Two Days Before Spring Break, 1986

Jason was the only one who called her "Chris." She didn't like it, and had even told him so a few times when they started dating. He never seemed to remember, though, and Chrissy knew that she had to pick her battles. If she put her foot down here, it would mean losing ground to him somewhere else, maybe somewhere she couldn't afford.

So when Jason said, "Have a good day, Chris,"and squeezed her shoulder, she scrunched her face into a smile.

"See you later," she answered. As she watched him walk away down the hall, an odd mixture of disappointment and relief swept through her. Chrissy had spent much of her ride to school mentally compiling a list of things to say in case Jason asked if something was wrong, noticed that she looked tired, or, worst of all, somehow found out that she had been assigned mandatory counseling sessions to talk about her poor performance in class. The fact that he hadn't noticed anything was good news, and not really surprising. Chrissy was great at hiding things and keeping secrets. She had to be. She was slipping, though. Fraying at the edges, peeling at the corners. She couldn't quite keep it together, not all the time. Other people had noticed that something was off, but not Jason.

Why doesn't he notice, Chrissy wondered as she she wove her way through the maze of lockers and backpacks. And then another, worse question snuck in: why doesn't he ask?

A reply floated into her mind, dark and unwelcome.

Because he doesn't care. Not really. He doesn't even care enough to notice that you don't like being called "Chris," even after you told him so.

Chrissy quickened her pace.

Don't be mean, she argued with herself. Of course he cares. He loves you.

It didn't matter, anyway. What would she do if Jason did ask? She would lie. That's what she did, that was who she was: a liar and a sneak. Jason would hate her if he knew. Everyone would hate her. Something inside her chest tightened, and it was hard to force air past her throat. Her stomach turned sour.

Chrissy darted to the nearest bathroom. The door wasn't fully closed behind her when she gagged once, twice, and stumbled to the sink. Bracing herself on the faucet, she opened the tap and leaned over, waiting, but nothing came up. After a few moments, she found that she could breathe easily again. She closed the tap and straightened, looking at her colorless reflection in the mirror. She looked awful. She felt awful. For a moment, she thought that she might start crying, but reigned it in. The bathroom was quiet, but she had the feeling that it wasn't empty.

Chrissy turned and walked slowly in front of the stalls, looking at the ground. On the floor of the last stall there was a shadow, but no feet.

"Hello," she called. No one answered. She hadn't had a good night's sleep in over a week and her eyes had started playing tricks on her, but she was almost sure someone was inside. "Hello? Who's there?"

"Who wants to know," a voice barked.

Chrissy jumped back and yelped.

A laugh echoed out of the stall, and the door swung open. Jana Frazer stood on the toilet seat, one foot on each side, blowing smoke towards the vent. Jana had a thick mane of tightly curled brown hair that fell halfway down her back and dark eyebrows that arched to points over her bright green eyes. She never wore any makeup, and dressed in shapeless tops and long skirts. A lot of the other girls scoffed at her lack of fashion sense, but Jana carried herself with a confidence and easy grace that both baffled and intimidated Chrissy. How did she always look so comfortable all the time, so sure of herself?

"You caught me," Jana said, grinning.

Chrissy noticed the cigarette didn't look or smell like a normal cigarette, and felt herself blush.

"Well," Jana continued, "are you going to turn me in?"

"No," Chrissy found her voice. "But…isn't that dangerous?"

"What? The spliff or the balancing act?"

"Um, both?"

"Eh," Jana shrugged. "I've only slipped once, and I managed to avoid falling in the toilet bowl so it was no big deal. And these," Jana held up the tiny cigarette and grinned, "also no big deal."

"Really?"

"Don't let Nancy Reagan fool you, bright eyes."

Chrissy, fascinated and appalled, couldn't look away. "But where do you even get stuff like that?"

"Buy it from someone who sells." Jana took a short pull from the cigarette and looked at it thoughtfully before she continued. "That's where things can sometimes get dangerous. There are some jerks out there, obviously, but Eddie's cool."

"Eddie Munson?" The name felt odd on Chrissy's tongue. Forbidden.

"Mm hm," Jana nodded. "Only offers what you want, never asks for anything but cash."

So it wasn't just a rumor, Eddie Munson sold drugs. The kind of stuff people talked about in movies, not over the counter pills you could get at Melvald's.

A memory interrupted her thoughts. A pinch on her arm, Mom's voice hissing in her ear. Why was that boy waving at you? Just as quickly as it appeared, the memory was gone, pushed out by a new idea sprouting in her head. An insane idea, an idea that felt like running towards the edge of a cliff. Before she could stop herself, the idea turned into a question.

"Does Eddie sell to anyone?"

"What do you mean?" Jana's eyes narrowed into quizzical slits.

"I mean, if I asked him, do you think he would…" She couldn't finish the sentence. It was too much to say out loud.

Jana hopped off the toilet seat and landed, grinning, in front of Chrissy.

"That ponytail is pretty tight, isn't it, Cunningham?" Jana held the cigarette between them as an offering. "Need to loosen up? You could do a lot worse."

Chrissy wrinkled her nose against the skunky smell. "No, thank you. I was just wondering, if you thought Eddie would…" Her words trailed off for a second. Chrissy didn't think she had ever talked to Eddie Munson. She tried to stay out of his way, worried that he would react to something she said or did, cause a scene and make fun of her the way he did to Jason sometimes. "Do you think Eddie would even talk to me, if I asked?" Chrissy doubted it. If he hated her boyfriend so much, he must disdain her as well.

"Oh, bright eyes," Jana chuckled. "I think you could ask Eddie Munson for just about anything."

Chrissy thought she saw, from the corner of her eye, something - a spider? - skittering behind her. She flinched and turned quickly, trying to catch sight of whatever it was, but found only her own pale face reflected in the mirror.

"Chrissy? Are you okay?" Jana's voice was softer than it had been, and she wasn't laughing any more.

Chrissy blinked rapidly. "You won't tell anyone about this, right?"

Jana shook her head and drew an invisible X over her heart.

"Thanks. And I won't, I mean, I wasn't going to tell, anyway." Chrissy fidgeted with the cuffs of her sleeves. "Although, if I do decide to, if I ask Eddie, I mean, can I tell him that we talked?"

"Sure." Jana smiled with that mysterious, easy confidence. "Tell him you want earrings like mine," she winked. "He'll know what that means."

Chrissy wished, suddenly, that she and Jana were friends so that she could lean forward and hug her. She would hate you, too, if she knew what you really are. The voiced slithered between Chrissy's ears. Everyone would hate you.

Chrissy stepped backward, away from Jana, tried to smile, and hurried away.

Spring Break, 1986

Eddie woke up hungry and, for the first time in days, alert. It was one of those mornings when he snapped awake because there was something important to do. Except, there wasn't anything for Eddie to do except wait around. Still, he couldn't shake his feeling of nervous expectation. He put on his shoes and kept the laces tied. Just in case.

His stomach twisted into painful knots. The groceries were long gone. He scrounged through Rick's kitchen, hating the bowl of plastic fruit more than ever, until he found a can of Spaghetti-ohs. The "best before" date on the label had gone by a month ago, but he was in no position to be picky. He let it boil an extra minute, just in case. As the first scoop of pasta went into his mouth, his hunger seemed to double. No way would Spaghetti-ohs be enough. He needed more food, and soon. Still shoveling pasta into his mouth with one hand, he reached for Henderson's radio with the other and started to call.

When his first few attempts went unanswered, Eddie strangled his instinct to worry. There was very little standing between his current state of unease and a full-blown panic. The fewer steps he took in that direction, the better. So he assumed everything was fine and just kept calling.

Wheeler eventually answered, but he barely got ten words out of her before she dropped him. Eddie swore, resisting the urge to kick the furniture. Apparently everyone had better things to do than care if he died of starvation.

That might be an exaggeration. It was frustrating, he had to admit, not being the ringleader of his group or the center of attention. And even though he wished he could be as far away as possible from this situation, nothing could change the fact that he was in it. So was it asking too much for someone to take a minute to tell him what the hell was going on?

And why did it have to be so quiet? For days now he'd had nothing to listen to but water and birds. He wanted his tape deck maybe even more than he wanted food. And he would give his left foot and maybe even his right foot too if it meant he could have his guitar.

Eddie dropped the empty pot onto the stovetop and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Corroded Coffin was supposed to be practicing at Gareth's house this weekend. How did they sound without him? They must've heard the news by now. Did they believe it? Did his own band think that he was guilty of murder? He wasn't always exactly nice to them, but they knew that he wouldn't hurt anybody, right? They knew he would never do anything bad enough to make them hate him. Because he cared about those doofuses. Maybe I should have said that once in a while, Eddie considered as he paced through the empty, quiet house.

The morning went by, and no one showed up. Midday came and went, the afternoon dragged on. No knock on the door, no call over the radio he kept on his belt. Nothing. Every hour that passed, it became more and more difficult for Eddie to keep his panic at bay. He paced and paced and paced until his feet were sore. He didn't clean up the dirtied kitchen or the bed that he had mussed, didn't even consider taking a shower. He just waited, and worried.

Why had no one come? Was something bad happening? Worse: did they forget about him? Worst of all: had this all been a trick, a way to keep him contained so that they could turn him over to the police? He couldn't stop his mind from spiraling through the possibilities.

Eddie knew he was making himself crazy. He had to get out of the house, if only for a change of scenery and a breath of fresh air. As soon as he stepped outside, though, he felt too vulnerable. Without thinking, he went to the boathouse and closed himself in. A rabbit scurrying back to a hutch. Eddie almost hated himself, but his fear still outweighed his shame. He sat in the dark, waiting for something to happen. He tossed pebbles into the slip, and wondered how long it would take for the water to wear each one down into sand.

Finally, the sound of lapping water was interrupted by the crunch of tires on gravel. Eddie crawled over to the windows. Someone was coming for him, after all, but it wasn't Dustin or Nancy. It wasn't even Steve. Voices rang out in the night, calling for him. It was a hunting party, and Eddie didn't need two guesses to know who was in the lead.

In school and in town, Eddie had always banked on the fact that Jason thought he was better than Eddie, and therefore wouldn't lower himself to actually fight him. No matter how many times Eddie baited the hook, it was beneath the golden boy to lay hands on trailer trash. But everything was different now. There was nothing to stop Jason from laying hands on Eddie if he caught him. So don't get caught.

Eddie snapped the radio off his belt and clutched it to his mouth, calling for help. No one answered. He called again and again, each time more desperate. Silence.

No one was coming to help him, and he had to go now. He couldn't see how many of Jason's friends were out there walking through the trees, but it was clear that he would never make it to the road in one piece. There was only one way out.

With a three-step running start, Eddie threw himself against the boat. For a second nothing happened. Eddie thought he might faint. Then the boat gave way under his weight, scraped down the slip, and bobbed into the lake. Eddie yanked off the tarp, jumped in, and grabbed an oar. The boat wobbled violently as he pushed the paddle into the water, and it was a few seconds before he moved forward. Even when he did get the hang of rowing and the boat started to glide towards the center of the lake, Eddie felt he was going too slow, much too slow. There was a motor on the boat, but he knew it would be too loud. He shouldn't draw attention to himself.

"Hey, freak!"

Too late. Eddie looked back to shore. Jason was nearly at the water's edge and advancing with a tall figure at his heels. There was no point in trying to be quiet now. Eddie dropped the oar and lunged for the motor. He pulled the starter rope and nearly puked when nothing happened. Again and again he pulled, begging, pleading, threatening the motor to start. Nothing. Meanwhile, Jason and the other guy (very tall, vaguely familiar) had pulled off their jackets and shoes. Black jackets and shoes, he somehow noticed amidst the chaos. Black for a funeral. That didn't matter now. They were in the water and coming at him fast. Eddie gave up on the motor, picked up the oar, and paddled as hard as he could. He couldn't tell if he was more scared or angry. This was all so stupid, like some God-damn Dukes of Hazzard shit. He was going as fast as he could, but he heard the swimmers gaining on him. He couldn't let Jason get into the boat.

Eddie stood and swung the oar wildly, nearly throwing himself over the side in the process.

"Stay back, man," he yelled. His voice sounded more scared than threatening, but the two swimmers stopped coming at him and started talking to each other. Or, actually, Jason was talking at the other one, and now Eddie heard a name.

"Patrick?"

Eddie's eyes found the second shape in the water. The kid was just floating there, still and peaceful, almost like…

Patrick disappeared under the surface. Eddie's blood turned to ice. He knew what would happen next. He didn't want to watch, but couldn't turn away. For a moment the only noises were his and Jason's panting breaths over the lapping of the water. Then, in a burst of spray, Patrick was pulled through the surface by an invisible hand that drew him up into the air until he hung, suspended, against the night sky.

The Dark Wizard. Vecna. He's here. Eddie stumbled back and lost his footing. For a split second he thought that he was being lifted into the air, too, until the hard smack of water hit his back. Panicked, he flailed uselessly underwater until some instinct took control his body and he pulled himself to the surface. His clothes were turning into weights that would drag him back down if he didn't start moving soon, but Eddie stayed where he was. He stayed and he watched Patrick die. Vecna killed him the same hideous way he had killed Chrissy, painfully and piece by piece. The same horror that that had consumed Eddie in his trailer swallowed him again now, but there was something else, too. Pulsing at the center of his terror was a new beat of anger, of fury, of hatred. Someone had to stop Vecna. Someone had to do something. Eddie had to do something. He didn't know what, but he did know that Jason would only keep him from doing it.

Jason splashed wildly and screamed for help. Eddie struck out towards the shore, and didn't look back.