THE DEMON WITHIN

A/N: I do not own Stranger Things or the characters. They are solely the property of the Duffer Brothers, Netflix, and their associates. Also, to my knowledge, it was never established what Victor Creel did for a living. So therefore, I apologize in advance for any errors.

"Get thee behind me, Satan!"
—MATTHEW 16:23

"I'm every nightmare you've ever had.
I'm your worst dream come true.
I'm everything you were ever afraid of."
—TIM CURRY
STEPHEN KING'S "IT", 1990

The rain poured down relentlessly as I trudged along the cobblestone walkway at Hawkins Cemetery. I know a lot of folks who like walking in the rain, but I've never been one of them. If you ask me, it's a surefire way to catch pneumonia. I'd much rather be at home with a nice, hot cup of Earl Grey tea and my copy of A Tale of Two Cities. To be perfectly honest with you, I'd give anything to be anywhere else but out in the elements like this—especially on a day like this.
But not today, unfortunately. Today was a very important day. Today, I had someplace very important to be, and something very important to do. I had no choice in the matter. I needed to be here.
Wait, you're probably wondering what I'm talking about, right? Well, on this day, exactly one year ago, someone very close to me—someone that I grew to love like a father, and someone that I've always held in very high esteem—passed away. It's never easy to lose someone who made a difference in your life, and after all this time, the loss of this man still hurts.
This man's name was Victor Creel.
After what seemed like an eternity—not just because of the cold and the rain, but also the arthritis in my left knee and hip—I arrived at the gravesite. There in front of me stood the greyish-blue marble headstone with "CREEL" engraved right in the center. This was where the most wonderful family I'd ever had the pleasure of knowing was laid to rest: Victor, his lovely wife Virginia, and his sweet little daughter Alice.
Hold it, you're probably saying. What about Henry, their son? Why isn't he buried here along with the others?
Well, let me tell you why.
Like I said earlier, the Creels were really good, kind, loving people. If you looked up the phrase "model family" in the dictionary, you'd see a picture of them. But there was one glaring exception: Henry.
In order to fully understand what I'm saying, you have to go back in time. 30 years, to be exact. That's when Victor and his family first moved to Hawkins, and into that big, beautiful mansion on Morehead St. Nearby, less than 20 meters away, was a little funeral home, which also belonged to the mansion's previous owners. Shortly after the Creels moved in, Victor took ownership of the funeral home, and his dear wife became his secretary and receptionist. Six weeks later, I was hired as his apprentice. There was also a tiny, one-bedroom guest house in the very back of the property, and he was generous enough to allow me to live there. He even hired me to be the property's caretaker.
To say that this man was a mortician of excellence doesn't even begin to do him justice. He taught me everything I know: how to prepare bodies for burial or cremation, how to do the make-up, how to deal with the families of the deceased, how to clean and operate the incinerators, you name it. He taught me from A to Z. In my entire career, I've never met anyone more professional and more respectful of other people than Victor, and it was no secret that he loved his family more than life itself.
However, like the saying goes, appearances can be deceiving.
Remember when I said that the one glaring exception in the Creel family was their son Henry? Well, there's a reason why I said that. Unlike his parents and sister, little Henry was an extremely quiet and withdrawn lad. Just trying to have a conversation with him was like pulling teeth. If you so much as said hi to him, all he'd do is silently stare at you with a blank look in his eyes. And according to Victor, he'd spend a majority of his spare time in the attic with the nest of black widow spiders he'd found up there, as opposed to interacting with the other kids in the neighborhood. It was very unsettling, to say the least, and I don't scare easily.
In short, I had a really bad feeling about this boy. I couldn't put my finger on it at first, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that there was something about him that just wasn't right. I've always been good at "reading" people, if you know what I mean; and believe me when I tell you, I could read Henry like a book. There was no doubt in my mind that there was something funny about him.
Sadly, it didn't take long for my suspicions to be confirmed.
Over the few months that I'd lived on the property and worked at the funeral home, I'd seen a lot of things going on, very alarming things that shouldn't have been taking place. And I mean the sort of things that could make anybody sick. I vividly recall seeing the mutilated corpses of mice, rabbits, squirrels, stray cats, birds, and other small animals scattered all over the backyard, and hearing poor Alice's screams of anguish when she saw the remains of those defenseless little creatures. I also remember seeing Henry scaring the daylights out of the other kids in the neighborhood—some of whom were as young as 3 or 4 years old—with his bizarre, frightening behavior and hideous ideas of fun. Rightfully so, the neighbors regularly complained to Victor and Virginia about Henry, and they always reassured them that he'd be dealt with. And God bless them, they tried the best they could with him. But in those days, nobody knew how to deal with kids who had these kinds of issues. The reality is, that kind of help wasn't as readily available back then like it is now, and neither was the understanding of mental illness and how to properly treat it.
Also, I'm not 100% sure, but in retrospect, I think the Creels were afraid of something like this hurting their reputation. Hawkins is a very small town, and it would've been extremely easy for rumors to start and gossip to run amok. And for a family as well-liked and respected as they were, that would've been the last thing they needed.
I myself contemplated sitting them down and insisting that they rein their son in once and for all, or at least see about getting him some much-needed serious professional help. The reason I didn't follow through was because I not only had to finish my apprenticeship, but I was also worried that if I'd broached the subject with them, they'd see it as ingratitude on my part. I could understand that. After all, these people had bent over backwards to take care of me, give me a job, and put a roof over my head, and I'm sure the last thing they wanted to hear was someone daring to tell them that their only son should be put away for the good of the family, and for his own good. So I kept my mouth shut and went on with my daily work.
Had I known what would eventually take place, I would've moved heaven and earth to keep it from happening.
One particular day, which is a day I'll remember for the rest of my life, I was getting ready to leave for school. Besides my regular job at the funeral home, I was taking afternoon classes in mortuary science at Hawkins State, the community college that was located just on the edge of town. As I backed my car out of the driveway, I happened to glance over my shoulder toward the attic, and I could just barely make out Henry's silhouette in the window. Something told me that he was up to no good, and that I had to voice my concerns to his parents. But I was running late, and like I said earlier, I didn't want to risk my job; so I made myself promise that I'd take care of it when I returned. As I left, I tried my best to convince myself that they'd listen to me and take what I had to tell them seriously.
Little did I realize, but I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.
It was a quarter to 7 p.m. when I came back from school. As I approached the mansion, I could see red and white lights flashing in the night sky and bouncing off the branches of the evergreen trees that lined the street. Right then and there, I knew that something terrible had happened in my absence. And sure enough, upon my arrival, there were fire trucks and police cars haphazardly parked all along the front of the property. I barely remember slamming on the brakes before I jumped out of my car and ran as fast as I could toward the mansion. One of the cops tried to grab me and prevent me from entering, but I shook him off and raced inside. And what I saw absolutely sickened and horrified me. Even now, that's one memory I'll never be able to shake.
There in the entryway, lying on the floor, was sweet little Alice. Right before the ambulance workers covered her with a white sheet, I got a good look at this poor girl. Her arms and legs were twisted around in the most unnatural of ways, her mouth was wide open, her neck and bottom jaw were both cracked in two, and her eyes were squeezed shut and gushing with blood. She was very obviously dead, but with the way her face looked, it was as if she was still screaming in horrible, agonizing pain, only to be ruthlessly silenced.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two cops slamming Victor against the wall and putting the handcuffs on him as he tried desperately to tell them that he didn't do any of this. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to vouch for him. To tell them that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. To convince them that there was no possible way that he could be capable of slaughtering his family, the very people he adored and for whom he would do anything. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make the words come out of my mouth. I was in such shock that I couldn't move, speak, or breathe. That's how much I was affected by the vile, unholy carnage that was laid out before me.
I couldn't bear to stay and continue watching this, so I hurried into the dining room—which is where I found Virginia being gently laid onto a stretcher. Like her daughter, she too was dead, and her body was in the same bloody and broken condition. This kindhearted, lovely woman who never hurt a soul in her life, and who had way too much class to ever say anything bad about anybody, had met the most horrific, gruesome end imaginable.
The next thing I knew, I was running through the house, and out the back door. Once I got there, I got an even nastier surprise, as if that were possible. The guest house—where I'd once lived, due to the generosity of my employers—was in ashes, as was the funeral home. The combined stench of smoke, charred wood, and the highly poisonous, toxic chemicals from the embalming room was overwhelming, so much so that I instantly felt dizzy and nauseous the second I got out there. The firemen were frantically dousing the remaining flames and shouting orders, but I heard nothing. It was like my ears were stuffed with cotton. And just like in the mansion's entryway, I couldn't move a muscle. All these unspeakable events were taking place right where I stood, but I could not, for the life of me, process any of it. Nothing I saw felt real. It was like being trapped in a nightmare from which there was no awakening.
What happened over the next few hours, and in the months and weeks that followed, is still a big blur to this day. I don't remember the cops interviewing me, the funerals, completing my apprenticeship at the other funeral home that was located in the middle of town, or even moving away from Hawkins. I don't even remember visiting Victor in the insane asylum, mostly because it was so upsetting that I could no longer bring myself to see what had become of him. People who have traumatic experiences handle it differently. Some turn to alcohol or drugs, some hide away from the world, and some commit suicide. I mostly coped by disengaging and focusing on my career. I'd worked too hard to come into my own as a mortician, and I knew that the last thing Victor would've wanted me to do is throw it all away. After all he'd done for me, that would've disappointed him terribly. At the same time, though, I still had bouts of being wracked with survivor's guilt, and being haunted by the memories of that horrific evening. If I'd just come forth and told Victor and Virginia what I'd witnessed, none of this ever would've happened. I don't know how he did it, but I knew deep down that this was all Henry's doing. Ever since I'd first laid eyes on him, I could sense the evil that festered in him, and I should've done more to stop him. If there's one thing that I regret the most in my life, it's not doing what I had to do in the first place. Otherwise, this whole horrible thing would've been nipped in the bud.
And that brings me to where I am today, 30 years later. I reached under my coat, brought out the bouquet of roses, and laid it on the grave. After saying a prayer for Victor and his beautiful family, I turned and walked away. The rain was still pouring, and to tell you the truth, it was a perfect fit to the mood I was in.
So, that's my story. I know it was a long time ago, and that most of you think I should just let it go. Don't get me wrong—I agree wholeheartedly with you, but even after all this time, it's still so much easier said than done. The only piece of consolation that I got from this devastating ordeal took place at Victor's funeral. One of the staff members at the asylum informed me that just before he died, he told her to let me know that he understood why I kept my concerns from him, that I shouldn't blame myself, and that he forgave me, as did Virginia and Alice. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.
And as for Henry? I've always been a firm believer in karma, that what goes around comes around. I know I have to live with the choices I've made in my life, and so does he. I don't know if he's still alive or not, but wherever he is, I hope it eats away at him until his dying day. Make no mistake about it: when his time comes, he will answer for his actions; and, if there's any recompense at all, he will be punished accordingly for them.
It won't bring Victor and his family back, of course. Nothing will.
But, I reiterate, it's better than nothing.

THE END