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shmorp-mcdurgen · 1 year

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Alternate AU: wellness check

Thatcher Davis gets a call requesting a checkup of the Torres household. He and his friend Ruth Weaver take the call, and discover why it had been abandoned.

TW: character death (both implied and shown), blood, body horror

Notes: this is around 5’000 words long, and is mainly about the origin of this au’s alt Thatcher. Hope you enjoy :)

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October 2nd, 1992. 2:45 AM.

Quiet. That was the only word Thatcher could use to describe the empty police station he sat in. He was at his office, looking over the same files he had been staring at for a full hour, still not getting anything new to pop into his head. It was like he was waiting for the light bulb in his head to flick on, where everything would suddenly and perfectly fall into place. Though he knew that he wouldn’t get anywhere by just staring at the papers until his eyes dried out, he couldn’t help but wonder. He stared at the case number written on the orange folder, “#00432”, pondering to himself. A boy’s death; no body to speak of. As if he simply vanished into thin air—

“You look like death, Davis.”

Thatcher looked up through his messy, dirty blond bangs to see a friendly face standing in front of his desk; Ruth Weaver. She wore the same navy blue police uniform Thatcher had over his body, though her outfit was lacking a black tie unlike her coworker. Her dark brown, curly hair was tied into a low ponytail, and she wore gold hoop earrings, hanging beside her face. Her round eyes were so full of life, as if she hadn’t been sitting in the MCPD for hours deep into the night. She had a sly smile on her face as she placed a cup of coffee in front of Thatcher, holding another in her other hand for herself. “Looking through files again?”

“…Yeah.” Thatcher sighed, grabbing onto the cup and taking a sip of the piping hot coffee. Thatcher’s facial hair was a complete mess, scraggly and unkempt. His thin face was paler than usual, making the dark circles around his eyes even more visible. Ruth had a point; he did look like death.

“You know you just got promoted, right?” Ruth asked. “You don’t have to work on this case anymore.”

“I…I know, I just…” Thatcher said. “It just doesn’t make sense…I need to see it through…you know?”

“Well, that’s your choice.” Ruth said. She looked around the office, noticing the silence from the rest of the building. “…You know…I don’t get why we have to be here while the rest can just…fuck off and go home.”

“…I don’t know.” Thatcher took another sip of coffee.

“They act like they don’t have a job they need to do, too.” Ruth sighed heavily, shifting her weight onto one leg. She glanced towards the lieutenant, seeing the half lidded, exhausted glare he was giving to nothing in particular. “Hey, Thatcher?”

“Hmm?”

“You seem…not all there, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m…just…tired.” Thatcher answered, rubbing his eyes with one of his hands. “I’ve been up for the past couple days.”

“Thatcher…” Ruth had the inflection of a disappointed mother. “…No wonder you look like shit.”

“…Thanks…for that.”

“Why don’t you take a break one of these days?” Ruth suggested. “Get out of the house, maybe go on vacation somewhere!”

“If I could, I would.” Thatcher closed the case file, standing from his desk before walking towards a filing cabinet next to the wall, file in hand. “But you just can’t catch a break around here. Not now…”

Ruth watched as Thatcher put away the file, sighing slightly. “…Okay, you big grump.” She scoffed. “But you do need to take some…you time. Otherwise you’d go insane.”

Thatcher fought of the urge to say he felt like he already was losing his mind, deciding it wasn’t very appropriate considering the…circumstances. There was silence for a moment before it was broken by the sound of the phone ringing, coming from the desk. Thatcher strode towards it, picking it up and holding it to his ear. “This is Lieutenant Thatcher Davis of the MCPD, how may I help you?”

Ruth watched as Thatcher occasionally spoke a few words, gaining a look of concern with every statement. After a short conversation, Thatcher put down the phone, sighing deeply. He brushed past Ruth, walking towards a coat hanger before taking off a police cap and placing it on his head.

“What’s the rush?” Ruth asked.

“It was a call from the Mandela County High School,” Thatcher explained. “One of their students, Cesar Torres, hadn’t been seen in over two weeks.”

“This late at night?” Ruth asked. “Also…Isn’t that the same kind of call we got for—”

“It’s the same reason we investigated the Heathcliff residence, yes,” Thatcher interrupted, slipping on a jacket. “Which is the reason I’m going to perform a wellness check; to see if everything is alright. You want to…tag along?”

“I don’t see why not.” Ruth shrugged. “Beats sitting in here, bored out of my mind.”

“Then get a coat on…” Thatcher said. “It’s supposed to be cold tonight.”

The long road to the Torres household was cloaked in darkness, with the moon barely peeking from behind the layer of clouds above. The leaves of the trees were beginning to die and fall to the ground, preparing for autumn. Normally nights like that would’ve been calming for Thatcher, though something was building within him as he turned into the small gravel lane leading to their destination. It was a sinking feeling in his chest; a feeling of dread. He began to think this visit wasn’t going to be any better than the last.

He pulled into the driveway, the headlights shining on the garage door as he parked. None of the lights were on inside of the home, though it could’ve been seen as typical, knowing how late at night it was. The blue and red lights of the police cruiser flashed, shining on Thatcher and Ruth’s backs as they exited the vehicle and walked towards the front door.

Thatcher knocked on the door hard, hoping to get the attention of anyone inside. “Sheriff’s department, open up!” Thatcher called. Silence was the only response he received, though he couldn’t help but notice the chill that crawled up his spine. He slammed his fist against the door harder, letting out a louder series of knocks than before. “This is the police, open the door!”

The silence felt odd; not the usual stillness of the night. It felt like a forced silence, as if all life was choked out. Everything for miles, snuffed out like a candles flame. Ruth looked behind her, glancing towards the front yard. The grass was dead in some spots, covered by patches of dry leaves. As Ruth stared into the darkness, she couldn’t help but feel like something was watching them. As Thatcher attempted to unlock the door from the outside, Ruth took a few steps off of the porch, looking up above the home, into the dark night sky. She couldn’t help but stare into nothingness, as if she felt a presence from above. When she was little, she used to think Angels watched from the sky, keeping everyone below safe in their attentive gaze. Though something in her gut didn’t think it was a guardian angel’s presence she was sensing.

“Can you help me with this?” Thatcher asked, snapping Ruth out of her thoughts.

“What’s up?” Ruth asked, quickly joining Thatcher’s side.

“The door’s jammed—” Thatcher was interrupted when the door abruptly opened, stumbling forward as he pushed the door out of the way. “Oh…uh…guess not.”

Thatcher walked inside, gazing into the dark living room as Ruth followed close behind. There was a strange feeling in the air, along with a faint, unidentifiable stench. It was chilly inside the home, the air stagnant. The dust was minimal, and everything was in place, clear that it was being lived in recently. Thatcher and Ruth wandered around the home, Thatcher walking into the kitchen and Ruth searching through the living room. She pointed her flashlight at the walls, seeing pictures of the Torres Family, being 18 year old Cesar Torres and his mother. Along with the familial photos, Ruth examined one with a familiar face to the police department; Mark Heathcliff.

Mark and Cesar were dressed in Halloween costumes; Cesar being a skeleton and Mark being dressed as the horror movie character “Jason Voorhees.” They had smiles on their faces, and judging by a messy signature at the bottom, it was taken October 31st, 1991. It was almost…bittersweet seeing the photo, knowing that Mark was listed as missing less than a year later, with Cesar’s location being unknown. “Poor boys…” Ruth muttered to herself, her brows furrowed up. “So young…hope you’re at peace wherever you are.”

As she stared at the photos hung on the wall, the clock neared 3:30 AM, ticking quietly. She felt a strange sensation in her chest, a sinking feeling. Though she was nearly startled out of her shoes when she heard the faint sound of a door opening. She swung around, her flashlight pointing towards the rest of the room. “…Is someone there—?”

“Weaver, I need some help over here!” Thatcher called from the other side of the house. As Ruth jogged through the kitchen and into the back hallway, where Thatcher’s voice originated, she failed to notice that the sliding glass doors leading outside were now wide open, the curtains in front of it swaying in the wind.

When Ruth finally made it to Thatcher, she was bombarded by horrid smells and sounds. Flies were beginning to make the bedroom they stood in front of their home, all congregating next to something hanging on the wall. Thatcher pointed his light at the figure, causing both of the officer’s to feel their hearts drop when they saw what it was.

It was the half-decomposed body of an adult woman, hung on the wall by her hands as dark blood stained the wall and floor below her. It smelled of death, strong enough to make Ruth feel as if she was about to vomit. It was beginning to be hard to tell, but it was recognizable as the mother of Cesar Torres. Ruth just wondered what she did to deserve such a fate. “Shit…do we have someone to take care of this?” Ruth asked quietly, following Thatcher into the room.

“No…no, we don’t, Weaver.” Thatcher responded with a hint of frustration. “No one is here…remember?”

“We need to report this…” Ruth trailed off when she heard footsteps from the other room.

Thatcher approached the body, examining it as Ruth slowly and silently walked out of the room, pulling out her pistol as she moved down the hallway. Her flashlight and firearm were pointed in front of her, prepared for whomever, or whatever was making noise. She walked past one of the rooms, glancing inside to see nothing but darkness, though she felt the wind from the open glass doors leading outside. She turned around, looking back towards the bedroom Thatcher was in, preparing to call out to him. However, she was interrupted when she felt thin tendrils wrap around her neck and cover her mouth, jerking her into the room.

Thatcher sighed deeply, turning on the small radio pinned to his shirt before talking into it. “This is Lieutenant Thatcher Davis of the MCPD; I’m requesting backup from available Mandela units.” He waited for a response, but was only greeted by faint, indistinguishable voices coming from the radio. “I am requesting backup, do you copy?” He furrowed his brows, trying to figure out why his radio was busted, before he noticed that Ruth wasn’t in the room with him. “…Weaver?” Thatcher asked, shutting off his radio as he felt a familiar sense of dread growing within him. “…Ruth?”

Thatcher quickly left the room, looking down the hallway, disheartened by the fact that no one was there. “…Oh god, Ruth, can you hear me?” Thatcher yelled, trying to cover the panic he felt was overtaking him. He cautiously inched down the hall, his hand pressed against the pistol on his hip. He could hear faint hums from the living room, along with the sound of uneven footsteps.

He walked through the kitchen, looking through the archway leading into the living room. His flashlight shone into the room, and almost on cue, the noises abruptly ceased. Thatcher paused as well, listening close to see if the noises would continue. “…Ruth?”

Soft footsteps grew louder, nearing the archway where the light was pointed. Thatcher backed away a step, his intense stare fixed on the opening as silence fell. Thatcher swallowed hard, taking two steps forward as he pulled his gun out of its holster, pointing his light towards the ground as he did it. When he pointed both the gun and the light towards the opening, he felt his heart sink. One wide, unblinking eye was staring at him from the doorway, the other half of the face concealed by the wall. As soon as the light hit it, the figure ducked away, letting out a few muffled hums.

Thatcher’s breath hitched, his body flinching as he backed up, hearing the footsteps return into the darkness. Despite the growing discomfort in his gut, Thatcher stormed into the living room, swinging his light and gun to the right, freezing when his light hit something. It was the back of Ruth, hunched over and leaning next to the wall. She was breathing deeply, freezing when the light hit her, as if she just turned into stone.

“Ruth…are…are you alright?” Thatcher questioned, lowering his gun slightly, though he couldn’t make himself return it to its holster.

Another hum was let out as she stood up straight, twitching as she lowered her arms to her sides. Thatcher glanced down at her arms, his eyes landing on her hands before they stopped. At the ends of Ruth’s forearms weren’t hands at all; they were thin, long, blackened nerves, vaguely shaped like human hands. They twitched, swaying slightly like a spider’s web in the wind. Thatcher quickly looked back up at Ruth’s face as she turned around, seeing that she was staring directly at him, her wide, heavily dilated pupils fixed on his fearful expression. Her right eye was slightly lower than the other, and her mouth was completely missing, being only smooth skin over where her lips would’ve been. As she let out a high-pitched, suppressed scream, Thatcher quickly realized that the thing staring back at him was not Ruth.

Thatcher bolted towards the front door, rushing past “Ruth” before she began to chase after him. His thin legs carried him all the way to the door, his shoulder slamming against it. Despite the force, the door was jammed shut, no matter how much Thatcher fumbled with the door handle. He swung around, immediately greeted by the alternate, who held out her “hands” towards him. She wrapped the nerves around Thatcher’s neck, flinching as they tightened around her victim’s neck as she slammed his back against the door. Thatcher kicked at her, his hands clasped on the alternate’s arms as he stared deep into her vaguely familiar round eyes. Thatcher could see her flinch and twitch, letting out pained hums as her nerves made contact with his skin. Strangling Thatcher seemed to be actively hurting her, her “hands” seeming sensitive enough to make the slightest pressure painful. Thatcher felt a light bulb go off in his head, and despite the idea making Thatcher want to gag, he had no other option.

He bit down hard on the nerves, hearing a muted scream emit from the false Ruth. She jerked her arms away, ripping the nerves away from Thatcher as she stared at them in horror. Thatcher slammed his foot against her chest, forcing her to slam against the ground as he fled. He sprinted back into the living room, grabbing onto the small end table sitting next to the couch. He lifted it above his head, yelling as he ran towards the window and hurled it through the glass.

Shards of glass exploded into the front yard as the table careened through it, landing on the dead grass as Thatcher vaulted through the window frame. He glanced back only once, hearing Ruth inside the house as he made his way to the cruiser, the red and blue flashing lights hitting his face. He stumbled over the driveway, nearly losing his footing before he grabbed onto the car door’s handle.

He glanced over the car’s roof, watching as Ruth’s alternate climbed through the shattered window, her wide eyes fixed on Thatcher. Thatcher swung the door open, slamming it shut just in time to see Ruth slam against the passenger side window. She slammed her arms against the window as Thatcher started the engine, every single hit adding more cracks in the glass. Thatcher shifted into reverse and slammed his foot on the gas, speeding out of the driveway. Ruth lost her balance when the car left, falling to the pavement as Thatcher made his getaway. She looked up, watching as the lieutenant disappeared into the night, the red and blue lights fading into the darkness.

She scrambled to her feet, standing with her legs cocked to the side as she trembled slightly. Her nerves were screaming out in agony from the bite wound, only being more stimulated by the cold wind. She stumbled forward slightly, her instincts telling her to chase after the car. However, as she walked to the edge of the driveway, she felt the wind cease and everything go completely silent. She stopped, slowly turning back towards the house before looking up. Her dilated eyes fixated on what was hovering above the house; the figure in the darkness observing from above.

Thatcher’s breathing was harsh as he sped down the road, feeling the cool air sting his nostrils. Faint music played over the radio, nearly covering up the rapid muttering from under his breath as he tried to hold back the urge to cry. “You fucking idiot, you absolute fucking moron—” He whispered to himself. “How will she get back; you took the fucking car.” He took in a deep, though shaky breath, rubbing his eyes with one of his trembling hands. “Fuck…FUCK!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel in an act of frustration.

As Thatcher passed underneath one of the sparse streetlights on the sides of the road, he noticed that the voices on the radio began to slow down before devolving into nothing but static. He glanced at the radio, barely able to see it clearly through the tears in his eyes. The red and blue lights on the top of his car flickered, along with the headlights before shutting off completely.

“What the fuck?” Thatcher tried to turn the headlights back on, but was interrupted by the radio going silent. The car slowed down, rolling to a stop as everything went silent. Thatcher turned the keys in the ignition, but the engine failed to start, not even letting out a single sputter. “…Shit.” Thatcher sighed, leaning back in his seat. He pressed his hands against his face as he groaned in frustration. Just his luck; his car breaks down the second he reaches the edge of town. The police station was nearly two miles away, so Thatcher supposed he better start walking.

He looked through the windshield, seeing the warm lights emitting from the streetlights. However, they seemed to be flickering more than usual, plunging the road in darkness for seconds at a time. Thatcher’s brows furrowed as he tried to ignore the increasing dread he felt in his stomach. He slowly unbuckled his seat belt before opening the car door, feeling a wave of anxiety hit him like a strong gust of wind going up his spine. He felt vulnerable; feeling like he was in the presence of an unseen horror. It reminded him of a similar feeling he experienced when he investigated the Heathcliff household, though he couldn’t help but notice that it was much stronger than he remembered.

He began to walk into town before he stopped suddenly, hearing the wind cease. He glanced around the street, listening to the eerie silence that fell around him. He stood still as a few of the streetlights shut off abruptly, drowning the area in darkness. He looked towards the town, feeling a presence behind him before he finally heard the voice.

“You.”

It was a voice of pure hatred, partially cloaked by what sounded like hundreds of different voices speaking in unison. Thatcher turned around, his hand placed on his gun’s handle as he looked up above his police cruiser, seeing the figure above him. He may have looked different, but Thatcher recognized the young man, someone who he thought he’d never see again; Mark Heathcliff.

Mark’s pale grey sweatshirt was stained with a large blood splatter on his left shoulder, along with small stains from the blood seeping down from his head. His desaturated pink sweatpants were caked with grime, along with his socks. His face was nearly completely shattered, the right side of it cracked and broken like porcelain, leading to a black void with only his lower jaw and teeth left. His one working eye was fixed on Thatcher, full of hatred as his messy, unevenly cut chestnut hair swayed in an unfelt wind. A golden cross hung from his neck, hovering in front of his chest as if it was weightless.

Thatcher stumbled backwards a few steps, his wide eyes refusing to look away from Mark’s eerily still form. Any words he wanted to say were caught in his throat, and his mind was blank. He felt like his very soul was being judged by a malicious entity, pondering whether to spare him or end his life in an instant. After a few moments of unbearable silence, Thatcher finally found his voice, though not without difficulty. “…Who are you?” Thatcher questioned, concealing his fear through a fake sense of bravery. “…Really?”

“You…you left me to die…” Mark growled, his jaw moving with every word despite the lack of a mouth. “You didn’t answer my cries.”

“…What are you talking about…?” Thatcher muttered.

“DON’T ACT STUPID!” Mark shouted loudly, his other voices booming in a discordant fashion, causing Thatcher to stumble back with his hands clasped over his ears. “YOU NEVER FUCKING CARED; YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A FUCKING COWARD!”

“I…I never did anything!” Thatcher shouted back, staring at the ground, his hands still pressed against his head.

“You…how many…have you left to die, just because you were too scared?” Mark questioned. “I’m DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!”

“I…I’m…” Thatcher could feel Mark’s words burning in his mind, unable to think straight as he stared at the pavement.

“And…now…you leave your own friend behind.”

Thatcher slowly looked up, his tear filled eyes staring at Mark as he felt his heart drop.

“She cared about you…and you LEAVE.” Mark continued. “YOU LEAVE HER TO DIE, JUST LIKE YOU DID TO ME!”

“I…I…” Thatcher wanted to snap at him; yell about how he was wrong, but he knew he wasn’t. He did leave Ruth behind, all because he was scared. He didn’t even check to see if she was still alive before leaving her behind with the monster that looked like her. It was his fault. It was always his fault. “What…WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”

“I want you…to know how awful you are…” Mark stated. “She was the only one who genuinely cared…but now she’s dead, ALL BECAUSE OF YOU.”

Thatcher felt frozen, silent tears running down his pale face as Mark continued. “You’re nothing…nothing but a pathetic, cowardly, DIRTY FUCKING ANIMAL!” Mark screeched, his voices piercing straight through Thatcher’s skull. Thatcher couldn’t take it anymore, stumbling backwards before falling to his knees. He clasped onto his head, feeling a pressure building in his skull as he cried.

Thatcher hunched over, feeling his headache slowly become unbearable. A wave of pain hit him at once, causing him to press his arms against his torso in an attempt to relieve the increasing discomfort within him. He felt physically ill, with no visible reason why, and it felt as if his insides were crawling within him.

Mark observed from a distance as Thatcher shakily pushed himself to his feet, groaning slightly with a grimace on his face. “You…you f-fucking…bitch.” He exhaled. His trembling hand reached towards his pistol, glaring at Mark with eyes full of fury. However, a sharp pain hit his hands as soon as his fingers touched the holster, forcing him to jerk it away. It was as if he was stabbed in both of his hands with a large knife, along with an almost burning sensation and a building pressure. He yelled, grabbing onto his wrist with the opposite hand, unable to stop them from shaking and twitching. He could hear the bones shifting, cracking as the palm of his hand elongated. His hands became thin and bony, making his veins and bones eerily visible. He yelled, staring at his shaking hands with horror.

He had no clue what was happening to him, but despite the increasing agony he felt coursing through his veins, he shakily pulled his pistol out of its holster with his newly deformed hands. He swung it up, shooting one bullet at Mark. Despite Thatcher wishing to hit the head, the bullet hit his shoulder, shattering the skin like glass and leaving behind a large hole, oozing blood. Mark let out a loud scream, and an invisible force pushed Thatcher back, throwing him a few feet down the road and making him drop his weapon to the ground.

Thatcher slammed against the asphalt, letting out a loud yell from the impact. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilating enough to cover his green irises with pure black. He felt something warm run down from his nose, and when he rubbed it with his sleeve, it left a streak of crimson behind. He could taste iron, and his jaw was clenched hard enough to make Thatcher worry he’d break his teeth. Blood was running out of the corners of his mouth, and even when he spat it out onto the pavement below him, his mouth only seemed to bleed more.

Mark stared at Thatcher with curiosity, hovering behind him as he forced himself to stand. Thatcher was trembling violently, jerking his head around as his crazed eyes stared at the ground. He wrapped his arms around himself, giving him the slightest reminder of a warm embrace. He took one last look at Mark, falling to his knees as his legs gave out underneath him.

He felt as if he was losing his god damn mind, all logical actions he could possibly take escaping him. He wanted to rip Mark apart with his bare hands like a wild animal, not caring anymore about the consequences. His body became thin, his spine and ribs visible through his skin, though Thatcher couldn’t see it through his uniform. With shifting tendons and bones, he was becoming something else, and despite his resistance, he couldn’t stop it.

Thatcher felt his jaws move, extending and forcing his teeth out of his mouth. He felt new teeth in his mouth, and they elongated and became jagged and crooked. Thatcher covered his mouth with one of his hands, shutting his eyes tight as he felt the other features of his face shift. His nose moved up on his face as his jaws extended from his face, and his eyes moved to the sides of his face. His screams became increasingly distorted, sounding as if they were being broadcasted through a broken police radio. He called for anyone to help him, even the one he left behind and betrayed. He wanted her help more than anything else, even though he knew he’d never receive it. It was too late for that.

It felt as if his skin was being pulled over an animal’s skull, bloody gums and teeth making a new “snout”. His eyes were bloodshot, tears streaming down his thin cheeks. His hair stuck to his face, partially covering up his new grotesque visage. He coughed up blood, snorting and twitching like a rabid animal. His long teeth clicked as he let out quiet, discordant grunts and groans. He hesitantly held up his hands, pressing them against his new face as if he was trying to conceal himself. His mind was too scrambled to be able to process his new appearance, though he was aware that he was no longer close to being human.

Mark hesitantly approached him, hovering in front of Thatcher as he looked down at him. Mark appeared…perturbed, his one eye giving a look of pensiveness. However, he couldn’t help but be curious on what he did exactly. He didn’t even mean to do anything other than kill Thatcher, tearing him apart from the inside out. However, he managed to do something even better. A fate worse than death, perhaps.

Thatcher’s wide eyes looked forward, seeing Mark’s feet from his limited view, which was partially blocked by his hands and his messy hair. “Y-You…” Thatcher growled, his voice accompanied with static and distorted radio frequencies. “What…what did you do…? What did you do to me?”

Mark didn’t answer, instead continuing to gaze at the new form Thatcher had been forced to take. He didn’t exactly have an answer either way, though it seemed like the lack of an answer gave a worse reaction than whatever Mark could come up with. Thatcher sprung to his feet, startling Mark as he began to let out nearly deafening, animalistic screams. He sprinted towards Mark, who out of surprise, held out his hands, making an invisible force fling Thatcher back. Thatcher slammed against the hood of his car, letting out a loud yell when he impacted with it.

He rolled onto the ground from the now dented hood, rolling into a ball on the ground as he held his hands over his face. He began to sob, blood, tears, and saliva streaming down from his face. Mark observed from a distance, taking one glance at his hands before disappearing into the dark sky. Thatcher remained on the ground, muttering rapidly to himself. “Ruth I’m sorry…” He cried. “I’m so, so sorry…”

As he laid on the cold street, he began to feel a different feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t pain like he expected, but it almost seemed to consume his thoughts more than the agony he was in. He gripped his stomach, curling up even further as he finally identified the feeling. It was hunger; he needed to eat.

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