Chapter Text
Part 1: Where the Colors Went
Chapter 001:The Vanishing of Will Byers
Sun. November 6th 1983
The Wheeler house was dark, but the basement was even darker—which could only mean one thing: Dungeons and Dragons. They all sit at small table in the basement, Mike’s basement—a space cluttered with old bike parts from the many times he had crashed into trees or from being pushed off by his many bullies, old board games that his mom and dad had once been so excited to play with him on his tenth birthday (now sitting untouched on the dust-caked shelves), and stacked fantasy manuals his friends had made with him, ones about dragons, wizards, knights, and sorcerers, the paladins always won the princess. Because that was how the story was supposed to go. That was what was normal.
“Something is coming… something hungry for blood.” Mike said. He had sharp facial features and black hair. He sat behind a binder that carries the others’ character sheets. He was playing as the Dungeon Master.
A single bulb hung over Mike’s head, buzzing and casting light shadows over the cement walls and over his friend Will. The yellow beam illuminated Will’s soft features.
Mike’s eyes darkened, turning intense. The others looked at him as if he were holding their futures in his hands. Dice clattered softly as the boys waited impatiently. He smirked.
“Wait, did you hear that sound?” He asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.
He looked up, eyes locking with a dirty blondish, curly-haired boy who looked like he could shit his pants at any moment.
“A shadow grows on the wall behind you,” he said slowly, savoring every word and reaction. “It stretches, twitching and roaring until it swallows you in the darkness. You can hear it breathing, feel its breath on the follicles on the back of your neck.”
One of the boys with coarse black hair reaches behind his neck, feeling the hairs standing up. The basement suddenly went quiet.
“It’s almost here.” The boys leaned forward instinctively, elbows on the table. No one laughed now—this was serious. Lucas Sinclair, twelve years old and playing as the Ranger, gripped his character sheet like a weapon. He might have been one of the smallest at the table, but his mouth sure did make up for it. His brows knit as he thought. Mike knew that look—the one where Lucas begins thinking ahead, the rational ideas, plans, the safety of his party members. He let out a soft sigh and looked up with an already defeated expression. He knew they were in deep shit.
The boy to his left, Dustin Henderson, also twelve, played as a Bard, chewed his lip nervously. He was a little on the chunkier side, not much, more like baby fat. His teeth were still growing in, but his smile was contagious and never went away. Mike thought he had to believe that the world was sunshine and rainbows. He was already calculating his odds, and judging by his face, he didn’t like them.
“Please don’t say it's the demogorgon." Dustin pleaded, voice rough. “Shit, we’d be so screwed if it was the demogorgon."
“It is not the demogorgan.” Lucas said, rolling his eyes.
Mike smiled and it softened further when he turned to look at the last boy sitting across from him—Will Byers, also twelve, playing the Cleric. The light cascaded over his small frame. His shoulders were slightly hunched; he was the smallest in the party. There was something more delicate to him, like he felt the danger more than the others. He was always quieter than the others, too. He listened. It was easy to talk to him, easy to ramble, even if he didn’t answer most of the time.
“An army of Troglodytes charge into the chamber.”
“Pfft, told ya.” Lucas said with a scoff, shooting Dustin a haughty look.
Mike smirked again and then threw a panicked glance over his shoulder, eyes widening. Will moves forward in his seat.
“Wait, do you hear that? Boom. Boom. BOOM! That sound..? It didn’t come from the Troglodyes. It came from something else…” He slammed a two-headed figurine onto the map. “The Demogorgan."
The boys stared in disbelief and Dustin hid in his shirt, Lucas cursed out the game, and Will’s hands hovered over his spell list.
“Will, your action!” Mike watched as Will swallowed hard, clearly wishing it wasn’t his turn.
“I- I don’t know.”
“Fireball him!” Lucas shouted in his face.
“I’d have to roll a thirteen or higher.” Will shot back.
“Too risky, cast a protection spell.” Dustin said quickly.
“Don’t be a pussy! Fireball him!” Lucas argued. Dustin fired back, Will looked between them, caught in the middle of it all. The voices overlap, until Mike cuts through them.
“The Demogorgon is tired of your silly bickering. It stomps toward you. BOOM!”
“Fireball Him!”
“Cast protection!”
“It roars in anger.” Mike let out a shriek.
Will hesitated, making his final decision. “And… fireball!”
He threw the dice too hard. The dice scattered across the basement, disappearing somewhere out of sight. They all sprang out of their seats. Mike crawled toward the basement steps while Will looked under the table. Dustin and Lucas dug through the couch cushions, searching frantically. The basement door flew open. They all looked up to see Mike’s mom standing at the top of the steps, arms crossed in authority.
“Mom!” Mike groaned. “We’re in the middle of a campaign.”
“You mean the end.” She tapped her watch. “Fifteen after.”
Mike chased her up the stairs while the others stayed scattered behind him, still searching for the die. He entered the kitchen, slamming his hand on the counter. The room was neat, the floor freshly swept. The fridge was covered in family photos of blank stares and matching outfits, a church schedule, and a wedding invite for his parents some time in July—held up by a crucifix magnet.
“Just twenty more minutes?"
“It’s a school night, Michael, and I just put Holly to bed. Finish next weekend.”
“I am not the same age as Holly! Why do we have to stop? Playing next week will ruin the flow. How was I supposed to know we would play for ten hours?”
“You’ve been playing for ten hours?” She asked, stunned. Mike’s mouth opened to answer, then stopped. Nothing he could say would work at this point. That left only one option left. Even more unreliable than the first. His dad. Ted Wheeler sat in the living room, watching TV—or trying to. The signal was terrible. He smacked the side of it.
“This piece of junk.”
“Dad, don’t you think—”
“I think you should listen to your mother,” he muttered, not even looking at him.
“That is total bullshit.”
“Language, Michael.” If there was one thing worse than his mom, it was his dad. Then his older sister Nancy. The only thing that really listened to him was the basement.
1
Lucas and Dustin started packing up while Will stayed behind, still searching for the die. He was worried he’d have to tell Mike that he lost it and Mike would be mad at him. He found it tucked underneath the couch. The number didn't read thirteen or higher.
It was a seven.
Will tapped Lucas on the shoulder before he headed up the stairs, where Mike was in the kitchen trying to convince his parents to let them finish the campaign.
“Does a seven count?” Will asked.
“Did Mike see it?” Lucas shot back. Will shook his head, “Then it doesn’t count.”
Will stared ahead, expression slack. Did Lucas expect him to lie to Mike? Mike was his best friend. They told each other everything—things they didn’t even tell Dustin and Lucas. He thought he could do it, but the guilt was eating him alive.
They zipped their backpacks and raced outside. Dustin grabbed the pizza box, still holding one last slice, offering it to each one of them when no one wanted it. He briefly considered giving it to Mike’s sister, Nancy upstairs—who was probably on the phone with Barb Holland or her bubble-butt boyfriend, Steve Harrington.
Will stepped out of the front door. Mike was already helping Lucas onto his bike. Dustin came out last, scoffing.
“Something is seriously wrong with your sister. She’s got a stick up her ass,” Dustin said, scarfing down the slice Nancy had refused.
“It’s because she’s seeing that barf bag, Steve Harrington,” Lucas added. Will stayed quiet picking at the loose strands of fabric on his sleeves.
“Yeah, she’s turning into a real jerk.” Dustin agreed.
“She’s always been a jerk.” Mike muttered.
“Nuh uh, remember when she dressed up as an elf for one of our campaigns?” Dustin argued.
“And she was a princess in one of our campaigns.” Will added.
Mike let out a sigh of defeat as Dustin climbed onto his bike. Will held his backpack for him. Once he was fully on, Will handed it back with a small, kind smile.
“C’mon.” Lucas said, already biking out of the garage. Dustin followed, but Will lingered for a second longer, turning toward Mike. He had to tell him. He couldn’t stand the thought of lying—especially not to Mike.
“...It was a seven.”
“What?” Mike turned to him, puzzled, searching his eyes.
“The roll. It was a seven. The Demogorgon… it got me.” Will shrugged lightly. “See ya tomorrow.” He smiled. When Will hopped onto his bike, the garage flickered. Strange. Mike’s eyebrows furrowed.
He rode off, catching up with Lucas and Dustin. They’re chuckling about something and making fake wolf whistles and kissy noises. The ride was full of laughter, arguing, and Lucas’ snarky comments. Their handlebars blinked through the darkness—a good thing, because it was especially dark tonight.
They reached Piney Wood Lane—Lucas’ street, where most of the Black families in the town lived, since they weren’t very welcomed in many other places besides Forest Hills Trailer Park.
Lucas peeled off, calling back to us. “Goodnight, ladies.”
“Kiss your mom ‘night for me.” Dustin called back, grinning. Will chuckled quietly as Lucas flipped them off and rode up to his two-story white house with Navy shutters. It looked almost identical in size to Mike’s. Even Dustin’s house, though smaller, was bigger than Will’s.
They rode in silence for a moment before Dustin spoke. “Race you down the street? Winner gets a comic?”
“Any comic?”
“Uh huh” That was all Will needed. He pedaled faster. “Hey!” Dustin yelled, chasing after him, but he was already falling behind. Will sped past the last house at the edge of the neighborhood.
“I’ll take your ‘X-Men’ one-three-four!” Will called back, glancing over his shoulder with a playful grin. Dustin eventually stopped, out of breath, groaning. He raised his finger.
“I hate you!” Will smiled faintly and kept riding. Soon, the neighborhood faded behind him. The road into a long stretch through the woods. Quiet. Empty. He was alone now. He lived farther out than the others. His brother, Jonathan had been supposed to pick him up, but he’d taken an extra shift. The street lights grew dimmer. Only crickets and the soft breeze filled the silence. Will biked past a tall metal fence. A sign that read: HAWKINS NATIONAL LABORATORY — RESTRICTED AREA — NO TRESPASSING.
He’d always wondered what went on in there. Some said it was the Department of Energy. Others said it was something else—somehting secret. Something worse. Just rumors. His bike light flickered. Will glanced down. After a moment, it steadied again. He looked back up and froze. A tall, lanky figure stood in the middle of the road.
Will yanked his handlebars, losing control. The bike veered off into the woods. He hit the ground hard, skidding, rolling, as the breath knocked from his chest. He lay still. Silence passes through the woods again. Then, a sound. Low. Guttural. A growl, coming from behind him. The darkness pressed in around him, just like the campaign. Something is coming. Will scrambled to his feet. He didn’t grab his bike. Running would be faster. The leaves underneath his feet swirl from the wind. The tree’s pressed in on him. Something hungry for blood.
He burst out of the woods. His house came into view. Small, one-story, and worn down. But, it was his home. He slammed the door behind him, locking it. Chester rushed to greet him, barking, tail wagging. Will shoved past him, calling out for his mom. For Jonathan. No one was home.
He rushed to the window, cupping his hands against the glass. He squinted his eyes through the darkness. Wind picked up, making the laundry line sway and for a moment the sheets lifted. The figure stood there again. Still. Watching amongst the bellowing laundry.
Will couldn’t make out the features clearly, but something was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. Its proportions were off—head too large, arms too long, body twisted, uneven. Another gust fluttered the clothes line. This time, it was gone. Will’s heart climbed into his throat. He ran to the kitchen, ripping the phone off of the wall and dialing 911. Nothing. Just static.
“Hello?”
“…lo…” It sounded weak and quiet. But, something was there. The bulb flickered once more.
“Hello! Hello?!” He whimpered. Then, the sound. That same growl. The pitch shifted, rising and falling—making a series of strange noises—trying to speak. Someone else trying to speak through the growl. Behind him, Chester began growling at the front door. Will lowered the phone slowly.
A shadow filled the gap beneath the door and slowly the chain began to slide open. On its own. The old metal screeched. He dropped the phone and ran out of the back door, trying to keep his steps as quiet as possible. The grass was damp as he ran toward the shed.
He breathed hard, eyes searching for bullets, guns, some type of weapons. His eyes darted around the dark, cluttered space—lit only by one singular naked light bulb. The bulb buzzes, flickers. Then he saw it. the old Remington rifle. He yanked it off the wall, coughing as dust flew up. He grabbed shells from the workbench. His hands shook as he loaded it—slow, clumsy, and terrified.
He snapped the chamber shut and aimed it at the door. The barrel trembled in his grip. He flinched at the feeling of it, the memories it held.
June, 1982
Will and Jonathan sat on the mattress in Jonathan's room. Will showed him his drawings—one of Jonathan in armor, holding a sword. Will was waiting around for Lonnie. He was going to take him to a baseball game. He didn’t want to go, but it was better to just do what people wanted him to do. Jonathan used to feel that way about Lonnie, as well, but not anymore. He tried to tell Will that he didn’t need to listen—that he didn’t need Lonnie. They had each other and that was enough.
The front door bursted and Lonnie stormed in, their mom following behind, yelling at him. Will flinched and Jonathan quickly shut the door.
“Hey, wanna see something?” Jonathan asked. Will nodded. Jonathan slid a VHS into the player. Music filled the room. “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” by The Clash. Will nodded along. “You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s cool.” Will meant it, still bopping his head to the beat.
“I could give you the mixtape.”
“Really?” Jonathan nodded.
“Yeah, really, all the best music is on here: Joy Division, Bowie, The Smiths. It’ll change your life.” Will smiled, but the yelling outside got louder. Will’s head turned to the door.
“Where the hell were you Lonnie? You never make it to anything on time! He was dressed an hour ago.” Joyce’s voice rang through the house. Jonathan just turned up the volume. He was good at that—drowning things out, the whispers about him, his family. Will hated when he did that. He just wanted him to talk.
“He’s not going is he?”
“Do you even like baseball?” Jonathan asked.
“Sometimes.” He shrugged.
“Has he ever done anything you actually like? You know, like the arcade or something?” Will didn’t answer. So, Jonathan did for him. “No, he hasn’t. He is trying to make you normal. And you shouldn’t like things because people tell you to. Especially not him.” Will nodded. “But, you like The Clash. Right?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan smiled and turned it louder. Jonathan nudged his shoulder and they moved to the beat smiling, laughing. Until the scream broke it. They rushed out of the room and their mom was screaming and crying. Lonnie stood there holding the Remington rifle.
Sun. November 6th, 1983
Will kept his eyes fixed on the shed door. A shadow rose slowly behind him. He could sense it, but when he turned he couldn’t fire. He was too scared. He just stared. Frozen. Tears blurred his vision.
“Please,” he whispered, quiet and weak. But even he knew his pleads wouldn’t matter. His voice was too small for anyone to listen.
The lightbulb above him flared, brighter and brighter, flooding the shed with blinding white light. A shriek tore through the air. Until it went silent. The light dimmed. Everything returned to normal. The shed was empty. The monster and Will… vanished.
Sun. November 7th, 1983
“Michael, breakfast!” Karen Wheeler's voice rang up the stairs. Mike rolled his eyes, squeezing them shut and pulling the covers over his head. “MICHAEL!” He groaned, letting out a sharp huff of air.
“COMING!” he shouted back, throwing on a shirt as he scrambled out of bed. He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Slow down, Michael, it’s early.” Ted said from the living room, still fiddling with the staticky TV. Mike ignored him and dropped to his seat next to Nancy at the dining table. Then the phone rang. Just adding to the chaos.
Holly cried in Karen’s arms. Nancy and Mike bickered. Ted finally got the TV working and changed the channel to the morning news. And the phone kept ringing. Was someone going to answer the fucking phone? Mike thought.
Karen finally picked it up, balancing Holly on her hip. “Hello?”
Mike drowned his scrambled eggs in syrup. Nancy shot him a look of pure disgust. “That’s disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting.” He squeezed the syrup bottle over her plate, coating her eggs.
“WHAT THE HELL, MIKE!” Nancy snapped. I looked down at my plate innocently trying to hide my grin.
“Hey—language.” Ted’s head snapped from the TV to Nancy, scolding her. Karen pressed the phone between her shoulder and ear.
“Quiet,” she said, turning to glare at Nancy, Mike, and even Ted. Then she turned back to the call. “Sorry… one of those mornings…” Mike stilled, listening.
“...Was that Will I heard back there?” Joyce’s voice came faintly through the receiver.
“Will? No, just Michael,” Karens said. Mike focussed harder, trying to catch every word. “...No. He left here a little after eight. He’s not home?” Karen’s voice shifted, concern creeping in.
On the other end, Joyce tried to mask her panic. “I’m sure he just left early for school. Thanks, Karen.”
After breakfast, Mike rushed down to the basement, grabbing his walkie-talkie from his backpack. He knocked over a stack of board games on the steps in his hurry.
“Lucas? Do you copy?” He asked, pulling up the antenna. Dustin was too far—Lucas lived much closer. “Lucas? Lucas?” Mike repeated, over and over, until finally—
“What is it, Mike, I was eating.”
“I think Will’s in trouble. He didn’t come home last.”
“IHe definitely just went to school early again. You know he gets scared about Mr. Sandino’s pop quizzes.”
Mike sighed, biting his lip. He prayed that’s why Will wasn’t at his house this morning. “But this feels… different.”
***
Mike, Lucas, and Dustin rode their bikes past the high school, heading toward Hawkins Middle—a small, one-story brick building tucked beneath a water tower. Lucas and Dustin parked their bikes, but Mike lingered, scanning the crowd of students pouring inside. Looking for Will.
“Weird. I don’t see him.” He squinted, searching harder.
“I’m telling you—his mom was right. He just went to class early again,” Lucas said. Mike nodded slowly, trying to believe it.
Dustin nudged his shoulder. “He’s always anxious about pop quizzes.” Mike knew Dustin was right, but Will usually told him. He smiled anyway—but it faded when he spotted Troy and James.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Step right up and get your tickets to the freak show!” Troy grinned. None of them ran—they just stood there like statues. They were used to this. Passivity. Mike watched as Troy looked over them, sizing them up. “Who do you think would make more money at a freak show?” Troy shoved Mike’s chest, then Lucas’. “‘Frogface’? ‘Midnight’?” Then he turned to Dustin.”Or ‘Toothless’?” He glanced at James.
“Oooh, tough question,” James said, pretending to think. Then he pointed. “Gotta go with Thoothlessth.” James mocked Dustin’s lisp and they both laughed.
“My teeth are coming in,” Dustin shot back. “I told you a million times—it’s called Cleo- do-cranial dysplasia.”
James mocked him once more, immediately. “I thold you a million thimes.”
“Do the arm thing,” Troy demanded. Dustin hesitated. “Do it, freak.”
Mike glanced at Dustin, something tight in his chest. Dustin sighed, then crossed his arms over his body—strecthing them unnaturally due to his missing collarbones. Troy and James recoiled in exaggerated disgust—which made Dustin’s lip quiver. The two bullies shoved past them, laughing as they headed inside.
“Numbskulls.” Lucas muttered, shaking his head.
Mike slipped an arm around Dustin's shoulders. “I think it’s cool,” he said. “Like a superpower or something. Like Mr. Fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Dustin murmured. “Except I can’t fight evil with it.” They all adjusted their backpacks and headed inside. But Mike’s eyes kept searching the halls. Still looking for Will.
1
Joyce glanced at her watch again. The second hand ticked louder than it should, like it was mocking her. Her leg bounced uncontrollably as she sat in the armchair. The vinyl sticking slightly to the back of her thighs. The chair smelled faintly of old coffee and cigarette smoke.
She stared at the clock mounted on the office wall. Its white face is yellow with age and desperation, and its blue minute hand lagged behind, ticking slower than it should—like it refused to move forward, slowing time down.
She let out an impatient huff. Flo had said he would be here shortly. Her chest tightened. An hour had passed. An hour with her son still out there. Alone.
Her mind spiraled. She pictured Will’s bike tipped over in a ditch, his jeans torn at the knees, his thin arms wrapped around himself because he always gets cold.
She squeezed her hands together until her knuckles ached, grounding herself in the pain. The door suddenly burst open.
Hopper came in like a storm front, boots scuffing the floor, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his mug. He stumbled to a stop and straightened, as if that could somehow fix being late.
Joyce didn’t move. Her jaw tightened as she looked at him, not bothering to hide her anger. He barely looked at her. Like she was just another inconvenience. She crossed her arms, tightly, staring up at him—daring him to explain.
***
The typewriter slammed ink into paper, each strike sharp and final, echoing through the small room. Joyce flinched at every hit. Letter by letter, a word appeared. MISSING. Her stomach dropped.
Hopper glanced up in front of the typewriter, sliding on a pair of reading glasses. They softened his face, making him look almost thoughtful. Almost kind. But it didn’t last. His desk told the truth—cluttered with crumpled papers, coffee mugs stained with brown rings, and candy wrappers shoved into corners like secrets he never cared to hide. It looked like a child’s desk.
Joyce pulled a cigarette from her purse with shaking hands and lit it. The smoke burned her lungs—harsh, but exactly what she needed.
She paced the room, heels clicking sharply against the floor. “I’ve been waiting an hour…”
“And I apologize again,” Hopper said, not making eye contact. The words were there, but the sincerity wasn’t.
“An hour!” Her voice cracked through clenched teeth.
“I understand,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead like she was the problem. “But a boy his age—most likely he’s playing hookie.”
Joyce shook her head hard, cutting him off. “Not my Will. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that.”
Hopper pressed his palms into his eyes, dragging them down his face. He looked tired, but not in the way that comforted her. It felt practiced. Like he knew how to look worn down. Not at the expense of troubled people because he saves his real concern for paperwork.
“You never know,” he began. “My mother thought I was on the debate team, when really I was screwing Chrissy Carpenter in the back seat of my dad’s—”
“Stop.” The word snapped out of her. Hopper smirked, like he said something clever. “Will’s not like you,” Joyce said, her voice wavering now. “He’s not like me. He’s not like… most.”
The words hung in the air. Hawkins knew. She knew. Will’s difference was something people sensed—like blood in water.
Joyce took another drag of her cigarette. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes. “He’s got a couple of friends,” she forced out. “Good friends. But everyone else…” Her throat tightened. “They’re mean. They make fun of him. Call him names. Laugh at his clothes.” She swallowed hard. “Lonnie… Lonnie always said he was queer. He called him a fag.” She lowered her voice, like saying it too loudly might make it true.
“Is he?” Hopper’s face twisted—not with concern, but discomfort. Disgust.
Joyce slammed her hand down on his desk. Papers jumped. Pens clattered to the floor. Her palm stung, but she didn’t care. “He’s missing,” she hissed. “That’s what he is. Silence filled the room.
Hopper scratched at his stubble, suddenly very interested in the floor. “You don’t think that stuff matters? Kids like…” He hesitated, searching for the words. “...that get confused. Wander. Run off. You heard from Lonnie lately?”
Joyce hesitated. It was a sore subject. “He was in Indianapolis, last I heard. About a year ago.” She steadied herself. “But he’s got nothing to do with this.”
Hopper rummaged through his desk, taking too long to find a pen and notepad. Joyce stood there, helpless, watching him write like her son was just another case. Just another name.
“Kid goes missing,” Hopper said, scribbling, “ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they’re with a parent or a relative.”
“What about the other time?” Joyce cut in. Hopper furrowed his brow. “You said ninety-nine out of a hundred. What about the other time? The one?” She took another drag of her cigarette.
“Hopper removed his glasses, leaning forward. “This is Hawkins, Joyce. In four years, you know the worst thing I’ve seen?” He paused. “When that owl attacked Eleanor Gillespie. Thought her hair was a nest.” He let out a small chuckle. “I mean—it did look like one. All that frizz.” His snickering slowed when she looked back up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot. Glassy.
“I’ll talk to Lonnie,” she said quietly. “Just find my son, Hop. Find him.” Hopper absorbed that. The weight of it. A responsibility he clearly didn’t want.
He nudged his glasses back up his nose. And resumed typing.
2
EEEEEEE!
The school bell blared. The room exploded. Chairs scraped back. Lockers slammed in the hallway beyond the door. Mike was swallowed whole by the stampede of middle schoolers surging toward freedom. Chaos erupted around him. A backpack slammed into his shoulder. Someone laughed too loudly in his right ear.
The air smelled like pencil shavings, sweat, body odor, and whatever chemical they used to mop the floors and wipe the desks.
Mike clutched his books to his chest, letting himself get carried a few steps before stopping, disoriented. His head rang. He hated this part of the day—the noise, the pushing, the way everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going except him.
“Remember!” Mr. Clarke called over the chaos. “Finsish chapter twelve and answer twelve-point-three on the difference between and experiment and other forms of scientific investigation—” He trailed off. There was no one left to hear him. Well, almost no one.
“Did it come?” Mike, Dustin, and Lucas gathered around his desk, buzzing with anticipation. Mr. Clarke hesitated, his expression softening into something apologetic. The hesitation said everything. It stretched too long. Mike’s stomach dropped. For a split second, he pictured the empty A.V. room. The old equipment. Will’s face falling when they tell him.
“Sorry, boys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” Silence. “It came.” Mike let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Lucas exhaled loudly. Dustin made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. It was stupid. It was just a radio. But it felt like a win. Like something good could still happen.
***
The A.V. club door burst open. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin rushed inside, with Mr. Clarke following behind, clearly amused by their excitement. The room—filled with old audiovisual equipment—felt different now.
“Isn’t she a beaut?” A brand-new ham radio sat proudly on the desk. The boys stared at it with wide eyes.
“I bet you can talk to New York on this thing,” Dustin said, grinning.
“Think bigger,” Mr. Clarke replied.
“California?” Lucas guessed.
“Even bigger.”
“Austrailia?” Mike asked. Mr. Clarke nodded. Mike’s eyes widened. Holy shit!
“Oh man, when Will sees this, he’s totally gonna lose his shit!” Lucas said.
“Lucas!” Mr. Clarke snapped.
“Sorry,” Lucas muttered, smiling sheepishly. Mike smiled too—but it didn’t last. ‘When Will sees this’. The words echoed strangely in his head. He should be here. He always was.
They gathered around the radio. Lucas fiddled with the dials while Mike grabbed the transceiver, putting on what he thought was a convincing Australian accent—that only he thought was good.
“’Ello, this is Mike Wheeler, President of Hakwins Middle A.V. Club.”
Dustin snatched it from him. “’Ello, this is Dustin Henderson, Secretary and Treasurer of Hawkins Middle A.V. Club. Do you eat kangaroos for breakfast?” His accent was worse.
Lucas grabbed for the receiver, the two of them wrestling over it while Mike watched, half-annoyed. Then, a sharp knock. Everything stopped. Mr. Clarke turned toward the door. The principal stood there. Mike frowned.
“Sorry to interrupt… but may I borrow Michael, Lucas, and Dustin?” Chief Hopper and two other officers stepped into view behind him. Mike's expression darkens. Will.
***
The three boys sat crammed together on the couch in the principal’s office—knees knocking, shoulders pressed tight. Mike felt too big for the space. They all started talking at once.
“It was me and him, actually—”
“My house is the first stop—”
“He takes Mirkwood home,” Mike blurted, cutting through the noise, getting to the information that actually mattered.
Hopper sighed loudly, tapping his foot in irritation. “Woah, woah, woah. One at a time.” He pointed to Mike. “You. You said he takes… what?”
“Mirkwood,” Mike answered quickly. His voice came out a little too fast. He’d never talked to a cop before. It made him nervous. So did talking to teachers, waiters, or girls. But this was Will. so he pushed through it.
“‘Mirkwood’?” Hopper glanced at the cop to his left. His badge read Officer Callahan.
“It’s from ‘Lord of the Rings’—” Lucas started.
“‘The Hobbit’,” Dustin corrected.
“It doesn’t matter!”
“He asked.”
“He actsth,” Lucas mocked, exaggerating Dustin’s lisp.
Mike pressed his lips together, jaw tightening. He sat between them, rolling his eyes, biting down on his lip. It felt too familiar. The talking over each other. No one listening. At home, he tried staying quiet, most of the time. Or he’d just repeat himself. That’s when his dad would raise his voice—
“Hey!” Hopper’s voice cut through the room. Mike flinched. Dustin and Lucas went quiet. “What’d I just say? One at a damn time.” He pointed at Mike again. “You.”
“Mirkwood,” Mike said again, steadier this time. “It’s a real road. Just… not the real name. It’s where Cornwallis and Kerley meet.”
Hopper jotted it down. “Yeah. I think I know it.”
“We could show you—” Mike began.
“I said I know it.” Hopper’s eyes hardened.
Mike hesitated, but didn’t stop. “We could help look.” He leaned forward slightly, hope burning in his chest.
Hopper shot him a sharp look. “No. After school, you go straight home. All of you.” His gaze moved across them—landing on Mike last. “That means no biking around looking for your friend.” He drew out the friend. The way he said it made something twist in Mike’s stomach. “No investigating. No nonsense. This isn’t some ‘Lord of the Rings’ book.”
“‘The Hobbit’.” Dustin corrected again. Lucas groaned under his breath.
Hopper leaned forward, biting back his irritation. “Do I make myself clear?”
No one answered.
“Do I make myself clear!” The boys exchanged uneasy glances. Slowly, they all nodded.
3
Joyce strode through the woods, branches snapping under her hurried steps. She was still in her Melvald’s uniform—the same one she wore for long shifts at the small run-down general store where she barely made minimum wage, even on holidays.
She trudged on until she saw it. A small fort. Built from wood and draped in blankets and old sheets—some streaked with dried paint. She slowed. Then stepped inside. And the memory came rushing back.
April 16th, 1982
Joyce approached the small fort—a carefully constructed teepee made of sticks, sheets, and tarp. Even in its makeshift state, it was clear how much care had gone into it. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly at the entrance: CASTLE BYERS. She knelt by the sheet that served as a door.
“Ding dong! Anyone home?”
A familiar voice called from inside. “Password?”
Joyce paused, thinking. “Red-fast… no…” She frowned slightly, trying to remember. “Rhada… Rhadaghast.” A beat.
“You may enter.’
Joyce smiled and pulled the sheet aside, stepping inside. It was exactly what a twelve-year-old boy would dream of; comic books scattered across the floor, drawings pinned up, toys tucked into corners. And there he was. Will. Sitting cross-legged, reading a comic.
“I got off work early today,” Joyce said, stepping closer. “Can you believe that? And I was thinking…” She revealed two movie tickets. Poltergeist. 7:00pm.
Will’s face lit up instantly. He leaned forward, snatching them. “I thought I wasn’t allowed?!”
“Well, I changed my mind,” Joyce said with a soft smile. “But I swear, if you have nightmares this week…”
“I won’t,” Will cut in quickly. “I don’t get scared like that anymore.”
“Not even clowns?”
“No,” Will scoffed.
“What about my witch?”
“No.”
“No?” Joyce teased.
“I’m not five anymore.”
Joyce curled her hand, twisting her face into a mock scowl. “I’m going to get you, William Byers! I’m going to cook you in my hot pot!”
“Mom, stop, that’s gross.” Joyce lunged forward, grabbing him and tickling him relentlessly. Will’s laughter filled the small space, warm and bright.
Mon. November 7th, 1983
The fort was empty now. Silent. Joyce stepped inside slowly, her chest tightening as she looked around at what remained.
“Will?” she called, her voice already breaking. No answer. “Will! WILL! WILLLL!” Her scream tore throughout the woods.
Behind her, Jonathan shouted Will’s name too, his voice echoing between the trees. They called out again. And again. But the woods gave them nothing back. Only silence.
4
Hopper trudged down the road, searching for any sign of Will. His boots ground gravel into dust. The air was cold enough to bite, damp with the smell of wet leaves and decaying wood. Every breath felt heavier than the last. He turned right onto the road the kids called ‘Mirkwood’. The name stuck in his craw. Made it sound like a story. Like kids thought woods were something you played in, not something you disappeared into.
Behind him, Officer Callahan and Powell lingered, radios clinking softly against their belts.
“Will?”
“Will Byers?” Powell added.
The woods swallowed the names whole. Hopper didn’t bother calling out himself. Experience had taught him it didn’t help. He continued forward as they trailed behind, their voices low.
“The black haired boy seems to care about Will,” Callahan said, nudging Powell’s shoulder.
“His friend is missing. It’s traumatic.”
“Yeah, but—” Callahan insisted. “It was different. He wouldn’t sit still. Kept looking at the door like he wanted to bolt.”
Hopper kept his eyes forward, but the memory surfaced anyway. Mike Wheeler in the office—chin lifted like defiance, eyes locked on him, unblinking. Not loud like the curly-haired one. Not cracking jokes. Just there. Watching.
“The curly-haired and black one didn’t seem that freaked,” Callahan continued.
That irritated Hopper more than it should have. He stopped short and turned around. “It is none of our damn business,” he said gruffly. “Our job is to find Will and bring him home.”
Callahan nodded. Hopper turned back to the road, but the thought wouldn’t let go. Didn’t mean anything, he told himself. Still—most kids panicked loud. That one panicked tight. Held it in like it was something he’d learned to do. Like he’d learned it early. Or like if he was the one to panic, people would start to get ideas. Think something was wrong with him.
Something caught the light off to his right. “Hey, I got something here.” He knelt beside a bicycle in the woods, brushing leaves away to reveal more of it. Callahan and Powell rushed over.
“‘That his bike, Chief?” Callahan stated the obvious.
Hopper nodded, eyes drifting to the scraped bark on a nearby tree. “Looks like he crashed.”
“Maybe he got hurt in the fall,” Powell suggested.
Hopper glanced back toward the road, squinting into the sun as he thought. “Not so hurt he couldn’t make it home. And a bike to these kids, that’s like a Cadillac. Doesn’t make sense he’d just leave it out here. That’s everything. Freedom.”
A beat. A thought surfaced, unwanted, persistent. That Mike kid would’ve noticed right away if Will didn’t show. He would’ve waited. Counted the minutes. Probably blamed himself for not walking him home.
“He’d walk it home.” Another pause. “He was in a hurry.”
***
Hopper steered into Joyce’s driveway, stopping hard, gravel skidding beneath the tires. He stepped out, shutting the door a little too harshly.
Joyce burst onto the porch, Jonathan close behind her. Hopper moved to the trunk and pulled out the bike. Panic flickered across their faces, but he pushed past them without explanation, already heading inside. He wanted this done fast.
Joyce and Jonathan followed, tense. “And it was just sitting there?” Joyce asked, her voice unsteady. He nodded. “Was there any blood or—” He shook his head. “If you found his bike out there, why’re you here?”
“He’s got a key to the house?” Hopper asked.
“Yeah.”
“So maybe he came home.”
“So what? You think I haven’t checked my own house?” Joyce snapped.
Hopper rolled his eyes slightly but ignored her, moving toward the back door. The adjacent wall was dented, paint chipped. He opened the door slowly—the handle lined up with the damage. Someone had thrown it open. Hard.
“Has this always been here?”
“Probably. I have two boys. Look at this place.” She gestured to the clutter, but Hopper didn’t look.
“But you’re not sure?” Joyce hesitated, She wasn’t sure. A sound broke the silence, soft whimpering from outside. The dog was barking at something. Someone.
Hopper and Joyce stepped onto the back porch. The dog paced in front of the shed, whining low in its throat.
“Is this normal?” Hopper asked.
“Just hungry, I’m sure.” Joyce murmured, grabbing the leash and pulling the dog away.
Hopper didn’t follow. Not yet. He glanced through the window, spotting Powell and Callahan in Jonathan's bedroom. The window half-way open.
“Are you sure Jonathan just didn’t kill him?” Callahan said, snickering.
Hopper scoffed and his gaze shifted back to the shed. The wood groaned as Hopper pushed the shed door open. It was dim inside, only a thin line of light slipping through the small window. He flipped the switch. The bulb hummed to life.
He stepped toward the rifle mount. Empty. Hopper leaned closer. Fingerprints disturbed the dust. Someone had been there. Recently.
Above him, the bulb buzzed. Flickered. Bright, then dim. Bright again. Then darkness. A low, guttural sound echoed in the shed. Hopper froze, scanning the space. ‘The hell is that?
“That you, buddy? You hungry?” he called, assuming the dog had come back. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and clicked it on, sweeping the beam slowly across the darkness. Nothing. Until, he squinted his eyes moving closer to it. The small sleeping bag rolled up in a corner.
The sounds grew louder, closer. His hand moved toward his gun as he crouched into the small space next to the sleeping bag. A shadow rises behind. He turns with the gun.
Callahan stepped into the light. “Are you deaf? I’ve been calling you.”
Hopper glanced back up. The bulb flickered back to life, steady again. Normal. Strange. He shook it off and strode back toward the house, moving fast. Callahan hurried after him.
“You sure you’re all right, Chief?”
“I want you to call Florence,” Hopper said. “Have her get a search party together. As many volunteers as she can muster. Flashlights too.”
“You think we have an actual problem here?”
Hopper didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure. He climbed into his car. The door slammed shut.
Tue. November 8th, 1983
Mike sat at the dinner table with his family. His mom placed a home-cooked meal in front of him, but he didn’t eat. He picked at the food instead, pushing his peas around the plate in slow circles. Nancy stared down at her own plate, unfazed. His dad cleared his throat and shot his mom a look—one Mike had seen a hundred times before. A ‘what are we gonna do with him’ look. When his mom finally sighed, it was soft but tired.
“Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s say grace.”
Mike wanted to scoff. Roll his eyes. Say something. Will had been missing for a night, and they wanted to thank God? If God protected people, then where was Will right now? But he didn’t say anything.
Instead, he reached for Nancy and his dad’s hands. Nancy’s fingers twitched at the contact. Her hand was cold—like a corpse. His dad’s palm was warm and clammy, squeezing a little too tight.
“Dear Lord,” his mom began, bowing her head, “thank you for bringing us together tonight.”
Together? Mike didn’t feel close at all. Nancy didn’t either—her hand wouldn’t have flinched if she did.
“Thank you for this meal,” she continued.
Thanks for this meal, Mike thought. Mom made it. Why are we thanking God?
“And for keeping our family safe.”
Safe. Mike swallowed hard.
“And we ask,” she went on, her voice wavering, “that you watch over those who are hurting. Over the Byers family. Over Will.” Mike’s throat tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please bring him home and give Joyce all the strength she needs.” Her voice cracked. Mike knew she and Joyce had been friends in high school. (Maybe even a little more).
“Amen,” his dad muttered before she’d even finished, like he just wanted it to be over.
“Amen,” Nancy echoed quietly. Then Holly—and Karen. Mike said nothing. All eyes turned to him.
“Mike?” Karen looked at him expectantly.
He stared blankly at the table. How was he supposed to say he didn’t know if he believed anymore? “If God is listening,” he said finally, “then why hasn’t He done anything?”
No one said anything. The clock ticked loudly on the wall. The blue minute hand speeding up. The smell of dinner made his stomach twist—not from hunger, but from nausea.
“We should be out looking for him,” Mike continued.
“Who cares what the police said yesterday at school. We should look for him tonight.”
“We’ve been over this. The chief said—”
“I don’t care what the chief said” He cut her off.
“Michael,” his mom said firmly, a warning tone.
“He’s not even the real police, Mom. We have to do something. Will could be in danger!”
“More reason to stay put.”
“Mom—”
“End of discussion.” Mike looked away, jaw tight, hurling himself back against his chard with his arms crossed.
They resumed eating in silence. He didn’t know what he was more tired of—the silence, the fighting, or Will being gone. He glanced at Nancy as she scraped her fork against her plate, pushing food around. Then, in a casual tone that didn’t match the tension:
“So… me and Barb… we’re gonna study for the chemistry test at her house tomorrow night. That’s cool, right?”
Their mom looked up immediately. “Am I speaking Chinese in this house? Until we know Will’s okay, no one leaves.”
“So, we’re under house arrest? This is such bullshit!”
“Language!” his dad snapped—finally contributing something other than ‘listen to your mother’, but just as unhelpful.
“Barb lives two minutes away. Just because Mike’s friend got lost on his way home—”
Mike’s head shot up. “Woah. So this is Will’s fault?”
“Nancy, take that back,” their mom said sharply.
“No.”
“You’re just pissed because you wanna hang out with Steve,” Mike fired back.
“Steve?” his dad asked.
“Her new boyfriend—”
“You are such a douchebag, Mike!” Nancy kicked his leg and stormed upstairs. Mike smirked faintly.
“LANGUAGE!” he shouted after her. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs. Her huff echoed throughout the silent house. Their mom started to get up to go after her, but Holly began crying. She picked her up instead, rocking her gently, she had priorities and Nancy didn’t really need her.
“See, Michael? You see what happens?” his dad said, his tone edged with something Mike didn’t like—somehting worse than anger. His mom shot him a look.
Mike knew about the rumors. This town and the people’s small minds within it. Their stupid ideas about Will. And he knew his dad wouldn’t want someone like Will influencing his perfect son.
“What happens when what? I’m the only one acting normal here—I’m the only one who cares about Will.”
His dad just took a bite of his chicken and chewed. “That’s not fair, Michael. We care.”
Mike stared at him, furious. He couldn’t take the indifference. Not tonight. He shoved his chair back and stood, heading for the stairs. Holly cried louder. His dad kept chewing. His mom glared at him.
Mike ran upstairs, slammed the bedroom door, and threw himself onto his bed. The words echoed in his head: normal… cares… Will.
1
A constellation of flashlights glimmered in the dark. More than two dozen search-and-rescue volunteers combed through the woods for Will, their orange vests catching the light, their faces set and grave.
“He’s a good student.” The voice came from beside him. A man nudged Hopper’s shoulder. Hopper turned, mildly surprised the comment was directed at him.
“Will,” the man continued. “He’s a good student. A great one, actually. I can’t fathom him getting into any kind of trouble.” Hopper gave a small nod, already looking away. The man extended his hand. “I don’t think we met. Scott Clarke. I teach at Hawkins Middle. Earth and Biology.”
Hopper shook his head firmly, gaze drifting past him. “I’ve always had a distaste for science,” Hopper muttered. They walked for a moment in silence, boots crunching over leaves. Then something surfaced in Hopper’s mind, uninvited but insistent. “Sarah—my daughter,” he said. “Galaxies, the universe, all that… she always understood it. Maybe she got it from her mother. I don’t know.”
Clarke brightened slightly. “Your daughter? What grade is she? Maybe I’ll get her in my class.”
Hopper’s expression didn’t change. “No. She lives in the city. With her mother.” The lie came easily. It always did. It was the first one he reached for—clean, simple, and final. It didn’t invite questions. He gave Clarke a light pat on the back. “Thanks for coming out, teach. I appreciate it.” Then he picked up the pace, leaving the man behind.
A nearby volunteer leaned toward Clarke, her voice low but not low enough. “She passed away a few years back.”
Clarke hesitated. “Sorry?”
“His kid.” The words landed hard.
A sharp ache bloomed in Hopper’s chest, like pressing down on an old bruise. For a moment, the woods seemed to tilt. The cold air vanished, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights, the steady, unbearable beep of machines.
He forced himself forward. This kid—Will—was still out there. Still breathing. Still maybe waiting for someone to find him.
Hopper tightened his grip on the flashlight, shining its glow across the forest floor with renewed focus. He didn’t let himself picture Joyce’s face if this search ended the way his had. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t going to lose another child.
2
Mike sat on the couch in his basement, staring at the Demogorgon on the D&D board. It stared back at him with angry four eyes. He felt restless. Wired.
His gaze shifted across the field of miniatures—the Troglodytes, the Ranger, the Bard… and the Cleric. He reached for the Cleric piece, lifting it carefully. He held it close, studying it, turning it slightly between his fingers like the answer might be hidden in the paint. Then he grabbed the walkie-talkie, pulling out the antenna and bringing the walkie to his lips.
“Lucas? It’s Mike. Do you copy? Lucas?” Static answered at first. Then, after a couple minutes, Lucas’ voice crackled through.
“Hey, it’s Lucas.”
“I know it’s you,” Mike said. “And say ‘over’ when you’re done talking or I won’t know you’re done. Over.”
“I’m done. Over.” Lucas shot back.
Mike ignored his tone. “I’m worried about Will. Over.”
“Yeah. This is crazy. Over.”
Mike hesitated, eyes flicking back to the board. “I was thinking… Will could’ve cast protection last night. But he didn’t. He cast a fireball. Over.”
“What’s your point? Over.” Lucas sounded impatient now.
“My point is… he could’ve played it safe. But he didn’t. He put himself in danger to help the party. Over.” Silence stretched between them.
“Meet me at ten. Over and out.” Mike snapped the antenna down. He moved fast, stuffing a couple of flashlights into his bag before wheeling his bike quietly out of the garage.
He stared down the driveway and froze. Steve. He was halfway up the side of the house, trying to climb toward Nancy’s window. They locked eyes. Steve stared at him awkwardly, then lifted a hand in a small, uncertain wave. Mike just stared back. Then he scoffed. Unbelievable. Without a word, he climbed onto his bike and pedaled off into the night.
***
Silence hung thick in the air as they walked their bikes down Mirkwood. Mike led the way, like always. He slowed to a stop. Lucas and Dustin rolled up beside him.
“Why are we stopping?” Lucas asked. Mike didn’t answer. He just stared into the woods.
Lucas and Dustin followed his gaze and saw it. Police tape—wrapped around a row of trees along the side of the road. The reality hit all at once. This wasn’t a game. Not some D&D campaign they could reset or replay. This was real.
A deep rumble of thunder shattered the silence. They all looked up as lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating thick storm clouds. A drop of water hit Dustin’s face. He reached up, watching more rain fall into his palm. It was starting.
“Maybe we should go back,” Dustin said.
Mike heard him. He just didn’t care. He pulled his walkie-talkie from his bag and handed it to Dustin. “No splitting up or anything stupid,” Mike said. “But just in case—stay on channel seven.” Then, without waiting, he ducked under the police tape and stepped into the woods. Lucas followed immediately. Dustin lingered for a second, alone on the road, until another crack of thunder made him jump, and he hurried after them.
3
Joyce sat at the coffee table with Jonathan, working on Will’s missing person poster. In bold red letters, she wrote: HAVE YOU SEEN ME? She left a space in the center for a photo.
Jonathan flipped through his portfolio, searching. There were dozens of pictures—Joyce and Will, the town, the people in it. All carefully composed. All him. He was talented. Will could draw. Jonathan could photograph. Joyce could act.
“Wow, Jonathan… these are great,” she said softly. Jonathan didn’t respond. He just kept flipping, shoulders tight, embarrassed by the praise. “I’ve been working so much lately,” Joyce continued, glancing up. “I feel like I barely know what’s going on with you anymore.”
That’s when she saw it—his eyes glassy, fighting tears. “What is it, baby?”
“Nothing,” Jonathan said quickly. Joyce reached out, taking his hand, grounding him. “It’s just… last night,’ he said, voice breaking. “I just—I should’ve been here.”
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Hey. This wasn’t your fault, baby, you hear me? You hear me?”
Jonathan looked away.
“He’s going to come home soon,” Joyce said, her voice firm despite the tremble underneath. “I know it. I know it because I feel him. I feel him in my heart. He’s close.” She leaned close, searching his face. “You believe me, Jonathan. Right?”
Jonathan finally looked at her and nodded. Joyce gave a faint smile before turning back to the photos. Then she found it.
Will at the park—grinnign wide, sunlight catching his face. “This one.” She held it up, Jonathan’s lips twitched into a small, fragile smile.
Silence settled between them, heavy, but softer now. Suddenly, the phone rang. Loud and sharp. They both snapped toward it.
Joyce scrambled up, heart racing, and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?” Nothing. But there was a sound. Breathing. Low and faint. “Lonnie? Hopper?” she tried. No answer. “Who is this?”
Jonathan stood now, watching her, tense. The breathing grew louder. It sounded like a child.
Joyce went pale. Tears filled her eyes instantly. “Will?!” Her voice broke. “Will! Where are you, baby? Talk to me!”
Jonathan rushed to her side. But the breathing stopped. And something else took its place. A low growl. Wrong. Inhuman. Joyce’s grip tightened on the phone.
“Who is this? What have you done with my boy?” The noise grew louder. Silence. Then a piercing shriek exploded through the receiver.
Joyce gasped, dropping the phone as pain shot through her hand. She stared down at her palm—red, burned. She stumbled back, eyes wide with terror.
Jonathan grabbed the phone, his voice shaking as he tried to speak into it. Joyce sank to her knees and sobbed.
4
They were deep in the woods now. Soaked through. Rain poured steadily, their flashlights cutting through it thin, trembling beams. The yellow light shining through the blue, swallowing darkness. They shouted Will’s name into the darkness, but nothing answered. They pushed forward anyway.
“Guys, I think we should really turn back,” Dustin said, his voice wavering from fear and the cold.
“Seriously, Dustin, if you want to be a pussy, just go home,” Lucas shot back.
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being a sissy.”
Dustin scoffed, shaking his head. “You ever think Will went missing because, you know, he ran into something bad? And now we’re going into the same woods where he was last seen?”
“Dustin, shut up,” Mike said sharply.
Dustin fell quiet. They all looked at Mike. He wasn’t angry. He was listening.
“You guys hear that?” They stilled.
The woods rustled around them—leaves shifting, branches creaking under the weight of rain. Every muscle in Mike’s body tightened.
He slowly turned, swapping the flashlight through the foliage. A sudden movement behind them. They spun around all at once, beams snapping toward the same spot.
A figure stood there. Small. A kid. Mike’s breath caught. “Will?” He looked closer, hoping to find Will. His light steadied on the figure.
Not Will. They found a little girl. Her head was shaved. Her eyes were wide, almost feral. She wore an oversized T-shirt; Benny’s Burgers.
“That’s not Will.” She looked like a terrified boy at first glance. Mike thought she was cute. The three of them froze, staring at her. And she stared right back.