Note: Kind of an inbetween chapter. Setting up some stuff and addressing other things. Enjoy!
Things seemed to shift after the call with Bill. It was like a switch had gone off in Richie's head. He was still terrified of the hallucinations-because that's what they were, right?-but he was able to think clearly throughout them. It's why he noticed the exact moment Eddie stopped acting so much like a puppet and more like the boy—man that Richie knew.
It wasn't like that all the time of course. Sometimes, Eddie seemed to be an extension of the monster without a name befitting Its malevolence, other times Eddie was a reflection of his (former) self, talking, even joking with Richie.
The apparition appeared more often, in his home, the radio station, behind his reflection. The black outs occurred more frequently as well and Richie started to question his ability to remember events correctly.
A dream, another dream-nightmare had brought him to think more of what had been happening lately or had really enabled him to remember what had been happening lately (there was something going on with how he was remembering things, but he couldn't seem to get a hold of it). Already the dream was fading as he went through his routine, getting ready for work. It seemed that despite being aware of the changes in his recallable memory, he still allowed some things to drift away (wasn't it easier that way?).
In the 15 minutes it took him to deem himself ready to start his car and head to work, only the vague feelings of the dream lingered like a low fog in the back of his mind.
They stayed with him throughout his evening shift, stubborn impressions of things he allowed himself to forget. Loss, detachment, and fear.
The notion that these feelings were important seemed to color the rest of his day, leaving him in a sour mood.
He found it difficult to slip back into work, but managed to once the Voices began flowing. Throughout the day, the Broadcast Assistant in the control room had to call Rich's name several times before Rich would answer. He soon became aware he was ignoring that part of the studio though he made no attempt to give it more attention despite the growing irritation of the assistant.
Rich answered calls, took requests, updated news and weather, and entertained the masses of LA with the ease of the expert he was. The hours seemed to roll by at a decent pace and soon enough (too soon, too soon) he was alone in the radio station-lights dimmed for the night.
The first few hours were relatively calm, natural for the world of radio. His paranoia did not help to alleviate his perception of this reality. Lately, it seemed every moment alone quickly turned to some unrecallable horror as quick as he could blink his eyes.
Needless to say, he was a little on edge… and exhausted. Since this whole debacle had begun, he'd hadn't necessarily been sleeping well. He slept like death when he was able to, but he often woke choking on a scream with no memory of what had come to pass. Thankfully, today at least, he had had some decent sleep, though the fear still remained.
He rubbed his shaking hands together to try to ease his anxiety before sifting through the next songs to play. His fingers trailed the edges of the record sleeves, feeling the small areas of wear and tear on the corners. It was comforting for him in the way that Speaking was. The familiar texture seemed to ground him or at least calm him in some primal, visceral way.
"Well, I nevah did see so sad a sight as dese, a grown man scared of 'is own shaduh," he spoke to the empty room, finally picking up the records he needed. "Come on boi, get yousself togethuh."
Slipping into his Voices seemed to help ease his nerves, though he often found he was too tired to use them effectively. He continued Speaking to himself infrequently over the next few hours inbetween calls from fans and casual listeners alike.
There were of course the odd calls complaining about lines crossing, laughing, and groans. And then there was a newer development in the weirdness coming over the line, growing more in frequency over the past week. Randomly, callers would come through, voices distorted, asking for songs-
"Can you play Home is the Place?"-that didn't exist.
"Are you sure that's the song name?" he'd ask.
"Ayuh," Rich would twitch, "I mean the whole title was like the Place Where We're Waiting, right?"
"Can you give me some verses, man?" Static would slowly grow in the background of the call.
"You don't remember," the caller's voice would smooth out in pitch, so similar to someone he once lov-knew.
"You sang it up to my window," the static would start becoming rhythmic like laughter, "when mom had me-krch-quarantined for a bug bite… or could it have been-krch-Mike?"
Rich would slam the phone down before the caller could continue, before his imagination could conjure the image of whichever childhood friend or event the voice would invoke. Unfortunately, he could never slam it fast enough to prevent the images of reaching hands (constantly changing, reforming, moving toward him) from forming behind his closed eyelids.
The calls would change, always taking on the same vibe if you can dig it. Maybe they'd use one of his childhood nicknames or request him to say something in his Sancho Vanilla or Pickaninny Voice or some other Voice he had never used outside of Derry. (Derry? Where was…?)
He would warily watch the blinking light on the phone, cautiously listen to the ring between songs before answering as Rich Tozier, famous DJ, Man of a Thousand Voices, who couldn't be frightened of ghosts (or clowns).
The night was relatively normal-for a night DJ at least. A few callers with requests and shoutouts, Steve himself called him around ten to thank him for taking on so much time without complaint. He was no longer terrified to answer the phone when…
"Look out behind you!" a forcibly deep voice sounded, stuttered giggles in the background. A tiny spark of fear still lite in his chest despite the grossly apparent trick.
"Well, now, last time there was actually someone behind me it was that tricky broad from Seattle," he slipped into his Kinky Briefcase voice, much to the satisfaction of the would-be pranker if the increase in giggles were any sign. "I hope you actually know what you're doing though. I couldn't walk right for a week after what she put me through! Or I guess more accurately what she put in me."
The giggles quickly erupted into howls of laughter and the caller hung up. Rich sighed at the phone, shaking his head at his own reaction.
The rest of the night was relatively peaceful, passing like molasses. The fear was present like a dull murmur, spiking each time the phone rang or something settled. Upon finding it wasn't grounded in reality, it quickly sank back down to near background.
He dozed a little once the 1 AM mark passed, prepping up to 15 songs in advance, only changing for the rare request to come through. He had moved his chair as close to the wall as possible, still sure he could see the window of the control room. It helped ease his nerves somewhat though occasionally the thought of a rat backed into a corner would flit across his mind.
Rich was almost more comforted than frightened by the thought though. Something inside him told him that he was capable of more than he was aware of, a strange power coursed through his veins at seemingly-random intervals these days, but it somehow felt like it belonged to someone else. As if, when he really needed it, it might suddenly not be there.
It was better to focus on his surroundings though, the station was empty and quiet besides the music playing. No one seemed to be interrupting his sane, little life tonight, and for a moment he was content.
The few hours passed with relative ease, only the persistent remnants of his fear remaining like a looming shadow in the distance. Rich passed off control to the intern, almost surprised at the lack of any odd happenstances.
This intern reminded him of Eddie. This one was a small, anxious one, constantly fidgeting, but usually bright-eyed when he wasn't showing up for the night shift. For once, the connection to Eddie didn't break him down as it once would. Instead of the usual sadness, his attention was brought to the ominous apparition of his fear. As if the connection to Eddie somehow reminded him of the dread that seemed to pervade his entire life.
As Rich pondered what this could mean, he continued packing up his things and chatting with the younger man. They waved goodbye amicably enough and Rich continued out of the door. He was still paranoid as he left the station-paranoid and tired on some existential level he hadn't experienced since college. But a calm stillness seemed to fill him, a tentative hope that things were looking up.
