Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It starts like any other day. Well, perhaps not any other day, considering Max is still down for the count with no signs of waking up. But nevertheless, it doesn't feel like anything special or different, at first.

Until it does.

The smell of burnt toast and coffee hangs heavy in the air. Mike Wheeler wakes with a jolt, bleary-eyed and disoriented, any memories of his nightmares immediately chased away. His alarm clock shrieks loudly, providing nothing but a rude wake-up call. He scrambles to silence it, fingers clumsy this early. He misses a few times, lets out a curse, and then, finally, there's blissful quiet.

As usual, he almost faceplants on the floor next to his bed in his haste. His one saving grace is the fact that Will doesn't seem to be here to tease him for it.

Last night, he must've forgotten to turn off their usual morning alarm despite it being the weekend. Technically, he’s able to sleep in. He never does, these days.

With a loud groan, Mike heaves himself out of bed. His room is a chaotic shrine to his interests: Dungeons & Dragons manuals, modules and notebooks stacked haphazardly on his desk, Will's artwork of his favorite movies and D&D characters decorating the walls, and scattered maps of Hawkins with circled locations and cryptic notes littering every surface.

He warily approaches the window, pulling aside the curtains. Sunlight struggles to break through the unnatural cloud cover outside, casting the room in the same ominous, gray light as the days before. No changes, then. Not that he expected any.

A floor below, someone bustles about, anxious energy practically vibrating through the floorboards. If Mike had to guess, he'd probably say it's Mrs. Byers pacing around yet again. Downstairs, the television plays the morning news, and there’s indistinct chatter, mostly from Dustin and Lucas, who seem to have arrived early.

Will must've gotten up before him. Mike eyes the empty makeshift bed beside his own with a feeling he refuses to call disappointment. His best friend's presence has definitely been something to adjust to, because while they've had sleepovers, they haven't exactly been three weeks long before.

But it's easy now, having Will around all the time. It's like they're back to how they used to be. Before California. Before… everything.

Well. Almost.

The grandfather clock downstairs strikes to mark the hour, forever lagging behind the others. It snaps Mike back to the present. He shivers for a moment, reminded of what Nancy described when Vecna temporarily had her in his grip. The chaos. The death.

Mike grits his teeth, willing his dark thoughts away. Don't think about the damn clock. Or the nightmares.

Right.

It’s high time to face the day and prepare for whatever fresh hell Hawkins has in store today. To that end, he carelessly throws on yesterday's pair of jeans and a worn-out The Clash T-shirt before running downstairs.

The kitchen is caught in a low level of chaos.

Karen Wheeler stands at the stove, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand and a distracted look in her eyes. Ted sits at the table behind his newspaper, occasionally grunting at something he reads. Holly is already dressed for the day, happily coloring at the table with her crayons.

There's no sign of Nancy. After the Post announced their new leadership, she'd started working for them again. Their parents had insisted that she use her time ‘usefully’ now that she’s almost graduated, and there hadn't exactly been many alternatives, considering… everything. She's been up at hours no sane person should be awake for to do her ‘work things’ multiple times a week. Lord knows what she actually does for them, she doesn't exactly talk to Mike. Despite their promise to each other years ago.

But in any case, she's not around.

And then, there's the Byers contingent. As expected, Joyce is pacing near the phone, her hand hovering over it as if willing it to ring with news from Hopper and Murray. Jonathan is leaning against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee and looking like he hasn't slept in days, hair a disheveled mop.

Will sits quietly at the end of the table, picking at a piece of toast. He looks pale, withdrawn. Dustin and Lucas are already seated opposite him, arguing while passing a box of Frosted Flakes between them like a practiced ritual. Which it is, really, after years of friendship. They've been over every chance they could get since the Byers got back.

"Look, all I'm saying is that we might be able to make contact with Max if we can modify a standard CB radio and have Will try to help us pick up Upside Down frequencies—" Dustin says around a mouthful of cereal.

"—then we'll also be broadcasting our location to every Demodog within five miles," Lucas finishes, his tone practical. "It's a bad plan."

"But if Vecna’s tapping into Max's mind, then he'll already have a pretty good idea of where we might be!" Dustin exclaims.

Lucas winces, the mention of the girl he loves clearly striking a nerve. He's been more sensitive than usual, though that's no surprise to anyone who knows the truth of Max's situation. "We still shouldn't draw unnecessary attention to ourselves right now! Especially not without backup. El says she's not ready!"

“Son of a—” Dustin starts to exclaim. He cuts himself off after a pointed look from Mike’s dad, complete with a sternly raised eyebrow; Ted's already barely tolerating this ‘herd of teenagers’ who keep disturbing his peace, so they’ve been trying not to curse in front of him. As a compromise.

It's mostly working.

Dustin sighs, suddenly looking very small and withdrawn, a shadow of the grief he's been struggling with crossing his face. “I just want to do something, Lucas. Not doing anything is making me antsy.”

“I'm with you, man,” says Lucas, staring into the depths of his coffee cup.

The air is thick with unspoken anxiety. The TV in the living room drones on about "unusual atmospheric disturbances" and "ongoing federal investigations”, which everyone who is aware of the Upside Down knows is code for the town is literally torn open and monsters might crawl out at any second. But no big deal, right?

Mike turns his attention to his best friend, who doesn’t appear to be listening to the others at all. Will's eyes are unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular, but Mike can see the subtle tension in his shoulders. He seems to sense Mike's eyes on him before they even share any words; he lifts his head slightly and offers a small, tired smile.

"Morning," he says softly, eyes lighting up momentarily when he sees the T-shirt Mike is wearing. And, well, Will's half the reason Mike even owns a The Clash shirt. Or maybe more than half, actually.

Joyce whirls around as Mike makes his way to the table. "Oh good, Mike's finally up! Sweetie, do you want pancakes? There's syrup." She gestures frantically at the table.

With a soft smile, Mike says "Morning, Will," accidentally ignoring everyone else in his uncaffeinated stupor. He leans across his best friend to pull a pancake onto his plate with a fork.

His focus on Will doesn't go unnoticed. Karen gives him a slightly concerned look before turning back to the stove. Ted rustles his paper, briefly making eye contact. Dustin and Lucas pause their continued arguing to watch Mike for a moment, a silent understanding appearing to pass between them as Lucas raises his eyebrows pointedly.

Flushing, Mike hastily says a quick good morning to the rest of them, receiving some mumbled, tired-sounding replies.

Will's smile becomes a little more genuine as Mike takes a seat next to him. "You were tossing and turning a lot. Did you sleep all right?" he asks quietly, pushing the butter dish towards Mike. Mike smiles, because Will always remembers that Mike’s not a syrup kind of guy. Not anymore. Not since they were like twelve.

"I had a rough night," Mike says softly. "You?"

Will replies in a whisper that seems to be meant only for Mike. "Not great. Bad dreams.”

Mike makes a small noise of sympathy. He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can get a proper reply out, Dustin cuts in, leaning across the table.

"Okay, so new plan that isn't technically a radio beacon for interdimensional predators," he announces, his voice full of its usual manic energy. "We need to scout the perimeter of the Creel House. Erica said the vines have basically overtaken the whole place. If Vecna's using it as some kind of... psychic lighthouse or surveillance point, we need to know."

Something isn’t quite right, but Mike can’t quite put his finger on it, his thoughts still hazy from sleep. Whatever it is, his mother looks equally confused.

Lucas sighs. "We also need to check on Max today. See if the music works to wake her, like it did when Vecna had her in his trance. She's gotta be in there somewhere…" He trails off, his expression grim.

Joyce stops pacing abruptly, moving away from the phone she's been watching like a hawk. "Wait. Hold on. Back up a bit. You guys are not going near that house without an adult," she says firmly, her voice cracking with stress. "Hopper and Murray will be back soon with information. We wait for them."

Jonathan finally speaks up, his voice low and tired. "Mom's right. It's not safe."

Mike sips the coffee he began drinking out of spite after Nancy claimed he would never like it—and it’s like the caffeine hits him all at once. Instantly, he realizes they’re literally talking about the Upside Down in front of his parents, who are right there, and nobody is being careful right now. How none of the others seem to have noticed is beyond him. Clearly, they’re all under-caffeinated and running on too little sleep. It’s like they want to give it away.

And Mike's mother does look concerned. Sometimes he thinks it’d be easier if he just told them the truth. He’d argued that not telling them would come back to bite them in the ass, but the Party had ultimately decided it was better to keep protecting their parents from these horrors. At least for now.

Mike shoots Will a final look he refuses to give meaning to before turning his full attention to the group, his voice taking on a deliberate, slightly-too-loud ‘campaign planning’ tone.

"Mrs. Byers is right, guys. We need information. For the D&D campaign," he says, gesturing subtly with his eyes towards his parents.

The tension in the room is immediately palpable.

Dustin catches on instantly, eyes widening. "Oh! Right! The, uh... the lighthouse in the Shadowfell," he says, nodding sagely. "Very important for the next module. Can't have the lich-king Vecna getting too powerful."

Lucas rolls his eyes but plays along. "Yeah. And we should definitely figure out how to help our... fellow party member who got hit with a Feeblemind spell."

He shoots Mike an apologetic look, then downs his coffee in one big gulp. He instantly looks less drowsy. “Max’s character,” he clarifies for Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, when they continue looking confused. “Not doing well.”

“But I thought Max doesn't play D&D?” Holly pipes up, a puzzled scrunch to her brow.

“Oh, she does!” Dustin quickly says, nodding frantically. “Mm-hmm.”

Holly looks entirely unconvinced.

Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat next to Mike, his knee brushing against Mike’s under the table.

The contact is brief and accidental. It sends a jolt through Mike, a confusing mix of warmth and anxiety that makes his stomach flip.

Will seems to flinch too, pulling his leg back quickly and focusing intently on buttering another piece of toast he probably has no intention of eating.

Joyce presses her lips into a thin line. She looks like she knows Mike doesn’t mean a word he said about her being right, but also like she understands exactly why he said it. She shoots a glance at Karen and Ted, then gives a tiny, resigned nod.

Friends don't lie. But sons do, sometimes. When they need to. Which is often, when you have to keep an interdimensional secret from your family.

Karen looks relieved at the mundane explanation. "Oh, of course, your little game," she says, pouring more batter onto the griddle. She smiles with an air of someone who wants to understand, but doesn’t. "Just don't stay out too late, and don’t forget about homework for Monday!"

Ted lowers his newspaper fully this time, looking at Dustin with mild confusion. "Lich-king? Sounds complicated. And you've got the adults involved?" He shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘what in the world is a lich?’ and goes back to reading about municipal bond proposals or something equally boring.

The immediate tension eases, replaced by a sense of tangible relief.

Will lets out a stuttering breath. Under the table, his foot taps an anxious rhythm against the floor.

"So," Mike starts, steering the conversation back to actionable plans now that the cover is in place. "We go see Max first. Then we... discuss our next move for the campaign."

Dustin nods eagerly. "Jonathan's driving."

Jonathan pushes away from the counter and grabs Nancy's keys from a hook by the door. "Whenever you're ready."

Everyone begins to gather their things, collecting jackets, backpacks—with more than just school supplies inside—water bottles, and assorted keys. Will stands up slowly, still looking drained.

Mike bumps Will's shoulder gently. The contact feels electric again, but this time Mike holds it for a fraction of a second longer. "Hey," he says, his voice dropping to that soft, private register reserved only for Will. "It's going to be all right."

Will looks up at Mike, his hazel eyes searching Mike’s. For a moment, the fear in them recedes, replaced by that quiet, unwavering trust he's always had in Mike. "I know," he whispers, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "As long as we're together."

That statement hits Mike harder than it should. He feels his face heat up slightly, and quickly breaks eye contact, muttering, "Yeah. Yeah. Always. Crazy together, right?"

Mike's heart beats loudly, the sound deafening to his own ears. Suddenly, waiting around for Will's response feels like too much. So he bolts upstairs to grab his gear, almost tripping over his own feet in his rush to get away.

He shoves his backpack full of essentials: his walkie-talkie, a fresh pack of batteries, his flashlight, the compass they’ve used since the beginning, and his new binoculars. He also grabs his favorite notebook, where Will’s been sketching maps of the Upside Down breaches.

As Mike's gaze moves higher, away from his messy desk, his eyes fall on the painting Will gave him on Eleven's behalf. He smiles softly, once again admiring the care Will put into this. The brush strokes, the colors. The attention to detail in regards to their D&D characters. The effort.

His thoughts quickly drift to his girlfriend. El's been distant lately, preoccupied with her own struggles and training. She seems haunted by the memories she relived at the hands of Dr. Brenner and his associates. It's been harder and harder connecting with her, and it’s like the distance is getting worse. Like an ever-widening canyon between them.

The words Will spoke to Mike in the back of that van feel like they were said just yesterday. Words that had been so passionate and full of raw emotion. It made Mike’s heart flutter, but also made him want to shy back, though he still can't quite figure out why.

And now isn't exactly the right time to consider it anyway. Places to be, shit to do.

Downstairs, the exodus is already underway. Joyce is herding everyone towards the door like a mother duck with extremely rebellious ducklings.

Outside, the air is crisp and smells of spring blossoms and impending rain. The gray sky hangs low over Hawkins, clouds unnaturally thick and swirling.

The door is barely shut behind them before Dustin launches his campaign. "Jonathan, listen. If Vecna is binding himself to the Creel House, the vines aren't just decoration. They're a nervous system. If we can map the growth pattern, we might be able to predict what his next move is. It's basic tactical reconnaissance!"

Jonathan leans against the station wagon, arms crossed. He looks tired, but there's a steeliness in his eyes that wasn't there a few years ago. "Dustin, my mom said no Creel House. We are going to the hospital. That's it."

"But—"

Joyce intervenes quickly. "No. No buts."

Then, Jonathan’s firm expression wavers as something seems to click into place. He glances at Joyce, then back at the boys. "Actually… Nancy mentioned something like that a few days ago. About the house. If we pick her up… she’s been scouting the perimeter around the old quarry. For the Post. She’s got my camera with her. And her shotgun. With her behind the wheel, we can do a drive-by assessment of the Creel House. No stopping. No entering. Just observation. And documentation."

Joyce throws her hands up. "Jonathan! You're supposed to be the responsible one!"

"I am being responsible, Mom," Jonathan states calmly, though his voice trembles slightly. "I'm an adult now, remember? And Nancy is too. We won't let them out of our sight. But I think they need to see what they're up against. Fear is worse when you don’t know what’s coming."

Joyce looks like she wants to argue, to lock them all in the Wheeler basement until Hopper returns, or they abandon this idea. But she looks at Will, sees the resolve in his pale face, and then… her shoulders slump. "Fine," she sighs, pointing a finger at Jonathan. "But if one vine touches this car, or you see anything weird, you turn around. Immediately. And you radio me every ten minutes."

"Deal," Jonathan says.

Joyce straightens her purse and heads towards her Pinto to get to Melvald's, having regained her old job soon after returning to town. Staff shortages, she'd said.

Joyce casts one last quick glance over her shoulder, concern written all over her face, before driving off.

They pile into Nancy's station wagon, which she often leaves behind in favor of her more maneuverable bike. Dustin loudly claims shotgun before anyone else can move, leaving Mike, Will, and Lucas to slide into the backseat. There's room to spare in the back, but Mike sits closer to Will than absolutely necessary. His legs are pressed together, and their shoulders are touching. Will is sandwiched between him and the door. If he minds, he doesn't complain.

As Jonathan starts the car, the heater sputters to life, blowing lukewarm air.

"Okay," Dustin says, turning around in his seat. "Hospital first. Max. Then, Operation: Shadowfell Recon. Everyone clear?"

Lucas nods, checking his slingshot pouch. "Crystal."

Mike makes a vague noise of affirmation. Will stays quiet, staring out the window as the houses of Hawkins blur by. Mike feels Will's arm resting against his own, the sensation grounding.

The drive to Hawkins General Hospital is short and—by now—familiar, filled mostly with static from the radio and Dustin nervously humming under his breath.

The hospital comes into view. It's a stark white building that looks even more imposing under the gloomy sky. Jonathan slows down. In his best ‘I’m an adult' voice, he says, "All right. Visiting hours technically started ten minutes ago. You go in, you keep it calm, and you don't jostle her. She's still healing."

Jonathan pulls up to the curb. The engine idles.

“You're not coming with us?” Will asks.

Jonathan shakes his head. “I'm going to see if I can find Nancy. I'll pick you guys up in a couple hours.”

Will gets out first. Following closely behind, Mike unfolds himself from the backseat with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his long limbs tangling briefly before he rights himself. He lands on the pavement and immediately turns to Lucas, who is staring at the hospital entrance. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and his jaw is set so tight a muscle clenches in his cheek.

"Hey," Mike says, keeping his voice low so the others don't hear the tremor in it. He claps a hand on Lucas's shoulder. "She's tough, man. You know Max. She's survived Billy, Vecna, and your baking last Valentine’s. She's not going down without a fight."

Lucas lets out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. He seems to ignore the attempt to lighten the mood. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just... seeing her like that every day..." He trails off, as if unable to finish the thought.

"We'll figure it out," Dustin promises. "We always do."

The Party heads for the hospital. True to form, Dustin detours immediately to a vending machine in the lobby, feeding it a few quarters with a practiced efficiency despite having literally eaten breakfast less than half an hour ago. "Brain food," he mutters, emerging with a bag of cheese puffs and a grape soda. "Critical calories for critical thinking.”

The walk to the ICU is quiet, the smell of antiseptic and chemical floor wax replacing the crisp spring air outside. Nurses bustle by with charts, their faces professionally neutral, unaware that the comatose girl in room 304 was nearly sacrificed to an interdimensional creep.

They reach Max's room. It's dim, with the blinds drawn slightly to keep the harsh sunlight away from her sensitive eyes.

Max Mayfield lies still in the bed, looking smaller than anyone remembers. It has been three weeks since the incident at the Creel House. Three weeks since Vecna snapped her limbs, stopped her heart, and dragged her into his mindscape. Three weeks since Eleven, pushing herself to the absolute limit of her power, restarted Max's heart while she was technically dead for over a minute.

With her death, Vecna opened the final gate that tore through their reality, leaving fissures on the town, an ominous storm in the sky, and a gnawing unease in Mike's gut.

The fact that she's alive at all is nothing short of miraculous. The physical healing is even moreso, in a terrifying sort of way. The kind that leaves doctors completely baffled, as well as tempted to make you their test subject. The casts that once encased her limbs have been removed, replaced by heavy braces and bandages. Her arms and legs are thin, atrophied from disuse, but the bones have knit together with unnatural speed. A side effect, perhaps, of the Upside Down's, of Vecna's influence lingering in her system. Or maybe of El's psychic intervention.

But it's her face that hurts to look at.

Her eyes are covered by a layer of thick white gauze. It's the only part of her that hasn't healed unnaturally quickly. In fact, they seem to be healing slower than usual. The doctors, at least the ones in the know about what truly happened, call it “psychic traumatic optic nerve damage". They say the pressure Vecna exerted on her mind ruptured the delicate tissues behind her eyes. When the nurses changed her bandages yesterday, they reported that her irises, usually a vibrant blue, were still clouded over with a milky, gray haze.

“She hasn’t woken up even once,” Dr. Parker—the new lead physician brought in by Owens—had told Joyce privately. "Medically, she is stable. But neurologically... she is somewhere else. Whether she will regain sight upon waking is unknown. The damage is severe. We are preparing the family for the possibility of permanent blindness, should she wake up."

Mrs. Hargrove does occasionally come in to check on Max. But not often. Not nearly as frequently as she should, considering it’s her damn daughter defying the laws of nature in the hospital.

And it's a good thing, the fact that Max is healing this quickly. But it's also concerning. Because if Max has healed this quickly due to some supernatural influence, then chances are, so can Vecna. And although it's been a fairly calm three weeks since everything went down, Mike has this niggling feeling that that won't last for much longer.

And unfortunately, Mike's instincts are usually pretty good. At least when it comes to that.

Lucas freezes in the doorway of Max's room. His breath hitches. Seeing her like this, it never seems to be easy for him.

Dustin stops chewing his cheese puffs for a moment, the final crunch echoing loudly in the silence until he forcibly swallows.

Will steps forward first, his gaze roving over Max’s body. His artist’s eye seems to take in the tragedy of the scene: the broken, doll-like stillness of a girl who used to skateboard faster than anyone in town. He reaches out, gently touching the frame of the bed.

Mike moves to stand beside Lucas, offering his silent support. The machines beep steadily, a rhythmic tone that fills the room. A single tear falls down Lucas's cheek, landing on his scuffed sneaker.

"Max?" Lucas whispers, his voice breaking. He walks to the bedside and carefully takes her hand, avoiding the IV line taped to her wrist. "It's us. We're here."

There is no response. No squeeze of the hand. No flutter of her eyelids beneath the gauze. Just the steady, mocking pulse of the heart monitor.

"You've got the tape with you, right? Running Up That Hill?" Mike asks, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Let's try it. Maybe it'll make a difference."

Lucas doesn't answer immediately. He just nods, his movements stiff as he sinks into the plastic chair beside the bed. He's still holding Max's hand, rubbing gently across her knuckles with his thumb. "Yeah," he finally chokes out. "It's in my bag. But... I don't know, Mike. Dr. Parker said her brain activity is... almost flat. Like she's gone somewhere we can't reach. I don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“Well… there’s really only one way to find out,” Dustin suggests, around a mouthful of soda.

The room is small, cramped with medical equipment that hums and beeps with an indifferent rhythm. There's only one other chair, a rolling stool on wheels.

"I'll stand," Will offers quietly, moving to lean against the wall near the window, his arms crossed over his chest as if to hold himself together. He looks exhausted.

"No, you should sit," Mike insists, shifting the stool into place for Will, though they somehow end up close enough that their knees touch again. He props himself against the edge of the bed across from Lucas, careful not to jostle the IV lines.

Dustin, meanwhile, appears to have retreated into his own head, mumbling something about Max's current predicament and "scientifically valid ways to test their theories". Pacing the small patch of free floor space near the door, he unwraps a granola bar he definitely didn't get from the vending machine. His other snacks are sitting on the windowsill. He's muttering about frequency resonance and whether Kate Bush's specific vocal range acts as a psychic link, or if it's just about Max's emotional attachment to the music.

Lucas reaches into his backpack with his free hand and pulls out a bulky Walkman, a new one he bought with his pocket money. The cassette tape inside is labeled in Lucas's messy handwriting: MAX'S MIX VOL. 1, a replacement for the one that broke during that fateful night. It took Lucas several weeks to make, having had to record the songs on the radio, as nobody else in the group owned the right records.

Lucas's hands tremble as he slots the headphones over Max's bandaged head, carefully positioning the ear cups.

He presses play.

The opening synthesizer chords of Running Up That Hill fill the small room, tinny but distinct.

It doesn't hurt me, do you want to feel how it feels?

Everyone holds their breath.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. The monitor continues its steady, monotonous noise. Max remains still as stone.

Then, at the chorus, something shifts.

Max's fingers twitch. Just once. A tiny, spasm-like movement against Lucas's palm.

"Did you see that?" Will whispers, leaning forward, his eyes wide.

Lucas grips her hand tighter. "Max? Can you hear me? It's Lucas. We're here. We're playing the song. Your song."

Her head turns slightly on the pillow. Not much, just a fraction of an inch, but it's movement. Voluntary movement.

"She's fighting," Mike says, feeling a surge of hope rise in his chest, warm and terrifying. "She's trying to come back."

But then, the heart monitor spikes. The rhythmic noises accelerate into a frantic BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.

"Whoa, whoa!" Dustin steps forward, looking alarmed. "Her vitals are spiking! That's not normal waking up behavior!"

Max's body arches slightly off the mattress, her back bowing. A low groan escapes her lips.

The lights in the room flicker. Once. Twice. Then faster.

The temperature drops sharply. Mike can see his breath misting in the air. The smell of antiseptic is suddenly overwritten by the scent of damp earth and rotting flowers. The smell of the Upside Down.

"Lucas, take the headphones off!" Will shouts. He stands up so fast the stool rolls away, his knee knocking sharply into Mike's leg. "Something's wrong! It's not just Max!"

Lucas hesitates, clearly torn between doing what Will says and keeping the connection alive. "No! She's reacting to the music! If I take them off, she could slip away again!"

The machine keeps beeping at an alarming rate, the pace seeming to quicken.

The flickering lights seem to stabilize for a second, then plunge the room into cold darkness. A moment later, they flash back on with a buzz. In that split second where everything turns black, Mike could swear he sees something standing in the corner of the room, behind the curtain. A tall, spindly shadow with long, clawed fingers.

When the light returns, the corner is empty. But the feeling of being watched is overwhelming.