Chapter Text
By seven o'clock, the storm swallows the entire neighbourhood whole.
Cracked trees and screaming winds rush overhead; four walls are the only saviour. Inch by inch, the storm approaches - nothing formidable, just heavy rain and the realisation that it is best to stay indoors.
The home sits in the darkness; refrigerator silent, clock hands frozen when the power cut off. Even the electrical humming inside the walls appears to have packed up. Rain trickles down the windows, begging to be let in as the only proof that time is truly moving around them.
"Papa!" Grace, his daughter, announces from somewhere beneath her oversized blanket, head hanging over the edge, clicking her flashlight at the blank television, "I'm bored!"
From the floor, River, his son, fiddles with his handheld game, struggling to see through the unlit screen. He grows frustrated with every passing level, eyes burning, "Me too."
Behind his newspaper, Chance doesn't bother glancing, rereading the same paragraph when the candle beside him does nothing to help. He hums, "funny... you were both so excited ten minutes ago."
Being the older of the two, Grace rolls her eyes, caught in the warm glow of candlelight, "That was before."
Inside the house is warm; outside roars thunder, wandering across the sky like a lost traveller. Chance shudders, no pleasant memories of thunder, and for several minutes forced to endure the suffering like a heroic martyr.
He doesn't even notice when Grace left her spot, rustling around the cupboard under the stairs, wandering in a pursuit to fill the time, "Oh my gosh! River, come see this"
Instantly, Chance lowers his newspaper, immediately suspicious. Her words are far too suspicious to be considered normal, "Riv, No!" he commands without context.
Like speaking into the void, his youngest ignores his command, pausing his game and waddling over to her spot, skipping in curiosity.
"Am I speaking for my own health, here?" comments Chance, more bark than bite - after an entire day of work, he didn't wish to babysit in the pitch dark.
A minute later, both children emerge from the hallways carrying a box large enough to cover the top of their faces. They struggle, dropping the dusty boxes onto the ground with reckless abandon. It tips over, revealing forgotten history.
Family photos.
Groaning, Chance knows exactly what time it is; that same point every few years where boredom is so severe it fuels nostalgia. Like treasure hunters returning from a bountiful expedition, the children empty its contents, discarding the taped-up, labelled box behind them. Deciding he needs to be the responsible one, Chance puts his newspaper down, joining them.
Tapping her finger over every cover, Grace mentally sings a song to deduce an album to scour through first, while River sits beside her growing annoyed, features huffing when she slaps his hands away.
"This one!" declares Grace, cracking the book open. Pages stick together; the plastic slips painstakingly glued together.
Photographs holding years of memory; pictures spill over the pages - birthdays, football games, first days of kindergarten, fragments of the life they used to hold.
River peeks over his sister's shoulder, watching perfectly as the thin beam of her flashlight is the only source of light. Chance merely sits beside them cross-legged, hand resting back like he doesn't need pictures - his memory is perfect.
The cycle continues, the pictures recent enough for the kids to be surprised while equally feeling familiar. River points at a photo before pulling a face to mock his sister; she complains, dragging out a whine and screaming over the quiet house.
"Papa, tell him!" Grace wrestles to stop her brother.
Unrelenting, River doesn't budge; rather, the face pulls become more exaggerated, laughing endlessly. He spits, tongue out, mouth stretched wide, "bleh!"
"Indoor screams please!" commands Chance, but falling on deaf ears.
Ear-piercing, his kids chase each other around the room, screaming into the void; River steals the photograph from the slip, taunting his sister when going in circles - no matter how much Chance commands, there is no authority in his voice, face scrunched, utterly confused by all the commotion.
"If this continues, I'm putting the albums away," Chance threatens, finally heard over all the commotion. The children pause, slowly slinking back to their unclaimed seats on the carpet - frowns prominent.
Grace is the first to speak, arms dramatically folded over her chest, "It's not my fault, tell him."
"You look funny!" River comments half-playful, holding the picture up to mimic.
Deeply sighing, Chance grows tired of this constant bickering - however, this was just how his children play, so he doesn't reprimand them too much. Unfortunately, he didn't wish for a casualty. His voice fills the air, "River, don't do that to your sister! She's older than you," he gestures for the card.
Amused, Grace pulls back while River appears to have his tail between his legs, head down, reluctantly handing the photo over without much argument. When Chance sees the picture, he has to try his hardest not to laugh himself - it would only hurt his daughter's feelings,
"Jesus," he remarks, biting his lip, "now who printed this?"
Beneath candlelight, Chance sees the image of his eldest, about two years old, drooling, round-faced and bald to the scalp, engulfed by an oversized pink cowboy hat. Adorable, but mid-tantrum, Chance doesn't know who thought this was how her birthday should be remembered. It didn't help that Chance is posed beside her, both thumbs pointing to the sky and wearing a shit-eating grin.
"You were such an angry baby, you threw that fork at me after this picture," Chance remarks to alleviate the mood, but upon seeing her intense glare, he softens, holding the picture up for a second before sliding it neatly into his pocket, "Let's just say this one got lost... don't tell your mother." He adds.
Satisfied, the moment dies down; both kids allow the silence for at least twenty minutes, flipping through the different pages - a timeline of memories emerging.
Justice comes in the form of embarrassing photos - unfortunate haircuts, missing teeth and tantrums memorialised in ink. Enthusiastically, Chance contributes, going over the various embarrassing phases his kids went through; One picture shows Grace pulling her skirt over her head. Another shows River eating a pinecone. A third shows Chance attempting to wrangle both kids as Grace stole his glasses and River pulled on his baseball cap.
The raging storm outside rattles against the windows like it may collapse at any moment. Photographs cast back until the carpet resembles a barely coherent timeline - further back they go; toddlers become babies, babies become newborns.
Years peel back to reveal a pregnant woman and an eager father-to-be. Time passes, revealing their mother, Mary and Chance standing beneath a county fair sign, the typical romance one would expect, and a plethora of wedding pictures.
"Gross!" River sticks his tongue in disgust.
"It's our wedding," Chance rolls his eyes, chuckling soft at their protests. He looks down with a solemn smile at the page, taken mid-kiss. The photograph is passed around like evidence in the courtroom. A younger Chance looks impossibly pleased with himself.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Grace tilts her head, "Mom was pretty."
"Was?" Chance snorts. A smile crosses his face, fracturing a little at the edges when he teases - she is indeed pretty - the prettiest girl in all the land. He jokes, "You're lucky your mom is in Detroit taking care of grandma."
If she were home right now, she'd probably wear a pressed-on frown and hide the embarrassing photos. However, she'd soften upon seeing them sitting in a powerless house, enthusiastically digging through every embarrassing phase of their short lives.
College and early adulthood vanish in the blink of an eye as albums thin and the quality of the pictures degrade.
Then it is eighteen - seventeen - sixteen.
Teenage Chance - before ever knowing Mary - stares back from every page with the confidence that only teenagers possess. Each picture is the same - same smile, same manly pose and same letterman jacket. Whether at the pumpkin patch, at home, on Christmas or fishing, Chance is wearing that same damn letterman jacket.
The pattern only becomes more apparent with every turned page. Grace is the first to speak; she tilts her head, "Papa, why are you wearing this ugly jacket in every picture?"
"Was that the only clothes you had?" River asks as innocently as possible.
Cheeks hued red, barking a laugh; the flashlight dances across the page, making the plastic sleeve gleam. It is strange how memory works - the jacket feels spiritually large and yet still sat in his bedroom... tucked away. He shrugs, "It was a nice jacket. That jacket meant something back in my day."
Amongst the teasing, River concentrates on his own album, inquisitive nature he can't help but be commanded, no matter how aggressive the rain may have gotten - his handheld device is pushed to one side, humming a tune quietly. The power has gone out for nearly two hours now, but the house is in twilight.
Whilst Grace charges directly into battle, River skirts around like a silent observer.
The album he picks up is older, cover tainted yellow like beckoning him with its age. The pages crackle uselessly when he opens them, flickering past photographs of his Papa. Boring as he expects, River sees basketball matches, friends, trips, the kind of things he expects his father to be a part of - he always was extroverted and popular.
It is strange, however; a noticeable distinction to be made. In one picture he appears shorter, skinnier, softer, when the next he appears broader somehow. Like an entire season of his life is skipped in the blink of an image - something hardened, ripping away his whimsy.
When turning the page, something slips free and lands suddenly onto his lap; an image hidden beneath a holiday photograph.
Not particularly interesting, River furrows his brows at it. Head tilted - it is merely an overview of a small group of teenagers; not the confident jocks he sees on other pages - these teenagers are scrawny and nerdy - not the type his father usually keeps in his inner circles.
The sound of Grace's laughter bounces off the walls brightly like a bag of marbles, scattering the corners of the empty house to provide energy whilst his Papa tries to defend the dignity of his teenage self.
Half-listening, River stares down at the photograph, unable to shake the foreign feeling it holds - alien in his palm. The other pictures appear happy to look at; parties, gatherings and attention-grabbing, whilst this one feels secretive.
How many years had this picture been hidden for, completely lost for decades? Carefully, River raises the picture; the colours faded under warm candlelight; is this a school? He squints his eyes.
Far enough for the faces to blur, the photograph has clearly been taken from a distance. Despite the empty space surrounding, one boy stands out, half his face to the camera; hair wispy and shorter than his friends - the pinpoint centre.
Everything is in his orbit.
The boy doesn't smile nor frown, gaze drifting somewhere beyond the frame, toward the unseen, an eerie feeling he can't place; like the horror stories his sister would tell to provoke a reaction. For reasons River can't explain, the picture reminds him of the deer that sometimes appear at the edge of the woods on his commute to school.
Lost and afraid.
Hum heard only to himself; family too busy to hear him when Grace is pointing out all the times his father wore the same letterman jacket until it suddenly disappears. He turns the glossy page over, slowly reading dark ink etched in ageing yellow.
"W..."
His mouth shapes the letters - phonetically hissing the sounds.
"Will."
That is a name - a boy in his class has the same one.
"By-ers..." He mutters to himself, "Byers."
Another pause arises when numbers come straight after; he uses all his knowledge from kindergarten to persevere till the end.
"One-nine," he begins slow, mentally counting the larger-than-average numbers, "eight-six."
Smart, River realises it must be a year; however, it means absolutely nothing to him - ancient like older than dinosaurs and black-and-white televisions - his small brows furrow with a pensive pout. Glancing once between the photograph and his papa, he tilts his head back at the picture again.
The boy couldn't have been much older than Papa, and yet River has never seen him before - not in any album, nor in real life. His Papa has many friends, so losing touch means nothing at all - yet this picture feels significant.
"Papa," he begins tentative, harmlessly raising the picture, "Who is Will Byers?" he stretches the words.
Silence envelops the room for the first time since the albums were torn open. Chance's singular eye twitches but is gone in an instant as candlelight swallows it whole. Neither child notices, but the roaring storm outside is his only witness when thunder claps in the horizon.
Collected, Chance simply looks at the dimly lit picture, gaze lifts to River, measured, "Why do you ask, bug?"
Proudly showing off his skills, River flips the card around, "The back says Will Byers and one-nine-eight-six," he follows the digits with his finger.
The grin that paints Chance's expression stretches too far and arrives a fraction too late, "Well, I guess that private kindergarten was worth the money..."
Pleased with himself, River smiles at the suggestion, not understanding sarcasm, "I know a lot of words."
"I can see that," Chance fakes a snort.
Beside them, Grace leans into her brother's personal space and snatches the picture from his grip. To get a better look, she turns the picture around, confirming his words when repeating his inquiry, "Who's Will?"
That question comes differently from her - Whereas he could convince River that he'd simply misread, tricking his eldest with simple words would not be wise. Perfectly poised, the smile remains exactly where it is; the mix of conflicted candles and flashlight paints him teetering. The moment stretches further into the past.
Like he needs a reminder, Chance gently, but firmly, takes the photograph out of her grip, fingers forced light - he thought he got rid of all those pictures. A boy stands in the middle of the frame surrounded by a quaint group, memorialised in flat colours.
"Will Byers..."
It has been years since he'd uttered that name.
With a heavy sigh, Chance rubs his thumb absently against the photograph, not daring to taint Will's skin even through a picture - the face of a boy he hasn't seen in decades. People grow distant; isn't that natural?
A habit arises not even he is accustomed to: "he was..." he stops and pauses, hesitating over the words when restarting, "he was someone I cared about when I was younger."
"Is he your friend?" River tilts his head like a puppy.
Unable to lie to the expression, Chance looks up at the ceiling before relenting with a soft sigh. The next sentence comes out estranged, "We were close."
He hopes it will end at that.
River appears content with the answer, but Grace pushes on, sprouting questions from every direction, "When did you know him?"
"I was fifteen."
"How did you know him?"
"School."
"Was he in your class?"
"Not really..."
"Did he play basketball?"
"No."
One after another, the questions get on his nerves, hoping for this mystery to pass. Usually his kids could be easily distracted with the prospect of Cartoons or candy - unfortunately, neither of those are accessible in the thunder. Each answer comes out dryer and shorter. Of course River joins in too - now assaulted by overlapping questions.
"How did he act?"
"He was sweet."
"Did you hang out a lot?"
"Kind of."
"Did he have cool hair?"
"Did he like your jacket?"
"Was he nice?"
"Does mom know him?"
Through all the questions, the photograph remains firm between Chance's fingertips, creasing the faded edges slightly. Now and then his gaze drifts toward it, overwhelmed by the questions. The forgotten boy on the page appears ethereal as he'd always known him to be - a face twenty years unseen.
Questions appear faster than he can answer; like a flock of seagulls begging for the last scrap of fries from the basket. Then the final question that breaks his resolve comes:
"Where is he now?"
Mouth opens and closes, but Chance can't provide an answer - for some reason, this mysterious boy leaves an impact on them just as it once had on him - perhaps something in his genetics is compelled toward Will Byers.
Both speak simultaneously yet neither listens.
"Kids!" he breaks the void, voice pitched when overwhelmed; they don't hear even after he calls them out by name. Finally taking a shaky breath, Chance puts on the most commanding voice he can muster, "Hey!"
Instantly, they snap their tiny heads toward him, eyes wide and childlike as if wondering whether they were to be scolded. Chance clasps his hands together, already knowing where this is going - something he should absolutely not tell them - but it felt right. After all, he needed an outlet.
The photograph sits between them. Now that the doorway to the picture has been opened, there is no luck convincing Grace and River to walk away from the mystery - to them, he is almost mythical.
In a way they are correct.
While the power is out and the rain drums against the roof, there is nothing else for his kids but to be entranced by something so mysterious. He passes the sigh of a man making a terrible decision, "You two aren't gonna let this go, are you?"
Smug, both children pass a grin - the one they get from him - dimples prominent; faces may have been different but arrive at the same answer.
When Chance groans, the kids brighten - he has always been weak-willed.
For a moment, he considers getting up with an excuse, but instead he glances toward the dark house, illuminated by placed flashlights and wispy candles. Sensible decisions leave the room, scrapping good judgment, "Fine, I'll tell you guys... the whole story..."
Like announcing the buried treasure they'd been desperately searching for, both kids shift to more comfortable positions; Grace even drags her blanket off the couch, sharing with her brother as if a show of best behaviour.
"But-" he cuts through their excitement, leaning forward to where the harsh flashlight shadows his face aggressively. He instructs, "This stays between us."
Naturally, the children giggle, nodding eagerly - keeping a secret makes them feel more like grownups.
Not entirely convinced, Chance eyes them with suspicion. He clutches the photograph tighter, "I'm serious. No telling your friends or teachers..." he takes an abnormally long pause after that one, "and absolutely no telling your mother."
The reaction is instant. No longer is this a mere story - it is forbidden.
Grace speaks up first, "Seriously, Papa?"
"Seriously," repeats Chance.
Meeker, River questions small, "Why?"
A darkness paints his expression. How would his wife react if he'd told the kids such a story of the first person he'd ever loved - would she be confused? angry? annoyed? Right now, Chance isn't too sure. He manages a crooked smile, "She'd make me sleep on the couch when she gets back."
River and Grace giggle, but Chance raises a hand and ceremoniously drags his closed fingers across his lips - miming a zipper. He tosses away the invisible key.
Immediately, Grace copies, with River following a second later - The oath is complete.
"Good, cause I mean it." Chance points between them.
Neither laughs nor speaks, the gravity of the situation settling in. The beam of flashlight contrasts the warm candlelight as Chance grabs on, holding the picture up like a prize. He looks at the photograph one last time - a brightly haired boy standing forever beneath a washed-out summer sky.
He allows the release; here is the story told -
—— ——
FLASH -
Unsettling, strangely broodish, Will turned halfway, head tilted enough that it made his demonic abilities appear almost innocent. Yet Chance knew the truth; no amount of crowding friends could change that.
Hawkins felt wrong, but not because of the military checkpoint that had appeared overnight, nor the boarded-up storefronts or the cracked earth. Breath got taken by the plague that struck their breathing town; it carried no name but left scars. After the earthquake - or that was what the newspaper called it - the tragedy wounded the land for miles.
Dead, missing, or injured.
Climate change didn't seem like a problem anymore. Black smog and frozen clusters of spores rained from the air. Summer hung thick and heavy around him as he followed the group from a distance. He tipped the camera low behind his eyes.
Every few steps he lifted and clicked another like a dangerous habit he couldn't quite kick. He was searching for proof, but funny enough, he'd learnt to enjoy photography.
Ahead of him was a cluster of teenagers walking together along cracked streets, solemnly existing in a stubbornness that only the wounded possessed. He knew of them - Lucas, Mike and Dustin, members of the Hellfire cult - the rumours ran rampant.
However, it was the boy in the middle that caught his attention - hoaxes surrounded him. Stories built on one another; a strange coincidence blaming all issues that ever bewitched their small town on him.
The first casualty - a string of disappearances.
Then suddenly his return marks a catastrophic earthquake. That entire bloodline was cursed, he believed. Nothing was able to pacify their evil intentions - every single bad thing that had happened connected instantaneously to the Byers - everyone knew it but held their tongue.
Will Byers.
The Demon.
The Boy Who Came Back To Life.
No matter where he was, the mention of Will Byers and his cursed family rang through his head like a beating drum. The name whispered in church halls, funerals and dinner tables as known fact. Some regarded him with sympathy while others expressed fear. Each retelling contradicted another, yet one thing was constant throughout all versions - Will Byers was an anomaly. He raised the camera and clicked another photograph, searching for evidence on his own terms; proof of the unseen.
The church called him a demon, but Chance preferred his own interpretations, for this boy looked disappointingly ordinary, but normal people never gathered this many stories. Moments lasted forever, memorialised in photographs; Will turned slightly at an angle, essentially ethereal beneath sunlight.
The camera felt warm against his hands from the afternoon sun, beating down on him, beading sweat uncomfortable - the weather was unpredictable, equal parts cold but humid. Fiddling with the lens, he adjusted the focus, the lens centring on Will automatically; hair swinging in the breeze.
He clicked down on the shutter.
However, the returning sound felt wrong, empty and flat without resistance, meaning the photograph wasn't taken. With a groan, he rolled his eyes, lowering the camera and popping open the back; sure enough, the film roll stared back without sympathy.
Just perfect.
The entire afternoon spent chasing rumours, and now he'd run out of film. Like the universe decided that was enough artistic expression for one day, he sighed and snapped the camera shut, physically removing himself from the direction the group had gone.
Chance glanced at his watch, but immediately regretted it. The church expected him back - Pastor Miller always thought he wandered too much, and if he showed up late once more, that would be another conversation. Another cruel reminder that young men should focus less on chasing distraction and more on thinking about God.
But wasn't this The Lord's work? He was bringing proof that Will Byers was truly the devil they coined him to be. This time he didn't fight his brain, adjusting the camera strap against his shoulder as he turned away. One step further, something made him look back, perhaps instinct or curiosity. The distance between seemed much larger now, appearing more like shapes across the plain.
Eyes met Will's, movement small and intimate like the wind spoke his name. Completely secluded, the moment couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds - less than a heartbeat. An accidental glance pinned Chance completely in place, stagnant air paused around him.
Will barely acknowledged him at all, merely turning his eyes away toward the unsteady roads, simply swallowed by trees. Staring at the place he left behind, Chance knew it was a ridiculous thing to do, but he'd never spoken to Will; neither did he want to.
He couldn't shake the faint, persistent feeling that he'd strangely been noticed...
—— ——
It was the middle of class, and the Pastor wasn't looking. Painted white walls sat exactly where they always had, fractured with scarlines overrun. Since the earthquake, the church had become a safe haven, new members joining every day. Proof came in the form of the untouched building - around the crumbled and decayed, the church stayed strong. Perhaps it was a sign or a miracle.
By the far wall, Chance leaned against decorations, far enough to avoid attention but close enough to appear engaged. His notebook landed on the table, pages crowded with scripture references, sermon notes and half-finished thoughts. The youth pastor stood near the front of a chalkboard, hands clasped.
Comfortable, his voice wrapped the room, "...God gives His people discernment to make wise decisions." Pencils scratched across papers and coughs littered the room as Chance clicked his pen and scribbled down yet another point. The words sat alone, like waiting to be continued; he referenced scriptures, interpretations and spiritual warnings. The pastor continued, "...because evil rarely appears as evil."
Automatically, Chance took notes, handwriting perfect without effort, yet his brain was split between two situations. The empty camera hung around his neck like a heavy noose - the void reel making it useless. Refocused, Chance forced himself to listen, pen moving.
Words landed like dumbbells against the ground - claims that evil disguises itself and beauty was deceiving. Someone nodded in the front, but wasnt that already common knowledge? Nobody knew what was true anymore for the town had become a self-fulfilling machine of producing rumours and theories. People simply chose whatever version of scripture benefitted them.
"...take the Byers boy for instance," warned the pastor, completely unaware, "...there are people in this town who have convinced themselves strange events surrounding that family are coincidence."
Murmurs lingered across the room while Chance paused his train of thought, ink puddled into a thin line. Yet, he sat utterly still, eyes snapping up, details perfectly clear.
"The Bible teaches us that spiritual warfare exists," Pastor Miller folded his hands at the sounds of agreement and understanding, "We should be careful about what influences we invite into our lives."
Even then he didn't let the memory rest, carefully building a picture Chance was taught to recognise. A warning wrapped in scripture; by the time he was finished the shape was clear. Chance looked down at his notes, aimless letters staring back at him, finding himself staring at the single line in his notebook. Without realising it, he'd written beneath the others;
What if they were wrong?