions without ever really answering them. The way he moved like someone used to keeping parts of himself hidden. The way he seemed so gentle, and yet still carried that aura.. like a low hum of power you couldn’t hear, only feel.
Chance thought again of Jason. Of what he’d believe if he were still alive.
But Jason was gone. And Will Byers was sitting in front of him.
If this is evil, then Chance has the devil’s hands in his. The ball was in his court.
–
The basement felt colder that night. He wasn't sure if it was because of the weather or if the heat was out or what, but the faux-leather on Chance’s jacket felt more like damp cloth against his skin than a layer of protection. Chance sat near the back again, half in the shadow of a folding table stacked with hymn books and paper cups. Jennifer stood near the front, arms crossed, her father’s cross necklace glinting whenever she turned her head toward the single buzzing light overhead. Troy leaned against the wall, the heel of his boot tapping an uneven rhythm against the concrete.
Jennifer had said evil was pulling warmth from the town, or something along those lines. Chance wasn’t totally paying attention.
It had only been a day since his moment with Will in the art room. Chance couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t get the image of Will’s hands on the clay out of his head, the way they moved so certainly. He could hear his voice when he thought back on it, soft, gentle, kind. Having a conversation with Will was supposed to bring Chance clarity, make things a little more clear, but instead it brought confusion. He felt a heavy weight on both sides of his body, as if he was being pulled from two different directions.
Jennifer’s voice caught him back to reality.
“Reverend Sanders says temptation disguises itself as kindness,” she said. “That’s how the Devil gets close enough to touch you. You start to trust him. You start to feel sorry for him.”
Chance cringed. Words hit way too close. She looked down at her Bible.
“If we open to Corinthians chapter two verse elev–”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Chance interrupted, heads snapped in his direction. He immediately blushed a bright red, he didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“I mean– not YOU, but.. We. Us. The general you. What if you think someone is evil, and you’re wrong?”
“What do you mean?” Jennifer asked, clearly annoyed about the interruption, but trying not to make it too obvious. Trying to appear as if she’s open to questions or criticisms.
“I mean..” Chance swallowed away the lump in his throat, “With.. Like.. Will Byers, What if he isn’t–” He stopped himself, searching for the right word. Possessed felt too dramatic. Evil felt too redundant.
“What if he’s just messed up? Y’know.. From everything that happened.”
Jennifer sat up straighter, taking a small breath in. “Do you think the Devil leaves bruises without reason?”
Chance looked down at his hands, still faintly stained with clay. “I think sometimes people get hurt and everyone wants someone to blame.”
“Jason didn’t die because of bad luck,” Andy said suddenly, voice rising. “He died fighting something. Something real. You think The Quake just happened? You saw what the ground did. It wasn’t normal.”
“I just..” Chance shrugged faintly, trying to let the silence speak for him.
“You do realize we’re doing this to protect people, right?” Tory retorted, “Do you want your little brother to be next?”
“Troy.” Jennifer put her hand on top of his, squeezing it. “What he meant was.. We’re not doing this out of hate, Chance. We want to help Will and his friends, don’t we?”
People around her nodded, mumbling a yes. They sounded confident, although Chance wasn’t sure if he believed them. He kept playing with his hands.
“What, did you like.. Talk to him or something?” Andy asked. Chance felt the weight of everyone's eyes before nodding.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“He was.. Quiet.” Chance said, “He seems normal.. Kind, even. He made me laugh, I made him laugh. It felt so human.”
“Did you make out with him or something?” Troy scoffed out in a laugh, Jennifer nudged him again. “Ow! I’m just saying, this is how it starts! Will has always been a queer, even before he died. He’s probably going to try and infiltrate your mind with some sort of seductive spell.”
“You speaking from experience, Walsh?” Andy chuckled, teasing. Jennifer shot him a glare, too.
“Shut the hell up.” Troy snarled, “It happens. Lust traps people.”
Jennifer looked down at her Bible, reading the verse she was going to share before Chance cut her off.
“So that we would not be outwitted by Satan; for we are not ignorant of his designs.”
She looked back over at Chance, who remained tense, “Don’t stop talking to him. See if you can find out how far the rot goes. Maybe he’ll invite you to some sort of ritual if you can gain his trust.”
Chance nodded automatically.
“He’ll tell you what he believes, what he hides.” Jennifer hummed, certain.
“All you have to do is make sure not to fall for it.”
–
The next day, Chance went back to the art room during his study hall. He told himself he was only here to finish the vase he failed to finish yesterday, but he knew that wasn’t true when he found himself consistently checking the door for a certain face.
He could hear people walking around the halls, but none of them walked in. Chance’s mind started to race, what if Will was avoiding him? What if he knew he’d be here today, so he decided not to go? The thoughts racked his skull, his hands once again pressing too hard on the clay. Finally, the doors opened. Chance looked up, happy to see Will standing in the doorway. Though Will didn’t seem too happy to see him, he actually looked a little startled.
“Oh.” Will said, he sounded disappointed, but Chance didn’t know if he made that up or not. “Hello.”
“Hi, sorry.” Chance pulled his hands back from the wheel before he caused anymore damage to the work Will did yesterday, “I figured I’d finish some of the stuff we started yesterday, if that's okay.”
“Yeah, it's okay.” Will hummed, setting his backpack down by the station next to Chance, “Do you need any help?”
“No, not yet.” Chance said. Will nodded, walking over to the drying rack in the corner of the room and grabbing a canvas. The canvas had a painting of a flower on it, only four petals with sharp dots on them. Chance watched as Will unwrapped a plate of paint that had been covered in plastic wrap and dipped his brush into the colors, still completely enamored by his movements. He felt the familiar nervousness twist in his chest. He wasn’t sure why Will’s presence did that. He was calm, steady, and quiet, but at the same time making everything else in Chance’s head feel jagged and loud.
“No more eye spider?” Chance joked, trying to make conversation. Will didn’t look up from his painting.
“No,” He said, “I threw it away.”
“Oh, well..” Chance tilted his head, “I like the flower better anyway. A lot less creepy.”
Will shrugged, still not taking his eyes off his work, “Thanks.”
“Do you not have a class to be in right now?” Chance asked, trying to focus on his own clay.
“Just gym,” Will responded, “But I don’t participate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spend most of the time sitting in the bleachers and drawing anyway,” Will said, gently stroking the brush across the canvas, “The teacher didn't know what to do with me, so when I asked to come here, he let me.” He dipped the brush again, “I don't think he liked me very much.”
“But..” Chance shook his head, slightly, “Why don’t you participate? Gym is so easy.”
Will was silent for a second, letting out nothing but a hum that matched the frequency of the pottery wheel.
“Medical reasons,” Will answered finally, “Asthma. Real bad asthma.”
The answer hung in the air for a moment. Chance looked down at his vase. He supposed it was a reasonable enough answer, though Chance knew plenty of kids with pretty bad asthma who ended up being athletes. He told himself it was too personal to continue to pry, even if he really wanted to.
“Are you friends with any of the people from basketball?”
Will was the one who broke the quiet this time. Chance looked over at him, and shrugged.
“Not as much anymore. After Jason and Patrick died, it’s not the same.” Chance hummed, “Jay Demario and I are pretty close, I guess.”
Will nodded. Chance could tell by his expression he was holding back on something.
“They’re also jerks sometimes.” Chance added, hoping that would open up some dialogue. Will just nodded again.
“They are.” Will said it so quietly Chance almost didn’t catch it over the hum of the wheel. There was a brief flicker in his eyes, something sad, maybe bitter. It vanished before Chance could place it.
“Yeah,” Chance agreed softly, wiping his hands on a rag. “They act tough, but they don’t really know how to be decent.”
Will’s lips twitched, almost like a smile, but it never fully formed. “That sounds about right.” He paused, swirling his brush around in a cup of water, watching as the paint made clouds in the liquid, “People like that usually need someone else to feel small so they can feel big.”
Chance blinked. That wasn’t something you usually heard from a quiet kid. “You sound like you’ve thought about that a lot.”
Will shrugged again, dabbing the brush on a paper towel. “You think a lot when you’re the one they pick.”
That made Chance’s stomach drop a little. He wanted to say something comforting, but everything that came to mind sounded hollow. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“They don’t really mess with you now.. Do they?”
Will looked up, and for a moment his eyes seemed sharper, colder. “Not anymore.”
Something about the way he said it made the hair on Chance’s arms stand up. It wasn’t said with relief. It was said like a fact, final and absolute.
Chance tried to laugh it off. “Guess they learned their lesson, huh?”
Will didn’t laugh. “Yeah,” he said quietly, adding what looked like teeth to the petals of his flower. “Something like that.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Chance didn’t know what to say, and Will didn’t seem to want him to. The hum of the pottery wheel and the brush hitting the canvas filled the room like static.
After a while, Chance cleared his throat. “You’re really good at this, you know. The art stuff”
Will looked at him again, this time softer, more like before. “Thanks,” he murmured. “So are you. You just.. press too hard.”
Chance chuckled under his breath, relieved the tension had cracked a little. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Will smiled faintly, almost teasing. “I’m sure you do.”
For the first time that day, the air between them felt warm again. The clock ticked softly above the door, the sound barely audible over the quiet churn of the pottery wheels. Time seemed slower here, thicker somehow. Chance found himself relaxing into it, even with Will beside him, even with all the questions he didn’t know how to ask.
They worked in silence for a few more minutes. Chance focused on smoothing the sides of his vase, the clay cool and pliant beneath his fingers. Will’s movements were slower now, less methodical, like he wasn’t really making anything, just letting his hand move.
“What is it?” Chance asked, gesturing to the odd flower-mouth painting in front of Will.
Will glanced over before examining his work. “Just a flower,” he said.
Chance tilted his head. “With a mouth?”
Will sucked the inside of his cheek, eyes still on the canvas. “Yeah. How else would it eat?”
Chance didn’t know how to respond to such a strange answer, so he went back to his vase. The silence between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It felt like something they were both choosing. Still, he couldn’t stop watching Will from the corner of his eye, the way he moved so gently, like the flower would come to life and bite him.
“Hey, Will?”
Will looked up, the light catching in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yesterday, when you said things happen that we don't understand..” Chance paused, realizing halfway through he didn’t actually have a question. “..Are you.. Uhm.. I donno, scared?”
Will blinked. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he set his brush down and wiped his hands on his pants, covering them in dark pink paint. “Yeah,” he said, "Extremely."
The honesty of it hit Chance harder than he expected. He swallowed. “Yeah. Me too.” Will gave a small nod, like he understood exactly what that meant.
The bell rang then, sharp and sudden, breaking the moment apart. Will stood quickly, re-covering the plate so the paint wouldn’t dry.
“I have to go,” he said, grabbing his backpack.
Chance hesitated, wanting to say something. Stay, maybe. “You coming back Monday? I think I’ll need help with my mugs and stuff.”
Will paused in the doorway. He looked back over his shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“We’ll see,” he said, and then he was gone.
Chance sat there for a long time after, watching the door, his hands still coated in clay.
–
Chance barely got any sleep that night. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Will’s hands. His fingers gliding through wet clay, shaping it with such quiet certainty. He could feel them still, ghosting over his own, guiding him, gentle and cold. The memory made his chest ache in a way that felt wrong. Sinful. He hated how much he wanted to feel it again, how excited he was to see him again when the weekend was over.
Will’s small, reluctant smile burned in the back of his mind. It was too soft. Too knowing. Chance sat up in bed, breath quick and shallow, guilt gnawing at the pit of his stomach until it rose like bile in his throat.
Chance stumbled out of bed and down the hall, bare feet stomping against the carpet. He barely got the bathroom door open before he fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet.
When it was over, he just stayed there, trembling, palms flat against the seat. Gross. His head pounded. His heart wouldn’t slow down. He didn’t understand how a look, a single smile, could do this to him. Unless it wasn’t really a smile. Unless it was a trick.
His hands began to shake. He thought about what Troy said, about how his mind may have been infiltrated in a way that made him want to believe Will over God. It sounded nauseating even in his own head, the thought dug its claws in. Hawkins wasn’t normal. Nothing about Will was normal. Troy was right. This was how it started, temptation disguised as comfort, sin hiding behind a kind, pretty face.
Chance squeezed his eyes shut and folded his arms on the toilet seat, clasping his hands tight enough to make his knuckles pale. “God,” he whispered, voice raw, “Please.. Please, don’t let him get to me.”
His voice broke as he went on. “If he put something on me.. if it’s some kind of spell.. Take it off. Make me clean again. I didn’t mean to feel it, I swear I didn’t.”
He rocked forward slightly, his hands still locked in prayer. He muttered every verse he could remember, every plea he’d ever heard Jennifer whisper when she thought no one was listening. Deliver us from evil. Keep my heart pure. Lead me not into temptation.
But the words did nothing. His chest still burned. His skin still remembered Will’s touch.
And that, more than anything, terrified him.
–
Chance stayed home sick from school on Monday. He knew he needed time to think of a plan, a way to protect himself before he faced that boy again. Tuesday, he stayed in his study hall to catch up on some English, despite the nagging feeling telling him to see if Will was waiting for him in the art room. He was quite proud of himself, actually, for ignoring the devil on his shoulder. Perhaps his prayers worked, perhaps God hasn’t ignored Hawkins after all.
When the school bell rang, Chance rushed out the door as fast as he could. He wanted to get to the meeting as soon as possible, to refresh his mind on what he was supposed to be fighting for. He rehearsed how he would tell the story in his head, making sure to leave out any parts that may speak his feelings back into existence. It was already too close of a call, he can’t risk that happening again.
Jennifer was already there when he arrived, pacing quietly in the middle of the circle. Troy was there as well, leaned against a wall again. Something about the stare he locked in on Chance made him sick to his stomach.
“Chance!” Jennifer gasped in relief when she saw him standing on the steps, “Where were you Sunday? I didn’t see you at church.”
“I was throwing up all weekend.” Chance said, placing his bag down. “Did something happen?”
Jennifer and Troy glanced at each other. Troy whispered soft encouragement as he rubbed her back, Chance could hear her whimper.
“I saw something.” She said, “A demon.”
“You saw a demon?” Chance sat down in a chair, scooting it closer to Jennifer and Troy.
“I-it.. it was so tall. So skinny.” Jennifer shook her head, staring at her hands, “Its arms were so long its fingers almost dragged on the ground.”
Jennifer’s face was paler than before, her eyes were sunken in like she hadn’t slept the past couple of days. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying.
“I told the police, they said they’d look into it but..”
“When did this happen?” Chance asked, Jennifer swallowed hard.
“Yesterday night.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” Jennifer promised, “Just.. scared.”
Troy urged Jennifer to share more, “Tell him about the face, Jen.”
Jennifer was quiet. She spoke barely above a whisper. “It’s face.. It didn't have a nose, or eyes.. Just a big mouth that opened into fourths..” Chance noticed her lip start to draw blood from how hard she was chewing on it, “It looked like a flower.”
Chance froze.
“A flower?” Chance asked, “Like.. like a flower with teeth?”
Jennifer nodded in the affirmative. Troy must’ve noticed the color drain from Chance’s face. He let go of Jennifer’s shoulders and walked toward Chance slowly.
“What, Perez? What did you see?”
“Will’s painting–” Chance quacked out, stammering over his words. Troy pressed him further.
“What painting?”
“It– it was a flower, a flower with a mouth. Teeth. Sharp ones.”
He should’ve stopped talking.
Jennifer began to loudly sob into her hands. More people filled into the room. Chance comforted Jennifer as Troy reported to the others what was just discussed. Chance looked up from the sobbing girl to make eye contact with Andy, who looked.. Almost excited. It made him feel sick all over again.
He should’ve pressed more about the painting. Maybe then he would be able to clear this all up as a coincidence. A sick, twisted coincidence.
Andy was already moving closer to Troy, his voice dropping low but urgent, like he didn’t want Jennifer to hear. “You’re saying that thing she saw–” he gestured vaguely with his hand “–It’s the same thing that freak’s been drawing?”
Troy nodded once, his jaw tightening. “Looks like it.”
Chance swallowed, his palms sweaty. “You don’t know that,” he said, maybe too fast. “Will’s painting could’ve been anything. He.. He draws weird stuff all the time.”
Troy whipped his head in Chance’s direction. Troy was small. Short and skinny. Chance doesn’t know why he frightened him so much. Maybe it’s the murder allegations, maybe it’s the fear that he’d be next.
“The fuck are you talking about?” Troy hissed, “What else does he paint?”
“Just–” Chance looked down at his hands, avoiding eye contact, “He draws a lot of spiders. And eyes. Things like that. Maybe the flower was a stupid art piece or something.”
Jennifer’s crying got louder, more desperate. “It looked at me,” she whimpered. “It knew I could see it.”
Chance tried to focus on her, to comfort her, but his mind kept replaying the image of Will’s drawing. The strange bloom of red and black, the petals curling inward like they were alive.
He remembered the way Will’s hands moved when he painted, slow and purposeful, like he was bringing something to life.
The thought turned his stomach.
Jennifer slapped her hands together and began to pray inaudibly through sobs, rocking on her knees. The rest of the group followed. Chance hesitated. He still wasn’t sure if prayer would fix anything, but he knelt anyway.
“Lord, deliver us from the darkness. Protect us from the devil’s hand. From his lies. From his tricks. From the demons he sends to walk among us.” Jennifer whispered between sobs.
Chance squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his clasped hands to his lips. His whole body trembled.
Protect me from him, he thought, from whatever he’s done. To our town, to my friends, to me.
But another voice in his head was louder than his prayers. What if Will’s not the one who’s cursed? What if it’s you?
Chance’s breath caught.
He forced the thought away, digging his nails into his palms until he felt the sting. He’s dangerous. He’s dangerous, and he’s trying to pull Chance down with him. And it's working. He’s making excuses for him, helping him hide. He’s not even sure why.
When the prayer circle ended, Jennifer hugged Troy tight, her tears dampening his shoulder. She looked at Chance, begging through her wet eyes.
“Did he tell you anything?” she asked, voice shaking. “That’ll help us stop it?”
Chance’s throat felt dry. “No. If I find out anything, I’ll tell you.”
He meant it. At least, he wanted to mean it. No more protection, no more excuses, no more coincidences.
As the others began finding their seats, Andy leaned against the wall beside him, his smirk sharp and humorless. “You think he brought the damn thing?”
Chance looked up at him, startled by the casual tone.
Andy tilted his head. “I mean, look at him. Sickly. Talks weird. Always drawing shit he shouldn’t know about. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the painting was a self portrait.”
Chance didn’t answer. He knew what Andy was implying, but he didn’t want to think about that.
The meeting ended earlier than usual, nobody was in the mood to be out too late. The chairs were already stacked when Chance finally made it up the basement steps. The church was almost empty now, just the sound of Jennifer’s sniffles and Andy talking low to one of the younger kids by the door. Chance adjusted his jacket and headed toward the exit.
“Hey.”
He turned. Troy stood by the last pew, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his face drawn tight under the dim church light.
“Got a second?”
Chance hesitated. “Yeah, sure.”
Troy motioned toward the side hallway, away from where Jennifer was cleaning up. They stepped into the narrow corridor lined with faded Sunday school posters, the smell of mildew was stronger here.
Troy leaned against the wall, eyes flicking toward the floor. “I know you don’t buy all this,” he said finally. “The stuff we talk about, you think we’re paranoid.”
Chance’s jaw clenched. “It’s not that I don’t buy it,” he mumbled. “I just..”
“You don’t want to,” Troy interrupted. “And I get it. He’s.. Easy to like, isn’t he? Quiet. Soft-spoken. Makes you wanna believe he’s just some fucked up kid.”
Chance froze. He didn’t know what to say to that, and the silence said too much.
Troy huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. I figured. Jennifer sees things in black and white, talking in absolutes, makes it hard to believe anything. I used to be where you are, thought people were just scared and making up stories to feel better.”
“What changed your mind?” Chance asked, watching as Troy’s face shifted to an expression he’s never seen him wear.
“James–”
His voice caught for a second, but he forced it steady. “I didn’t push him.”
Chance opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. He would be lying if he said he never once considered the rumors were true.
“We were just looking at one of the cracks,’ Troy spoke again after a harsh gulp, “It wasn’t guarded, and neither of us had gotten close to them before. We just wanted to see what it looked like.”
“It was glowing, like lava, but It looked like it had some sort of coating or skin covering it. I dared James to throw a rock at it, and he picked up this huge chunk of stone and dropped it down.” Troy was looking off, not at anything in particular, just off. Like he was looking into the memory.
“It ripped, and the stone fell through.”
“Fell through?”
“To the other side.” Tory said, eerily. “There was another world down there, like here but with no sun. When the rock hit the ground, we heard a loud roar, something that couldn’t have come from a human or animal.”
Troy looked at Chance then, eyes shining with something, something rawer than anger. “A vine, or.. a tentacle or something, came out of the crack and wrapped around his ankle..”
Troy got angrier as he continued, “I tried to save him, I grabbed his arm, I stomped on the thing, beat it with a rock, but it didn’t work. It pulled him down there, and..” He took a breath, “And when I looked down at the opening, I watched this.. This demon that looked just like the one Jen saw, I watched it rip him limb from limb.”
Chance felt his heart drop to his stomach. “..Why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“I did.” Troy snapped. “And look what the fuck happened. The police shooed me away, my dad laughed in my face, and the shitheads at school thought I made it up because I killed him.” A tear fell down his cheek, Chance doesn’t think he noticed it was there. “Jennifer was the only one who believed I was telling the truth. He was my best friend. My only friend. People can say what they want about me, but I didn’t push him.”
The words echoed down the empty hallway.
“I didn’t push him,” Troy repeated, quieter this time. He looked back in Chance’s direction, glaring at him, “If you’d seen what I saw.. you wouldn’t be standing here trying to convince yourself the fucking freak is innocent. You’d be praying like hell to stay away from him.”
Chance looked down, his throat tight. He could still feel Will’s cold hands guiding his own, the memory curling around his gut.
“Hell isn’t like what they say,” Troy said, his voice lower now. “It's not a lake of fire. It's cold, and dark, and.. Slimy.”
He pushed off the wall and started down the hall, “And it's spilling into Hawkins. You can either wait to get dragged down into it, or you can fight it. Pick.”
Then he was gone, the sound of his boots fading against the tile.
Chance stood alone for a long moment, the church lights flickering above him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, heart pounding hard enough to drown out his thoughts.
Later that night, when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop picturing Will’s eyes, how steady they’d been, how calm, almost too calm. Like he knew something. Sharing the same detached look Jennifer had when she described what she saw.
Chance’s room felt heavy, like the walls themselves were carrying the same fears he was. The moonlight slipped through the blinds in thin, pale ribbons, cutting across his bed. He hadn’t even bothered turning the light off. The shadows seemed to shift whenever he blinked, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he did fall asleep, he might wake up to see something standing over him.
Tall, pale, skinny, face like a flower.
He turned onto his side, pressing his knuckles against his lips, gnawing at the skin every so often just to feel something. Every thought in his head circled back to Will. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hands, the way he looked at him. Trapped him.
What if Andy was right?
What if he turned into some sort of demon at night like a werewolf?
What if that's where his scars are from?
Chance sat up, his breath catching in his throat. His crucifix hung crooked on the wall across from his bed. He got up, crossed the room, and straightened it with trembling fingers. He knelt by his bed, the carpet rough against his knees, and began to pray again. His words came out jumbled, half scripture, half pleading. “Lord, if he’s the Devil’s work, if he’s the hand that opened the door.. Please, show me what to do. Show me how to fight it. Don’t let me be fooled by it again.”
His vision blurred. He didn’t know if it was tears or exhaustion.
He thought of Will’s smile again. Small. Soft. Real. A flicker of doubt twisted in his chest.
What if he’s just a boy?
He turned, reaching for his nightstand drawer. From beneath a stack of old Sunday devotionals, he pulled out his worn little Bible, the one he was gifted several Easters ago. He ran his thumb over the gold-edged pages until he found the passage he needed.
Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.
He whispered it under his breath until it sounded like a spell of his own. When he finally crawled back into bed, he kept the Bible clutched tight to his chest. He tried to convince himself that the cold hands wrapped around his torso were only in his head.
But just before he could finally fall asleep, Chance could’ve sworn he heard something. A faint scraping at his window, like fingers dragging lightly across the glass.
He froze, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound. The window was dark. Still. But just for a moment, in the reflection of the glass, he thought he saw movement. Something pale, something tall, watching.
He hid under his blanket, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid. In the silence that followed, Chance prayed harder than he ever had in his life.