Chapter Text
New York
June, 2001
Hello there,
The angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue
The unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Sally, if we want
Where you can always find me
The first thing I feel is the prickling of grass against my bare feet. Grass that rises up to my knees, tall and blooming. Flowers that are, for the most part, purple and yellow.
This can only be a sick joke.
— Mike?
The wind hits me with force, running cold and sharp, piercing through my clothes and making every hair on my body stand up. Along with her voice.
I gasp and move forward, my hands touching the vegetation around me as I run. Tears form and gather at the corners of my eyes, my vision blurring.
I pant, however, making my feet brake just in time, only to lose their balance and send me slipping down the cliff. I watch with wide eyes as small stones loosen from the hillside and plunge into the violent sea several meters below.
Silence.
– El? I murmur, fragile and lost, looking around as I feel the first tears coming. Then I shout, with no other choice: – El? Eleven?!
But all I hear is the echo of my own voice, growing as it crashes against the rocks, pebbles, and stones, until it fades abruptly and is carried away by the wind, leaving only the sound of the waves striking the cliff.
Suddenly, I hear the sound of music. It seems to take over everything, from sky to earth. I furrow my brow, more confused than ever.
– What…?
I wake up in my bed, in my apartment, sitting up with the urgency of a man in danger, gasping for air. I bring a hand to my chest and have to take a few deep breaths before I can fully register the world around me.
Traffic noise. Loud music. Young laughter drifting up from the street. I close my eyes and lower my head, resigned, defeated, drained. I sigh and run my hands through my hair, damp with sweat. I touch my face and realize my cheeks are wet, evidence of the crying that took over while I slept. I wait until my heart settles back into a gentle rhythm.
The clock on the nightstand reads five in the morning, and the music that had filled my dream turns out to be my phone’s ringtone, still vibrating against the furniture in what must be my agent’s tenth call.
— Damn it, Martin, is this a time? — I say as I answer, making no effort to sound polite.
— Michael, we’re in a critical situation — he says, his voice sounding tired on the other end of the line. — You need to write urgently. The publisher has given us a deadline.
— A deadline? — I let out a mocking snort. — They’ve never given me deadlines, Martin.
— That’s because you never needed them — the man replies through clenched teeth. I knew his patience had run out a long time ago, and I couldn’t blame him for it. This was entirely my fault. — Mike, it’s been three years. You need to finish the saga.
Ah yes, my most successful saga worldwide: The Mage. A collection that already had four books: The Mage and the Upside Down World; The Mage and the Sorcerer; The Mage and Vecna’s Curse; The Mage and the Destruction of the Dimensions.
The fifth and final book was supposed to be called The Mage and Rightside Up: The Final Sacrifice, but I simply couldn’t reach the end. I would sit for hours in front of the typewriter, drink cup after cup of coffee, attempt drafts, take every medication prescribed by my psychiatrist, yet I felt completely disconnected from reality, as if finishing the story would force me to say goodbye to her once again. It was too painful. I couldn’t bear it.
— The fans are losing their minds — my agent says after my moment of silence. — Mike, you have four months to finish it.
— And if I don’t? — I clench my jaw, irritated, gripping the sheets tightly.
— They’ll hire a ghostwriter, have them write the ending, and publish it. — I feel as if the ground is crumbling beneath me. — And there’s nothing we can do—they own part of the rights. All you have to do is sign the authorization document, and Wheeler, believe me, if you don’t sign, they’ll drag us into a nightmarish lawsuit. Please, don’t put us through that.
— For now, you can tell them to go fuck themselves — I let the fury take over. — And do me a favor and don’t call me again today.
I end the call, tossing the phone brutally onto the bed. I consider lying back down and trying to sleep, but I know it would be impossible, so I throw off the covers for good and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I stand there for a while, staring at my own reflection in the mirror, watching the drops of water trail down my face until they gather at my chin and drip into the sink. The dark circles under my eyes are deep—the true image of a depressed man.
I go to the kitchen to make a very strong coffee. Then, with the steaming mug in hand, I walk into my office.
My mind is clouded with memories of the dream. Vivid memories. Everything felt so real. And terrifying. I hadn’t had that nightmare in years. Years. It was always the same setting: the field, the flowers, the mountains, the sea, her voice. It had taken a great deal of effort and therapy for it to finally stop, and allowing myself to go backward was unthinkable. Why? Why again? She had made her own choice—a choice it took me years to finally understand and accept.
Maybe, in the end, I think as I sit at my desk, if Eleven is truly alive somewhere out there, there will always be an unbreakable, invisible cord capable of connecting us.
I don’t make the mistake of trying, once again, to write the ending of the Mage saga. Instead, I open the first drawer of the desk and take out my personal journal, the one I always turned to whenever I hit a serious block. And this was a catastrophic one.
I had spoken to Nancy on the phone that last week. She was also in New York, but unlike me, she worked as a reporter and editor-in-chief for The New York Times. Last month, with the help of Jim Hopper and his police team, my sister had finally managed to publish the story of her life: one of the country’s darkest secrets: everything you need to know about the inhumane experiment of the 1980s, funded and approved by the government.
Exposing it felt like a victory. Many people were arrested. And the three of us polished off several bottles of wine together in celebration.
Despite the happiness, the outcome of that damned story left a bitter taste at the back of my mouth and in my stomach. I confess that, during the first week, I waited for some sign that she would come back. And nothing. There was nothing.
In some way, that was even worse. It proved that she wasn’t alive, that I had created a false scenario in my own mind and forced myself to believe in it because it was easier than moving on with the terrible truth: Eleven was dead.
I suspect that this event was partly responsible for the return of the nightmare and for the block in my creative process.
Nancy knew about all of that, and it was for this reason that she had advised me, during our weekly call, to write more about my own journey in my journal even if only in brief entries trying to let my feelings spill out onto the page.
It might help, Mike. She had said it before, of course, shifting the focus of the conversation entirely - perhaps to distract me - and telling me with a goofy smile that she and Jonathan were planning to get married. To get married for real this time.
I choose a pen from the many at my disposal and begin to write:
Hi. My name is Michael Wheeler. I have just turned thirty years old. I am a famous, acclaimed writer who cannot finish the book of his most famous saga. And I feel lost. I have lost many things, and losing my writing will be like losing myself as well. I cannot lose myself. If I do, there will be nothing left to do. I don’t know where I would go.
My agent says I should get married, but I still haven’t found anyone I was deeply in love with. I had a few girlfriends in college. And a few casual encounters over the years, but despite my mother’s insistence, her desire for grandchildren and a daughter-in-law she can spoil, I have never loved anyone after Eleven. I’m not proud to admit that I may have broken a few hearts over the years, but I would never drag a woman into a marriage doomed to fail.
All of this because I lost, at seventeen, the love of my life. I thought it would pass. I thought I would move on. And I did, but not completely. She has always been here, always will be. She is here now. It’s as if I can feel her touch against my shoulder, as if she might walk through the front door and pull me into her arms. And she would always be the muse who inspired me to write my stories. I keep asking myself the stupidest questions, the same ones as always. Where would she be? How would she be? Would her hair have grown? Would her face look different, more mature?
I let out a deep sigh, squeezing my eyes shut and dropping the pen onto the journal to keep myself from having a fit of rage.
It doesn’t help much.
I slam the notebook shut and yank the drawer open with the same brutality to put it back where it belongs, and that’s when I see it. Even before returning the object to its place, I stop mid-motion, coming face to face with a leaflet that featured an incredible image, almost mystical, of a waterfall at sunset.
A waterfall.
I feel my stomach twist into knots.
“Come discover the wonders of Iceland, the perfect destination for your next vacation” the flyer read.
I set the journal aside and pick up the brochure, intending to flip through it. I had received it at random after a conference about travels that inspired authors, one Martin had forced me to attend months earlier. I remember getting home exhausted and shoving everything into that drawer without even bothering to look.
Now, however, it has stirred my curiosity.
The travel guide contains various bits of information about the destination: breathtaking images and options featuring the best inns and tourist attractions. I let a small smile form, feeling determined to broaden my horizons, just like one of the brochure’s catchy phrases suggested. I let out a quiet chuckle.
I think Martin would be happy with this decision. That alone was reason enough to go. It would get my agent and the publisher off my back.
So I stand up with the brochure in hand and send a message to my agent when I reach my phone, which I had left in the bedroom:
Schedule a flight to Iceland for next week. I think I need to breathe new air and see if I can find some inspiration.