Chapter Text
Mike’s alarm buzzed like it always did, shrill and insistent. It cut through the haze of sleep with its familiar, unwelcome rhythm. He reached out a hand, silencing it, and blinked at the sunlight creeping through the blue curtains.
Everything looked… normal.
As always.
His desk cluttered with notebooks and pens, textbooks stacked neatly, the backpack leaning against the chair. His bed wasn’t made (because he’s in it,) and some of his clothes were tossed at the foot. There was one of Will’s darker brown jackets that he left the last time he visited from college.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Predictable.
Most of all, safe.
And yet, he couldn’t help but feel like everything was off.
He swung his legs over the edge of the creaky bed and waddled his way over to the kitchen, carrying a mug of coffee he’d forgotten in his room yesterday morning. He reached over to the coffee pot and poured himself another mug, and put a piece of toast in the toaster.
Just another routine that should have felt soothing, but didn’t.
The warm sunlight fell in neat stripes across the counter, painting everything a yellow-ish golden glow.
“You don’t want any creamer with that, Micheal?” Karen walked into the room with a tied up newspaper, a little damp from a rainstorm yesterday.
“I didn’t really sleep that well last night,” Mike responded, leaning against the counter waiting for the toast. “It wakes me up.”
“I suppose it should.”
POP!!
“Fuck!” He turned around suddenly jumpscared from the completion of his toast.
Most likely a side effect of his lack of sleep.
When he turned around to look around at the sound, his elbow had hit his coffee and spilled it all over the countertop. He lunged to grab the mug before it could roll to the floor. After all, it had been given to him by Will for Christmas last year. He’d made it in a pottery class at his fancy college far away from here, and it may as well be Mikes most prized possession.
His mother went and grabbed a bright pink towel from the stovetop and passed it to her son.
Not glaringly wrong, nothing dramatic, but the pink material glowed almost unnaturally, too bright, almost like it had been enhanced. He tilted the towel, squinting, thinking the sunlight must be exaggerating the color.
“Hey, Mom?”
She looked up from her newspaper, smiling at him in the same patient, calm way she always did. “Hmm?”
“The towel… it looks weird, doesn’t it?”
“Everything looks fine, Michael. You’re imagining things,” she glanced at the mess, then back at him, eyes calm, almost studying in a way. “Now clean up your mess before it spreads to the floor.”
Mike frowned, staring at the mess, then at the towel. “I… I mean, it’s now that I think about it, I don’t think it’s ever been pink. It’s orange, right?”
Her lips pressed together, a polite smile, tinged with that impatience he’d learned to recognize. “Really, don’t worry about it. You’ve been staying up too late. Maybe that’s affecting your eyes.”
“It’s not my fault I’ve been having fucking nightmares,” Mike mutters quietly under his breath.
Still loud enough to be heard by his mother, though.
“Nightmares, really?” Karen scoffed, her patience being whittled away. “Holly has nightmares. You have to be an example for her, you can’t be scared of your own shadow like a child.”
“Mom, come on. Remember the last time you dismissed a nightmare like that?” The boy crossed his arms. “It was when Vecna was taking people.”
“Don’t you dare,” She closed her newspaper for good, setting it on the table a few inches from the lingering coffee spill. “We do not mention that monsters name in this household. You’re just staying up late, and because of it you’ve been misremembering things.”
Mike swallowed, trying to force himself to believe it. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was tired. Maybe the color had always been pink and he just hadn’t noticed. But then he looked at the toast in the toaster. The edges gleamed unnaturally golden. The cookbooks on the walls weren’t their own original color. And the yellow chrysanthemums on the counter— they weren’t even supposed to be chrysanthemums in general. It’s supposed to be a blue hyacinth surrounded by forget-me-nots.
He shook his head, forcing himself to take a deep breath.
It’s nothing.
It’s literally just stress.
Sleep deprivation.
Nothing else.
Still, unease settled in his chest, curling there like a cold, quiet knot. He moved through the rest of his routine carefully, brushing his teeth, pulling on jeans and a jacket. Every familiar motion felt slightly heavier, weighted by the subtle awareness of the wrongness pressing at the edges of his mind.
He glanced out the window at his parents lawn, where the sunlight struck the grass in perfect stripes. The green looked off.
Real fucking weird, thought Mike.
Too bright, almost electric. Like it was alive. He squinted, blinked rapidly in an attempt to convince himself that it was just the angle, just the light. But no matter how he looked, it pressed against him, a color that shouldn’t exist naturally.
Okay. Weird lighting. That’s it. That’s all it is.
He poured himself another sip of coffee once he cleaned up his spill. His stomach tightened. Even as he lifted the mug to his lips, he couldn’t ignore the sense of wrongness everywhere.
Moving through the house, Mike noticed more small anomalies. Shadows along the walls moved slightly as if moving of their own accord. The hum of the refrigerator carried a faint secondary pitch he hadn’t noticed before, subtle but dissonant. Not quite a harmony, but something so slightly off that it’s unpleasant to listen to. The sunlight slanting across the blinds seemed sharper than it should have been. It was almost as if it were cutting lines into the room like a butcher with a chunk of fresh meat.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake it off. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe he was seeing things.
Maybe…
maybe it wasn’t real.
But the more he looked, the more the world insisted it was.
Mike’s chest tightened further. He felt the first real tickle of panic at the edges of his rationality, the one that whispered this is not right.
“Mom?” he tried again, voice quieter now, hesitant. “Does it… seem like something’s… different today?”
She looked up at him, eyes firm, lips pressing together. “Michael. Everything is fine. Really. You’re overthinking it.”
He nodded, forcing himself to take a deep breath, but the tight knot in his chest didn’t release. He finished packing his bag, trying to ignore the subtle shift.
As he walked on, the wrongness didn’t fade; it thickened. It felt like the more he paid attention, actually paid attention, the more things seemed to be wrong. Colors bled into shades that didn’t belong to Hawkins, everything in hues he couldn’t name but instinctively recoiled from.
Then, he saw the tree.
Its shadow was wrong. It didn’t fall straight or scatter naturally across the ground. Instead, it curled like a cat's tail, hugging the trunk too closely, bending inward it was trying to wrap itself around something. The shape twisted in on itself, angles soft where they should have been sharp, as though the shadow had been molded by another presence.
He stopped mid-step. Mike’s foot hovered above the ground, muscles locked, heart slamming so hard it felt loud enough to be heard. The air seemed to hold its breath with him. He stared, unable to look away, a crawling certainty sinking into his chest that the shadow was aware of being watched.
He forced his eyes elsewhere, just for a moment.
When he looked back, the tree stood as it always had. But the shadow did not return with it. It almost lagged, clinging to its previous shape like its a ghost of itself. Then, with a subtle, nauseating slip, it corrected. Overcorrected even, like it was trying to pretend it was always normal.
Mike’s skin prickled.
Shadows weren’t supposed to hesitate.
It should be scientifically impossible for the shadows to fall behind, but impossible has been proven to be, well, impossible, way too many times.
He moved faster, trying to ignore the sensation. The neighborhood should have felt familiar since he walked these streets hundreds of times (and biked them even more) but every step felt foreign. The soundscape was wrong too. A car passed a block away, but its engine emitted a loud sound like it was about to run Mike over. A dog barked somewhere, and the bark echoed twice in the wrong rhythm, almost like a recording played with the volume of one layer slightly delayed. Mike’s stomach twisted.
I’m imagining it. I have to be.
Even people he passed didn’t behave normally. A group of kids waiting for the school bus laughed, but their gestures and timing were just slightly too perfect. Words repeated in a rhythm he didn’t recognize. It was human, but… not quite. Like it was rehearsed, and their laughter sounded a bit too similar to a laugh track.
Nausea surged up his throat.
His vision swam, edges of the reality (as he knew it) crinkling. His mouth filled with saliva, sharp and metallic, and he almost gagged. He pressed a hand to his mouth as a cold sweat broke out along his spine. His skin felt too tight, like it didn’t fit him anymore.
Don’t stop. Don’t look too long.
He forced himself to keep walking.
The Byers’ house was only a few streets away, close enough that he should have felt relief, but every step took effort. It was like he was trudging through quicksand without any branches to pull him out.
His breathing grew shallow. Fast. The world tilted slightly with every step, and he had the horrible sensation that if he stopped moving, he would vomit all over the concrete. Or worse, collapse and never get back up.
This wasn’t exhaustion, and this wasn’t his imagination. It could be, but he doubted it.
His body wouldn’t be reacting like this if it were.
The world was sick, and standing inside it made him feel sick too. And deep in his gut, beneath the nausea and the fear, Mike knew something else with awful certainty:
Whatever was wrong here wasn’t going to fix itself.
Mike’s steps slowed as he turned the corner, approaching the familiar home of the Byers family. He could see the mailbox and the crooked little garden gate, the same ones he had seen a hundred times, and still, the colors seemed slightly off. Hell, not even slightly off. The mailbox was vibrant, but the rest of the house was dark. Like it was cast in shadows. His chest felt tight, a coil of tension that had been building for blocks now.
A figure appeared at the edge of the lawn, and the world seemed to become so much more alive just because he was there. Will moved with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once, like the air itself needed him, and not the other way around. His hair caught the sunlight, glinting warm brown, and his smile—
Oh god his smile, Mike thought.
His smile spread like a quiet explosion, radiating warmth into every corner of the street. Mike couldn’t look away. He wanted to but for some reason, he physically couldn’t pull his gaze away from the boy in front of him.
Will’s laugh came, and it sounded like if nostalgia was a person. It reminded Mike of all the best things of his childhood, which was basically just Will.
And Dustin. And Lucas. And Max. And Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, and… El.
But in short, Will was a huge part of it. He made the world feel smaller, closer, like it had condensed to just the two of them. He was cool. Effortlessly cool. The kind of person you remembered forever, even if you tried not to. But he vowed to always remember.
“Hey, Mike,” Will called as he walked closer, waving. His voice was warm and familiar, and for a second, Mike’s chest loosened slightly.
“Hey,” Mike managed, the word scraping its way out of his throat. He forced his mouth into something that might pass for a smile, even though he knew it’d look forced.
His eyes flicked to Will’s face for just a glance, then lingered despite himself. He searched it the way you check a reflection in a dark window, half expecting it be gone.
Will looked normal.
Painfully normal. The freckles were where they were supposed to be. He’d know, since he liked to count them. 27. The curve of his nose, the familiar slope of his jaw: nothing out of place, nothing wrong. Yet the longer Mike stared, the more it felt like Will was manufactured. Too exact.
It made Mike’s stomach tighten, a quiet, creeping dread curling beneath the relief. Because most things didn’t line up like this by accident. They lined up because something had wanted them to.
Will fell into step beside him as they walked toward the gate. “You okay? You look really tense Mike.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Mike hesitated. “I’m sure it’s just because I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“You can still tell me,” Will murmured. “I won’t judge.”
It should have been reassuring, but instead he felt like judgment had already happened.
“I don’t know,” Mike said, and this time he didn’t try to soften it. The words came out rough, frayed at the edges. Like he was scared. “Something feels really fucking off.”
“What do you mean?”
”I can’t,” He broke off, swallowing hard, his stomach rolling. “I can’t explain it.”
He gestured vaguely at the street, the motion unfocused, like he was afraid to point too directly. “The colors. The shadows. The sounds.” His voice dropped, almost involuntary. “It’s like we’re in a false world. Like everything’s been… staged.”
His hand fell back to his side, fingers trembling. “Everything’s either too vibrant or really fucking dull.” His gaze flicked, helplessly, toward the Byers’ house. “Like your house.”
His brow furrowed slightly, though he didn’t say much. He glanced around, his gaze lingering on a streetlight that flickered faintly, then returned to Mike.
“Yeah… I mean, things do feel weird sometimes. But I’ve never seen colors change.” His tone was careful, casual, almost as if he didn’t want to draw too much attention to the strangeness.
“I didn’t mention colors changing, just that they were more vibrant.”
“Oh, uhm, yeah. That’s what I meant. You know, like, that’s basically the same thing.”
Mike’s hands gripped the straps of his bag tightly. “It’s happening everywhere I go. On my walk here there was children that were talking like they were reading from a literal script. It feels so insanely wrong. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“Maybe it’s… like a trick. You’re probably overtired like you said earlier.”
“Let’s go get milkshakes at Melvald’s to take your mind off it, alright?” Will smiled and walked off his porch with Mike.
They talked together along the cracked sidewalk toward the gate, the with the odd parts pressing at Mike’s perception. With Will there though, everything seemed less dangerous.
Mike exhaled slowly. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I missed you, you know.”
“Really?” Will smiled faintly. “I missed you too.”
“So,” he started. “How has fancy art school been treating you in New York?”
“It’s really, really fun. Especially because it’s not just a stupid hobby there, you know?”
“Yeah.”
Mike didn’t know, but he’ll agree just for Will’s sake.
The duo walked down the familiar street together, side by side, but the normalcy of their steps did little to calm Mike’s tightening chest. The houses on either side of the street looked the same they always did. Still a bit unordinary though. A garden gnome on one porch seemed to stare them down.
“Will, you should make me one of those. Or better yet, two. One in armor, and one in a wizards hat.”
Will started laughing, and Mike wasn’t sure he’d ever heard a more majestic sound from anyone.
“What? It’s Mike the Brave and Will the Wise.”
“Sure, I’ll make some for you.” Will smiled. “And one for Holly, since she might get a bit upset if her brother got one and not her.”
“Holy shit!!” The Wheeler boy jumped right into the others arms, staring the garden gnome dead in the eyes. “Did you see that? Please tell me you saw that.”
When Will looked over at the porch where the gnome was sitting, he saw the gnome shift colors. From a dull gray to a strange pale blue, then back again.
Will glanced casually at the gnome, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Yeah… it’s weird, right?” His tone was calm, like he knew it was going to happen. Will didn’t explain it or offer a reason, just acknowledged the strangeness.
Mike shook his head and forced himself to take another step. “It’s happening everywhere,” he muttered. “And you know it is.”
Even as he spoke, the world around them confirmed his unease. Every so often, a bird would chirp twice in exact repetition, the second note layering unnaturally over the first.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I was losing my absolute shit and I felt crazy.”
Will walked beside him, silent for a moment, then said, “Sometimes I notice things like that when I’m home. Little patterns. I thought I was imagining them, though.” His words were careful, neutral, almost rehearsed, but Mike caught the underlying acknowledgment of the glitching world.
Mike swallowed hard. “It’s not just little things. It’s so consistent. Everything’s repeating, flickering… like someone’s messing with it.”
The wind stirred again, rustling the leaves of a nearby tree. The sound repeated faintly, almost like an echo layered directly on top of itself.
“Mike, you don’t know what your saying.” His voice now had an edge to it that Mike wasn’t able to place quite yet.
Mike exhaled, trying to steady himself. “Its getting to be way too much,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can handle it— I can’t ignore it anymore.”
“We can talk about this later, alright? We’re almost here.” Will says right as Melvalds get into view.
They reached Melvald’s five minutes later, the walk quiet except for the occasional car passing and that strange echo that Mike was trying hard not to hear.
The bell on the door chimed as they entered, a familiar bright ding that should’ve felt comforting. It didn’t. It lingered a half-second too long, like the sound didn’t know how to stop properly.
Inside, the store smelled like dust, old candy wrappers, and the faint sweetness of freezer-burned ice cream. Nothing out of the ordinary. The shelves were still overcrowded and a little crooked, lined with sun-faded boxes of sprinkles and small plastic spoons. The newspaper rack by the entrance had headlines Mike didn’t recognize, but he forced himself not to look long enough to check why.
Will brushed past him, heading straight for the menu on the wall. “They still have mint chip,” he said, like that was some kind of small miracle. “And strawberry.”
“Strawberry,” Mike said automatically.
As Will went and ordered at the counter, Mike went to the window and sat down at a booth that was open. The table had a few rings from coffee stains on them, and it reminded Mike of how tired he was.
I’d kill for a coffee right now, Mike thought.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A familiar, steady hum. Too steady. He tried to shake it off. This was normal. This was routine. Will was here. He was okay.
“So,” Will said, coming back with a light pink and a green cup. “Are you planning on actually sleeping at some point this week or are we fully committing to the whole tortured-artist-insomniac thing?”
Mike let out a weak laugh. “I’m not an artist.”
“Says who?” Will responds. “I think you’re an artist.” Will takes a sip of his milkshake.
“Don’t flatter me.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“You aren’t.” Mike rolls his eyes, smirking into his straw.
“But I could be.”
“Sure.”
Their voices sounded normal. Too normal. If anything, the normalcy felt like the oddest part of the scene. It almost felt like old times, back before Vecna but after Will was found. Mike followed Will to the counter, where Mr. Melvald was scanning a stack of receipts. The man didn’t look up right away.
“If anything, you’re the artist here.”
“We’re still on that?” He had a nice, alive laugh. Will leaned against the old red counter, tapping his fingers. “So, Hawkins. Still boring.”
Mike nodded. “Insanely boring.”
“Lucas finally got out of here,” Will added. “He told me he’s gonna try and get a job outside Chicago or something. He sounded… happy.”
“Good.” Mike swallowed. “I’m glad.”
He meant it, but there was something in his voice that sounded distant even to him. They were talking like normal, reminiscing, catching up on college life and hometown life and all the in-betweens, but there was a quiet, uneasy space between their sentences.
Not hostility. Not tension. Just discomfort. Like two people dancing around a conversation neither wanted to start.
Mr. Melvald finally looked up, glanced between them, and asked, “You boys ready to pay?”
“Yeah,” Will said, smiling politely.
While Will pulled out some money to cover both of the milkshakes, Mike’s eyes flickered over the racks of magazines beside the counter. The colors were normal. Dull. Old, even. Possibly even 20 years, but he couldn’t have known for sure. The world outside had been vibrant, buzzing with wrongness, but here it was the opposite. Like if someone had toned it down too much in editing, afraid the audience would catch on.
Will nudged him with his elbow lightly. “Earth to Wheeler. You okay?”
“Fine.”
Mike didn’t really subscribe to the idea of friends don’t lie.
He traced the edge of the counter with his thumb, grounding himself in something tactile. A piece of chewed gum got stuck slightly under his nail, cheap and familiar. Disgusting, but somehow that helped.
Mike took a slow sip while looking at Will. He lowered the cup slowly.
Will watched him over the rim of his own, expression carefully neutral.
They stood near the back of the store, over by the employee section. It was the quietest part of the shop. Usually, Mike liked that. Today, however, it made it feel like the walls were listening.
He pretty sure they were.
Will took another drink, then said lightly, “So, uh… Mom wants us all together for dinner tonight. She thinks we should ‘reconnect.’”
He mimicked Joyce’s voice on that last word which would’ve normally it would’ve made Mike laugh.
It didn’t.
Instead, something in his chest coiled tighter.
“Cool,” Mike said flatly. His fingers fidgeted against the plastic cup. “Yeah. That’s good.”
Will nodded slowly, studying him.
But he wasn’t really studying Mike.
He was calculating.
Could be watching.
Probably measuring.
Mike didn’t know how he knew that, but he just knew.
The fluorescent above them flickered dim, then bright again. Will didn’t even look up. Mike did.
That was the final straw.
“Okay,” Mike said sharply, voice cracking slightly. “No. No, fuck this.”
Will blinked. “Mike,”
“What do you know?”
The words tore out of him, too loud in the quiet aisle.
“Seriously, Will. What the fuck do you know that you’re not telling me?”
Will froze, the cup pausing halfway to his mouth.
Mike stepped closer, milkshake forgotten in his hand. “You keep acting fucking weird. You keep looking around like you’re expecting something. Or someone. And earlier you said colors change, but I never said they did, just the vibrancy.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Mike. I just spoke wrong, you know,” his tone became slightly defensive.
“And the gnome. You saw it glitch. You did. But you brushed it off.” Mike’s voice shook now. “Everyone’s acting normal except they’re not. My mom didn’t even blink when I said the towel changed colors. She just didn’t even care. You hear that? She didn’t care. No one cares.”
Will’s jaw tensed.
“And you,” Mike continued, feeling something break inside him, “you’re acting like you’re… waiting. For something. Or trying not to slip up.”
“Micheal,”
“Don’t ’Micheal,’ me.”
“Ok, Mike,” Will’s voice was too soft. Too gentle. Too controlled. “You’re tired. You’re scared. Everything feels worse because you—“
“No!” Mike’s voice echoed into the store. He didn’t give two fucks if old man Melvald heard.
“Do not ‘you’re tired’ me, Will. Don’t patronize me. I’m not stupid. And you’re not stupid. You see it. You’re seeing the same shit I’m seeing. Just tell me. Just tell me what’s happening.”
The Byers’ boy didn’t respond.
“Jesus Christ,” Mike whispered. His pulse hammered in his throat. “Will, please. Tell me. I’m losing my mind.”
Will inhaled sharply. Then, he responded.
“I can’t,” he said.
Not angry. Not defensive.
Just… scared.
Mike stared at him, chest tightening. “Why?”
Will swallowed, eyes flicking once more toward something behind Mike, something Mike refused to look at.
“Because,” Will said quietly, voice low enough that Mike had to lean in to hear the last part,
“he won’t like it.”
Mike felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
Cold, sick dread pooled in his chest.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Will stepped closer, his voice barely audible now. “We can’t talk here. Not… not with him listening.”
“W–Who—”
Will shook his head once. “Not here.”
He grabbed Mike’s wrist — gently but firmly.
“Come with me,” he murmured. “I’ll show you. I promise. But you have to trust me.”
They slipped out of Melvald’s employee back door without another word.
The sudden sunlight outside felt harsher now, like stepping onto a stage where someone had turned the brightness up too far. Colors buzzed. Edges sharpened. Mike blinked fast, trying to steady his breathing.
Will didn’t let go of his wrist.
“Wait, stop,” his voice was slightly labored. “Everything’s buzzing…”
“There’s no time, come on!”
He didn’t drag him because it wasn’t forceful. It was just insistent, like this was always a plan.
They crossed two streets, then a third.
Past the empty bus stop.
Past the row of houses Mike had known his whole life.
Except he didn’t recognize any of them now.
They were too symmetrical. Too reflective. Very clean.
“Where are we going?” Mike asked finally, voice low, wary.
Will didn’t answer. They reached the edge of the neighborhood where the tree line thickened. A narrow trail disappeared into the woods. Mike hesitated.
“We’re not allowed in here,” he muttered, because it was the only normal thing he could think of.
Will huffed a quiet laugh. It was just tired. “Since when has that ever stopped us?”
He kept walking. Mike followed.
The woods were quieter than they should’ve been. No wind. No rustling. Even birdsong felt muted, like someone had turned the ambient volume down.
Leaves gleamed too bright. Shadows clung too long.
Halfway down the path, Mike noticed a second sound underneath their footsteps. A faint delay, like an echo chasing them with a half-second lag. It made his skin crawl like bugs were lining his skin.
“Will,” he said again, sharper. “Are we running from something?”
Will shook his head. “Not running. Just… getting far enough away.”
“From who? Melvald?” Mike laughed, but it was clear he wasn’t trying to be funny.
Will stopped walking.
Mike almost collided into him.
They stood in a small, circular patch of sunlight, too geometric to be natural. Like someone had cut a shape out of reality with surgical precision.
Will turned, finally letting go of Mike’s wrist.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just watched Mike, his eyes grazing over his facial features. His bent nose, his freckles, and the panic sitting beneath his skin.
“You’re not crazy,” Will said quietly. “And you’re not wrong.”
Mike swallowed. The clearing felt like it was holding its breath.
“Then what is it?” His voice cracked. “Why does everything feel wrong?”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again, like the words were too heavy, or too dangerous, or both.
His eyes darted to the edge of the clearing, as if checking for something unseen.
“Once I tell you this, you need to be ready to run for your life.” Will grabbed onto Mikes shoulders. “No matter what you see, you need to run.”
“From what?”
“I can’t say without him hearing.” Will looked him in the eyes, and whispered. “He listens,”
Each syllable was deliberate, like he planned this out. Or better yet, he knew what he was talking about.
Mike’s heartbeat stuttered. “Who?”
Silence.
“I think you know.”
Will stepped closer. Not reaching out, not touching, but just close enough that Mike could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“I need you to do something,” Will said. “And I need you to trust me. Completely.”
Mike’s throat went dry. “Will,”
“Don’t panic.” Will’s voice softened, soothing in a way that gutted him. “Just look at me.”
The other boy nodded.
His hands went up to go on either side of Mike’s face. “Don’t look anywhere else. Not the trees. Not the ground. Not the shadows.”
Mike forced himself to hold Will’s gaze.
“Breath slow,” Will murmured. “Just like old times, okay? In through your nose.”
Mike inhaled. Air trembled in his lungs.
“Good. Now out.”
Mike exhaled shakily.
Will leaned in further, his voice dropping to something closer to a secret than speech.
“Mike,” he said, gentle but unyielding.
“you need to wake up.”
Mike blinked, the world tilting violently around him. “What do you mean wake up?”
“Exactly what you think it means.” Will took his hands off of Mikes face. “Those inconsistencies? That’s the merging of old memories with new ones. If you focus, you can hear people shouting for you to wake up.”
“But how are you here, telling me this?”
“I’m not. It’s like how El gets into people’s minds, I’m doing something like that.” Will turned around, then looked back at Mike. “You need to hurry. I bought you some time to run, but you need to hurry. I can’t protect you here, you have to escape before he gets you.”
“Where do I look to get out?” His voice wasn’t just laced with fear now, it was fear. “I don’t know how to get out!”
“Find a place that has a memory of yours. I brought you to this forest for a reason, you can do this. I have to leave now, but I’ll be calling for you. You need to go. Now.”
And with that, the man in front of Mike disappeared before his very eyes. A low hum rose from beneath the ground, vibrating through his feet, crawling up his spine. His hands shook as he tried to push himself forward, toward… something he couldn’t name. Every instinct screamed at him to stop, to scream, to run back the way he came, but the world itself was pressing him onward, bending him like water over rocks.
Where the fuck do I go, Mike thought. Where am I supposed to go.
He remembered Will’s words: “I brought you to this forest for a reason,”
Mirkwood. The place where he went looking for Will all those years ago. He started off at an intense speed, almost described as someone training for the Olympics. Mike’s legs burned, lungs screaming for air he didn’t have, but he didn’t slow. The forest whipped past him, shadows stretching like black fingers, snagging at his clothes and hair. Every tree seemed alive, bending slightly as he sprinted, whispering his name in voices he barely recognized. Roots twisted beneath his feet, trying to trip him, and the leaves rasped like paper dragged across metal. Heart hammering, chest tight like it was locked up with chains, and the freedom he didn’t have was the key. He got to the center of Mirkwood, and there was nothing there. No door, no gate, but…
Then he saw it.
A door. Not ordinary. It looked like a door you might find in a house, except that this one hovered between the trees. It’s frame and door was made out of wood painted white, and in between the two parts, Mike saw a shimmering and pulsing red light. The door was framed by shadows that moved independently, curling inward.
Mike froze. His chest heaving.
“Mike,” Will’s voice echoed again in his mind, not from the trees but inside his skull, tight and urgent. “You need to wake up.”
Trembling, Mike stepped closer. Every footfall stretched time, the forest warping in impossible ways around him. Leaves glimmered with unnatural colors, and the air tasted metallic, like iron and smoke. He reached out, hand brushing the doorframe. It was real. Solid. Hot under his fingers, pulsing slightly.
Then he crossed, and everything changed.
The forest vanished. The buzzing, warped light, the geometric shadows were gone. In its place, a room he didn’t recognize but somehow knew. The air was thick, heavy with dust and something he couldn’t quite place. The surroundings, however, were something only described as alien. The terrain was red and grey, with massive stalactites emerging from every which direction.
The longer he seemed to stay, the more the red seemed to deepen, thickening like blood pooled across the jagged floor. Mike’s breath came in ragged gasps, every inhale tasting of iron and fear. Ahead, the portal shimmered. It ripped a jagged tear in the air, outlined in white light, pulsing and alive.
His legs moved before his brain caught up, racing across the uneven ground. The stalactites bent and twisted as he ran, reaching for him like clawed fingers, but he didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. Every step brought him closer to the light, closer to escape, or another nightmare.
The portal loomed, immense and vibrating with energy. Red shadows clawed at him, trying to pull him back, whispering everything he feared, everything he’d been running from. Mike’s chest tightened, his hands trembling as he reached forward. The light seared his vision, warmth and coldness at once. He used his momentum to propel over a larger twisting terrain trying to oppose his path, and body slammed himself into the portal.