Chapter Text
His breath steamed the window of the ski lift as the cold glass pressed against his temple. Usually the ascent filled Josh with excitement, but this time only dread crept in, spilling over the cracks that had begun to form.
Solitary footsteps on virginal snow. Soft crunches marked his return.
He needed to go back. The compulsion was so strong that it bordered on obsession. It didn't mean he wanted to be there.
The lodge was deserted. He walked around beneath the lofty ceiling in perfect silence. All the familiar sounds - the creaking of wooden beams and the muted rush of wind through the trees beyond the rattling windows - were absent. He didn't even hear his own footsteps.
That was the couch they’d curled up on together, sheltered beneath a massive woollen blanket. There in the corner was the wooden planter they used to stand the Christmas tree in. By the door was the coarse-bristled welcome mat, once home to snowy boots. That was the stool he’d passed out on. There was the phone Sam used to call for help. That was the cupboard beneath the sink where they kept the flashlights they'd used to go out looking for them, shouting their names desperately into the darkness. There was the chair he'd sat in when the police arrived.
That night had touched everything, destroying his fondest memories and replacing them with poison. The house was haunted.
Everything had turned to ashes.
He missed them. All of them. His sisters, his friends. Chris…
The bench was damp with melted snow and his jeans were wet, but he didn’t care. He took another swig. The beer sloshed against the sides of the glass bottle.
Fuck, he missed him so much he could barely stand it. He was at his lowest ebb, but the comforting embrace and softly spoken words never came.
“...this is...you’re...you’re breaking up with me.”
It was better this way, he had to keep telling himself that. This wasn't about him and Chris. This was about them. It was why things had to happen like this. Chris would never understand, no matter how hard he tried to or how far Josh dragged him down into this - and he would drag him down, whether he meant to or not, like he always did. And Chris would've let him, that's what hurt the most. He'd have followed him down into this dark pit of his own making without a second thought, the caring fucking idiot.
“I can't have a fresh start. With you. I can't. I can't do that, okay...? We're done.”
He'd said things - horrible things designed to sever the bonds of a friendship that had been a lifetime in the making, wedging so much hurt between them that the gap could never be bridged - to push him away and make it easier for Chris to let him go. So many things he didn't mean and wished he could take back.
He'd hurt him. Josh knew even then just how much pain he'd inflicted. Years of friendship gave him the intimate knowledge that enabled him to cut closest to the bone, and he’d abused that privilege, exploiting the other man’s vulnerabilities with expert precision. Chris wanted to help him, naively insisting, almost pleading with him that they could at least try. Together they could work through it like they always did. But this time was different. He was broken, or so close to breaking that it was inevitable, just a matter of time.
No amount of love and patience - the band aids and superglue of their relationship - were going to work this time, because it wasn't just the fact that Chris didn't understand that made Josh leave. The problem was he never could.
The empty bottle landed with a dull thunk in a nearby snow bank.
But he was going to do right by him now. He was going to put him back together again when he’d been the one to so cruelly rip him apart. The heroic leading man, though he didn't know it yet, with a fresh start. It didn't matter that it wasn't with him. If Josh could help him when he couldn't even help himself, then all the wrong he'd done would count for something.
The decision to stop taking his meds was several tempestuous days in the making. The habit, the ritual… it was so deeply ingrained that not taking them had never seemed like an option. Standing atop a precipice with the three prescription bottles in hand and the vast gorge below separating him from the rest of the world, he looked down at the ski lift, his eyes following the cables, spider web thin from this distance.
Could he do this?
Before he could change his mind, he whipped the rattling bottles through the air, where they became specks and disappeared into the gulf.
Just like skimming stones.
He needed to be clean: to think clearly, his thoughts uninterrupted by clinical distractions.
The first day passed without event. The next day, he heard them for the first time. Cold turkey, a clean break, and they began to speak.
A whole day and night passed in the grip of withdrawal. Drenched in a feverish sweat, half naked in his parents’ bed, he gibbered at nobody as he tangled himself up in damp sheets. Mere days later and there they were: fully formed. Finally with him. Reborn.
They weren’t real, he knew that. They were gone as far as the rest of the world was concerned. But as the days passed, the lines began to blur and he started to care less and less about that trivial detail, embracing each moment they decided to visit him as if it might be the last time all over again.
Just because it's in your head doesn't mean it's not real.
A brief period of clarity. Methodical sketches. Straight lines. Rulers. Thinking clear, focused thoughts. He was sitting at a desk, working by the light of an old anglepoise lamp. He was no expert, but what he'd designed… it was good. A few tweaks and it would work. The body double would be expensive, but what else did he have to spend his money on now?
Lists helped to keep up the momentum. Lists and schedules to keep propelling him forward. Diagrams and the careful slotting of rusty blades. Blueprints and the connecting of wires. Puzzle pieces fitting together to form the beginnings of a beautiful picture. Everything was taking shape.
With a pull of a lever, the saw blades whirled to life, spinning with a wicked din that stretched his mouth into a grin. No half finished project, not this time.
Everything was fucking perfect. Fucking delightful.
You're doing it again.
I am?
Yeah. Have you seen the time?
A hand batted his own away. “I wasn’t standing like that.”
“No?”
Hannah shook her head, “No, I was facing this way.”
Josh turned the doll slightly. “Like that?”
His sister nodded, “Yeah, like that.”
He smiled up at her, basking in the warming glow of her approval. “It’s all about the details.” he joked.
She laughed, and the sound tugged at his heart and made him homesick, “Yeah… Did you bring it?”
With an eager nod, he picked up the diary with great reverence and unhooked the catch holding the dollhouse roof in place.
“Perfect.” she beamed down at him.
Her eyes were wet and dark like tar, her skin ghostly pale in the moonlight.
T-then listen to me. Just me. Please…..just. Come. Home.
It was snowing again: thick billowing gusts of white powder swirling around the lodge beyond the window panes, blowing sideways at times. The sound of it whistled along the chimney and roared distant in the fireplace.
And there he was in the middle of it, calm and still in the centre of the snow globe.
“Josh?”
“Hmm?” He looked over his shoulder.
Beth was standing at the foot of the stairs, her demeanour marked by an air of agitation. “What are you doing?”
“I was…” he pointed at the window with a lazy gesture.
She made an exasperated sound, “How are you going to be ready in time if you’re staring out the window all day?”
“...M’sorry, Bee…”
He swallowed as he pulled the shutters closed with clumsy fingers and heavy arms.
I….we c-can..we’ll fix things together. You and me, J. It’s not gonna be perfect, but it’s s-somethin.
He’d missed a session. Somewhere along the way he’d lost track of time and had forgotten to return to civilisation long enough to let the shrink try to pick at his head. If he didn’t do something, everyone might find out where he really was.
It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, taken straight from the pages of high school 101. I’ll tell my mom I’m staying at your house and you tell your mom you’re staying at my house, then we can go to the party. Easy. Only this time the people being fooled had somewhat changed. His parents thought he was back at college retaking his first year again. Meanwhile, Chris and his friends assumed he was at home with his parents. As long as they didn’t talk, the lie could continue. Without his sisters to bridge that gap…
Without them…
He text Dr Hill, asking to reschedule, hoping it would be enough for now.
.....if...if you ever feel like that again, like escapin’....don’t go---don’t go somewhere like that. Just...you can come here. I---I don’t ever wanna feel like I did tonight, and I don’t want you to either.
...I wasn’t... trying to escape.
A vaguely remembered day spent in the home cinema eating microwave popcorn as a stream of lurid images bathed him in an eerie light. It was research. He was getting into character. The mask sat casually atop his head, pulled back enough to let him shove the meagre meal into his face, though he didn’t taste it. His boots, bloody like the overalls he wore, were propped up on the back of the seat in front. To the casual observer, he almost looked relaxed.
He was never relaxed.
Then I’ll fix you. That’s...w-what best friends are f-for.....so come home.
Two weeks in and he lapsed again. It was such a small thing to lose it over, but it put him off schedule for a couple of days.
The music box.
When he opened it and the song began to play, he cracked. That tune, over and over and over and over. He kept winding it up, feeling sicker each time but unable to deny the compulsion. He didn’t know how he found himself curled up in the empty bathtub with the box beside him, its tinny melody echoing off the tiles.
It was the first time he truly left himself, and for that he was strangely grateful.
Just… just tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll… I-I'll come. Please.
Slow down, slow down, slow down…
He’d gone away again, his mind absent while his body went on without him. Maybe a few days had passed this time since he’d last checked in. His hands were covered in blood; thick, dark and reddish black up to the elbows. His blood?
No. Not his blood. He was holding a knife.
Josh looked up at the pig carcass hanging from the ceiling. Its skin was a sickly shade of slimy pink in the dim light.
Ah. So this is why he'd come back. This required a degree of concentration.
Okay, he was in the basement of the old hotel. He’d been spending more and more time down here beneath the lodge as the days went on. When had he last been outside?
His boots were wet. It must’ve been sometime recently.
The pigs.
There we go, now he knew.
The pigs had been heavy. Real fucking heavy. But he’d done it, dragging the bags behind him through the snow as he marched back up the hill, leaving strange tracks in his wake.
It was better down here. Down here he didn’t have to think about how horribly normal everything seemed up there in the unused rooms.
Well, they had been unused, for the most part. Early on - back before he'd kicked the meds - he’d stayed up there, daring to go into their rooms and look at clothes and possessions that would never be worn or used again. It still smelt like them.
Half a bottle of his dad's scotch and an accidental doubling up of his dose made a mess of him. He somehow ended up in Hannah’s closet, slumped in the corner surrounded by a dead girl's shoes and the hems of her coats and dresses brushing against him like ghosts. His demons gushed out of him in a torrent that left his insides raw and empty until eventually his body gave up and shut down for a while.
It was different at the memorial, a lifetime ago. He hadn't even been able to say a eulogy. Cold. Frozen. Stagnant. That was what death looked like, not fresh and bloody, still emanating the heat of its host's beating heart. Death was cold. It was freshly turned earth and impersonal store-bought flower arrangements. It was photos in cold frames of lifeless faces, destined to never smile again. It was standing in the chill air powerless to do anything.
But not in that closet. Oh no. He’d shouted slurred words and bared his soul to it, to himself, to anyone or anything that would listen.
He was so very alone back then. Back before he heard them.
“You and I are very much alike, buddy.” he said to the pig, meeting its beady sightless eyes with an air of amusement as he began to gather up armfuls of viscera from the floor, dumping the wet mess into a trash bag for later use.
Gutting the pig, letting everything out in one violent, debilitating burst. Ripping out its innards, exposing everything against its will.
Apt.
The trash bag was fit to bursting. Taking care not to slip on slick tiles, Josh tied it up and slopped it inside another. It would be a bitch to clean up if it sprang a leak. Besides, he needed its contents if he was going to make the dummy convincing.
Innards. Just like his own.
He put the bag down and felt his own stomach, his palm smearing blood over the unwashed shirt. A tiny part of him, for the shortest of moments, wondered if the dummy was even necessary. Did it matter what Chris decided in the end? He could just--
No. Stick to the plan. You have to show them. You promised.
With the bag out of the way, he attempted to mop up some of the mess. It’s all he seemed to be doing these days: dirtying and tidying. Soiling and cleaning. Blood and sweat and vomit and bleach.
There was so much work to do.
“Not long now.” he murmured as the mop head trailed swirling red patterns across the floor.
......you blame yourself f-for too much. It.....it’s not always about what y-you did, or w-what you didn’t do….
He was crying again. It was getting fucking embarrassing by this point, not that there was anyone to witness it. That was the problem.
They'd gone out into the snow hand in hand without him one night and didn't respond to him, even when his calls became frantic. Clinging to the doorway, he pleaded for them to come back until his voice was hoarse, but they wouldn't listen.
Everything was covered in a thick white carpet of snow, horribly bright in the moonlight. The trees threw long, wicked shadows across it.
He thought he heard noises out there in the night. Terrible inhuman sounds. He didn't follow, returning sobbing and defeated to the darkness inside.
You think no one needs you, that you’re wrong or something, but I---I need you.
“How’s my leading lady?”
The photo was the most recent he could find. Sam looked as beautiful as ever. Breathtaking. She was going to be his starlet. His Scream Queen. His Jamie Lee, Neve, Janet and Sigourney all rolled into one. She was going to shine so fucking bright it would burn their eyes right out of their skulls.
She wasn’t there though, was she?
His mood soured, flipping from an overwhelming affection to resentment in the space of a few heartbeats.
“Where… where were you when all this was happening, huh?” He drove another thumbtack through the photo to hold it in place. “Where the hell were you?”
Troubled gaze flicked from photo to photo, eventually settling on a face he knew so well it hurt. It wasn’t just the pain of cruel talons clawing at his emotions. No, a real, physical pain. An aversion, nearly.
“Or you? Where the fuck were you? Out of everybody, you s-should’ve...”
“That’s unfair.”
None of this was fair. None of it. But that wasn’t what she meant.
“But they should’ve… I should’ve--”
“They weren’t there when it happened, Josh.”
It was Beth who gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. After a moment of self-directed frustration, Josh tried to calm himself. “I know. I-I know that…but...”
It was too much.
With his sweat slick hands pressed to the wall, he let the nausea force bile from his stomach. His throat burned, even when he was reduced to nothing more than dry heaves.
“Mom, should I get the nurse?”
He shook his head, “No, Han… I’m… no…” Lightheaded, he stood up shakily and wiped watering eyes and damp lips on his sleeve.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh…” Beth wrapped her arms around him, coaxing him into a hug.
He let her cradle his head to her shoulder for a long time as his breath evened out and his stomach settled. “We can show them though, right?” he asked weakly.
Beth leaned back and held her brother’s face in her hands. “Yes, J.” she said with a patient smile, “We can show everyone.”
....might not be much, but….l-listen to me, maybe? Or….or I’ll listen, if you wanna t-talk….just….
I’ll stay with you. Whatever you want. Anything, just…..we gotta go home.
Putting together a remembrance board and sticking rosettes and trinkets to it, scavenged from their belongings. Testing out the voice modulator and finding his voice surprisingly steady, easy and even. Writing the note with his own blood, pricked finger bleeding but not hurting. Focused again, feeling nothing other than an all-consuming determination that kept his eyes open and sleep at bay.
For a while it was good again.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
Shouting at nobody. Part of him knew that was happening, but it wasn't acknowledged.
“What? What do you want from me? I've done everything you asked me to! What more do you want?”
His breath fogged the dusk air as he paced back and forth, kicking up snow. Why were they so angry? He was trying so hard. They had to see that.
“It's not good enough.” Hannah said through a scowl.
“Do you want this to work?” Beth asked.
Calloused hands balled into fists. “I don't... have to listen to you anymore. I'm done.”
“You're done when we say you're done.”
He froze.
The voice came from behind him, uncomfortably close. Cold, dead breath chilled his neck and filled him with fear. He didn't dare turn around, half-knowing the horror that would greet him. “Okay… okay… I-I’m sorry.” his voice was little more than a shaking exhale.
“Do you. Want this. To work?” Hannah asked again, the question whisper soft and deafeningly loud against his ear.
“Of course I do. I'm trying…” he fell to his knees, making imprints in the snow. “I'm really trying. Please…”
.....J….you awake?
How long had he been out this time?
Josh hugged the gas canister to his chest and sighed with a terrible sadness when he began to remember where he was.
You’re losing your fucking mind.
The first time he’d used it for a valid reason. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. He needed to know how long it could knock someone out for so he could plan accordingly. Using himself as a test subject, he set the timer on his phone and breathed it in.
Forty two minutes of uninterrupted blackness passed. Minutes spent completely switched off, with no thoughts to trouble him. Gone. He hadn’t thought he could turn it off that easily. Josh and the canister soon became fast friends.
“Josh.”
He looked up groggily from where he was slumped against the wall.
“Just a bit longer. Hold on a little bit longer. Can you do that?”
Knuckling his eye with one hand, he nodded at the twins, sniffing as the canister fell from between his knees with a metallic clatter. He slowly got to his feet.
Tell.. tell me what to do. P-please. I’m so tired..
He was getting better at pretending. Greeting the delivery man at the bottom of the hill and signing the delivery docket had been easy enough. With the box of newspapers in hand, he’d even managed to crack a lame joke before retreating to the lift.
Yes. Every day it was getting easier to pretend. He just had to work at it, just for a little while.
Just listen to me… please, J...
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what hurt?”
It was difficult to keep his voice from cracking. “...Dying?”
Hannah and Beth shared a look over the Ouija board. Their silence was deafening in the stillness of the library, faces pale in candlelight. Eventually they turned to Josh. Hannah gave him a sad smile and nodded softly. “Yeah…”
At this, morbid questioning gave way to an utterly devastated look.
“But not for long.” Beth was quick to reassure him. “Just for a second and it's all over. I promise.”
With his head in his hands and his eyes tearing up, he finally spoke again. His voice was little more than a whisper. “...Everything?”
A cold hand found his own.
“Everything.”
Please, J...
You….you gotta eat, J. Otherwise, y-you’re not gonna get better...
A week left to go. When he looked at his reflection, he barely recognised himself. It wouldn’t work if they didn’t recognise him either. Food passed his lips on more than one occasion, simple fuel to keep him ticking over. Now it was a necessity and he doubled his efforts, eating as much as he could handle if only to get the colour back on his cheeks. After all, he was playing two roles when his guests arrived. He had to get back into character.
Slow down...
...Please slow down...
Nearly there, we’re nearly there now.
"How do I look?" Hannah asked anxiously, turning to her siblings as she brushed down her prom dress with increasingly clammy hands.
"Come on, Han. You look good. Not sure how many times I can keep telling you before you'll believe me." He glanced over at Beth, who looked back at him in the mirror’s reflection as she applied her lipstick. “You too.” he added.
His attention returned to the photo propped up at the base of the mirror. It was him. Just him. Taken a year or two ago, but it was close enough to what he needed. He studied it and copied the expression of his former self.
The shower was cold without the boiler working, but it had cleaned him up. With his hair washed and the dirt of the seemingly endless weeks scrubbed away, he was ready for his cue.
The twins joined him by the mirror, standing either side of him as he took in their reflection. The three of them there…
Man the fuck up.
Josh smiled weakly then glanced at the photo. A few adjustments later and there it was. Good as new.
Perfect.
He pulled on his hat with the smile fixed on his face. “Knock ‘em dead.”
His phone buzzed in his back pocket, tearing his attention away from their reflections. With a casual swipe of his thumb, he answered it.
“...Hey, man.”
“...He-.. Jo.. ..we..”
“Hello?”
“...You're crack… up..”
“I'm here, bro.” he took a final look in the mirror. He was alone now. “...I'm here.”