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beseriouslywilde · 11 months

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I Could Sleep When I Lived Alone

“Do you know if there’s some unfinished business or— when do you…” Richie gestured vaguely. “Stop being here?”

IT (Stephen King)

Richie & Stan, Richie Tozier and Stanley Uris

(Ghosts, grieving, paranormal, friends, hurt/comfort, angst, 2278 words)

***

Half of Richie’s brain was constantly screaming at him to leave.

Leave his room, leave his house, leave the neighbourhood, leave town.

But the dumber, more emotional part of him was always begging to stay.

He closed his eyes and rolled over, it was too late in the night to be dealing with existential dread, he could discuss it all with his therapist a few days later, he didn’t have to think about it at 3 am, which is when it always seemed to happen.

When the still air in his old house would stir, and Richie would lay in bed and pray to go to sleep, mumbling under his breath the lyrics to his favourite songs to calm his racing heart.

Because after 27 years of not remembering the horrible things he’d lived through as a child, having all of it flood back to him within a week meant he was a bit behind on the therapy.

Needless to say, his brain was his enemy. Really, it always had been, telling him he was wrong, gross, sinful.

But it was nights like these that were the worst.

When Richie could have sworn there was Something there, lurking in the shadows.

He wanted to call Bill. He wanted to call Bev, Ben, Mike, they were all out of town, living their lives like normal people, writing books, building houses, visiting fricking Florida, and Richie was stuck in Derry with his trauma and his loneliness, just because part of him didn’t want to leave.

Because that part of him wanted to call Eddie.

Eddie Kaspbrak, who Richie watched die in the basement of the Neibolt house.

Richie jumped at the noise of the ancient furnace turning on in the basement, he hugged the bedsheets closer to himself, taking a deep breath.

“Notrealnotrealnotreal.” He muttered like a chant, it was familiar in a gut wrenching way that made him want to throw up.

His eyes were squeezed tight, with his face pinched with invisible pain.

He wanted to cry, scream, die, anything. He just wanted the house to stop seeming too empty.

Because if it was too empty it felt like there was someone there, and he really, really couldn’t deal with that.

Despite being almost frozen with fear, he reached out from under the blanket as quickly as he could to flick on his bedside lamp.

It illuminated the small room with a flash, boxes both emptied and unopened alike littered the space, casting shadows that he scanned with panicked, unblinking eyes.

When it seemed like there was nothing, he let out another deep breath, restarting his chorus of ‘not real’s.

Around him, the bedsheet seemed too tight, and the walls seemed too close, and the lamp just wasn’t bright enough.

He kicked the sheet off of himself, and stepped off the bed cautiously, grabbing his empty water glass from the bedside table.

Richie felt awkward, his cold bare feet tensed on top of the laminated wood floor, sitting at the edge of his bed, contemplating ignoring the screaming in his chest and going back to sleep, or blocking out the way his hand was jittering at the thought of going downstairs for more water.

In an act of courage, he stood up on uneasy legs, stepping numbly through the mess on his bedroom floor, and down the stairs into the kitchen, turning on all of the lights on his way down.

He checked over his shoulder as he made his way to the tap, turning his attention from his surroundings, then to the sink, then back, in a loop until his cup was full.

The entire time, Richie didn’t stop mumbling ‘not real’, to the point where it sounded more like “Noreel”.

If he repeated it enough he could convince himself it was true, that’s how it worked with IT, and that was how it was going to work with his fears, he was sure.

If he was sure he wouldn’t be awake at such an early hour stressed out about an empty house.

Richie shook his head, he took another breath and continued whispering, raising his voice slightly, since there was no one there to hear him.

He closed his eyes and took a sip of water, it felt cool down his dry throat and helped to quell the feeling of bile rising.

His eyes shot open the moment he heard a sound from behind him.

He gripped the counter with his free hand, torn halfway between facing the noise or just letting it happen behind him.

“Damn.” He heard whispered behind him, raising the hair on the back of Richie’s neck.

Richie froze completely, with his eyes shut so tight it hurt, though his hand must have loosened, since the next thing he knew the full water glass was slipping from his fingers and crashing onto the kitchen floor.

“Seriously?” The Voice asked rhetorically, with a hint of annoyance and amusement.

In his peril Richie almost didn’t notice how familiar it sounded, because the last time that voice had spoken to him in the same way was when they were only 13 years old. Luckily, Richie’s mind was familiar enough with fear to register it.

Without thinking, Richie spun himself around, his foot getting soaked in the water from the smashed glass on the floor and his eyes open wide, staring with confusion in front of him.

“Careful, Rich.” Stan said, wincing at how close Richie’s foot was to the glass shards.

Richie blinked, fully confused, fully astonished, fully concerned.

The emotional half of him wanted to cry.

The other half wanted to run, to wake up from whatever nightmare he was having, wanted to know exactly what was going on.

Stanley effing Uris on the other hand, didn’t seem at all startled to be dead and in Richie’s house. He walked over to the fridge with a misplaced grace, and threw it open, scowling.

“You’re out of milk.”

Richie watched Stanley sift through the contents of his refrigerator.

“Why don’t you have milk? I told you to buy milk, you’ve been out of it for a week.”

“I didn’t think about it.” Richie shrugged casually.

Then blinked.

Then froze on the spot.

So did Stan.

“What?” He looked over at Richie, slamming the fridge door shut.

“I… I didn’t think about it.” Richie repeated, his voice faltering.

“What?” Stan said again.

“I didn’t think about-”

“You can hear me?”

Richie stared, stunned, and nodded slowly.

“Jesus Christ.” Stanley said, mortified.

“You’re jewish.” Richie pointed out.

“You’re talking to a ghost in your kitchen and that’s what you think to say?”

“You’re a ghost?” Richie asked stupidly.

“What else would I be? I’m dead.” Stan ran his fingers through his curls frantically, pacing in a tiny circle in front of the fridge.

Richie shifted his weight from foot to foot, not taking his eyes off of Stanley Uris, ghost.

“My god.” Richie said, staring at his old friend, taking in his scars, his face, his height, his hair, his clothes. “You’re older.”

“So are you.”

“You would have known that if you had shown up.” Richie’s voice held a lot more venom than he’d intended.

Stan’s face fell into a morose frown. “Look, Rich, I’m sorry-”

“No, no, I’m sorry Stan.” Richie said aggressively. “I just… I needed you there. You promised you would be there.”

“I know, Rich-”

“Do you have the scar?” Richie asked.

Stan brought up a hand to run a finger along the small scars spread out around his face.

“Not that one,” Richie didn’t mean to remind Stanley of that happening. Ghost or not, he was still apparently Stan. “The hand.”

Stanley dropped his eyes to his palm, where he traced the crease carefully.

“It never went away.”

Richie sighed. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean to bring that all up, but… we could have really used you, man.”

Stanley smiled, “You did it though, beat It.”

“We did.”

“I’m sorry about Eddie…” Stan trailed off.

“It’s- yeah, it’s- thanks.”

Richie willed himself to wake up, he didn’t want this dream to go any further, he wasn’t sure if he could handle the false hope.

When it seemingly didn’t work he pinched the inside of his wrist, but not very discreetly, Stanley noticed but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Why are you here?” Richie asked after pinching himself proved painful.

Stan shrugged, “It’s my hometown… and I feel bad for not showing up, but I still wanted to be here, I just knew that I couldn’t. I would never be able to handle it and I would bring everyone down.” “I got your letter.”

“I know.”

“But really, why not haunt your wife?”

Stan smiled, “I don’t think I can. I didn’t try to come here, it just sort of happened. Lets me look out for you, though.”

“Look out for me?”

“Notes,” Stan gestured to the fridge, covered in Sticky Notes in Richie’s messy handwriting.

“Those are yours?” Richie asked. Most of them he didn’t remember writing, always assumed it had just been nights like this when he’d been far too tired to form coherent memories.

“Yep.” Stan plucked one off the fridge door, holding it in his hands.

“You possessed me?”

Stanley laughed. “I don’t think I can do that, no.” He twirled the sticky note in his fingers. “I’m pretty much entirely corporeal.”

“You can hear me? Talk to me? Touch things?... Are you even dead?” Richie asked with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“I’m dead.” Stan said, his voice taking a darker tone. “I’m dead, Rich, okay?”

“But you seem basically alive-”

“I’m dead.” Stanley repeated. The bags beneath his eyes darkened against his suddenly pale, sunken cheeks. His curls clumped together with phantom water, dripping down his nose and chin.

Thin routes of red made their way across the fabric of his sleeves, meeting his elbow and dripping down against the kitchen floor, splattering with the dark, beading texture of blood.

Richie blinked at the sight before him, his friend, dead, talking to him in his kitchen.

Before he was finished processing the scene before him, Stanley’s face had regained some of its brightness and he was raking a hand through his wet hair.

“Sorry.” He said in much too small of a voice, a voice that knew the exact horror of what it had just exhibited. “I don’t like doing that.”

“You’re all wet.”

“It’s how I died.” Stan picked at the button on his shirt, which was still drenched.

“In the bath? With your clothes on?”

Stan shook his head. “I’m gonna need another pair of clothes. These ones are kind of… wrecked.” He gestured to the bloodstains blooming along the sleeves.

“So you can wear clothes?”

“It’s murky, I know. But yeah, I can wear clothes, I can touch stuff, I can talk, but I’m dead.”

Stanley pulled the sleeve of his shirt down timidly, a wince written on his face.

“Does it hurt?”

Stan nodded minutely, almost afraid to admit.

“It always hurts. But the blood… it… reminds me.” He looked down, averting his eyes from Richie’s and catching sight of the ground. “Shit, I’ll clean this all up.”

He walked past Richie, never coming too close to him and pulling as far away as possible almost immediately with paper towels in hand.

“Ghost blood.” Richie remarked.

Stan laughed gently as he bent down to wipe the tile gently.

“So, if they came and did a sample on the ghost blood, would it show up as yours? How’s that supposed to work?”

Stan paused for a moment, “No, it would probably not work, or they might not even be able to see the blood. Sometimes I can do that.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes. Being occult isn’t very organised. I didn’t get a Handbook For The Recently Deceased or anything. I’m just stuck with my limited horror film knowledge and estout intellect.”

“Right.” Richie passed Stan some bleach. “Just in case you want to make sure it’s clean.”

Stan took it gratefully, still avoiding Richie’s touch.

He knelt down next to Stan, putting the smallest distance between them of the entire time.

“So, anyways, I’m not sure why I’m here, it sort of happened, I made my way here, half through some ghost-teleportation –Which was honestly cool as hell– and some fumbling around with a lot of phone books, none of which you were in, then asking around until I was brought here.”

“Casa Tozier.”

“Except I’ve been living here as long as you have.”

“Well… living is debatable.”

Richie half expected Stan to roll his eyes or curse his name, smite him, etc.

Could ghosts smite? It’s quite odd when the ghost doesn’t even know what the ghost can do.

Instead, Stanley smiled a small, friendly smile. The type Richie had grown out of being on the receiving end of.

“Fine, I moved in a few days after you, sort of, I’ve been staying here at night.”

“What about during the day?”

Stan’s smile dropped off instantly. “Cemetery, sometimes.”

“Cemetery?” Ghosts revert back to cemeteries? Even the ones they weren’t buried in?

“The cemetery. Derry cemetery.”

“I got that, but why?”

Stan shrugged. “I get to look around.”

“Oh.” Richie wasn’t quite sure what it meant. But clearly it was something. A big something that Stan seemed torn about talking through.

“If I’d stayed would I be here now? Would I be like this?” Stan cast a glance down at his bloodstained shirt.

“I don’t know.” Richie moved closer to him on the ground, still a few inches between them. “If you’d stayed would I even be alive? It would have changed everything.”

“Well, at least one of us is still here. Physically, I mean.”

“Do you know if there’s some unfinished business or— when do you…” Richie gestured vaguely. “Stop being here?”

“That’s a good question.” Stan shrugged. “I wish I knew the answer. Being dead sucks. I thought that maybe it would be easier, that I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this any more, that there wouldn’t be anything for me to worry about, but… it’s all I do. Still. What was it you used to call me? And the kids at school? Urine? Stanley Urine? Inventive and accurate.”

“Stan, I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t. But the others did, they always did. And they were right, because look at me. I’m fucking dead, and I’m a mess, and I’m stressed out—“

“Take a breather, man.” Richie said placatingly. “Or— don’t? Do you breathe? Nevermind. Not important. Chill out. There we go.”

Stan did his best, a deep breath in, exaggerated so that Richie could tell.

“I think I’m here to say sorry.” He said after a moment of quiet. “Like, really. Really apologise, complete truth, say it all. And say that I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry, man.”

“No. You can know that, but it’s not the same. I’m sorry. Like, really, really sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for everything that’s happened, and I’m sorry I died, and that I even had to, I’m sorry that Eddie died, I’m sorry that you’re staying in this huge ass house all by yourself and that— that none of it’s my fault. Well, most. The other bits, that aren’t me dying. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that me saying sorry won’t fix all of this shit.”

Richie sat, his eyes on Stan’s.

“Shit.” Richie said, half astonished.

“Shit.”

“That was a lot.”

“I had a lot to say.” Stan looked down at his hands, tracing once more over the raised scar on his palm.

“I forgive you, by the way. I think it’s not your fault, but I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough to get you out of this limbo, but I hope it’s enough.”

“And… what about you?”

“Me?”

“What’ll you do?”

Richie scoffed. “Live, I guess.”

“And I hope that you live the best fucking life. You should… talk to someone, anyone, Bill, Bev, Mike, Ben, whatever. It doesn’t even have to be one of them, talk to someone else, just… don’t be alone. Not like you’ve been for so long. And I’m sorry I never said anything sooner, I didn’t think it would work, and I didn’t think you needed it. But you do, Rich. I want you to be okay, and I know what it’s like not to be.”

“Thank you.” Richie said softly. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, laying in his bed as the sun peeked in through the windows, there was a lightness Richie hadn’t felt in ages.

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