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When he’d purchased the guitar, it was more of an image thing. It was cool to have a guitar, people thought it was sexy, and it may get him in more with the alt types. So, yeah, when he had seen it in the pawn shop, weird shape, and crackled colour and all, it had seemed to call to him, sending a strange shiver down his spine - but that wasn’t why he brought it. He had a vision – bring it back to the old Harrington McMansion, hang it on a wall mount behind his desk, so when he posted on TikTok, mouthing along to the latest Drake song and flexing his biceps subtly in a singlet, hotties would write ‘omg, he plays guitar too!’ alongside multiple heart-eye emojis in his comments. Plus, it was like, electric and shit, so if any of his buddies came around and asked him to play it, he would just explain that it wasn’t an acoustic and he didn’t have an amp, saving him from the embarrassment of having to admit he didn’t even really know what a chord was. Bada boom. Great investment opportunity with plentiful gains.
And yeah, it wasn’t really his style. His best friend had laughed when he made the purchase, like ‘that thing is so not you, Dingus, get a Les Paul if you have to get an instrument at all, you have the musical talent of a chimpanzee’ but he had ignored her, nose in air. Tried to wipe memories of getting relegated to the cymbals during band into the back of his mind, whilst his music teacher pityingly told him ‘try giving these a bash, sweetheart’, a fixed smile in her eyes. Said he was trying something ‘edgier’ these days. He had started painting his nails and wearing a little pearl necklace alongside his chain, after all. He had his cartilage pierced. He needed the accoutrements, even if he was going to pair them with his basketball jersey and continue to listen to ‘Rap Caviar’ on loop on Spotify.
The guitar has a weird energy though. Malevolent vibes. The minute he brought it through his bedroom door and placed it on the mount, right next to the little shelf with all the swim trophies, it seems to radiate black rays of evil. He frowns. Decides to pack the feeling away, like he does all of his other unpleasant emotions, and ‘stick it out, champ’, just like his coach and his dad always say.
He can feel it, though, when he does his homework on his MacBook late at night. When he’s taking selfies in the mirror in his undies after swim, impressed with the pump he’s achieved after breaking a personal record in butterfly at practise. When he’s five steps in to his ten-step hair routine and scream-singing SZA over the blast of the Dyson. When he’s messing around on COD with the boys and laughing gruffly because he’s managed to slaughter that fucking asshole Hargrove who had been talking shit to him on the mic the entire time. When he has Lucy G over, and she gives him some rather sloppy motivation to finish that Eccom spreadsheet. When Lucy S comes over and he gives her some motivation for her History final. When Tommy comes by and they smoke a joint together and Tommy keeps being a dick and trying to get him to message girls from school on snapchat to exchange nudes, seems to almost be getting off on the concept, which is fucking weird and gross, dude, the guy has a full-on, serious girlfriend, why is he even friends with him, still? Must be pity, or nostalgia from when they were kids, or whatever, or at least that’s what Robin thinks when she facetimes him for their regular psychoanalysis session at 2am.
He can feel it when he vapes in bed, listening, very embarrassingly, to Clairo, and thinking about his ex, who’s like, so over it and already boo’d up with her stringy, Tim Burton-looking intellectual softboy, while he exhales Melon Crush in one long sigh. When he’s jacking off to Star Wars parody porn on Redtube, under his covers, using Sol De Janiero cream to ease his way because he fucking loves the smell. When his Dad comes in to berate him for forgetting to put the pool cover on, and makes him do a $40 venmo out of his monthly allowance transaction back to him because now he’s going to have to call out the pool guy to clean the filters, and it’s all his lazy, useless sons fault. When his Mom comes to his room in a rare, fun mood because his Dad’s away on business, and asks whether he wants to get drunk on Pink Moscato with her and watch RHONY, the answer being yes, always yes. When Robin comes over and raids his closet, taking two pairs of his Calvins so she can pop them out over the top of her baggy jeans and impress some cheerleader she’s talking to. He can feel it, radiating this intense, phantasmic and impressively wicked energy.
One evening, fed up with the way the sinister mood the guitar carries is now affecting his sleep, he’s considering taking it to Dustin, the kid who he used to babysit who’s like, in his last year at Middle School, and really into this shit. Loves investigating weird things. He decides to take it down from the wall and inspect it closely. He sits on his bed, in his little gym shorts and a baggy Stussy hoodie, feet bare on the plush carpet, and slings the guitar across his lap. Hmm. Nothing weird happening. The energy seems to have stopped. Then, almost as if the urge comes out of nowhere, he strums his fingers across the strings.
It's the first time he’s ever attempted to play it in the three weeks he’s had it. As he already explained, it was never like, for that. It was a prop, at best. But still. He strums it.
He doesn’t expect much, but he does not expect the SCREAM that emanates from guitar. Not a scream of strings, mind you, but a very human, very hoarse, and VERY loud voice.
“FUCKING FINALLY!”
And then –
“JESUS CHRIST, don’t DROP ME, man!”
Steve, now stood, holding the guitar by its neck and frozen in shock and fear, responds.
“What the fuck?”
“I said, be careful, dude. I don’t know what happens if you drop me.”
Steve carefully places the guitar on the bed. Takes a step back, stares at it. Nothing happens. He carefully extends a shaking hand, muttering ‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck’ under his breath the whole time, raking through his impressive mane of hair with the other. As soon as his fingers touch the strings of the guitar, the gravelly voice starts up again.
“Least you could fuckin’ do. I cannot believe you haven’t touched me in WEEKS. Why the fuck would someone buy a guitar and not play it! Like, can you even play?”
“No.” Replies Steve, dumbly.
“The hell, man? Am I just there to like, look pretty and get you laid?”
“Yeah.” Steve doesn’t have it in him to lie. He licks his bone-dry lips. He can’t lie to a – to a fucking –
“Are you like, a sentient, talking guitar?”
The guitar seethes.
“No. What the fuck makes you say that?”
Um. The talking guitar of it all?
“Beauty and the beast?” Steve’s thinking about the gay French candlestick and the horny little dust brush, trapped as household objects for all eternity until their curse is lifted, singing ‘Be Our Guest’ to a bemused Belle.
“I don’t know what that even is.”
“Seriously?” Steve wrinkles his nose. His talking guitar is not like the charming Mrs Potts. He’s kind of an asshole. “It came out like, 30 years ago. It’s a Disney film.”
“Did it come out after the year 1986?”
Steve does a quick google on his phone. He’s not like, a movie genius or anything – that’s Robin’s domain.
“Yeah.”
“Then I was already dead by then.”
Oh, right. Makes sense. His talking guitar is a dead guy. A rude, dead guy.
“And I would never purposefully watch a film made by that fascist, man. Sentimentality and capitalism, truly an opiate for the nation. I’m an anarchist.”
Okay, then. A rude, anarchist dead guy.
“So you’re a ghost?”
“Right you are, buck-o!” Steve did not like the cheery sarcasm of his tone.
“Are you like, trapped in this guitar, then?”
“Ding ding! We have a winner!”
“No need to be a dick, dude.”
“I’m sorry.” The guitar responded, sarcasm still thrumming through its tone. “But if you DIED tragically whilst clutching your guitar, somehow got trapped within it as an immortal soul, bound to this earthly plane and you were then relegated to a boring, dusty pawn shop for almost forty years, until you were finally, mercifully purchased but, to your horror, not bought by an incredibly talented guitarist but instead forced to hang around and watch some sci-fi futuristic pretty-boy, richie-rich jock play utterly uninteresting video games, smoke the worst rolled joints I have ever seen, listen to HORRIBLE music, look at himself shirtless in the mirror and screw a different girl every day like a gigolo for WEEKS and WEEKS then you’d be a little ANTSY too!”
To be honest, that sounded like a pretty good time to Steve, but fair enough. Wait – actually – oh – shit.
“You’ve been watching this WHOLE TIME?”
“Not on purpose! God, I wish I didn’t have to see that joint. That monstrosity was unravelling with every puff. Utterly criminal, and I would know - ”
“So you saw the girls and me – “
“I tried to close my ghostly eyes but it’s harder than you would think when you’re trapped in a guitar and have no form! And I can like, still hear.”
“And when I was um, by myself?”
“Uhhh. Well – the covers – but hey! I didn’t know they were still making new Star Wars movies, that’s cool! I liked the guy with the cross-lightsabre, that was-”
“Weird, dude!”
“It’s not my fault! It’s not like I can go anywhere! Plus, YOU hung me at that vantage!”
“Yeah well I didn’t realise there was a pervy guy trapped in my ugly, pawn shop guitar, now, did I?”
“Who the FUCK are you calling ugly, you idiot? This beautiful baby is a custom WARLOCK! Blackie Lawless played this guitar, you fucking philistine. And she’s a total KNOCKOUT. She was my angel, my sweetheart. We made such sweet, sweet music together. I would kiss her every night, so she knew I loved her.”
“Ew, what?” Steve’s guitar ghost is apparently not only an asshole, but a bit of a perv who watches people fuck and made out with his ugly guitar all the time back when he was alive. And, Steve surmises, a musician of some sort? Who is perhaps trapped within his guitar on earth until someone plays him properly?
“You say that like I didn’t see you kiss that basketball three times before you left last week.”
“Shut up. That was for good luck. I’m on the basketball team, we had a big game.”
“No doy.”
“You got something against sports, too?”
“I have something against hypermasculine conformity and forced exercise of all kinds, prep.”
“Wow, antiquated views much. Who even calls people preps anymore?”
An exasperated pause.
“Guys who died in the 80’s, Steve.”
Steve smiles despite the sarcasm his talking guitar ghost is once again exhibiting.
“So you know my name!”
“Yeah, dude. I’m in your room, remember. It’s all over your little trophies. Plus, the girls…”
“Can’t help it that I’m so good they’re moaning my name, bro. You know how it is. My dad tells me the 80’s was a wild time. It’s kind of gross, actually, wish he wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, right.” Steve’s guitar ghost sounds awkward. “Sure. Yeah, I was a stallion back then, dude.” He does a high-pitched laugh.
“What’s your name, then?”
“It’s Eddie.”
“Eddie.” Steve repeated. “Eddie the ghost. Eddie the guitar ghost. Eddie the pervy, music snob, anarchist guitar ghost.”
Eddie, the pervy, music snob, anarchist guitar ghost laughed. It’s not weird this time. It’s kind of nice, genuine. Actually, Steve notes for the first time, he actually has a pretty good voice altogether. For a ghost. All deep and raspy and manly.
“Ha.” Eddie the ghost says. “Better than Eddie the Freak. That’s what they called me in life.”
“So you were weird in life, then? It’s not just a ghost thing?”
“You best believe it, buck-o.”
Steve cocks his head, thinking.
“Were you old?” Because, like, gross if an elderly ghost has been watching him go about his private business, although, to be honest, Eddie doesn’t sound old.
“Nah, your age. Well actually, no. You’re 18, right? I was 19. Doing my senior year of high school for the second time.”
“What a loser!” Steve guffaws, wondering what age he would be if he was alive. Shit, he’s bad at maths. 55? 50 something? That’s kind of…hmm.
“Hey, shut the fuck up. I had different priorities, jackass. Plus, judging from whatever was on that weird flat screen of yours and from the way that stuck up asshole who I assume is your dad talks to you, your grades aren’t exactly perfect either.”
Steve pouts. He has a point. Still, he’s curious about something.
“Were you hot?”
The guitar, Eddie, splutters.
“What? I don’t – how am I supposed to know that – how do people even – ugh, you’re obsessed with image.”
Steve shrugs. He’s sat on the bed now, legs crossed, with his hand laying on the guitar strings. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock that his guitar contained an actual, human soul that had manifested as a ghostly voice from beyond the grave, he had started to find this kind of enjoyable. It at least broke up the monotony of his normal routine. An unusually funny and mean little ghost, in the most boring small town in all of middle America – who would have thunk it?
“So I’m obsessed with image and I have bad taste?” Steve teases.
“Yep. The shit you listen to – is that really what’s popular these days? I thought A-ha was bad…”
“What would you rather I put on, then?”
“Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, W.A.S.P, Judas Priest, Metallica…”
“Oh!” Steve laughs again. “You’re into those grungy old man bands! Of course.”
“Old man?!?!” Eddie sounds indignant. “OLD MAN?!?” Steve, ignoring the guitar, pulls his iPad off of its wall-mount, clicks into Spotify. Types in ‘Metallica’ and clicks through. Presses play on the first song in their playlist.
“Here ya go, dude. Metallica. Knock yourself out, I guess. I gotta make a call.”
Steve begins to dial Dustin, just stepping away from the guitar as the second verse of ‘Nothing Else Matters’ starts up and Eddie, voice fading as Steve’s fingers leave the strings, cries ‘Hey, what the HELL is this shit?”.
“Steve, let me get this straight – you’ve got a ghost, and he’s living in your guitar? Why do you even have a guitar – you don’t play?! You’ve got the musical talent of a gibbon.”
“Why is this the thing that shocks you.” Steve, sat on the closed toilet seat of the guest bathroom, ran his hands through his hair as Dustin’s voice on speakerphone emanated from the sink. “I said, he’s a ghost! Isn’t that wild?”
“You know I’ve always believed in the presence of the unknown.”
That was true. Dustin was a connoisseur of the paranormal. He wouldn’t shut up about it. He had even made his whole friendship group dress up as the Ghostbusters a couple of years back because he was so into like, ectoplasmic surges and shit. Such a nerd. Steve had no idea how or why they were friends – well he did, Dustin was close with his scary ex’s equally scary little brother, but he tried to ignore that. He just knew that somehow, the dynamic of 18 year old mega-popular homecoming king and 13 year old mega-dork with a bone condition and a thirst for knowledge really worked.
“Well – okay. What can I do about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“We should like, try to get him out of the guitar.”
“Why? He could be evil.”
“He’s not evil.” Snorted Steve. “He’s kind of annoying, but he’s not evil.”
“You don’t know that.” Dustin’s lips were smacking loudly and obnoxiously between words.
“What are you eating, dude?”
“Twizzlers. What’s his name? I’ll do some research.”
“Eddie.”
“Eddie what?”
“Ah shit, I didn’t ask.”
“Wow. Okay, never mind. I’m looking it up now – Eddie, 1986, Hawkins, Indiana, Death. Let’s see what it gets me.”
Dustin was quiet for a moment – in that he stopped talking, not that he stopped chewing. That was still very loud. After a few minutes, Steve scrolling through his Instagram and liking a few pics for posterity all the while, he spoke again.
“Eddie Munson – alumni of Hawkins High. There are a few news articles about him. Okay, interesting. Very interesting.”
“What?”
“He started Hellfire Club! It’s in an old edition of the school newspaper. Oh my god, he’s a legend!”
“What’s Hellfire club?”
“It’s the Dungeons and Dragons club at your school, asshole. I’ve talked to you about how I’m joining it when I start next year several times. And you always say the same thing – “
“That’s social suicide?”
“Exactly.” Dustin hums. “He seemed really awesome. He was in a local metal band that kept going after he died. They had like, two small albums that got a little bit of play on Indiana radio, and then they kind of fizzled out, but that’s cool, I guess.”
“How did he die?”
“Uh, this is the interesting thing.”
“Oh.” Steve sat up straighter. “Is it like – supernatural? Spooky? Was he like, a serial killer? A satanist? Have I accidentally become the final girl in a horror movie?”
“Please. You would never be the final girl. You're the slutty one with the big hair who dies first. And, oh, no. He died because he was playing his electric guitar on the roof of his trailer in Forest Hills during a thunderstorm, and he got struck by lightning.”
“Wow. That is – “
“Awesome, right? He sounds bad ass, Steve. I wanna talk to him.”
“No, I was gonna say it was an incredibly stupid way to die. Like, record book worthy stupidity.” Steve smiled. “No wonder he’s bound to his guitar.”
“Yeah, about that. I have some ideas about getting him out. There are three options we can try. First – we ZAP him with volts, like the thunderstorm. I’d be happy to do that, we’ve got the kit in my garage.” Steve can’t even be bothered to ask WHY he has the kit, just sighs wearily. “Secondly, you said you personally think he is bound to the guitar until he is played by someone who can actually play guitar. I think that is a little fantastical, but we can try it. Jonathan plays guitar.” Steve groaned. Not Jonathan, his ex-girlfriend’s spindly, corpse bride-esque new beau.
“Does it have to be him?”
“Who else do we know.”
Steve grumbled, thinking. He was pretty sure Billy Hargrove, his basketball nemesis, dabbled, or at least postured like a rock star, but absolutely FUCK THAT to spending any time in a room with him, for any reason. One of Robin’s many lesbian friends? No – they played bass. Shit. Looks like mopey old Jon, the unforeseen love rat, would have to do.
“Ugh, fine.”
“Third – an exorcism.”
“Oh, no, dude – that sounds messy.”
“It might be. But like, chill. I know a guy.”
“Okay, you ‘know’ a guy. I swear to God it better not be Mr Clarke. He’s ALWAYS the ‘guy’ you know.”
Mr Clarke just so happened to be the ‘guy Dustin knew’ when Steve had confessed to Dustin about his concern over a suspicious freckle near his ass crack. Luckily, Mr Clarke had been nice about it when Dustin had sent him the unsolicited picture and had assured them both that it didn’t look like anything to worry about – but Steve had almost died from the humiliation.
“It’s not Mr Clarke, but hey, maybe we should call him?”
“NO.”
Three pieces of bad news followed. One being that Dustin’s first notion, the one about zapping the guitar with a high voltage charge to re-enact the thunderstorm, did not work. After bringing the guitar to Dustin’s garage and watching him zap it full of electricity via this rather scary DIY rig that Dustin’s mother 100% is not aware of, Eddie had merely exclaimed ‘Hey, that tickled!’ when Steve touched his strings again. The second piece of bad news was that Dustin and Eddie got on like a house on fire, and that they made a spectacularly irritating pair – like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object and combining to become Steve’s worst nightmare who won’t stop ripping on him and all of his foibles. Like his haircare routine, which Eddie seems to find incomprehensible. The third piece of bad news was that despite Dustin’s numerous efforts, Eddie can only respond to Steve and Steve’s fingers alone, so Steve has to oversee and facilitate all of the annoying-ass conversations between Dustin and Eddie, now bosom buddies. Not that Steve’s bummed about it, or anything.
Which is why he is currently in his pristine BMW, with one hand on the guitar on the front seat, all strapped in because Dustin insisted, the other on the steering wheel, driving to his high school on a fucking Saturday.
“Why are we doing this again?”
“We need a picture of Eddie for the exorcism, and there aren’t any on the internet.”
Steve knows that – he’s tried to look.
“Fine.”
“God, he’s grumpy this morning.” Exclaimed Eddie, the ghostly guitar. “You would think he’d be great, seeing as he slept like a sweet little lamb for like, a solid 10 hours.”
“I was tired.” Muttered Steve. Unbeknownst to Eddie, he’d been lying on his back under the covers with his eyes open all night, pretending to sleep, because for some reason, he was thinking about the fact that only he can make Eddie the Guitar speak by touching the strings, and that Eddie could ‘feel’ the electric currents when Dustin, his already crazy hair on end, zapped him, so does that mean that Eddie can ‘feel’ Steve’s fingers? Is he like, constantly touching him up or something? That would be -
Also, he can’t jack off in bed anymore, and that really helps him nod off.
The two things are not related. God, he hopes they aren’t.
They get to the school, and Steve carries Eddie by the neck of the guitar, whilst he drones on and on about how nothing had changed and how he hated being there so much. From the stories he tells, Steve gathers that Eddie was something of a terror – kind of a hellraiser, a delinquent really. And also, apparently, a drug dealer? Which, despite being oddly sexy, makes him not the best influence for the very impressionable Dustin, who is totally enamoured with him. They finally make their way to the record room and Steve does what Steve does best and uses his not inconsiderable charm to get Mrs Ladle, the weekend secretary, to let them in to look at the archive of old yearbooks. She even overlooks the fact that he’s doing something objectively strange, with an ostentatious, black metal guitar and a middle schooler in tow, which leads Eddie to say that Steve has ‘insane persuasion’ and an ‘off the charts charisma score’ – which Steve doesn’t really get, but Dustin snorts at. They finally find an old yearbook, and flip through it, landing on a photograph of the ‘Hellfire Club’ in middle section, where all the teams and clubs are placed. Steve’s got a whole double page spread in the 2022 edition, all to himself. That’s what you get for being captain and co-captain of two separate sports teams.
“Which one are you?” Steve asks, knowing which one he hopes is Eddie, because no offense to the other guys, they look perfectly nice, but there is a clear stand out.
“Oh, I’m the funny guy with the long hair doing the devil horn thing.”
“So you WERE hot.” Steve grins, feeling vindicated. “There was no need to be all coy about it.”
“What?” Stutters Eddie. “Huh?”
Dustin gives Steve the evil eye, like ‘stop making him all flustered’, because he like, hates seeing Steve flirt with people, although one of these days he really should watch and actually learn something for once. He snaps a picture of the page with his phone. Then he flips to the page that shows Eddie individually, snapping another picture.
Steve pauses, gazing at the image. He’s got long, curly brown hair, huge brown eyes with long lashes, a dimpled smile and broad shoulders. He’s dressed like one of those old men at a biker bar who stink of beer and sadness, but Steve supposes that was the fashion, at the time.
“Oh man.” Says Steve, grinning even wider. “You were VERY cute. Did anyone ever call you Bambi eyes?”
“I – uh – what? No? Uh?”
“Stop it, Steve.” Admonishes Dustin. “God, you know you could get so much further along if you didn’t just think with your junk all the time.”
“I don’t think with my junk!” Exclaimed Steve. “I’m a romantic!”
“What is happening?” Muttered Eddie quietly, almost to himself.
“Sorry Eddie.” Dustin exclaimed. “Steve cannot restrain himself around people he finds attractive. He’s a menace. That’s why I won’t even let him talk to my girl on Facetime, he’d just try to like, steal her or something. Luckily for me, she sees beyond shallow looks and thinks that the mind maketh the man.”
“Okay-“ Responded Steve steamily. “So apparently, I’m such a slut that I am not only going to attempt to seduce your 13-year-old long-distance Mormon girlfriend, but I’m too dumb to be appealing to her. Really painting a nice picture of me in front of Eddie here.”
Dustin rolled his eyes as they exited the room and walked down the hall, Eddie in hand.
“Because you cared soooo much about his impression of you before you knew what he looked like.”
“Shut up! I cared! I’ve been doing my hair every single day to sit on my ass at home talking to a guitar since I found out he could see me, I’ll have you know.”
“Because hair is what matters?”
“You know it is.”
Eddie the guitar ghost is uncharacteristically quiet, although Steve has his hand on his strings, for most of the way home, piping up to bid goodbye to Dustin, then remaining quiet on the drive back to Steve’s place. This was a good thing, actually, because although Steve’s parents haven’t said anything yet, he can tell they think it’s a little odd that he’s suddenly taken to carrying around this big black electric guitar all over the place, and they would definitely find it odder if the thing spoke - he's getting a little tired of having to pretend that he's getting into ventriloquism.
As he places Eddie the guitar ghost back on the wall later, teeth worrying his lip to get the angle right, Eddie finally speaks.
“So – are you like, gay or something?”
Steve thinks he would be wringing his hands, if he had them.
“I’m queer, yeah.”
“Steve!” Eddie hisses, sounding shocked and appalled, and, most horribly, kind. “You don’t have to say that about yourself! Please, I – You – “
“What?” Replies Steve, honestly confused. “It’s the truth. I’m like – I guess you could say I was bisexual, but like, maybe more like pansexual, but then I was like – is that enough, and like, I don’t LOVE labels, y’know. So queer works. But so does gay, too, if you like. I don’t really care, man.”
“Huh?” Says Eddie the guitar ghost.
“Oh.” Steve catches on. “It’s like, totally cool to be gay now, by the way.”
“What.”
“Yeah, nobody cares.”
“But you – with the girls?”
“Well, it just so happened to be a girl-heavy couple of weeks” He doesn’t mention that Bebe Geller, who came over between the two Lucy’s, is a trans girl because hey – baby steps. He doesn’t want to blow poor Eddie’s Gen X mind, and what if he’s like, bigoted or something? “If you must know, I had a date with Adam C lined up for like, the Saturday after I first realised that you were a legit ghostly presence, but I cancelled it because obviously I had other shit going on and I didn’t really think it was cool of me to subject you to more boning.”
“Oh. Okay. Um.”
Steve waits, with his hand on the strings. Hopes he’s not gonna be like ‘go burn in hell!’ or something, but he doubts that he will. Really doesn’t seem the type, as anti-conformity as he is. Plus, to appease him, Steve’s been listening to a lot of old metal recently, and a lot of it doesn’t sound exactly straight. Some of it is downright horny, in a very non-straight way.
“I’m…gay too. Or like, at least I was.”
Called it. But -
“Hey, don’t talk about yourself in the past tense, man.”
“Steve – I’m very much dead.”
Steve shrugs. Eddie doesn’t feel past tense, not really. He tries to be comforting, though.
“Thanks for telling me.”
Eddie the gay guitar ghost chuckles nervously.
“It’s cool. You’re actually the only person I have ever told.”
‘Not even your band?”
“Nah.”
“Or your uncle?” One evening, after Dustin had gone home, Steve and Eddie had discussed remaining family members to see if they could dredge anything up. Sadly, Eddie’s mom had passed when he was a kid, his Dad had passed a decade ago, in and out of prison for years, and his uncle, who he had lived with, had passed only a couple of years ago. He had married, and had moved on out to Oklahoma, living out his days as a sheep farmer until peaceful retirement – news which had made Eddie say ‘hey, good for him’, a wistful smile in his voice.
“Never did get around to it. Think he kind of suspected though, he found a stolen playgirl in my bedroom once and I lied and said I needed it for drawing the male figure accurately, because I was trying to write a comic book to rival Conan The Barbarian.”
“Classic.” Steve snorted.
“Yeah, we didn’t have that new-fangled phone porn, back in the day. Or like, new-fangled phones, for that matter. Hey – if you’re…” He pauses, like he’s wincing. “queer…how come you were watching the Star Wars – “
“I like the cross-lightsabre guy.”
“Ah.”
“Hey, wait, if you’re gay, then why were you complaining about having to watch me hang out in my room shirtless all the time? Hot stud like me, I would enjoy it, personally.”
He jokingly flexed his upper arm, making his bicep pop, all corny.
Eddie coughed, choking on nothing, which eventually transformed into a laugh. A smoky laugh, makes sense, because he keeps on going on and on about missing cigarettes, which is like, kind of gross.
“God, you’re vain.”
Steve winked. He’s not that vain, not really, but he likes to hear Eddie laugh.
"Hey, oh, shit - do you think you're trapped in ghostly form because you never got to get your rocks off with a guy or something?
The guitar remains dead silent. Steve interprets that as a 'shut the fuck up.' He thinks, worrying his lip again. He'd be up for it if that was the case, obviously, but he doubts it is because Eddie's like - well, he's a guitar. How would that even work?
"Do you mean...with you? " Eddie the guitar ghost squeeks.
"Yeah, nevermind, I was being dumb." Steve chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He yawns. Damn, it's late.
“Okay, it's time to hit the hay. Nighty night, Casper.”
“The friendly ghost?”
“Finally, a reference dated enough that you actually get it, old man.”
“I’m 19 years old!”
“But how long have you been 19?” Steve asks in a wavering, serious voice.
“Huh?”
“Okay, that’s a reference you don’t get. I’m sleeping, or at least I’m off to like, apply my lotions and potions that you and Dustin like to make fun of so much, then I’m getting my much-needed beauty sleep.”
“You don’t need it, you're already wayyyy too -" He pauses abruptly. "Stay up and talk more?” He sounds so sweet and hopeful and it kind of hurts Steve’s heart a little.
“Another night. Bye, Eddie.”
Lying in bed, he imagines that Eddie is closing his eyes too, if only to get some rest.
“This is kinda weird.” Jonathan says, standing at his door, looking at a teenaged swim star and minor TikTok idol who just happens to have previously dated his girlfriend, a pre-teen genius who hangs out with his little brother and a lesbian band geek who he sometimes finds hooking up in the school dark room, holding aloft a garish, axe-style guitar that they claim is haunted by a teenaged metalhead from the 80’s. And from the way he’s insisting that Jonathan help them, despite his obvious discomfort, Steve Harrington may be in love with the guitar.
“Yeah, kind of weird.” Robin agrees. “But interesting, right?”
“It’s not that weird.” The guitar says.
Jonathan, who’s always been a touch anaemic, faints.
When he wakes up, pillowed on Steve Harrington’s ample chest (damn, Nancy’s loss), his brother Will has joined the fray.
“This is kind of weird.” Will says, big eyes staring at the guitar at the end of the couch. “Show me?”
“Yeah, okay. Just gotta get your brother up. Hey, you okay, man?” Steve has been rubbing his back, it seems. It felt kind of nice. He’s got big hands.
Steve hefts Jonathan up to a seated position as Robin, who is sat on the floor in front of them, hands him a glass of water.
“Sorry.” He says, feeling a little ashamed, sipping the water and handing it to Dustin, who is watching alongside Will with great consternation.
“It’s cool.” Says Steve, reaching his toned arm behind Jon and placing it on the guitar. It grazes against Jon’s back.
“You’re a bit of a wimp, man.” The guitar says, tetchily, as soon as Steve’s hands reach its strings. He's a talking guitar ghost. And he seems kind of pissed off about something. “I mean, who faints?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Eddie.” Steve scolds. “He was shocked.”
The guitar grumbles.
“Is this the only guy you know who can play guitar? Seriously?”
“Well I don’t love it either.” Steve says. “No offence, Jon, it’s like – a Nancy thing, you know?”
“I know.” He knows. They kind of fucked the guy over, he gets it.
“I’m pretty sure Mr Clarke plays guitar!” Will pipes up, voice bright and helpful.
“NO!” Shouts Steve, almost in Jon’s ear.
“What kind of stuff do you normally play, dude?” The guitar asks. “What music do you like?”
“Um, The Clash? The Smiths? Car Seat Headrest? Black Country, New Road? The Cure?”
“The Smiths? Fuck, Steve, take me to this Mr Clarke guy.”
“I said, no!” Steve grunts. “Just because it’s not your thing, it doesn’t mean he can’t play.” He looks into Jon’s eyes with his big, caramel, puppy dog gaze. “Do you know any Metallica?”
“No, not really?” Jonathan thinks, stroking his chin. “How’s Led Zeppelin?”
“It will suffice.” Conceded the guitar ghost, sounding sulky.
Jon nodded, and shifted, so Steve could hold the guitar, hoisting it onto Jon’s lap, whilst Jon also took hold of it. It was kind of awkward, he had to lean back into Steve’s warm chest and arms to get situated, letting him wrap around him. Again, felt kind of nice, all snuggly and comforting. Jonathan let out a small noise of surprise.
“Easy, bud.” The guitar muttered, vexed.
Luckily, they had an amp in the house, left over from their Mom’s ex-boyfriend Bob, who was cool, hence leaving the amp, but had to bounce to work at some tech company in San Jose. Will helped plug it in, and he and Dustin, stepped back, shivering with anticipation. Steve let go of the neck of the guitar and sat back too. Robin rubbed her hands on her thighs, alight with excitement, not at all worried, unlike Steve, who looked like he may puke.
“Well, go for it!” She cried.
“What song?” Jon asks. Damn, they should have established that before Steve took his hand off of the guitar.
“The one about Lord of The Rings.” Says Steve. “He’s into that shit.”
“Hell yeah.” Adds Dustin. “Play ‘Ramble On’”
And Jonathan begins to play.
As he fingers pluck and dance over the frets, something weird happens. More than weird. Bizarre. It’s like he suddenly recedes, into a bright white, and he’s inside his head, looking out, his consciousness trapped behind a sort of glassy sheen, like a partition. He can’t move. He can’t speak.
Someone else has control of him.
This someone else is a lot better at guitar than him, reaching new heights, adding their own little flourishes. It feels CRAZY. They feel tingly, in his body. Wriggly, fizzing with energy.
The minute they become aware that they’re in control, they immediately stop playing.
“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Jonathan’s voice says. He can see, through his eyes, that they lift his hands up to his face, wriggling his fingers, buzzing. He can feel his face fix into an unfamiliar, roguish grin. Even his voice sounds weird. “Fuck yes!”
Commandeering his body, they immediately swing him around to press him up nice and close to Steve Harrington. His hands, still no longer under his control, reach up to brush Steve’s soft looking cheek, run a finger over his plush lip. So, so gentle, and deliberate. He can feel the thrill that the touch inspires.
“Stevie, I – “ His voice says, wavering and wobbling.
And with a sudden flash of blackness, Jonathan is back.
“Oh.” Says Steve, his big brown eyes looking a little moist. Jonathon, feeling a blush creep up from his neck, slowly and awkwardly removes his hand from Steve’s face. He must use some sort of fancy moisturiser, because his skin is really nice.
“Well.” Dustin says. “That was – that was something.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Says Steve, expression morose, standing up and stalking out of the door, Robin following close behind him.
Dustin grimaces an apologetic smile.
“Hey, sorry you got kind of a little possessed there, Jon. But thank you! That was very helpful!” He picks up the guitar, still on Jon’s lap. “We’ll be in touch!”
As he leaves, Will walks over to sit next to Jon.
“What was it like?” He asks, tentative.
“Weird.” Jon replies.
“This is your guy?” Steve asks, arm extended, as they point at the little girl with the super short hair and the gingham dress, who is smiling at them politely just outside of Chief Hopper’s woodland cabin, her penny loafers and ankle socks crushing the orange leaves underneath them. “She’s a girl.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Steve. God. You are so literal.” Dustin slings his arm around the girl. “El here is a psychic. She’s very talented.”
“Right.” Snorts Steve. “’Cuz that’s a real thing that exists.”
“Ghosts do.” Says Robin, from his side, elbowing him, giving him a furtive smile. “So maybe?”
Steve sighed, deeply and slowly, rubbing at his eyes. Thank goodness he had Robin. She at least kept his spirits up. God, this was taking a toll on him. That and the late nights. He’s been hanging out for hours, holding the neck of the guitar, talking to Eddie, not wanting to sleep because he’ll have to like, stop talking to Eddie, who is funny, and cool, and nice – for a drug-dealing, freewheeling, metalhead ghost from the 80’s. He’s stopped putting the guitar on the wall when he goes to bed, placing it on the pillow next to him at night, wakes up drooling with his nose pressed to its side. He’s not hooking up with anyone at the moment, texts, sexts and DM’s going unanswered. He’s such a fucking sap, and an idiot. Of course, Steve would fall for someone so insanely and unpredictably unobtainable – it’s incredibly him. His Mom had always said that he was an impractical, capricious boy who always wanted what he couldn't have.
Well, Mom. He thinks. You were fucking right. God damn it.
“I’ll get Eddie.” He says, and makes his way to the car, where the guitar is nestled in the front seat.
“Hey Stevie.” His favourite little guitar ghost says as soon as he wraps his hand around the neck roughly. He had asked, during a late-night chat, whether Eddie could feel it when he touched the strings. A little, apparently, but it just felt like being enveloped in warmth, not touched anywhere in particular. It was why he became so excited and tried to touch Steve’s face when he possessed Jonathan. “Are we givin’ it one last go?”
“Yeah.” Steve sighed. “But like, don’t get your hopes up. Dustin’s ‘guy’ is a home-schooled girl with a pixie cut who’s apparently a psychic.”
“Cool.” Retorts Eddie, a false lightness in his voice. “Like ‘Firestarter’?”
“I guess?” Steve responds, having no idea what Eddie is talking about.
“Nah.” Robin adds, rocking up behind them, kicking at the leaves with her chunky combat boots. “She had like, pyrokinesis in ‘Firestarter’. I think El is just a plain ol’ psychic.”
“Sick.”
They bring Eddie the guitar ghost that Steve is kind of a little in love with into the Hopper cabin and Steve, as directed by the shy and vaguely monosyllabic girl, sits in the middle of a little circle of candles, obviously pre-prepared before they arrived with care and attention. Eddie's picture, blown up and printed out in bad quality on white paper, is strewn around the place. He’s holding the guitar in his arms. There is salt in a ring around them, too. Dustin’s face is glowing when he settles on one side of the circle, Robin on the other. He really believes this might work.
Steve doesn’t. He really doesn’t.
He clutches Eddie the guitar ghost close and whispers ‘here goes nothing’ as the girl sits down slowly at the top of the circle, cross legged, and closes her eyes.
The candles all blow out and the room is plunged into blackness. Steve blinks. He’s not in the cabin anymore. He’s in some nowhere world of nothing, space filled with inky black. The floor is wet. Steve’s designer trackpants from Needles are getting like, super soaked. The girl sits opposite him. She smiles, but this time it’s warm, not polite.
“He’s there.” She says – and points to a bright light shining in the distance. “Go get him?”
Steve shuffles to standing, hard to do with soaking clothes, and begins to run.
He runs, and runs, and runs. Good thing he’s fast. Maybe this is what he’s been training for, all this time. All those fucking practices and sports teams and breath work – all for this.
“Eddie!” He shouts. “Eddie! I’m gonna bring you back!”
The white light gets closer and closer and Steve, sweating and huffing with shallow breaths, keeps running. He feels strange, desperate, light, elated. He has tears in his eyes. He starts to laugh.
The white light envelopes him in a nice, bright hug.
When the light dissipates, he’s back in the cabin. It’s dusk, and the candles are flickering, full of fire again. Robin and Dustin are staring at him, jaws hanging open. The girl is smiling, a bit of blood trickling out of her nose, looking quite pleased with herself. He’s holding some naked guy in his arms.
He’s holding a naked guy in his arms.
“Holy shit!” Eddie says, into his shoulder. “Steve!” He throws his arms around Steve’s neck, crawls closer, kisses his cheek. He draws back, stares into his eyes. They’re huge, black and stunningly beautiful. Steve can’t look away. Eddie pats around himself, feeling for something. “Damn.” He says. “I didn’t even get to keep my guitar?” He feels around more. “Or my clothes?”
El lets out a small giggle. Robin reaches over and covers her eyes, then slaps a hand over her own set of peepers, muttering ‘ew’.
“Dude!” Dustin rushes over. He almost hugs them both around the middle, but then seems to remember that Eddie is completely naked, his modesty only maintained by the fact that he’s clinging to Steve, all pressed up to him. His tiny butt is totally out though, and is has a tattoo on it. He's covered in bad tattoos, actually. Of course he is. “You’re here!”
“I’m here.” Says Eddie. He’s not just cute in person, he’s stunning. Steve opens his mouth, and closes it again. “And it’s all thanks to this guy.” He leans his forehead onto Steve's, brow slightly creasing in concern. “Hey, aren’t you happy I’m here? You haven’t said shit, dude. A guy could be insulted.”
Steve opens his mouth again. Tries to say something. Pushes Eddie down instead, right onto the cold hardwood floor of the cabin, candles flying all over the place, clambers over him, preserving his modesty by cloaking his body with his own, and kisses him hard. With a loud moan, Eddie kisses back. Wraps his bare legs around Steve’s shins.
“Dude?!” Dustin leaps back, shaking his head, grinning but grossed out.
El giggles again, both her and Robin peeping through the gaps in Robin’s hand.
Steve pulls back and catches his breath. Eddie’s beautiful, pink face is beneath him. He’s real, he’s alive, and he’s here. In 2023. And all it took was a bit of psychic magic and the sacrifice of an old guitar.
“Yeah, I’m happy.” Steve says.
Later, they walk hand in hand to Steve’s car, Robin and Dustin trailing behind, bidding goodbye to El, who stands in the door of the cabin, her little cardigan flapping in the wind. Eddie’s wearing a pair of pale pink shorts with the word ‘cute!’ across the butt and a t-shirt with a lettuce hem and a little bow on it, Steve's spare basketball jordans on his feet. Chief Hopper’s clothes were an option, but Eddie had staunchly refused. Unsurprisingly, he hates cops.
Steve buckles him into the passenger seat. Almost habitually. Then he kisses him on the lips. That’s new. Eddie beams at him.
They drive.
“I guess I have to get a job or something.” Eddie says. “What do people do for work these days? I didn’t graduate high school or nothin’”
“You could become a social media influencer?” Suggests Robin from the backseat.
“A what?”