Chapter Text
George steps out from the shower, wrapping a towel around himself after drying his hair. He was home alone tonight, nobody to bother him. Normally he’d have a bit more fun with it, maybe invite Ringo over and have a drink. He’s tired though, from both rehearsal and the worries weighing on his mind.
Paul had been acting differently lately. Maybe it was the drugs, but it unsettled George in a way he couldn’t quite place. The way he moved was off, too stiff when he wasn’t being observed, yet the moment eyes landed on him he seemed to just jerk into smooth motion. He really doesn’t know what to make of it. He hasn’t gotten a chance to talk to the others about it yet, and he’s not sure he even wants to mention it. Nobody else seems to have noticed anyway.
He enters his room, heading straight to the closet to pick out some pajamas. He’s felt paranoid lately, the ‘Paul is Dead’ rumors seeming to stick in his mind. He knows it's not real. He’d know if his best mate had been replaced. Whatever Paul’s been through has changed him though, and George can’t help but wonder if there was some truth to all the articles. Metaphorically, of course. Paul wasn’t dead. He would know.
George tugs on a sleep shirt and a pair of boxers, tossing his towel in the hamper before he shuts off the main light. He crawls into bed, allowing himself to relax finally, and he shuts off the lamp. His eyes shut, mostly calm in the dark. He ignores the tiny part of him screaming to check and make sure the window was locked. He was on the second floor. He was safe, and George fell asleep.
.
.
.
.
He opens his eyes, throat dry. He felt incredibly groggy, and when the only thing he sees is darkness it becomes clear that it’s still the middle of the night. He sighs softly, hand reaching up from under the covers to rub his eyes. He still felt tired enough that he could fall back asleep, and he turned to his side, eyes drooping before shutting, and he let out another small sigh.
And then another sigh came.
George hardly realizes it at first, it barely registers in his mind as something off. He was used to sleeping with the other lads, after all, sharing a room or even a bed, listening to their nightmares until he could fall asleep as well.. It was normal. However when his brain catches up to the sound of heavy breathing, it becomes apparent that this was not normal. Like fingers snapping, electricity shoots through his mind, and he feels himself freeze entirely.
He doesn’t open his eyes, terror pulsing through him at the idea of what he’d find. There was somebody breathing inches away from his face. His mind races, picturing eyes gleaming in the dark right at him, just waiting for him to awake. His fingers dig into the sheets beneath his blankets, trembling with adrenaline that he can’t do anything with. What to do? What could he do, what should he?
George keeps his breathing quiet, as quiet and as calm as he can. He hears the breathing beside him sync up, and then come closer. He tenses up as much as he can to prevent flinching back, he can feel a presence inches away from his face. The warmth of another person radiating off towards him, hitting his burning cheeks. He needs out. Was this– this stalker who had broken into his house armed? Did they know he was awake?
He forces himself to let go of his sheets, trying to twist onto his back as naturally as he can. He stays there, facing the ceiling for a while, and the breathing doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even falter for a moment, though now it’s further away. Not by much, only in his ear now. He shifts again, rolling onto his other side despite his nerves screaming at him to not face away from the threat. He was facing the door now, he just needed to run.
Just run. Reach the door, flip on the lights, and face whatever monster lurked beside his bed. Just run. Just run. Just–
“Georgie,” a voice cajoles, breathy and aroused, familiar though he can’t quite place it. George bolts at the sound, jerking into motion as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling against the ground before he gets up and drags himself to the lights. He flips the switch with hands shaking harder than a tree in a windstorm and whips around, eyes darting around rapidly to try and face the threat, but there was nothing. Nothing at all.
His closet door was cracked– the shadows had never seemed taller, creeping in around him. He fumbles for the first thing near him, his guitar, and holds it defensively in front of him. He could feel eyes on him, and it made his skin crawl.
“Hello?” comes his own voice, choked and meek. His hand lays on the doorknob, ready to run, but the doubt begins to sink in. Maybe it was just a nightmare. Sleep paralysis. Maybe he’s just tired, or had one too many drinks, he reasons desperately. His goosebumps don’t go away however, grip tight on the instrument. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, and he steps forward towards the closet.
George’s heart hammers in his chest, blood burning with the need to escape even as his hand reaches out to the doorknob. He inhales shakily, building the courage as quickly as he can. The voice had been a man's, he was fairly sure, but he’s on the second floor. Who could’ve gotten in? Why did they sound so familiar?
Maybe it’s all in his head. He clutches his guitar, hands trembling. He creeps towards the closet, building up the courage— he flings it open, taking in his clothing hanging up, and he enters briskly. He shoves aside the clothing frantically, looking for some person crouched down, trying to hide, but he quickly comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing. Nobody.
It’s difficult for George to leave the safety of the closet, the space he had checked and knew was safe. He doesn’t have a phone in his room to call for the police, and even then a lot could happen in the twenty minutes it took for them to make it out. He shoves open the curtains next, blood running cold when he finds the window cracked. He peers out, breathing heavily as he checks for any sort of ladder. Relief pangs in his chest when he finds that there was no ladder or rope. No plausible way for somebody to get inside.
George turns around finally, the one remaining spot there could be somebody. The bags beneath his eyes weigh heavy as he creeps towards the bed. He stares at the dark crack for a good minute, breathing shakily before he forces himself to lower down. He peeks under it at a distance, ready to spring up at any moment, a scream on the tip of his tongue even though nobody would hear him.
The feeling of complete and utter relief floods him when he finds the space empty– well, mostly empty. He frowns, nerves still aroused, yet slowly dissipating as he crawls closer and reaches out beneath the bed to the lump of what looked to be fabric underneath it. He reaches out, pulling it out into the light, and everything seems to freeze.
A bright blue hat lays in his quivering hands, Paul’s hat. It had been Paul’s voice, or not-Paul, something–
“AH!” George screams, caught off guard as a strong arm wraps around his waist, dragging his struggling form back as a cloth is pressed to his nose and mouth. He thrashes, tries to hit the stranger that reminds him so much of his Paulie. His eyes droop however, and he finally falls back asleep.