Chapter Text
Hawkins Town Hall, 1998
Will entered the town hall. His rubber soles squeaked against the uneven flooring. He let the stained-glass door click shut behind him. The sound faded into nothing.
The hall was a sea of white: walls, tablecloths, even white wine sloshed freely in thin plastic cups.
Cheap wine filled his nostrils; sour grapes cut with sterile alcohol. The scent burned his sinuses, tickling each hair.
‘There was no way the local government could afford crystal.’
A large banner hung loose from the ceiling. Its mustard-yellow lettering stood out, bold and abrasive:
“Indiana’s 55th Contemporary Art Contest - Mature Adults.”
People shifted slowly from one end of the room to the other, clustering around a pile of soggy sandwiches. Laughter bounced off the walls, obscuring hushed gossip.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and looked down. Charcoal clung to his fingertips. The gradient faded into a faint blue, disappearing beneath his fingernails.
‘I guess this isn’t coming off any time soon.’
On the wall opposite, his work lay exposed under fluorescent light. Will edged slowly towards it, lips pursed, shielding his eyes.
Upon closer inspection, imperfections stood stark.
Harsh black lines bordered soft strokes of smoke; faded grey skulls peeked through, barely legible. He folded his arms and sighed.
“How is this my best work? Fuck.”
He had attempted to spook once before.
It didn't go well.
Around him, other pieces were composed with fluency. A geometric tapestry hung to his left, its muted earth tones absorbing the light in harmony.
Will knew it would look good under any light.
In comparison, his work seemed to have crawled out of the grave; dead on arrival.
Will stepped back, trying to see things through a critical eye. There were imperfections; too many to ignore. He swallowed as his palms dripped with sweat.
One by one, the judges made their entrance.
An announcement was imminent.
“Gather round, everyone,” the female judge shouted.
Will shuffled forward, staring blankly at the varnished floorboards.
Polite applause rippled through the crowd, hands clashing together in a chorus of mediocrity.
The judges smiled; the corners of their mouths were stiff, teeth showed a little too much.
Three names were called.
None of them were Will’s.
“Just another day at the office,” Will groaned, rolling his eyes.
The female judge cleared her throat, catching everyone’s attention. She wasn’t finished.
“We saw remarkable promise this year. Some of you truly displayed, well... impressive… range.”
Will’s gaze fell on the woman’s; they locked eyes.
She clicked her tongue and smirked.
The hairs on Will’s arms stood on end, blowing in the invisible wind.
“However,” she continued, clear and concise, “some pieces were perhaps too emotionally ambitious, though not fully realised.”
Troy snorted through the laughter as it filled the room. Will noticed that the judge was looking directly behind him, at his work.
Memories came flooding back: consolation prize ribbons, Will, sitting alone at lunch, Troy’s voice as he yelled “FAIRY”.
“Some work… well, let’s just say they felt slightly… overextended.”
Will’s cheeks burned hot pink; his brow knitted into a sharp scrunch.
By the time Will slipped outside, the tepid dusk slapped him across the face, offensive in its softness. He inhaled slowly; car fumes and burnt pine assaulted his senses.
Behind him, the door swung open and closed in stutters. Cool yellow light rippled across the concrete as hushed voices drifted in and out of focus. Each one was laced with mockery.
Jennifer Hayes strode past, canvas in hand. She took a look at Will and turned to her friend, who chuckled under her breath.
“That skull thing was just awful,” Jennifer scoffed. “That medium combination, acrylic and watercolour, was just… atrocious.”
Will’s fingers itched as she brushed past, bumping into his shoulder. A restless heat simmered beneath his skin.
It was common knowledge that Jennifer had a long-standing crush on Will. Little did she know, the chances of that happening were zero.
He rubbed his arm, static building against his sweater, before making a beeline for the woods. The plastic cover of his portfolio clacked with every step.
A tall, lanky man knocked the portfolio from his grasp. It hit the ground with a harsh thud. Will scrambled to pick it back up, fingers grazing the charcoal-stained corners. Heat bubbled beneath his skin as he looked up.
“Sorry, I-”
“Will?”
He froze, recognising the exact tone instantly.
It was Mike Wheeler.
Older now, by exactly ten years. His hair was thicker, jet black. It curled at the edges and framed his face in soft waves. He wore a loose-fitting leather jacket; it was worn at the hem. A press badge hung from a bright yellow lanyard. It clashed with the rest of his outfit.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Mike unclenched his hands, smiling from ear to ear, unguarded.
‘That DAMN smile, lord.’
“Hey, I had no idea you were competing today. I would’ve had you on for an interview!”
Will shifted the portfolio over his shoulder, adjusting his stance. His shoelace slipped beneath the sole of his shoe, ripping on the tarmac.
“An interview, really? I’m pretty sure I came last.”
Mike searched Will’s face, gripping the microphone in his right hand. His gaze settled on the decaying skulls in Will’s portfolio.
“Listen, I happened to like your piece. It had some serious teeth.”
‘Teeth… teeth.’
The word built a slow warmth. It crept in unexpectedly before cooling again.
“It just needs a little more, I dunno… focus,” Mike added. “You’ve always felt things… deeply. Try focusing on one feeling at a time, yeah?”
There was a something about his voice, something reserved solely for Will. He could sense it.
“So, you’re a TV star now?”
“Yeah! I mean, freelance. I pitched the idea. But, you know, I seem to get hired ninety-nine percent of the time.”
He’d won the top prize at the short-story fair each year; this success was nothing new.
Mike’s eyes dipped, a slight blush colouring his freckled cheeks.
“Congratulations,” Will mumbled, the word tasting dry against his tongue.
They stood beneath a towering streetlamp. It dimmed, casting them both in shadow, before returning them to a temperate glow.
“You disappeared,” Mike said softly. “To New York of all places.”
Will let out a muffled laugh.
“Yeah, and look where that got me. Right back in Hawkins.”
Being back in Hawkins carried significant weight; he hadn’t forgotten a second. He cast his mind back to Mike, sitting with him after art class. He would share his fantasy stories, glancing awkwardly as Will turned the page.
Then, there was one night in particular: the night of almost.
It happened in Mike’s basement. ‘Just Like Heaven’ played through the Walkman as they shared Will’s headphones. Mike’s hand held Will’s headphone to his ear; his thumb brushed Will’s neck, seemingly by accident.
‘Something was about to happen, wasn’t it?’
“You look…” Mike paused, catching his breath. “Like… really good.”
Will’s heart skipped a beat; his jaw chattered despite the absence of cold.
“You look good too.”
They fell into a static, charged silence as warmth filled the air around them.
For a moment, Will wanted to reach out and hold him. But now, after ten years, the gesture was foreign.
A blue bottle fly buzzed overhead. It flew into Will, wings snapping against his forehead.
“Well,” Mike muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess if you’re sticking around, we could maybe go grab some coffee or something?”
Will’s hands blended into the portfolio - charcoal against charcoal. He gulped.
“Yeah, sorry, uh… of course we can.”
Mike’s teeth tugged at his bottom lip; his eyes caught the streetlight above, glinting.
“Don’t you go disappearing on me again, okay?”
“Okay,” Will giggled, “no promises though.”
Suddenly, the streetlamp bulb cracked; the parking lot was plunged into darkness. Shards of glass fell to Will’s feet as Mike walked back to his car.
Hawkins Forest
Hawkins after dusk had a specific strangeness.
It was still, almost too still.
Dew settled on sharp blades of grass, even in summer, as though it were suspended in time.
Will wandered out of the parking lot, heading straight for the coniferous woodland.
Pine needles splintered with each step, cracking beneath his feet. The dense forest ahead produced a unique aroma: mud, damp and pine.
Every word from that evening kept circling his mind, blurring his vision.
“Slightly… overextended.”
“Urgh, yeah,” Will huffed. “Sure, that’s one way of putting it, isn’t it?”
He scrubbed his fingers on his t-shirt; the charcoal was stubborn. No matter how hard he tried, it only pressed deeper into the fine creases.
The faint coo of owls faded into the night.
Fire crackled somewhere in the distance, sharper than the snapping pine needles.
‘Is someone having a bonfire, seriously?’
Hopper’s cabin came into view, illuminated by the full moon. It was bathed in silver, casting a long shadow on the clearing.
Will made a beeline for it, almost running.
He stepped in a puddle, water seeping through a tear in his shoes.
“Shit, I need to get new-”
He glanced down.
His reflection stared back - distorted, gaunt. The muddy waves of water weren’t causing it.
A chilled breeze swept over him, enveloping his neck. Goosebumps rose instantly; he wasn’t cold.
“Oh great, now I’ve really lost it,” Will scoffed, kicking the water.
Hopper’s Cabin
Hopper’s door was unlocked; it stood ajar.
Will pushed it open, his hands slipping on the splintering frame.
A splinter caught his skin, tearing it. A small drop of blood fell to the floor with a hollow splat.
The cabin swallowed the moonlight, leaving the living room washed in austere grey.
Stacks of magazines sat on the sofa, glossy and thick.
Will set his portfolio on the floor and walked over to the kitchen. He took a can of beer out of the fridge; it was warm to the touch.
Too warm.
As he pulled the tab, a sharp crack reverberated against the walls. He downed it in a few quick gulps, wiping the excess with his sleeve.
“Urgh, fuck.”
Out of the corner of his eye, a lamp flicked on, illuminating a large, lean man sitting in an armchair.
He was dressed in a dark, tightly woven suit. He held a mahogany cane; a diamond-encrusted skull sat on top, catching the sharp light.
“Heard you’ve had a rough evening,” the man whispered flatly.
Will dropped the can; it clattered, foam seeping into the floorboards.
“Uh… who are you and what are you doing here? Do I know you?”
The stranger ran his fingers along the cane, tilting his head forward.
“Not yet, but you will.”
His eyes drifted to Will’s hands, still coated in charcoal.
“You’re an artist.”
Will stepped backwards, towards the shadows of the kitchen.
“Yeah, I mean… yeah, something like that.”
“I saw your work at the contest. It was quite remarkable. Some would say… honest.”
He stood up and stepped into the moonlight. He didn’t seem to breathe. The words slipped from his lips, airless.
“You were at the contest?” Will said, gripping the worktop. His knuckles turned hot white. “Why? Anyway, that’s just a nice way of saying that people hated it, isn’t it-”
“No, not hated. Feared.”
The lamp flickered as the figure stepped closer to Will. The floorboards creaked as Will’s breath stuttered.
He was frozen.
“Listen,” he stammered, “whoever you are, you need to leave. I’m not in the mood for, well… whatever this is.”
“Of course not, William. You are in the mood for something… far more exciting.”
He was mere inches from Will. Will could see his features clearly. His grey skin pulled against his slicked-back hairline. His eyes were black.
Completely black.
“What if-” the man paused, leaning closer to Will. “The world could finally see what you see. All that cruelty. Sins laid bare.”
Will looked down. A roll of bone-white parchment had appeared in the stranger’s jacket. Faint outlines of calligraphy bled through, elegant in their execution.
“What are you-”
“You have a particular… gift for noticing these things.”
A hawk screeched in the distance.
“Yeah, well… that hasn’t exactly gotten me very far, has it?”
“No, it has not. But… what if it could?”
He reached into his jacket and withdrew the roll of parchment. It was covered in script, each letter inscribed with precision.
“People like Troy Walsh,” the man continued, “people who make humiliation a sport. You see them very clearly, William. It pours out from your hands, onto the canvas.”
Will glanced down at his hands; the charcoal had spread, no longer grey, but onyx black.
“So… what does that-”
“Why stop at painting… at drawing, William? Why not strive for something more… powerful?”
“You-you’re insane.”
“Perhaps I am. But… I am also generous. Especially to those who deserve it.”
The stranger reached out and gripped Will’s wrist. His hand was cold - colder than death. Will’s skin burned hot, each wave of heat more painful than the last. The charcoal swam across his hands, blending into a cloud of smoke.
“What the hell is-”
“That is power. It’s vengeance, William. You can make them see. All of them.”
The man’s reflection came into view; he was smiling, rotting teeth oozing blood. Lightning flashed overhead, revealing a cracked skull beneath his taut skin.
Will’s hand hovered over the scroll, shaking. Another drop of blood fell from his finger, seeping into the parchment.
“Oh shit,” he breathed, attempting to wipe it clean. “I didn’t sign anything, I didn’t-”
“Vengeance,” the stranger hissed.
He watched Will, idly stroking the diamond skull on his cane, chuckling under his breath.
Will stared at his reflection as the man faded into the stormy night. It looked the same. And yet, it didn’t.
A blue flame rose from his eyes. A voice echoed in his head, deep and raspy.
“Sometimes you have to embrace the darkness to find your way back to the light.”