Chapter 57

since yall are yearning for another chapter…. i feel bad cuz its been like a week 😭im also cutting the chapter off where i am because I’m TOO lazy to right the entirety of that longwinded ass story so itll pick up (hopefully tomorrow) right after they’ve heard the whole speal.

Maggie sits in the Wheeler basement, legs pulled in tight, fingers worrying at the frayed edge of her sleeve. Every footstep is a reminder that normal life is happening just one floor up while hers is quietly unraveling. Two days. Forty-eight hours. A countdown that ticks in her chest every time she breathes.

Her dream from the night before won’t stay put. It keeps leaking through the cracks in her thoughts. The memories resurfaced from her life before feel like they aren’t even hers anymore. Every time she closes her eyes, Vecna is there. It’s like he’s peeling her apart layer by layer, forcing memories back into place whether she wants them or not.

She barely slept after jolting awake, heart pounding, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob. Now she’s running on fumes and adrenaline, which is a terrible co.. art of whatever sick game Vecna’s playing with her.

Dustin glances over at Max, who’s in the corner, hunched over the desk, pen moving fast across paper.

“Any idea what she’s writing?” Dustin asks.

“Maybe she’s writing her will. Seems like a good idea lately,” Maggie tells them.

“Did she sleep?” Dustin asks.

“I mean, would you?” Lucas reasons.

They all glance upstairs as they hear the basement door creak open and feet rush down the stairs.

“Okay so…we have a plan,” Nancy grins as Robin descends to her side.

She hands Maggie a file as the girl quirks a brow, “We made one for you too.”

“Thanks to Nancy’s minions,” Robin starts, “We are now rockstar psychology students at the University of Notre Dame.”

“I’m now Ruth,” Nancy says.

“And I’m Rose,” Robin adds, “And Maggie is now Dorothy.”

Maggie smirks, “Dorothy? I was hoping for something more like Dr. Penelope Winkleton the Third.”

Nancy gives her a knowing look before continuing, “So we called Pennhurst Asylum, told them we wanted to speak with Creel for a thesis we’re writing on paranoid schizophrenics—”

“To which they said no,” Robin cuts in flatly.

“But,” Nancy says, lifting a finger, “we landed a three o’clock with the director.”

Robin exhales, “Now we just have to charm him and convince him to let us talk to Victor.”

“Then maybe we can rid Max of this curse,” Nancy adds, her eyes flicking to the girl hunched over the desk.

“About that…” Steve starts, leaning forward, hands on his hips, “We’ve been doing our Victor Creel homework, and we’ve got questions.”

“Lots of questions,” Lucas adds.

“So do we,” Nancy says, “Hopefully Victor has answers.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Uh. Where’s mine?” Steve asks, gesturing to the folders.

Nancy gives him a tight, polite smile that means absolutely not.

Maggie pats Steve’s shoulder, “I think this is a girl’s-only trip, Stevie.”

His face falls. Maggie follows Nancy upstairs, Steve still arguing behind them, Robin lagging a step back.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m babysitting again,” Steve says as Nancy pushes open her bedroom door.

“They’re not babies anymore,” Maggie counters, arms crossed, “and Max is actually in danger.”

Nancy nods, “She needs people around her.”

“I know that,” Steve says, frustrated, “But why me? I can’t do anything here. Maybe I could help with this asylum director guy. I could, like, turn on my charm.”

Maggie snorts, “Right. The nonexistent charm you haven’t had since high school.”

Steve gasps like she’s stabbed him.

Nancy sighs, already digging through her closet, “Look, I did a little digging last night. Dr. Hatch is a distinguished fellow of the American Psychiatric Association and a Harvard visiting scholar. This guy lives and breathes academia. If we’re going to win him over, we have to convince him we’re exactly like him. True academic scholars.”

“Academic scholar,” Steve repeats, nodding sarcastically, “That’s the vibe you’re getting?”

He gestures at Robin, who’s winding Nancy’s music box and watching it spin with childlike fascination, and Maggie, who’s holding a strand of her hair under her nose like a mustache.

Nancy doesn’t even look up, “No. But they will.”

She steps out of the closet holding two frilly, aggressively pastel outfits.

“Oh, please tell me you’re joking,” Robin groans.

“I second that motion,” Maggie says immediately.

“Nope,” Nancy replies, “These are serious outfits.”

“They look like they belong on a porcelain doll,” Maggie mutters.

“Exactly,” Nancy says, “No one suspects porcelain dolls.”

Steve laughs once, “I’m glad I’m missing this.”

Nancy shoots him a look, “Out.”

Steve holds up his hands and retreats, still muttering something about betrayal as the door shuts behind him.

Nancy turns to Maggie, already all business, “Okay. You’re Dorothy. That means cardigan, blouse, skirt. Hair neat. No sarcasm.”

Maggie squints at her, “You’re asking for the impossible.”

Nancy ignores that and steps closer, tugging the cardigan from Maggie’s hands, “Here. Arms up.”

Maggie complies, stiffly, letting Nancy help her slip it on. It feels like she’s dressing up for a life she might not live long enough to go back to.

Nancy smooths the shoulders, frowns, then reaches up to fix Maggie’s collar with careful fingers.

“You okay?” Nancy asks quietly, the edge gone from her voice.

Maggie swallows, “Ask me in two days.”

Nancy pauses, then nods once, like she understands exactly what that means, but she doesn’t even know the half of it. She steps back, assessing her work.

“You look… believable,” she says.

Maggie glances at herself in the mirror. She looks harmless. Safe. Everything Vecna probably hates.

“Great,” Maggie mutters, “Nothing like lying to a serial killer while dressed like a librarian.”

Nancy meets her eyes in the reflection, “You won’t be alone.”

They head downstairs, dressed up for their adventure, shoes clicking against the hardwood, but Maggie is stopped before she can step out the door.

Max’s voice cuts through the room. When Maggie turns, Max is standing there with her shoulders squared and her jaw set.

“Hey,” Max says, “Wait.”

Maggie freezes, one hand still on the doorframe. She can already feel it in her chest.

Max steps closer and holds something out. An envelope with her name on it.

“What’s this?” Maggie asks, even though she already knows.

“Just… take it,” Max says, eyes flicking briefly to Nancy and Robin before settling back on Maggie, “Please.”

Maggie takes it slowly, “Max.”

“Just in case,” Max says quickly, “If something happens. If I don’t… if I don’t make it.”

“That’s not happening,” Maggie snaps, sharper than she means to, “You’re not doing this. I’m not accepting a goodbye letter from you.”

Max huffs a short laugh, “Figures you’d say that.”

Maggie steps closer, lowering her voice, “I mean it. You’re not dying. I won’t let that happen.”

Max studies her face, searching for cracks. She doesn’t find any.

“Okay,” Max says softly, “But if you’re wrong… then I need you to read it. And if you don’t read it, I’m gonna haunt you.”

Maggie snorts despite herself, “Noted.”

Max hesitates, then pulls Maggie into a quick, tight hug.

“I don’t like this,” Max mutters into her shoulder.

Maggie sighs shakily, cradling the girl’s head, “Neither do I.”

When Max pulls back, her eyes are a little glassy, but her voice is steady.

“Don’t lose it,” she says.

Maggie tucks the letter carefully away.

“You’re getting this back,” she says, “I don’t do ‘just in case.'”

Max gives a small, crooked smile, “Yeah. I figured.”

From the doorway, Nancy clears her throat gently, “We should go.”

Maggie nods, casting one last look at Max. She opens the door, stepping out into the afternoon light.

The drive to Pennhurst is uneventful, mostly quiet due to the fact that Maggie’s mind will not stop racing. Receiving the envelope from Max just made everything a little more real, and the sinking feeling in her gut much deeper than before.

Maggie picks at her nails anxiously as they pass under the arch reading, “Pennhurst Mental Hospital.”

Her pink heels click against the pavement as she takes a step outside. She watches with pure amusement as Robin nearly breaks an ankle trying to move in her shoes.

The girl sighs in irritation, “I can’t breathe in this thing and I’m itchy. I’m itching all over.”

“It’s not all about comfort. Okay? We’re academics,” Nancy tells her.

“Who are evidently coming straight from Easter brunch. Also, this bra that you gave me is really pinching my boobs,” Robin says, exasperated.

“Okay, just let me do the talking,” Nancy interrupts, “If that’s even possible.”

“Geez, grouchy,” Maggie breathes.

They push open the heavy glass doors of Pennhurst Asylum, the chill of conditioned air washing over them. A large clock forebodingly ticks above the reception desk.

A receptionist looks up from her monitor as they approach, her expression neutral and professional. Her fingers pause over the keyboard, ready to type and ready to judge.

“Good afternoon,” Nancy says, forcing her tone to be warm and confident, “We’re here to speak with Dr. Hatch regarding a research project.”

The receptionist tilts her head slightly, scanning them in a quick, calculated sweep.

“Names?” she asks.

After giving their names and the pretext about their academic research, she types briefly into her computer and then rises.

“Dr. Hatch will see you. Please follow me.”

The girls exchange small, tight smiles as they follow her down a long, narrow corridor lined with framed accolades and certificates that gleam under the fluorescent lights. Each step echoes lightly, and Maggie can feel it somehow amplifying the weight of their mission.

They stop outside a heavy wooden door. The receptionist knocks once before pushing it open, gesturing them inside.

Dr. Hatch’s office is surprisingly expansive, a mix of scholarly sophistication and meticulous order. Shelves of books climb to the ceiling, their spines a collection of titles in psychiatry, criminal behavior, and obscure case studies. A polished oak desk dominates the center. Hatch himself rises as they enter, a tall man with a presence that quietly demands attention. Dark-rimmed glasses catch the light, and his sharp eyes sweep over them with curiosity.

“Good afternoon,” Nancy says smoothly, extending her hand. “I’m Ruth, and these are my colleagues.”

Hatch nods curtly, gesturing toward the chairs in front of his desk.

“Please, have a seat,” he invites with a calm and measured voice.

The girls sit, adjusting posture and forcing polite smiles. Maggie can feel the tension coiling in her shoulders.

Hatch glances at the resumes they’ve brought, flipping through the pages with deliberate attention.

“3.9 GPAs. All three of you. Impressive,” he notes.

“And this is a recommendation from Professor Brantley,” Nancy adds, handing over a signed piece of paper.

The man grins, glancing at the page, “Yeah, I know Larry. Quite well, actually. Eh, you know what they say, ‘Those who can’t do, teach.'”

He takes off his glasses as the girls nervously laugh along with him.

“Uh, yes, yes. That’s actually why we’re here,” Nancy says with a calm smile, “I mean, we can only learn so much in the classroom.”

Dr. Hatch hums, “And I’m sympathetic to your struggle, really. But there is a protocol to visiting a patient like Victor. You put in a request and then you undergo a screening process, at which point the board will make a decision.”

The girls faces fall and Nancy struggles with something to say back.

The man continues, “I can see you’re disappointed. But I’m more than happy to give you a tour of our facility. Perhaps you can even speak to patients in our low-security wing.”

“And we’d… we would love that, it’s just that, um…our thesis is due next month,” Nancy tries to recover.

“And you’re out of time,” he cuts in, “Whose fault is that?”

“Ours. Absolutely. I do apologize—” Nancy starts.

Robin interjects, “Don’t apologize, Ruth. screw that. The fact of the matter is, we did put in a request months ago and were denied. And then we reapplied and were denied again. And coming here was our last-ditch effort to save our thesis. And I really, I can’t breathe in this thing.”

Maggie looks at the spectacle with amusement, but Nancy’s head whips to Robin with wide eyes, “Well, Rose, maybe you’d like to step outside and get some air.”

Robin slaps her hands on the chair, standing, “Maybe I should, Ruth. because I’m starting to think this whole thing is a colossal mistake. I’m breaking out in a rash, my boobs hurt. And I’ll tell you the truth, Anthony.”

Maggie giggles to herself as Robin turns to the man at the desk, “May I call you Anthony? These aren’t actually my clothes. I borrowed them because I wanted you to take us seriously. Because nobody takes girls seriously in this field. They just don’t. We don’t look the part or whatever. But can I tell you a story? 1978, I was at summer camp. And my counselor, Drew, told me and everyone in Cabin C the true story of the Victor Creel Massacre. And little Petey McHew, you know, Petey, Dorothy?”

Maggie nods immediately, “Hell yeah I do. I miss that guy.”

Robin continues her rant, “Little Petey McHew started sobbing right there on the spot, full-on hyperventilating. And all the other campers couldn’t sleep for weeks. And I couldn’t sleep either, but now because I was scared. Because I was obsessed with the question, ‘What would drive a human being to commit such imaginable acts?’ Other kids wanted to be astronauts, basketball players, rockstars, but I wanted to be you. I wanted to be you. So, forgive me, if I’ll try anything in my power, including wearing this ridiculous outfit, if I might get the chance to speak with the man that ignited my passion and learn a little more about how his sick, twisted, totally fascinating mind works. So, yes, we don’t have the official paperwork, but don’t tell me that crybaby Petey McHew wouldn’t have gotten an audience with Victor in moments if he’d asked politely, because you and I both know that he would.”

Maggie sits frozen for half a second, genuinely stunned. Before she can stop herself, she brings her hands together and starts clapping. That ends immediately when Nancy flicks her a look.

Maggie’s hands fall back into her lap like they’ve been scolded.

Dr. Hatch watches them in silence, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The pause stretches just long enough to make their stomachs knot. Then he exhales, resigned.

“Fine,” he says at last, “You have ten minutes.”

Then he stands, already turning on his heel, gesturing for them to follow. The moment his back is to them, the girls exchange quick, silent looks and perform the smallest, most restrained high-five in human history. Maggie nearly vibrates with it as they trail after him.

They move through long beige hallways and lights buzz faintly overhead. Their footsteps echo loudly, and Maggie suddenly becomes very aware of how fake her shoes feel on her feet. Hatch pushes open a set of doors, and sunlight spills over them.

“These are our gardens,” he says, spreading a hand outward, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

The grounds stretch wide and green. Patients wander slowly, some alone, some in pairs, some sitting on benches staring at nothing in particular. A few laugh loudly. A few don’t react at all.

“We allow them two hours of outside time a day,” Hatch continues, “Fresh air does wonders.”

Maggie’s gaze drifts as they walk, curiosity tugging her attention in a dozen directions. Then she locks eyes with a grey-haired man shuffling past them. His stare is vacant but curious.

Before common sense can intervene, Maggie throws her hands out dramatically and mouths boo.

The man yelps, startled, flailing before toppling sideways into the grass.

Maggie clamps her mouth shut, biting back a laugh as she keeps walking like nothing happened. She chances a glance back. No one noticed. The man is already being helped up, more confused than upset.

“Can’t they just escape?” Robin asks, genuinely curious.

Hatch shakes his head calmly, “They could. But the vast majority choose to stay. They like it here.”

Maggie doesn’t comment, but something about that sits wrong.

They enter another building. Soft music filters through the space. Patients sit scattered around the room, headphones on, eyes closed, swaying slightly.

“This is our listening room,” Hatch explains, “Music has a profound calming effect on the broken mind. The right song, especially one tied to personal memory, can act as a salient stimulus.”

He pauses and adds, “But there are those beyond cure.”

They descend a narrow staircase, the air growing colder with each step. At the bottom, they stop before a heavy metal door reinforced with locks.

“Dr. Hatch,” Nancy says carefully, “do you think it might be possible for us to speak to Victor alone?”

Hatch turns, eyebrows lifting just slightly, “Alone?”

“I think we’d love the challenge,” Robin jumps in, forcing a smile, “Speaking to Victor without the safety net of an expert like yourself. Really prove ourselves. Rub it in Professor Bradley’s face when we get back to—”

“Professor Bradley?” Hatch interrupts, “I don’t believe I know a Professor Bradley.”

“Brantely,” Maggie blurts, “She meant Brantely.”

Robin turns to Maggie with a puzzled smile, leaning into the act, “Didn’t I say Brantely? What did I say? Sorry. Letters. Words. Guess I’m nervous. I mean excited. Very excited to speak to Victor. Preferably alone?”

The silence that follows is brutal.

Hatch studies them with an unreadable expression. Maggie can feel her pulse in her ears. Nancy’s jaw tightens. Robin’s smile threatens to crack.

Then Hatch smiles softly.

“Yes,” he says, “Why not? You’ve caught me in a rebellious mood. And there’s something urgent I must attend to anyway.”

Relief hits them all at once.

He turns to the guard stationed by the door, “Keep a close eye on them.”

They thank Hatch far too enthusiastically as he disappears back up the stairs. The guard unlocks the door with a heavy clank and motions them through.

As they walk past barred cells, his voice drones with practiced authority.

“Do not startle him. Do not touch him. Do not pass him anything. Maintain five feet distance from the bars at all times. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus.

He taps his baton against the bars as they stop, “Victor. Today’s your lucky day. You’ve got visitors. Real pretty ones.”

Maggie suppresses a gag as the guard’s eyes sweep over them.

Inside the cell, the man doesn’t turn. Fingernails scrape slowly against a metal desk.

“Must be in one of his moods,” the guard mutters, “Have fun.”

“Victor?” Nancy begins steadily, “My name is Nancy Wheeler. And this is—”

“Robin Buckley,” Robin says, her voice betraying just a hint of nerves.

“And Maggie Byers,” Maggie adds, arms crossing defensively.

“We have some questions,” Nancy says.

“I don’t talk to reporters,” Victor snaps, “Hatch knows that.”

“We’re not reporters,” Nancy reassures, stepping closer, “We believe you. And we need your help.”

“Whatever killed your family,” Robin says softly, “we think it’s back.”

Victor turns.

His eyes are ruined, no longer visible and deeply scarred. Maggie forces herself not to flinch.

“This demon you spoke of,” Nancy continues, “we think it’s after our friend. She describes it like a trance. A waking nightmare. Does that sound familiar?”

Only silence follows.

“Victor,” Nancy presses gently, “I know this is hard—”

“You don’t know anything!” he shouts.

“You’re right,” Nancy says calmly, “That’s why we’re here.”

“We need to know how you survived,” Robin says.

Victor laughs bitterly, stepping closer to the bars, “Survived? Is that what this? Did I survive? No, I can assure you, I’m still very much in hell.”

Maggie’s expression hardens as she steps closer, closing the distance until the bars are the only thing between them.

“Victor,” she says quietly, firmly, “what’s happening to our friend isn’t just some story I heard. It’s happening to me too.”

She swallows, but her voice doesn’t waver.

“I know what it’s like to be hunted. To wake up at night with memories you didn’t ask for clawing their way back. To be mocked by nightmares that feel more real than being awake.”

Her fingers curl at her sides, “I know what it’s like to realize your life suddenly has an expiration date.”

She meets the empty stare of his ruined face without flinching.

“So if she’s going to survive this,” Maggie continues, softer, “if I’m going to survive this… then we need you. We need everything you know.”

For a long moment, Victor doesn’t move.

Then he nods ever so slightly, and answers in a tone so low it’s almost a whisper, “Alright…”