You should have known something was wrong the moment Eddie Munson didn’t answer the door.

You knocked once, then again, waiting a few seconds in between, already half-smiling because his uncle’s truck wasn’t outside and Eddie had promised he’d be home. When there was still no answer, you tried the handle out of habit, unsurprised when it turned easily in your hand. Of course it was unlocked. Eddie had never been particularly concerned with self-preservation.

The trailer was quiet in the way it usually was when Wayne was at work, the air faintly smelling of cigarettes and old vinyl. You stepped inside, calling Eddie’s name just loudly enough to announce yourself, but he didn’t respond. Instead, you heard music — not from a radio or a tape deck, but live. Fast, sharp guitar riffs spilling down the narrow hallway, followed by a strange, metallic clang that made you stop short.

At first, you thought you’d imagined it but then it happened again.

You frowned, moving further into the trailer, the sound growing louder and more chaotic with every step until you reached Eddie’s bedroom door. The guitar was unmistakable now, aggressive and enthusiastic, and the clang — rhythmic, intentional — made absolutely no sense.

You pushed the door open and there he was. Eddie Munson stood barefoot on his bed, completely absorbed in what could only be described as the most unhinged musical experiment you had ever witnessed. A metal pan was strapped securely to his head like some kind of makeshift helmet, and taped to the blades of the ceiling fan were several spoons, each one positioned just right so that every rotation of the fan brought them crashing into the pan with a perfectly timed clang that matched the beat of the song he was playing.

The fan spun. The spoons hit.The pan rang out. Eddie played on, headbanging with reckless enthusiasm, laughing to himself as if this were the most natural thing in the world. His fingers flew across the strings, his whole body moving with the music, utterly committed to the madness of it all.

You stood frozen in the doorway, staring. Then, mid-riff, Eddie turned — and finally noticed you. The fan struck the pan again with a loud clang and he froze.

Slowly, carefully, Eddie looked at you, blinking once as if trying to determine whether you were real or a hallucination brought on by creative exhaustion.

“…Oh,” he said.

The fan continued to spin.

Clang. Clang.

A grin spread across his face, entirely unashamed.

“Okay,” Eddie said, breathless, guitar still slung over his shoulder, pan still firmly secured to his head, “before you say anything, I just want you to know this was either going to be a stroke of pure genius… or a very embarrassing trip to the emergency room.”

He stepped off the bed with exaggerated care, not bothering to turn the fan off, clearly trusting fate at this point.

“So,” he added, eyes flicking to you with unmistakable amusement, “how long have you been standing there?”