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gr00vyr0se · 2 years

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OH MY GOD I LOVED IT, HOLY HELL!!

For your Hellfire Haunts challenge could I get a ghost!Eddie with "Til death do us part"? I'm a sucker for ghost x human romances

I love this idea so much. Absolutely, @gr00vyr0se! Thanks for sending this in!

Haunted Hearts

Ghost!Eddie Munson x GN Reader

Words: 5.4k

Be warned: this is dangerously soft and tender.

You weren't sure what possessed you to stop at the estate sale.

You were driving through an old flyover town called...Hanking? Hawks? You were on the road for so long that you couldn't remember.

With a slow blink, you realized you wouldn't be getting much farther without needing a break. A stop would be a nice break on your eyes, and you parked your car with a stretch. Your shoulders ached, and you slouched before checking your phone.

Your map gave you an estimated arrival time of four more hours on the road, four more hours before making it home and crashing into your own bed.

Yeah, you resigned. A break would have been very nice.

The old trailer park home was almost forgotten among the greenery of the midwest. Vines of ivy twisted up and over the windows. The house was a memory of a dying age, and wildlife had taken over the parking lots. Humidity clung low, and you stood with a soft breath. In the distance, you could hear cardinals chirping and squirrels chittering in the trees.

Oh, Indiana.

Only one other car was parked in the lot, and there was a large poster listing the estate sale on the front porch.

Munson Estate Sale.

Saturday and Sunday, 10:00-6:00

You stopped at the door as you carried yourself up the creaking steps. The place looked abandoned.

"Hello?" You called into the trailer, tapping on the side of the doorframe.

You heard a rustle inside and decided to test your luck. You walked into the old, faded trailer with a frown. It looked, well, it looked sad. Neglected. Forgotten.

You wandered the living room aimlessly, looking at the faded wallpaper and dust filtering through the lights.

There wasn't a lot in the living room. Some part of you thought that there were only old baseball caps and German beer mugs left over, but a sinking feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. There must not have been a lot to begin with.

"Can I help you?"

The next thing you knew, you were spinning around with a jump, clutching your hand to your chest.

An old woman was carrying a box from one of the back rooms. She was crouched over, her spine curved, and her hair starting to grey from behind thick glasses. She was struggling with the box.

"Here, let me help," You offered quickly, holding your hands out to grab the other side of the cardboard. It was heavy, and you helped her set it up on the kitchen counter before getting a good look inside.

It was a box of old vinyl records and cassette tapes. No wonder why it was so heavy.

"Thanks," the woman offered, looking around the kitchenette. "Now, if I only knew where I put my tape – oh!" She exclaimed once she found it.

Her clubbed, wrinkled fingers urged the packing tape up in a stripe, and you closed the box's flaps to silently help her. When you shut the lid, you noticed words scribbled on one of the flaps in an old, dried-out sharpie. You moved your fingers to get a better look.

Eddie

"Well, I suppose you're here to look around," The woman said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. You looked down at her face with a nod. "Most of the belongings are going to be donated after today. Let me know if you have any questions."

You didn't need to be told twice, backing away from the main room and heading toward the back of the trailer.

The trailer was smaller on the inside. Aside from the living room and kitchenette, there was a small bathroom, a linen closet, and one bedroom at the end of the hallway.

The bedroom was your only point of interest.

The room almost looked untouched, as if the dust and cobwebs were older than time let on.

The air was stale and lingering with the smell of old cigarettes. You couldn't help but scrunch up your nose.

You walked around carefully, noticing old band posters pinned to the walls. Clothes and boxes were stuffed under the bed frame, and the bed itself was unmade. No sheets, no duvet. Trinkets and more loose cassette tapes were scattered across the mattress.

It looked much less like an old estate sale and more like a teenage boy's bedroom.

You walked around the mess, looking at an old, beat-up dresser. Half of the drawer knobs were missing, and your hand lingered over one of the drawers before pulling it toward you.

You were half expecting to see a home of spiders but were surprised. The drawer was relatively organized under a mess of socks. Old band t-shirts were hidden underneath. You pulled at an old Metallica shirt and grinned.

Oh, what the hell.

You folded it under your arm and pushed the hardwood closed. As you looked up in the dresser mirror, your eye caught something from across the room. You spun around on your heel, turning to the corner of the room.

It was a corner of old mismatched band gear, stacks of loose-leaf paper, and a guitar. A nice guitar.

"What in the world are you doing here?" You asked aloud, your eyebrows knitting together in a moment of confusion.

You plucked the guitar from its place in the corner - not even on a stand - and gave it a thoughtful strum. It could use some new strings and a little love, but it was in great shape. And you were in no condition to talk. Maybe it was finally time you learned how to play.

But what was it doing in a place like this? It was definitely custom.

You looked down at it thoughtfully.

"It looks like you're coming home with me."

You didn't see the hint of movement, a shadow, in the mirror's reflection as you walked out of the room.

Your house smelled like soft linens. It was warm, comforting, and clean.

The simple home sat stationary, waiting for your eager return. When you finally pulled the door open after your trip, it enveloped you in an embrace of laundry detergent and cashmere.

You were home at last.

You toed off your shoes before you even locked the door. You let your bag fall to the floor with an unceremonious thud before addressing the outsider.

If your home was anything, it was soft. It was gentle, humble, and welcoming. The rugged Warlock guitar was a compelling centerpiece. It was sharp and loud and aggressive against the softness of the room.

Your house didn't smell like cheap cologne and cigarettes.

You weren't waiting for your things to become dusty heirlooms.

And you thought that there was some life left in the old guitar. You let out a relaxed groan as you sat down on the couch. You lounged back, your eyes narrowing at the clock on the stovetop. It was getting late.

You pulled the guitar into your lap and looked it over, your eye catching on an engraving that left an uneven groove under your fingertips.

Corroded Coffin.

Your eyebrows hitched curiously before you traced the letters. There was fondness in your heart. You found the needle in the haystack and in the middle of a shit-stain of a town, nonetheless.

You hesitantly placed one hand on the neck and let it rest in your lap while strumming the strings. They were tight and brittle with old age. Everything was out of tune. Maybe you should get new strings before giving it a real test drive.

You made a mental list – milk, bread, guitar strings. You smirked, shaking your head. Maybe you could buy a book for beginners or look up tutorials on your phone. It would be a labor of love.

When a yawn bubbled up in your chest, you knew it was time for bed. You washed your face and brushed your teeth before falling between the sheets. You didn't pay any attention to the shadows hugging the corners of your bedroom.

What you didn't expect was to have a dream frightening enough to wake you up.

It was still dark outside when you were startled up, and when you checked your phone, it was only about three in the morning. Your eyes burned as you looked at the light.

You were dreaming of skies of lightning and hordes of disfigured bats. They were swarming over you. You couldn't run away or move at all.

You were trapped.

When you finally got a grip, the lingering feeling of fear and loneliness crept into the corners of your heart. You were scared and alone. You turned on the lights before sitting up, flailing slightly to get out from the blankets, trapping you to the mattress.

You felt like crying.

A rush of emotion left you winded, and all you wanted to do was not to be so alone.

So, you got up, turned on the lights and the tv in the living room, and let the soft sounds of old reruns soothe the tension in your shoulders.

You started a batch of laundry from the trip, and the whirl of water added to the cacophony of noise you relied on to fill the space. Searching high and low, you found an old bag of chocolate chips in your panty. You tried your hand at the chocolate chip cookie recipe on the back of it.

You definitely didn't have all the ingredients it required. But after scrolling on your phone for twenty minutes, you found helpful alternatives and were back on track.

Old cartoons were playing on the TV, and you turned to the old tune of the Thundercats intro. You raised an eyebrow with mild confusion. It had been years since you watched it. You swore your dad kept an old VHS movie tape of Thundercats at his house. But you followed the glow of the TV to your couch and plopped down.

It was almost calming to watch the grainy art frames. You sat there, subconsciously strumming at the guitar still perched next to you. You sat there until the cookies were done baking and went back to watching the old shows.

Time passed by like syrup, slowly and thickly in your brain. You swapped out the laundry, put away the cookies, and gave the guitar another thoughtful strum before deciding to try and go back to bed.

The memories of the nightmare had faded, and you almost felt silly for how scared you felt.

This time, your bed looked far more inviting. You plugged in your phone, cursed under your breath at how late it was getting, and finally crawled back under the covers. You were tired. Your mind could calm down, and it took very little time for you to get comfy enough to doze.

You were right there, on the cusp of being swept under the current. A faint thought passed over you, and you swore you could hear the low thrum of a melody from the other room. But you were too far gone to focus on it. Sleep claimed you quickly, deeply.

You didn't have any dreams the rest of the night.

In the morning, you dragged your feet out of bed and swore you were dozing off in the shower. Not even coffee helped. It felt like a blanket was weighing you down.

All your hours on the road must have finally caught up with you.

You felt irritable, like you weren't entirely comfortable in your own house, and paced around the rooms.

Nothing you wore felt right. You eyed the old Metallica shirt carefully as you pulled it out of the dryer. After running your thumb along the old lettering, you smiled. You decided to pair it with some old jeans and finally felt comfortable.

But you were still so out of it that you didn't notice the guitar or the snapped strings splayed along the couch as you hurried out the door.

It was better at work, surprisingly. You worked a whole shift and felt better than you had all morning. The tension in your shoulders was gone; more than once, you looked down at the Metallica shirt affectionately.

You felt much better when you made it to the grocery store. The fluorescents in the store were bright, and you rubbed your eyes, trying to focus. You had written out your list of staples to get. At the bottom of your list, you remembered quickly scribbling down chocolate milk on your way out the door. You grinned and shook your head.

You must have really had a tough night. It had been years since you actively thought about chocolate milk. Maybe it was the late-night baking or cartoons. There was a nagging feeling in your belly to hurry up as you walked down the aisles. You bypassed the refrigerated section altogether, and sitting on a shelf next to juice and Caprisuns, you found a case of Yoo-hoos.

You couldn't recall if your parents bought them when you were a kid, but you reached out to the packaging anyways. And it wasn't long after that you were checking out and loading up your trunk with groceries: You had other stops to make, after all.

The music store was intimidating.

You walked past aisles of sheet music to the guitar gear with small steps. There were acoustic and electric guitars hanging on the walls, and boxes of amps and speakers were below them. There was so much to look at. You were never particularly musically inclined - but your parents were. Maybe it was time to learn for yourself.

The shop was quaint, and there might have only been two or three other customers while you looked for strings. And when you found them? Oh man, there were a bunch of them.

The strings ranged by guitar type and brand, and you quickly got frazzled. The price range was obscene. When you finally fidgeted toward a box, you hesitated.

"It's a rip-off."

The words were followed by a low whisper of a breath, and you looked over your shoulder. You wanted to see who was giving their feedback. But the only person remotely close by was an older employee.

You could have sworn the voice sounded younger.

You looked around again before shaking your head, forgetting about it. You reached for some middle-of-the-road strings and a winder. They didn't break the bank, and you even snagged a couple of fun guitar picks before calling it a night.

The house was much colder than you remembered leaving it that morning.

You crossed your arms after putting away groceries, frowning when you looked at the thermostat. It was the same as you had left it. With a grumble, you turned up the heat and moved to your bedroom, throwing on a sweatshirt.

You baked a frozen pizza and drank a Yoohoo for dinner before settling in on the couch, but you felt restless. You couldn't stay still.

It was only then that you noticed a couple of snapped guitar strings. You cursed under your breath, your fingers blindly reaching toward the music shop bag.

Three tutorial videos and a half an hour later, you were winding, clipping, and pulling the first string into place, only to find out it was the wrong string. It was an arduous task.

Your back ached, and you groaned, sitting up from your spot. You let your arms stretch above you and thought the air was warmer.

When you finally blinked away from the guitar, you felt a chilled rush of goosebumps on your neck and tilted your head back to the kitchen. For a moment, you thought you saw something just out of the corner of your eye.

You bit your lip anxiously. It didn't matter what you thought. You were feeling paranoid.

Or at least you thought you were paranoid.

Days started to pass quickly as you got back into a work rhythm. You still woke up to strange dreams. They were all vivid at the moment, but none were as frightening as the initial dream of bats and lightning. Their memories sizzled out when you woke up, but you were left with a strange feeling.

Every morning you woke up with a heaviness in your bones that wouldn't cease until you left the house.

There was a chill in the air regardless of the warm fall sun. Sometimes you felt like you weren't entirely alone.

Learning the guitar came slowly. The pads of your fingers burned and ached, and most nights, you let the guitar sit all alone on its side of the couch.

You turned to old comfort films to fill your free time and started to expand your music horizons. Sometimes you would watch old rock and roll music videos with heavy guitar solos and look at the guitar with a longing expression.

You could do that.

If you applied yourself, you could do it.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, you swore you could hear the guitar playing from out in the living room. It was slow and sweet, and you could almost feel the thrumming vibrations in your sleep.

Sometimes you would wake up on the couch with the guitar in your lap or a blanket draped over you. Those days you felt especially drained.

You couldn't remember how you got out there but could imagine it was the aftermath of a bad dream.

One morning you woke up to the soft sound of the TV. Your eyes were sleepy, and your neck ached, but you were content. The remote was right next to your hand, and when you focused, you realized the music was the end of the Lord Of the Rings.

You didn't overthink it. You loved those movies.

You reached for the remote and turned on the second one - The Two Towers - before settling back on the couch.

But your precarious sleeping patterns also messed with your appetite.

You went through another pack of Yoo-hoos and bought chips and pop tarts.

Playing the guitar became a subconscious effort like maybe you knew how to play after all. You were zoning out one night, strumming blindly while watching cartoons, and startled up when you realized you were playing the notes of Stairway to Heaven.

It was slow and maybe a little choppy, but it was there. The trouble was, you didn't even know how to play that song.

You put the guitar down for a while after that.

It wasn't until one Friday night, after you settled in after a long work week, that you got a noise complaint from the neighbors.

They were grumpy, spitting up and down that they could hear your 'devil music' during all hours of the day. They listened to the incessant noise all afternoon. They even complained about hearing the raucous music in the middle of the night.

But you had a hard time understanding them; you weren't even home in the middle of the day. You didn't even have time to run home on your lunch break.

You didn't have speakers or an amp, so what were they hearing?

There was a sudden chill in the air behind your back. Oh. You swallowed hard and tensed up, but tried to keep your composure and calm down your neighbors.

You promised to lay off the music, and when they finally relented and let you get on with your night, you sent a scalding glance at the guitar.

"You're putting on a show without me?"

When you finally dared to pick up the guitar, you moved it from the couch and made a beeline to your closet. Until you knew what was going on, you didn't have the nerve to look at it.

Even the dark, carved words Corroded Coffin stared back at you with grief. But you closed the closet door anyway.

You had no idea what you were doing.

What did you bring into your house?

You stayed in your bedroom the rest of the night. Whatever was in your house wasn't malicious. That much you were sure of.

You took to the internet for help. Cold air? Strange noises? It could mean anything from poor airflow to a mouse infestation. Strange dreams? It could mean phycological distress or uncertainty.

And as much as you wanted to skirt around it, you eventually searched for what was really consuming your thoughts.

Ghosts. Haunting spectre. Demonic presences.

You didn't know where to start.

'Ghost anomalies could be caused by connections of the deceased to places or objects. These spirits can have an effect on the environment around them. They can influence temperature, and electronic devices can go haywire. Magnetism shifts are expected. Sometimes, if left alone for long enough, it could even affect the living.'

You frowned, letting your head fall in your hands.

The strange behavior didn't begin until you brought that guitar home.

It would explain your own peculiar behavior. Some days it felt like the strength from your bones like you had been hit by a bus. But maybe it wasn't a bus at all.

You cleared out your search bar and looked up Corroded Coffin, but the results were few and far between. You looked up haunted instruments, but that search list was even shorter.

And then you pulled up a map, trying to backtrack the route you drove home.

It must have all stemmed from the estate sale.

You tried to remember the path, zooming in and out of the major cities and small towns. Did you take County Road 19? Didn't you make an exit at Highway 75?

It was an arduous process, and when you finally did get back into the weeds of Indiana, your eyes almost lit up.

Hawkins. Bingo.

You opened a new tab; a new search.

Hawkins, Indiana estate sales.

There was a list of fancy, middle-class homes with estate sales. But there was nothing about a trailer park. You kept trying.

Hawkins, Indiana trailer park.

You did find the trailer park, but there was very little information on who lived there or how to get in touch with them. There was just an old brochure attached in the city records that must have been from the 70s. Maybe you weren't looking in the right place.

Hawkins, Indiana obituaries.

Why would they have an estate sale unless there was no one to take care of the trailer? Someone must have recently passed away.

The search pulled up a newspaper. The Hawkins Post. It was a weekly paper that mainly covered local sporting events and the mismanagement of tax policies. Still, at the end of the articles, there was an obituary section. It was a small town, after all.

You started looking back, digging through weeks of online copies of the paper, searching for a needle in a haystack.

You almost gasped when you finally found something that lingered from your memory.

Wayne Munson.

Munson Estate Sale

He passed away about a month before the estate sale and had a short obituary underneath his name.

Wayne was a dedicated worker at the power plant for over forty years, had a soft spot for fishing and fried foods, and was as kind as he was gruff around the edges.

Unfortunately, Wayne is not remembered by family members. However, he is and will be recognized by this community. Wayne was a devoted uncle, but after the town events of 1986, he remained alone. We will remember Wayne and all the work he has contributed to Hawkins.

You read over it twice. Maybe you were haunted by the memory of Wayne Munson. But it didn't make any sense. What happened in 1986? You went back.

Hawkins, Indiana 1986

Your eyes went wide at the results. There was a massive earthquake that destroyed the town. People were killed, and others went missing. There were pictures of the wreckage.

Your belly ached. You thought about the guitar and looked at the closet door across the hall. Wayne had a family. Someone went missing.

"What happened to you?" You whispered into the air, clearing your search bar again.

Missing Persons Hawkins, Indiana 1986

You scrolled through missing person pictures, and there was a massive spike in the spring of 1986. The town really was devastated.

And then you found it. Edward "Eddie" Munson.

It was a missing person's poster of Eddie Munson.

The black and white poster was old and grainy, and you zoomed in as closely as possible. His hair was long and dark, unruly, with curls that framed his face. You couldn't help but smirk. He definitely had hair to fit the period. His eyes were dark, or maybe it was just the picture, but his features were soft. You leaned back against the bedframe. He looked so young when he went missing. It must have been a school picture.

Eddie Munson.

You thought back to the estate sale and the woman carrying that big old box of tapes. Eddie's name was on the top of it. Eddie was into music.

When you looked back at the picture, your heart skipped a beat. He was wearing an all-too-familiar Metallica shirt in the photo. That same shirt was draped over your desk chair with the rest of your clean laundry.

You zoomed back out and saw a link to details of the disappearance with a newly formed curiosity. But your computer screen froze as you moved to click on the link. Not even a moment later, the screen turned black, and you jumped.

There was a shadow looming behind you.

You practically jumped off the bed, but when you turned around, no one was there. No shadows were lingering between your bed and the wall.

You were all alone when you looked back at the dark computer screen. It couldn't have run out of battery charge - it was plugged into the outlet.

Panic spiked in your veins.

You made a move to stand up but faltered. The air was too cold. You could see the puff of air as you exhaled, and your head ached.

It was a heavy, suffocating feeling. You couldn't think straight.

The room was spinning around you, and you braced yourself on the headboard to steady yourself. But the effort was fruitless. You blindly collapsed between the bed and the dresser only a moment later. And as your eyes fluttered shut, you were out before your head could hit the floor.

But your head never hit the ground.

You were cradled between the hardwood and something invisible to the naked eye. You were brought to the ground gently, your skin jumping with goosebumps at the sudden chill. For the first time in a long time, everything was silent.

And Eddie didn't know what to do.

He was scared.

"Sorry, sorry," He apologized. And he meant it.

Eddie didn't want you to look for him, worried about what you might find. He was accused of so many things - devil worship, child endangerment, murder. He was the ostracised freak of Hawkins, and he couldn't even die right. He wasn't at peace.

And when Dustin gave his uncle the guitar, he found his way back. Not that anyone could see him, but he was there.

He was tied to the guitar in the upside-down, and when Wayne locked it in the back room with all of Eddie's things, he thought he'd be stuck there forever.

You saved him.

Your entire existence was different from the life he had known. It was white linens and peace. It was clean air and the chance to grow up.

Eddie didn't feel dragged down by his upbringing. He wasn't a freak.

You felt it too. You could feel him, even if you couldn't put it into words.

And Eddie tried to be a polite guest, but he was just so antsy. He was in a new place and didn't feel so alone with you. He wanted to be content for the first time in a long time.

He got to see you, the real you, in the safety of your own home. He spent his mornings staying out of your way, watching from a distance as you hurried to get ready and make it to work.

He appreciated the slow, cat-like way you stretched out after a long day. He'd watch how you slowly pluck at the guitar strings when you needed to decompress. Sometimes he even wanted to help. He even tuned your guitar and ensured the strings were tight before you played.

Eddie's taste in movies was rubbing off on you; he was sure of it. You'd put on old slasher movies without really thinking about it. And when woke up to the Fellowship of the Ring? He was nervous about being too involved, but you jumped right in. Eddie had been in a bubble for so long and didn't want to be locked away again.

At night, when you were just on the cusp of falling asleep, he felt the closest he ever had. It was like the plane between life and death was thinner somehow. You were on the cusp of wakefulness and sleep, and he could reach out to you. If he could just show you, talk to you, he -

Eddie froze.

He was lonely. He just wanted someone to talk to.

Most nights, he'd linger in the doorframe until sleep pulled you under, waiting until he could feel the electricity in the air. He was so close to something. And he reveled in that feeling.

He could reach out to you in your dreams.

At first, he didn't mean to do it. And he never meant to scare you, but he could vividly remember the upside-down. Your dreams and fears were his own.

Eddie needed to show you. He didn't want to jeopardize whatever attachment he formed, but he needed you to understand. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't a killer.

Eddie was enamored by you.

He didn't know if it was love or the need for companionship, but he didn't want to lose you. He had waited years, almost lifetimes, for a change. He had been waiting for you all along.

And if you knew what other people thought about him? If you believed them? He wasn't sure if he would recover.

The fear was paralyzing, so he panicked. He had to stop you.

He didn't even know just how much influence he could have. His body was still trapped in the upside-down, and he could feel the lingering power of the heavy atmosphere. So he overwhelmed the energy of the room.

You couldn't have fought against it if you had tried.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He assured, reaching out to touch your face. "I promise."

But Eddie didn't know if he was trying to assure himself or you. He wasn't even sure you could hear him. He'd have to be careful. His touch was nervous, pressing into your temples and watching as your expression softened. He moved his hands away quickly.

You were pulled up from the floor and laid back in bed. Eddie assessed you with a frown. His connection was stronger than he thought. He leaned in close, sitting on the edge of the bed, and twirled his rings on his fingers anxiously.

He was going to tell you the truth, his truth, before you could find out on your own. But when he took your hand in his own, you startled up.

You could see him. You were staring straight at him, grasping his hand tight as you looked him over. It wasn't another dream.

He was really there, wearing an old, beat-up jacket and jeans as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes were just as dark as the picture. You could see and feel him and hear how his breath got caught in his throat.

"Eddie?" You were startled. It wasn't from fear, no. You were startled by how comfortable you felt. You were safe and secure.

You could feel the rush of power, of energy from his hand to yours. And as those dark eyes shifted to yours, he knew.

Eddie wasn't connected to the guitar anymore. He was connected to you.

Hellfire Haunts Masterlist

#eddie munson #self ship #ghost!eddie

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