A/N: Thanks for checking this out/reading this/giving this a try. It's totally different than anything else I've ever done, and I'm attempting to do the wonderful original piece justice. I hope I am at least halfway succeeding. As some of you have probably realized, this is very similar to the original book, and will remain that way. All credit belongs to both Stephen King and Glee. Thank you for reading. Also some TRIGGER WARNINGS. Be advised, they'll be somewhat prevalent throughout this particular chapter (self-harm, suicide).

-TSL

PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

CHAPTER THREE:

12 PHONE CALLS (2018)

1

Artie Abrams Takes A Call

Lindsay Gold-Abrams sits at her kitchen counter, holding on to a pair of glasses that she doesn't necessarily need. Her voice is weak as she looks out of the dining room window at a front lawn that needs tendering – and her eyes are filled to the brim with an emptiness and a dread that she would wish on no other living soul.

She should have realized.

She should have known.

She should have changed things; perhaps if she had been more attentive, Arthur Reed Abrams would still be here. His glasses are light in her hands and as she turns her gaze to the corner of the living room she lets her eyes linger on his old wheelchair. It sits empty and discarded amongst the other furniture – but Lindsay never had the heart to give it away. She sits alone cradling his glasses, wishing that her mind could stop replaying that night almost four months ago—over and over again like a broken Bob Dylan vinyl record.

It was still warm in St. Louis, and with the end of the summer creeping up she was excited for the new round up of fall television. It had been on a night like this – with her feet propped up on the sofa, that she realized that Artie was staring transfixed at the Television screen – his blue eyes staring and wide – focused intently on the gorgeous blonde that was currently taking residence across their box. She was beautiful, and Lindsay blinked her eyelids once, twice as she took in the pale skin and the hazel eyes reflecting back at her through the screen. She recognized that face – in fact she had seen it many times over – perhaps if she were more of a gossip it would hold more purchase within her memory. However – the blonde isn't the one that gives her pause. It's her husband Artie, seated in his chair, watching a dramatic scene unfold with the look of dread splayed across his soft features.

"Sweetie…? What's the matter?" Lindsay's voice is questioning and hollow, and she watches as Artie shakes his head softly from side to side, clutching tightly onto the wheels of his chair as he snaps his gaze across the living room to meet her eyes.

"Nothing, I just – I recognized her. Quinn Fabray…" Lindsay remembers the name now and the string of men that have been rumored to have romanced her. She remembers reading about her in magazines like People and Vogue. Her face is stunning – it's no wonder her husband is rendered speechless.

"She's really pretty."

"I told you about her once. Remember? She's one of my old friends from Ohio. We used to be friends once, quite a long time ago now."

Lindsay doesn't immediately recall the blonde from Artie's childhood stories – but in all honesty – Artie was never one to particularly indulge in tales from his childhood during all of the time that she's known him. But now she can feel something click, and before she can understand why, her eyes are swiveling around carefully to gaze at a small-framed photograph sitting atop one of the wooden pieces of furniture by the door.

It's old and worn beneath the glass – but she's seen it many times before. A picture of thirteen children – all of varying sizes and with varying grins. They pose for the camera as if it's a duty rather than a past time. And she recognizes Artie in the back of the group – he wasn't paralyzed then, his legs strong and tall in his overalls. And center frame, in the middle of the entire gang – stands the girl they've just seen on television. She's remarkably beautiful for a ten- year old, even then. And she's one of the only ones who doesn't smile in the photo. Lindsay notices however that her gaze is not focused on the camera, but rather on a short little brunette who stands a few people away.

"So…that's Quinn Fabray? She was even pretty then. People like her make me jealous. Really honey, beauty like that isn't natural." Lindsay turns back to the television to watch the blonde on the small screen. She's direct in her talents, and Lindsay can already tell that there's hardness behind those hazel eyes – much like there is behind her Artie's as well.

And it is in this moment that Lindsay should have stopped.

This is the moment when everything changed.

Artie stopped sleeping. It was the nightmares that came first. His screams in the middle of the night were enough to alarm her. He began to lose weight. By the next month Artie was only clocking in at 130.5 lbs. for his 5'7" slender build. It wasn't terrible no…but it wasn't natural.

Lindsay Gold met Arthur Abrams during her sophomore year of college at Mizzou. He was in a wheelchair – the president of the robotics team – and she met him at a rally. It wasn't the wheelchair that bothered her. It had always been his small blue eyes that brought her in. And when they graduated in 2006 and packed their bags, St. Louis worked. Artie had no dreams to return to Ohio, and Lindsay's family was from Missouri. And so it was here that they settled down. And at thirty-five, children has never been a possibility for them. Anatomically Artie could still function, but that didn't mean that his gametes would.

Impotence. Probably since puberty they said.

She remembers crying for weeks.

It wasn't his fault –

But now she wonders. She wonders if she's always been destined to live a life alone? And as she stares at the red drapes hanging from the windows in the living room, the day that her entire life changed rings loudly against her eardrums.

It all began with a phone call.

"Who was that Artie?" her voice is light as she cuts up raw carrots for their dinner. She doesn't notice his pallor – or the way that he stares off into space as if he no longer has the strength for answers.

"Matthew Rutherford."

"Oh! Isn't he one of your old friends from Lima?" She doesn't look up or particularly notice if Artie turns to give her an answer. She doesn't even notice that Artie's left the telephone on the floor beeping off of the hook.

"I'm going to go take a bath…"

"Alright sweetie, dinner will be waiting when you're finished."

And little did Lindsay Gold-Abrams know. With her slightly less than overweight frame and her wide hips. Her light grey eyes and her messy bun – that that would be the last time she would see her Artie alive.

If only things could have been different she said.

If only…

She turned back to her carrots. Her heart beating just a little bit faster with no real inclination as to why. Artie had always been rather quiet, and although he had become a bit more closed off – that shouldn't have changed things really. It takes ten minutes for Lindsay to realize that her hands are shaking. The knife wobbles between her fingers and she almost slices open her thumb. She decides to stop her chopping. Letting a hand run through her hair sloppily to still her less than welcome nerves. She looks at the digital clock above the microwave. It reads 7:14pm, and she wonders where all the time could have gone. Because she's been sat here chopping carrots for almost forty-five minutes and she hasn't even realized it. She laughs hollowly at her blunder – and she wonders now – what's taking Artie so long in the bathtub?

Artie?

She follows the curve of the walls of their small home – letting her socked feet walk down the carpeted hallway to their master bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and she can hear the monotonous Plink of a faulty drain.

Artie?

She raps lightly on the door. Plink ,Plink, Plink .

Artie?

She laughs again – she's sure he must have just fallen asleep in the bathtub. But that doesn't stop her heart from palpitating wildly against her ribcage. Or her feet to move backwards – headed for the key hook by the entry to the garage. She isn't sure how much time has passed. But she finds the spare key marked MASTER BEDROOM 1 and she removes it from its hook. Her feet following a familiar path back to their bedroom. She feels like she may just faint, and she raps her fisted hand once more against the locked wooden door.

Artie?

Artie?

Plink, plink, plink…

"You aren't masturbating in there are you? Because if so, this isn't funny Arthur, dinner is waiting…" And as the words escape her drying lips she already knows the falsities within them. Artie never closes the bathroom door during a bath. And he never blatantly ignores her either. With trembling hands she grips the doorknob and inserts the brass key – twisting it against the locking cogs. And when the door falls open, she can see the fluorescent light of the bathroom CFL's overhead. They flicker dimly against the tile.

Artie?

Arthur?

And as the hinges turn with her pressure, see sees a pale faintly hairy leg dangling over the lip of the tub; a steady trickle of water falling from a paralyzed toe. And as her grey eyes move up she sees the first trails of his mutilations. Deep cuts into his thighs – they are skinny now and atrophied from disuse – and Lindsay knows he's always been ashamed of them. But seeing them now, frail and sliced, tendons showing through – she wants to pass out. There is blood everywhere. She can see it swirling in his still warm water. And dripping down his legs in the bathtub. His wheelchair sits by the other end, left to witness the entire event.

And as Lindsay Gold- Abram's eyes finally reach up into the dead, cold blue ones of her husband Artie, she loses all of the breath in her lungs as she's careened headfirst into a terror she's never known.

Plink

Plink

Plink

The steady taunting of the dripping tub faucet— and above it in crude finger-art written in crimson, is the mark of despair:

"IT'S COMING"

And as Lindsay's chilling grey eyes finally settle on the words above Artie's dripping hair. She lets the terror come. And she screams. Because…

She could have stopped this.

She could have saved him.

But of course…she's much too late for Arthur Reed Abrams.

2

Santana Lopez Takes A Cigar

Santana was sure that she was stronger than she seemed. At least that's what she believed until the alcohol and sickness started to kick in.

A phone call to Matt Rutherford would do that to someone though. Especially when you forget that he even existed until that phone call an hour ago. Really, you haven't even thought about Matthew Rutherford in fucking years.

Has it really been that long? …

Yes.

It has.

The cigar rolling between her puckered lips is sweet tasting on her tongue. She can feel the embers burning into heady smoke around her blistering head. And she prays – she prays for peace. She keeps these puppies locked up for damn near necessary situations. She received this particular case of Gurkha: Black Dragon's almost five years ago when her record label went national. They're a fucking guap, and with each one that she smokes, Santana can feel a considerable chunk of her pocket dwindling away into the effervescent smoke. The box was full before Matt Rutherford called. Now she's two down and almost three grand short.

And as the whiskey swirls in a clear tumbler with ice, and her body starts shaking around her bones – she kind of wishes that she never answered her goddamn phone in the first place. It's way too hot in the overlarge office, and so she closes the blinds with a small remote – making sure to concentrate extra hard on the task – she almost drops it from how violently her fingers shake against the clicker. One phone call and she knows that things are going to change whether she wants them to or not. Just her motherfucking luck…shit. She's sure she's this close to passing out – and right now – that notion is more than welcome.

Matt Rutherford.

That's a name for the record books.

God, she moved away from Lima when she was damn near twelve years old. Family packed up the Sedan and headed for San Antonio. And now, hearing that name after twenty? Twenty-five years? A realization strikes as the cogs turn in her muddled head – and she isn't at all content with all that's being dug up from the darkness.

"Santana Lopez?" His voice was calm and quiet over the telephone line at least an hour ago when she talked to him. And she wonders now – as her fingers nurse a Whiskey sour – how he even got her digits. She's a big shot record executive now, handling some of the biggest names in show business, and not just anyone gets her goddamn personal number.

"Who's speaking? Make it quick, I don't have all damn day –"

"It's Matt Rutherford…from Lima." And right there. That's when the entire world changes. And as soon as she recognizes that voice – she knows. It's almost as if Lima's calling to her now, and her heart beats within her chest to a familiar terrorized rhythm. The image burns darkened retinas when she closes her eyes to the impression of a skinny dark toned boy with a wide smile and dark eyelashes. His posture, lean and calm – an easy quiet to his young demeanor. And she can remember punching the crap out of him on more than one occasion in an abandoned field behind a rickety fort –her fists have done other damage since. But at present she can feel her fingers skating over the scars that are still there. Almost recalling the pain of a time long, long forgotten.

"Matt motherfucking Rutherford?"

"It's back. Do you remember?" And Santana grimaces at the burning in her chest at the mention of it. A promise made almost exactly twenty-five years ago when she was ten going on eleven. And whether or not all the pieces are firmly fitting together she knows that she has no other options and she nods her head. Forgetting momentarily that Matt can't hear her motions, and so she takes a shuddering breath to still her nerves.

"Some…I remember some."

"Can you come?"

"Yes…"

As she had hung up the line she had no other way to turn off the time-ticker that was her brain. And all of the memories of that summer came flooding back. Quinn, Rachel, Noah… Brittany. And as her thoughts shift to the blue-eyed blonde from her childhood, she wonders how she could have ever forgotten her – forgotten all of them. It's both terrifying and sickening – because as the fear settles in – she knows, that this promise…they had all hoped – that it would never have to come to fruition.

She needs a drink.

She needs more than one.

It's a simple phone call to her assistant Amanda Peters, and she's staring at a boarding pass – First Class – On Delta Airlines. A one- way ticket to Dayton, OH with a town car pick-up via National. She hasn't been to Lima since she moved away when she was twelve. And a lot has changed in her life – and simultaneously a lot hasn't.

It takes blood, sweat, and tears to make it in Los Angeles – and for Santana Lopez, those sacrifices came easily. She has a bitch complex and she knows it. Her fists always come first in a conversation, and after spending years and years wondering why she's always felt so alone… she's realized, it's because she's unlikeable. Add in the fact that she's a closeted femme-lover and you've got a serious problem. Four years at The University of Arizona didn't change any of that. Perhaps Santana always hoped that somehow she'd find all of her answers after a sling of one-night stands with girls she couldn't remember the next morning. She assumed that by joining Delta Gamma pledge class of '03 she could find herself.

Make friends.

Become a better, smarter, kinder person after so many years of bitterness.

And all it got her was a list of connections to some of the biggest names in the industry, and a drinking problem. Come to find out that most of them were just as lonely as she was – fan-fucking-tastic.

It didn't solve anything.

By the time she was twenty-six, she was spear heading a small independent recording label called BIG FISH RECORDS with one artist, Lorne Thomas. And by the time she was twenty-seven – that artist had gone on to win two Grammy's and a BRIT award. And now at thirty-five, with no less than eighty recording artists under her slim belt – she's proud to call herself the VP of that small record company that could. She made it because she's a bitch. And while her tumblers are always full, and her scotch always ripe – it doesn't dull the sting of coming home to the most gorgeous view anyone's ever seen atop the Hollywood Hills, and having absolutely no one to share it with. Not even the sex can dull the ache. It's a wonder she's made it this long. She hasn't been happy in a long time.

And as she sits at her wide desk, and stares out at a gray Los Angeles sky overhead, she can't stop the ringing in her ears. The collection of memories she thought she left behind in Lima. With each blink of her dark eyes a new image pops up out of the fray – reeling her in to the dark, dank sewers of her childhood. She can almost smell the decay – and it makes her stomach coil, and her chest tighten. She doesn't want to go back to whatever horror she's tried to forget. And with another drink of her whiskey she can see all of their faces.

Finnocence Hudson with his goofy grin and his soft features – not yet slimmed out, the baby fat around his innocent middle. The youth behind his eyes.

Weezy Jones. And now that she thinks about it – she's heard Mercedes name in conversation before – why she never connected the dots she doesn't know. But she can hear her voice in the back of her mind taunting her as she sucks on a piece of ice between her teeth.

Kurt Hummel – that name sure does ring a bell. Talk about flamboyant. She wonders what's become of him in all the years that have passed. Would any of these people even remember her? Would they even fucking care?

Puckerman. She would rather not re-build those bridges if she could help it.

The Midget. God, Rachel motherfucking Berry. A dwarf in Streisand shoes with an annoyance level unrivalled. Berry was talented – she was damn talented. And if Santana had remembered her when she was fashioning BIG FISH, she would have signed her on the spot. Because she's a pro at finding talent. But Berry – she was the one who was supposed to make it out of that proverbial hell hole and do something better with her future. Santana sincerely wishes that that's exactly what happened for her.

The Chang's. She never really had the energy to differentiate them. One danced, the other stuttered – but the fact that they shared in their terror and in their resilience – she can respect that.

Sam Evans – another one she can't place. She hopes he made it out too. No one deserves to stay locked in Lima. No one.

Q. This is where she pauses. Quinn Fabray was her best friend until she moved away. And it's been disheartening for Santana to know that she hasn't thought about any of these people since her feet stepped upon San Antonio soil, and with every passing year – the memories have grown foggier and fogger – they've slipped through her fingers like rolling water. And now that she remembers – that she sees it vividly across her eyelids. She isn't exactly sure what's made her forget. Because Quinn Fabray was their everything. Quinn Fabray gave them a reason to fight. And with that vision comes…Samantha Fabray. And now Santana knows that she's going to be sick. She can hear the ringing in her ears – and her heart still holds the fear that she believed she'd long since discarded. The film plays brokenly as her fingers clench the glass. The Lima Townhouse – the way they chased her, nose-broken – eyes wild with murderous intent. They say that children aren't capable of evil. But Santana knows better – she remembers better.

"Come back here you dyke! We're gonna get you, you little shit! Nobody punches David Karofsky in the face and lives to tell about it…especially sluts like you!"

"Come here dyke!"

"We're gonna find you…"

And there's a name that makes her spine tingle and her lips turn down in a grimace. David Karofsky. She doesn't particularly care what's happened to him and his cronies, whatever their names were. But they were crazy – and they don't deserve her memories. In fact they deserve their own little pitfalls of hell for their transgressions. Hell they were all kids…but Karofsky. That little shit was fucking evil. He was possessed.

She refills her cup – sending a few emails out to her assistant. She doesn't feel like dealing with the backlash of her impending absence. She'll let Amanda handle that shit storm when it comes. Instead she focuses on the dimming skyline, her dark eyes falling to her glass, as marble blue ones swim in front of her fuzzy vision. And blonde hair is all she sees behind her eyelids as the last member of their unguided band of misfits swims to the surface. Santana can almost feel her heart lurch – and she knows, when she left Lima behind, she left her heart along with it.

Brittany Pierce.

And with a resounding clearing of her throat, she scrolls to Matt Rutherford's name on her caller ID and pales –He had told her that Artie didn't make it. And now as it registers. The quiet boy in the back with the wire-rimmed glasses and the flipper –like feet. He could swim like a fish – at least before his accident in …in…Santana would rather not think about that. Instead she realizes that Artie is no longer with them. And she somehow feels that in a way – he's the lucky one in their group. He made it out – and there's no coming back. There's no more blood curdling nightmares in the night, or visions of orange buttons descending on him from behind a closed door. No fear of being swallowed hole by a faulty drain, no blood-chilling childhood promises left to keep. She's almost envious – instead all she can feel is sadness. Because what has she gotten herself into?

And as Santana packs up her briefcase and buzzes down to the ground level for her driver, she's sure that she's making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. And as she drives to LAX, and boards a flight straight for Dayton, Ohio – she's sure that in more ways than one – the haunting will come back.

And this time it will be real.

This time she won't be able to forget.

3

Noah Puckerman Takes A Drink

If you had been looking for the second string Quarterback for the Washington Redskins on a typical off-season Thursday night, you'd most likely find him off of Highway 267 a little ways west of Ashburn, Virginia. There's a little secluded bar off of the main drag, with a big gravel parking lot and a small town country feel. Montana's is known for it's on tap and it's pool. And although it's a small local spot, Noah Puckerman loves it here. He's a religious customer, and his seat is reserved for him every Thursday unless he's on an away game. Today is no different.

Except…

LaSalle glances at the large clock in the corner of the bar – it reads 8:05pm. And when he glances at the door he furrows his eyebrows. Puckerman is always on time for his weekly brew with the guys. And just before he's about to question his sanity, he sees the tall athletic figure of Noah Puckerman, number 5 for the Washington Redskins walking up to the bar from the swinging main doors. He's got on cowboy boots and jeans with an eagle belt buckle and a white t-shirt with a leather jacket. If it weren't for his eyes – well perhaps everything would have been alright.

But as he walks up to his usual bar stool and takes a seat. He leans in close with his eyes raised up slowly, and Vincent Redford LaSalle almost wants to back away. Because those eyes aren't natural – No, sir. But he squares his shoulders instead, patting down a napkin and a Montana's coaster, letting his movements mask his unwelcome uncertainty.

"What'll it be tonight skins?" LaSalle makes sure to keep his tone light and playful. He's served Noah Puckerman for god knows how long he's been suffering as a second string QB for the Redskins…that's almost five years now. And he'd like to think that the two of them have at least formed some type of camaraderie. Puckerman laughs, and LaSalle gets that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach again when he hears the way it rattles hollowly in the air between them.

"Make it Jack today Vince. The whole bottle, hold the rocks."

"Shit Puck, that's a whole damn lot of whiskey. Not sure that's a good idea."

Puck laughs again and LaSalle flinches – there's a finality to the man's tone and Vincent just can't tell him no. He grabs a new bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar room and brings it out, pouring it into a large pilsner glass. His eyes following the sway of amber liquid as it sloshes back and forth against the glass.

"You sure you don't want a tonic? Rocks? Sour? Coke? This is a lot of straight Whiskey, even for our regular drunks." Puck looks up at Vincent slowly and takes a hard gulp before he runs a hand through his black hair. It's short but not too short. The edges are just now growing out, and the tufts of it that he keeps gelled at the top, curl around his forehead as he pulls his hand back suddenly, studying his palm against the counter.

"Something bothering you today kid? Tough practice this week, you guys are having a pretty solid season though, lots of potential—"

"I used to have a Mohawk, y'know that Vince?" Vincent shakes his head back and forth as he watches the young kid – well if you call mid-thirties young – stare at his hand. It's a tad-off putting but Vincent can't exactly place why, instead he tears his eyes away from Noah Puckerman, his old green eyes landing on a couple of blonde girls over by the pool tables. They're all legs and boobs, and he's sure that Noah's gonna be in one tonight by the way those women are staring him down from across the room. He would laugh on a normal Thursday – but somehow today feels different.

"No sir, I didn't. Is there a reason you're telling me kid?"

"It was a long time ago LaSalle. Hell, it was all such a long fucking time ago. If I tell you something…you won't think I'm crazy will you?" Vincent shakes his head even though he's sure that that's exactly what he's thinking. Maybe Puck just took one too many sacks this week during practice.

"I used to be a real shit-wipe when I was a kid. Burning trashcans, shoplifting. Gluing substitute's asses to their desks. I don't know how my parents put up with me. The only real friends I had before…that summer. Were Q, Santana Lopez and Finn Hudson. And you know what's so funny about that shit, Vince?" Vincent shakes his head yet again. "I haven't even thought about them since I left Lima. I haven't even remembered them until tonight. Who does that? I know I've been concussed before and shit, but fuck, it's like I have motherfucking amnesia dude. Those were my best friends, before we all left. I don't even know what happened to any of them."

"Sounds like a fun childhood if you ask me." Puck shakes his head and Vincent can see his eyes close and his spine shudder before he finishes off the Pilsner of Jack in one gulp. Puckerman motions for him to refill it before his eyes open again, and LaSalle knows. That coiling motion in the pit of his stomach as he refills the glass isn't unease. It's downright fear.

"Oh no, Vince. See that's where you're wrong." Noah Puckerman's eyes have dulled as he drags a few silver coins out of his leather jacket and drops them to the counter top. There is a dull unease behind his brown eyes and LaSalle has the sudden urge to run far away – only his feet don't move from the mat upon which they're resting.

"I didn't have a childhood – I didn't remember a childhood past leaving Lima when I was thirteen. It's like that whole part of my life vanished. Except now…after a call from Matt fucking Rutherford – it's all back. And my head won't turn off no matter how much I need it to. Do you know what it feels like to be so afraid – Vince – of something that you can't even recall? … I do." The coins press beneath his palm on the countertop and Vincent tracks them coldly.

"I have two of these left. Silver cartwheel dollars. Pure silver, I gave one to Quinn once. Quinn and Rachel –" And as Noah reaches over to down the rest of his second glass of Jack, Vincent tenses as he watches him get up on stable feet with clearer eyes than his own.

"Where you going Puckerman, not staying tonight?"

"No…I've got a long drive ahead of me. And demons to slay."

"I thought you were in season…"

"The Skins can wait. I've got a few things to settle first."

And Vincent watches him go – he's almost like a ghost with his pallor and his slow cadence. For a second the old man's blood runs cold as he swears he can almost see the stools and the tables through Puckerman's retreating form. And for the first time, he isn't so positive that Noah Puckerman will be coming back. He watches as the women at the pool table hurry to go say their hello's to a bona-fide football star, and for the first time in the five years that Vincent's served him – he watches wide eyed as the dark haired man turns them down without so much as a second glance. He looks down to find a $100 dollar bill resting on top of the counter and his back trembles. Noah reaches the door from whence he came and with a slow turn his neck cranes as he stares behind him back into Vincent's unusually petrified eyes.

"Have a good night Vince. Until next time, I'm out."

"Later Noah." The old man whispers and he can faintly hear the jeers from the other customers as they yell out their goodbyes to the "Puckasaurus." But as he watches the tan man's jacket meet the cold wind outside and disappear into the night, he isn't sure that he feels any better. In fact he's almost positive he feels even more afraid than ever before. For what? – He couldn't possibly know.