Chapter Text
WOMAN LOSES ALL FOUR KIDS IN ACCIDENT - February 15th, 1976
Wynona Barwegen, age 34, was driving through Penn Avenue with all of her children when, due to an undisclosed distraction, had a head-on-head collision with another car. There were five fatalities. Barwegen’s four children, Lisa, age nine, Evelyn, age 7, Lucas, age 5, and Danny, age 2 were all killed upon impact. Barwegen got away with non-fatal injuries but later was found …
-
“Hey, at least she didn’t say it was because you smell like cheese,” Larry says. They’re sitting in his bedroom, listening to Sanity’s Fall and just .. chilling. It’s pretty cool, having the type of friend who you don’t really need to interact with at all to have a good time.
“That’s true,” Sal says. “In fact, the whole ‘sorry I’m rejecting you because I have a girlfriend’ is probably the least awful way to be rejected.” He’d fumblingly confessed to Ashley that he had a crush on her the previous day, but she’d just started dating a girl from sixth period with bubblegum hair and underage tattoos.
“If it’s any consolation, the girl she hangs out with now is pretty rad,” Larry says. “She and I harassed a substitute teacher into quitting once. It was great.”
Ugh. It’s not any consolation at all, but Sal doesn’t want to tell Larry that. Is this girl cooler than he is? It’s probably not that hard to be cooler than him, to be honest. “It’s chill,” Sal says. “At least I told her before I, like, fell too deep, y’know what I mean?”
“Yeah, dude,” Larry says. “But, hey, that still kinda blows. Wanna get some Chinese food?”
“Dude, the last time we got Chinese, I threw up chow mein.”
“And?”
“It’s two in the morning, my dad would fight me.” He is hungry, though.
“And?”
“… Okay, fine, we’ll get Chinese, Lar.”
Larry does one of those overdramatic slow-motion fist-pumps that Sal has only ever found amusing when Larry’s the one who does them. Sal grabs his wallet and they go up the stairs towards the other end of Larry’s bedroom, figuring that if they leave through that exit they’ll be less likely to be caught by a sleepy Lisa Johnson.
“Don’t forget a sweatshirt, bro,” Larry says, tossing Sally one from his closet. It’s too big for Sally, since Larry’s a whole six inches taller than him, but it’s warm and it smells like Larry. Sal’s not the best at identifying specific smells, to be honest, but, well, is anybody? Besides characters in fiction stories, of course.
Larry takes a look at him and snorts. “It’s like a sweater dress on you.” It does go down to his knees.
“I like sweater dresses,” Sal says, a little stubborn. “They’re cozy.”
“Right, dude,” Larry answers, and opens the door.
The snow is on its way towards melting, but there are still some ugly splotches of it lying around. The rest of the grass is wet and slushy, and Sal figures that he’ll have to remind himself to take his sneakers off when they go back inside to avoid that annoying, annoying squeaking.
“Where even is the Chinese food place, man?” Sal asks. “Usually when we go it’s, like, light outside. Is it even open?”
“Uhh… Shit, I didn’t think that far,” Larry says. “Whatever. If they’re not cool enough to be 24/7 we can get McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes.”
Awesome. “We could always just get both,” Sal says, dreaming of Oreo McFlurries and hot fudge sundaes with chopped peanuts.
“Sounds good, dude,” Larry says. “Hey, you’re not gonna be the asshole who spends my money on, like, tofu, right?”
“First of all, you’re a hater,” Sal says. “Second of all, I brought my own money. Third of all, it’s like, 3am. I’m going to eat beef dumplings and then fall asleep in the restaurant.”
Larry shouts beef into the street. There’s no one around to make fun of him, except for Sal, who is too amused to do anything but wheeze into his sweater dress. “I got real excited about that beef, man,” Larry says. He seems pleased with the fact that he got Sal to laugh.
Sal, for some reason, keeps having to pull his eyes away from Larry. Larry who looks so chill walking down the streets, even though it’s three in the morning and Sal jumps at every little noise. He’s never really been able to be in the dark since the accident, but at least he’s not alone.
The Chinese restaurant, as expected, is not open. Larry presses his forehead into the glass door and sighs for drama-related purposes. Sal half-expects him to start reciting a eulogy to the orange chicken that he never got to eat.
Luckily, their plan B is open, in all of its fast-food glory. The workers behind the counter look a little dead inside, but Sal suspects that all McDonald’s workers look that way. They must get a lot of weird people.
Sal wonders if he and Larry count as weird. Probably.
The only other customer is what he guesses is a college student, who’s typing furiously on their laptop with three empty iced coffee cups around them. Sal really, really relates. While trying to figure out what they want, they linger a few feet away from the counter. The cashier looks like she might start a brawl.
“You just want ice cream, dude?” Larry asks, reaching into his back pocket for his money. “I’m the best friend ever, so I can pay if you want.”
“I don’t want your butt money, man,” Sal teases, bumping into Larry’s shoulder with his own. “Also, you paid last time. I owe you.” He grabs his own wallet, pulling out a ten.
Larry narrows his eyes. Sal recognizes that face. It’s the competitive nice person face. Oh God. “Alright,” Larry says. “I’m thinking a sundae, what about you?”
“Oh, yes,” Sal agrees, if not a little hesitantly. “I love their hot fu-“
Larry has bolted to the counter and slammed his money onto the counter. “Can I get two sundaes, please?” he asks. “I’m paying for both of them.”
Sal lets out a pterodactyl shriek (sorry, poor college student trying to work) and barrels into him. “No, wait,” he says, but the cashier just makes eye contact with him as she rings Larry up.
“You’re too nice,” Sal says, and his heart is beating so fast. Why is his heart beating so fast?
“It’s in my genes,” Larry says, patting his jeans for emphasis. What a loser.
They eat their sundaes while walking home, since Sal’s a little embarrassed from the scene they made inside. Every noise makes him bump a little closer to Larry, since the only light source they have is from the street lamps. Larry doesn’t mind, and if he does, he doesn’t say anything. What a good guy.
They hear the man before they see him. A deep voice, a little panicky, saying something in a language Sal doesn’t recognize. It’s coming from the park through the trees, which Sal only really knows is coming up because the street lights had illuminated the park sign. The only other language besides English that Sal knows is what his high school Spanish class has taught him, so all he knows is that this isn’t that.
“Is that Latin?” Larry murmurs, not quite a whisper but quiet enough so that only Sal can hear him.
“I don’t know, man,” Sal says, gripping his sundae a little extra tight. “That would be so frickin’ creepy. I feel like I’m in a horror movie.”
“I’ll protect you,” Larry says, and it’s voiced like a joke, but Sal feels what’s left of his cheeks turn red all the same. Not that he needs protecting all that much. He’s been through a lot. He can handle himself.
When they pass the park, they see the light of small flame - a lighter, maybe a candle? - and a face next to it. Sal knows that common sense would probably indicate to run straight back to the apartment building, but he’s curious. There is a lot of scary shit going on at Addison, so who says this isn’t related? Who says this isn’t causing it?
“Dude, why did you stop?” Larry hisses. “He’ll see you.”
And, as if on cue, a pair of wide, dark eyes go straight to Sal’s working eye. “Oh, sh-“ he starts to say, because the fire goes out.
“Dude, run!” Larry says, and drags Sal a few feet. Sal digs his heels into the concrete.
“But what if this has to do with you-know-what?” Sal asks. The demon. The ghosts.
“Some random guy whispering Latin at three in the morning? You think that has to do with ghosts?”
“Did you say ghosts?” a voice asks, and, preceded by the sound of a lighter turning on, a flame ignites right next to Sal’s face. He jumps back, shoulder pressing into Larry’s chest. His sundae cup, nearly empty, falls to the ground. Aw. “Also, it was Russian, man, don’t be offensive.”
Seeing the guy up close is different. He’s younger than Sal had expected, maybe thirty, maybe a bit older. His eyes are big and round, hair unshaven, and skin pale.
Larry places a hand on the upper of Sal’s back. “We were just leaving, dude,” he says.
“No, wait!” the guy says. “I don’t mean no trouble. I just need some help with somethin’.”
“You got drugs?” Sal says in an attempt to lighten the mood. He doesn’t actually want any, but he likes to see Larry groan at him. For someone who gives off some serious stoner vibes, Larry is probably the most anti-drug person Sal has ever met. Sally doesn’t really have a preference, to be honest - he hasn’t tried anything, but wouldn’t rule it out.
“I hate you,” Larry mutters. No you don’t, Sal thinks, fond.
“I’m not that kind of guy,” the stranger says, and tilts back his head and laughs. It’s one of the eeriest things that Sal has seen, and he sees dead people. “I’m trying to perform a ritual. I need more people.”
A ritual. Sal’s interest is sparked, though he doesn’t know why anyone would be so casual about admitting such a thing. “Interesting how you need people just when two more walk by,” Sal says.
“What can I say?” the guy asks. “It was convenient. You gonna help me or no?”
“No,” Larry says.
“What do you know about Addison Apartments?” Sal asks. “We help you, you help us.”
The stranger scratches his chin. “Okay. I know a lot about the spirits there. But you gotta help me first.”
“We could end this shit,” Sal says. “Larry, please, for me?”
“No! This is a bad idea, man. And I’m saying that as the guy who once drank three gallons of Mountain Dew in an hour.”
“Look,” Sal says, quiet so that only Larry can hear, “if he gets weird, we sprint. He only has a lighter, unless he has night vision he won’t be able to chase us.”
“I hate you,” Larry says again, but Sal can tell that he’s gonna cave in. “Where to, creepy nameless stranger?”
They end up back in the woods, and upon being able to see from the lighter, Sal sees books on the ground, along with a circle that must have been drawn with a stick. What.
“Stand over there,” the guy says, eagerly. “We should all be evenly apart, like a triangle.”
“If you need us, what were you muttering earlier?” Sal asks.
“I was trying to summon two wraiths to help me,” is the answer. “It didn’t work.”
Sal … doesn’t even want to know, honestly. “What is the ritual for?” he asks instead. He wants to see if there are any slip-ups. He reads a lot of detective books, okay?
The guy, however, doesn’t seem to mind the questioning. “A spirit,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “A good one, a protective one. I want her to come watch over those who need it.”
“Will a circle drawn into dirt really summon anyone?”
“The book I read said that directions did not need to be held exactly,” the guy says. “Passion makes up for anything else!”
Sal tries to give Larry a see, he’s harmless! look, but it’s too dark for them to really see each other. (Plus there’s the fact that Larry probably wouldn’t have been able to tell what was being conveyed anyway.)
“So there’s no blood magic shit, right?” Sal asks.
“That doesn’t exist,” Larry says. “Please tell me that doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t think it exists,” Sal reassures him.
“Alright, the next part of the ritual calls for silence,” the guy says, but Sal thinks that he only said that because they were annoying him. Hah.
He starts saying something, but Sal doesn’t know any of it. He’s not as panicked as he sounded before they even saw him, which is good. Maybe? Sal’s not really sure.
All he knows is that the payoff for this better be good.
“Please,” the stranger says to the air, seemingly switching to English for now. “Wynona.”
Wynona?
“Er, buddy, Winona Ryder was really great in The Age of Innocence but I don’t think that-“
“Shush.”
Okay, I’m shushing, Sal thinks, but nothing’s happening. He’s half-expecting the air to get all heavy, or something to appear in front of him, but nothing does. It’s just him, Larry, and this really creepy guy all just … standing in a circle.
“She has not decided to grace us with her presence,” the stranger says, lips pursed. “You may leave.”
“Great, thanks,” Larry says, and walks towards Sal. “Let’s go, dude.”
“Woah, woah,” Sal refutes, shaking his head. “Nah, dude, you promised us answers. About Addison?”
“Oh, yes,” the man says. “Err… sorry!”
And, with a crinkle of branches, he’s gone.
“Well, that was weird,” Larry says, close enough to Sal that they can see each other even in the dark. “Were we really expecting that to work?”
“No,” Sal says. “I don’t know. I just thought that maybe he’d say something about the ghosts at Addison. Like why there are so many of them.”
“At least he didn’t seem that violent,” Larry says. “For strangers to meet at three in the morning, he was pretty harmless. But it’s getting to be more morning than night, dude, we should head home.”
Annoyed at whatever the hell just happened, but exhausted all the same, Sal agrees.
-
The walk home is quiet. He’s still a little jumpy from the, jeez, the ritual they’d just taken place in. It had seemed harmless, but Sal isn’t sure that anything is as innocuous as it seems anymore.
Larry fiddles with the outside door to his room for a bit longer than usual. “It’s dark out, man,” he says, and when he finally gets it open, he nearly trips down the stairs.
“Wow,” Sal says, slow-clapping. “That’s talent right there.”
“Shut up,” Larry says, but there’s no heat behind it, because Sal doesn’t think that Larry is capable of feeling angry, not at him. “Do you want the bed?”
“Nah, that’s okay,” Sal says. “‘Night, Larry.”
“‘Night, Sally Face.”
-
They wake up at eleven in the morning to Lisa pounding on the door. “Boys, are you going to sleep in all day?”
“Yes,” a tired Larry calls back from beneath his mound of blankets.
“Why are you so tired?” Lisa asks. “What were you doing last night?”
Making bad decisions, Sal thinks. “Movie marathon,” he lies, nuzzling his head back into the pillow. So comfy. So tired.
Another pillow hits him in the head. The culprit, Larry, is looking at him with a dazed yet satisfied look that is doing weird things to Sal’s insides. Why does he feel so weird? Why is-
Oh.
Oh, no.
You do not have a crush on your best friend, Sal Fisher. You do not.
He does.
Shit.
“If you get up in the next five minutes, I’ll make you pancakes,” Lisa says through the door, oblivious to Sal’s moral dilemma. “But I need to run downtown to grab a few things soon.”
Pancakes. Pancakes. Pancakes.
“I want pancakes,” Sal whispers to Larry.
“We’re up, Mom!” Larry calls, and rolls out of bed right onto the floor. He lands with a thunk and Sal cannot believe half of the things that this loser does.
“Why didn’t you just stand up?” he asks.
“I’m too cool,” Larry says from the floor.
“Man, I don’t even wanna know what’s been on your floor,” Sal says, standing up from his spot on Larry’s beanbag. “Have fun sleeping on the graves of all your spilled midnight snacks, I guess.”
Lisa, on the other side of the door, laughs at her son’s expense. Sal is pleased.
(They’re pretty good pancakes.)