#stranger things pacing

[gayofthefae]

Season 1 is Mike and El's love story because season 1 serves as a prequel:

Part of the thing with Mike and his romance with El is that he doesn't overtly seem to have a storyline outside of it. And that means that his primary character arc must be tied to and his demonstration in the final season of said character arc, which is confirmed for him is not complete yet, would be in his relationship with her.

But they got together in season 1. In the situation where he is straight and his character arc focus is to do with being with her...they started him with 0 need to grow in season. one.

If Mike were straight, the focus of his arc would be something he achieved in episode 8. of 42.

There isn't focus on them the way there is because they're the "main couple". There's focus on them because there's been nothing left for them to do as a couple since episode 8 of currently 34. (Their conflict serves a different purpose now).

In season 1, Mike would have needed to allow himself to see himself as deserving of El and be vulnerable enough to make a move. In episode 3, he worries she would judge him because of the bullying, but he overcomes that and does make a move.

If that's his arc....that's it. If that's his arc, then everything after that just repeated an already solved issue in order to solve it again. And I understand why people who think that hate it.

But when every other arc is written for 4-5 seasons...doesn't anyone find it odd that what they think Mike's is was only written for 1? The others prove that they clearly planned for being renewed so....what gives?

I'll tell you what gives. Someone having an arc that completes itself that quickly with so much left is not an arc, it's a set up. It isn't an arc. Season 1 of 5? That's still just exposition in the grand scheme of things. They didn't finish a story then fall off. They simple established a fact: Mike and El are together and they got together in this way. All important information to have for later. They were not telling a love story. They were establishing a fact.

And then what they did with that fact was tell a story: a boy in a straight relationship behaves in a way that he shouldn't and didn't before being with her. - to know that we need to see him before he's with her.

Season 1 is simple: meet Mike before El. They're dating now btw.

That isn't a love story. It's just information you'll need for later. Season 1 is just "information you'll need for later when we tell you a story based on it".

That's what it is for literally everybody in the show, actually! Think Lucas Sinclair. Season 1 serves to show him before he met Max, much more tense and easily stressed a person. In season 2 his story really STARTS. Season 1 is his "before". The same is true of establishing Nancy and Steve and the way they are still together in the end of season 1. Will is also not in season 1 at all but he is a MAJOR part of the story and lore.

So if season 1 is just their "before"...what does that mean for the love story fully contained to season 1 with no further romance, payoff, or get-together outside of it?

I've said before: literally all they had to do was interrupt them two seconds earlier and save the first kiss for the Snow Ball. But season 2 is part of the story, not the prequel, and them kissing was just to have them start dating as soon as possible so by the time we hit the story, we knew it to be true.

But I understand. If all of us were given prequels thinking they were stories, our perceptions of the book would be much different. It makes complete sense why the perception from people who watched in 2016 and people who binge it now are so different. 2024 bingers perceive it as a prequel. They know the happy ending isn't left there because the drop down menu has three more numbers in it. They understand that this is just information to work off of. They expect more of those two's love story but when they aren't given it they go "huh, guess that was just in the prequel".

Mike and El's relationship isn't a story. It's lore. It's backstory. There's just no way to convey that when releasing it chronologically (and calling it a prequel would be assuming/seeming to depend on a renewal and not have gotten picked up).

[benevolenterrancy]

~ Extremely Unwilling Magical Protagonists Attempt To Outrun The Plot And Not Fucking Die ~

(@takofukkatsumi this tag is from a while ago but it hasn't left my brain -- L-Space got very weird all of a sudden)

[solarmorrigan]

I've seen fics and headcanons with Dustin being annoyed by Steve trying to/succeeding in flirting with Eddie, but never really the other way around. So how about instead of being frustrated by Steve "Flirts With Everything That Moves" Harrington trying to hit on his cool new older male friend, Dustin is exasperated by Eddie "Gay Disaster" Munson trying to get with his original older male friend

Dustin: Can you not??

Dustin: He's basically my brother

Dustin: I'm pretty sure this is against some kind of guy code

Eddie: All guy codes go out the window when the person in question is that hot

Dustin: Ew. Also that is incredibly disloyal

Dustin: Also you suck

Eddie: I mean, if I'm lucky-

Dustin: DON'T YOU DARE FINISH THAT SENTENCE

[hothammies]

concept designs for the zombie apocalypse au i'm working on - pt. 1 (small au details under the cut regarding their designs)

--- mike's design

always wears his bomber jacket (normally decorated with pins) - was given to him by nancy when he was ten and he grew into it

signature weapon is a machete - likes its versatility + has terrible aim with guns: the only one he can kind of use is a shotgun, but he rarely uses it because the kickback fucks with his shoulder

will's design

always wears a long sleeve around his waist "just in case" (normally his military jacket or a flannel)

watch was given to him by jonathan when he was ten

signature weapon is a hunting rifle - is the second best with guns after lucas + follows the st canon of him using a rifle in s1e1

el's design

wardrobe always consists of one thing from a different party member (ex. gray hoodie is actually mike's, next day she wears a lucas jacket or a will flannel, etc.) it makes her feel safe :'D

doesn't have a signature weapon + is very versatile - just tends to use whatever's on hand at times or the environment around her

---

other notes: i fucking love apocalypse shit :P i'm still working on the whole outline of course, but if you're wondering, the infection i'm imagining would be a mix between days gone + l4d + a smidgen of tlou while the world is similar to tlou and a little of twd. i'll include some upside down stuff with the infection to make it feel like st :D i'm currently planning where i want this universe to go, with backstories and relationship dynamics between the entire party - byler will be the main romantic relationship, but i'll also dedicate some time to lumax too. however, the biggest theme surrounding this au is found family for me, so while romance will still be important, i want to put a lot of focus on the entire group's dynamic as a whole!

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Murray doesn't need to help byler out. He walks in on them kissing in the hallway and then proceeds to pour himself a drink

[sparrowlucero]

does anyone else remember this or am I alone in the world

[lucascsinclairs]

The Script for Stranger Things 4 Chapter Nine: The Piggyback

"Max sprints through the Creel house, moving room to room, searching for escape. She flings open a door only to find more rotted boards. Shit. She tries a second door. More boards. She tries a third door. And -- Freezes. This door isn’t boarded. Instead, it has revealed… another door. An eerily familiar one. THE SAUNA DOOR. Before she can even process this --"

[emblazons]

mood: anti-establishment boyfriendism

Mike & Will in S04E04 - Dear Billy

bonus: when the man (temporarily) sticks it to you

[corrodedcoughin]

Pre-relationship Steddie exchanging mix tapes for each other with pining, lovesick songs over and over again on each side. Handing them over to each other with hopes the other person will Pick Up On The Messages.

Eddie having corroded coffin over that night as a distraction from thinking about Steve listening to The Tape. It’s a pretty normal night except Eddie is crouching on the couch biting his nails and hissing, so actually yeah it’s a normal night. But the guys can tell something is up so Gareth and Jeff start rifling through Eddie’s tapes, hoping that some music will chill him out or get him hyped or just anything that isn’t what he’s doing right now. Ian is sitting by him and trying to start a conversation but it’s a fool’s errand.

So the tape goes in and the music starts and it feels like maybe Eddie will relax. But as the first song goes into the second he freezes. Stares wide eyed. Shushes everyone. Demands gareth skip to the next song, then the next. Oh no. Oh no.

Eddie grabs Jeff by the arm ‘Jeff. Dude. Please. Please tell me what’s written on the tape you put on’ wide eyed and unblinking.

‘Uh I don’t know man. Gareth get the tape out, yeah?’ Jeff asks with a blatantly confused face. And of course Gareth acquiesces, deciding not to escalate the situation for once in his life which Eddie is very grateful for.

And the tape? The tape is the Steve tape. The one Steve was supposed to have. Which is fine. Absolutely fine! It’s okay! Eddie can explain this away. He can, he’ll get his one back and it’ll be fine. Whatever is on the casette steve has can’t be that bad, it just can’t be.

——

The next day Eddie goes to family video. Plays it cool, hopes to earn a smile out of Steve. Maybe a laugh if he’s lucky. Only Steve’s kind of jumpy? Normally he gives a wave and a wink that he’s Eddie struggling to stay upright. This time? This time he’s struggling to make eye contact and blushing? Weird. Maybe he’s sick. Eddie should make him soup.

‘Hey Steve. Stevie. Stev-o’ he’s at the counter now, tapping on it trying to hide his nerves. And Steve is smiling at him, properly smiling, this is nice. Steve should always be smiling.

‘I listened to the tape’ Steve says with a bashful giggle and Eddie loves the way it sounds falling from Steve’s lips. With new found courage eddie continues ‘Actually, about that…any chance I could have my casette back? I want to give it to Gareth.’ Eddie spent far too long on his perfect Steve mix, he will not let it go unheard. If he has to lie to get The Mix To Win Steve in that boys beautiful hands by god he will.

‘Gareth?!’ Steve’s smile drops instantly. Mood souring and expression turning hurt, almost bitchy ‘yeah sure, whatever. Thought we were making tapes for each other but whatever’

Confused by the sudden change Eddie carries on carefully ‘oh yeah, but I gave you the wrong one. That was for Gareth. For all of the guys actually. This one’ Eddie fishes the casette out of his pocket ‘this one is for you’ and slides it across the counter.

‘For…for all of them? You want to give that tape to all of the guys?’ Steve only looks more confused

‘Yeah man, why wouldn’t I? They are my guys!’ Eddie continues, trying to dispel this weird atmosphere. Before he can go any further Robin calls Steve into the store room, something about a stacking tower emergency and Steve is off, a dejected wave thrown at Eddie as Eddie walks out the door.

Weird. Very weird.

Nonetheless eddie hops into his van ready to drive home and start the process of Worrying About What Steve Will Think all over again. Curiosity gets the better of him though and he sticks the mistake casette into the player of the van, expecting a normal metal guitar riff to play out. What he gets? Is far, far worse

Trumpets.

Snare drums.

Oh

Oh no

Oh god

Then the signing starts. And Eddie knows. Eddie fucking knows that this tape only has one song on it. Repeated. On both sides. Over and over again. And Steve thinks. Oh Jesus what does Steve think. What DID Steve think? Eddie pulls over and sinks his head into the steering wheel until the horn drowns out the music of Monty python.

🎶 Sit on my face and tell me that you love me

I'll sit on your face and tell you I love you, too

I love to hear you oralize

When I'm between your thighs

You blow me away

Sit on my face and let my lips embrace you

I'll sit on your face and then I'll love you truly

Life can be fine if we both sixty-nine

If we sit on our faces in all sorts of places

And play, 'til we're blown away 🎶

[shannonsketches]

like why did they change where Vegeta was when Cell announced the cell games in the anime

why did they make this vegeta starting shit with yamcha instead of chillin in the lab with his family? why did they take Bulma out of the lab? Why'd they say she was Out while Dr Brief was repairing 16? Why did they change Bulma working on advanced robotics to running in late with her baby?

it's the same scene except: - Bulma's actively at work being a scientist - Vegeta's not being rude to her (or anyone else!) - Vegeta waits for Trunks instead of leaving the room - Cell interrupted the airwaves, which means Trunks and Vegeta were just hanging out with Bulma and Dr B while they were working

Those are all Great Character Details!! That the anime rails against!!

[gayofthefae]

4x03 straight into 4x04 is wild. Back to back They really said, we know you're thinking

"Mike's character is deteriorating!"

We want you to know that he's not. He is still perfectly, fully, thoroughly capable of being gentle, apologetic, and expressing his vulnerable feelings.

We want to make sure you know he can express his true feelings. The only reason he didn't was because he didn't have them.

[hawkinsunderground]

every time i start to feel like i'm deluding myself about byler happening, i give myself a reality check using the classic 'if they were all straight' scenario, and then i stop doubting. if everything remained the same--same relationships, same dynamics with friends--with the only difference in the show being that Will was a girl, it's almost painfully obvious. And because all a m/f couple has to do is be in the vicinity of each other to get shipped, byler probably would have been more popular even in the earlier seasons.

Mike spending an entire season right by his girl best friend's side, desperate to help and fighting to stay near her as she slowly gets possessed. Then at the end of it all he gives her a whole speech crying and saying that choosing to be friends with her was the best thing he's ever done? I guarantee you even with milkvan developing a bunch of people would have jumped on the byler train, and more others would be thinking that Mike and Willow or whatever would eventually get together later on, with warring opinions on who the better ship is.

Mike neglecting his girl best friend who is now hinted to have a crush on him in s3 while trying to get over being kidnapped and everything she went through? Spending all his time with Eleven even though byler had just been so close the season prior. There's no way at least some ppl wouldn't be thinking romance. The whole 'Mike's probably repressing his feelings and pushing Will away because he's scared' idea that a lot of bylers believe suddenly wouldn't be a reach anymore if it was a straight pairing.

Sectioning the two of them off to have their little cali romance all the while hinting at serious relationship troubles and conflicting character arcs for Mike and Eleven. Meanwhile the shrouded love confession from 'Willow', the obvious flirting. You can't look me in the eyes and tell me that people wouldn't be losing their shit during the entire apology scene if Will was a girl. The flirty smiles, the "I didn't say it." "You didn't have to.", the intimacy of his apology to 'Willow' in comparison to the apology from Mike to Lucas in s1. Along with all of the other scenes where Mike is clearly different with 'Willow' compared to the rest of his friends, he's always near her, etc.

Atp I feel like the general consensus would be that they're setting up a Melvin breakup and Byler endgame. Mike putting his hand on Willow's shoulder and promising they'll get through this together while literally showing Midleven crashing and burning in the same scene? In one of the final scenes? You're gonna tell me that people wouldn't be thinking along the lines of romance, with the love triangle pointing in byler's favor?

Mike's 'love' confession would come across as the lie that it was and a lot of people would probably be saying that Mike is not confronting his true feelings. They would be drawing the same comaprisons we are--that it didn't even work and the gates opened, that his (girl) best friend had to tell him and guide him to confess to Eleven, with them finally as close as they were around s2 again and Melvin not even really getting back together, with clear issues still present in the finale. The direction they are going to take things in s5 would become obvious without the straight goggles blinding people to some of the most obvious character and relationship arcs that have been done a million times.

The only difference would be the lack of struggle due to homophobia and would probably be more centered on Mike's inability to confront his feelings due to a fear of messing things up between himself and Will, along with losing el because he doesn't love her the way she wants him to, keeping to the core of his character in either scenario

You're gonna tell me that if people saw this and it was mike's girl best friend sitting next to him, they wouldn't be jumping at a romance arc between the two of them?

or his reaction to them being friends again, a smile and voice we've never seen used with any other character, noticably different?

the physical proximity, the fact that they seem equally flirtatious and affected by the other despite Will being the only one with confirmed feelings atp it's too obvious--if it were a girl sitting next to mike people would definitely be drawing some conclusions Anyway, byler endgame

[ent-is-indecisive]

idk saw someone drawing teeth and wanted to doodle some stuff

unshaded version below the cut as usual

[monstrous-femme]

“…so don’t tell me how love will rescue me, I was carnivorous about love, I ate love to the ankles my thighs are gnawed with love still  and yet I cannot have loved, since living was all I could do…”

-Dionne Brand, Ossuaries

*

“My flight’s not until nine,” Robin says. She’s sitting on the counter, legs dangling over the edge and hands wrapped around a gray mug with the Emerson crest on it, which she hasn’t sipped from once. “We could do something today. If you’re up for it.”

In the hour she’s been awake, Nancy has determined that it must the Monday of Robin’s impromptu visit, the day she’d missed the first time around. For the first twenty minutes after she’d awoken, she’d carefully looked for clues while Robin clutched the pillow to her face and refused to get up. There are no signs that this is some second visit that she hadn’t known about. Everything right down to the calendar is accurate.

It feels disjointed, to be back here after so much else has happened, but Nancy does her best not to let her agitation show. When she’d noticed her hands shaking a few minutes ago, she’d wrapped them around her mug so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. She takes a careful sip from it, now. Robin was right. The instant coffee really does taste bad.

She can’t stop staring at Robin.

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 10)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 next: Part 11 | ao3

time for shenanigans.

Jim’s frustrated.

This whole week has been a major event after another; Joyce’s son vanishes on Sunday, the same happened with Eddie Munson the day after, and the Hollands’ daughter going poof the other day. And then Will’s body had been found in the quarry, which was a cherry pick top on with Benny’s sudden death and the damned MK Ultra stories he can’t get out of his head-

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a deep breath. Exhales it out. Yeah, Jimmy boy, exhale some of that shit out.

He’s sitting in his vehicle on the roadside, just at the intersection of Cherry Ave and Cornwallis Road. He doesn’t really have much to do. Theoretically, he should be sitting his ass behind his desk at the station but what is he going to do?

The goddamn suits and rangers of the state had shown up right after Will’s body was recovered and told him to relax because they got it all covered.

Yeah, right.

In a different time, Jim wouldn’t mind shouldering off the responsibility and leave the big hats to finish it. But he’s not that kind of cop. He doesn’t trust the state to place their greasy hands over the cases. At best, they’re going to fuck it all up.

But it seems that they really aren’t kidding about being involved. When Jim had tried to get into the morgue last night to do a better autopsy on Will’s body, the doors were guarded by, not one, but three rangers. He almost punched them all out, but he had simply shared the most polite conversation he can with them before they politely kicked him out.

He had thought about seeing Joyce earlier this morning, but he would be a heartless jackass to accidentally send her to a public breakdown at her son’s funeral.

Now he’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at nothing on the road, unsure what to do and where to start.

His mind wanders to the notebook sitting in the glovebox. Having already read it front to back, he can admit that Wayne really has a sharp eye for everything. There’s one particular point about Eddie being last seen with a cut on his hand that’s nagging the back of Jim’s memory cave. But nothing solid comes up so he brushes it aside for now.

“How long it’ll take for you to even care out what happened to my nephew before his body turns up next?”

Jim stops his tapping on the wheel and drops his forehead against it, sighing heavily. Wayne really knows exactly what to say that haunts you for the rest of your damned life.

Not so different to what Joyce had fired back at him few days ago.

Will’s body comes back to his mind again. He hadn’t seen him up-close, not with the coroner being defensive on preventing contamination. But Jim’s not an idiot. He had seen enough of Will’s perfectly intact body to call bullshit on the accepted belief the kid fell into the quarry.

Suddenly, he gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

Jim looks up towards the direction of the laboratory. He’s too far to actually see the building but he feels its presence nonetheless. Enough to conjure up the image of Martin Brenner’s polite smile when he said no, we haven’t seen a child here on these grounds.

He starts the engine.

—

From the way Wayne keeps glancing up at Joyce, she senses that her pacing is getting to his nerves.

It’s fair for him to think that. She’s been practically burning through his kitchen floor for the past thirty minutes. Or she thinks it’s been thirty minutes. Hours were quickly slipping and the sun’s already setting outside. 

Hours without any word from Will or Eddie. Not even a tiniest flicker from the lightbulbs. 

Despite her empty stomach, she can feel bile climbing up her throat. She swallows it down, daring a glance back to Wayne. 

He looks up at her again, his hand rubbing the side of his temple. Joyce tenses when she catches his mouth opening as if he’s ready to say something. She’s already had enough listening to the hauntings of her mother’s scolding in her ear and whispers from the townsfolk (including Lonnie and Jonathan) right behind her back. She doesn’t want to hear another one to her face from Wayne.

Just then, through her anxiety, she gets struck by a realization.

“Of course!” Joyce snaps her fingers in a feign of excitement. “They probably went back to my house!”

Wayne gives her a bemused look. “Your house?”

She nods quickly, already pulling the older man up as she reminds him through a long-winded explanation of how she manages to establish communication with Will and later Eddie at her home. Wayne looks all the more confused, but he hurries along with her to his truck. It’s a quicker drive from the trailers to Cornwallis. Wayne follows her brief directions, soon parking on the driveway. Before he even stops, Joyce jumps out and runs to the front door. 

She realizes a second too late that she should give him a warning about the current state of her living room. But whatever words she’s about to say withers in her mouth when she steps into the house.

The Christmas lights are gone. 

Every one of them that she’s strung up, even a few she had reluctantly pushed to the corners this morning, are nowhere to be seen now. Her only way to speak to her baby, gone.

As she gapes around the room, her eyes land on the suspect, who’s kneeling on the couch and methodically replacing a new layer of wallpaper above it. Right were the letters used to be.

“Lonnie.” She doesn’t know how she finds her voice, but it doesn’t sound like herself. It’s too calm to match the anger burning within her chest.

Lonnie looks over his shoulder, unfazed. “There you are. Thought I had to call the cops when you disappeared this morning. Like mother, like son, huh?”

Joyce clenches her jaw tight at the normalcy of his tone. She glares at him, making Lonnie mockingly throw his hands up. 

“Oh, sorry. Never meant to say that. I was just worried about where you went.” Lonnie chuckles. Then he looks over her shoulder and his expression falls. Joyce dares a quick glance and sees Wayne standing awkwardly in the doorway. She cringes inwardly, motioning at the other man to leave. But Wayne doesn’t move. He just crosses his arms and stares back evenly at Lonnie.

When Joyce peers back at Lonnie, his eyes are darkened. She can hear his teeth grinding as he gets off the couch and towers over her. “Seriously? We just buried our son and you run off to-”

“What did you do to the lights?” Joyce cuts him off. Her voice is still and quiet.

Lonnie raises his eyebrows, his temper briefly quelshed with confusion. “What?”

“The lights, Lonnie. Why did you take them off? And why are you ruining the wallpaper?”

He has the audacity to sigh and shake his head as if his heart is breaking. That liar. “I threw them out.”

It feels like the world just stopped. “What?”

“Because your mind’s not right, Joyce. I can’t see you act like this, pretending that Will’s trapped in the walls-”

“Since when have you ever cared?” Frost drips out of her voice. She hopes it turns into icicles and stabs into her ex-husband’s heart.  “You never gave two shits about me when I had to bust your ass out of jail countless times and take up the night shifts because you couldn’t hold a job anymore. You never cared how hard or loud you’ve hurt me in front of Jonathan. You never, never cared about Will until you thought about hitting him too.”

“Joyce-”

“And now you show your face up, acting like the grieving husband and father so you can make everyone believe you’ve cared. But you never did. Because I bet it’s because of that sweet money the state’s going to donate to your pocket for acting like the way you are. So what gave you the fucking right to take down all of my lights, tear my wallpaper off, and act like it’s for the sake of my sanity?”

Lonnie throws his arms up, his face looming closer like he always does when they fight. “Because you’re sick, Joyce! You’re acting completely irrational and ruining this house-”

“I’m ruining the house? Is that what you care for now?!”

“Yes! Because this is where you and your son live in-”

“If you fucking dare to move back in here-”

Amidst their arguing, Joyce barely remembers Wayne. She just hopes that he had just left already, seeing no point in watching a couple’s dispute. It’ll hurt, but it would be the best for him. He doesn’t deserve being dragged into more of her messes.

Lonnie’s hand suddenly shoots towards her in a blur. Joyce instinctively flinches away, already feeling the phantom stinging of the previous slaps. 

But she doesn’t feel her head snapping to her side or taste sharp copper in her teeth. She peeks her eyes open (she doesn’t realize she had shut them) and sees Lonnie’s arm being held in the air by Wayne’s tight grip.

“If your way to end an argument is to hurt someone, then you’re better to take the loss and leave.” Wayne speaks to Lonnie’s face so softly that his usual gruff tone vanishes for a moment. Oh. Joyce realizes. That’s how his anger sounds.

Lonnie stares at him wide-eyed, a drop of sweat trailing down his cheek. His forearm whitens around Wayne’s fingers the longer they grip into the skin. Finally, Wayne leans away with a curt nod and lets him go, making Lonnie stumble back. He looks at them both before the familiar snarl of displeasure returns. 

“You’re both fucking crazy. You both deserve it together.” He spits just before he storms out, loudly slamming the front door shut. 

Trembling, Joyce glares through the still-open window as Lonnie starts up his car and promptly drives off. 

Wayne scoffs quietly, “Serves him right.”

It should be enough to let her relax and breathe again. But there’s so much of her anger boiling her veins that Joyce grabs her head and curls her fingers into her hair, pulling it harshly so that several strands get ripped out.

This should be enough. But there’s so much of her anger boiling her veins that Joyce grabs her head and curls her fingers into her hair, pulling it harshly so that several strands are ripped off.

She can hear Wayne calling her name. But she doesn’t listen or look at him. She just turns around and stomps her way down into the house. And then there’s a blast of cold air and heavy crunching of leaves under her feet. Before she knows it, Joyce yanks the shed’s door open.

The first thing she sees is a pair of shovels. She grabs them, only for both tools to be somehow tangled with each other. It makes her more mad as she struggles to separate them. But once they’re freed, they get caught against the other tools in the shed.

“You’re kidding me.” She says to nobody in particular except this stupid shed and whatever god is up in the sky who likes making her life miserable. She tries to shove her anger down, but the shovels are stuck again and they’re just banging against the shed, doing nothing but make the buzzing in her head louder and louder and she can’t think of anything other than-

“Joyce.” 

She jumps, her shoulders up to her ears. She whirls around, expecting to see Lonnie crawling back to her. But it’s only Wayne, standing just a few feet away.

She glares up at him. “What?” 

He looks wearily at her and at the shovels in her hands. “What are you doing right now?” Wayne asks, sounding too gentle like he’s trying to coax a scared animal. Thinking of that comparison makes Joyce even more mad.

“None of your damned business.” She hisses. She turns back to what she’s trapped herself in doing and tries to free the shovels. How is it this hard to get a couple shovels out?! 

But she still senses Wayne behind her, even approaching closer. She whips her head back to him, “Leave.”

Just after she says it, the shovels she’s been holding bang against some equipment inside, creating a cascade of metallic crashes.

Her frustration explodes. She drops the handles and kicks at the wall several times hard enough that it almost surprises her it doesn’t collapse. Her hands dig back into her hair as she yells up at the sky. And because Wayne is still here for some godforsaken reason, she yells at him too. 

“Just go! You already know how goddamn sick I am! Just go and spit on me after wasting your fucking time for sitting around and waiting for your nephew-”

Wayne takes another step forward and-

He hugs her. 

Joyce stiffens at first, a second of shock overcoming her. Then she lets go of her hair just so she can pound her fists onto his chest, attempting to twist away from his embrace. Bad women like her don’t deserve hugs like this.

“What did I tell you about using others to comfort your pain, Joyce? Now I’m going to feel awful for wanting to give you a hug. You see what you’ve done? To your own mother, no else?”

Wayne doesn’t let her go. Instead, he smooths her hair down, careful at the aching patches where she’d just abused her scalp. Something about that motion makes Joyce to drop her arms down. Her breath shudders as she lets her face be buried into Wayne’s cardigan. It smells like cigarettes, old oak leaves, and flour oddly enough.

It sends a crack somewhere through her heart.

She doesn’t recognize the wretched sound coming out of her mouth. It sounds like a dying animal, too rough and guttural as if it wants to cut through her throat. Her small body wracks violently with every sob like it’s desperate to rattle her soul out to leave this earth. She wants to leave, but Wayne isn’t letting her. He keeps her arms tight around her, slightly rocking them side to side like a father does to a child. Just like how Joyce does to Will and Jonathan after a bad day and night. 

Thinking about it restarts the cycle of tears again.

After she feels her tears are spent and regains control of her breathing, Joyce taps on Wayne’s arm. He gets the message and unwraps himself from her, though he keeps a hand on her shoulder. The front of his cardigan is nearly soaked through but he doesn’t raise a complaint.

Joyce’s eyes feel swollen. There’s snot and tears running down her face, which she’s quick to wipe away. Once she’s sure she can speak without another threat of tears, she mumbles, “Sorry about that..” 

“No need to apologize. Seems you really needed that.” Wayne tells her softly. She looks up at him and there’s a small sincere quirk of his lips. Not a single ounce of malice or pity is shining out of his doe eyes, just complete reassurance and comfort. 

It almost makes Joyce cry again, but she holds it together and just sniffs her snot back in. 

Silence falls between them, but it’s not as awkward or tense as Joyce expects. It’s more comforting. Maybe breaking down in front of someone who doesn’t immediately taunt her does more wonders than she thinks.

“Do you want to explain why you were wrestling with these shovels?” Wayne asks. A flush of shame comes over Joyce and she looks down to the ground again. Crosses her arms as if it’ll prevent herself from answering.

“Joyce?”

She lets out a shaky sigh. Fuck it. Wayne’s been with her this far.

“I want to go back to the cemetery.” 

There’s a pause. She doesn’t look up as Wayne asks, “Come again?”

She sighs again. Flicks her eyes up to stare directly at Wayne. “I want to see who was that boy they buried as Will.”

Wayne furrows his brows. Then the realization comes over him. “You-”

“I know it’s stupid and very illegal.” Joyce keeps her hands to herself so they don’t flail around, takes a step away from him. There’s something wrong with her in which every time she wants to be taken seriously, another thing happens that keeps testing Wayne’s patience for her.

She continues, “But I can’t stand it. I know in my heart and soul that whoever they found in that quarry just looks like Will, but it’s not him! If it was, they would’ve allowed an open casket or let me stay with him for a bit before-” Her breath shudders again. “I just want to know what the hell is going on!”

Joyce tears her gaze away from Wayne, staring at the ground as if it’ll rip open and spit Will back to her. “If you want to throw me into jail or Pennhurst for this, then go ahead. If you’re fed up with my ‘delusions’-” she spat the word, “then leave and forget about me.”

The silence drags for a horribly long time that Joyce can see their shadows extending before her eyes. Then Wayne’s feet shuffle out of her view. She closes her eyes, shivering from the cold catching up to her.

Then there’s a little nudge on her arm along with Wayne’s gruff voice speaking, “Alright, better now than later.”

Joyce blinks her eyes open, her jaw falling open at the sight of Wayne back to her side and holding out a shovel to her. While carrying the second, no less. “W-Wha-?”

“You’re right on a couple things.” Wayne interjects her kindly. “There’s some strange stuff happening around here these past few days. It has to do with our boys going missing and we both know they’re alive somewhere. If you’re beyond certain that the kid you saw being buried isn’t Will, then nothing hurts to check.”

Joyce almost wants to laugh. She almost asks Wayne if he’s losing it. But she sees that look in his eyes, the hard determination she’s seen in herself too. It gives her a spark of hope again.

She takes the offered shovel. She has to bite the insides of her cheek to keep some hysterical giddiness from showing. Staring into Wayne’s eyes, she says, “If you’re in this with me, for what we’re about to do, then you need to also help me out if we get caught by Hopper.”

Wayne gives out an exasperated sigh, but his mouth quirks up something resembling a smirk. “Let me double check my bail money first.”

—

As they drive up into the cemetery, it’s gotten dark enough that all of the headstones look like lumps. Undead potato lumps. A morbid joke that his sister Suzanna once shared with Wayne when they were kids and has somewhat stayed in his vocabulary. Once he slipped and said it around Eddie few years ago, who had gladly adopted the phrase.

“The grave’s over there.” Joyce frowns, pointing over to a direction behind them.

“And we’re going to stop here.” Wayne says, parking the truck at the very end of the road where the oldest areas of the cemetery start embracing the woods. “Wouldn’t want to park near your boy’s grave and get caught too soon.”

Joyce makes a small ah sound. Wayne cuts the engine and headlights off and they both get out. He takes the shovels from the truck’s back, along with a crowbar and a flashlight. Joyce raises an eyebrow at the crowbar but says nothing as she takes the flashlight and the lead to their destination.

They hurry further in half-crouches, carefully weaving around the other gravestones. The groundskeeper has night shifts for a reason and lord forbid if there’s any sneaking reporters hungry for pictures.

“Here.” Joyce whispers. There’s almost no need for her to point it out with the too-new marble headstone and bouquets of flowers are placed on the recently-buried dirt.

They stand together on the side, staring down at the ground. A little adrenaline rush of I am actually doing this comes down onto Wayne. He should feel ashamed of himself. That he should have listened to his logical side of not helping a grieving woman’s delusions and now it’ll start a landslide effect of following Al’s forbidden footsteps.

But he doesn’t feel anything. A little nerves, sure. But otherwise? He’s just calm. Nothing towards himself or Joyce.

Maybe he’s like this because a part of him already wants to dig up Eddie’s grave in the future just to hold his boy close for the last time.

Or it’s just the Munson thing.

He breathes slowly, repositioning his grip of his shovel and handing the other to Joyce.

She doesn’t take it. She stares down at the still-fresh dirt with a lost expression. “But what if I’m wrong? That all this time, this is Will and everyone was right but I’ve been denying it?”

“Then you’ll cry.”

She looks up, shooting him a baffled look.

“You’ll cry, either out of relief or grief.” He continues, nudging the shovel’s handle to her. “It’s the best any of us can do. And what happens next is up to you.”

Joyce’s eyes well up again but she shuts them tight, her expression shifting to the hard determination Wayne is already familiar with. She opens her eyes and takes the shovel in her hands. Then she gives him a single nod.

Wayne nods back and plunges the shovel’s blade into the dirt.

It’s less back-breaking than he expects. Benefits of growing up south and spending years at the plant, he supposes. The soil’s still loose enough so it might’ve helped easing their efforts. But his arms and knees start to ache after one and half feet in. Joyce’s already trembling at this point, pausing to catch her breath every minute or two.

“I’m not sitting down until we get to the damn casket.” Joyce pants out before Wayne opens his mouth. He wisely keeps it shut.

By the time their shovels hit polished wood, it’s fully dark and a absolute miracle that any groundskeeper hasn’t heard them. Yet. Wayne snatches the flashlight and kneels down to sweep the soil off while Joyce collapses to her feet.

“God.” She tilts her head back, seemingly regretting the motion as it brings some dirt falling on her hair. “I’d almost prefer Mr. Turlington’s gym classes to this.”

“If this was his grave, we would’ve made him proud. Hold this.” Wayne hands the flashlight to her.

“I can barely lift my arms!” Joyce protests, but she takes the flashlight, keeping the beam aimed at the head of the casket. Wayne feels his hands around the edges, shuffling more of the tightly pressed earth away.

He stands up, reaching out for the crowbar above. He moves slowly, feeling conscious of the fact that there is a young boy’s body inside. Any more quicker and heavier movement he and Joyce make might just break the casket itself.

“Did ya get the casket sealed?” He asks.

“No, finding the right casket itself was expensive enough.” Joyce winces right after she says it, as if paying for a casket by itself is the most shameful thing in the world. She eyes at the crowbar in his hands. “Why do you ask?”

“From what I heard, unsealed caskets are easier to reopen.” Wayne kneels back down, roughly scooping out a few handfuls of one wall so there’s a small pocket of space. He looks again at Joyce, silently asking are you sure about this?

She gives him an unwavering stare that all but replies with yes, get on with it.

Wayne wedges the crowbar to the side of the lid. He silently prays that this action won’t taint his memory for eternity and then pushes down on the crowbar with all of his might.

It takes about what feels like hours before a crack resounds and the casket opens. Wayne grabs onto the newly freed lid, pushing it up until the top hits the earthy wall.

Joyce makes a choked noise, almost close to a sob. Wayne himself recoils at the sight of Will Byers’ too-pale face, eyes softly shut as if he was just sleeping.

But the smell…

Wayne sniffs the air. Continues for a moment, unsure if his senses are messing with him. With his eyes still on the boy’s face, he asks, “Do you smell anything?”

A strained chuckle comes out of Joyce. “What?”

“Do you smell anything?”

Joyce falls silent before she starts sniffing. Then again with more consideration. “..No. Just the dirt.”

Wayne manages to tear his gaze away from the boy and back to Joyce. “Doesn’t matter how much chemicals you put in a body for preservation, the smell of rot comes back as soon it’s buried.”

Realization dawns on her face. Then she carefully crawls over next to him, ducking under Wayne’s arm as he still holds the lid up. Joyce looks down at the body and slowly reaches a hand out to the face of her son. She gently cups the cheek, bringing a terrified expression upon her before it shifts into a frown of doubt.

“Do- Do bodies always feel like plastic?” She asks slowly. Wayne looks at her with shared confusion and reaches out to touch the boy’s face. However, his hand must have been too slow or too quick because it instead brushes against Joyce’s.

She gives out a too-loud startled squeal, her head bumping hard against Wayne’s chin. He falls back, hearing a small groan from Joyce. In the process, he loses his grip on the lid and barely stops it from slamming shut by kicking his leg out and holding it up halfway. The weight’s gonna bruise it for days.

“Ow, oh, Wayne!” Joyce is suddenly fretting above him, rubbing the back of her head. “I’m so sorry! You didn’t mean to startle me that bad, it’s just the nerves and-”

“I’m alright.” Wayne means it, even if his chin and leg might not. He’s had worse than beginner’s level grave-robbing. “It’s my fault I scared ya.”

Joyce’s shaking her head. “No, really, I’m sorry-”

Wayne grunts as he slowly pushes himself up. “Would ya get the lid off my leg first?”

“Oh, of course!” Joyce scampers back, groaning with effort as she pushes the lid off. Wayne pulls his leg back to him, rubbing the bone carefully. Yep, he can feel a bruise coming.

“Wayne.” Joyce’s voice is very still.

He sits up more upright. “What’s wrong?”

Joyce doesn’t answer. Her back’s toward him, the flashlight still shining inside the casket. Wayne scoots closer, peering down to see-

Will’s head turned on the side, no longer attached to his body.

It feels like Wayne’s soul is exhumed out of his body all at once. His first thought is, oh lord I just decapitated a dead kid in front of his mother. But somehow through his panic, he notices that despite the damage, there’s not a spot of blood anywhere.

Joyce reaches her hand in again and picks up something. Holds it up close to the flashlight for a closer look.

It’s a wad of cotton.

Wayne checks the head and neck of the body. Thick wads of cotton sticks out of both ends.

“I knew this wasn’t Will.” Joyce whispers, her tone devoid of anything save a hint of triumph somewhere. “None of his moles match and there wasn’t even a birthmark.”

Wayne stays silent, staring down at the body that is not Will Byers. Who that half of the town came and mourned for just hours ago. All of this for a fake body.

“Wayne?”

Joyce’s looking at him, concerned. It feels terribly juxtaposed. A grieving mother sitting atop of her son’s fake body wanting to know if he’s alright.

“Did they tell ya who found the body?”

Joyce thinks for a moment before replying, “Not anyone specific. I think Hopper said it was somebody from the state.”

Wayne swallows but his throat’s too dry. He lifts his gaze up towards the sky at last. The stars are coming out. “Chief told me that the state’s taking over Eddie’s case.”

They both become quiet for a long time. Until they both catch a faint whistling tune of the groundskeeper. Then it’s a mad careful scramble out of there.

—

Brenner studies the new dummy on the table, taking a glance at the reference photographs laid out on the desk besides McNeil, who stands on the opposite side and poorly hiding his fidgeting.

There’s nothing wrong with McNeil’s works. It’s a masterpiece, much like the previous. Anyone who never touched a human body or kept on his payroll wouldn’t notice the difference.

But Brenner always sees flaws in perfection. That’s the duty in being a scientist. Running through the tests over and over until the subjects are one hundred plus ten percent faultless.

It always leaves a bitter taste on his tongue when he skips over a mistake, even for the sake of studying. He’s being more considerate these days after the disastrous cases with Henry and Eleven.

“Is this accurate to the boy’s measurements?” He asks. McNeil stops fidgeting and straightens up with an air of confidence that should be permanent.

“Yes, sir.”

Brenner eyes the small flock of bats and devilish marionette inked on the right arm. “Is this the only tattoos he has?”

“No, sir.”

“Then where are they?”

McNeil clears his throat, almost looking away from Brenner. “It’s difficult to perfect the other designs when there’s bare references of what they exactly look like. Tattoos are heavily variable, sir.”

Brenner sighs quietly in disappointment. He’ll save this discussion of incompetence much later, preferably once Eleven returns. “Then find the exact designs and make sure they match.” He looks down at the blank intimation of Eddie Munson’s face, thinking for a moment. “And give it the impression that it’s been deceased for longer than Will Byers-”

The door suddenly opens and Agent Sterling walks in with an annoyed expression. “We have an intruder.”

Brenner frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

She gestures for him to follow and he’s lead to the screening room of their security footage. One of them shows the police chief Jim Hopper cautiously walking through the basement level, undoubtedly heading to the room with Eleven’s gate.

Brenner can’t help but chuckle. That man truly wants to know more about what they are doing.

“Should we eliminate him?” Agent Sterling asks.

He shakes his head, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No. Just tranquilize him and send him back home. Place our listening device somewhere in his residence as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

—

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @steves-strapcollection @hellion-child @sidekick-hero @mmmmwaffles94 @hbyrde36 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @plsdontdrinkmylavalamp @bookbinderbitch @gutterflower77 @soaringornithopher @angeldreamsoffanfic @panicatthediaz @renaissan-vvitch @manda-panda-monium @newtstabber @little-trash-ghost @niniel-karenine @tinyplanet95

[flowercrowngods]

part 1 | ao3

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

— a steddie ghost story —

part 2 / 7

Soaked through by the icy water and the howling winds, and weighted down by shock and fright, Steve’s legs may as well have been made of lead as he, slowly, with a racing heart, accepts his fate and enters the lighthouse. 

He flinches, hard, when the door falls shut behind him, as if pushed by an invisible force, and he flinches again when a wave crashes violently. It’s almost as if the lighthouse is shaking with the impact, but maybe that’s just him. 

“Okay,” he breathes, whispering because he doesn’t dare to speak any louder, lest the unending darkness might be disturbed — and something tells him that it wouldn’t take all that kindly to that. “Okay.” Once more, with feeling. 

Before he can move and find an oil lamp or even just a candle to bring some light into this place, something thumps from somewhere up the stairs he cannot see. 

He knows that, just like ancient manors, lighthouses have a life of their own, knows they’re prone to moving and moaning along with the tides, with the wind and the water — but that was not the settling of wood or metal. That was something else.

“Hello?” he calls with a trembling voice, closing his eyes at the echoes of his own voice travelling up and down the tower he is being made to call home for the foreseeable future. “Is— Is anyone there? I’m… Well, I’m Steve.” 

Images fill the space behind his eyes, horrible visions of the old keepers luring him here to murder him, out of sea madness or cannibalistic urges, or just to have a bit of entertainment out here, just for a while. Other images, then, of ghosts coming to haunt him, to drive him to the brink of madness, to the railing all the way up on the tower, and watch his descent into— 

Another thump. The sound of a door opening, the wood groaning, the hinges creaking, everything insists the lighthouse protesting its new inhabitant. 

And then, through the pitch black darkness, a whisper. Travelling down towards him, growing louder as it comes closer and closer and— 

Steve takes a step back, his breath coming in shallow rapidity as he reaches for the handle and finding it unmoving.

Run, the whisper says, sounding more like an inhale than anything else — and is the air getting thinner? Run. 

Another wave crashes into the lighthouse. 

Run. 

The whispering voice is in his head now, loud for all of its tonelessness. 

Run!

Steve stumbles backwards, his body too frozen with cold and fear to catch his fall. His body collides with the wall and he slides down, covering his ears with his hands to keep out the noise, to keep out the world as he tries in vain for the fear to subside. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiding behind his knees like a little boy, scared of his father’s raised hands and his brothers' gloating. “I’m sorry, I mean no harm, I’m just— I’m here to fix the light. I’m here to make sure it’s— everything’s, everything’s fine. I don’t mean to disturb, I’m sorry. I’m Steve. I’m sorry.” 

Everything stills then — or maybe it’s the cotton in his ears and the staccato of his heart that drown out everything else and remind him that he’s painfully, desperately alive. And mortal. 

But the whispering stops, and so does the groaning up ahead, and silence falls. An unnatural silence, not even broken by the ocean waves outside. 

It’s like the lighthouse has stilled to listen to him. 

It’s something Robin told him once (or rather, debated at him while he was letting her rant wash over him in a whiff of fondness for his best friend in the whole wide world): 

“Ghosts don’t know your intentions, right? So it’s only fair to communicate with them. It’s you breaking into their house, after all. Well, unless they’re haunting your house, but even then it’s fair to assume they have been there all along and you either deserve the haunting and had it coming, or you’re just the poor lad caught in the crossfires. Either way, worth a try, right? If even those still alive assume the worst, I would think an eternity spent in the aether is unlikely to be beneficial to your judgement of character.”

Steve had waved it off then — or, in his case, smile patiently and waited for her to answer his initial question from half an hour ago before she went on a tangent on aether and ghosts and the supernatural; she’d been spending too much time in the library. 

“You learn a thing or two about haunted houses, growing up in a family such as mine,” he’d said, and then, “Dinner?” 

A pang splits him down the middle, regret and uncertainty tearing at him concerning Robin’s wheareabouts and her safety. She must be safe. She must be! 

“They say you don’t like— you, uh, strangers. The locals said you don’t like when people come here, so I’m sorry, but… I’m sorry. I have to fix the light. I’m Steve.” 

It’s madness, it must be. Early onset, although his father would have a thing or two to say about that, would claim it had always lived in him, would claim the way he looks at men is proof of that and reason enough to have him hanging in the streets. 

It wasn’t madness back then, Steve knows, vehemently, desperately knows. But this? Talking to a lighthouse, speaking into the darkness like it’s sentient even just a minute after he first set foot into it? It must be. He’s never been superstitious, has never been prone to ghost stories or supernatural appearances like Robin. 

But something about this place, something about the way it has been haunting his dreams, something about Old John capsizing is enough to make even the calmest man lose his wits. 

Something tells Steve that talking with the darkness is the right thing to do, if only for his own comfort. 

He looks up, his head thumping against the brick wall behind him, as steps approach. They still, right in front of him, and he’s staring into nothingness, almost expecting to make out a shape. Expecting for the next breath to be his last. 

Expecting… something. 

But nothing happens, and the sound of the ocean returns. The darkness seems less impenetrable as a sliver of light falls in through a side light up above. 

“Thank you,” he says, as stupidly as it is soundless, his voice buried beneath fear and dread. 

Miraculously, the darkness seems to fade a little more. 

Enough, eventually, for Steve to get up and dust off his trousers in an attempt to look presentable, or to shake off the residue of his fright — if only it was merely residue. 

Now that the darkness has lightened, he keeps his eyes fixed to the spot where he feels like he can make out a shape in the dust. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, though, maybe it’s just the expectation of finding a spectre that makes one appear. 

Madness, he reiterates. But something about it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel mad. And the steps never receded. If they were not an illusion, something created to steal the grounds from beneath his feet, playing with his senses to warp his perception of reality and the truth, then something — someone, quite possibly — is still standing right in front of him. 

He looks on even long past the point of impolite staring, searching the dust for a shape that only appears in his periphery when he moves his eyes. 

It feels rather undeniable, though, that someone is watching him. 

“Hello,” he says at last, having regained some of his voice and footing. His hands clench by his sides, though, his body revolting against speaking with an apparent ghost. 

The darkness doesn’t answer, and neither does the dust. But with the memory of urgent whispers still on the forefront of his mind, Steve is almost grateful for it as he carefully reaches for his bags and stars to move so slowly that it might almost be a mockery of the situation if his legs weren’t so shaky. 

The weight of an invisible gaze rests on his shoulders and settles in the bones of his neck. It takes everything in him not to rub at it — he has no idea what the darkness would take offence to, and he already feels incredibly lucky to have made it this far with his life still intact and only his sanity and his pride having taken a crack along the way. 

He thinks of Old John again, thinks of Good luck, kid. He almost asks the darkness about him, but he bites his tongue just in time. The stairs are steep and if he fell, given an invisible push, chances are he wouldn’t remain as alive as he is right now. 

So he swallows and feels his way along the wall up the stairs. When he finds an oil lamp, he reaches for the matches in his bags — blessedly dry — and lights it.

It’s almost blinding, the shine of the flame that sets to illuminate the way, but Steve feels his gaze drawn to the foot of the stairs where the spectre is still framed by the door. Still appearing to look at Steve. 

Stalemate is one thing to call it, maybe, this tension in the air, the weight of their gazes accompanied by the stumbling of Steve’s heart and the trembling of his hands. 

Steve swallows and continues with his ascent of the winding stairs, never once losing the feeling in his neck. He finds more lamps along the wall and lights them until they lead him to a set of chambers that in any other lighthouse would have been down at the bottom or even in another building altogether, leaving room in a large house or a tiny hut for the keepers to reside in. But none of that is possible out here, in the middle of the sea, towering on top of cliffs that already make it nary impossible to get here. 

The lighthouse is prone to flooding if the wind shifts or the ocean remains ruthless in a storm, so everything needs to be located above the threat of sea level. 

He finds two bedchambers, the beds unmade, a richly stocked pantry that will last him several months if he keeps it locked away from wet air, and an almost inviting kitchen. A burnt smell wafts from the oven, grown stale over time but a certain bite has never quite managed to air out, and when he takes a look, he finds what was supposed to be bread still in there. A coat hangs on a rack, another is hung over the back of the chair, and another stool has been thrown over. 

It looks for all intents and purposes like someone was just here. Like someone is still here. 

What happened to the old keepers? — That does not concern you. 

A shiver runs through him and he tries not to succumb to the terror that seems to lurk inside these walls as he starts a fire in the hearth. He is exhausted, adrenaline rushing from his body and leaving behind only apathetic tiredness and a longing for rest. He doesn’t even remember the light, his head filled with fog and exhaustion.

Once the fire is going and he is sure there is enough coal for it to last all night and keep him from freezing to an early death, Steve falls into bed without dinner. He only has enough strength not to retreat into a dead man’s unmade bed, instead finding new bedding and linen to make it his own. 

He doesn’t sleep on that first night, but he falls into a haze thick enough to be unable to move as the whispers return, knocking and hammering along the walls almost rhythmically, as if waiting for a signal. 

There is no time, they say, though he cannot be sure the next morning if he dreamed that or if he really heard it echoing along the walls. 

Run. Leave. There is no time. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick.

And the night remains dark.

tagging: @klausinamarink @steviesummer @auroraplume @dragonmama76