Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

viii. this band is back

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. The richness it brought with each drop was still there, but the pounding of thunder paired with the pounding of his head after crying was too much, leaving him to wait for sleep to overtake him until the aching that surrounded him was no more. Waking up hadn't been easy, the first few moments of the day like a breath of fresh air, not quite remembering the day before until it hit him so hard he would have doubled over if he hadn't already been lying down.

For five minutes he sat on the edge of his bed and thought hard, the wood creaking under his weight as if his thoughts were weighing him down, wondering what was in store for him as soon as he walked out his door. Part of him was glad it was still the weekend — it gave him an excuse to stay in his room as long as he liked, but like everything, it had a downside: staying in his room all day was the last thing he wanted to do. The four walls that held comfort and solidarity now felt as though they were closing in, like a soda can dropped down deep within the depths of the unforgiving sea.

He didn't want to think of what would happen if he did end up stepping out his door. Would his father be there like he'd promised last night, waiting for Scout to come out? Or would he make him wait, like some sort of mind game? Clark Murphy was nothing if not fleeting, but perhaps this time had been one too many — despite there never having been a time before to begin with.

A side glance to his alarm clock told him it's nearly eleven AM, probably the longest he had slept in a while. No matter how exhausted he was, his body never seemed to like waking up past seven in the morning, whether he had school or not; an involuntary reflex. It took a moment for his dark-circled eyes to comprehend the lack of noise coming from said alarm, but all he did in response was furrow a brow and watch closely as the seconds ticked by like a prisoner counting down until his execution. Rather than beeping at him in a loud, monotonous blare, it sat silently atop his nightstand until it could be of use. Funny, it felt like the last time it was used was a million years ago, and yet it's only been two days since.

He imagined the weekend's events would do that to a person.

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind does he doubt it. would it, though? Maybe in another town, another time, another lifetime, these things might be normal, but they sure weren't in Hawkins, Indiana of all places. Whatever business with money never went through public eye, and maybe that was where the problem lied: secretly. People doing things behind closed doors, where there wasn't truly any record of their interaction, or even them being there. No, something had happened with Dawn back in Night Vale, and it wasn't hard to see the people involved, who might have even had something to do with it. Mr. Macaulay was one of them, that was for sure, but the rest were harder. Did the people know their mayor was shady? Whose money had that even been?

So many questions...and yet, none of them had answers. Good ones, anyway. But he was sure of one thing: Dawn Pruitt hadn't drowned that night. No, her death was just like his mother's ring — brimming with questions in places he wasn't supposed to be, ones that could only be answered by the very people that wanted to keep curiosity and snitches away.

It was hard not to think of the whole Will Byers incident; too eerily similar to what had happened to Dawn. For a week, everyone in Hawkins thought the kid was dead, drowned in the quarry late one night after getting too close. Only Joyce seemed to hold out hope, no matter how many times people tried to comfort her or, alternatively, told her she was crazy for believing in it. Even with all the search parties and the woods not even being all that big to begin with...Well. Perhaps it was just best to be happy. Happy for him, and for Jonathan, and for Joyce. Their boy was safe and sound. How? It doesn't matter.