#unusual witchcraft | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heich0e · 8 months

Text

THE WITCH'S SONG - part one knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

The night air is sweet.

It’s still early summer, where the days are warm and bright before giving way to cool evenings, and the smell spring unfurled with its budding leaves continues to linger long after the sun sets. The aroma is fresh and green, not yet turned to the heady fragrance of singed grass and warmed earth which will slowly seep in as the days grow longer and the sun ever-brighter overhead.

There’s something captivating about this time of year; not quite the lush, blooming spring, nor the scorching, unforgiving summer, but a deliriously pleasant in-between that keeps the best of both.

On a tall hill, overlooking the rocky coast and a quiet village in the distance, sits a small stone cottage. Ivy crawls along the rows of uneven bricks that give the home its shape, having long settled and slanted in the time since it was built, each vine curling in long stems around four-pane windows and up towards the thatched roof.

In front of the house sits a garden, full of every plant anyone could possibly desire to find in the given climate; vegetables, fruits and unusual herbs abound. The rich earth that surrounds the cottage is fertile and generous—with a careful hand to till and tend it, there’s little it can't sprout. The gardens are still not quite at their peak for the season, the plants low to the ground but flourishing as they patiently wait for a few more sun-filled days to truly blossom into their prime.

Along the western side of the property, nearest to the towering forest’s edge, sits a greenhouse connected to a shabby little shed that greatly resembles the cottage in its quaint, unassuming construction. It’s there, in the dead of this cool summer night, that you—the owner of the cottage—toil.

Your fingers hold a glass vial over a small open flame atop the work station with a set of silver pincers. Your keen, well-trained eyes watch attentively as the fire licks up along the edges of the glass, heating the contents within. A breeze, northeasterly with a faint taste of salt air that creeps in with the nearby waves, whisks through the room and a shiver accompanies it in turn.

A soft sigh slips through your parted lips and your eyes, previously fixed on the tincture held over the flame, lift towards the door.

You aren’t startled when you see him standing there, though you barely contain the sound of annoyance that threatens to leave you; the momentary glance is the only acknowledgement you make to his (notably unwelcome) appearance as his figure darkens your doorway. You return your gaze to the solution you’re in the midst of preparing—a careful balance of valerian, mugwort, and poppy heads for a woman in the nearby village who has been unable to sleep restfully since the untimely death of her husband.

“Good evenin’,” he says to you once he realizes that you will not be the first to speak. He punctuates the greeting with a light clearing of his throat.

“Is it?” you reply, removing the slender vial from the flame and swirling its contents. You closely examine the colour and viscosity of the liquid, returning it to the heat for a few moments more after some consideration.

“Sorry to show up unannounced,” the young man’s own tone is rather tight and clipped as he speaks the words–obviously equally unhappy with the turn of events that had led him to your cottage this evening, though resolute to maintain some level of decorum.

“And yet,”—you finally look up at him, meeting his gaze with a firm and unwavering stare that you have up until this point denied him—“here you are.”

Finally satisfied with the tincture, you set about pressing a stopper into the tube. You reach over and pluck up a burning taper from the candleholder resting nearby on your worktop, tipping it forward over the still blisteringly-hot glass to seal the cork. A rivulet of molten wax runs from the candlestick in a slow drizzle, and you carefully turn the thin vial to coat the border where glass and cork marry evenly. A piece of blue ribbon is then carefully wound around the warm wax before it has fully hardened, sealing the small vessel shut.

The man watches silently as you slip the vial into a velvet pouch, tying the strings together tightly to draw it closed, and then you tuck the pouch safely away in the pocket of your flowing skirt—out of sight from where your visitor stands in the doorway to the greenhouse. Your eyes scan over the bench for a moment before you extinguish the oil burner you’d been using, turning the small knob at the base until the flame shrinks down to nothingness.

“I wouldn’t’ve come if it weren’t important,” the young man’s tone has softened slightly into something closer to a mumble, weary from his journey and seemingly in grave need of something he could only seek from you. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, with grim shadows under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that doesn’t suit him.

“Now that I do believe,” you remark, almost drolly, picking up your oil lamp and crossing the room towards where he stands. He stiffens a little as you approach, as though bracing himself against a threat, but you merely slip soundlessly past him, stepping out into the dark night.

Behind you, the man sighs.

He follows.

The two of you cross the yard, a few paces separating you throughout the silent trek, with the lamp you hold in hand the only light to lead the way. You tread carefully through the well-tended garden, careful but familiar motions deciding where each foot falls, and you sense without turning that he’s following your path as you move towards the stone cottage on the other side of the property—ensuring his own steps follow your footprints precisely. There are candles burning inside your cottage up ahead, their warm glow visible through the windows, and smoke curls steadily from the chimney and into the brisk night air. The smoke is perfumed with herbs, and the scent only grows stronger the nearer you get to your home.

You wonder if he notices.

“That’s far enough.”

You pause in your stride as you reach the stout stone wall that circles your cottage in a knee-high ring, resting with your feet together at the place where a gate might be were there any need for it. Behind you, the man falters to his own stop, surprised by your sudden halt and your sharp words.

“I need yer help,” he sounds confused, and frustrated—impatience creeping into his tone again. There’s a sharpness to it, like he’s forced each word out from between clenched teeth. You don’t look back to verify your suspicion.

Another cold wind blows from the direction of the sea, and the budding leaves of the garden’s plants around you rustle as it passes, whispering amongst themselves as they spectate your exchange.

“I care very little for what you need, Miya Osamu,”—you glance at him over your shoulder, and see the way the distant light from your windows dances in his eyes—“and it will be a cold day in hell before I help a royal knight.”

The garden seems to still in the wake of your low-spoken words, the breeze dying out like the temporary peace ahead of a storm’s rage.

Before you, Osamu’s eyes have hardened. The lines of his sharp jaw set underneath his skin.

“Ya know me.”

“I know of you,” you correct him flatly. “Fortunately, our paths have never crossed.”

Until now.

Osamu’s nostrils flare, then he swallows.

“How?” he asks, his voice low and deceptively even.

“One of the king’s most trusted knights tearing through the outskirts of the kingdom in search of a healer is news powerful enough to reach even my ears, Miya.” Your lamplight dims slightly as you hold it aloft in your hand, the flame beneath the glass slowly shrinking. The oil is burning low. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you got desperate and I got unlucky.”

He flinches, his lashes fluttering slightly like he’s fighting back a more violent reaction. Like he’s accepting a blow he could easily return but chooses not to. The knight's gaze casts down to his feet as his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

“My brother's ill,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with an anxiety that rolls off of him in waves. “My twin.”

“Atsumu,” you specify, since he did not. His gaze snaps up to meet yours, and there’s a spark of something new behind it. Something more volatile. He looks angry that you’ve taken it upon yourself to speak his brother’s name.

“I know what you are,” he says slowly, wielding his next words like a blade and aiming to kill.

“Oh?” You tilt your head to the side in a show of guilelessness.

“Yer a witch,” he continues, overlooking your feigned ignorance.

“There are no witches in this kingdom,” you reply. “The crown you’ve sworn your life to saw to that.”

“Our king h—“

“Your king,” you interrupt him. The unexpected interjection seems to shock him, and his shoulders square indignantly.

“Yer also a subject of this kingdom,” he counters, and your distaste is made perfectly evident in your responding sneer.

“I’m governed by no monarch, and certainly by no man.”

Osamu’s hands are still held in tightly-clenched fists at his side, the lines of his body as clear an indicator as any to his palpable anger. “You’d admit to treason before a knight?”

“You’ve already accused me of witchcraft,” you spit, your teeth gnashing together as you force the words out. “What’s another crime to be burned for?”

You know all too well the end that awaits a woman accused of such a crime.

It’s the fate your mother met before your very eyes, after all.

Seconds stretch between you in the garden—sticky, and uncomfortable, and polluted with the animosity you feel for each other. It takes root in distrust and blossoms into something ugly, like a weed.

Osamu takes a breath, letting his head hang forward. His shoulders slump.

“An old man two towns west from here told me a young woman in this cottage once cured his ailing wife in her final hours, and she lived a decade more. That she was brought back from the brink of death thanks to the woman’s care.” He looks up at you again, and his stare is insistent. Beseeching.

You know the man he speaks of, and his gentle, lovely wife. It was half a century ago now since you’d first met them, and you’ve heard the old man has gone a bit senile in his old age. You doubt he meant you any harm in his revelation, regardless of the trouble it’s come to cause.

“I’m nothing but a humble herbalist.” Your hand sweeps out in gesture to your garden, but the man before you is unmoved.

“Who’s been a young woman for fifty years.”

Even the distant sea seems to have stilled as the tension intensifies between you, the waves falling silent to make room for the hostility that spreads with every passing moment.

Osamu swallows. “They say witches have powerful healin’ abilities. That you can make potions that’ll revive a man half-dead.”

“It’s folklore,” you reply dismissively.

“It’s fact,” Osamu snaps. "I know it is."

“And what else do you claim to know of these so-called witches?” you deride, and you don’t miss the way his eyes seem to quickly trace you.

He squares his shoulders, then he meets your gaze. “They say ya maintain yer beauty and youth by devourin’ the hearts of good men.”

“Is that so?” you muse, though you seek no sincere elaboration. You look to your left, east towards the sea, and then sweep your gaze across the expanse of your garden to the right. You meet his dark eyes again after surveying your surroundings. “Well, I see no good men nearby, so I believe you should be safe.”

In the dim light, you swear you see something throb at the corner of his tense jaw.

“There’s not a healer in the royal court who’s been able to cure my brother,” Osamu’s voice breaks, taking a step towards you. “I’ve come here unarmed, and mean no harm to ya.”

Your upper lip curls at the lie and his proximity, baring your teeth.

No man has ever once approached a witch with pure intentions.

The seek only their beauty, their power, or their beating, bloody hearts.

Your mother’s screams ring suddenly through your ears, piercing and agonized. The memory makes gooseflesh raise along your skin. Makes the back of your tongue taste sour. You squeeze your eyes shut as though to quell it, but this only seems to trap the sound in the recesses on your brain. They grow louder, and harder to forget.

You see your mother on a wooden stage constructed in the town square before a crowd of horrified spectators, the gnarled boards underfoot already stained in scarlet.

The white linen shift they’d forced her to wear, and the way the thin material flowed away from her frame in the breeze.

The glittering hilt of the jewelled knife that carved out her heart, with the sigil of the king etched into its blade.

The crackling flames that consumed her as she wailed.

A witch can live without her heart, you see, so long as it’s kept close to her. Your mother wasn’t spared a second of the misery of being burned alive. She was granted no mercy in the final terrifying moments of her life.

You open your eyes and the dark sky above you seems to hang closer overhead, as though it’s more suffocatingly near than it was before. The garden around you suddenly feels colder.

Osamu’s eyes widen, like he feels it too.

Your dying lamp burns out.

“Leave this place,” you say to him, low and warning. Your voice rings clear in the unearthly still night. “And if you value your life, never come back here again.”

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

480 notes · View notes

bettyfrommars · 7 months

Text

Season of the Witch

by @allthingsjoeq & @bettyfrommars

steddie x reader

Blair Witch Project au

Warnings: 18+ONLY, found footage horror, hurt/no comfort, fem!reader who is just a friend, no Vecna, angst, lost in the woods, mentions of witchcraft, paranormal happenings, things that go bump in the night, fear of being stalked, allusions to gore and MCD. Dead dove do not eat. wc: 13k

If you are familiar with the film The Blair Witch Project, you know some of what to expect. This is a horror fic; it will be scary and unsettling at times, so please take caution if the genre makes you uncomfortable.

Summary: Three friends find themselves in a small town in Maryland, the home of the Blair Witch, in order for Steve Harrington to film a documentary for his semester project. In tow are his boyfriend, Eddie Munson, and you, a friend he invited along to be his trusty cameraperson. Once you are too deep in the woods to find your way back, the myths surrounding the lore of the land begin to take shape, and you realize you might never make it out of there alive.

Much love to @allthingsjoeq for all of the blood, sweat, and tears that went into this, and also for calling it "a Marmite fic". We hope you enjoy this contribution to the October festivities! Much love.

Burkittsville Cemetery, Maryland

“Here we are,” Steve Harrington can’t contain the glimmer of wonder in his eyes, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, as he parks near the overgrown site of the cemetery.

You look up from fiddling with the camera in the back seat as the tires crunch to a halt, already thinking of where the best spot to get a shot of Steve would be for the documentary he’s working on. You aren’t as familiar with filming as you should be for being his main cameraperson, but you and Steve had become close friends very quickly, and he practically insisted you be a part of it.

He was especially fascinated with the town you grew up in called Burkittsville in Maryland. You knew about Steve’s obsession with the paranormal, and the legends that surrounded certain locations, so you told him about your hometown legend—the Blair Witch. You hadn’t been back since you were a kid, but you watched his face light up when you talked about the lore, and all of the possibilities for filming.

Although Steve had his camera crew of one sorted, he would and could never travel without his partner in crime and in love, Eddie Munson. The metalhead stands now looking out over the cemetery with his black and white flannel over a Bark at the Moon Ozzy Osbourne concert tee, and his hair tied back in a bandana, being the supportive boyfriend. He clamps a hand on Steve’s shoulder to give it a squeeze. “You got this, big boy. Let’s rock ‘n roll.”

Tall grass yields underfoot as you all make your way around the space, bending down to try and read the crumbling grave markers.

There is a staggering amount of tiny, decaying gravestones, each dedicated to a child who lost their life to unknown, yet presumably horrifying circumstances.

“Shit,” Steve mutters under his breath. “There’s a lot of kids here.” You film his profile as he says it, shifting the focus back to get Eddie in the frame, and he shoots his tongue out, putting his forefinger and pinky up to make devil horns.

Steve does a monologue for the camera. He’s standing on the hill near one of the taller headstones, and the wind makes his hair unruly. “Here we are in the town of Burkittsville, formerly Blair. As legend has it, around 1785, a Blair resident named Elly Kedward was accused of practicing witchcraft by several children. The children said that she had dragged them from their homes with the intention of drinking their blood. As you can see, there is an unusually large number of children buried on this hill.”

You film different headstones, making sure to capture the stone angel, and a few of the other statues, to splice into the film while Steve is talking for the final cut.

Interviews with some of the long-time residents in town are next, and in the car ride down the hill, Eddie holds the camera and turns it on you in the back seat. You cover your face at first, not wanting to be recorded, but he eases you out of it with some of his playful banter. “Since we’re interviewing people who grew up here, we should start with you, right? What is your experience with the Blair Witch?”

You’d talked about the stories you’d heard so often with Steve, but being in the spotlight made you nervous, and it took a second to find your words. “No personal experiences, really, but I’ve heard a lot of lore. Ghost stories, mostly. Stuff to scare us kids so we’d go to bed early.” You shift in your seat and look out the window, but Eddie is waiting for more. “I, um, well…”

“Leave her alone, Eddie,” Steve responds absently, flipping the blinker to turn into town. The song Season of the Witch by Donovan is on the radio and Steve’s mumbling the lyrics.

“No, it’s okay,” you flex a quick smile. “If it helps, I mean, I was 8 years old when we left, I don’t know a lot other than what I’ve researched.”

“Your audience is waiting,” Eddie zooms the focus in way too much so that your eyes take up the whole frame.

“Okay,” you start. “So I guess there were these two guys who were hunting once, up by the cabin Blair Witch is supposed to haunt, and they just disappeared off the face of the earth. Search parties combed the woods for weeks and couldn’t find a trace of them.”

“Maybe they realized they were in love and ran away together,” Eddie chuckles, pushing the heel of his hand into Steve’s shoulder.

You smile down at your lap. “Could be.”

“One more thing,” Eddie looks at you over the top of the camera and then puts his eye back down to focus. “Is there a chance we could all end up victims of the Blair Witch?”

You can’t tell if it’s a serious question, but it gives you chills. Your eyes flick from the camera to the back of Steve’s head and his messy flop of hair.

“I personally don’t believe in ghosts or witches,” you smile as you say it, and catch Steve’s quick glance at you in the rearview mirror. “But don’t tell Steve.”

Eddie snorts and puts the camera in his lap but forgets to turn it off.

“I’m really looking forward to proving you wrong,” Steve’s muffled voice says to you as Eddie rustles the camera down between his legs. “There’s some spooky shit going on in those woods, and I’m going to get it on film.”

First night, The Motel

The map of the forest is spread out across the thin, floral spread of the motel bed. Eddie and you stare down at it, identically flicking your eyes across the inked locations, each mirroring the same dazed look of cluelessness.

“I think, if we start here and then make our way north we’ll get to here,” Steve then circles the center vigorously before saying, “by midday.”

On the map it's easy to believe the forest only stretches a few miles and Steve’s plan so far seems simple enough, promising this hike to be quick. With the action plan sorted, a large pizza shared, and your survival packs spilling out with textbook necessities, it gives the three of you the rest of the evening to chill. This downtime allows you to mess about a bit and accidentally fill some of the tape space with personal footage.

You’ve decided to sprawl out on one of the two double beds, propping yourself up on your elbow to film Steve and Eddie’s tiny little tickle fight that started over Steve being adamant that he wasn’t and would never be ticklish. Eddie knows just the right areas on his ribs to challenge with his deft fingers, making Steve squirm and beg for him to stop, while Eddie chuckles and pounces on top of him, making the cheap bed springs squeak.

“Hey, put the camera away,” Steve spots you, and then attempts to lunge off the bed and grab the camera. But you lift it out of his reach with a mischievous giggle.

Eddie smiles along with you, his gaze falling with admiration on the way Steve’s cheeks turn a rosy pink at the exhilaration. He throws a wink your way and pokes his tongue at Steve’s back, grabbing his ankle to keep him from leaving the bed.

“Stevie, have you seen my lighter?” A few minutes later, you start filming again as Eddie is wandering the room in nothing but a pair of boxers and an unzipped hoodie.

“Are you going to smoke now?” Steve asks, checking the batteries in his flashlight.

“What’s wrong with now?”

“Well, you know,” Steve unsubtly tips his head in your direction, worried that you may not be comfortable.

“Oh, no I don’t mind”, you say, not wanting your inexperience to ruin the mood. It makes Eddie raise an eyebrow, your choice of words being music to his ears.

“See Steve, if anything she’s probably curious,” he extends both hands to you as if you were a prize at the fair.

Eddie bounces on the balls of his feet and begins to dig through his pack's front pocket before retrieving a baggy of rolled joints. He pats around in his vest and produces a green plastic lighter with a triumphant, “a-ha!”

It’s been a while since you’d smoked weed, and you weren’t even sure you liked it, but Eddie’s contagious energy made you want to be a part of whatever he was doing. He squints as he inhales, holds it, and then passes the joint to you between pinched fingers before releasing a generous plume of smoke.

You took what you thought was a tiny drag, but it tickles the back of your throat and sends you into a coughing spasm, making you bat your chest with the palm of your hand after handing the joint back.

“Can’t handle it sweetheart?” Eddie snickers, but then he wiggles his eyebrows at you and takes another drag for himself, passing you a bottle of water from the bedside table. The cap is off and some of it sloshes onto his hand.

“Oh, wait, I have something better,” Eddie says, jumping off the bed to snatch a fifth of whiskey out of his bag. “Shots?”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Steve adjusts his glasses and pulls back the comforter on his side of the bed to get cozy. “Just one. We have a long day tomorrow.”

You shrug and nod, eyes bloodshot and watering, while Eddie puts the bottle to his lips and chugs a shot first before handing it to you. You swallow a big gulp, and Eddie howls at the way your face screws up like you’d just sucked on a lemon.

“Here’s to the Blair Witch,” Steve holds the bottle up before he takes his drink. “May she grace us with her presence tomorrow.”

Black Hills Forest, Day one, 9am

“Are we filming?” Eddie chimes in, practically vibrating with excitement.

“The green light is on,” you mumble to yourself, frowning down at the screen on the camera that shows nothing but black.

“Hey, Indiana Jones,” you call over to Steve who is checking the direction of the wind with a licked finger as he squints into the sun filtering through the dead leaves. “What am I doing wrong?”

Steve adjusts the strap of his hiking pack and strolls over to you with a tight clench between his eyebrows. “Give it here,” he sighs, taking it from you. “I just tested it this morning, I know it’s—”

He finally sees the problem and halts. He makes somber eye contact with you, takes the cover off the lens and holds it up.

“Oh,” you bite the inside of your cheek, stifling a self-conscious laugh.

“Steve Angelica Harrington,” Eddie grins, throwing his arm around Steve aggressively, almost knocking him over. “Our hero.”

You lift the camera up to your eye and get both of them in the frame, leaning back to smile at the pair. Steve shrugs away from Eddie’s attention as if he doesn’t like it, but then there is a moment when he turns and the two almost kiss. Eddie gives a few exaggerated, puckered smooches and leans in.

Steve realizes you’re filming and pushes his boyfriend off for real this time, running a hand through his hair to fix himself. Restless as ever, Eddie comes around to take the camera from you, asks you where certain buttons are, and then points it in your direction. You shrug him away playfully and shield your face from the nose down with the crook of your arm as if you are Dracula holding your cape.

Steve pops his knee out and tilts his head. “Would you two dorks stop messing around and take this witch hunt seriously? I want this documentary to be a success.”

“So remind me, King Steve,” Eddie turns the camera on his boyfriend, and he does not look amused. “We’re trying to find the ghost of some child murdering witch from the 1700’s? Should I be trying to spot a gingerbread house too?”

Off camera, you snort and say, “idiot,” under your breath.

“Eddie,” Steve keeps his profile to the camera, refusing to make eye contact. “Let’s get some footage first and then I’ll let you mess around with the camera.” He doesn’t want a bunch of adolescent jibber jabber on film. .

“What, I’m just trying to be helpful,” Eddie shrugs with puppy dog eyes, lowering the device.

He forgets to turn off video again, and as it angles at the ground. Audio catches a distinct sound, like a soft moan, from somewhere in the woods.

Steve holds his hand up for everyone to halt, freezing in place, and a small twig snaps under his foot.

You open your mouth to speak, something about how it would be better to get a shot of Steve in the clearing, but you are swiftly shushed.

You motion to take the camera from Eddie, and then you point it at Steve, and he turns to you, right in the camera’s eye. His tone is dire: “Can you hear that humming?”

“I can’t—” Eddie blurts, but then Steve puts the palm of his hand tight over Eddie’s mouth, wrapping his fingers over his chin, knowing that it was impossible for him to stay quiet under pressure.

Your heart is racing as you concentrate, ears straining. There is the dry shuffle of the breeze rustling the branches, but otherwise, the silence is eerie and vast.

“Cut it out, Steve, it’s not funny,” you bristle, locking one arm protectively over your chest while the other attempts to hold the camera in place. Steve is darting his attention around the woods, trying to locate the origin of the sound.

Eddie steps back, moving his mouth away from Steve’s muzzle. “It’s just the wind, baby, it’s making you paranoid,” he offers, noticing the way Steve’s face is drained of its color. Bending down to retrieve the map that fell when Steve got manhandled, one of Eddie’s legs flew out behind him dramatically. A part of you wonders if Eddie and the map are a good combination, however you keep your thoughts to yourself.

You’re almost positive you heard a voice in the woods as well, but you decide to keep that close to your chest.

The lingering tension finally subsides, and Eddie reaches back for Steve’s hand to keep him moving in the same direction; to coax him out of his racing thoughts. Not wanting to waste battery life, you turn the camera off and stumble behind them, actively fighting off the urge to glance over your shoulder at whatever might be following in your wake.

The next few hours consist of hiking through unused paths and trampling muddy footprints, waiting for Steve to find his perfect backdrop to open his documentary. With the car far behind you and your full 360 view being nothing but trees, Steve finally breaks from his determined stroll.

“Can we do this now?” You lightly prod. For the last half hour, Steve has been trying to find the right spot to stand, and you felt like his perfectionism will be the death of you.

Steve has that look, the professional one, when he means business. However, for Steve to enter his little documentary presenter zone he wants to stand alone, the trees being his only sidekick.

“You can go over there now,” Steve gives Eddie a playful nudge.

His boyfriend has been on his heels this entire time, but now the metalhead jogs over to grab the camera off of you to keep himself busy, while Steve concentrates, pushing his glasses up on his nose, finding his performance space before he begins.

“The town of Blair has been cursed since the 1700’s,” he starts.

Eddie and you share an encouraging nod, adding a dash of support for Steve to continue.

“They all warn of the Blair witch, the one known to lure children to her home and sacrifice their souls and use their blood as an offering.” Steve starts to find his rhythm, naturally taking small steps backwards, like a guide, forcing the camera to follow.

“Elly Kedward was eventually found and blamed for the towns disappearances and without trial was banished into these woods in the depth of winter to freeze and perish a worser fate than her victims.”

There’s a climatic wind gust that passes through the trees, almost like the ghost of a victim's warning, sent to bring the hairs on your arms to rise. It makes Eddie grin, Steve’s eyes widen with interest, and you try to contain a violent shiver; the theatrics of nature perfecting the shot.

Steve pauses to take in his surroundings for dramatic effect before continuing.

“Her twisted end didn’t sit right, the town of Blair began to notice odd occurrences, noises and symbols from the forest. Locals believe she left a curse. They say she is still roaming in these woods to this day, seaking her revenge and enticing lost souls into her portal to show the devil her true power.”

Steve takes a breath, pausing before opening his mouth to speak again, but Eddie’s attention span has other ideas.

“Oh wait, Steve can you do that again, I didn’t press record,” Eddie says as cool as he can muster, biting the inside of his cheek.

Steve shoves his hand roughly through his hair and holds it there, tempted to rip the hair from his scalp. “For fuck sake Munson.”

Quickly breaking into a wild grin Eddie says a quick, “joking babe,” fully accepting the harsh shove Steve jabs to his shoulder, but then Eddie decides to up the antics. He falls to the ground dramatically and starts to wiggle like a worm.

“Help, Help, it’s got me, the witch,” faking a struggle, to which Steve tuts, lodging a twig in his direction and adding a casual, “get over yourself, Munson.” You dive down to take the camera from Eddie’s extended arms as he rolls to his side, and bite back a grin before giving Steve the signal that he’s on again.

Steve advises Eddie to roam around while he delivers the next part of the story.

“This legend sits on the border of fiction and fact. It’s chilling, yes, but the stories and facts just don’t add up. A truth needs to be found and today, the legend of the witch will either remain its legendary hoax or a fatal truth may be… Wait, cut.”

“What, why?” You frown, enjoying Steve’s witch hunter mode, but clearly his self doubt has arrived.

“Was it a bit much? I felt like I was entering Eddie’s DND campaign.”

“Hey,” Eddie protests, opening his mouth and eyes wide at the camera and prompting you to snort a laugh at his theatrics.

The day wages on, the forest becoming your only view for miles as Steve drags his feet, unsatisfied at his findings so far. The consistent checking of his watch is a hint alone that it’s time to set up camp soon.

By nightfall, the strange noises from earlier were all but forgotten, and you sit with a full belly in front of the crackling fire opposite Eddie. You film him as he tells one of his wild stories, complete with active hand gestures and cartoonish sounds. Eddie gets a detail wrong in the tale he is retelling, and so Steve corrects him with a bit of a bored look on his face, as if he’s heard the story told wrong a million times. You focus the zoom in on Steve’s face as he turns to rest his chin on his shoulder and regard his partner. There was a deep fondness there in his eyes, even though it is masked for the moment with irritability.

Eddie decides to get in close, his mouth inches from Steve’s. You watch as he murmurs something that makes Steve crack a smile, and then the two share a kiss, noses rubbing, and you feel like you were intruding on a private moment. You then decided it was time to give the juice in the camera a rest for the night while you all slept. Much like the camera you follow in its footsteps and shut off, exaggerating a yawn to catch the pair’s attention.

Your little hint is not lost on Steve, and it prompts him to pass you a flashlight so you can avoid tripping over the tent's zip on your way to bed.

Nestled undercover in your downy sleeping bag, you drift in and out of sleep, only faintly hearing the footsteps of the boys before they go into their tent. In the middle of the night, you swear you hear voices, like a distant conversation, but you assume it must be the boys. There’s an ominous but faint cackling that follows it, but by then, you’re already too deep to notice.

And then suddenly, there’s nothing, just stillness and the dark of the woodland air.

Day Two, No sight of the road.

The next day brings more of the same. Hopeful banter in the morning, which then easily leads into some playful teasing throughout the afternoon. The on and off tones of professionalism to mockery becomes apparent. At one point while filming, Steve in one of his monologues, tense and suspenseful, until the scene was hijacked by Eddie flying through the air to tackle him.

The light mood progressively gets shadowed, though, as the day wears on and there seems to be little to no chance of getting back to the car before dark. Steve halts to check the map several times, flustered and angry with himself, while Eddie has a smoke break and you film around, even catching sight of a doll made of sticks hanging from a tree.

“Steve?” You hum his name over your shoulder, wanting him to see what you see.

He ignores you at first, biting the side of his thumbnail, and spinning on his heel as he stares down at the compass. When he finally lifts his head, he frowns, confused, but then the doll made of sticks comes into focus and his eyes narrow behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

“What the hell is that?” Eddie is already on his way over. He decides to smoke the other joint in his pack instead of one of his Camels, and it is doing wonders for his anxiety.

Eddie reaches up to touch the doll, but Steve stops him. “Wait!” He notices that his voice is a bit harsh, so he starts again in a calmer tone. “Listen, we don’t know what it is or who put it there. I think we should respect the woods and leave it be.”

“Respect the woods?” Eddie barks a laugh, continuing to touch the legs of the doll and turn it around to see how it was made and you watched through the camera lens.

“I bet some kid made it when their family was out here camping,” Eddie mused, exhaling smoke. “It’s creepy, I like it.”

Steve decides to interfere with his high boyfriends fascination, batting his hand away and in the process accidentally knocking the wooden doll to the floor.

“Hey, Steve you’ve killed him!” Eddie taunts; mouth agape, eyes accusatory.

Steve really didn’t want to do that and you sense the growing paranoia that he’s experiencing from the way he’s frozen, staring at the little figure now laying twisted on the floor. Eddie pouts and goes to retrieve it once again.

“Eddie, leave it.” Steve can’t hide his increasing stress, his words strained in between his clenched teeth. He grabs onto Eddie’s pack using it to encourage Eddie to walk in the other direction.

Steve prays this is the right way. He sends you a weak smile, and you know him well enough to deduce that he is feeling embarrassed that he doesn’t have you out of the woods yet.

As the sunlight dwindles, a bitter sense of reality begins to creep up on you. The branches above lose their subtle shadows and the once benign tree clusters begin to morph into something otherworldly.

When it is finally time to make camp again, it is all any of you could do not to think about the stories you’d recorded from the townspeople the other day. In particular the one about the killer who would take kids down into his basement two at a time, and make one wait in the corner while he killed one, and then would kill the one in the corner. He didn’t like their eyes on him, apparently, that’s why he made them stare at the wall.

The darkness is crowding in, giving tiny nudges to everyone's paranoia that you are not alone in that forest. There was a presence that tickled in barely audible whispers as the night claimed its position and every howl of the wind was a possible threat.

Not a lot of filming took place during the down time by the fire. It was as if the courage to speak the stories had vanished and the myths began to seep into their reality. Less words exchanged and a few uncertain glances shared with Steve, but Eddie remained stoic and chilled, maintaining his energy.

The plan of action is the last conversation you share, Steve taking control and promising that you’ll all be back in town by tomorrow afternoon.

The sound of the boys getting situated in their tent was comforting, and you giggled when Eddie farted and tried to blame it on a passing wildebeest. But, things got quiet quickly—too quiet—and soon you could hear the faint hiss of Steve’s snore and you realized that having your own tent was not all it was cracked up to be.

An owl hooted, but along with its natural call there was something else out there making sounds. Was that the humming Steve had mentioned the day before? Straining to listen, the noise was followed by an unmistakable cackle that made you grab the flashlight and a pillow and scurry out of your tent like it was on fire.

“Um-guys,” you were pulling open the flap to their tent before either of them could answer. “Is there any possibility i could squeeze in your tent tonight, i was a-a bit cold on my own.”

Eddie sits up, groggily, from where he had his head on Steve’s chest, as if he’d fallen asleep the second he closed his eyes, and scoots away to make room for you in the middle.

Feeling safer nestled between your two friends, you are finally able to let yourself drift off into a dreamless sleep that offers no reprieve from the shadows in your mind.

Later that night, scattered and confused, another bizarre noise caught your attention, jarring you awake.

A blanket of dark coats the inside of the tent, but after a few fuzzy blinks you easily make out that Steve is sitting up with the flap of the tent open. He’s crouched over, the faint shake of his hands holding the camera a dead giveaway to his unease.

Sensing that you are awake, he tilts his head to the side to acknowledge you, and then signals for you to listen.

“Did you hear that?” You whisper, not wanting to wake Eddie who is offering soft snores next to you.

Steve puts a finger to his lips, and then turns back around with the camera pointed out into the night.

Somehow he manages to convince himself that the noise is from a deer or squirrel. Due to your delirious state, this information settles your tired worry and allows you to snuggle down, eager for the morning light.

Day Three, Walking in Circles

With no idea how long Steve remained awake last night, there’s a part of you that feels he’s hiding something to protect you. The next morning his raw, uplifting nature dwindled, his inner doubts coming to the surface to pinch the skin between his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry I dragged you all out here,” Steve announces with a heavy sigh, staring down at the remnants from the fire. Eddie angles the camera up at him while you zip a few things into your knapsack. “We’ll be having lunch back in town in a few hours, but let’s keep adding to the footage as we go.”

Steve shows you on the map where you were all headed, tapping his finger in the spot where you’d parked the car. “Two hours, tops,” he promises.

Eddie gets to his feet and adjusts the focus so that Steve goes from blurry to clear to blurry again. “Battery life on this thing is low and I can’t find the portable charger.”

Steve turned on him, jaw muscles tensing, ready to let an angry word slip.

“The charger is right here,” you corrected, lifting it out of the bag it was in to show Steve and calm his nerves. Once Steve steps away to check the compass again, Eddie makes a face at you, tongue darting out from the side of his mouth, letting you know that he knew it was there, he just wanted to give Steve a hard time.

“I have a question for you, sir,” Eddie rushes up behind Steve and taps his shoulder, making him turn away from the lens, bringing a hand up to block his face. “How do you feel about this Blair Witch hunt so far?”

Steve smooths the sides of his hair back and squares his shoulders, determined to look unbothered. “I feel good,” he lied. “I feel like I know exactly where we are and we just need to head east for another couple miles. Everything's going as planned, we’re just a little behind schedule, that’s all.”

You open the canteen around your neck and gulp down a few swigs of water, musing that there wasn’t much left, and you needed to find a fresh stream somewhere soon, just in case.

But, it was only a passing worry, because Steve’s confidence that you’d be back at the car in a few hours gave you an unhealthy helping of blind hope.

When you finally find the water line, there is a fallen tree across the creek, and it happens to be the only way across. You have the worst balance, and being suspended over moving water makes you nervous in a way that has your hands trembling. Eddie carries the camera for you, strapping around his neck as he makes his way across like an acrobat, and then Steve follows behind you, whispering words of encouragement.

Hours later, it’s high noon when Steve makes you all stop for a rest to take your packs off so that he can check the map again. You happen to be filming him as a flex of panic flashes across his face.

“Why does this spot feel so familiar?” He asks it under his breath, but the audio catches it.

It was the same spot you’d started from earlier in the day; same stump, same bundle of dead branches next to a large boulder. Steve turns on his heel and you can see in his face the way his heart stops when he sees the impressions from the previous night’s tent pegs.

“How is this possible?” He whispers. “We’ve been going straight all day, following the compass.”

“Give me that,” Eddie storms by, yanking the map from Steve to sit down on the big stump to look at it while he has a smoke. “This shit is Greek to me,” he admits, hollowing out his cheeks to take in all of the nicotine his lungs would allow. “Are you telling me we’ve been going in circles?”

You squat next to Eddie, filming him while he glowers at the lines on the paper, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. This was the crankiest you’d ever seen him, and you’d known him for at least a year at that point. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that there were only 3 cigarettes left, and his pack a day habit was at risk of being tested without nicotine patches or comfort.

He realizes you are recording and flinches away, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “Put that thing away please. I’m not in the mood.”

Steve split the last half of a squished peanut butter sandwich into 3 parts and passed one to each of you, but Eddie refuses his. You stare up at Steve, waiting for his word that you should stop, but he shakes his head. “She’s doing exactly what I told her to do, Eddie. We’re filming a documentary.”

“Oh, we’re filming a documentary about being lost now? Is that what this is? Because we are, we’re fucking lost.”

Eddie grumbles, exhaling an agitated breath.

“We’re not.” Steve’s voice is gruff as he pushes the food into his cheek with his tongue. “I know exactly where we are. The car is right over that way, through the trees, I’m positive.”

“Yeah, well, you said that yesterday morning and last night and four fucking hours ago,” Eddie shot to his feet with a huff, keeping the butt of his smoke clenched between his lips to button up the front of his black and red flannel.

“Shouldn’t you know where we are?” Eddie’s penetrating gaze falls on you, and for some reason, it makes you nervous. “I know you said you were just a kid, but you grew up here right? So, you must have some idea?”

You glance nervously over at Steve, as if to ask for support, and then focus the camera back on Eddie as you stammer. “I–I don’t ever remember coming out here. Once maybe, but—”

“Really Eddie?” Steve turns to his boyfriend. “You expect her to have a Magellan sense of direction in these woods because she lived nearby when she was a child? You get lost in Hawkins and you’ve lived there your whole life.”

Eddie mumbles something as he straps the last part of his pack on and starts walking, without a word, heading in the direction Steve suggested, kicking at the dirt as he goes.

“I’m sorry about this,” Steve mutters to you as he offers his hand and helps you stand. “I should’ve had you home safe by now.”

“It’s okay, I trust you. I promise I really don’t know these woods that well,” your voice is small. Your eyes are softly pleading when they find his, as if to beg for absolute reassurances.

But, Steve has nothing verbal to give. His throat is dry, he hates fighting with Eddie, and his pride was taking quite a catastrophic blow—on film, no less. He squeezes your arm, and continues at a fast trot to catch up with his salty partner, pulling you along with him.

A few hours later, the sky opened up and it started to rain, and as you ducked to follow the boys into the clearing to reluctantly set up camp, you trip over a pile of rocks and almost drop the camera.

“What the hell is this?” You mused aloud, adjusting the focus, establishing that it was, indeed, just a pile of rocks, but there was something…odd about them. They’d been stacked up by hand in the shape of a mound.

Steve and Eddie were up ahead, standing in close proximity, having a conversation in tense whispers while Eddie found the driest patch of ground under the canopy of trees to shake the tent out. It was only drizzling now, and he was eager to set up some type of shelter in case the downpour started again.

Steve moves the hood of his yellow rain slicker back to check where you were, and then comes over to see what you’d found.

“There’s a couple of them,” you point out, stepping back so he could view the others, “What was it that one woman in town said about stacks of rocks? Something to do with a signal, or warning maybe.”

Turning, you see Steve frantically dig through his bag, only letting out a satisfied hum when he retrieves his notebook. Its spiral-bound pages hold all of the key points from interviews of people back in town. You can tell he’s proud of you for having the intuition to know that these stacks might be important.

“Remember that woman we spoke to at the trailer park?” Steve asks, biting his lip in thought.

“The weird one? Mary?” You wonder aloud.

Steve snaps his fingers in excitement, flicking to the right page in his notes.

“Yes! Crazy Mary. I wasn’t paying much attention to her because I thought she was insane, but I’m sure she mentioned something to do with rock piles?”

“What’s your notes say?” You lean in to see what the camera can catch on the paper.

“Not a lot. I’ve just written ‘Bible Story about rocks’”.

You try your hardest to remember, whispering to yourself and attempting to remember what the eccentric woman had said.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” you begin. “But, didn't she say something like, they symbolize a promise, like if you promise not to cross the rocks nothing can harm you and vice versa from the one who put them there. Ancient truce type agreement?”

“I mean it sounds right, but why are there three?”

“I'm not sure?”

Steve waves Eddie over, but he isn’t interested. He’d gone into full-on “if I don’t keep busy I’m going to lose my shit” mode, dropping to his knees in the mud to hammer in the tent pegs.

Steve sighs, feeling like Eddie probably needs a bit of attention and comfort before his mood swing completely erupts. In his process of turning away from the rocks his booted foot catches a pebble, sending the pile toppling over, but he doesn’t think to give it any attention.

Panicking in his wake, you shield the camera from the rain and re-pile the pebbles back in a formation that you hope they resembled.

You eat the last of the canned vienna sausages by the fire and no one is in the mood for jokes, but Steve does reassure everyone, especially with an arm around his boyfriend’s stiff shoulders, that you all would be out of the forest by the next afternoon. You film it, catching the way Eddie pulls away at first but then leans in to rest his head on top of Steve’s and they both stare into the fire with glossy eyes.

You didn’t even bother setting your tent up that evening, and you snuggle on the outside of the boys this time, curling up next to Steve while he spoons Eddie.

For the first hour or two, everything is peaceful, and the three of you sink into shallow sleep, only to be jared awake by Steve stumbling out of his sleeping bag, stepping on both of his companions in the process.

“Holy fuck, did you hear that?” He hisses, moving to unzip the tent. “I need to get out there, hand me the camera.”

“Steve!” You bark a harsh whisper.

“Goddamn it,” Eddie starts putting his boots on, half asleep, not wanting Steve to go out alone. “It’s just a bunch of fucking deer or something, baby, will you just—”

But then, you all hear it.

As loud and as clear as if there were people standing right outside your tent: a cackle of laughter, heavy steps crunching in the leaves, snapping twigs, echoing from the forest floor. And then there is the distinct cry of a little kid—maybe two, three different little kids. It all echoed back into the woods as if it’s in your ears and far away all at once.

With the tent flap half open and one foot out, Steve shoots a look back at the two of you, nostrils flaring as he stills for more noise. “Did you hear those kids?” He huffs, snatching the camera and ducking down to bolt out of the tent.

“Baby, there are no kids in these woods!” Eddie lunges after him, catching Steve’s calf to pull him back in. He stumbles back under cover into a crouch, only to “shush” everyone again, certain that he heard something else.

It’s then that the tent begins to shake and jostle, and the cackling continues, but it’s right on top of you now, circling the enclosure.

“Holy shit, holy fuck,” Eddie wails, pushing Steve out of the tent this time, and reaching back for your hand as he exits.

“Go go go!” You demand, encouraging them both to run as far and fast as they could from the campsite.

Everyone is stumbling and cursing, running in the dark, with the light of the camera Steve’s holding being the only illumination. He trips over something with a curse, and Eddie helps him up while you take the camera, not caring where the lens points as you run along with the boys, as fast as your feet can carry you.

Not a sound follows you, not a single footstep or snicker. Eventually, you all collapse breathless in a huddle, hunkering down near a tree.

Eddie looks into the camera you hold. “Turn that light off,” he’s panting, pupils pinned. “Shut it all off, stay the fuck down.”

“Keep the audio on,” Steve whispers, to which he gets a shove in the shoulder from Eddie.

“I can’t believe you’re still trying to film your movie, dude,” Eddie hushes curtly.

“Shutup!” You scold them both, turning the camera off.

You all sit frozen in place, holding onto each other in a football huddle for—god knows how long? Two hours maybe. Daylight finally begins to break, prompting Steve to motion you to get the camera rolling again.

Day Four, No Way Home

The three of you stay close, too frightened to be even a meter apart as you make your way back in the direction of camp. You’re cold, wet and done; so over this witch hunt and ready to put it behind you.

After a while of weary steps and nervous glances around, Eddie’s tongue clicks, breaking the silence. “There are some hillbillies in these woods trying to fuck with us, and I don’t want to fuck with that.”

Steve looks up at him. “But what if it’s something…not human?”

“Well, I don’t want to fuck with that either,” Eddie runs both hands through his hair, intertwining his fingers on top of his head as he walks.

You decide to chime in. “Something definitely does not want us here.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.” Eddie blows a raspberry and turns his back on the two of you.

“Something?” Steve cocks his head at you. “But I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts or witches?”

“I don’t,” you swallow hard, averting your eyes. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Okay, we’re going,” Steve answers, meeting Eddie’s hard stare over your shoulder with defiance. “We got what we came for, let’s get our shit and keep heading north.”

“Are you sure north is the direction we need to go in?” You ask, cringing through the beginning stages of a headache. “Because we were headed north all day yesterday and it didn’t get us anywhere.”

When the campsite finally comes into view again, everyone stops short, each jaw going slack in disbelief.

“uhhh, what the fuck is this?” Eddie mumbles, stomping over to look at the way the tent has been squashed, and how everyone’s things have been thrown around. Whoever or whatever had been taunting you all a few hours ago had made a mess of all of your things; there was clothing and gear tossed in every direction.

You ran across the campsite, eyes searching. “Where is my pack?” The question caught in your throat, as if you might cry.

“Your pack is right there,” Eddie points. “More importantly, Where is my pack?”

Everyone starts collecting what they can find of their personal items while Eddie lifts up his open canteen from the ground. “They dumped all the fucking water out.”

He realizes that the canteen is also coated in something and he drops it with a curse. “Is that fucking slime? It is, there is some kind of slime all over it,” he raises his hand up to look at the viscous liquid and then rubs it off on his pant leg as best as he could.

“Im not fucking about anymore Steve, okay I believe it all, you happy? This shit, whatever it is, whoever it is, doesn’t want us here.”

Eddie’s right, this is a clear warning, an intentional attack, and for once Steve’s not looking excited at the product of evidence before you all. Steve turns towards you, your kneeling figure scooping up your pack—it had been thrown to the other side of the campsite, but nothing seemed to be missing.

Before he could question it, the whining sound of Eddie pricks his ears. Swiftly turning to face whatever tantrum the curly haired boy is throwing now, Steve is faced with Eddie frantically picking up scattered pieces of clothing.

“Woah, babe, is that all your clothes?” Steve asks in a rush, moving closer.

“Yep”. Eddie doesn’t even want to converse.

“Just yours though Eddie? No one else's?”

“This is bullshit!” Eddie throws the canteen down and it bounces further away.

Steve moves to reach out and touch Eddie’s arm, but his hand gets slapped away. “Leave me alone, dude. I need a second.”

You turn the camera off while everyone collects their things and tries to catch their breath. You were all officially out of food now, with the exception of some peanuts, and a detour needed to be made to get water from the creek. Eddie refused to use his after it was slimed, but thankfully Steve had an extra one.

When the camera comes back on, it is a couple hours later, and Steve is holding it this time to film Eddie enjoying his last smoke, while you sit with your head against a tree and your eyes closed. No one is in the mood for talking, and it is wise to conserve energy with very few resources at your disposal.

“A hamburger and fries sounds nice,” you said to break the silence with your eyes still closed.

“Mmmhmm,” Eddie concurred. “A big can of Spaghetti-O’s would hit the spot right now.”

Steve points the camera at his hiking boots as he steps closer, indulging in the fantasy. “I’ve been craving one of those clam chowder bread bowls like we had on the wharf in San Francisco.”

“That was some good shit,” Eddie mumbles, sucking his smoke all the way down to the filter.

The camera turns off again, and when it comes back on, you have it. Eddie is charging ahead, waving his arms, shouting something about how you all need to follow the creek and you’ll end up somewhere eventually.

“Hey,” Steve is walking in front of you, but he turns around. “Can you pass me the map? I want to check something.”

“Yeah, hold on,” you say, but then you reach back and realize you can’t feel the well-worn edges, and sudden, prickling dread takes over. Panicked, you reach around to check the other pocket, coming to realize the map is gone.

“Are you sure you gave it to me Steve?” you lighty question, knowing that right now is no time for jokes.

Steve gives you an exasperated look, as if you are goofing with him like Eddie might. “Yes, you have the map, you always have the map. I gave it to you after a map-check before we made camp yesterday.”

You kneel on the ground and put the camera down to do a proper search, your heart racing. “Eddie,” you shout, making him stop abruptly in his tracks. “Do you have the map?”

“Me?” Eddie turns around but stays yelling from a distance. “Why the hell would I have it? It was fucking useless anyway.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve pats the air with his hands, trying to calm the meltdown he can feel building. His attention returns to you as you stand without a map in your hand and a worried look on your face. “I know I gave it to you,” Steve reiterates. “It has to be somewhere in your stuff.”

You don't want to say what you are thinking, as you stand, pointing the camera at Steve again, but it comes out anyway. “What if whoever attacked the tent took it?”

Steve grimaces. “What would they want with…our map?”

“To make sure we have no chance of finding our way out of here,” you say it under your breath, and through the lens, you watch Steve’s jaw go slack as he takes on that possibility.

When realization dawns that you were about to lose light and need to make camp again, a thick blanket of anxiety and agitation falls over all of you. You are dragging your feet, camera angle pointed at the ground while the boys get the tent out.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” Eddie mumbles curtly, brow furrowing, and back teeth grinding as the nicotine withdrawal nips at him.

You mention that you’ll go and gather some branches to make a fire, but Steve puts his hand out to stop you. “Let’s not make a fire tonight. We don’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

“Good idea,” Eddie grunts. “I’d rather freeze to death in a few hours than spend one more day fumbling around this hellscape.” He is digging through his things in Steve’s pack to see if there happens to be a stray cigarette or joint anywhere. The frustrated anger rising in him is palpable.

“It’ll be a while before I ever go camping again, that’s for sure,” you muse to the group, and both the boys respond with enthusiastic nods of agreement.

“I’m gonna burn this tent when we get home,” Eddie bites out.

When you turn to Steve, he is rubbing his forehead and staring down at the ground, pensively, and you ask if you should stop filming for a bit.

Steve glosses over your question and asks another: “You promise you don’t have the map? Because if you have it, and you were just saying you lost it to be funny, I won’t be mad.”

You lower the camera so that it’s focused on his chest and the army green utility jacket he’s wearing. “I’ve checked my pack three times,” you offer, earnestly. “I promise, I don’t have it. I wish I did, Steve.”

In the background, Eddie curses at the top of his lungs and one of the tent pegs he’d been fumbling with goes flying through the air. “I’m so fucking done with this! Holy shit, what the hell are we still doing out here? This is fucking insane.”

Steve motions for you to keep filming. He’d tease Eddie about all of this later, he knew he would. He’d also use it as fodder for the argument of why he should quit smoking altogether.

Steve turns toward his boyfriend with his hands on his hips. “I know you blame me for all of this, and I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? We’re all tired and hungry and miserable.”

Eddie snaps around, eyes dark and his body rigid. “You bet your fucking ass I blame you! You’re the reason we’re about to get flayed by a bunch of inbred mountain people or die of starvation out here in this shitty-ass excuse for a forest.”

“You begged me to let you come on this trip, Eddie,” Steve is doing his best to keep his voice low, because matching Eddie’s tone when he gets upset never helps the situation. “Like you said, if we follow the creek, we’re bound to end up somewhere. It’s impossible to get lost for too long in America these days.”

Eddie’s nostrils flare. “I begged you? I practically agreed under false pretenses one night when you had my dick in your mouth, I didn’t beg for shit. I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend and watch him work, but that was back when I thought you were talented. Now I realize you’re just a hack who can’t even read a fucking map.”

He regrets it the second it leaves his lips, and you can see it in the way the corners of his mouth turn down. “I didn’t mean that,” Eddie whispers.

You step back from the two, not sure what type of conflict is about to ensue.

You can tell it hurts Steve by the way his eyes water, and he pushes his glasses up to rub his face. “No, you’re right,” Steve sighs, “It is my fault. But maybe if you weren’t such a big, needy baby all the fucking time, I might have been able to think clearly on this trip.”

“I’m the needy baby? Seriously? So what, little miss perfect over there gets let off the hook because she’s your perfect little puppet?”

“Hey, no need to bring her into this.”

“Guys!” You shout, waiting until they both look at you. “This isn’t helping, okay? I for one am scared shitless about what else might be out here in these woods, and if we don’t stick together, we don’t have a chance.”

There is a minute long silence while everyone tries to shake the anxiety out of their shoulders. Steve comes over to let you know you can turn the camera off, but then the sound of Eddie’s laughter makes you both turn.

He’s bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he is sucking in dry air.

You and Steve share an amused look,

“What’s so funny, baby?” Steve asks, cracking a bit of a smile.

Eddie stands, face red from exertion. “You and that fucking map. I got rid of it yesterday! What do you think about that?” Eddie then convulses into giggles again, walking off into the other direction.

“You did what?” Both you and Steve say in unison.

Surely, you’d both misheard him.

“Yeah,” Eddie continues. “I kicked that fucker into the creek, it was useless!”

“You son of a bitch,” Steve spat, lunging at him. “How could you do that to me? To us?”

You catch Steve’s arm, trying to hold the camera and him all at once. The last thing you need is for these two to get into a physical fight.

Eddie starts to walk further away, but then he stops to turn on his heel and face the two of you, deciding to fight his case a little more. “We just kept going in circles, it wasn’t helping us!”

“You knew I was going crazy looking for it! Why didn’t you say anything?” Steve yells after him.

In the distance, you see Eddie shrug, before matter of factly stating, “I need to go for a walk.”

“But it will be dark in a half hour,” panic bubbling in your chest. “Eddie…wait!”

Eddie waves his arm in the air and keeps going.

“Let him go,” Steve touches your shoulder, “he gets like this sometimes. Let him walk it off, we’ll finish setting up.”

Steve has an overwhelming desire to run after his partner, to say, “hey, stop, I love you,” but none of that ever happened. He knew when it was best to let Eddie cool off.

He knows Eddie won’t go far, he’ll be back in a few minutes.

When you turn the camera back on, an hour later, Eddie is still not back.

There is a soft, orange glow from the sunset through the trees, but other than that, it’s pitch black out. Locking arms with Steve, he dances the beam of his flashlight around the forest while you film with the camera light on, trying to remain within visual distance from camp.

Steve had already screamed Eddie’s name so many times, his voice was becoming hoarse.

“If you’re fucking with us, Eddie, I swear to Christ I will never ever forgive you!” He starts to imagine Eddie is crouched down by a tree somewhere, covering his mouth to hold back the hilarity of watching his boyfriend almost shit his pants looking for him.

Steve tries to break free from your linked arms, attempting to charge deeper into the woods.

“Steve, no!” You squeak, desperation present in your tone. You shift the camera to the crook of your arm, so it angles up at his horrified face. You really don't want anything bad to happen to Eddie, but you also can’t let anything bad happen to Steve.

Steve suddenly turns to face you, eyes wild. “But what if he’s hurt somewhere, what if he’s…damn it Eddie!...what if…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, you already know what he is thinking. What if the myths of the forest were true? What if there was an entity in the woods that fed on fear and needed a sacrifice every so often? What if there were hillbillies in pig masks carrying chainsaws and they often resorted to cannibalism? You’d watched too many horror movies in your life and so had Steve, and it wasn’t helping either one of you at that moment.

But, to be fair, it wasn’t all just in your head. There is definitely something or someone else out there with all of you, and maybe it was just biding its time until all of you are broken.

Eddie’s missing. An hour later, it’s official.

He wasn’t hiding or playing a game; he had somehow vanished into thin air. The guilt begins to creep and crawl, festering inside Steve’s chest, the buzzing of night insects heightening his sense of dread.

You’d manage to coax Steve back to the tent. “We’ll go back and build a fire, so that he can see the light of it if he’s lost.”

“I’m not going to stop looking for him,” Steve mutters, screaming Eddie’s name again as he walks, his voice echoing off the emptiness as the cold air burns his lungs. He was too pumped full of fear and adrenaline to cry, but the tears were building behind his eyes. “It’s freezing out here and he’s only got that flannel on.”

“Listen to me,” you yank Steve around to look at you, being rougher than you ever have with him, but your eyes are kept soft. “It would be very easy for us to get lost in these woods ourselves. What if Eddie makes it back to camp and we’re gone?”

You let that sink in, hoping you can reason with him. You notice that his shoulders relax.

“I bet he went a little too far and he can’t find his way back in the dark,” you continue.

“He probably found some shelter to wait it out for the night. He’ll be cold, but it’s not going to freeze, he’ll survive. We can go out and look for him at first light.”

Steve starts nodding to himself as he pans the flashlight beam over the forest again. “A fire is a good idea, so he knows where we are.”

The active denial grips the both of becoming a makeshift coping mechanism, a way to hold onto hope when there seems to be none left. You have a bad feeling that you may never see Eddie alive again, but you plan on keeping up pretenses for Steve for as long as you could.

“We’ll find him, Steve,” you don’t want to lie to him, but you felt like it was something he needed to hear.

Steve struggles to meet your eyes, but you can make out a stray tear that’s making tracks across his stubbled cheek and it breaks your heart for him.

“I didn’t go after him, didn’t even try to convince him to stay. How fucking stupid could I be?”

“No, Steve, you can’t blame yourself, okay, it was an in the moment thing, it’s going to be okay.”

“What part of this whole thing has EVER been okay?”

He turns his back on you and it sends a stinging pang through your chest. A part of you can’t help but wonder if he’s wishing it were you that went missing. Maybe he’s wishing he never brought you along at all.

With a heavy heart and a signature rake through his hair, Steve shuts his eyes, takes a shaken breath and turns around, inviting you to step into his arms and you hook an arm around his waist. This embrace is welcomed, as you soak up the heavy warmth wrapped around you, making it hard to let go. Seemingly feeling the same, Steve leans in further, soaking up what he presumes is the last moments of peace, a crumb of tranquility. Feeding on the sliver of hope you’ve provided him.

A stuttered sigh slips from Steve’s dry lips. His next words are nothing but a whisper, but it’s meaningful, and becomes tattooed amongst the trees.

“I can’t lose him,” his voice cracks.

Then, as if on cue, there’s a cry—a whimper of agony erupts from deep in the nothingness.

Steve snaps a look at you and a fist tightens over your heart. You hold very still, making sure you heard what you thought you did, both wondering if you’d imagined it.

But then another scream follows, this one more drawn out than the first, and it sounds just like Eddie.

Steve braces himself, senses sharp, trying to find the direction the scream is coming from. “Holy shit, that was him!”

There’s a scuffle as Steve bumps into you in his haste to move. You almost drop the camera as he bounces off of you, losing his mind over the sound of Eddie's voice, you then scramble to catch the device before it falls to the ground. There’s only muffled noises for a bit as your arm is blocking the microphone and the lens catches the back of Steve’s legs, bolting into the pitch black forest.

“Whatever you do, don’t stop filming!” He shouts over his shoulder.

And then your heart is pounding, jackhammering in your chest as you take after him. Steve’s running, pumping his arms, and then there’s another scream and he catches himself for a full stop, freezing in place.

The video takes in the side of his face, tears wetting his cheek under his glasses, his head turning in the direction of the scream. “It’s this way…Eddie!...it’s coming from over there!” He points in that direction, and then his feet follow to a place where the trees get denser.

You glance over your shoulder in the direction of the campsite, wondering if the two of you will be able to find your way back, but then keeping up with Steve becomes a priority. Breathlessly, you struggle to keep up the pace, you trip and try to avoid falling over tree stumps that are dotted along the path.

“Steve”, you manage to stutter in between sharp breaths, “How do we know, what if- what if it’s a trick. What if it’s not Eddie?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it's…”

Another scream.

Steve’s words die on his tongue, as all he can manage is a wide eyed frantic glare into the trees, before attempting once again to scream his boyfriend’s name in vain, begging to catch a glimpse of his frizzed up hair between the branches.

You both speed up, using all the remaining energy left inside your weak bodies, ignoring the burning in your lungs and metallic taste coating your tongues.

The woodland flooring begins to create almost a disheveled looking path, a trail appearing out of nowhere. Horrifying possibilities begin to bleed into Steve’s imagination, the memories of the past few days twisting in his mind as he tries to predict what state his boyfriend could be in.

Steve stops to get his bearings, gulping in breaths. His stomach clenches like he might puke, but he swallows down bile, hoping for another scream to pierce the night and guide his way.

You catch a glint of something silver nestled in the leaves of the forest floor, and you shine the light down there to get a look. You swear it’s Eddie’s wallet chain, the one he had on the last time you saw him, but then Steve starts moving again, on the trail of a sound only he could hear.

Running full boar, dodging through the trees, something smacks Steve in the face, and he swats it away, thinking it’s a branch. But then he takes a step back and looks up. You almost smash straight into the back of him, not realizing he’d stopped so abruptly. Your camera light brings attention to what Steve is seeing.

Unsettling deja vu is shared between you both as you realize that a cluster of handcrafted stick dolls, like the one you found the other day, are dangling before you.

Steve’s hand trembles, reaching out to touch the frayed twine from which they hang.

"Steve, stop," you hiss, your voice is a harsh whisper, eyes darting over the dolls as they sway in the breeze. You can't shake the feeling that you are being watched; that something sinister is lurking just beyond your peripheral vision.

Ignoring you, Steve begins to count the dolls, pointing with his finger, his movements manic, his words a rapid, breathless murmur.

"One, two, three... they're leading somewhere!”

"Steve!" you call out to him desperately, your voice echoing through the forest, falling on blind ears. He starts to follow the primitive stick dolls, and you know you have no choice but to go with him into the unknown, the dread of what lies ahead producing blooms of sweat on your scalp.

Finally, you emerge into a small clearing. There stands an old, weathered cabin.

It appears abandoned and worn, its wooden walls covered in moss and ivy, and its windows cracked and shattered. The cabin looms like a forgotten relic of the past, isolated in the dense forest.

“Steve, I-I don’t think this is a good idea”. The air is heavy, and your teeth are chattering.

“Whatever happens,” Steve clicks his tongue and swallows hard, wetting his dry mouth. “Promise me you won’t stop filming.”

“Steve, are you insane?”

He turns to you with wide, earnest eyes, his voice dead calm under the circumstances, “Promise me?”

You feel like you’ve officially lost him, whatever you attempt to say to change his mind would be useless. “I-I promise.”

Another blood-curdling yelp of agony pierces through the air.

“Eddie, I’m coming!” Steve huffs, motioning for you with a swing of his arm.

You both scramble cautiously onto the cabin’s creaking porch. You decide to zoom the lens in on Steve’s hand, reaching for the rusted doorknob, trying your hardest to focus.

Dread seizes you, and you attempt to get through to him. “Steve, please, I think I do remember a way out of these woods, actually. What if we go back to the tent, wait till morning and try again?”

You manage to worm your way in between Steve and the door, blocking him now. Steve remains unyielding, shrugging you out of his way, twisting the door knob, and then pushing in the unlocked door.

“Steve—” Your voice cracks. You want to find Eddie too but there’s something…wrong with this cabin, and you can’t find the words to tell Steve in a way that would make him give up the search.

But then he’s already through the open door, and you stay on his heels. The light from your camera dances over his flashlight beam into the broken floorboards and chipped paint of the interior of the cabin.

The screaming has stopped, but now the dead silence invades your senses. There’s no furniture, and the walls are bare. There is a smell lingering that hints to wood rot and black mold and rodent feces. You scan the camera around to show there’s a wide, empty room, and a hallway to the right.

“I-I can’t lose him,” Steve whispers, and your eyes are wet, heart hurting for what this trip has become. You can't let him go in there alone, no matter how much your instincts are telling you to grab him and run in the other direction.

With each step you take, the cabin seems to expand into a labyrinth of winding corridors, narrow staircases, and hidden rooms. The walls are lined with faded, peeling wallpaper, and the air grows colder and more oppressive with each passing moment.

But then Steve darts down the dark hallway and up a stairway and you try to follow, tripping on the first step in your hurry.

“He’s in here, I know it,” Steve gasps, and you can only catch his boots before he is already on the next floor.

Eddie’s cry sounds again, and this time there is no mistake— it’s coming from inside the house.

Two floors up, there are empty rooms, but still no sign of Eddie. Steve makes a point to direct your attention to the same type of child handprints you’d seen earlier. “Did you catch these?” He asks pointing to make sure you got the shot.

It looks like a dozen tiny children had dipped their hands in black paint and made palm impressions all over the wall over the ripped and stained wallpaper.

And then another scream, muffled this time, breaks the silence of your twin haggard breaths, but it is coming from somewhere deep in the cabin now—somewhere below. You can almost feel the screams vibrate inside the soles of your feet.

The shout is followed by a heavy bang that shakes the walls. It makes you both jump, locking eyes with mirrored expressions of fear.

Without a word, Steve disappears back down the stairs and into the shadows of the second floor. There are no sounds picked up by audio other than Steve calling for Eddie, and you follow, taking two reluctant steps at a time. The weight of uncertainty makes your feet feel like lead, while the lightheadedness of your hunger makes your skull feel like a balloon, and you have to catch yourself on the wall to find your balance, stars crossing in your vision.

The only sounds now are the heavy thuds of footfalls on the old stairs, and the drumbeat of your heart in your ears. There appear to be looming shapes all around you as you run after Steve, and the camera catches glimpses of things that are unidentifiable sliding along the walls.

You hear Steve shout, “down here!” and then he is throwing another door open and it sounds like he’s bolting further down in the house, down into what must be a basement.

You think you catch a glimpse of a figure standing in the corner, but when you stumble back and point the camera light there, you realize it’s nothing.

“Steve?” You can’t get a visual on where he is now, but then you finally catch the open door and the glow from his flashlight beam.

“I don’t feel good about this, Steve! Don’t go down there!”

But it’s too late.

You reach the top of the stairs. “Steve, wait!”

“He’s down here somewhere, I know it!” Steve persists.

You take another look at him through the lens; he’s dropping down to the dirt floor and darting to the left, disappearing into the inky blackness. The sound of Eddie’s voice has not been heard for a while, but Steve continues to call out for him, the tremor in his voice now catching with a sob.

Abruptly, you see Steve halt.

He shouts up over his shoulder to you, “Did you hear that?”

The air is suddenly ice cold; freezing even. You shrink against the doorframe and pan the camera to capture the front door behind you, noting that it is closed, and then quickly back to Steve.

Something in the basement startles him, and Steve drops his flashlight to the ground, smashing the light's glass in the process, making him curse before rushing back up to you, banking on the illumination from the camera light to help him find his way.

Sprinting up the rickety steps, Steve is relieved to find that you are still intact, dutifully holding his camera and waiting for him.

Your presence serves as his motivation to attempt to sprint up the stairs a little faster. However, something stops him in his tracks a few steps up.

Your heart is in your throat as you wait, but Steve pauses to look over his shoulder. “I feel like there is something else down here.”

Your teeth are chattering, your words come out stuttered. “Hurry, Steve. Let’s go!”

“Not without Eddie,” he says with a vigorous shake of his head, taking one more searching look into the seemingly empty basement.

The chill you feel is much more than skin deep as you pan the camera around the main room again to find it empty, all but for the shadows that appear to be crowding in.

You can hear Steve make his way up two more steps, but before you can shine the light back down on him, there’s a loud THUD from somewhere below. The noise manages to sliver into the walls, sending an unnatural quake throughout the entire house.

“Holy shit, what the fuck was that?” Steve jumps.

His feet are moving before his brain can fully register what is happening.

Steve never looks back again.

He takes the next few steps and trips over himself in his haste, his glasses falling in the process. He doesn’t even bother to bend over to retrieve them, he hears the glass crunch under his boot but can’t bring himself to care as the high volume of fear unravels him.

Adrenaline ignites his flight mode, and he’s practically crawling up the stairs with his hands now, scampering to get away from whatever or whoever did not want him down in the basement.

You stayed where you were, watching—filming.

The sound of footsteps pricked your ears from the empty room behind you, prompting you to turn around to pan the camera again, shakily, but you were met with nothing but the decaying cabin walls.

Your mind chooses not to register that the front door to the cabin is wide open now, the forest having its own personal view into the cabin, the branches silently watching.

Steve has climbed closer now, stilling halfway up, with his face drained of color, bracing his hand on the wall for balance. He meets your eyes for some much-needed reassurance. The documentarian in him wants to look back, to see what might be glaring up at him from the bottom of the stairs, but his fear won’t let him.

Four steps, one hand holds the camera, your other one on the doorknob.

Three steps, you begin to shift to the side, ready. He’s so close, he’s ready to leave, make it out, you can see the relief in his eyes to be free of that hole.

You’re both quaking like brittle autumn leaves now, it feels like the blood in your veins might turn solid and crack, and the air from your lungs is coming out like smoke.

You feel the need to pan the camera once more just in case, but Steve is so, so close, you decide to wait.

Two steps and he is about to reach out for your hand.

One step.

You slam and seal the door shut, holding your weight against it, twisting it a certain way so that it locks.

Steve’s breathless, you can hear it, he’s panting.

However, he’s not standing beside you.

The camera catches the ornate, brass doorknob as it twists and turns, capturing the sound of his heavy fist banging against the wood, and it’s vibrating into your palm as you press it there, feeding on your guilt.

“Hey, open the door,” he tries the knob again, with more force this time. “What the fuck are you doing? I’m fucking locked in here!” He pounds his fist, desperation mounting.

“I’m begging you, open the door.” He tries to ram his shoulder through the frame, and it's a pointless move, but it does make the regret bloom fresh within your chest.

"Let me out! Get me the fuck out of here! Don’t leave without me, please!” He sobs, his voice turning shrill.

You press your forehead against the door, angling the camera down so that it's filming the floor. The camera angle exposes a flicker of something, just a tiny glimpse of some type of black markings.

Steve stops his banging, he goes silent.

Summoning the last of your courage, you say once more, "Sorry, I'm—I..."

Another forceful kick lands on the wood, he’s had enough, the forceful boot punctuating Steve’s plea. "Open the goddamn door!"

You start to back up then, camera almost forgotten as it records the floor. Through labored breaths, you are issuing your apologies so softly, but loud enough for the audio to capture.

There’s another loud thud, and the camera vibrates from the impact.

It’s followed shortly by the sound of a sickening crack from beyond the basement door. Steve’s cry is cut short by another blunt thud, and you wince away, squeezing your eyes shut.

You flipped the light from the camera off, thinking you’d shut down the entire device. Out of the darkness, the audio picks up what sounds like a hundred hissing whispers, speaking of unintelligible things, muddled amongst feet shuffling all around you.

In the background, the next set of ears to listen to the tape will be able to make out the hollow thuds of a body being dragged down the stairs.

To you, in the present, the sound prompts you to turn away from the closed door, your cheeks wet with tears. Your heart is heavy, lips dry and cracked, but you know that there must be sacrifices.

It’s all in order to maintain the balance.

You really did the best you could for Steve: you got it all on film, you kept your promise.

“I’m sorry,” you say, one last time, and you mean it.

There’s a rustling, another thud, and then the camera spins around as if it were thrown.

And then, nothing but static.

Epilogue

The bodies of Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, and their companion were never recovered from the forest near Burkittsville. Most of the things from their campsite were recovered, along with a video camera and film that was handed over to authorities. Contrary to what was found on the tape, there was no physical evidence of foul play anywhere on the property.

Some experts speculate that you had something to do with their disappearances, others believe you met the same fate as your two companions. When authorities went to question your friends and family, they found out that your life was a blank slate before you met Steve on the college campus, and your only living relative was a grandmother who lived in a nursing home not far from Burkittsville.

The police went to question her, but unfortunately, she was in the grips of late-stage Alzheimer's. There were two photos of you in your grandmother’s room: one was from when you were a toddler. In the other, you were maybe 7 or 8 years old, surrounded by trees in a forest, holding up some sort of stick doll made of twigs. If one were to have a closer look, they would spot an odd, isolated cabin amongst the woodland background.

-----

thank you for reading!

reblogs are deeply cherished, and so are your thoughtful words, but please, please try not to share any spoilers in the comments or the Blair Witch will get cha🧡

------

#horror fic #steddie horror #Blair Witch Project au #Season of the Witch #Steddie angst #spooky season #Steve Harringon fic #Eddie Munson fic #steddie x reader #hurt/no comfort #MARMITE FIC #MCD #dead dove do not eat

181 notes · View notes