Chapter Text
November 3, 1983
Will Byers was twelve years old when the monster first came for him.
The house was mostly quiet. The ceiling fan in Jonathan’s room whirled above, swirling cool air all around him; the fan cords tapped lightly together.
Jonathan was snoring sporadically. He was curled up on his side, his back facing Will. He had crawled into Jonathan’s bed some time ago, complaining about a nightmare.
It was always the same; frightening in a way that left him paralyzed when he woke up, feeling unable to move and unable to breathe.
A ghastly creature crept through his dreams.
It was tall, lanky, and pale as it crawled across the floor, like a Greyhound freshly skinned. It had sharp talons that protruded from its bony paws. It had no eyes, just an angular face; its mouth pointed as it clicked, trying to communicate with Will.
When it turned its head, its face flapped open like a flower blooming. Except nothing about it was beautiful or dainty. There were rows of serrated teeth and red, puffy flesh staring back at Will.
After months of suffering the same nightmare, he still never figured out what the creature wanted. It only ever glared menacingly—even with no eyes—staring on at Will as if it were searching for an answer to a question it could not ask.
Will sat with his back against the headboard, his knees drawn close to his chest.
The darkness pressed all around him, morphing into imaginary shapes as his eyes struggled to adjust. He thought he saw a shadow—a man—walk across the room toward the door. He blinked, pulling his knees closer to his chest.
The shadow vanished. The darkness was still.
Across the house, he could hear the chain lock slide across the door.
Will’s heart beat rapidly in his throat.
His mom wouldn’t be home for another three hours—she’d never be able to leave work early, not unless there was a real emergency. Neither he nor Jonathan had called with an urgent matter.
“Jonathan,” Will whispered, his voice shaking.
He slid his hand across the sheets—the bed was empty.
The air grew cold, like a winter breeze that bit into his skin with the promise of frostbite.
Will started to shake, the cold and the fear mingling together.
The room shifted.
The old house started to deteriorate. The bed grew lumpy and hard under his hand, the sheets covered in a layer of dust that poofed under his fingers. The silver glow of the graphite moon filtered in through the tattered curtains.
Grey flecks littered the air, floating down around him like polluted snow.
One touched his cheek—he flinched, swiping at his face. It burned.
He held out a shaky hand, unable to help himself.
The next time a speck touched his skin, it didn’t startle him as much. It felt more like a warm kiss spreading across his open palm.
The floorboards outside the door creaked.
Standing in the doorway was the creature.
Will scrambled back—he slammed into the headboard, dust and ash springing into the air.
The creature opened its face, clicking loudly; its flaps twitched lightly as it turned its head up, sniffing for Will's scent.
Will dove off the bed, hitting the floor hard. His breath stuttered in his chest, but the fear gripping him tightly spurred him into action. He rolled under the bed, breathing rapidly.
The creature howled, stepping further into the bedroom. Will could see its bony legs approach the end of the bed. He clamped his hand over his mouth, stifling a terrified gasp.
The creature clicked, hesitating before crawling backward, away from the bed.
Will waited—breathing hard into his fist.
He counted to one hundred twenty. There was no sound, no movement.
He crawled out from under the bed, standing on shaky legs.
The room was eerily quiet. The cold pressed against his flushed cheeks. He turned slowly—
Towering over him was another monstrous creature.
It was like the small one, just grown—four times as large and standing on two legs.
Its bones shifted under its taut skin as its long skeletal arms swung through the air, hitting Will so hard he went flying across the bed. He landed on the floor so hard that the breath got knocked right out of his chest.
This creature was stronger; it was louder. It roared so loud that Will had to cover his ears, the sound piercing his eardrums.
Terrified, he army-crawled across the floor, trying desperately to escape.
His heart beat loudly in his ears.
Wake up, he yelled to himself. Wake up! Wake up!
The creature jumped on the bed, bedsprings creaking and groaning under their weight.
Will moved faster, the carpet burning his elbows as he dragged himself across the floor.
He was moving too slowly.
The creature grabbed his leg, its pointed claws digging into his upper thigh.
Will cried out in agony, his leg burning hot with pain.
The creature flung him across the room—this time, he hit the wall, hard.
His vision darkened around the edges. He groaned, trying to pull himself up, but his arms gave out. His whole body ached; his arms trembled terribly.
Will was barely able to pull himself into a sitting position. He sat back against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.
Across the room, the Shadow Man appeared, and behind him, another shadow, just smaller.
Will blinked, thinking he was seeing doubles.
The shadow man stepped into the sliver of moonlight.
He was tall. His blonde hair was slightly unkept. Will could tell it was usually neater; he could tell in the way the hair held a more polished look. His hair was pushed to the side, revealing a long, angular face.
He was wearing all white, his shirt and face splattered with blood.
He angled his head, studying Will. The man’s stare was somehow more unsettling than the small shadow standing behind him.
Will’s stomach sank; dread pressed against his spine. He tried to push himself away, but his back hit the wall with nowhere to go.
The creature stalked closer, covering Will in darkness.
Its face split open in a terrifying roar.
Will’s head flew back—
His head hit the pillow.
He startled awake, gasping. His heart thudded against his ribs.
He lay there for a moment, struggling to catch his breath.
His senses came back to him slowly.
Will was still lying in Jonathan’s bed. His skin was tacky with sweat, his shirt sticking to his back and his armpits.
Sunlight was streaking through the curtains. The room was as it was the night before. No polluted air, no tattered furniture—everything was…normal.
He was still breathing fast, his eyes darting across the room, searching for shadows, for sharp teeth.
Will could hear the soft clinking of pots and pans. He could smell the bold scent of coffee in the air; the sound of music drifted through the house.
He trailed his hand down his leg, searching for a wound that wasn’t there. He pressed his fingers into his leg, poking and prodding the skin.
He finally found the strength to sit up, his arms and legs shaking.
He tossed the sheets to the side, the cool air hitting his damp skin.
Will dragged his feet across the carpet, making his way toward the kitchen, where the smell of breakfast allured him.
“Hey, sleepy head,” Jonathan greeted him. He smiled over his shoulder—his face fell. “Hey—what’s wrong?”
He set the pan down, quickly switching off the stove.
Will couldn’t find his voice. He just stood there, his limbs heavy like stone.
“Are you feeling ok?” he asked. He came forward, brushing the back of his hand across his clammy forehead.
Will just stared, blinking hard against the haze in his eyes.
Jonathan’s brows drew together. “Will?”
“Do you—do you think monsters are real?” Will wondered out loud.
Jonathan sighed, steering Will toward the table so he could sit down.
“Another nightmare?” he pressed.
Will nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Will shook his head.
He sighed again, rubbing his hands up and down Will’s arms.
“How about some breakfast?”
Will’s stomach grumbled—that was answer enough.
Will ate slowly, trying really hard to focus on his meal and not the dreadful feeling that was festering inside him.
He was late to his first period.
He had locked himself in the bathroom for ten minutes, dry heaving into the toilet. His eggs and toast sat heavily in his stomach—the fear of last night's nightmare was just too overwhelming to shake.
Jonathan fussed over him, checking him again for a fever, asking a million questions—should he call mom, does Will need to stay home this morning, why didn’t he eat all his breakfast?
Will just shrugged, unable to form any coherent response.
He was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep with the daylight coming through his windows. But he knew his mom would get a bit angry with him. She’d fuss over him, too, but she’d pace through the house, grumbling under her breath; she’d worry about her job and stand by the phone, expecting her boss to call and tell her she was fired.
And, if Will was being honest, he really wanted to see Mike.
Mike made everything feel better. He had a way of tethering Will back down to earth when he felt dangerously close to floating away.
Speaking of Mike—
“Will!” he shouted, weaving his way through the throng of people. He grumpily shoved at some of the taller students.
“You weren’t at drop off,” he breathed when he was finally close. “I was worried.”
Will felt a familiar flutter in his chest. He loved being the center of Mike’s attention—he hadn’t meant to worry him, but it was nice to know that he noticed Will’s absence. It meant he was thinking about him.
Will closed his locker, turning toward Mike.
“Nightmare,” he told him honestly. Then, lowering his voice, he said, “The monster came to get me again.”
“Oh,” Mike breathed. His face paled; his freckles grew more evident. “The Demogorgon?”
Will nodded.
He liked that Mike had a name for it. It made it feel…less scary. If he could tie it to Dungeons and Dragons, then it solidified its falseness. It was just a dream; a figment of his wild imagination.
“Well, maybe you can sleep over tonight,” he said. “You never have nightmares when you sleep in my room.”
Will rubbed his sleeve over his mouth, contemplating.
“I can’t,” he sighed. “Jonathan’s working tonight—no one will be home to feed Chester.”
Mike looked like he wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth tightly.
“It’s just a stupid nightmare, anyway,” Will said quietly. The words fell flat between them. “I’ll be ok.”
Later, when lunch time rolled around, Will sat next to Mike—too close—his body warm and solid against Will’s. He fiddled with Mike’s sleeve, picking at a loose thread unraveling near the cuff of his sweater. Mike kept his hand still; his other was moving animatedly as he droned on about a specific D&D classification. Lucas and Dustin were arguing back and forth, their words lost to Will.
“Hey,” Mike drew his attention. “You ok?”
Will blinked.
The cafeteria was quieter—
Lunch was over. Will hadn’t even heard the bell ring.
Lucas and Dustin were hovering at the end of the table, deep in conversation.
Mike looked worried, his brown eyes pulled down in concern.
“I’m ok,” he muttered, his voice feeling unsteady in his throat.
His fingers were shaking—he had unraveled quite a bit of thread on Mike’s sleeve.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike huffed, before Will could muster up an apology. “This sweater's super old—I think it used to be my dad’s.”
After lunch, Will drifted through the rest of the day in a haze.
He barely registered what was happening around him. He was already falling behind in math and social studies, but he couldn’t get his brain to focus. His mind kept wandering off to the nightmare.
The Shadow Man—whom he told no one about, not even Mike—kept creeping up on him every time he blinked. Sometimes, he’d look at the corner of the room, and he’d be there, watching Will.
When classes were finally dismissed, Will stumbled into the hallway; he was pushed and shoved against the other students, a fish lost at sea. He searched for Mike, his dark head of hair and burgundy sweater. He started to feel panic when he didn’t spot him right away.
He searched for Lucas or Dustin—
He couldn’t find any of his friends.
His heart beat loudly in his ears. He stopped to catch his breath, which was rattling in his chest, when someone shoved his shoulder hard.
Will fell to the floor. His knees hit the ground; pain radiated up his thigh. He put his hands out—his books and paper scattering around him—to break his fall. His wrist throbbed immediately.
“Watch it, fag,” Troy Walsh sneered.
His friend, James Dante, spun around to mock him.
The sea of students stared on, parting around the boys to let them pass. No one stopped to help Will. No one said anything. Tears quickly flooded his eyes as he scrambled to collect his things.
“Will!” He heard Mike call. The tears fell faster, embarrassment sweltering across his face. “Hey,” he worried, dropping down in front of him. “What happened?”
Will felt his lower lip tremble. The words were caught around the lump in his throat.
“It’s ok,” Mike comforted. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He picked up Will’s belongings for him and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, ushering him out the double doors.
Outside, Lucas and Dustin were already at the bike rack. Lucas was throwing karate chops at Dustin, who looked very unimpressed. When they caught sight of Will and Mike, their faces fell immediately.
“What happened?” Lucas rushed, jumping over a parking block.
Mike’s arm tightened around his shoulder.
“Troy,” Mike grumbled. “Him and that stupid moutbreather.”
Lucas' face fell. “Oh.”
“Those assholes,” Dustin breathed.
Will looked up at Mike. His face was pinched with anger, his cheeks red.
“Let’s just go,” Mike said, his arm still wrapped around Will.
Once they arrived at the Wheeler house, Will started to feel better—more like himself than he had all day.
Mrs. Wheeler made them pizza rolls, much to Will’s delight. Will could only ever eat them at Mike’s or Lucas’ house. He almost finished off a whole plate by himself.
They worked on some homework, per Mrs. Wheeler’s request. Will was thankful that he and Dustin had the same social studies teacher this semester. It made him feel less anxious about zoning out earlier today. Dustin excitedly walked him through the timeline of Manifest Destiny. The westward expansion that swept across the political scene in the nineteenth century was far more interesting coming from Dustin than it was coming from Mr. Barnes.
Will worked on his drawing—a sketch of the party fighting a massive thessalhydra.
Mike was at the front, leading them. His paladin armour was heavily adorned with silver and red embellishments. His shield bore a heart, and on top was a single gold detail—a crown—sitting above the garnet heart. His cloak was flowing in the imaginary wind.
Will was beside Mike—like he always was, even in real life—wearing hues of purple. He was holding a glowing sphere, beams of sapphire shooting forward.
Right behind them were Dustin and Lucas.
Dustin was shouting angrily, his rapier aimed and ready to strike. He was wearing a leather vest the color of hickory wood. His undershirt was marigold, resembling a sunrise washing over the horizon.
Lucas was sitting atop a white stallion, his bow and arrow stretched back, ready to sink into its target. His cloak was the color of pine trees, his long hunting boots tawny brown, similar to the shade of his saddle.
Will had been working on the drawing for weeks. The boys were nearly complete—he had a few more spots to shade in. But he couldn’t bring himself to complete the thessalhydra.
He stared at the light outline of the creature, his stomach feeling uneasy.
It was just a drawing, he reminded himself. Yet, every time he picked up a colored pencil to map out the details, his fingers started to shake.
“That looks really good,” Dustin said around a mouthful of Pudding Pie.
“Oh,” Will breathed. His cheeks warmed. “Thanks, Dustin.”
“You make us look so cool,” he smiled, leaning in close.
“That’s because we are cool,” Lucas quipped from the D&D table.
He and Mike were painting a few figurines for their next campaign.
Dustin snorted. “We’re the opposite of cool,” he said.
"We are cool," Lucas argued. "People just don’t realize it yet."
"Lucas,” Mike laughed softly, “you got hit in the face yesterday—with your own basketball."
Will could picture the glare on Lucas’ face. "That was one time."
"It was twice,” Dustin added, holding up two fingers.
"Besides,” Mike said, “cool people don't spend their Tuesday evenings painting tiny elves."
"We're painting heroes," Lucas corrected.
Dustin took another big bite of his Puddie Pie. "This is exactly what uncool people do.”
Will smiled quietly to himself, picking up a grey colored pencil to color in the rest of Mike’s armor.
Dustin pointed his half-eaten Pudding Pie at the drawing. "Seriously, though, this is awesome. Look at Mike."
Will could see Mike’s head pop up over the couch. "What about me?"
"You made him look way tougher than he actually is,” Dustin boasted.
Will stared down at his drawing of Mike.
He thought it represented him well. Will didn’t draw his friends with much exaggeration. At least he thought he hadn’t. The Mike on the paper was the same Mike that lived inside his head, the same Mike that was sitting at the D&D table across the room.
"Hey!" Mike fumed.
Lucas laughed.
Will’s cheeks felt flushed.
"He gave you shoulder pads bigger than your head," Dustin mocked.
“Oh—whatever,” Mike huffed. “You’re just jealous—”
Will felt the sudden urge to hide his drawing. His face was starting to warm up quite a bit. Maybe he was getting sick, maybe he’d felt so unwell this morning because he was coming down with something.
He stared at Mike’s armor—it did look a little wonky. He always struggled with symmetry. One side of Mike’s shoulder was bigger than the other, and it wasn’t due to the perspective; Will’s hand had drawn it that way, imperfect.
Why are you always so damn sensitive, a familiar voice echoed in the back of his head. Aren’t you tired of acting like a fucking girl?
The basement suddenly felt very warm.
He slid the drawing into his sketch book, shoving his pencils back into his pencil pouch.
“Wh—Will,” Mike called, standing up. “Where are you going?”
Will didn’t answer right away, the onset of tears clogging his throat.
Mike was already moving forward. “Will?”
“I think I’m sick,” Will finally muttered.
Our kid’s sick, Joyce. Don’t you see what he draws—it’s always that fucking Wheeler kid, doodling him all over the place like some fucking fag.
“Dustin was just kidding—right, Dustin?” He turned toward him, his eyes serious.
Of course, Mike could tell his comment bothered Will. He was always so predictable, so sensitive to others' jokes.
Will rubbed his sleeve over his mouth, trying to stop the trembling in his lips. “It’s—I'm just feeling really sick. I think I should go home.”
His friends just stared for a moment, clearly unsure of what to say. Will didn’t want them to say anything. He really did want to go home—he wanted to call his mom.
“Ok,” Mike tried to smile, but his face was twisted up in confusion. “My mom can—”
“I’ll be ok,” Will rushed.
He’d already been a nuisance all day. First to Jonathan, who let him crawl into his bed like a baby seeking out their parent for comfort, then having to watch him like a toddler this morning, making sure he ate and got to school in one piece. Then, with Mike earlier, having to come to his rescue because he couldn’t handle walking through the halls alone. And then this—crying over some silly banter that wasn’t even meant to target him.
Will didn’t wait for their response. He avoided their eyes as he climbed the stairs, and when they all stood in the garage, watching him mount his bike.
He barely muttered a goodbye before he took off.
The house was quiet when he got home.
The old, weathered steps groaned under his feet as he trekked up the stairs to the front door. His keys jingled loudly in the open air as he drew them out of his pocket. When he went to slide his key into the lock, he noticed the door was already ajar.
Across the house, he could hear the chain lock slide across the door.
Will’s heart leapt into his throat.
He immediately took a step back—
Jonathan yanked the door open, looking frazzled. He had his keys in his mouth, his work uniform slung over his arm, and his bag was falling off his shoulder.
Will hadn’t even noticed his car parked haphazardly near the side of the house.
“Oh—Will?” he gasped, startled. “What are you—”
“The campaign ended early,” he lied, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
Jonathan faltered.
“Really?” he asked, hiking his bag up his shoulder.
Will nodded.
“Don’t your—campaigns—usually run a bit long?” he pressed.
Will shrugged.
He sighed heavily. “Make sure you lock up,” he lectured, “and don’t forget to eat something, please—mom said there’s some leftovers in the fridge you can heat up.”
Will tried not to grimace. He hated pork chops—they were chewy and always oddly crunchy.
Jonathan jogged down the steps. “Oh,” he said, turning back around, “and—”
“—Don’t forget to feed Chester,” Will huffed, already walking inside. “I know.”
He didn’t even wait for a response. He closed the door on his brother, securing both the locks.
The quiet was almost deafening.
Will set his things down loudly, trying to disrupt the silence.
Regret pressed against his chest—he should have stayed longer at Mike’s. It was only six o’clock. At least if he stayed, he’d have less time to wander around the house by himself, alone. He knew he’d never be able to fall asleep this early, and he had to stay up to feed Chester anyway.
Chester came trotting his way, his tags clicking softly. Will crouched down, messing with his floppy ears and letting him lick his face. He immediately felt a bit better.
“Come on, Chester,” he cooed, walking over to the couch.
Chester snuggled up close to him as he switched the TV on. He settled on a rerun of He-Man—there wouldn’t be a new episode until this weekend.
Will grew bored quickly. He paced around the house. He stared into the half-empty fridge, hoping something more tasty would appear. He flipped through the channels. He paced again.
He was sitting upside down on the couch, tossing a tattered old ball at Chester for him to chase, when a shadow passed across the hall.
Will sat up immediately, his pulse thudding in his throat.
He ran into the kitchen—he pulled the phone off the hook and dialed the number without thinking.
Another shadow crept across the floor; Will could see it stretch across the carpet, across the recliner.
“Melvald's General Store, this is Joyce. How can I help you?”
“Mom,” Will breathed into the phone, his voice shaking.
“Will?” There was rustling on the other end. “Will, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
The shadow grew longer.
“The—There’s a monster, mom,” he quavered. “It’s in the house.”
“Will,” his mom sighed. “I told you—”
Will felt his heartbeat everywhere—in his throat, in his chest, in his wrists. “They’re here, mom. Their—”
Will could hear someone else on the other line. His mom’s voice stretched thin before she came back to the phone. Will clutched the phone tightly in his hand.
“Will, sweetie, I have to go,” she huffed. “Please go talk to your brother.” She had no idea Jonathan had taken an extra shift. She had no idea Will was all alone. “Remember, monsters aren’t real, ok. I promise—they can’t hurt you, baby.”
The line went dead.
Chester barked—startling Will. He dropped the phone, his breath caught in his throat.
The shadow was turning toward the kitchen.
Will ran.
He bolted out the back door, stumbling toward the shed.
Maybe if you spent less time drawing and more time learning something useful, you'd toughen up a little.
Every boy should know how to shoot a gun—it makes him a man.
He blew through the door, grabbing the shotgun off the wall. He pulled the drawers open, frantically searching for the shotgun shells. His fingers shook as he loaded them into the magazine tube.
He lifted the shotgun, pressing it firmly against his shoulder as he aimed at the door.
Silence pressed all around him. He took a step back, breathing hard.
Will heard the familiar clack and tick—
His back hit something solid.
He spun around, firing the gun immediately. The kick back from the blast was so sudden and strong that it sent him flying back. He hit the ground hard.
The creature hallowed in pain—the light dangling above Will’s head burst into orange and white sparks.
Will scrambled to his feet, running back toward the house.
Something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.
The small creature from his dream jumped on top of him. It pinned him down, his claws digging into Will’s shoulder. Its mouth flapped open—it roared, saliva flicking across Will's face; it smelled putrid and rancid. Will threw his hands over his face, cowering.
The creature snapped its mouth closed, sniffing the air.
Chester came running toward them, barking loudly.
The creature jumped off Will, charging at Chester—they were coming toward each other in a disastrous collision.
Will tried to call out to Chester—to tell him to run away—but the creature was fast. It threw itself at him, tearing into his side. Chester yelped, rolling across the dirt. The creature stayed latched on.
Will struggled to his feet, his hands moving across the ground—searching for something.
His fingers closed around a rock, ridged and sharp under his palm. He climbed to his feet, raising his hand high before striking the creature across the back of the head.
The creature jerked back, his mouth falling away from Chester’s bloody stomach. Will fell, striking the creature again and again—blood flew into the air, bones crunched under his fist.
Will only stopped because his chest and his arm started to burn. He fell back, trying to catch his breath as fear and exhaustion closed around him.
Chester cried out weakly.
Will scrabbled over to him. Blood was gushing from the wound; his flesh was torn to ribbons, and Will could see his insides.
Will gagged, his vision starting to blur.
He pressed his hands to the injury—Chester cried out in pain.
“I’m sorry,” Will cried, pulling his hands back. “I—I’m sorry,”
He bowed his head, pressing his face into Chester’s neck. He licked Will’s palm, panting heavily. Will clutched his fur between his fingers, sobbing into his fur.
Chester’s chest rose, his breath stuttering for a moment, before finally falling.
His chest didn’t rise again.
Something moved across the dirt.
Will’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the trees.
He rose slowly to his feet, his legs feeling unsteady.
The creature at his feet twitched.
Will carefully took a step back—
He was swept off his feet—he hit the ground so hard his vision went black for a second. Then, he was tipped upside down and raised high into the air.
The larger creature brought Will close to its face, opening its mouth. It hollowed, its scream so loud that Will felt something pop in his ear.
It flung Will to the ground—
The world was consumed by darkness.
Joyce snuck into the back, worrying the corner of her lip with her teeth.
Will’s words were stuck in her head; she couldn’t shake the sound of genuine fear in his voice. It’s in the house, he had said.
Will had struggled with nightmares for years—he had suffered many sleepless nights because of them. Before she worked so many hours, Will would crawl into her bed late at night, mumbling about monsters with sharp teeth and no eyes.
Lonnie had always sent him back to bed, his words dismissive and harsh. Joyce would skulk back to his room and lie down with him, soothing his tears, promising him that everything would be ok.
Monsters weren’t real—not the monsters that plagued her boys’ dreams. Some monsters walked among them. People like Lonnie, who only wanted to throw fists and vile words—those were the real monsters.
But something didn’t feel right.
At first, she had ignored the dreadful feeling swirling in her gut. She thought it would simmer down—it was just her motherly instinct, wanting to run to her child at the slightest sign of distress. But the feeling didn’t quiet. She felt like it was boiling over inside her.
She dialed their home number, pressing the phone firmly to her ear.
It rang.
“Come on,” she whispered, twirling the phone cord around her finger. “Jonathan—Will. Pick up the phone.”
No one answered.
She called again—she called a third time.
The phone clicked on the other end.
Her heart leapt in her chest. “Will—”
“Mrs. Byers!”
“M-Mike?” she breathed.
There was commotion on the other end. She could hear Lucas shout, he’s not here.
“Mike, what’s going on?” she demanded, her heart slamming into her ribs. “Mike?”
“Something—something happened,” he cried. “There’s blood—a-and we can’t find Will.”
Joyce’s stomach didn’t just sink, it felt like it plummeted through the floor.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered. “Get—where’s Jonathan? Is he—”
“He’s not here,” Mike panted. “No one’s here, but—”
“Stay—don’t move,” she rushed. “I’ll be right there.”
She hung up the phone, her whole body shaking.
Joyce ran out of the break room, her keys already out. She ignored the stares of the patrons and her boss calling after her.
She had never driven a car so fast in her life.
Mike ran through the Byers’ house, searching through every closet, every drawer, under the bed, and in the cabinets. He would have torn the floorboards up if he could.
“He’s not here,” Mike said for the twentieth time.
Lucas was tearing up the couch cushions as if Will had somehow crammed himself inside the couch without them noticing. Dustin was crawling under the table, calling Will’s name.
Mike stood in the living room, breathing hard.
The blood coating his fingers was slick and warm; the metallic smell made his stomach churn. Every time he blinked, he saw Chester, his stomach gaping open.
Whatever had done that to him—they could have done that to Will, too.
Bile rose in the back of his throat.
“Will!” Dustin shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Mike felt like he couldn’t move, his limbs heavy like bags of sand.
Guilt weighed him down more.
He should never have let Will go home. He should have convinced him to spend the night—he would have been safe in Mike’s house, in his bed. He was always safest with him.
The front door burst open.
They startled, turning around to find Joyce stepping into the house. She looked breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Her face fell when her eyes landed on Mike.
She stumbled forward, pointing at his shirt, trying to form words.
“Chester,” Mike breathed. “It’s Chester's. He—”
“He’s dead,” Lucas gasped. He was clutching a couch cushion to his chest. “Something—attacked him.”
“Show me,” she sputtered. “Where—”
“Out here,” Dustin said, already walking toward the back door.
She barely made it down the steps.
She cried out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Oh my god,” she wept. She clutched the railing, her legs visibly shaking. “Oh my god.”
Lucas and Mike rushed to her side, helping hold her up.
“Hopper,” she gasped, clutching at both their sleeves. “Call Hopper.”
Jim Hopper had longed for his bed all day.
When nine o’clock had rolled in, he was already shedding his uniform, unbuckling his belt, and kicking his feet up.
It was eight-forty-eight—he could probably start unwinding early. Nothing ever happened in Hawkins. Jim felt more like a glorified babysitter than a police chief. He’d help more people start their cars than solve any actual crime. Which was a relief—who didn’t want to live in a town whose biggest ordeal was birds making nests in an old lady’s hair?
Jim kicked up his feet, about to unbuckle his too-tight pants.
Florence barged in without knocking. That was the first sign that something was wrong.
“Jim,” she breathed. Her face was pale. “Something happened—at the Byers residence. It’s urgent.”
He jumped to his feet, his heart beating a little faster.
Jim was used to calls coming from Joyce’s place, back when Lonnie was still around. But he hadn’t been around for years. Jim silently prayed—to a god he didn’t believe in—that Lonnie hadn’t decided to come back around.
He picked up the phone. “Joyce?”
“Hopper!” she shrieked. “Hopper—you have to get here, fast. Something—it killed Chester. It—”
“Joyce,” he interjected, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper out of habit. “I need you to slow down for me.”
“It took Will!” she shouted. “Something took him.”
Jim’s heart pounded.
“Who, Joyce? Who took him?”
“I don’t know!” she cried. “I don’t—just get here, please. It killed my dog—it tore him up, bad, Hopper. If it—if it did that to my dog—”
He didn’t let her finish. “I’m leaving now—don’t you move.”
“Jonathan,” she breathed. Jim’s stomach sank. He waited for the blow. “He—I think he’s at work. I don’t know, but please, can you bring him? I need—I need to know he’s ok.”
Jim released the breath he had been holding. “Stay where you are—I got him.”
He drove fast, running a few red lights.
He swerved into a parking spot outside of Amaco. He didn’t even turn off the vehicle. He jogged inside, immediately spotting Jonathan behind the counter.
He lifted his head, sliding his headphones off his ears. When he spotted Jim, his face pinched with concern.
“Let’s go,” Jim said, beckoning him to follow.
Jonathan glanced around nervously. “Wha—”
“Something’s happened to your brother,” was all he said.
He threw his Walkman and headphones down immediately.
“I don’t understand,” Jonathan said for the third time. “What do you mean someone took him?”
“Your mom didn’t explain much,” Jim reminded him. “Just that someone killed your dog, and then they took Will. That’s all I know.”
“Jesus,” he breathed, falling back against the seat. After a moment, “I—”
Jim glanced over at him. He looked very pale even in the dark. He was fidgeting with his fingers—nervous. His brow was glistening with sweat.
There was a sleeper agent that lived inside Jim, a version of himself that existed only in war. He thought he’d forgotten him back in Vietnam, but sometimes he made an appearance. The war made him hypervigilant; he noticed all the little details—it’s what kept him alive.
“You need to tell me something?” he asked gently.
Jonathan turned to him, glaring. He looked so much like Joyce then that it made Jim’s heart clench.
“I didn’t hurt Will,” he snapped, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I didn’t say you did.”
Jonathan uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again—guilt.
“I wasn’t supposed to be working tonight,” he said in a quiet voice.
Jim’s shoulders relaxed. He should have known better than to think he was involved somehow. His father may have been a piece of shit, but he was more his mother than anything else. Jim saw it in the way he talked, the way he dressed—how he handled stress and expressed annoyance.
“When did you last see him?” Jim asked.
“Around five forty,” he told him. “I forgot my uniform—Will was supposed to be at Mike’s—Mike Wheeler,” he clarified. “He said the game they play ended early, so he came home.”
“Did he say anything else to you?” Jim inquired.
“No—that’s the thing,” he huffed, “Will hasn’t been saying a lot lately.”
Jim looked at him briefly before turning his eyes back to the road.
“He…” He stared down at his hands. “He’s been having nightmares.”
“About what?”
“Monsters,” Jonathan breathed. The air in the car grew thick. “They always came for him at night.”
“Well, killing a poor dog and kidnapping a little boy—that sounds like a real-life monster to me.”
Before Jonathan could muster another word, the Byers’ house came into view, illuminated by the vehicle's headlights.
Joyce was already running down the steps, three boys following after her like miniature shadows.
Jonathan jumped out of the car, running toward his mother.
“You have to find him,” Mike shouted, hurrying toward him.
Jim was barely out of the car when three boys descended on him.
“Someone took him,” Mike said, his eyes wide and frantic.
And he was covered in blood. Before Jim could utter a word—
“They killed his dog,” Dustin fretted. “It was horrible. What they did—”
“—There was blood everywhere,” Lucas interjected.
“And—”
Their voices overlapped, mixing in a jumbled mess of letters and sounds.
“Alright—slow down!” Jim shouted. Their mouths snapped shut. “Show me the dog.”
Once Jim laid eyes on the poor, mutilated animal, he knew the situation was dire.
He tried not to let the concern show, but his heart was beating so fast he felt it against his shirt.
“Where are you going?” Joyce asked, following after him as he walked back to his police cruiser.
He rubbed a hand down his face, contemplating what to say next. If he phrased it wrong, chaos would ensue; though the situation was already feeling quite chaotic, like he was losing any resemblance to the calm composure he had previously thought he had.
“I’m calling for backup,” he said carefully, letting the words settle in. “I want to start a search party—tonight.”
Joyce kept nodding, her hand pressed to her mouth.
“He’s—he probably ran off,” she inhaled, “when he saw what happened to Chester. He probably got scared and he—”
“Hey,” Jim moved forward. He hesitated for a moment before touching her arm gently. “We’re going to find him,” he told her.
The promise rang loudly in his ears; an alarm bell was going off inside his head. He would deliver his promise. He just hoped he’d bring her boy back alive and not in a body bag.
Will woke to the sound of sludging.
He blinked, his eyes filled with some filmy haze; grey specks floated across his vision.
The sound continued, something thick and wet sliding—
Will tried to gasp, but there was something in his throat. He could barely see it, his vision doubling as he tried to stare down past his nose. Something was inside him—he gagged, but the sound was muffled. Vomit burned the back of his throat.
Will tried to raise his arm to pull the thing inside him out, but his body was locked tightly in place.
He started to panic, fighting hard against the restraints, whatever they were.
Tears stung his eyes, and fear burned hot in his chest.
He could feel the thing in his throat—in his stomach—swelling and thinning.
“Try not to struggle,” a guttural voice reached him.
Will’s vision was blurry, but he could make out a shadow walking toward him.
The Shadow Man.
He stepped into one of the only strips of light in this dark place.
His face was different. Thick ropes ran up the side of his neck, criss-crossing around his face; his eyes weren’t that alluring sky blue, they were pearly white, nearly translucent.
“It’ll only hurt more,” the Shadow Man told him.
He stood in front of Will, extending his hand toward his face. His hand was like one of those creatures, long, thin fingers that extended into claws.
“Now be still,” he said. “They’re not done being born.”
Will would have screamed if he had a voice.
Will had escaped the sludgy, pulasting vines some time ago.
His body still had some remnants of an internal clock. It could feel the hours slowly ticking by.
He had run through the night, the darkness split open by red splintering lightning. There were barren trees, their branches like decrepit arms. He climbed the tallest one as the monster on two legs charged after him, fast.
The creature was ravenous—it wanted to spill blood. But it was just a dumb, stupid thing with no eyes and no wit. All it could do was sniff the air and try to follow the scent of him. It was sensitive to sound, which was its one true advantage, but Will was used to being quiet.
He knew how to make himself small.
By the time the creature exhausted itself, Will’s body was damp with sweat and shaking with fatigue. He climbed slowly down the tree, his palms getting cut up by the sharp branches—he made no sound as the pain bit into his skin.
The fog drifting through the air made it hard to see. Will tiptoed through the desolate land, carefully stepping over the vines. He learned the hard way that they were easily disturbed.
He had tripped over one on his escape, and it had sprung to life, curling around his ankle; it slammed him to the hard ground and dragged him across the dirt.
Everything slowed.
Will didn’t want to go back there—he could still feel that thing in his throat. Whatever had emptied out of those vines was inside him. He could feel them moving around.
Will scrambled for purchase, trying to grab hold of anything. But he couldn’t grasp anything—everything just slipped away.
The grey particles were falling all around him, coating Will’s hair and his eyelashes. He thought about his dream when the flecks touched his face and burned his skin. Something about the way it felt—it felt powerful, like a surge of energy had rushed through him.
Will grabbed onto a vine one last time, his fingers closing around it. He thought of something powerful and sharp.
A sword started to grow, his palm heavy under the weight of its hilt.
Will swung the weapon down on the vine—he didn’t even wait for it to finish materializing.
The vine jerked back, somehow capable of shrieking in pain. Black dust puffed into the air as it swung all around before finally falling to the ground with a wet splat.
Will dropped the sword—it hit the ground and exploded into dust—and ran.
He could still feel the heavy presence of the sword in his hand, but he wasn’t interested in making more weapons. He needed to run—he needed to hide.
Will crouched down near a smaller tree, pressing his palm into the earth. The ground was cold and jagged. He closed his eyes and thought about the safest place he’d ever been.
Images of the Castle of Byers swept through his mind. He thought of Mike’s basement and Lucas’ room, where the laughter was always loud—he thought about the way Jonathan’s bedroom had shifted and changed.
The ground beneath Will’s palm began to shake. Will pressed down harder.
He pushed out every last ounce of energy he had left—
The world went black.
Will woke up in Castle Byers.
The familiar log walls surrounded him. The yellow makeshift canopy hung over his head. He could hear the fabric door flapping in the wind.
He sat up, his heart beating excitedly.
He breathed—
The air was thick and cold.
Will blinked, and the dark blue haze of this new world came into focus.
The cold atmosphere nipped at his skin.
Will started to cry.
Horrible wet sobs filled his chest.
He cried, the tears freezing against his skin.
A loud crackle broke through his fit of tears. He startled, whipping his head around.
His small radio crackled and popped, the orange glow in the dial scale flickering.
W—
The sound faded into static—Will scrambled over the radio, hitting it with his hand.
“Will!” Someone yelled. Then, clearer in Mike’s voice: “Will, can you hear me?”
Will's heart leapt into his chest.
“Mike?” he yelled, grabbing the radio. “I’m here—Mike!”
Will’s fingers trembled as he held the radio, shaking it violently.
“Will, if you can hear me—tell us where you are. Try to tell us, Will. Please—can you hear me?”
“I can hear you, Mike,” Will cried. “I can—”
The orange light started to burn bright and hot. It seared Will’s palm—he threw it to the ground, cradling his hand to his chest.
Static filled the silence. Then, it faded entirely.
Will frantically crawled forward, picking up the warm radio.
“Mike?” he pleaded. “Mike!”
There was no answer.
Something ran past the castle—a loud crunch blew through the air.
Will jumped up.
Mike’s voice had brought him back to reality. The fact that he was looking for Will—he needed to get home. His friends were probably worried. His mom and Jonathan must be sick with stress. He needed to get back to them.
He snatched the radio and ran.
Will ran and ran. He didn’t stop when his legs started to burn, or his lungs started to seize. He didn’t stop when the monster’s roar grew nearer.
He ran until his house came into view.
He kept running, bursting through the door; he bounded through the house until the familiar wooden shed came into view. He threw open the door, grabbing the gun—right where he had dropped it—and the boxes of shells. He drew a tattered old backpack from the dusty piles of boxes and shoved every pack of shells he could find inside.
He ran back through the house, grabbing supplies he thought he’d need—canned food, utensils, and the first aid kit.
And then—
The wall across the fridge started to bubble and stretch. A wailing moan pierced the air.
Will stumbled back, raising his shotgun with trembling hands.
The wallpaper morphed—it was gelatinous and flesh-like. The creature's claws broke through the slimy film. It burst through the wall, hollowing.
Will didn’t hesitate—he aimed his gun and shot the creature right in the face.
Blood splattered across the walls as its body jerked back.
Will fired again.
And again.
And again.
Some time later
Time passed differently in this place.
There was no sunlight to mark the passage of time—there was no way to tell if it was morning or night; if evening was on the horizon or if the afternoon was creeping up on you.
The only tether to real time was the voices.
Mike, Lucas, Dustin—his mom.
Jonathan’s absence sat heavily on his heart, but as the time started to wane, the disappointment faded. He didn’t have the energy to dwell on negative emotions. This place was already sad enough.
Will’s hair grew, his clothes shrank—he grew taller, skinnier too, as food was scarce and unappealing.
Time passed, whether Will wanted it to or not.
He was in the middle of opening his dinner—cold beans, cold corn, cold carrots—when Lucas’ voice crackled through the radio.
“Byers!” he shouted. “Happy Birthday!”
Will perked up.
He quickly grabbed his bowl, his spoon halfway in his mouth. He sank into the pile of dusty pillows and grabbed the radio to put on his lap.
Will had celebrated three birthdays in this place.
Three years had passed.
Somedays it felt like no time had passed at all. Somedays—time moved so quickly, Will thought he’d grow old here; his body would lie here forever in this awful place. There would be no insects here to devour his corpse, no one here to bury his bones. Maybe the monsters would find a way to break through his fleshy protective barrier and consume him once and for all.
“Mike is still sleeping—he’s gonna be so mad I beat him to it,” Lucas said. “But you snooze, you lose.”
Will smiled.
He could vaguely picture Lucas’ face, his sly smile, and his brown eyes. He still pictured a small boy, but Will knew he looked different from when Will last saw him. His voice was deeper, his words wiser.
His chest ached suddenly. He had missed so much—his friends’ updates were nice, but it would never calm the raging sadness that lived in him.
In some ways, it was as if he were there with them. But truly, Will was like a ghost haunting their lives, drifting through their memories for a few minutes until his apparition disappeared.
They talked to him most days—at first, they talked to him all the time. But time had done a number on them. Their conversations thinned, not terribly, but enough for Will to feel the gaping distance between him and the real world.
His friends still had lives to live. Their lives didn’t stop just because Will went missing.
They had science fairs to prepare for, movies to watch, and girlfriends to make happy.
Will wanted to feel happy for them. But most days he just felt empty, a hollow version of the boy he had once been.
The only time he felt full was when their voices crackled through his radio. The moment their voices disappeared, Will felt the cold, dreadful reality crawl across his skin.
The worst part was not being able to see them. Will thought that maybe if he could see their faces, he would feel less lonely afterward, like he would have something more to hang on to.
He longed to know what they looked like—what did Dustin look like now with teeth? Was Lucas taller than Mike? Did Mike still have a constellation of freckles? Was his hair still curly and unruly?
Will laid down, shoving his sleeping bag under his head. He dragged a blanket over his body—he thought he’d be used to the cold, but it still pressed against his skin, heavy enough to sink into his bones. The three layers of sweatshirts were hardly enough.
Will thought he might never feel warm again.
“Your mom is having us over for dinner,” Lucas went on. “She’s making your favorite.”
Will’s stomach settled slightly. If he concentrated hard enough, he might be able to smell the herbs and garlic.
His senses were all messed up—he didn’t know what things smelled like anymore. What might smell sweet would probably smell rotten to him now. Everything smelled rotten here.
Lucas went on for some time, updating Will on how the spring semester was going and what he wanted to buy his girlfriend, Maxine, for their anniversary.
Will wondered if her hair was really as red as Lucas always described it.
“And Will,” Lucas breathed, his voice starting to fizzle out. That happened sometimes when they talked for too long, like whatever mysterious antenna was connecting them couldn’t keep steady. “I hope—wherever you are—that you’re safe. I hope you’re happy, and I hope someone lights a candle for you.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Will didn’t cry much anymore; he thought the tears might have dried up. But he felt dangerously close to crying then. He scrubbed a fist over his eyes, turning on his side.
I hope you’re happy.
Will lie there for a long time, trying to conjure up the feeling of happiness.
He had forgotten what that felt like.
Will woke to Mike’s voice filling Castle Byers.
“—-there’s no way!”
He jolted up, patting around the blankets frantically. When his fingers closed around the radio, he pulled it close to his chest, dialing the volume up.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He can’t believe he missed Mike’s call—he hoped it wasn’t too late.
“She was being ridiculous,” he was saying. “I can’t believe she let it happen.”
Will’s heart was beating in his throat.
He made a frustrated noise—he had no idea what Mike was talking about.
“Anyways,” he blew out a large breath. “I’m sure you don’t care about what Nancy’s been up…”
Will sat up, his brows pinched together. He tapped the radio, thinking he was starting to lose their connection.
Then, Mike’s voice came back.
“I asked your mom if we could celebrate your birthday at the arcade. I think she liked the idea, but she said no…I get it. People would probably stare,” he sighed. “A lot of people stare—they never really stopped staring.”
Will’s shoulders sagged.
He hated that—life had already been hard for her before. His chest ached thinking about how much more difficult it probably became after he went missing
He rubbed his sleeve over his chapped lips, worrying the fabric between his teeth.
“Lucas and I are gonna watch your favorite movie tonight,” he said. “Dustin won’t be there—he’s visiting his girlfriend for Spring break.”
Will laughed. Mike said the word girlfriend as if it had personally offended him.
Suzie, Will thought, sounded like a very nice girl.
“But Max will be there—El too.”
Will almost smashed the radio against the ground.
He hated hearing her name.
Will threw himself down on a pile of blankets, turning his back toward the radio.
“She doesn’t really like horror movies, though.”
Of course she doesn’t, Will thought.
“Maybe she’ll like it—maybe you guys will have something to talk about when you get back.”
Will sat up again, glaring at the radio.
He didn’t want to share anything with her. He didn’t want her watching his favorite movie with Mike on his birthday.
“She thinks we might be close to finding you,” Mike said, his voice suddenly low and quiet.
Will really wanted to smash the radio against the ground.
All she’d done was feed Mike these delusions. For three years now, Mike had whispered into the radio about how they were going to rescue him—save him from this place—but it never happened. They hadn’t even come close.
The closest he had been to his world in the last eight hundred seventy days was with the lights.
He had one glimpse into the life that used to be his; colors flashing across his house like flare signals. He had banged his fists against the gelatinous wall, begging for his mom to pull him out.
She couldn’t.
No one was ever going to find him. Will would die here. He’d never leave—even in death, he was condemned to this place.
“Will,” Mike breathed, his breath loud and filled with static. “Do you think…Could you try to talk to me again, like before?”
Will’s heart beat quickened.
His fingers curled and uncurled at his side.
“I know it hurt—last time. But…” He paused for a long moment. “It would be nice to hear your voice—to know that you’re still…there. That you’re still alive.”
Will picked at the chapped skin on his lip; the metallic tang of blood spread across his tongue as he licked the dry skin.
Last time—nearly two years ago—Will had touched the radio, just wanting to hold it close to his chest. He wanted to feel Mike’s voice vibrate through his ribs and curl around his heart. What he hadn’t expected was for Mike to hear his heart beating wildly in his chest.
He had cried out to Will, telling him he could hear his heart.
That was when Will spoke to the radio, frantically calling Mike’s name.
Then, the pain came.
His head felt like someone had cleaved a hammer straight through his skull. He screamed; the pain was so intense.
Mike’s voice washed over him, trying to soothe him as the pain ebbed and flowed.
He must have said something to Mike. He must have cried out to him, telling him how painful it was to speak.
But that was before.
Will had found a way to build a protective layer around Castle Byers. Only he could enter through the fleshy wall just outside.
He was safe inside.
There was a time when that wasn’t always the case.
Will had built the wall, planning for only his body to enter. He didn’t think that meant anything that also came from his body could enter too.
The vines had laid creatures inside him; they had fused to Will’s DNA somehow. In some awful, twisted way, they were his.
They left his body slowly, and by the time Will had realized they could enter through his force field, he knew he had to kill them before they killed him.
It was inevitable, really. They were monsters…weren’t they?
Will had stood over the youngest, a jagged rock pressed into his palm.
He thought of his own home life.
Lonnie was a bad father, but Jonathan was good. Will had been good once, too, before the monster took him.
But then he thought of Chester, the same size as the creature curled up against his sleeping bag. It had crawled through the fleshy door while he slept—Will had startled awake, his heart pounding against his chest. He sensed the danger before he saw it.
Anger rattled his heart. He grabbed the nearest thing—a large rock he had used to weigh down papers once. He clutched it tightly in his hands and—
The small creature had woken up, its head lifting off Will’s spare pillow. It mewled, clicking softly. It was a different sound. It wasn’t like the others. It was soft and helpless.
Will lowered his hand, his fingers trembling.
The creatures stretched like a cat after a long nap. When it opened its face, there were no teeth.
Will stared.
It flopped down, his chest rising and falling.
Will slowly laid back down, next to the creature.
He could not bring himself to kill it.
He reached out, poking its bony side. The creature stretched again, rolling onto its back—it almost resembled a dog. A very malnourished, hairless dog.
Will didn’t kill Gizmo.
He did kill the others, though.
They had grown quickly, and with their growing bodies came a growing appetite.
They were not kind to Will, so Will was not kind to them.
He had hunted them down—with the help of his new friend.
Of all the things to have unfolded in this place, the strangest thing was Gizmo.
Gizmo didn’t grow. She didn’t just stay the same size—she didn’t grow any teeth.
She was a bit dumb, Will noticed. She couldn’t sense danger, not until it was moments from her face. She liked to chase her own tail—she had nipped half the thing off once, oblivious to what she was doing. Now, it was just a little numb.
But her smell was immaculate.
She sniffed out the others, and Will took them out one by one.
There were a total of three creatures that had left his body.
Three shots. Three trips through the forest. Three sleepless nights.
He may have made a mistake with Gizmo, but at least it would be a mistake he only made once.
Will thought now would be different.
When he spoke the first time, it was like someone had reached into his mind and squeezed his brain. Maybe this time, they wouldn’t be able to reach him.
“Will…?”
Will grabbed the radio, his heart beating loudly in his ears.
The dial scale pulsed like a heartbeat.
Gizmo raised her head from her spot in the corner.
“Mike?” he croaked, his voice sharp against his throat.
He hadn’t spoken in a long time.
“Will,” Mike breathed. Not a question, but hesitantly unsure.
“Can you…” Will swallowed, his throat dry. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” he said. His voice was trembling. “I can hear you—don’t stop talking. Just—say something. Anything, just keep talking.”
Many nights, Will had sat awake and thought about all the things he'd want to tell his family. But now, he was at a loss for words.
What could he possibly say?
He was always cold, it was always dark—the food was tasteless and mushy. He was never not scared; it was the only emotion that hadn’t left him completely.
He had a creature-pet named Gizmo. The other things that left his body he’d shot and killed, and even hung up one of their sawed-off arm in Castle Byers.
He knew what monster meat tasted like.
He had learned how to sew wounds closed.
He was so very lonely.
“Will?” His voice sounded frantic.
“I’m here, Mike,” he said, clutching the radio to his chest. It still hurt to speak, but he wanted to keep Mike talking.
I miss you, he wanted to say.
Instead, he whispered. “I miss rain clouds.”
Mike made a sad noise, like a wet laugh that didn’t hold any humor. “It doesn’t rain where you are?”
Will shook his head, forgetting Mike couldn’t actually see him. “No. There’s no water,” he told Mike. “None the clouds could take.”
“Is there sun?” Mike asked.
“No. It’s always dark.”
When he said it aloud, it was like the darkness manifested around him; its hands curled around his shoulders, trying to push him down, away from the glowing radio.
Will swallowed thickly.
He didn’t want to, but he said to Mike, “I should stop talking—they might be listening.”
Shadows passed over Castle Byers.
Gizmo sniffed the air.
“Wait,” Mike’s voice split through the air. “Will—who’s listening?”
The shadow grew—Gizmo stood on all fours.
Will’s heart raced through his chest.
“I have to go now, Mike,” he whispered.
“Will! Wait—”
The dial scale glowed bright. Will knew better than to hold it in his hands.
He threw it away from himself.
It sparked—it was catching fire.
Flames burst to life.
“No,” Will breathed.
He started frantically gathering his blankets, trying to snuff out the flames. They latched onto everything—Castle Byers started glowing red and orange.
Gizmo surged forward. Will threw his arm out, pushing her back.
Smoke filled the air.
Will stood, frozen by the sight before him.
Flames licked and lapped across the log walls, the yellow canopy, and the old pictures he had drawn once. This place was once again devouring him in every way it knew how.
The wood above his head groaned as it sagged inward.
Will blinked, the world slamming into focus.
“Go,” Will urged, pushing Gizmo toward the entrance.
Something was lurking in the woods, but Will thought it might feel less painful to be eaten alive than to be consumed by fire.
He had hesitated too long—the logs and sticks above him started to fall.
Will could hear Gizmo cry out in pain. The smoke was too thick to see—
A large log came barreling down toward Will, fire swinging through the air.
It hit him hard in the side.
Will couldn’t even register the pain at first. All he knew was that he needed to get away from the searing heat pressed into his side. He pushed the log away, the heat spreading through his hands and up his side.
Something bit into his jacket and dragged him backward—the log rolled away from him, leaving a trail of smoldering ash down his pant leg.
The cold gelatinous wall pulled at his skin as he was dragged through its thick layer of protection.
The cold air hit his lungs hard.
Will gasped, instinctively jumping to his feet. His legs buckled—pain tore through his side violently.
He doubled over, throwing up in the dirt.
Gizmo circled him frantically, nearly knocking Will over.
A monster clicked quietly.
Gizmo faltered.
“Run,” Will told her, already standing to his feet.
His legs threatened to give, but the fear was strong enough to push him forward.
They took off, the trees flying past him in a blur. But he could only run so fast with his injury.
Will limped, his right leg weighed down by the intense pain radiating through him.
The monster clicked louder—Will ran faster.
There was only one place he could go.
The creature was close—Will could hear them running through the trees. Branches snapped beneath its weight. The leaves rustled as their body ran through them.
He was so close.
It was the vine that got him—again.
It was so dark that it was easy to mistake a vine for a tree trunk.
Will tripped, crashing hard into the ground.
It flipped him over, dragging him backward away from the house he had been running to.
The creature broke through the trees. It charged at Will, flining itself at him.
Will threw his hands out—
Nothing happened.
The vine wrapped around his waist loosened.
Will blinked.
Above him, the creature was frozen in midair. Its arm was bent back as if it were about to strike. Its face was split open, but no sound came out of it.
Will lowered his hands, slowly.
The creature suddenly came to life—Will pushed his hands out again, ready to shield himself.
The creature froze.
Oh.
Will stood, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He kept his hands extended in front of himself, never lowering them.
Interesting, he thought.
He turned his wrists toward himself as if beckoning a power he could not see.
His whole body started to shake.
Energy crackled and fizzed all around him.
His vision blurred, but instead of feeling frightened as his eyesight drifted away, he felt powerful.
Will screamed, pulling his arms down to his side.
The sound of bones snapping whipped through the air.
Will fell to the ground at the same time the creatures dropped onto the forest floor.
His vision came back to him slowly.
The creature was a convoluted mess, all misshapen limbs and protruding bones.
It was dead, entirely unmoving.
Will had killed it, and he didn’t need a weapon to do so.
He almost laughed.
Gizmo came up to him, sniffing the air; she jumped like a rabbit as if the sight pleased her.
Will had killed it—he killed it.
And now he knew he was capable of killing every last one of them.