The Keeper Of The Light
Overhead the California sun blazed in the distance, skirting the wide blue horizon and painting the day with streamers of gold and bronze, a gaudy show of light and heat that was as beautiful as it was overpowering. It scorched the earth with gleeful malevolence and glittered brightly off of his Chevy's windshield, sending hard daggers of pain into his exhausted eyes.
Mike Hanlon sighed painfully as he contemplated the road upon which he was carefully, albeit purposefully treading. Almost every part of his mind still cognizant of his surroundings was screaming at him to turn his beat up old Chevy in the opposite direction and head as far away from Sunnydale California as he could get. Sometimes suburbia really was hell.
He was too damn old for this, too goddamn old. And tired. Damn the voices in his head. Damn whatever entity out there whom had gotten it's wires crossed and decided that 'HE' was somehow their man…To do what? What exactly was expected of him? What could he have to offer? He was nothing but a librarian for Christsakes! Unless the Powers needed him to translate the Dewey decimal system or shelve books they were putting all their metaphorical eggs in the wrong basket. One…Okay, two supernatural experiences in a lifetime do not a demon-slayer make.
Mike wasn't even sure if he was supposed to fight…or how he would even make a difference in the scheme of things. If Sunnydale already had a Slayer, he was superfluous-would in fact only get in the way. He had learned all about the Slayers and the Watcher's Council from his dreams… how Slayers were born and bred to fight all kinds of grisly monsters without breaking a sweat…Surely this particular monster would be no different, would it? If indeed the slayer couldn't handle this particular menace- this tide of unsurpassed evil he could feel breaking in the west then what good could one tired old man do?
Mike ran a shaky hand across his forehead trying to physically restrain his thoughts. For the first time in a very long time he wished he had been given more information about this situation. Because he certainly wasn't prepared for whatever was coming. Not that more visions would be welcome… but he damn well hated walking into this thing blind. He had no more idea of what he would do when he reached Sunnydale than he could explain why he was even going there.
Why was he needed at all? A surge of rebellion swept through his body at all of the unanswered questions. He was not a coward-but he had already known so much terror in his life. Why couldn't 'they' just leave him the hell alone? Whatever Power was manhandling him into this deadly situation could just go and kiss his ass as far as he was concerned. He owed it nothing. His debts had been paid with more than just a pound of flesh-his innocence as well.
Yet even as Mike felt these very valid and comforting feelings swirling around within his tired brain he knew it was too late to turn back now. He knew absolutely nothing for certain anymore except that this was real. Something out there…A higher power…God…Whatever appropriate label could be applied to the being that had 'chosen' him for this task existed. It was real and powerful beyond anything he had ever known. Something that invaded your dreams and whispered within the confines of your mind twenty- four hours a day was not something to be dallied with. By getting in his car and turning it westward he had accepted it's silent command. Turning back now would not only brand him a coward in his own eyes but would most likely condemn him to a hell worse than his own mind, or at the very least the forfeiture of his existence. But it was too late-he had accepted. He was bound now. Bound to this macabre adventure and to the thing that was compelling the motions of his body and mind. He was owned but perhaps in the owning he would finally find the two things he had searched so long and unsuccessfully for over the past thirty-five years. Redemption and the peace with which to enjoy it.
A shaky laugh startled Mike from his confusion and fatalistic wonder. It sounded so uncharacteristic, so profoundly out of place that it took him a moment to realize that he was indeed the only one in the vehicle and therefore that that sharp, cold sound had come from within his own chest. It was a realization he could have done without. The years had not been kind and they had cut a swathe through his soul deeper than the Atlantic was wide. A hardness had been born within him that left him feeling cold and used.
Mike was only forty-five years old but he felt like he had walked upon this earth for three times that number. He still found it hard to acclimate himself to all that he had seen, all that he would see. There was so much darkness coming. It was not something he could see or touch with his hands. But when he closed his eyes he could feel it, smell it and taste it wafting through the cool night air heavy as London smog. It was coming, building up strength and flexing its muscles. And if it found it's way into the daylight… into freedom…then Mike was terrified that not even God himself could stop it.
God. Mike bit back another one of those terrible, brittle laughs. After all he had suffered, his faith in a powerful benevolent maker had suffered near fatal wounds. But he had believed on principle; if nothing else. Mike still trusted in it because he had always accepted the inevitable…The idea that human beings needed to BELIEVE in something- anything. Faith was a powerful force, huge and all encompassing. It was the only way to survive in a world where madness and pain held the reigns. But today, when Mike needed his faith the most he could feel it dying inside of him with a ruthless finality. He was standing on the edge of a dark precipice and he was so afraid that he was going to fall. He didn't want to do this again…Not ever again…But here he was rushing forward into the jaws of the lion.
It was so unbearably stupid. Why was he doing this? Why?
Mike ran a shaky hand through his dark hair, pausing lightly at his temples where the hair had begun to gray over sixteen years before. There was a story there just below the surface, a path upon which he was afraid to tread but one that he could no longer seem to stay away from. It was like a cut aching to be reopened…Begging to bleed and the fingers of his memory were only too sharp and too hungry to take up the task. The end was near, if he could just stay awake long enough not to wrap his car around a tree. Or would that actually be a blessing now? Because if Mike was honest with himself, he had to admit that he wasn't just heading recklessly towards Sunnydale but probably to his own death as well. Because it was only when he questioned his own future that his 'Guardian' fell so very quickly and willfully silent.
It was truly ironic that all this transpired beneath the elegantly mottled blue skies and sunny exterior of southern California. It was hard to believe that such things as darkness and evil existed at all when faced with the uncompromising beauty and purity of the landscape. Used to freezing his ass off in early November Mike felt unaccustomed to the heavy heat and bright sunshine of the West Coast. He was not selfish enough to be ungrateful for the lovely weather that had so far cooperated with his otherwise uncomfortable drive but a part of him missed the telltale signs of autumn that would have been so clear had he been heading east rather than west. He wanted to go home, even though he no longer knew if such a place existed. Who would have thought the road to hell would be so warm and well paved?
But really what had he expected? Hellfire and brimstone? Perhaps in a child's fairytale but in the 'real world' evil hid it's face and played well with others. At least until poised to sink it's knife into your back or it's teeth into your throat. Mike should not have been so surprised that clear skies and the never-ending passage of time and blacktop had marked the last two days of his journey. Yet the sunlight was not strong enough to penetrate the chill which had taken up permanent residence inside of his heart. Living in a constant state of anxiety and fear would test even the strongest of nerves.
As Mike's dark eyes searched the road ahead of him he felt resignation devour his confusion. He had no choice. "Father, if though be willing, remove this cup from me: Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done." The words rolled off his tongue smoothly pulled from a memory of a time when he had been pure and full of hope… Now the words spoke of fear and a terror that was waiting just below the surface. Was he really willing to die for a God in whom he no longer believed?
He wasn't so sure he wanted to find out.
As time passed as slowly and boredom set in Mike felt his mind pulled back to the past, memories and fears he'd tried desperately to escape set upon him a hunger he could no longer deny. Perhaps in order to beat the horror of the future he needed to confront the horror of his past. The true journey had begun over three decades before, in a small town in the State of Maine. A town that despite it's quaint façade was anything but normal. Beneath the sleepy, innocuous streets of that tiny Maine town an evil had slept…An evil darker than anything the 11 year old he had been had ever faced outside of a nightmare or a fairytale. Beneath the sleepy tranquility of Derry, there lived a murderous spirit…A monster that fed on pain and fear.
A monster that could travel soundlessly, stealthily and quicker than a human heartbeat. It knew your secrets…No mind was safe, nothing could ever be hidden from It, and there was no longer any safe place left to hide. It could see it's victim's darkest fears and used those fears to destroy them. It killed for food but it also killed for fun-for the stark pleasure of twisting bones and rending flesh. It awoke every thirty years in order to feed; to replenish It's energy. The prey consisted of the most vulnerable of victims. The children of Derry-or anyone weak or unlucky enough to cross It's path. Death and fear followed in It's wake until one summer when seven children had come together to fight the evil…To fight for their lives and for each other.
He had been one of those children.
And somehow he had survived It's tender mercies not just once but countless times. His childhood memories consisted of running from homicidal bullies, to guerrilla warfare against the devil itself.
Somehow the sharp tentacles of fear that had descended upon himself and his friends that summer had been pushed aside and they had stood against it. Mike felt a hard smile tease his lips. If it had been a different time or place, or perhaps if he had been a different man he could find a higher meaning in the memories of his childhood and their stand against the Clown. But he was not. He could find no higher significance. Mike's faith in God was not renewed…The same thing that had always nagged at him came to the fore. How could a benevolent maker, a caring patriarchal father allow innocent children to face the trials they had been subjected to that summer? Blood, death, and pain. A brutal shattering of innocence and the beginning of a darkness that would swallow the rest of his life without reprieve.
Insanity. If there was a God, where was he? And what the hell did he care? Mike now saw God as an omnipotent chess-player; manipulating his pawns upon the chessboard of reality paying no mind to whom died. Who suffered as he played his never-ending game with infinite moves and a constantly renewing source of game-pieces.
That had marked the beginning. In that time and in that place Mike Hanlon had taken the first steps upon a journey that would age him before his time. Which would obliterate his faith and open his eyes to a brand new world-the world that lived below the quiet suburban brightness of the one he had always known. A world where darkness lived side by side with the light; where magic and fairytale heroes fought for domination, a world in which the angels and demons fought, and were unrecognizable one from the other. Things were no longer cut and dried, there was no longer black or white. Just an infinite variety of grays that leached the world of color and safety. The 'real' world was never so dangerous as the one that hid beneath it.
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He had been only 11 years old that summer they had finally faced the evil that fed on Derry. Too young to grow old so damn fast. In his darkest nightmares he walked through the Derry sewers every night. Alone and scared half to death. Always alone, now. The lucky seven had been cut down to five and gone their separate ways- again. Never to reunite. Never to remember the bonds of friendship and terror that had bound them together for almost thirty years.
Mike would always remember- lately the memories were all he had left besides nightmares to keep him company. Marching brazenly into the sewers of their small town – despite the terror that shook their knees and choked their throats. Seven children facing their fears and the demons that had haunted their dreams. They had faced death hiding behind the face of a Clown…Innocence hiding evil…Laughter become slaughter…He had never feared anything as much as It in his entire life. Unfortunately he had a feeling that would soon change.
Mike rubbed a dark hand tiredly over his aching eyes. Seven kids holding the fate of the world or at least their town in their hands. Jesus…and they'd done it. They'd prevailed against the darkness under Derry…Not once but twice. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the logistics of it all. That they'd been pulled together at all was a miracle. Seven more different people he could not imagine…perhaps it had been fate after all that had brought them together-seven misfits on the fringes destined to save the world. Or at least the children of Derry…the same children who had mocked and scorned them nicknaming them 'the loser's club'.
He could still remember that morning after the battle as they'd stood trembling in the cooling Derry sunshine regarding It's lair- they'd made a promise to each other, to themselves. Promises to return to this same spot and destroy IT-if the deadly clown should ever rise again.
Over the next year the lucky seven were whittled down to one. The lucky ones moved away from the evil that was Derry. But Mike had stayed behind and he still remembered with pride how they had all called him their lighthouse keeper. The guiding light calling them home.
But the six, who escaped It and Derry's evil grasp, rose to prominence and privilege, realizing all their dreams. The price for fame had been their memories. Memories of the best friends they had ever made, of love, pain and horror all washed away. They forgot each other-their experiences in Derry and their promise as the years moved on and their stars rose.
But Mike had never been blessed with the balm of amnesia. He was for some reason not allowed to forget. He had written it all down-every aspect of their 'adventures.' It was the only way he had ever found of coping with all he'd seen. He was their recorder-keeper…The keeper of the light. He remembered everything as if it happened yesterday, he was bound to remember their promise…unable to leave and unable to forget. He was a simple man, with a simple life but it had suited him. Until it had begun all over again. When the murders and disappearances had begun again five years ago, almost thirty years after that summer he had called the lucky six home again to face their darkest fears and IT…Pennywise the dancing clown.
Almost laughable that name…almost makes you want to smile. But for one who has seen it and been touched by it's evil-well, then you might think that maybe Stan had the right idea when he slit his wrists rather than coming back to face It. Mike felt a chill run down his spine, as the corpses began to crawl out of their coffins, running their cold, angry fingers up and down his spine.
He had been virtually terrified of clowns ever since. He could still remember every detail as if it was yesterday…The Clown's face was imprinted upon his memory. The stark white face, with two tufts of orange hair above the ears, the red smile that had absolutely nothing to do with mirth and the Adriatic blue eyes. Eyes that changed to gold-eyes that would have been beautiful if not for the emptiness and evil that glittered maliciously from within. And then there was the ivory sharpness of It's teeth, the tiny points sharpened to razors.
But the others came back pulled by some force that they could not deny-a siren's song so strong it gave them the strength to break the shackles that had restrained them for so long. Then despite It's wicked taunts; their tears and doubts they had all walked back down into the sewers. Back into the Clown's lair and they had destroyed the monster feeding upon Derry once and for all.
At least that's what Mike firmly believed…until now. He had been absent that day when the last five members of the group had gone down into the sewers; he'd been in the hospital recuperating from an attack by one of the clown's human followers.
All Mike had ever had to go on was what the others told him. He had always believed it was true, that It was dead-because his memory of those horrifying events had already begun to fall away less than a day after that final confrontation. It felt just as the others had described it; a mist rising within his mind and obscuring everything. Soon the only reason he could remember anything at all was because of the written journal he'd kept of the events. He'd written everything down-from the first meeting to the last…He never knew where the idea had come from but it had been some strange compulsion, a need almost to keep a record of all that had occurred. Some part of him had screamed that someone-anyone-needed to remember.
After his memory began to fade, the force field, which had held him in Derry, disappeared. It seemed the lighthouse keeper was now finally being set free. It felt as though a great weight was lifted from his back and Mike wasted no time in getting the hell out of Dodge…or Derry as the case may be. At first he wandered around Maine; never really stopping anywhere for any length of time, working odd jobs when he ran out of money and sleeping in his car.
Then he moved on crossing into New Hampshire and then New York…there were no cryptic dreams back then. No, just solitude and pretty scenery to distract his mind. Then a year ago he'd finally decided to settle down in Boulder, Colorado. Mike had even found a job at the local library; had rented an apartment and was just beginning to feel like he was a part of the world again.
Until one week later when he was awoken from a horrific nightmare in which he was being devoured whole by sharp teeth and evil blue eyes-to the realization that his memory was back in full-force. He remembered everything…Everything. And Mike knew in his soul that darkness was coming and that this time he would be facing it alone.
Once his memory returned, the dreams came with more regularity. At first they were just odd-then slightly scary. After months of believing he was going insane Mike stopped fighting the dreams and listened to what they had to say. They consisted of horrifying visions of death and devastation-and a calm voice that was soothing and incredibly annoying at the same time.
That voice told him things-It said it was preparing him for 'things to come.' Suddenly all of the illusions of the world around him were smashed - a hammer connecting with a windowpane and shattering it utterly.
Now the world was different.
Monsters, demons and magic existed for Mike. Evil was not just some crazy notion made up by one's parents and the Church to scare one straight-they were real, they existed. Despite everything Mike Hanlon had already seen this was a crushing blow, he wanted normalcy. He wanted 'the not knowing' back. Mike had spent thirty years chained to a reality he had been terrified of-four years of feeling safe in his own skin, of being happy wasn't anywhere near long enough.
But there was no going back. Once something was known, there's no way to 'unknow' it.
Mike realized there was a reason why he alone had been left behind in Derry. Why the others had been allowed to leave and make lives for themselves-while he could not. The voice told him that he was special. That there were plans for him that he could not even imagine. That he was needed-he was chosen to know-because he could make a difference. Mike was strong…He was the heart…Hope, memory and faith. Mike was truly the Lighthouse keeper. He would make a difference.
Now, he found himself knowing things he had no business knowing…Things just seemed to pop into his mind of their own accord- thoughts and emotions, sometimes ideas. Mike knew something was guiding him, helping, giving him hints and pushes in the right direction. That it always had been that way. Suddenly Mike had answers to questions that he had never even known he had. Answers to questions like why for the last three years he had been scouring flea markets, antique shops and yard sales for anything made of pure silver. But the question he longed to have answered the most was greeted with nothing but silence- Why him?
Two months after the dreams changed he had taken every piece of silver he'd been able to find, beg, borrow or steal to a little shop downtown where he'd commissioned the creation of some very useful trinkets. Bullets and blades-silver was all the rage in hell nowadays. Apparently the metal was the accessory of choice for the fashionable demon hunter. Beginning on that night Mike slept with one dagger beneath his pillow and when the nightmares ripped through his exhausted mind, all it took was a touch of the cool metal to ease his fears.
Now Mike found that he could find no peace unless he slept with a dagger beneath his pillow every night-and traveled with one close at hand every day. He was getting nearer to his destination's end with every mile eaten up by his Lumina's nearly bald tires. Of course Mike knew that reaching his destination would only be the beginning of his journey not the end- things would get worse before they got better.
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With a relieved sigh, Mike noted a rest stop sign leading off of the freeway and quickly pulled into the exit lane. He was absolutely famished and would at the moment cheerfully kill a man for a cup of good, strong coffee- emphasis on the word strong. Although he needed more caffeine like he needed another hole in the head, as it was he probably wouldn't sleep tonight. Which on further examination he just couldn't manage to convince himself was a bad thing.
Without further ado Mike pulled into a parking space out back of the gas station/café, and switched off the ignition giving his aging rust bucket some much-deserved downtime. After a long day of driving his body began to complain even before he'd put the car into park. He was so tense that the mere idea of attempting to get out of the car hurt.
With real trepidation Mike unfolded his tall frame from the driver's seat- stretching widely, he felt more than heard the vertebrae popping and cracking as bones shifted back into alignment. He found himself eyeing the rough brick building with hope. Mike could already feel his arteries clogging and hardening from thirty paces- greasy foods, black coffee- maybe there was a God afterall. Shoving his wallet into his jeans pocket, Mike locked the car and headed towards the first real food he'd had in days.
The graying middle aged waitress smiled hurriedly at Mike as he slid into a booth near the counter. "What can I get you, Honey?" she smacked her gum as she drawled.
"Coffee, and the breakfast special with eggs over easy," Mike smiled wearily, "And a newspaper if you've got one."
Pointing towards a stack near the door the waitress set a mug down on the table and filled it with the black sludge the diner called coffee. "Right over there, Honey. Feel free to help yourself."
Mike stood once more forcing his traitorous muscles to obey his will and slowly made his way to the stack of papers. Grabbing the one on the top of the pile, he slowly weaved back to his spot and his oil – errr… coffee. Not bothering to add cream or sugar Mike took a long sip from the mug and stared blankly into space as an indulgent grin crossed his face- Momentarily breaking up the storm brewing in his dark eyes. For a moment he allowed himself to savor the normalcy of the moment.
He set the mug down and drew in a deep breath before lowering his eyes to the front page of the paper, which declared emphatically: "Eighth Victim Found in Small Town-Ninth feared Missing!" The smaller print below sank the last of Mike's hopes that he really didn't have to be there now, "Vicious Serial Killer Believed to be preying on Sunnydale's Residents…"
The words ran together as Mike read on transfixed by the rash of disappearances in the small Los Angeles bedroom community. As the waitress returned with his order Mike turned his eyes to her, "Excuse me? How far is Sunnydale from here?"
Blue eyes measured him for a beat before she pointed westwards, " About an hour and a half that way. But if you don't mind me saying, Son – that's not a very good idea. Sunnydale's real strange. Real strange." She paused anxiously taking a steadying breath. Mike sent a cursory look towards the tag on her blouse, which read 'Anna' in overly large print. "People go there and they don't come back. And now…" Anna's wide blue eyes took on a haunted cast and drifted towards the paper spread out before him, "Now you got nine more reasons spelled out in black and white-" A sudden grin twisted Anna's once pretty face into a momentary flash of true beauty… "Or red as the case may be- telling you to stay away. Sunnydale is a bad, bad place. It's haunted…Stay as far away from it as you can, boy. If you have to go that way, drive around it." She met his eyes squarely and then gestured again to the paper, "That's the closest you'll ever get to hell on earth, Hanlon."
"You have no idea how right you are," Mike muttered beneath his breath, frowning as the woman shook her head and turned away from him in a daze. Just what he needed at the break of dawn- while running on no sleep- maudlin and rather cryptic ramblings. Lovely. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and followed Anna through the morning rush with his eyes – but their tete a tete seemed to be over. With his own headshake Mike turned back to the table, then attacked what he figured could very well be his last meal.
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It was cold- too cold for a balmy California night. It had rained this morning and for the last six days- any minute now he expected Giles to bring out the plans for the ark. But Giles wasn't here and the ground was drier than the Sahara in August. And it was daylight- very early at that and he was standing in front of their old house on St. Joseph's street. Out on the front sidewalk where they used to play. The concrete was a mass of scribbling and Julie's pink chalks lay abandoned at his feet.
Nononononononononono…wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!
He could feel the panic welling up inside him. This dream never boded well for him. He knew it by heart and it always ended the same. He should know it well he'd visited it often in the last fifteen years. And no matter how many books he read- that lucid dreaming shit never worked. He was always stuck- he had to watch it play through till the end- and he always woke up screaming. In the cold light of day he never remembered the dream or her but at night- or at least whenever the dream came to him he greeted her like a beloved stranger and then he watched her die again and again.
He felt her presence and turned to meet her. She still had wide brown eyes and dark brown hair parted into pigtails with a smile that rivaled that of the hot July sun drifting high above. Julia Harris had always been a beauty; her mother's pride and joy and the apple of her daddy's eye. After…after that day, he'd never been enough. He' hadn't measured up before her death but after he'd only been a reminder of all they'd lost because she'd died protecting him. Because she was the best big sister ever to grace this world.
She met his eyes and then turned towards the backyard. In the moment it took to follow her with his eyes he had changed places- she was behind him now and he was in the backyard. Standing at the edge of a pool…An empty, dead pool. Drained of water so daddy could fix the crack in the cement by the drain. His hand was tingling- so he looked down. In his hand he held a red, white and blue rubber ball…so rubbery and bouncy. In a ghost echo he heard a voice calling out "Don't play near the pool, Lexy. Daddy said it's bad!" Without conscious volition his hand opened up and the ball he'd held so tightly a moment before bounced and rolled straight into the pool and toward the drain. This wasn't how it happened- he knew that. Even though the memories were buried so deep in his subconscious he'd forget he even had a sister by tomorrow morning – in the here and now he remembered everything. He hadn't been so close and she, she'd been on the other side of the house playing with her doll…Not standing at his side with her dead eyes and limp ponytails- dressed in the frilly red dress they'd buried her in. "Jul! Look what I can do!"
"No Lexy! Not near the pool!" He could still hear her fear. Was it fear of their father who treated him like he was worse than shit- and her like she was the second coming- or had she known? Had she had some inkling of what was down there…What was waiting for them?
He turned to her in his dream stupor but her eyes stayed straight ahead- never wavering locked on that dark hole near the drain. He reached out, laying his hand on her cold dead wrist… 'So, sorry, Jules. So sorry, I wished you dead. Never ever meant it.' Her eyes turned suddenly as if she heard his silent plea and he wished again that he'd been struck blind. Half her face was gone, her right arm was just a bloody stump and he could see her brain where scalp and hair hung in a flap. Her eyes were still bluer than a summer sky but dead as the grave she'd been buried in for the last fifteen years. She smiled exposing broken teeth and bloody lips then turned back towards the drain-watch.
There were no sounds- nothing. It was as if time had stopped and every living creature had lost its voice…or was too afraid to speak. Except for her… 'Lexxxxyyy'
Was all he could hear- except it wasn't her. She was still standing beside him…He felt his fear spike up- shoving his heart into his throat as his stomach dropped.
Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!
"Lexxxy" It was coming from the drain. So soft and soothing it reminded him of a purr…calling, cajoling but he knew like he knew nothing else that it was not soothing, it offered no peace – just crushed bones, blunt force trauma and a closed casket. In that way lies madness and death- except this was a dream. He wasn't five years old anymore he didn't have to go. Except his traitorous feet still could not ignore that call …Already heading down the steps no matter how fiercely his head fought against it. There was blood around the drain, almost up to the top of his tiny shoes. Panic was boiling…because this was new, the blood was new. This was a nightmare that had been inflicted upon him for years- he knew it inside and out- adding new shit now was just not in the program.
He knew the face he'd see as he looked into that hole. The smiling, happy visage of a clown. So jolly and warm- everybody loves clowns, right? Just as predicted that's what he saw- blue eyes, white face, red hair, red nose and even redder mouth. He'd loved clowns as a kid. Took him awhile to realize that's why it appeared to him in that form. It rifled through your mind and used what you loved against you. To put you at ease and lull you into it's web.
"Hellooo Alexander! How are you on this fine day?" It purred. Eyes a hungry, hungry blue. He felt Julie standing behind him- it gave him the creeps.
This time however, he didn't follow the script and it wasn't a child's voice that came from his mouth but that of a man. " Pretty shitty actually. Can we speed the carnage and horror up so I can get the hell out of here? Please."
"Lexy…" from behind him, closer- she'd never actually spoken before. Strong arms came around him as she pulled him into her arms, crushing his ribs. "That's not very polite, Shrimp!" Julie gurgled as she leaned her head against his- rubbing her broken head and blood slicked skin against his hair. Shit, all kinds of newness tonight. Talking and touching and blood.
"Please, Jules…"
"Please, what Jules? Please die for me? Please save my worthless hide so I can run from one dead-end to the next. Please, die screaming so I can be a useless loser and no one can call me on it because there's no one to compare me to? What do you want, Lexy. You took my life – now you want my forgiveness too…It'll be a cold day in hell, shrimp! Actually that's a good idea, I think I'll take you there now. After all it's only polite – I have been saving you a seat for fifteen years."
Then he was being shoved toward the cracked concrete and that huge gaping maw of a hole- huge by five-year-old standards anyway…shoved toward the dirt, the muck and the clown. Razor sharp claws sliced into his arm as the beast grabbed and pulled him forwards…Then it wasn't a clown anymore, it was Julie's eyes he looked into, as her mouth opened to receive him. Then he was screaming, …And then he was sitting bolt upright in bed covered in sweat and tears and howling as strong cool arms tried desperately to wrap around him. He tried to fight but he was weak and they were persistent. Soon a soothing voice joined the arms trying to calm him and the terrified panic eased up a little. At least enough so he could recognize his rescuer – Spike. What a joke and a half- The bleached blonde gnat suddenly his knight in shining leather. Christ, his life was whacked.
"Easy, Pet. Just simmer down now. Take deep breaths…Just breathe." And just like that Xander found himself calming down enough to laugh at the irony of a vampire coaching him to breathe- when Spike's next words almost stopped his breath completely.
"Pet, Who's Jules?"
Overhead the California sun blazed in the distance, skirting the wide blue horizon and painting the day with streamers of gold and bronze, a gaudy show of light and heat that was as beautiful as it was overpowering. It scorched the earth with gleeful malevolence and glittered brightly off of his Chevy's windshield, sending hard daggers of pain into his exhausted eyes.
Mike Hanlon sighed painfully as he contemplated the road upon which he was carefully, albeit purposefully treading. Almost every part of his mind still cognizant of his surroundings was screaming at him to turn his beat up old Chevy in the opposite direction and head as far away from Sunnydale California as he could get. Sometimes suburbia really was hell.
He was too damn old for this, too goddamn old. And tired. Damn the voices in his head. Damn whatever entity out there whom had gotten it's wires crossed and decided that 'HE' was somehow their man…To do what? What exactly was expected of him? What could he have to offer? He was nothing but a librarian for Christsakes! Unless the Powers needed him to translate the Dewey decimal system or shelve books they were putting all their metaphorical eggs in the wrong basket. One…Okay, two supernatural experiences in a lifetime do not a demon-slayer make.
Mike wasn't even sure if he was supposed to fight…or how he would even make a difference in the scheme of things. If Sunnydale already had a Slayer, he was superfluous-would in fact only get in the way. He had learned all about the Slayers and the Watcher's Council from his dreams… how Slayers were born and bred to fight all kinds of grisly monsters without breaking a sweat…Surely this particular monster would be no different, would it? If indeed the slayer couldn't handle this particular menace- this tide of unsurpassed evil he could feel breaking in the west then what good could one tired old man do?
Mike ran a shaky hand across his forehead trying to physically restrain his thoughts. For the first time in a very long time he wished he had been given more information about this situation. Because he certainly wasn't prepared for whatever was coming. Not that more visions would be welcome… but he damn well hated walking into this thing blind. He had no more idea of what he would do when he reached Sunnydale than he could explain why he was even going there.
Why was he needed at all? A surge of rebellion swept through his body at all of the unanswered questions. He was not a coward-but he had already known so much terror in his life. Why couldn't 'they' just leave him the hell alone? Whatever Power was manhandling him into this deadly situation could just go and kiss his ass as far as he was concerned. He owed it nothing. His debts had been paid with more than just a pound of flesh-his innocence as well.
Yet even as Mike felt these very valid and comforting feelings swirling around within his tired brain he knew it was too late to turn back now. He knew absolutely nothing for certain anymore except that this was real. Something out there…A higher power…God…Whatever appropriate label could be applied to the being that had 'chosen' him for this task existed. It was real and powerful beyond anything he had ever known. Something that invaded your dreams and whispered within the confines of your mind twenty- four hours a day was not something to be dallied with. By getting in his car and turning it westward he had accepted it's silent command. Turning back now would not only brand him a coward in his own eyes but would most likely condemn him to a hell worse than his own mind, or at the very least the forfeiture of his existence. But it was too late-he had accepted. He was bound now. Bound to this macabre adventure and to the thing that was compelling the motions of his body and mind. He was owned but perhaps in the owning he would finally find the two things he had searched so long and unsuccessfully for over the past thirty-five years. Redemption and the peace with which to enjoy it.
A shaky laugh startled Mike from his confusion and fatalistic wonder. It sounded so uncharacteristic, so profoundly out of place that it took him a moment to realize that he was indeed the only one in the vehicle and therefore that that sharp, cold sound had come from within his own chest. It was a realization he could have done without. The years had not been kind and they had cut a swathe through his soul deeper than the Atlantic was wide. A hardness had been born within him that left him feeling cold and used.
Mike was only forty-five years old but he felt like he had walked upon this earth for three times that number. He still found it hard to acclimate himself to all that he had seen, all that he would see. There was so much darkness coming. It was not something he could see or touch with his hands. But when he closed his eyes he could feel it, smell it and taste it wafting through the cool night air heavy as London smog. It was coming, building up strength and flexing its muscles. And if it found it's way into the daylight… into freedom…then Mike was terrified that not even God himself could stop it.
God. Mike bit back another one of those terrible, brittle laughs. After all he had suffered, his faith in a powerful benevolent maker had suffered near fatal wounds. But he had believed on principle; if nothing else. Mike still trusted in it because he had always accepted the inevitable…The idea that human beings needed to BELIEVE in something- anything. Faith was a powerful force, huge and all encompassing. It was the only way to survive in a world where madness and pain held the reigns. But today, when Mike needed his faith the most he could feel it dying inside of him with a ruthless finality. He was standing on the edge of a dark precipice and he was so afraid that he was going to fall. He didn't want to do this again…Not ever again…But here he was rushing forward into the jaws of the lion.
It was so unbearably stupid. Why was he doing this? Why?
Mike ran a shaky hand through his dark hair, pausing lightly at his temples where the hair had begun to gray over sixteen years before. There was a story there just below the surface, a path upon which he was afraid to tread but one that he could no longer seem to stay away from. It was like a cut aching to be reopened…Begging to bleed and the fingers of his memory were only too sharp and too hungry to take up the task. The end was near, if he could just stay awake long enough not to wrap his car around a tree. Or would that actually be a blessing now? Because if Mike was honest with himself, he had to admit that he wasn't just heading recklessly towards Sunnydale but probably to his own death as well. Because it was only when he questioned his own future that his 'Guardian' fell so very quickly and willfully silent.
It was truly ironic that all this transpired beneath the elegantly mottled blue skies and sunny exterior of southern California. It was hard to believe that such things as darkness and evil existed at all when faced with the uncompromising beauty and purity of the landscape. Used to freezing his ass off in early November Mike felt unaccustomed to the heavy heat and bright sunshine of the West Coast. He was not selfish enough to be ungrateful for the lovely weather that had so far cooperated with his otherwise uncomfortable drive but a part of him missed the telltale signs of autumn that would have been so clear had he been heading east rather than west. He wanted to go home, even though he no longer knew if such a place existed. Who would have thought the road to hell would be so warm and well paved?
But really what had he expected? Hellfire and brimstone? Perhaps in a child's fairytale but in the 'real world' evil hid it's face and played well with others. At least until poised to sink it's knife into your back or it's teeth into your throat. Mike should not have been so surprised that clear skies and the never-ending passage of time and blacktop had marked the last two days of his journey. Yet the sunlight was not strong enough to penetrate the chill which had taken up permanent residence inside of his heart. Living in a constant state of anxiety and fear would test even the strongest of nerves.
As Mike's dark eyes searched the road ahead of him he felt resignation devour his confusion. He had no choice. "Father, if though be willing, remove this cup from me: Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done." The words rolled off his tongue smoothly pulled from a memory of a time when he had been pure and full of hope… Now the words spoke of fear and a terror that was waiting just below the surface. Was he really willing to die for a God in whom he no longer believed?
He wasn't so sure he wanted to find out.
As time passed as slowly and boredom set in Mike felt his mind pulled back to the past, memories and fears he'd tried desperately to escape set upon him a hunger he could no longer deny. Perhaps in order to beat the horror of the future he needed to confront the horror of his past. The true journey had begun over three decades before, in a small town in the State of Maine. A town that despite it's quaint façade was anything but normal. Beneath the sleepy, innocuous streets of that tiny Maine town an evil had slept…An evil darker than anything the 11 year old he had been had ever faced outside of a nightmare or a fairytale. Beneath the sleepy tranquility of Derry, there lived a murderous spirit…A monster that fed on pain and fear.
A monster that could travel soundlessly, stealthily and quicker than a human heartbeat. It knew your secrets…No mind was safe, nothing could ever be hidden from It, and there was no longer any safe place left to hide. It could see it's victim's darkest fears and used those fears to destroy them. It killed for food but it also killed for fun-for the stark pleasure of twisting bones and rending flesh. It awoke every thirty years in order to feed; to replenish It's energy. The prey consisted of the most vulnerable of victims. The children of Derry-or anyone weak or unlucky enough to cross It's path. Death and fear followed in It's wake until one summer when seven children had come together to fight the evil…To fight for their lives and for each other.
He had been one of those children.
And somehow he had survived It's tender mercies not just once but countless times. His childhood memories consisted of running from homicidal bullies, to guerrilla warfare against the devil itself.
Somehow the sharp tentacles of fear that had descended upon himself and his friends that summer had been pushed aside and they had stood against it. Mike felt a hard smile tease his lips. If it had been a different time or place, or perhaps if he had been a different man he could find a higher meaning in the memories of his childhood and their stand against the Clown. But he was not. He could find no higher significance. Mike's faith in God was not renewed…The same thing that had always nagged at him came to the fore. How could a benevolent maker, a caring patriarchal father allow innocent children to face the trials they had been subjected to that summer? Blood, death, and pain. A brutal shattering of innocence and the beginning of a darkness that would swallow the rest of his life without reprieve.
Insanity. If there was a God, where was he? And what the hell did he care? Mike now saw God as an omnipotent chess-player; manipulating his pawns upon the chessboard of reality paying no mind to whom died. Who suffered as he played his never-ending game with infinite moves and a constantly renewing source of game-pieces.
That had marked the beginning. In that time and in that place Mike Hanlon had taken the first steps upon a journey that would age him before his time. Which would obliterate his faith and open his eyes to a brand new world-the world that lived below the quiet suburban brightness of the one he had always known. A world where darkness lived side by side with the light; where magic and fairytale heroes fought for domination, a world in which the angels and demons fought, and were unrecognizable one from the other. Things were no longer cut and dried, there was no longer black or white. Just an infinite variety of grays that leached the world of color and safety. The 'real' world was never so dangerous as the one that hid beneath it.
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He had been only 11 years old that summer they had finally faced the evil that fed on Derry. Too young to grow old so damn fast. In his darkest nightmares he walked through the Derry sewers every night. Alone and scared half to death. Always alone, now. The lucky seven had been cut down to five and gone their separate ways- again. Never to reunite. Never to remember the bonds of friendship and terror that had bound them together for almost thirty years.
Mike would always remember- lately the memories were all he had left besides nightmares to keep him company. Marching brazenly into the sewers of their small town – despite the terror that shook their knees and choked their throats. Seven children facing their fears and the demons that had haunted their dreams. They had faced death hiding behind the face of a Clown…Innocence hiding evil…Laughter become slaughter…He had never feared anything as much as It in his entire life. Unfortunately he had a feeling that would soon change.
Mike rubbed a dark hand tiredly over his aching eyes. Seven kids holding the fate of the world or at least their town in their hands. Jesus…and they'd done it. They'd prevailed against the darkness under Derry…Not once but twice. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the logistics of it all. That they'd been pulled together at all was a miracle. Seven more different people he could not imagine…perhaps it had been fate after all that had brought them together-seven misfits on the fringes destined to save the world. Or at least the children of Derry…the same children who had mocked and scorned them nicknaming them 'the loser's club'.
He could still remember that morning after the battle as they'd stood trembling in the cooling Derry sunshine regarding It's lair- they'd made a promise to each other, to themselves. Promises to return to this same spot and destroy IT-if the deadly clown should ever rise again.
Over the next year the lucky seven were whittled down to one. The lucky ones moved away from the evil that was Derry. But Mike had stayed behind and he still remembered with pride how they had all called him their lighthouse keeper. The guiding light calling them home.
But the six, who escaped It and Derry's evil grasp, rose to prominence and privilege, realizing all their dreams. The price for fame had been their memories. Memories of the best friends they had ever made, of love, pain and horror all washed away. They forgot each other-their experiences in Derry and their promise as the years moved on and their stars rose.
But Mike had never been blessed with the balm of amnesia. He was for some reason not allowed to forget. He had written it all down-every aspect of their 'adventures.' It was the only way he had ever found of coping with all he'd seen. He was their recorder-keeper…The keeper of the light. He remembered everything as if it happened yesterday, he was bound to remember their promise…unable to leave and unable to forget. He was a simple man, with a simple life but it had suited him. Until it had begun all over again. When the murders and disappearances had begun again five years ago, almost thirty years after that summer he had called the lucky six home again to face their darkest fears and IT…Pennywise the dancing clown.
Almost laughable that name…almost makes you want to smile. But for one who has seen it and been touched by it's evil-well, then you might think that maybe Stan had the right idea when he slit his wrists rather than coming back to face It. Mike felt a chill run down his spine, as the corpses began to crawl out of their coffins, running their cold, angry fingers up and down his spine.
He had been virtually terrified of clowns ever since. He could still remember every detail as if it was yesterday…The Clown's face was imprinted upon his memory. The stark white face, with two tufts of orange hair above the ears, the red smile that had absolutely nothing to do with mirth and the Adriatic blue eyes. Eyes that changed to gold-eyes that would have been beautiful if not for the emptiness and evil that glittered maliciously from within. And then there was the ivory sharpness of It's teeth, the tiny points sharpened to razors.
But the others came back pulled by some force that they could not deny-a siren's song so strong it gave them the strength to break the shackles that had restrained them for so long. Then despite It's wicked taunts; their tears and doubts they had all walked back down into the sewers. Back into the Clown's lair and they had destroyed the monster feeding upon Derry once and for all.
At least that's what Mike firmly believed…until now. He had been absent that day when the last five members of the group had gone down into the sewers; he'd been in the hospital recuperating from an attack by one of the clown's human followers.
All Mike had ever had to go on was what the others told him. He had always believed it was true, that It was dead-because his memory of those horrifying events had already begun to fall away less than a day after that final confrontation. It felt just as the others had described it; a mist rising within his mind and obscuring everything. Soon the only reason he could remember anything at all was because of the written journal he'd kept of the events. He'd written everything down-from the first meeting to the last…He never knew where the idea had come from but it had been some strange compulsion, a need almost to keep a record of all that had occurred. Some part of him had screamed that someone-anyone-needed to remember.
After his memory began to fade, the force field, which had held him in Derry, disappeared. It seemed the lighthouse keeper was now finally being set free. It felt as though a great weight was lifted from his back and Mike wasted no time in getting the hell out of Dodge…or Derry as the case may be. At first he wandered around Maine; never really stopping anywhere for any length of time, working odd jobs when he ran out of money and sleeping in his car.
Then he moved on crossing into New Hampshire and then New York…there were no cryptic dreams back then. No, just solitude and pretty scenery to distract his mind. Then a year ago he'd finally decided to settle down in Boulder, Colorado. Mike had even found a job at the local library; had rented an apartment and was just beginning to feel like he was a part of the world again.
Until one week later when he was awoken from a horrific nightmare in which he was being devoured whole by sharp teeth and evil blue eyes-to the realization that his memory was back in full-force. He remembered everything…Everything. And Mike knew in his soul that darkness was coming and that this time he would be facing it alone.
Once his memory returned, the dreams came with more regularity. At first they were just odd-then slightly scary. After months of believing he was going insane Mike stopped fighting the dreams and listened to what they had to say. They consisted of horrifying visions of death and devastation-and a calm voice that was soothing and incredibly annoying at the same time.
That voice told him things-It said it was preparing him for 'things to come.' Suddenly all of the illusions of the world around him were smashed - a hammer connecting with a windowpane and shattering it utterly.
Now the world was different.
Monsters, demons and magic existed for Mike. Evil was not just some crazy notion made up by one's parents and the Church to scare one straight-they were real, they existed. Despite everything Mike Hanlon had already seen this was a crushing blow, he wanted normalcy. He wanted 'the not knowing' back. Mike had spent thirty years chained to a reality he had been terrified of-four years of feeling safe in his own skin, of being happy wasn't anywhere near long enough.
But there was no going back. Once something was known, there's no way to 'unknow' it.
Mike realized there was a reason why he alone had been left behind in Derry. Why the others had been allowed to leave and make lives for themselves-while he could not. The voice told him that he was special. That there were plans for him that he could not even imagine. That he was needed-he was chosen to know-because he could make a difference. Mike was strong…He was the heart…Hope, memory and faith. Mike was truly the Lighthouse keeper. He would make a difference.
Now, he found himself knowing things he had no business knowing…Things just seemed to pop into his mind of their own accord- thoughts and emotions, sometimes ideas. Mike knew something was guiding him, helping, giving him hints and pushes in the right direction. That it always had been that way. Suddenly Mike had answers to questions that he had never even known he had. Answers to questions like why for the last three years he had been scouring flea markets, antique shops and yard sales for anything made of pure silver. But the question he longed to have answered the most was greeted with nothing but silence- Why him?
Two months after the dreams changed he had taken every piece of silver he'd been able to find, beg, borrow or steal to a little shop downtown where he'd commissioned the creation of some very useful trinkets. Bullets and blades-silver was all the rage in hell nowadays. Apparently the metal was the accessory of choice for the fashionable demon hunter. Beginning on that night Mike slept with one dagger beneath his pillow and when the nightmares ripped through his exhausted mind, all it took was a touch of the cool metal to ease his fears.
Now Mike found that he could find no peace unless he slept with a dagger beneath his pillow every night-and traveled with one close at hand every day. He was getting nearer to his destination's end with every mile eaten up by his Lumina's nearly bald tires. Of course Mike knew that reaching his destination would only be the beginning of his journey not the end- things would get worse before they got better.
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With a relieved sigh, Mike noted a rest stop sign leading off of the freeway and quickly pulled into the exit lane. He was absolutely famished and would at the moment cheerfully kill a man for a cup of good, strong coffee- emphasis on the word strong. Although he needed more caffeine like he needed another hole in the head, as it was he probably wouldn't sleep tonight. Which on further examination he just couldn't manage to convince himself was a bad thing.
Without further ado Mike pulled into a parking space out back of the gas station/café, and switched off the ignition giving his aging rust bucket some much-deserved downtime. After a long day of driving his body began to complain even before he'd put the car into park. He was so tense that the mere idea of attempting to get out of the car hurt.
With real trepidation Mike unfolded his tall frame from the driver's seat- stretching widely, he felt more than heard the vertebrae popping and cracking as bones shifted back into alignment. He found himself eyeing the rough brick building with hope. Mike could already feel his arteries clogging and hardening from thirty paces- greasy foods, black coffee- maybe there was a God afterall. Shoving his wallet into his jeans pocket, Mike locked the car and headed towards the first real food he'd had in days.
The graying middle aged waitress smiled hurriedly at Mike as he slid into a booth near the counter. "What can I get you, Honey?" she smacked her gum as she drawled.
"Coffee, and the breakfast special with eggs over easy," Mike smiled wearily, "And a newspaper if you've got one."
Pointing towards a stack near the door the waitress set a mug down on the table and filled it with the black sludge the diner called coffee. "Right over there, Honey. Feel free to help yourself."
Mike stood once more forcing his traitorous muscles to obey his will and slowly made his way to the stack of papers. Grabbing the one on the top of the pile, he slowly weaved back to his spot and his oil – errr… coffee. Not bothering to add cream or sugar Mike took a long sip from the mug and stared blankly into space as an indulgent grin crossed his face- Momentarily breaking up the storm brewing in his dark eyes. For a moment he allowed himself to savor the normalcy of the moment.
He set the mug down and drew in a deep breath before lowering his eyes to the front page of the paper, which declared emphatically: "Eighth Victim Found in Small Town-Ninth feared Missing!" The smaller print below sank the last of Mike's hopes that he really didn't have to be there now, "Vicious Serial Killer Believed to be preying on Sunnydale's Residents…"
The words ran together as Mike read on transfixed by the rash of disappearances in the small Los Angeles bedroom community. As the waitress returned with his order Mike turned his eyes to her, "Excuse me? How far is Sunnydale from here?"
Blue eyes measured him for a beat before she pointed westwards, " About an hour and a half that way. But if you don't mind me saying, Son – that's not a very good idea. Sunnydale's real strange. Real strange." She paused anxiously taking a steadying breath. Mike sent a cursory look towards the tag on her blouse, which read 'Anna' in overly large print. "People go there and they don't come back. And now…" Anna's wide blue eyes took on a haunted cast and drifted towards the paper spread out before him, "Now you got nine more reasons spelled out in black and white-" A sudden grin twisted Anna's once pretty face into a momentary flash of true beauty… "Or red as the case may be- telling you to stay away. Sunnydale is a bad, bad place. It's haunted…Stay as far away from it as you can, boy. If you have to go that way, drive around it." She met his eyes squarely and then gestured again to the paper, "That's the closest you'll ever get to hell on earth, Hanlon."
"You have no idea how right you are," Mike muttered beneath his breath, frowning as the woman shook her head and turned away from him in a daze. Just what he needed at the break of dawn- while running on no sleep- maudlin and rather cryptic ramblings. Lovely. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and followed Anna through the morning rush with his eyes – but their tete a tete seemed to be over. With his own headshake Mike turned back to the table, then attacked what he figured could very well be his last meal.
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It was cold- too cold for a balmy California night. It had rained this morning and for the last six days- any minute now he expected Giles to bring out the plans for the ark. But Giles wasn't here and the ground was drier than the Sahara in August. And it was daylight- very early at that and he was standing in front of their old house on St. Joseph's street. Out on the front sidewalk where they used to play. The concrete was a mass of scribbling and Julie's pink chalks lay abandoned at his feet.
Nononononononononono…wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!
He could feel the panic welling up inside him. This dream never boded well for him. He knew it by heart and it always ended the same. He should know it well he'd visited it often in the last fifteen years. And no matter how many books he read- that lucid dreaming shit never worked. He was always stuck- he had to watch it play through till the end- and he always woke up screaming. In the cold light of day he never remembered the dream or her but at night- or at least whenever the dream came to him he greeted her like a beloved stranger and then he watched her die again and again.
He felt her presence and turned to meet her. She still had wide brown eyes and dark brown hair parted into pigtails with a smile that rivaled that of the hot July sun drifting high above. Julia Harris had always been a beauty; her mother's pride and joy and the apple of her daddy's eye. After…after that day, he'd never been enough. He' hadn't measured up before her death but after he'd only been a reminder of all they'd lost because she'd died protecting him. Because she was the best big sister ever to grace this world.
She met his eyes and then turned towards the backyard. In the moment it took to follow her with his eyes he had changed places- she was behind him now and he was in the backyard. Standing at the edge of a pool…An empty, dead pool. Drained of water so daddy could fix the crack in the cement by the drain. His hand was tingling- so he looked down. In his hand he held a red, white and blue rubber ball…so rubbery and bouncy. In a ghost echo he heard a voice calling out "Don't play near the pool, Lexy. Daddy said it's bad!" Without conscious volition his hand opened up and the ball he'd held so tightly a moment before bounced and rolled straight into the pool and toward the drain. This wasn't how it happened- he knew that. Even though the memories were buried so deep in his subconscious he'd forget he even had a sister by tomorrow morning – in the here and now he remembered everything. He hadn't been so close and she, she'd been on the other side of the house playing with her doll…Not standing at his side with her dead eyes and limp ponytails- dressed in the frilly red dress they'd buried her in. "Jul! Look what I can do!"
"No Lexy! Not near the pool!" He could still hear her fear. Was it fear of their father who treated him like he was worse than shit- and her like she was the second coming- or had she known? Had she had some inkling of what was down there…What was waiting for them?
He turned to her in his dream stupor but her eyes stayed straight ahead- never wavering locked on that dark hole near the drain. He reached out, laying his hand on her cold dead wrist… 'So, sorry, Jules. So sorry, I wished you dead. Never ever meant it.' Her eyes turned suddenly as if she heard his silent plea and he wished again that he'd been struck blind. Half her face was gone, her right arm was just a bloody stump and he could see her brain where scalp and hair hung in a flap. Her eyes were still bluer than a summer sky but dead as the grave she'd been buried in for the last fifteen years. She smiled exposing broken teeth and bloody lips then turned back towards the drain-watch.
There were no sounds- nothing. It was as if time had stopped and every living creature had lost its voice…or was too afraid to speak. Except for her… 'Lexxxxyyy'
Was all he could hear- except it wasn't her. She was still standing beside him…He felt his fear spike up- shoving his heart into his throat as his stomach dropped.
Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!
"Lexxxy" It was coming from the drain. So soft and soothing it reminded him of a purr…calling, cajoling but he knew like he knew nothing else that it was not soothing, it offered no peace – just crushed bones, blunt force trauma and a closed casket. In that way lies madness and death- except this was a dream. He wasn't five years old anymore he didn't have to go. Except his traitorous feet still could not ignore that call …Already heading down the steps no matter how fiercely his head fought against it. There was blood around the drain, almost up to the top of his tiny shoes. Panic was boiling…because this was new, the blood was new. This was a nightmare that had been inflicted upon him for years- he knew it inside and out- adding new shit now was just not in the program.
He knew the face he'd see as he looked into that hole. The smiling, happy visage of a clown. So jolly and warm- everybody loves clowns, right? Just as predicted that's what he saw- blue eyes, white face, red hair, red nose and even redder mouth. He'd loved clowns as a kid. Took him awhile to realize that's why it appeared to him in that form. It rifled through your mind and used what you loved against you. To put you at ease and lull you into it's web.
"Hellooo Alexander! How are you on this fine day?" It purred. Eyes a hungry, hungry blue. He felt Julie standing behind him- it gave him the creeps.
This time however, he didn't follow the script and it wasn't a child's voice that came from his mouth but that of a man. " Pretty shitty actually. Can we speed the carnage and horror up so I can get the hell out of here? Please."
"Lexy…" from behind him, closer- she'd never actually spoken before. Strong arms came around him as she pulled him into her arms, crushing his ribs. "That's not very polite, Shrimp!" Julie gurgled as she leaned her head against his- rubbing her broken head and blood slicked skin against his hair. Shit, all kinds of newness tonight. Talking and touching and blood.
"Please, Jules…"
"Please, what Jules? Please die for me? Please save my worthless hide so I can run from one dead-end to the next. Please, die screaming so I can be a useless loser and no one can call me on it because there's no one to compare me to? What do you want, Lexy. You took my life – now you want my forgiveness too…It'll be a cold day in hell, shrimp! Actually that's a good idea, I think I'll take you there now. After all it's only polite – I have been saving you a seat for fifteen years."
Then he was being shoved toward the cracked concrete and that huge gaping maw of a hole- huge by five-year-old standards anyway…shoved toward the dirt, the muck and the clown. Razor sharp claws sliced into his arm as the beast grabbed and pulled him forwards…Then it wasn't a clown anymore, it was Julie's eyes he looked into, as her mouth opened to receive him. Then he was screaming, …And then he was sitting bolt upright in bed covered in sweat and tears and howling as strong cool arms tried desperately to wrap around him. He tried to fight but he was weak and they were persistent. Soon a soothing voice joined the arms trying to calm him and the terrified panic eased up a little. At least enough so he could recognize his rescuer – Spike. What a joke and a half- The bleached blonde gnat suddenly his knight in shining leather. Christ, his life was whacked.
"Easy, Pet. Just simmer down now. Take deep breaths…Just breathe." And just like that Xander found himself calming down enough to laugh at the irony of a vampire coaching him to breathe- when Spike's next words almost stopped his breath completely.
"Pet, Who's Jules?"