Work Text:
The moon lights the graveyard. It shines down hard silver, flashing off shiny new gravestones; lighting the work. Two more inches of dirt. Two more. Almost there.
Steve rests; looks to the small dull stone above, the deep-carved words—Billy Hargrove. Looks to the ghost of Billy Hargrove, all thumping heels of hard boots on the hardpack side of the grave as he sits. All impatient blue eyes. Blue blue. And bright. Alive. The rest of the guy is rot—skin sloughing, jaw yawning open on still-white teeth picketing the cavernous entrance down into his foul black bleach-dissolved insides. A nightmare. But those eyes….
Steve’s hands bleed, ache; he ignores this. Gets back to digging. He’s close; can smell how close he is.
He’d had no chance with Barb—was used to ignoring her limp bobbing corpse-ghost floating, following, clinging to him now like a static-stuck sock with its popped-staring dead dead eyes: accusing. He’d done his best to ignore her silent pleas till it was too late; till nothing but the ghost of a ghost was left of her—litter.
He’d thought he was going crazy—who wouldn’t? The bluebird couldn’t have been real, he told himself—its head-cocked curious ghost looking down on its stiff cold body. Asking. The touch and the warm flutter flapping ascent, its blue body blending seamlessly into the faded winter sky—then the small sound of a squirrel fallen dead from an overhead branch. He’d been five—it wasn’t real. And nothing like it had happened since. Nothing.
He’d missed his chance with Barb. And with Bob; sad eyes in his gore-soaked face, following mutely. Asking politely. For Joyce’s sake, Steve. The graveyard is right down the road.
He’d been crazy then though. Seeing monsters. And Bob had been just one more shadow in the dark. Was dead dead now; dead like Barb. Too late, Steve. Good job, Steve.
Bob. Just another static-cling sock stuck on Steve now—dull eyes unseeing in his rust-flaked and rot-bloated face; sweet smile turned death rictus, full of slowly-browning teeth. A symbol of Steve’s guilt. Good as any.
Billy’s blue blue eyes survey the work—Steve can feel them. The casket lies bared. The stench is unbearable; Steve bears it. And Billy watches on.
You owe me, is what Billy doesn’t say—doesn’t need to say.
Steve should’ve warned him. Could’ve. Would’ve.
Didn’t.
Couldn’t tell the guy anything. Not how he— Sure as hell not some crazy shit about monsters.
Now look.
Steve knew what had to be done the moment he saw Billy slip away in the mall—the crumbling of Max’s face. Steve watched them zip the bag closed on Billy and waited. Watched them lower Billy into the ground; waited. Ignored Billy’s dead lively eyes on him, demanding. Waited out the funeral reception standing guard over Max and her mom—stayed silent.
It was another three weeks till things had settled enough to desecrate Billy’s grave. Three weeks in the ground had done the guy no favors—not his ghost or his unpreserved body in its cheap wood coffin.
One touch. Wait’s over.
He leans down, flesh creeping, near gagging at the stench accumulated in the grave. One little touch.
“Hey, what the hell is this!”
Footsteps. Steve jumps and his startled hand brushes Billy’s. Barely touches. Just a moment.
But there’s a thump from above, nonetheless. Steve closes his eyes on the plummet of a squirrel from a tree as blue wings struggle skyward.
He rises—dreading. Knowing.
Hop’s body waits to greet him.
Below him, a gasp; a groan. Billy reborn. Above him, Hop’s ghostly eyes look on in fascination; find Steve’s eyes finally, with one silent demand.
This will never, never end.