Chapter Text
ᶠʳᵉˢʰ ᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ˢˡᵃᵐᵐᵉʳ,
ⁱ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵒ ᵐʸ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ ᶜᵃˡˡ ʷⁱˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᵗᵒ
Taylor Swift -
“Guilt… For many years I wondered what my share of guilt might be for the things that happen, that have happened, and that are yet to happen. None of us is exempt from the sin of error—and from the weight that follows it—after all, we are human, perhaps the weakest race, certainly the most prone to failure…” I pause. A few faint laughs ripple through the auditorium. "But guilt, in literature, is visceral. It transcends the page and reaches you," I gesture toward the audience, "readers, who allow my words to pass through sight and strike the heart. You feel the guilt that corrodes Margareth Target through my writing. And it is an honor to be the narrator, the intermediary of this work, delivering it to you."
I rise from the armchair. I fasten the two correct buttons of my blazer, just as my mother taught me. The tremor in my fingers is nothing more than a breath gone astray. I adjust my glasses quickly before facing the three hundred and forty attentive faces watching my talk. I will never truly get used to speaking before so many people.
"I believe I can say we’ve discussed everything there was to discuss about ‘The Door in the Wall’. Thank you for being willing to come hear me speak about my newest book," I say, the same speech as always. "It was a pleasure."
The applause erupts, bursting against my eardrums without truly detonating. People whistle, stand, swear exaggerated vows of love. I bow in thanks before slipping offstage behind the curtains. The theater manager passes by, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. The staff surrounds me: white powder for the sweat, a bottle of water, and a lighter for the pack of cigarettes I’m already pulling from the pocket of the black tailored trousers they insisted I wear.
"Folks, folks, please settle down!" announces the warm voice of the burly man responsible for making this meeting between me and my audience possible. "Mr. Wheeler will shortly open the signing table in the event hall, so please organize yourselves calmly so everyone can have a pleasant experience. Good evening!"
He wasn’t much different from the other thirteen who had given the same speech in other cities.
Still, there was something about California that made it feel… right. Maybe it was the memories. The fearful period I spent here is already starting to blur, and it’s strange to feel like I’m losing something while, at the same time, a heavy relief floods my chest at not remembering every terror that devoured me in March of 1986. If math hasn’t failed me, twelve years have passed since what happened here.
I still hate the heat.
I still hate everything about this place.
I light the cigarette with the help of one of the staff. I take a long drag, releasing the smoke with the envelope held between my lips and front teeth for safety, God and Max know how many cigarettes I’ve dropped onto my lap and nearly burned my junk when I first started smoking.
The memory of the redhead tugs at my conscience: I need to buy gifts for the twins. The baptism is coming up, and I’m not in the mood to hear the wonder couple ramble about how I’ve already started the kids’ lives as a terrible godfather. I don’t know why they chose me. I still leave the house wearing mismatched socks, mess up my haircuts, and almost caught an STI last week. I’m the worst person in the world to entrust with a child, let alone two. Nancy doesn’t even let me near her German Shepherd, Sergeant, anymore after I spilled wine on his fur. Steve laughed for a week. I spent that same week with back pain from the slap my dear older sister gave me.
Quiet down, thoughts.
I need to leave California with two perfect gifts.
Amen.
"Mr. Wheeler!"
I turn.
"Yes…? Oh. Rodrick."
I greet my agent: short, thin as a kitchen drainpipe, black hair streaked with rebellious silver strands, pale skin spotted with age, he never gets enough sun and never takes enough time off for his wife, Genevieve, a gentle older woman who makes a divine casserole, to complain properly. At fifty-six, Rodrick has worked with me since the beginning of my career. Without him, the publisher would never have accepted my first book, let alone my insane idea of turning one of my stories into a board game. I like to think he also knows how to think outside the box. Great minds think alike. God and Steve know how many times Dustin said that while tinkering with his gadgets.
"You shouldn’t be smoking, kid. You’ll be facing a line of fans in five minutes," he scolds. "It’s not appropriate for young people to meet their idol smelling like nicotine!"
I shake my head.
"Relax, Mr. Stress. I’m just getting ready for the second act."
"Getting ready…" he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Let’s move. You still have a full afternoon of commitments. And the publisher’s dinner."
I groan.
I hate those dinners. I hate the hollow ego-stroking of men in suits who believe themselves important while doing unimportant things. Dealing with the military was easier: hit and kill, hit and kill. No politics. No small talk. No empty speeches about trivial matters. We’re the land of freedom, yet I don’t feel free. Not since 1987.
"Do I really have to go to that crap?" I ask, clinging to a childish hope of escape.
"You do."
"And don’t be high, Michael," he adds.
I swallow hard. Because of the pills hidden in my bedside drawer. Because of my full name. Not even my mother calls me that, not even when she’s furious. Rodrick is the only one who does. A cruel time machine that turns me into a ten-year-old boy being scolded for playing D&D too late.
"Right. Thanks for reminding me of my shame," I roll my eyes.
I take another drag.
If God is merciful, I’ll die soon.
Slowly enough to pay for my sins.
"But don’t worry," I say sarcastically, "I’ll be perfectly sober at dinner."
Rodrick rolls his eyes.
"As talented as the devil, as bratty as a child. Let’s go. There are too many books waiting to keep that smoker’s hand busy."
"Here we go…"
I stub the cigarette out against the wall, letting the butt fall to the floor.
"Anyone got a mint?"
─────────
I sign the opening page with my trademark MW. It always makes me feel like a supervillain, a world-famous serial killer leaving his mark on the faces of his victims with their own blood. I still debate the best place for a signature: the forehead, if it’s broad enough, feels appropriate; cheeks have too many curves.
"What’s the name?" I ask, wearing an easy smile as I lift my head.
It’s a chubby man, maybe five foot nine, copper-blond hair, lightly tanned skin. He reminds me a little of Derek. The thought makes me smile more genuinely; his next baseball league game should be next month. He really made it.
"Stanley. Stanley Harbott!" he says enthusiastically. Green eyes.
"Well…" I lower my gaze, sign beneath my initials, and close the book. "I hope you enjoyed the read, Stanley."
"I loved it, Mr. Wheeler! It was amazing. My new favorite book!"
"I’m glad to hear that." I hand it back. "Thank you for coming."
He leaves glowing with happiness. I watch him disappear into the crowd and ready myself for the next person.
"Good aftern—"
I stop.
There’s no one directly in front of me. Only the next person in line, still standing near the security guard who controls the flow. Since the guard hasn’t moved, someone should be here.
I frown.
"Down here!" a voice calls.
A small, pale hand rises, waving eagerly.
I nearly jump. The voice is a child’s.
I lean forward in my chair, stretching over the table, and then I see her. There really is someone there.
A damn child.
What kind of irresponsible parent leaves a child alone in a place like this?
"Hi…" I glance around. "Where’s your guardian?"
"At home," she says, lifting the book up with effort. Both hands grip the edge of the table as she looks at me with pale green, doe-like eyes, fluttering her lashes with an innocence that feels… practiced.
Her dark-blond hair is braided tightly against her scalp. Her face is strangely familiar: freckles standing out against flushed cheeks and nose, a slightly upturned nose, a defined jaw softened by childhood. Nine, maybe ten years old. So familiar my chest tightens, like I’ve known her forever, though not enough to name her. She reminds me of El.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. No one could look like her. Especially not a child. Maybe the nicotine has finally eaten through my brain.
"Did you come with an adult? Is anyone with you?" I tap my knuckles on the table.
"No. I took a taxi by myself. My mom didn’t want to bring me at all, she’s so annoying!" she huffs, pushing the book toward me.
Fantastic.
"And security let you through?"
"Come here…" she beckons me closer. I do. "I said my mommy was in the bathroom. Then he let me pass."
She confesses like it’s a sacred secret.
I can already hear imaginary sirens.
"So you tricked security, ditched your mom, and now you’re here to…?"
"Get an autograph, obviously," she grins.
"Right…" I sigh.
The book she’s brought isn’t the new one. It’s my first. Stranger Things. Hardcover. A knot twists in my stomach, maybe a kid her age shouldn’t be reading that.
"Do your parents let you read this?"
"Well… I stole it from my mom," she says casually. "Then she yelled a lot and started reading it to me at bedtime. Now my dad does. He doesn’t really care. They skip the 'heavy' parts."
She makes air quotes.
"But I think the deaths and the nudity are pretty okay," she adds thoughtfully. "Though I think you could improve some things. I made a list."
I swallow.
"A… list?"
She’s already digging through the pockets of her dark denim jacket, one that looks a lot like the jacket El wore over her pink dress when we were kids. The ache returns, dull and deep.
Why now?
It’s been ten years. Ten damn years. I don’t want to remember. I don’t need to.
She carefully places a folded piece of paper on the table.
A list of critiques.
"It’s organized by book and chapter," she explains proudly. "It’s not very long. But there are some weird plot holes. You really need to fix them."
She shakes her head sternly. She reminds me of the principal at Hawkins High.
A disbelieving laugh escapes me.
"I’ll… take that into consideration. Thank you."
I fold the paper and stuff it into my pocket before anyone sees.
"Now let me sign this quickly," I say, opening the book. "I’m sure your parents are worried."
On the first page, there’s a drawing.
Three crayon figures: a brown-haired woman, a larger blond man, and between them a brown-haired child. A family.
Of course she had a family. Parents who loved each other, who married, who lived normal lives. Like all my friends. Like my sisters.
And here I am.
Stuck in time.
Stuck on pills that leave the taste of blood in my mouth.
I shake my head, pushing the bitterness away.
"What’s your name, Thumbelina?" the nickname slips out easily as I write.
"Mikaela. But my mom calls me Kali. My last name is Hargrove. Grove, like trees. And I’m a huge fan, Mr. Wheeler!"
The pen freezes.
My fingers tremble as if electricity has shot through my skin, burrowed into my muscles, pulsed through my bones, and lodged itself in my heart, which starts pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. The air vanishes. It’s the same feeling as the pool. The sauna. The mall.
I want to throw up.
"Har… what?" I force out.
"Hargrove. H-a-r-g-r-o-v-e," she spells impatiently. "It’s not that hard."
It’s impossible.
If I hadn't seen that monster buried six feet under, I could almost have mistaken that girl for him. But Hargrove must be a common surname in California; I could always call Max and ask if her mother knew anything about her ex-husband—that disgusting old man probably remarried after leaving Hawkins and was now breeding around.
Billy Hargrove was dead.
I saw him.
I breathe deeply and sign fast, crooked. The K trembles. The H and G are uneven. I shut the book with a thud and slide it back.
"Here you go, Mikaela. Thank you for your patience."
Her doe eyes shine. She hugs the book to her chest.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Wheeler!"
She skips away, vanishing into the crowd, taking with her the peace I’d managed to claw back in t
he months after rehab.
"Mike…" one of the staff murmurs, approaching. "Are you okay?"
I’m not.
I want to call for my mother. For Nancy. For El.
But no one comes.
"No…" I manage.
I’m alone.
Alone with ghosts.