Thank you all for showing so much love in the last chapter- from the bottom of my heart, I mean it. I'm glad to know that this story truly has touched people. I know this isn't as long as it should be, but I didn't want to bloat out another chapter to twenty or so pages again.

Welcome back, Johnny.
It's been difficult to write him to be the best, most realistic slime ball I can. I have kind of a hard time believing that after "dating" Jazz, he would mellow out and become a totally chill guy, same with Kitty (she did kind of use Paulina's body to... date someone Paulina had no intention of dating in canon, so that's interesting). I think because I'm putting more emphasis on the ghosts being almost predator-like in nature, Johnny being a guy who hangs around high school kids kind of takes on a new meaning. It's that horror in the familiar that makes them compelling to me. No one is immune to a Johnny in their life; a person who comes along and says the right thing at the right time can be pretty dangerous, and I don't think anyone is immune to becoming a Johnny themselves either. I think that villains are at their best when they can be villains with little to no redeeming qualities possible- but they are still human, and that comes with so much baggage when it comes to their motivations. Baggage I hope to delve into later. -VOORHEES

that being said, some song recommendations:

-Oh My God, Hollow Wood
-Devil, Arms Akimbo
-Peach, Be Nice To Me, The Front Bottoms

Today was a new day.

The night came and went. Daylight poured over Amity Park. A red dawn spilled over the mountains, and a chill still clung in the air—a brief reprieve from the rain, with a warning that more would be coming.

Dash yawned until his body shook with tremors.

He was going to be late for school. That much was a given.

It's been a rough night.

The young man was fortunate enough to have time between the police combing over the property to get his cigarettes from his room.

From his spot on the curb, he retrieved the carton from his pocket and flicked the bottom.

"Those things will kill you, kid."

Dash chuckled when addressing the deputy eating doughnuts on his front lawn and said, "Yeah, I hope so."

Dash retrieved his lighter from the opposite side and began to spark the wheel—

The deputy huffed before returning to his doughnuts and waiting for the rest of his buddies.

Dash suspected there wasn't much they could do. He sold them some story about a faceless mystery man in a ski mask and hoodie armed with a crowbar that lost interest once he saw an occupant inside.

If he had led with the truth, Dash would have been dismissed outright. APPD didn't do ghost cases.

There were plenty of infamous instances now recorded on Wes' blog that operators met 911 calls related to the very real paranormal activity in town with scripted affirmations of rescue, feeding them false hope.

You had to suspect this was to ease the victim's mind while… Whatever happened… happened.

The illusion of safety and the theater of order.

Even if it was fake, Dash needed safety. He needed something— something to protect him from… from…

His free hand found itself grasping at his shirt, blanched and tense.

Local law enforcement had been rendered somewhat redundant by the whole… Dawn of The Dead… schtick. It wasn't like Amity Park was busting big boy cases before things went all Romero —But they at least provided comfort to their sleepy little city.

Now, with them being overlapped by the likes of Boo Berry and tied with relevancy with the Fentons— all the cops were good for acting paranoid and losing paperwork when they shot the wrong guy.

Frustratedly, Dash kept striking the spark wheel, only to be met with nothing but resistant clicks.

Comfort was a luxury now.

Relief could be purchased; provided through vices and addictions…

Dash didn't know if his father was religious. It wasn't something that ever came up. They discussed films, TV, sports, and the like, but nothing important- nothing that told Dash the kind of man his father was. He assumed not, given that meant his father would have to set aside a day to stop working, which was probably a bridge too far, even if that bridge led to salvation. Maybe his father found the pews uncomfortable. Dash could count the number of times he had been in church on one hand, and that was typically accompanying his friends and their families. He understood the gist of it.

He didn't know why he was thinking about it now, perhaps because church made him feel small- profoundly small. Gut-wrenchingly small.

It was in a church where he held Kwan's hand for the first time. For the first time in their decade-long friendship, they only ever held hands at a funeral. To hum along to an obtuse hymn that he struggled to remember the words to. It was a brief weight that seemed to anchor Dash there and didn't allow him to float away.

In hopeless situations like these, you were supposed to turn to… someone . Dash didn't know who could help him. If the cops couldn't, then… then—what?

His head pounded, and he just needed to be cleansed by smoke. He wanted to feel his fingertips again.

Dash wanted to forget for just a second that— he was still here .

For a moment, he didn't want to exist. He wanted to… let go.

He wanted to cry because it seemed like no better opportunity would come. His eyes can't seem to wet.

His chest buckled and shuddered. Astonished that he was alive but horrified that he had to do it again.

His heart stuttered, keenly aware that it was such a small, fragile muscle in the center of his being. He was at the whim of gravity, and his whole body felt impossibly heavy because of it.

I don't want to live like this anymore.

He gave up as the skin on his fingers began to blister and peel. The teen held the cigarette in his mouth, clenched between his teeth, and his hands went to the sides of his head to grab a knuckle's worth of hair.

The sheriff made his approach. He had concluded his search of the property with a taciturn, "So—"

Dash startled from the curb— and quickly rubbed his eyes before getting to his feet, covertly tucking his cigarette behind his ear.

"—We didn't seem to find any trace evidence of a break-in or forced entry; the mud didn't even turn up any tracks, aside from yours." The sheriff's voice cut through the air like a knife, his words crisp and sharp. His tone had no room for emotion or comfort, only the cold, clinical precision of a man who had seen too much. He spoke to the young man as if he were an equal or less, like one of the rookies on a ride-along. His eyes narrowed as he glowered at the young man's bare feet, which were caked in dirt.

The sheriff's demeanor starkly contrasted with the bumbling atmosphere of the small-town cliche.

None of the officers present regarded Dash as a person- not quite a victim. Maybe he was a waste of time, a false alarm.

"Just so we're clear for the report: did this assailant assault you?" The older man raised a brow at the blood dripping from Dash's face.

Was I assaulted? It seemed like such a big word all of a sudden.

It was a label that carried a profound sense of violation and pain. Doubt and uncertainty clouded his thoughts, making it difficult to grasp the reality of what had transpired.

The question echoed in his mind, seeking an answer he struggled to articulate.

As the quarterback grappled with these innermost queries, the enormity of the situation overwhelmed him. The word "assault" took on a new and chilling significance that it never had before. It was no longer an abstract concept but a tangible reality that had intruded into his life, leaving only this tension in his jaw.

…Did he hurt me?

Scratching his head, the quarterback had some pause as he sniffled out a final and quiet, "N-no."

Coaxing the explanation, the sheriff gently tilted his head to the side.

"... uh, it's a stress thing. I get nose bleeds… sometimes."

"Now, you said that this suspect didn't take anything or—"

The young man shook his head, "N-no, sir, Mr—"

"Sheriff Dunn." The man introduced himself, adjusting his belt around his gut.

"Mr Dunn." Dash swallowed before conjuring another excuse, "I… I don't think the guy knew I was home and got scared off."

That's it. End of story.

Stroking his pushbroom of a mustache, Dunn only grunted through a response. He quizzically stared at Dash's appearance, "... Well, you're a big son of a bitch, aren't ya?"

This phrasing caused the quarterback to take a step back.

"Take it as a compliment, son. It probably saved your life, after all." The man in uniform said matter of factly, "What're you—Five-Eleven? Six-foot?"

Diffident, Dash muttered—

"Speak up?"

Taking a moment to enunciate a touch louder, the teen attempted once more, "S-six-two."

"What is it that you do for a living? You a personal trainer?"

Dash said, squinting, "...I'm in high school."

"...Seriously?"

"Uh, Yeah." he nodded.

"What the hell are they putting in the water these days…" The sheriff mumbled while pushing his hat above his forehead, "Is there any adult on the premises?"

"No?" Dash answered as if this were obvious.

"And how old are you?"

"...Sixteen."

"Alright, well," Dunn begrudged with a reluctant sigh, "You might as well be one."

Before Dash heard the same question he'd been badgered with all morning, he reiterated, "Uh, I-I didn't… I didn't get a clear look at his face—"

"Right," Dunn affirmed before removing his sunglasses from his shirt collar.

A professional silence prevailed, marking a distinct shift as the departure of poncho-clad patrolmen left the space gradually void. Amidst the prevailing stillness, Dunn stood, his gaze fixated upon Dash.

Dunn's eyes were a study in contrasts, a mix of rigid authority and skepticism, scrutinizing the young man's every move as if seeking clues or signs that might shed light on what occurred in that house. He knew Dash wasn't telling him the whole story.

The silence that encompassed them was a powerful entity in its own right.

Why can't I just be sixteen? Why can't I just have a night watching bad movies with my friends? Why? Why? Don't I have the right?

…

His eyes stung. Dash kept his head down because if he looked up, he would, without a shadow of a doubt, prove that he was not an adult. That he wasn't a man. He felt as if he would burn and keep burning— he would immolate, and all that remained would be ash.

Officer Dunn blew a cheekful of air and sighed, "So— is there anything else you need, Mr Baxter?"

"N-no… no, I don't… shouldn't you be writing this down or— or shouldn't you have one of these guys stake out my house—or—"

"We'll call you for a follow-up in forty-eight hours, or if you remember anything else, you can give the department a call…" Dunn reached into one of his breast pockets and retrieved a card with a phone number, "Okay, chief?"

Baffled and deflated, Dash blinked and accepted the card, "O-okay."

Was that it?

Staring down at the card, Dash felt his brow pinch together. A noise escaped him because the words failed.

Sheriff Dunn gave a smile and a pat on the back that more resembled a professional courtesy than a gesture of assurance and warmth.

The impact caused the quarterback to jostle forward, almost losing his balance.

A dozen or so officers trampled across the yard as they made their way to their vehicles. Mud trails broke up the ocean of dew and green.

Dash found himself looking up at the house, wondering if it would genuinely ever be empty again. How long would it take for him to believe the sounds he heard in the middle of the night were just damn cast iron pipes?

The sunlight glittered off the rain-soaked shingles. The darkened windows only reflected the scene on the lawn. He was gazing upon a compromised thing. A similar visceral reaction bubbled at the back of his throat when he stumbled across a butcher shop.

—Because home— his home —no longer had sanctity.

He rested his eyes, and when he opened them, the squad cars left his block. They left.

Unceremoniously. Gone.

No sirens.

No lights.

He stared at his house, and it stared back at him.

Whatever idle fervor drawn from the neighborhood quickly dissipated as onlookers and passersby dispersed.

As soon as he was alone and sure that no eyes were on him, the young man hastily brushed away the ghost of tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. A shudder wracked his frame as he caught his breath. Hiccuping through snot and mucus, with great effort, he fought back the urge to succumb to the fresh wave of sorrow that threatened to engulf him. Desperately seeking solace, he gulped down a much-needed lungful of air, filling his chest to its capacity—

Then suddenly, he drew upon the depths of his being, and the quarterback unleashed a primal, blood-curdling yell from the core of his soul. The anguished cry ignited the air—

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

It was rage, it was fear— it was defiant and pained, he screamed—

Everything he wanted to say but couldn't, it tore its way out of him. Nothing he had the words for.

Today was a new day.

It had to be.

Eventually, his throat began to spasm and burn, and his voice gave out. Dash only stopped because he would have fainted otherwise.

When the living teen looked back at his home, it still stood in utter ambivalence to him.

There was a clicking, a subtle click of a lighter, " —This a bad time?"

And there, with no introduction, was that man from the other day. The biker draped all in black, drowning in a duster that swelled with the wind. He was just down the sidewalk, taking in the same view, off to Dash's right.

Shouldn't I have heard him pull up?

"Yanno, if you keep making that face, it'll freeze that way, kid." The drifter had a wide smirk plastered along his face and exhaled a plume of smoke from his nose.

Dash froze. In an attempt to puff himself up, he squared his shoulders and balled his fists, "What do you want?"

The quarterback demanded, " Why are you here?"

"Take it easy." Removing a black box from his coat, Johnny twisted a knob, and it crackled to life.

"Offender in custody—? Eleven hundred in progress."

"Possible nine-o-seven on Sheridan…"

"Ten-four, on our way."

The biker clicked off the pocket radio, "I never leave home without a police scanner."

Skeptical, the young man didn't say anything.

"So, what happened? I heard over the radio it was a burglary… but…" Johnny squinted at Dash's bloodstained face, then laughed, " Damn, dude ."

Without thinking, the quarterback erupted, voice cracking, "It's not funny!"

"It's pretty funny; your face is like— really red , kid; you're gonna burst a blood vessel or somethin'." Pinching his finger and thumb together, Johnny went as far as to pantomime the act of squeezing Dash's skull like a swollen tick.

"I'm not a kid!" It was all the harder to deny when his voice betrayed him.

Johnny snickered, his gravelly voice dripping with condescension— "Right. Right, you're mature in the ways that count."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The biker snorted, flicking the ash away from his cigarette before taking another drag, "You'll figure it out."

The smell of which was intoxicating and sour—

Feeling the intense gaze on him still, Johnny coyly asked, "Need a light?"

The biker blew a ring from his lips directly in Dash's face.

Spluttering, the young man coughed, "Wh-what?"

"I mean, with the night you had, nobody would blame you, Boy Scout." Retrieving his lighter again and straightening his posture atop his motorcycle, Johnny beckoned with a resigned gesture of his head, "C'mere."

Raking his fingers through his hair, Dash plucked the cancer stick from behind his ear and made his approach.

The living teen dragged his feet as if an invisible chain pulled him closer to the promise of a momentary escape.

Johnny couldn't make it as simple as handing the boy his lighter; he instead offered only the flame. Holding it there like a dare to come all that much closer.

Bound by a strong, calloused hand on the back of his neck, he paused. The desire to pull away warred with the security of remaining still, held by someone older and experienced. Johnny's hand was… cold.

Dash wanted to jerk away upon feeling it… but Johnny kept him in place.

Dash wasn't sure if all the fight had been beaten out of him or if he would have sought this out eventually.

Maybe he deserved to feel like shit. That thought perched awkwardly on his shoulders, whispering in his ear.

There was a disquieting comfort in finally knowing it.

Using the handlebars as a support, Dash leaned over the flame between their chests, cigarette clasped between his teeth.

"Better?"

Dazed and hesitant to admit that he needed this— Dash struggled to nod an acknowledgment.

A toothy, leering grin lit up the pallid, greasy face of the biker. His eyes seemed to reflect that same glow from the lighter—

"Perfect."