Chapter Text
The water swallowed him whole, the cold seeping deep into his bones. He tried to keep his eyes closed as the water irritated them, but something at the back of his head told him to open them. His eyelids slowly rose, and then he saw it.
Right in front of him, within arm’s reach, a boy. Dark eyes half-open and black hair floating gently around his pale face, his gaze unfocused. He was sinking slowly into the water, until, for a fraction of a second, his eyes focused on Will. The boy’s expression shifted into something unreadable. He moved his arm, as if trying to reach him, and Will instinctively stretched out his own. Their fingers brushed.
And that’s when he woke up.
Will opened his eyes, feeling cold, his heart racing and his breath uneven, still caught in the remnants of the dream. Without really thinking, he looked around, his gaze lingering on his hand, which still seemed to remember that faint touch. Another dream. The same dream he had been having for a week now, but each time it felt more intense. This was the first time that they reached each other.
As his breathing evened out, he noticed that he had kicked the blanket onto the floor while he slept. The cold probably triggered the dream. It did not mean anything. He told himself this, trying to brush off the odd feeling from taking over his mood.
Feb 19, 2015
The van stopped at the stoplight. Will was sitting in the backseat, his dad driving. As the vehicle came to a brief stop, his dad was briefly focused on his phone. He started looking through his carefully curated playlist for long trips like this one. Will didn’t understand why his dad insisted on driving for thirteen hours when they could have taken a flight. Especially in winter. Who did that?
He tried not to judge too much. He knew it was his dad’s way of grieving and releasing anxiety. His dad loved driving; that wasn’t a secret. Will guessed the feeling of being in control suited him, keeping him from getting preoccupied over the whole trip.
Grandma had passed away a year ago, from lung cancer. She had refused treatment. “I’m old anyway, I don’t want to spend my last days in a hospital,” she had said, and she hadn’t.
She died at home, surrounded by people who loved her. It had been such a hard time for his dad. They had a special bond. Although his dad had taken it better than expected, it had taken him almost twelve months to finally decide to sell the house and get rid of all her things.
Will knew they had taken the van for the trip because the way back would be full of mementos from his father’s childhood. He just wondered where they would fit so much stuff in their home in Brooklyn. Their place wasn’t small, but it was already full of various objects from his dad’s work.
Since it was a long drive, Will had brought a few books and his sketchbook. He decided to work on the latter as he picked up his pencil. As he drew the first guidelines of his subject, his mind drifted back to his dreams, the boy in the water. There was no specific reason for this choice. He just wanted to practice drawing someone from memory alone. What better challenge than illustrating a person he had never met?
His pencil glided smoothly across the paper, and he was completely absorbed. He was in the middle of finishing the hair when a voice snapped him out of his bubble.
“Will! Will!”
The van had stopped, and now his dad was calling him.
“I asked if you needed the washroom. We still have two hours to go, but I need some rest and some food.”
Will nodded. Before he could respond, his dad spoke again.
“Who is that?”
He pointed at the sketch. Will stared at the drawing, unsure what to say.
“He…”
He didn’t want to tell his dad about the dreams; he didn’t want to worry him, especially given his long history with nightmares. These dreams didn’t feel like nightmares, they were intense and eerily vivid. Even though he and the boy were drowning, it felt peaceful, like sunlight breaking through a storm. It was strange. Even when his body felt frozen, his fingertips felt warm, as if touching the other boy’s hand anchored him to life.
“Is it a boy you like? He looks familiar. Is he in your class?”
Will looked at his dad, cheeks burning. His dad loved to ask about his son’s private life, not out of gossip but because he cared and wanted to make sure everything was okay.
“No, Dad, no…he’s part of one of my stories, for a comic book,” he said quickly, making something up. Sometimes he wished he was still in the closet so his dad wouldn’t be so interested in his love life. But since he had come out officially a year ago, his dad was more attentive to the little details in his life. Although his dad was always extremely supportive, he worried that not everyone was of the same opinion, which worried him more than anything. Will didn’t dwell on it; it came from love and good intentions.
His dad hummed, not fully convinced, but he didn’t pry further. Instead, he got out of the car.
“Okay, I’m starving. Burgers?”
Will’s anxiety began to rise as soon as they got back on the road, especially when he saw the sign for Hawkins. He should have expected it, but as usual he decided to ignore the feeling until the very last mile. Now it bubbled up all at once.
His body tensed, his chest filling with something heavy, like stones stacked one on top of the other. He hated going back to his grandmother’s house. In the past six years he had only been there twice: once for the funeral, and once when he was thirteen, when they hadn’t stayed more than one night. Usually, it was Grandma who came to see them. It was safer that way. Easier to pretend the town didn’t still have its hands wrapped around his ribs. The reason nightmares were a constant in his life.
“Are you going to be okay? I know you said you were fine, but… you can go back anytime, alright? We can get you a plane ticket…”
His dad spoke suddenly. He must have noticed the shift in Will’s mood in the rearview mirror. Of course he did. He always noticed.
Will swallowed, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath. His lungs burned as he let it out.
“I promise I’m fine. Just a little anxious.”
He smiled, soft and careful. He didn’t want to lie; his dad would hear it immediately. The truth felt too big, too heavy. So he gave him something smaller. Something safer, without lying.
As they got closer, his dad changed the music, picking something from Will’s “relaxing” playlist. Relaxing didn’t mean slow or quiet. It meant songs that pulled Will back into his body, back into the now, anchoring him so his thoughts couldn’t drag him somewhere darker. It always worked for Will; music always had a way to find him even in his darkest places.
He focused on the beat, on the rhythm in his chest as his dad hummed the tune.
They parked in front of the house. It looked smaller than he remembered.
They carried their things inside. It was close to midnight, and he was not excited to sleep in a cold, empty house. Even before opening the door, Will could feel the absence of his beloved grandma.
“Let’s go to sleep,” his dad said, dropping their backpacks beside the couch. “Tomorrow you can help me with some stuff. I think there’s a closet no one’s opened since I was in high school. Some of my juvenile secrets might still hide in there.”
He laughed, light and easy, trying to lighten the mood. “You take the guest room. I’ll take my old room, okay?”
Will nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.
It was the middle of the night after thirteen hours of driving, and his body was beyond tired. He knew his dad had driven most of the trip, but he could feel his own eyes dozing off. He said goodnight and disappeared into the guest room before his nerves could catch up with him.
The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of a room that hadn’t been lived in. There wasn’t any smell of cigarettes, burned cakes, or old cologne, which made him sad. He missed his grandma so much. He hurried to open the window. The fresh air caressed his face before entering into his lungs with a deep, deserved breath. Then he checked his phone.
12:34 a.m. Definitely time to sleep.
Water swallowed him whole, cold seeping deep into his bones. He kept his eyes shut as long as he could. The water burned, but he already knew what he would see. He always did.
When he opened them, there he was.
The same boy, floating right in front of him. Every detail was exactly the same as in every other dream, even the slow, weightless movement of his hair. It was wrong how perfect it always was. Like a memory replayed too many times. The image of drowning should be associated with terror and nightmares, but he didn’t feel scared.
Will stared at him, eyes lingering on his features, even though he already knew them by heart. The boy looked effortlessly beautiful in the pale underwater light, like he belonged to this place in a way Will never did. He felt like he was intruding on someone else's memory.
Then his eyes focused on Will. But his expression was slightly different from last time. Recognition. He lifted his arm, reaching out.
Will didn’t hesitate. He never did. He was even faster this time to pull out his arm. Their fingers brushed. Will pushed himself further and managed to grab his hand and pull him closer. A warm feeling started to embrace him, blooming into his chest. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise as Will wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to drag him up toward the surface. He had never tried this before, but it was just a dream after all. Why not test the limits?
For one impossible second, it felt like he might succeed as he could finally see the shape of the sun.
And that was when he woke up.
Will laid there, heart racing, skin cold, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Another dream. Always the same. He could still feel the ghost of the boy’s body against his, the weight of him, and the feeling of someone’s touch who suddenly disappeared.
As his mind started to catch up on the fact that he was awake, for a moment he didn’t know where he was. Then he noticed the open window.
That had to be it. The drop in temperature. Something stupid and physical.
Anything was better than admitting the dreams felt less like imagination and more like memory. The scary part was how each night it felt so real. His subconscious was probably trying to help him cope by creating this false memory. Dreaming of another person was just a way to ease the loneliness. That explained why the boy in his dreams always felt warmer than the real world ever did. He groaned into his pillow and reached for his phone.
Will rose and crossed the room to close the window, shivering as the cold brushed over his skin, before changing into something warmer. When he finally emerged from his room, his dad was already awake. As expected, he was holding his camera, moving around the house as he captured little moments: the light on the staircase, the sun through the curtains. Now the lens swung toward Will, catching him rubbing his left eye.
“Daaaad…” Will groans, half annoyed, half amused, trying to duck away.
His dad laughs. “Just capturing life in motion.” Even when he wasn’t working, he always had a camera in his hand.
Will rolls his eyes but smiles. “Okay. What should I start with?”
The reception is poor, and there is no Wi-Fi. Boredom is inevitable. Will hopes he can finish quickly and convince his dad to return to New York. A full week in this house feels unbearable. The faster he works, the sooner he can leave.
His dad points to a closed door at the end of the hallway. It does not look very big, but when Will opens it, he cannot see the end.
“This is like grandma’s version of Narnia…” he whispers, staring at the endless piles of boxes and objects.
His dad laughs and shakes his head. “Let’s organize it first. Donation boxes, garbage bags, photos, documents. Anything important goes into that laundry basket. We’ll sort it later.”
Will sighs as his dad leaves. This will take more than one day. And this is only one room. How many other closets are there?
He starts slowly, pulling out jackets and setting aside the ones too worn to keep. Hours pass. Boxes fill. Garbage bags pile up. Did Grandma ever throw anything away? It feels like she hoarded decades of memories. Digging deeper into the closet feels like traveling through time. Shoes and shirts from the late eighties and early nineties spill out in bright colors and strange patterns.
Then he sees it.
A large blue box. Its color stands out among the dull brown ones. He drags it out and reads the name written on top.
MIKE.
Will frowns. He does not know any Mikes in the family. Most boxes are labeled with familiar names: Jonathan, his dad, himself. He peeks in at the book with this name; it’s full of childhood drawings Grandma kept through the years, along with names of other relatives.
Curiosity takes over. He opens the blue box carefully.
On top sits a worn red Dungeons & Dragons box. He picks it up gently. It looks like the 1983 edition. Finally, something exciting after hours of shoes and knickknacks. He loves D&D, even if most of his friends do not.
He sets it aside and keeps exploring. There are notebooks, small handwritten journals with names written on the covers: Mike. Lucas. Dustin. Eddie. Max and others. He opens one. Pages filled with campaigns, notes, character sheets.
The last entry was written on February 22, 1989. Each notebook belongs to a different player. Mike appears to have been the Dungeon Master most often, along with Eddie. The paladin Mike.
Will’s mind races. Who was this Mike? Mike’s notes are meticulous. Clean handwriting. Carefully drawn maps.
There are clothes too. A shirt with “Hellfire Club” printed across the front. Star Wars figurines. Luke’s is in the best condition, like it was loved the most. Indiana Jones books. A copy of The Hobbit. A poster for The Thing.
At the bottom, he finds a Walkman with a cassette and headphones. Beneath it, what looks like a diary.
Will hesitates. It feels wrong to throw these things away. Even donating them feels wrong. They belong to someone who loved them.
His dad appears in the doorway, holding a box of pizza.
“Hungry?” he asks, smiling.
Will looks up from the box and smiles back. “Finally,” he says. “I thought you were going to let me starve.”
Will sits on the floor with the Walkman in his hand while he picks up a slice of pizza.
“You did a great job,” his dad says quietly, pride in his voice. Even though there is still what feels like ten years’ worth of junk left in the closet, it’s already an improvement.
“Uh… Dad, can I ask you something?” Will says between bites. His dad nods.
“Who is Mike?”
His dad pauses, eyes drifting as he searches his memory.
“It doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
“There’s a box of his stuff in the closet. From the ’80s. Was he a relative?”
Still nothing comes to his dad’s mind. Will picks up The Hobbit and opens it. On the first page, written in pencil, is a name:
“Michael Wheeler?” he reads aloud.
The change in his dad’s face is instant. A veil of sadness settles over his eyes.
“You know him…” Will says, looking at his father. “I think we should give him his things back. He seems so cool.”
“That won’t be possible.” The finality in his dad’s voice makes Will’s chest tighten.
“He died at the beginning of 1989. He was eighteen. A senior in high school.”
Eighteen. The same age as Will now. The thought makes his heart ache in a way he hadn’t expected.
“He was the younger brother of my girlfriend at the time.”
Will stared at him. His dad rarely spoke about his first love, only that they had been together since they were sixteen and broke up when university began.
“Mike was Nancy’s brother? Then why does Grandma have his things?”
“Nancy was… angry when he died,” his dad says quietly. “She came here with the box and said she couldn’t throw it away. She wasn’t brave enough. She asked my mom to keep it for her, and said she’d come back for it someday.”
She never did.
“And after that,” his dad adds, “we broke up.”
Will nods slowly, trying to make sense of it all.
“How did he die?” His voice is barely a whisper, as if trying to be as soft as possible while handling such a hard question.
His dad hesitates. “He jumped. At the quarry. He took his own life.”
A cold shiver runs through Will’s body. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. It’s too late now; his mind has already created an image of a body falling into the water. Then a thought creeps in slowly: the boy in his dreams.
The connection makes his stomach twist, but he forces it away. Just a coincidence. It has to be.
“Alright,” his dad says, clearing his throat. “Enough sad stories from twenty-five years ago. You can do whatever you want with the box. Keep some of his things if you like. Sounds like you two would’ve gotten along.” He glances at the contents of the box before leaving the room. The silence that follows feels unbearably loud.
Will carefully returns everything to the box, lingering over the diary. He shouldn’t read it. He knows that. Still, he softly taps his fingers on the cover. He really wants to open it. There’s more to the story, and Will wants to understand.
Before he can go too far into those thoughts, he puts the diary back as he continues cleaning the closet. Eventually, he gets tired and decides to relax, maybe watch a movie. His eyes drift back to the blue box and the diary. He hesitates before grabbing it. He also takes The Hobbit, as if that makes it less wrong.
He goes to his room and sits on the bed, sighing.
“I’m sorry, Mike…” he whispers as he opens the first page.
Mike liked to write and was good at it, too. He had a very rich vocabulary and a colorful way of expressing his thoughts. It was no surprise that he was the Dungeon Master. Even his diary reads like a story.
He wrote a lot about his friends, his family, and how much school sucked. He wrote about his fears for the future, about going to college, and, most importantly, there was an implicit recurring fear: the fear of not being loved.
Maybe I wasn’t built to fit inside love the way others do, one sentence read.
Will noticed that as the timeline progressed, the writing grew more melancholic. Some paragraphs screamed, I just want to be seen. Mike’s greatest fear was to be left behind and forgotten, a feeling Will understood very well. For a second, Will wondered if Mike was like him, struggling with the reality of his own sexuality.
Suddenly, two pictures fell on his lap. He carefully picked them up. The first one: three kids holding a science award with big, proud smiles. He turned the page, reading: “Mike, Dustin & Lucas, science fair 1983.” The second picture: a group of boys wearing “Hellfire Club” t-shirts. He looked at every single face, and then he froze. His eyes lingered on the first guy on the right: dark curly hair, black eyes, strong cheekbones.
His heart started hammering in his ribcage. He felt dizzy. He grabbed his sketchbook from his nightstand and quickly flipped through the pages. He put the picture next to the photo, and his mouth went dry. It was the same boy. Same eyes, face shape, nose, even his hair.
Is that Mike? It had to be. Given all the info in the diary, it had to be him.
Will’s mind spiraled. How could he have drawn this boy before seeing his picture?
His hands trembled as he picked up the diary. The last sentence read:
There was never a place in this world for me.
Will seriously started to think that the ghost of Mike was taking over his dreams to tell him something. Were ghosts real? Was Mike trying to tell him something? From the diary, there was no actual clue regarding what happened that made Mike end his own life. He was like any other teenager. He actually resonated with many of Mike’s thoughts.
Will types on his phone: “Michael Wheeler 1989 Hawkins.”
The headlines hit him all at once:
Cult fears quiet suburb
Hellfire, “ Devil worship ring targets local children.”
Hawkins: Two High Schoolers Arrested in Ritual Murder Investigation
Teen Leaps to Death in Local Quarry
His stomach twists. His chest tightens. A cult. A dead body. A young girl found in the woods. He feels like he might be sick.
Was Mike a murderer? He scrolls faster, almost trembling, and finds a final article, dated three years after Mike’s suicide:
“Satanic Abuse Allegations Fail in Court”
“Hellfire Cult Case Collapses: Munson and Henderson Walk Free… Mike Wheeler died by suicide at 18… DNA testing proved the boys’ innocence. The murder is still unsolved. The verdict raises questions about the panic that gripped the town, nearly sending innocent young men to prison. For Munson and Henderson, the nightmare is over, but the shadows of the Hellfire accusations linger.”
Will’s hands shake. His mouth goes dry. That’s why his dad never talked about Mike.
He keeps reading, heart hammering, as the story unfolds. The boys were innocent, but the damage was already done. Eddie Munson was later arrested for selling drugs. Lucas Sinclair joined the military and now is retired. Dustin Henderson disappeared completely like the other boys mentioned in the articles. Between 1983 and 1997, sixteen kids vanished; only six bodies were ever recovered.
Suddenly memories and flashbacks swirl in front of his eyes. Fear tightens his chest, and panic threatens to take over. He shoves his headphones on and blasts music, hoping the noise will calm him, but it barely helps.
His legs shake. He presses his hands to his face, trying to stop the rising tide of dread. He’s exhausted, overwhelmed, and alone with everything he’s learned.
Eventually, his body surrenders. He collapses onto the bed and falls asleep.
Water swallowed him whole, cold seeping deep into his bones. Will kept his eyes shut as long as he could. This time, though, he hesitated. Was this really Mike? Could the boy in his dreams actually be him?
When he finally opened his eyes, there he was.
Will’s chest ached, tight and impossible to breathe through. The boy floated in front of him, waiting. His eyes searched, pleading, as if he had been waiting for Will to finally see him.
Will opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t come. Underwater, sound was strange, swallowed by the weight around them. Still… somehow, Mike heard him.
“Mike?”
The name left Will’s lips like fragile hope. And it worked. The boy froze, then blinked at him. Confusion flickered across his face, quickly giving way to something soft, something hopeful. Will’s eyes met his with everything he felt: care, understanding, and warmth.
Mike’s expression shifted again, vulnerable now, scared, searching Will’s face for an answer he couldn’t name. Will squeezed his hand gently.
Then Mike pressed his forehead to Will’s neck, resting there as they sank slowly into the unknown.
Will woke with a start, lungs gasping, heart hammering. He’s a dream. Just a dream.
It was just a coincidence. A huge astronomical coincidence. His mind was fueling the rest in his dreams.
He covered his face with his hands, trying to find a rational explanation for what had just happened. He thought about Mike’s expression, like he had been waiting for Will to finally appear. He looked so insanely beautiful, almost kissable.
His cheeks flushed pink. Painfully aware of the attraction, the guy was definitely his type.
“Fuck, I really need to get laid,” he groaned.
He should probably let this go, donate Mike’s things, and just find a date. He was getting too involved in this story. A distraction was necessary. Finding a date in NYC was easier than Hawkins. He dropped the idea right away.
His dad was still sleeping when he woke. As he walked past grandma’s Narnia closet, his eyes landed on the blue box on the floor. His feet moved faster than his mind, and he picked up the Walkman. He put the headphones on and pressed play. His breathing stopped, as if something big was going to happen,but the Walkman wasn’t working, probably out of batteries. He searched the house for replacements. When he finally found some, he decided to let it go and keep moving through the day. He should stop obsessing over this story. He kept repeating himself.
The rest of the day was productive. They managed to finish one entire room, finally clearing most of the accumulated garbage bags.
As bedtime came, he didn’t want to think about Mike. No, he didn’t want to sleep and meet him again. Absolutely not. He just wanted to see his face, feel his touch. Damn it, Will, get it together. You are not thirteen anymore.
He eventually fell asleep after watching a couple of episodes of Attack on Titan.
Water swallowed him whole, cold seeping deep into his bones. This time he opened his eyes immediately and reached out before he could fully focus. Mike was there, soft expression, already looking at Will’s face. He was seeing Will in a new light.
Will was the one surprised. He moved his hand to cup the boy’s face, fingertips brushing across the soft cheek. He called his name again. A small smile appeared on Mike’s face, a tiny nod, and Will responded with a wide smile.
Before he could do anything else, Mike wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Will started to melt into the touch, then woke up.
Eyes shot open. He felt empty. He didn’t like this feeling.
His dad was out of the house. Will checked his phone: “Went out to get some errands done. Call me if you need anything.”
He didn’t like being alone, especially in Hawkins, but he needed to clear his head. Maybe go for a walk. He packed his backpack with sketching materials, snacks, water, and,before he could change his mind,Mike’s Walkman. With new batteries, he hoped it would work.
He changed his mind about walking and decided to take the bike instead. The neighborhood had changed over the years, but he recognized some homes from his childhood.
He passed a big house where an old man was sitting on the porch reading. Odd to sit outside in winter. The man noticed him and smiled softly. An eerie feeling swelled through Will. He looked away and pedaled faster, as if running from something.
He didn’t want to face the trauma he was dealing with, and he was sure the whole Mike/Satanic Panic story was making things worse.
The truth was that Will had disappeared for twenty-four hours when he was twelve, visiting his grandma. The last thing he remembered was taking the dog for a walk. After that, darkness. When he woke, he saw a police officer staring at him. They had found him in the trunk of a stolen car. He didn’t remember a single thing, though his body had been weak. Drugs had been found in his system. He was glad he had no memory of that time.
Will found himself pedaling toward the quarry. He wasn’t even thinking. Once he reached the top, he let go of his bike.
He moved closer to the edge. It was higher than he had imagined. Terrifying. The only thing he could see was Mike falling, hitting the water, drowning. His face was in distress, not soft like in his dreams. Then an image of his dead body sinking into the abyss. His throat tightened. A wave of sadness hit him as anxiety invaded his body.
He looked around and found a log to sit on. He reached for his backpack, intending to grab his phone, but ended up pulling out the Walkman. He set the headphones on and pressed play with a trembling finger. Music filled his ears.
It took a few seconds, but he recognized the song.
“Punishment for Love” by Bronski Beat.
Was this the last song Mike had ever listened to? Why this one? He wanted to skip it, but suddenly the lyrics hit him:
His heart full of hope
There's a ride waiting for him.
A strong wind rose, and a flickering light appeared in front of him until everything became bright. When the light disappeared, the world returned to normal.
It took a few seconds for Will’s eyes to readjust. He blinked slowly and saw a figure in front of him, facing the quarry, dangerously close to the edge. A guy in a blue jacket. When did this happen? Where did he come from?
Will’s body moved faster than his brain. He carefully approached, not wanting to spook him. The figure didn’t move. Will took a step closer, then another, as the guy seemed to reconsider his decision. Will reached for his arm and yanked him back.
“What the fuck?!”
The guy looked backward as he fell to the ground, Will seconds behind him.
“Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking?” Will shouted, panic mixing with anger.
The guy turned around. Everything froze.
He looked like Mike Wheeler. No. It couldn’t be.
“Mike?”
Was Will still…dreaming?