Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

8th of June 1984, Sunday

Nestled in the wild fringe of Hawkins, stood Penny Grove, a grand loghouse, a grand log house, originally expanded with ambitions of becoming a haven for tourists fleeing the doldrums of bigger cities. Instead, it became a monument to financial disappointment, its failed aspirations as vast as the potential it once held. Perhaps the property might have defied its fate had the owner not succumbed to cancer less than a year after opening its doors as the Penny Grove Bed and Breakfast.

After years of intermittent neglect, the property withered into little more than the abandoned carcass of Thomas Fine's dreams. By the summer of '84, it was the skeletal remains of a giant beast—a three-acre sprawl of decay on the edge of a small and largely uneventful town. Over four miles separated it from the Eno River and a mere six hundred feet from the still, inky waters of a pond at the bottom of the hill the property had been built on. The nearest point of civilisation was the affluent Loch Nora neighbourhood, another three miles inward toward town.

To the credit of the employees at Prime Hawkins Realty, regardless of whether they believed their own adverts, the property did hold some potential. It was simply buried beneath layers of overgrown weeds, peeling paint, and enthusiastic mould.

Or so Paul Baker believed, which was why he'd decided to convince his whole family to move to Hawkins. 

And so, the Baker family,The Baker family arrived laden with suitcases and boxes still carrying the smell of city exhaust, on a day so thick with humidity they could have sunk their teeth into it. Their arrival, orchestrated by events in the months preceding their move, stirred the residents of Hawkins from their summer drowsiness.

A general consensus was reached through hushed gossip being exchanged at sunny cafes or over iced teas in gardens at neighbourhood barbecues: the Bakers had to be as foolish as the former owner of the property, Thomas Fine. Or, perhaps, Georgia, the real estate agent who convinced them to sign their name on the deed was just that good at her job—and her job had been to fan the flames of misplaced optimism, to make the Bakers see potential rather than the financial burden it would undoubtedly become.

Bless their naive hearts, some whispered when they heard the property was off the market. The new owners had to be wealthy. Wealthy and bored, others murmured when it became known that the new residents were travelling from far away to live in little ol' Hawkins. How foolish, was the verdict when the Bakers turned out to be neither. Poor guy. He really had no idea what he'd gotten himself into, did he?

What brought them to Hawkins remained subject to heavy speculation, especially when Paul Baker rolled into town in a car that was neither new nor impressive, proving himself as much a fish out of water as any other outsider.

Paul Baker was the newest hire at the Department of Energy. The job offer had been an opportunity for him and his family to seek a simpler life away from Manhattan's chaos, and to earn more money while they were at it. Perhaps even flip the property on Penny Grove for a profit.

The differences between The Baker's old and new home were stark, of course. Manhattan's cacophony had been replaced by replaced by the rustle of corn stalks, the whine of distant power lines, and the song of birds. Skyscrapers had morphed into farm fields, low buildings and winding roads through forests. The Bakers, accustomed to the constant hum of traffic and the heartbeat of the city, felt the silence press in, heavy and unfamiliar.

Mary, Paul’s wife, was convinced her husband had lost his mind. Paul had already visited Hawkins once or twice before signing the papers. He'd seen the place. And yet, somehow, he had been catastrophically optimistic about the amount of attention and effort required to make it remotely livable. Mary stifled her horror when they first pulled up to the property, if only because Amanda - their daughter - had been on the brink of hysterics since they left, and the last thing any of them needed was another argument. 

The road leading up to the log house was a treacherous affair—poorly paved, winding, even steep—a warning sign to what awaited at the other end. The elevated front of the property featured a gabled porch flanked by windows caked in dust and grime so thick they looked frosted. A cement garage, large enough to fit three vehicles and cursed with a leaky roof, squatted to the side. A peculiar architectural choice considering the log house had been constructed primarily of wood and stone and metal. All around, nature had begun reclaiming its hold. 

The backyard had surrendered entirely to the wild. Untamed greenery—a snarl of weeds and brambles—clawed at the elevated cellar, spared from rot only by its stone foundation. The detritus of forgotten parties lay scattered about, impossible to miss even amid the overgrowth. Rusted beer cans and vodka bottles glinted like jewels among the weeds in the summer sun. A stale reek of cheap liquor clung to the porch, undercut by the acrid bite of old urine staining the deck. Whoever had partied here had also seen fit to use the logs and decking as their personal latrine, apparently.

The path to the pond had nearly vanished, swallowed by neglect, its stones buried beneath a verdant shroud. What remained was a treacherous scramble, an obstacle course of uneven ground and thorny vines eager to snag skin and fabric alike. The pond itself, maybe once sparkling, was found choked with algae. That may have been the only lifeform that could have survived the murky waters. 

Right behind the property, the drained pool had suffered just as much neglect. Graffiti scarred its cracked concrete walls. Its basin had become a festering pit of muck, garbage, and the charred bones of a long-forgotten bonfire. The pool had never been finished—just another of Thomas Fine's stillborn dreams- alongside the old barn that sat near the pond, at the bottom of the hill. 

Inside, the house fared no better. The foyer was small and square. A closet and storage room flanked the entrance to the left, their doors hanging ajar. Past them, two more doors opened into a master bedroom and a room Paul had already claimed as his office. Beyond the foyer, the heart of the house revealed itself as one grand open space crowned by a vaulted ceiling that soared over twenty-five feet. Exposed beams crisscrossed overhead, and the kitchen and dining area sprawled across the right side. At the centre of it all, a staircase—plagued by rot and temperamental boards—climbed toward a catwalk that bridged the mezzanine above, connecting the two wings of the upper floor like a spine.

Past the staircase stretched a barren expanse the real estate listing had optimistically dubbed the grand room. The back wall was almost entirely glass, all panoramic windows and French doors framing the large back deck and the neglected wilderness beyond. It was the kind of feature wall meant to take one's breath away, designed to blur the line between indoors and out. However, grime dulled the glass and the view it offered was one of ruin. The deck was held aloft by tall stone posts rising to the upper floor, supporting the balcony, the roof, and the central dormer. An equally treacherous staircase descended from the deck into the backyard, which sloped down the hill toward Penny Pond and the forest surrounding the property.

To the right, the porch curved into a hexagonal alcove that was half-rotten. Thomas Fine must have drawn inspiration from gazebos when designing it, one of his final attempts to make the property irresistible. From the mezzanines, one could peer down into the open space below or gaze outward at a panoramic sweep of forest stretching for miles in every direction. It may have been the property's sole saving grace—the space and the scenery—if one could ignore the family of rats and raccoons that had taken up residence throughout, leaving unmistakable signs of their tenancy even after the agency's exterminator had come and gone.

Two ensuite bedrooms and a third with a smaller, separate bathroom occupied the right wing of the upper floor. Two more - disproportionaly large bedrooms - sat on the opposite end, past the catwalk, connected by a shared bathroom and flanked by a third room. The space between the mezzanine railing and the large front-facing windows had been enclosed. In another life, it might have been converted into one or two additional bedrooms. Paul, ever the optimist, had declared the space would make a perfect rec room. A pool table, maybe a projector with rows of seats for family movie nights. The vision required a staggering amount of willful imagination, however. 

Where Paul saw a diamond in the rough, his family saw rubble.

Justifiably so.

The log house, for all its spaciousness, seemed to have come to life from a gothic novel. Cobwebs hung thick from the eaves, draped like burial shrouds, and a closer inspection revealed rotten boards pleading for replacement. The grand staircase, once the centrepiece of the open floor plan, resembled a skeletal hand that creaked and squeaked and waited to claim it's next victims of broken bones. Loose banisters wobbled at the slightest touch, and the uppermost step—cracked and splintered—gaped with a jagged hole. Bedrooms stood hollow, stripped of furniture, full of dust buniess. The air was stale. In one room, a hole in the roof admitted pale slivers of daylight and, more troublingly, a generous amount of rain. The attic—a cramped loft accessible only by a spiral staircase tucked in one corner—was stuffed with broken furniture, dust, and rodent droppings.

“Oh my god,”

“Mandy—”

“Oh my god, what the fuck—”

“Mandy, language, please.”

“Language? You’re worrying about my language?!” Amanda Baker exclaimed, voice rising rapidly. “This place is a dump! Is it even safe to live here—oh my god, I think I just saw a rat.” 

“It wasn’t a rat, Mandy.” Mary sighed. “Stop being so dramatic—”

“Mom, look at this place! It looks like it’ll fall any moment!”

“Now, now,” Paul, ever the placating member of the family, smiled a little tightly. “I know this is a big change, but it looks worse than it is—”

“Do you even hear yourself?! I can’t believe you made us leave our home for this bullshit! It’s like you’re punishing us!” 

“Mandy, don’t talk to your father—”

“Girls—”

“I don’t want to live here! We can’t live here!”

Elizabeth Stirling couldn't see the Bakers from where she stood, leaning against her car, but their voices carried easily, bouncing off the barren walls of the log house and spilling out. She took her time before heading inside, though she was itching to conduct a thorough recon of the property. She'd studied the blueprints Paul had obtained from the real estate agency enough to know the layout, but blueprints didn't tell her how exposed they truly were.

The location was ideal in its isolation, miles from the better part of town, swallowed by trees and silence. What wasn't ideal was the sheer number of windows and doors built into both floors. Many exits were good. Many entry points were not.

"Um, Beth?"

Freddie leaned into her slightly, fingers working over the Batman figurine he always kept on him, the one that came out whenever nerves got the better of him. The humidity in Hawkins was somehow worse than New York, and it had turned his curly dark hair into a frizzy halo.

"This place isn't haunted, right?" He squinted at the log house. "It kinda looks haunted."

It far from the most eerie location she'd ever visited, but she silently agreed. The property might as well have been lifted from a work of horror fiction. 

"No," she said calmly, eyes sweeping their surroundings. "It's not haunted, just neglected."

"And if it were haunted," Oliver commented from her other side, hands shoved in his pockets, "even the ghosts would've fled the moment they heard that." He jerked his chin toward the house, where the shrill voices of the Baker women were rising in yet another disagreement.

Freddie snickered, some of the tension melting from his shoulders. "It does look kind of bad, though." He glanced up at her. "Is it really safe?"

"Safer than New York."

Quiet. Hawkins was very quiet. It was exactly the type of town her father would have chosen for them to hunker down. Population, less than fifteen thousand. Barely a blip on the map. The nearest major city was Indianapolis, roughly eighty miles away. Other towns—some even smaller—were scattered like breadcrumbs in between.

Beth supposed she should have been more grateful for Hawkins than she felt. New York had been a sensory nightmare. Honking taxis clamouring for attention. The screech of bus brakes and the rumble of subway trains that made her ears ring. Vendors shouting, pedestrians rushing, musicians on street corners scraping out a living through their art. The city surged relentlessly, and even when she managed to tune out the noise, the medley of scents—exhaust, garbage, sweat, perfume, food—had made her sick most days.

For years, metropolises had been faraway temptations, places they skirted past but rarely ventured into. Beth was used to waking to birdsong and the smell of morning dew on thick foliage. Nights in the wilderness had always felt friendlier than that beast of concrete and glass and steel.

She was grateful for Hawkins but the circumstances that had brought them here made it impossible to relax. That, and an indescribable feeling that permeated the town, something she couldn't quite name or articulate. Hawkins felt off. Peculiar. Her instincts were rarely wrong, and right then they whispered that she should keep her guard up. 

Hawkins hadn't been part of the plan. Nothing that had happened in the last few months had been part of the plan. Beth had broken rules. far too many of them. Her father would have been disappointed most likely to discover that, in his absence, she had unravelled nearly everything he had spent years building. They were in the system. Beth Stirling and her brother. Documented, traceable, visible. That was exactly what should never have happened. She'd been trained better than that. One of her father's rules had been explicit. You cannot get caught or cornered. They had managed both.

And yet there they were, stranded in Hawkins. A remote outpost that offered solace in its isolation but also served as a constant reminder of how trapped they truly were.

"Don't worry, Freddie," Oliver said, uncrossing his arms. "We won't be here long." He glanced at Beth. "Right?"

"Right."

They had a new plan, and they were going to stick to it.

And quiet, plain, unremarkable Hawkins was going to help them see it through.

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"Beth, I would appreciate it if you didn't just stand there and watch," Mary Baker scolded as she picked up a solitary lamp from the lawn, where two men from Powell Moving Company unloaded furniture from their truck. It had pulled up the unpaved road twenty minutes after their arrival, a day earlier than expected. As a result, they had only a few hours left to bring everything inside before nightfall caught the Bakers with all their belongings still out in the open. "Not to mention, it sets a bad example for the boys."

Beth was tempted to point out that Mary had been doing precisely that for the past hour—standing by, hands planted firmly on her hips, micromanaging the movers and her family alike. Paul and her children, Mandy and Brian, had been tasked with clearing as much dust and grime from inside as possible. They'd made little progress. Mandy was more intent on complaining about their new accommodations, and Brian had gotten distracted by the idea of claiming the entire basement for himself. Paul kept getting sidetracked. He'd abandoned sweeping three times because some small repair caught his attention and demanded immediate completion.

If Mary had been more likeable, Beth might have empathised more with her frustrations. 

"Sorry, Mary. I'll get on with it," Beth replied cordially, swallowing her retort. She'd been carrying boxes inside for twenty minutes straight and had only paused because she'd offered to help the movers slide one of the sofas over to make more room.

The front lawn was mostly gravel and dirt, with just a narrow strip of grass running alongside the porch. The Bakers were lucky the Department of Energy had included a relocation service in Paul's job offer, or they'd never have had their furniture wrapped as well as it was. 

Beth grabbed another box from near the rickety steps of the porch. Mary, apparently deeming the task of holding the lamp too taxing, dumped it carelessly into the box. Beth mustered a tight smile and locked eyes with her thirteen-year-old brother, who had just emerged from the house. Though he didn't fully grasp the merits of diplomacy the way Beth did, he possessed an uncanny ability to maintain a poker face. That required far more conscious effort on her part.

"She's not doing anything," he was quick to share once they were both inside the house. "She made me move the same box three times. For no reason."

Beth's nose tickled from the dust, and she sniffed, hoping to stave off a sneeze. "I'm aware. Have you checked—"

"Yes," Oliver said, following her across the room. "The windows and doors are in good shape. Secure. The place is better insulated than I'd have thought, but some of the logs need to be retreated." He clicked his tongue. "This place has more entry points than the blueprint showed. I don't like it."

Beth smiled faintly, unsurprised he'd made the same observations she had. "Neither do I. But that means we also have plenty of exit points. The layout isn't so bad." She placed one of the boxes down by the stairs and looked pointedly up at the mezzanine. She could make out Mandy's huffs and muttered profanities drifting down from the upper level. The girl must have turned her attention to the room she'd claimed as her own.

"We have good visibility," Oliver agreed quietly with a nod. "But there's no way they can afford to renovate this place."

She hummed in assent, bringing her gaze back to their surroundings. "They could, but it'll take a long time if they don't want to spend too much money at once. And they don't have that kind of time. Hawkins has harsh winters. They'll need this place weatherproof before then."

"We'd have no issue," Oliver said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark cotton trousers. 

"Yes, well, I don't want us to still be here by the end of the year," she murmured, conscious of how easily their voices carried in the open space. "Is Freddie upstairs?"

"Yeah, he's sweeping."

"Good." Beth nodded. "Can you go help him? I'll keep working outside. If we get everything done quickly, I can convince Mary to let us go into town. For groceries."

"And recon."

"Obviously."

Paul's footsteps thudding against the floor announced his arrival before he appeared in view. "Beth—oh, good. There you are. Would you mind giving me a hand? Now, this isn't exactly a lady's work, but I've asked Brian to move boxes upstairs, and Mandy is—" He paused, glancing around with a look of confusion, as if only just realising his daughter was missing. "Where is Mandy, anyway?"

"Upstairs, unpacking boxes in her bedroom."

Beth exchanged a quick look with her brother. No words were needed. He made his way upstairs, careful not to place his feet on any of the weaker steps. Beth made a mental note that they should fix the stairs firs. Being discreet was difficult when everything creaked and squeaked. "What do you need help with?"

"Come, come on. I'll show you." Paul gestured for her to follow. Beth set the box she was holding on the floor and did just that.

"It's just this shelf in the laundry room. It's giving me a headache."

Hardly an urgent task, given the lawn was still full of boxes and furniture, they were four hours from sunset, and they weren't even sure the kitchen was fully functional. The real estate agency had assured them the gas line was on and had passed a safety inspection, and the plumbing, although not exactly new, worked fine. Beth wasn't ready to take their word for it.

Paul was like that, though. Rather clueless, if well-meaning. Easily distracted, especially if there was something to fiddle with or fix. Beth preferred him over Mandy, but she also found him frustrating. Paul was not a man of action—not like her father, who had been focused and sharp, always five steps ahead of a crisis. Then again, her father wasn't what most people—herself included—would have considered an entirely sane example of human behaviour.

The laundry room sat next to the pantry. Beth followed Paul inside and immediately understood what he meant about the shelf. It was large and long, mounted above an old washing machine that had been left behind to accumulate rust and dust. One end of the shelf had come loose, causing it to hang at a steep angle that threatened to rip the metal fixture clean out of the wall.

Beth lifted the shelf and held it level while Paul worked on screwing it back into the wall. It only took a few minutes, but judging from the red mark on his cheek, he must have wrestled with it more than once before asking for help.

And lost.

"Perfect," he said, lowering the screwdriver and stepping back to admire his work. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She moved away from the shelf. "Anything else you need help with?"

He patted her shoulder gently. She managed not to flinch.

"All good, young lady. You should go check on your room as well. I'm sure it'll be a nice change from that attic."

Clueless or not, Paul was easily the member of the Baker family she tolerated the most. He was polite, reasonable, and didn't hold her in the same contempt Mary did.

"No problem."

Beth walked out of the laundry room and back into the main open space, giving it another cursory look.

The log house, despite the space it offered and the little piece of land it came with, had been listed at a much lower price than the first property the Bakers had considered-a newly renovated two-storey near downtown Hawkins. Ultimately, though, they'd bought the log house using most of their savings and the advance Paul received from his new job. The long-term plan was to use his higher salary to renovate the place and resell it for a profit.

Beth thought it was a foolish venture, and had found it rather odd that they hadn't used the money, instead, towards a down payment for the other house. She did wonder if there wasn't a different reason for them choosing Penny Grove, instead. A sliver of guilt pricked her conscience. She had argued against the other house herself, pointing out that owning land was more beneficial in the long run. She hadn't offered false information, but she had made her case out of personal interest. The log house worked better for her and the boys than it did for the Bakers. They were isolated from town out there, and close to nature.

Perfect for disappearing when the time came.

"Beth! I nearly tripped and broke my neck! Can you please help with the boxes?" Mary shouted from outside, and Beth had to wonder if the woman had some sixth sense for catching her in a quiet moment.

With a sigh, she walked out of the house.

Mary stood with her hands on her hips, one heeled foot tapping against the gravel next to a box labelled Kitchen. Oliver was behind her, holding a box of his own, rolling his eyes. Mary didn't notice. Freddie stood beside him, trying not to laugh. The box in question was well out of the way of the path leading to the porch.

"As the oldest, I'd expect you to be more responsible," Mary said irritably. "Please take that to the kitchen, then help with the rest. The movers can't wait on us forever."

They'd already be done if you hadn't distracted them.

"Sure," Beth said placidly. "Perhaps Mandy can give us a hand?"

"She's unpacking her room," Mary said quickly, defensive. "You hardly brought anything with you, so unless there's something you need to take upstairs, help with the kitchen. Please."

It was true. They barely had any personal effects—just a few suitcases. And some items hidden in the boot of her car, items no one could know about. But that was a different matter.

That reminded her—she needed to call Magnus and ask if he'd managed to check on their actual belongings.

Beth never thought she'd miss the days when they had the freedom to roam around in an RV, but she did. More than that, the ordeal of the past six months had made her miss being abroad.

Just a few months. That's all. Then we'll be out of here.

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13th of June 1984, Wednesday 

Five different roads led out of Hawkins. Two of them converged with a third—the longest one, the same route they'd taken into town—roughly twenty-seven miles from Penny Grove. The maps Beth had studied also indicated multiple hiking trails, the longest stretching just over ten miles and they all led into neighbouring areas. She made a mental note to chart routes through the thick of the wilderness instead, the kind that didn't appear on any map. 

While researching Hawkins' topography at the local library, Beth discovered that one of the trails had been closed off after a child went missing over half a year earlier. He was found, thankfully, but only after he'd been presumed dead and even then, only after a town-wide search. The town had been shaken by the ordeal. No surprise, given crime was so low that the police station probably employed no more than fifteen staff in total. Small burglaries, some vandalism, and teenagers driving too fast were usually the worst offences on record according to old newspapers she found. 

Another teenager had gone missing, however, and her disappearance hadn't been as widely documented. A girl named Barbara Holland. Compared to Will Byers' story, hardly any attention had been paid to hers. The official conclusion was that she'd run away, despite her parents protesting such an assumption. The town must have had its fill of one crisis and preferred to gloss over the second.

Beth wouldn't have needed an official trail to navigate the woods but to come up with a viable route, she'd have to venture into the forest and get a proper lay of the land. That hadn't been possible in the ten days they'd already spent in Hawkins, thanks to Mary's relentless insistence that the house wasn't presentable enough.

She wasn't wrong. There was a lot of work still to be done.

Beth simply wasn't keen on doing it. The place wasn't home. They'd be gone in months, if not weeks.

"I think we should look here first," Oliver said, marking a spot on the map Beth had spread across the trunk of her car.

They were parked outside a store called Melvald's. Beth studied the point he'd indicated.

"Past the Eno River?"

He nodded.

"It'll be one of the quickest ways out of here," she agreed, "but that's on foot, not by car."

The car needed to stay with them in most, if not all, escape scenarios. Beth had to admit that it having sentimental value played a part as to why. 

"I'd like to find out where it leads, though."

"Are there a lot of dangerous animals in Hawkins?" Freddie asked, curious. "Like wolves and—and bears?"

"Wolves, possibly. Foxes. Bison, maybe. Bears are less likely."

"There aren't any," Oliver said. "I checked before we left New York. Got a few books on the local flora and fauna. This place is pretty tame."

"That's a good thing." Beth folded her arms. "I'm going to stop by the library a few more times this week. See what I can dig up about the nearest towns."

The only reason she'd been able to take Oliver and Freddie for a drive into town was because neither Mandy nor Brian had been willing to go shopping for paint. Paul was at work, completing the induction for his new role. Beth had used the opportunity to make a few other purchases as well.

Mary was firmly against allowing Beth to go anywhere with the boys, no doubt fearing she might decide to leave. She couldn't stop Beth—who was legally an adult—but she knew Beth would never go without Oliver or Freddie.

They were the only reason she put up with the Bakers in the first place.

"Can we get milkshakes?" Freddie asked, glancing back at Melvald's. The sole employee visible through the window was a woman with dark hair and kind eyes. Her name was Joyce. She'd come across as sweet, if a little high-strung. She'd noted they were new to town but hadn't pried, and had instead praised Freddie's choice of cereal.

That had pleased him greatly.

Beth glanced at her watch. Quarter past eleven. Mary had asked her to be back by noon. If they were late, there'd be a lecture, but Beth would just nod along and offer an apology. Mary found it infuriating when she did that—responded calmly and maturely rather than arguing. If Mary kept losing her temper while Beth maintained her composure, she came across as hysterical, and that embarrassed her.

"Sure."

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Jim rolled his eyes when his radio flared to life, interrupting the quiet moment he'd been enjoying—leaning back in his seat, hat tipped over his eyes. He was parked in a small alleyway facing one of Hawkins' longest roads, a favourite of dimwit teens looking to shorten their lives by racing their cars.

It had been a quiet week so far. The youth of Hawkins were split between those heading to the local pool and those leaving town for other vacation spots. Summer camps, too.

It made him think of El, back at the cabin. Shut in and watching more TV than was probably healthy, especially for a kid like her. The only experience she had with swimming was tied to the mind-fuckery she'd endured at the hands of scientists. Dunking friends wasn't a memory she carried like other kids her age. Neither was floating in the sun until her skin turned red. She couldn't even leave the cabin during daylight—too risky.

At least it was cool up there in the woods. And safe. They couldn't take any chances.

He reached blindly for his radio, pulled it from its pouch, and brought it to his mouth.

"Hop here. What is it?"

It had better not be another damn cat stuck on a roof. Seriously—he understood nothing ever happened in Hawkins, but that was ridiculous.

Well. That wasn't exactly true anymore.

"Hey, Chief." It was Flo. "You're not going to believe this, but we've got a Code Adam."

Jim pushed his hat up and straightened. "What? Who?"

It couldn't be El. She wouldn't have left the cabin. But maybe someone had wandered onto the property? Alerted the police?

"New family up at Penny Grove. Remember old man Fine's place? The one he tried turning into a tourist spot? A family moved in about a week ago. The missus is saying her two youngest boys have been kidnapped by her niece. Actually, we've got a 10-30 as well."

Stolen vehicle.

"You sure, Flo?" He used his free hand to slot the key into the ignition. "What's the family name again?"

"Baker."

Right. Hopper hadn't stopped by the property himself, but Glenn and Calvin had made a friendly check-in when the family first moved in, two weeks earlier, give or take. Jim wasn't sure. Days still had a habit of blending together.

El helped with that, for the most part.

"Officers Glenn and Calvin are scouting up north."

"Got it. I'll take south. Do we have a plate and details on the car?"

For fuck's sake. The last thing Hawkins needed was more missing children.

There was a brief pause.

"Oh—yeah. It's a '69 Mach 1 Mustang. Black with a red stripe."

Jim blinked. "Seriously?"

If the niece really had taken the kids, she was probably miles ahead by now in a car like that. She wouldn't have come down the road he'd been watching since that morning—he would've noticed.

"Got it. Heading out now. Keep me posted."

"You got it, Chief."

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He found the Ford Mach, ten minutes later. Jim’s first thought was that the niece, or whoever took the kids, was an idiot because she parked in broad daylight, in front of a well-known food joint. He parked right next to the Mustang - sweet car, well taken care of - and then removed his hat, as he walked inside the diner. 

Eyes scanning the place, it took him only a few seconds to spot the allegedly missing boys and their kidnappers. They were having burgers and milkshakes at a table by the window, looking in no rush to leave town. What the hell. The youngest boy, who looked about nine or ten, was giggling loudly as another boy, not much older than El herself, chucked a fry at him. Sitting in the middle, back towards the window, was an older girl, probably closer in age to Jonathan. Maybe older. She had a burger in her hands, watching the two boys tease one another. Her brown hair was rolled up in a bun at the back of her head, and she was dressed in loose clothing, a pair of denim overalls over a long-sleeved shirt. Odd choice for a warm day like that, but whatever. 

The older boy’s smile faded, and he looked up even before Jim started heading in their direction. Observant. The boy’s mood changed completely, shoulders going up to his shoulders. The other boy must have noticed, because he asked, “What’s the matter, Ollie?” Then he followed the boy’s gaze, over to Jim, lifting himself from the booth. 

The girl noticed him as well, sharp-eyed and all traces of humour gone from her face. Jim recognized apprehension when he saw it, and something told him it wasn’t related just to the sight of his uniform and badge. He stopped before their booth, and the younger boy immediately scooted closer to her, while the others’ hands clenched in his lap. The girl looked calmer than either of the boys, perhaps too calm. Her movements were too controlled as she placed her half-eaten burger down and then pulled her hands under the table. Did she have a weapon? She didn’t strike him as a gun nut, but people could be surprised. 

She was observant too, eyes darting to his belt - gun and radio - then his hands, before she glanced over to his left. The emergency exit of the diner. Interesting. She didn’t move, however, just brought her gaze back to him and leaned back in her seat, which he thought was an act of appearing casual. 

“Hey there.” He knew he struck an intimidating figure. Usually, he liked the advantages that came with it, especially unruly snotty teenagers, but the girl in front of him wasn’t one. He was starting to think there was no kidnapping taking place, just a big misunderstanding. “I take it you’re the Baker kids. Your aunt, Mary—”

“She’s not our aunt.” The older boy cut in, coldly.
Oh. Okay. Great start. 

“She’s distantly related, but we refer to her as our aunt.” The girl explained calmly. “I am Beth. These are my brothers, Oliver and Freddie. Mary and Paul Baker are our—” She paused. “Well, they’re their guardians. I am eighteen.” 

The younger boy Freddie looked up at him shyly. He looked chastised even though Jim hadn’t said anything, fiddling nervously with a figurine toy in his hands. A Batman figurine? It looked like it’d seen better days.“You’re not in trouble.” Jim said, bringing a hand over his jaw. “Not if you tell me why your…aunt would think you stole a car and kidnapped your brothers.”

He could see a resemblance between Beth and Oliver, in the shape of their eyes and nose, but not between the two and the younger boy. Oliver was blond, with green eyes. The sister had brown eyes. Freddie had blue. Different mothers or fathers, perhaps? The Baker family was already starting to sound like a headache he didn’t need. 

Oliver rolled his eyes at his words, then relaxed a little before he gave his sister a weary look. Should a kid look that weary at that age? “Told you so.”

Freddie looked affronted. “Beth didn’t kidnap us,” He said to Jim, emboldened a little when it came to defending his sister. “She bought us milkshakes!” 

Jim was tempted to point out that those actions weren’t mutually exclusive but the kid was just being a kid, and he didn’t want to cause them to be uncooperative. The sooner they wrapped that crap up, the better. He really liked his naps. 

“Alright, alright.” He said. “That doesn’t answer my question, though.”

“The car is mine,” Beth said, next. “It belonged to our father, he left it to me.” She was eighteen, which meant that her aunt had filed a false report. “I was meant to return by twelve, but the diner was busy so the orders ran late.”

It was barely twenty past, which meant their aunt had to have contacted the police as soon as the clock showed twelve, if not earlier. 

“She doesn’t like it when we spend time together,” Freddie mumbled, looking down at his figurine. “Beth would never do anything bad.” 

Beth placed a hand on his head. “It’s okay, Freddie. She just got worried.” From the looks on her brothers’ faces, they didn’t believe that statement any more than Jim did. Beth wasn’t even trying to be convincing, just diplomatic, most likely because of Jim’s badge. 

Jim sighed. What a drag. He gestured towards the food on the table.

“Alright, take that to go. Let’s get you home before your aunt decides to contact the goddamn FBI.” He said, putting his hat back on. “I am taking you back myself.” 

.
.

They listened with minimal fuss. Or rather, the boys listened to Beth, who listened to him with minimal fuss. Jim noticed the way her eyes darted over his cruiser, assessing, before she helped Freddie into the backseat of the Mustang. Oliver took shotgun. She made them both put their seatbelts on. He let her drive ahead and had no complaints. Kid drove safely, within the speed limit, which might have been for show, but somehow Jim doubted it. Beth struck him as a teen who preferred not to draw attention.

Mary Baker, he discovered, was a petite woman, almost as small as Joyce. Unlike Joyce, however, she was incredibly obnoxious and wore far too much perfume. Granted, she was a looker, but as soon as she opened her mouth, Jim started sporting a headache. For someone who'd been so frazzled about her boys going missing, she looked awfully polished. Not a single strand of hair out of place.

She was one for theatrics, too, immediately gathering Freddie into a hug, though the boy looked uncomfortable with it. When she tried to do the same with Oliver, he dodged and pressed close to Beth instead. The latter remained calm, stone-faced, as Mary berated her through gritted teeth for wasting the Chief's time and worrying everyone with her antics. The boys could have gotten hurt on her watch! God forbid!

Jim got a pretty good read on the dynamics in that family just based off of that small interaction. 

And he was instantly annoyed.

"Ma'am."

Mary ushered the three inside, then asked if he'd like to come in for some tea, her tone shifting so drastically that his mouth twitched.

"You said the car was stolen."

She blinked. "Did I?"

"Yes. However, your niece informed me it belongs to her."

Mary tilted her chin. "Oh. Well, my apologies, Chief Hopper. I was so worried, I must have gotten confused." Bullshit. "Every time she takes the boys in that—that dangerous vehicle, I can't rest easy." She placed a manicured hand over her chest. "I don't think someone so young should be driving something that can go so fast, but she's an adult, so I can't stop her. That doesn't mean the boys—"

"You also said she kidnapped them."

"Well—"

"Do you realise it's a criminal offence to make a false report to the police?"

Mary's face fell when it became clear he wasn't automatically taking her side. Behind her, in the foyer, Oliver was smirking. Freddie sipped his milkshake, innocent as could be. Beth looked faintly amused but mostly tired.

Jim had to wonder just how much she put up with from her aunt.

"I—well, I—"

"Aside from consuming too much sugar for lunch, I see no issue with them being out in town." He kept his tone flat. "The police should be contacted for emergencie, not teenagers defying a questionable curfew by twenty minutes in broad daylight."

The woman's cheeks turned red. Jim imagined she was the type to file complaints about other people's behaviour, but he'd cross that bridge later. It wouldn't be the first time he'd offended someone.

He shifted his gaze to the trio behind her. Particularly Beth.

"Next time, ring home. Let your aunt know you're running late."

"Yes, sir."

Must be distant relatives, he thought. No resemblance at all between the kids and Mary Baker.

He tipped his hat at the speechless woman. "Have a nice day, ma'am."

"I—yes, alright. You as well, Chief Hopper."

The door closed before he'd taken three steps away. He stopped and listened, mostly out of habit. No sounds that caused him concern—no yelling, nothing breaking. Mary didn't strike him as physically abusive, but the kids' reactions had been a little too guarded in his presence. Especially the younger ones. It set off alarms at the back of his head. 

He walked back to his car and got in, then radioed in.

"False alarm. The car wasn't stolen—it belongs to the niece. They were just having lunch in town. I brought them home. Next time, get more details. Mrs Baker is quite the… storyteller."

"Copy that." A pause. "Does that mean we can't go to their house party next weekend? Calvin and I got invited."

Jim took a deep breath, exasperated.

Sometimes he wished he had El's powers. God help his officers if he did.

.
.
.

Clearly embarrassed by the chief of police not-so-subtly berating her, Mary didn't bother with another lecture. She just told them to carry on with their errands.

"He's not a pastel," Oliver commented as soon as they were alone in Beth's bedroom. "I wouldn't label him safe, but I don't think he's a threat."

Beth closed the door behind them. "He looked like he'd rather not have come at all." She turned to Freddie. "Go get changed into something lighter. The afternoon's still hot until around sunset."

They were going to scrub the back deck, then use a pressure washer to reveal the original russet colour buried beneath years of grime. Freddie loved pressure washing things, so he was more than happy to participate. Beth had to admit she found it satisfying herself.

"Okay!"

Their rooms were connected by a shared bathroom in the middle, with two doors. It had taken some communication and a few rules—like always locking both doors while using it—but up to that point they'd had no issues. Freddie wasn't allowed to lock the door leading to her room when he was in the bath, just in case he needed help. Beth's memory of Oliver slipping after a bath at nine years old and nearly cracking his skull open was still vivid. She didn't need to relive that.

Beth's bedroom, like the others, was crafted from sturdy logs that showcased their natural texture and rustic charm. A bed frame made of weathered wood, topped with a thick mattress, was pushed against the wall facing the bathroom door. She kept simple linen bedding on it. On either side sat identical small square nightstands, possibly hand-carved judging by their slightly unfinished look. She'd rescued both from the attic. A pale wooden wardrobe was tucked in the corner near the entrance. On the opposite side of the room, a simple desk and chair sat beneath a large rectangular window with no drapes yet. Adjacent to it was a glass door leading onto the covered wraparound gallery. From there, she had a clear view of the creek and the grove of trees stretching past the property's overgrown lawn.

Other than a couple of boxes, her backpack, and her luggage, she didn't have much else in there. She didn't want to. Beth had no intention of growing comfortable in that place—though she did like the house and, in particular, its isolated position. If the Bakers hadn't been part of the arrangement, she might have considered staying longer.

"We should call Magnus tomorrow," she said. "I need him to check on our storage unit and the RV."

"Do you think anyone broke in?"

She hoped not. "I doubt it."

"Mm-hm." Oliver fell back onto her bed, arms spread wide. "I can't believe she's going to have a stupid party."

Beth eyed him from where she'd planted herself by the window. Force of habit. "She'll want to introduce all of us, but I can tell her you've got a headache. She won't say no in front of other people. It'll make her look bad."

They'd only witnessed glimpses of Mary's social life back in New York, mostly because they'd preferred staying in the attic they'd been relegated to. Beth had gotten an idea of her modus operandi when it came to ingratiating herself to others. Mary cranked the charm up to a hundred and behaved as if she were the First Lady receiving guests at the White House. In a small town like Hawkins, she was bound to try and leverage her experience as a cosmopolitan. Beth wondered if it would work—or if people would just think she was a snob.

"I'd rather we just left," Oliver mumbled. "We could just—"

"We are not drugging her."

"That's hardly the worst thing we've ever done."

As in she, mostly. Oliver's ledger was nowhere near as heavy as Beth's, especially after the weeks they'd spent in the foster system. It had been a brief experience, yet deeply memorable for the worst of reasons.

"That's a Plan C, at best." She returned her attention to the houses across Penny Road. From that height, she could faintly make out the homes on the next street over through the foliage. "We're still on Plan A."

"Yeah, but if there's anything we can count on, it's that Plan A almost always fails."

Something their father used to say.

"Here's hoping we catch a break, little brother."

.
.
.

16th of June, Saturday 1984

A simmering tension crackled in the air.

Oliver shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes flickering toward the barbecue. "Imagine if that thing just went up in flames," he whispered, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

"Let's not imagine such things." Beth tugged at Freddie's shirt collar. He'd been pouting ever since Mary had forced him into new clothes. That was as far as the woman had managed to impose her preferences on the boys before Beth stepped in. Mary would have styled their hair herself if given the chance, and that wouldn't have ended well. Freddie didn't like being touched by people he didn't know, and Oliver had been prepared to poison her.

"They're kind of tight," Freddie muttered with a grimace.

"I know, but they'll loosen up. It's cotton."

Beth sat between her brothers on one of the sofas the Bakers had brought from New York. Like most of their furniture and decorative pieces, it clashed with the cabin's rustic design. Mary insisted they were giving the place a modern twist, but Beth wasn't convinced. She didn't care what the house looked like as long as it was secure.

The second sofa held Mary and Paul's brood. Fraternal twins. Seventeen-year-old Amanda, or Mandy as she insisted on being called, wore white shorts and a bright pink shirt tucked in at the waist. Her dark hair, an echo of Mary's, cascaded down her shoulders in a carefully sculpted perm. Her blue eyes were unmistakably her mother's. Brian resembled Paul less in face and more in posture, perpetually hunched, lanky arms folded awkwardly into the front pocket of his hoodie. His unruly mop of dark hair mirrored his mother's; his brown eyes came from his father.

Their personalities were as distinct as their outfits. Mandy was a social butterfly, flitting from trend to trend, mimicking Mary's assertive nature, sometimes to the point of shrillness. Brian embodied Paul's quiet demeanour, bordering on complete muteness. Beth couldn't remember him ever uttering more than a mumbled response.

The mention of moving to Hawkins had elicited opposite reactions from the Baker siblings. Brian had been visibly disappointed but hadn't put up much of a fight. Mandy, however, had erupted into a full-blown meltdown that stretched into days of whining protests and cajoling. When her parents refused to budge, a simmering resentment had taken root and it was directed squarely at Beth. In Mandy's world, the move to Hawkins, the uprooting from her friends and familiar life, was all Beth's fault. Brian might not have voiced it, but Beth suspected he harboured similar feelings, buried under layers of his usual complacency.

Beth didn't blame either of them for being unhappy or holding the upheaval against her. She understood how jarring it could be. It just hadn't been her fault that Mary and Paul decided to move.

Mary appeared in the room, dressed in a dark blue sundress with yellow sunflowers, cinched at the waist with a matching belt. Lush ringlets cascaded down her shoulders, and her red lipstick matched her nails. Paul trudged in behind her, distracted by his tie. He'd thought a party was too soon, but Mary had insisted they needed to get ahead of first impressions before the neighbours came up with their own.

They didn't have any neighbours, though, not closer than two miles in most directions. 

"Up, up. The guests are here."

They all lined up in the foyer.

The first guests arrived around half past five, the Wheelers. Ted Wheeler was an accountant at the small Jonesborough headquarters of a large financial firm. Paul had struck up a tentative friendship with him after he and Mary attended a local summer gathering she'd insisted they go to. Beth couldn't figure out why Paul had described Ted as interesting. Ted Wheeler struck her as the sort of man who'd rather sink into a chair and disappear, especially if it meant avoiding conversation.

His wife, Karen, had a contrasting attitude, friendly and warm. Together, they had three children. Holly, only four, and Mike, thirteen, were both absent. A babysitter was watching Holly, and Mike was out with friends. Their eldest, Nancy, was meant to accompany them but had somewhere else to be.

The introductions were polite and brief, and continued to be as such with subsequent guests. Eventually, Beth and the boys found themselves marooned on the catwalk, caught between boredom and obligation.

Downstairs, Mary reigned over the kitchen, her laughter echoing among the women. Beth felt a tightening in her chest and a sickly rise in her throat at the noise. Memories—faded yet potent—swirled through her mind like dust motes. Sitting on stairs, listening to another woman, a woman worlds apart from Mary. Effortlessly genuine. Effortlessly charming.

The nausea intensified.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut, willing the past to recede. The smell, the sounds, the layout—they were all different. Penny Grove was where she was then. Beth Stirling. The echoes of the past had no place there. Not anymore.

"This is ridiculous," Oliver muttered from beside. "I can't believe we have to play house with these idiots."

Freddie was silent on her other side, fiddling with his toys. It had been a while since he'd been around that many people, and he wasn't a fan. 

They were, indeed, playing house. Pretending to be a slightly more normal version of who they actually were and even that version drew divisive reactions from the Bakers. If they knew the truth, the whole truth, Beth was certain they'd either have them committed or suffer a collective nervous breakdown.

Understandably so. On both counts.

"Not for long," Beth reminded him. "What do you think of the guests?"

"Pastels." Her brother's voice was curt. "Boring. Just like the rest of this place."

Except he'd agreed the town felt off. He couldn't describe it any better than she could.

"I like the house," Freddie commented quietly. "I've never lived in such a big house before."

Beth reached behind her and patted his knee. "I know, buddy. It is a nice place."

It would've been better if it had been just them.

"We can go now," Beth said. "All the guests are here, and I doubt Mary will notice."

She'd overheard Mandy ask Brian if he could drive her into town—they didn't plan on staying either. If they didn't have to, then neither did Beth and the boys.

"I can tell her we're leaving," Freddie offered. "She never says no to me."

"Sure, buddy."

Beth didn't like using Freddie that way, so she never asked him to sway Mary to their favour. But she also knew Freddie was trying to prove himself useful, always a little worried they would leave him behind.

She would have never done that. 

But she'd been selfish enough to take him with them. 

.
.
.

29th of June 1984, Friday

Beth hadn't been interested in getting acquainted with anyone in town, but she supposed it came in handy, even if weighing her words was a continuous effort she'd rather not have dealt with. The rules hadn't changed. And one of the most important rules was not to draw attention. They'd failed at that before but Hawkins offered a chance to pivot and adapt.

Mary was a woman on a mission: social integration. That apparently consisted of sun-soaked afternoons at the community pool with her newfound flock and "book club" meetings that doubled as wine-fuelled gossip sessions while the rest of her family laboured over the log house.

Well. Paul did, for the most part. First during the two weeks off he had before starting his new job, and then every weekend after. Beth and Brian found themselves roped into more repairs than Mandy, who quickly devoted her energy to finding her own clique. Once she did, she was rarely home.

Beth didn't mind the manual labour or the dynamics the Bakers had fallen into. Throughout the week she rarely saw Mary or Mandy during the day, which allowed her to spend time alone with the boys. Mary remained strict about Beth driving out with them in the car and imposed curfews whenever she approved an outing, never without questioning it first. Beth circumvented that by finishing her chores early, so she and the boys could spend hours charting the area around the property. Freddie hadn't had the survival training she and Oliver did, so she focused on teaching him basic camping skills.

Just in case.

That routine worked for everyone involved—until it didn't.

One morning, Mary approached Beth and told her she had two choices. She could get a full-time job, or she could enrol in school.

"You're eighteen, Elizabeth. You either pitch in, or you go back to school to get your diploma."

Beth had anticipated the ultimatum. Mary had been dropping hints about how the log house was bound to strain their finances, already somewhat precarious. Beth didn't have the details yet, but she suspected the conversations she'd overheard between Mary and Paul about their existing debts ran deeper than the maxed-out credit cards they'd told the rest of the family about.

After all, Beth had offered the Baker family nearly ten thousand dollars when they'd agreed to take all three of them in. At least some of it must have gone toward the deposit on the log house, which Beth couldn't have argued against—she'd been the one to push Paul toward that property over the one closer to town.

Still, she had to wonder whether Mary was being greedy, or whether they were hiding far worse debts than they'd let on.

Mary hadn't been entirely unreasonable, she supposed.

"Oliver and Freddie will always have food and a roof over their heads, of course," Mary said. "You won't starve either, but I expect you to cover your own expenses, just like I do with Brian."

Brian had started looking for a job as soon as they arrived in Hawkins. Mandy had not. Mary was far more lenient with her daughter, Beth noted.

Beth didn't want to entertain the idea of school, but she had to be pragmatic and weigh her options. Attending school would have put her close to both Oliver and Freddie as both Hawkins High and Hawkins Middle School were located next to each other. She could have driven them there and back each day, and if something happened, they'd have been within reach. She liked that farthest they'd be at any given moment was less than half a mile away.

Working full-time had its appeal, too. The cash their father had left them was dwindling rapidly. partly because of her own choices, which he would've certainly disapproved of, and partly because living outside a safe house was expensive. Beth decided they'd be comfortable enough until their departure, after which they'd hopefully return to familiar territory. A secure propery, secret caches, anonimity. 

As soon as she made her choice, Mary—much to Beth's chagrin—decided she wanted to ensure Beth was caught up on the curriculum in time for senior year. She reached out to the school for a tutor.

Beth's protests went unheard.

Officially, Elizabeth Stirling had been homeschooled for most of her life while living abroad in Europe. She had documents to back her story up, skilfully forged ones at that. The likelihood of anyone trying to verify them was low, but if it came to that, Beth had contacts she could use.

She hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Hawkins High hadn't cared much about her documents in the end, but the school was sceptical that her homeschooling and "intermittent" time in foreign educational systems were sufficient to set her up for success in her senior year. She was assigned four weeks of review, in preparation for three or four mock exams the school planned to administer in late summer to determine whether she needed extra tutoring.

She was also asked to complete three essays by then.

Beth was positive the school wouldn't have made such a fuss over her background if Mary hadn't repeatedly pointed out that Beth came from a troubled upbringing. 

Some days, Mary made it very easy to loathe her.

Due to the school's insistence on assessing Beth's academic abilities, Nancy Wheeler was assigned to be her tutor. Nancy was a top student across the board—well-liked by all her teachers, with an almost perfect attendance record. That summer, she'd offered to tutor younger students who'd struggled to pass the previous year and were deemed at risk for the next one. Beth was an exception in that sense, but the principal had deemed Nancy perfect to walk her through the curriculum of past years.

Nancy was pleasant enough. Short and slim, with sharp features and large doe eyes. Beth had struggled to see a resemblance between mother and daughter at first, but it was there, in the shape of their brows and the sharp glint in their eyes. Nancy was polite and, thankfully, not inclined to ask too many personal questions. She caught on quickly that Beth was reserved and simply shrugged it off. She was also thorough. From the first meeting, she came prepared with notes and old textbooks, walking Beth through every subject.

There was hardly anything Beth wasn't already familiar with. The school curriculum lacked the depth of the lessons she'd received in the past, and the assignments weren't as challenging. Surprise quizzes and deadlines weren't new to her either—but Beth hadn't operated under a traditional educational system in years. There had been no winter or summer breaks for her, not unless she was particularly unwell and needed time to recover. Even then, she'd been given plenty of reading assignments.

Beth couldn't explain any of that without inviting questions she didn't want to answer. So she listened patiently and nodded along. Occasionally, she asked questions. mostly for Nancy's benefit, since the other girl seemed genuinely interested in helping. Beth treated the whole affair as an opportunity to learn what actual school was like.

"Don't worry about the mock tests," Nancy said. "I can leave you my notes and textbooks to prepare, if you'd like. I'm not sure what they'll give you since you're going into senior year, but you have the reading list, right?"

"Yeah. I've already read some of the books." All of them. "I think I'll be okay. Thank you."

"If you have any questions, you can always call. I'll leave you our house number—wait, you probably already have it. I think our moms have hung out a few times?"

Beth smiled politely. Her chest felt hollow, and her hands burned.

"Mary isn't my mother."

Nancy apparently didn't talk much to her own mother, because Beth was positive Mary had already told all her new friends about the sacrifice she'd made, taking in three orphans at once. She and Paul were magnanimous like that. Beth had overheard that speech several times back in New York while Mary lamented about the transfer to Hawkins to her friends, over wine and lemon cakes.

"Oh. I—sorry." Nancy's brows furrowed, then her frown deepened as she realised her mistake. "Oh, right—shoot. I think Mom said something about it. Your father is—" She stopped abruptly, eyes widening. Then she gave Beth a pained look. Genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry. Yeah, I just… remembered now."

"It's okay," Beth said calmly. "You'll probably hear more about it."

Mandy, no doubt, wouldn't keep her mouth shut once school started. She didn't know anything important—not unless Mary had blabbed to her. But even Mary only knew the lies Beth had fed her.

"Hm?"

Beth waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. We're good, Nancy. Don't worry. Thank you for your help."

Later, Beth gave Nancy's notes a quick review, just to make sure she wasn't getting too cocky about being prepared. Even if she'd had questions, she never would have called Nancy. Beth didn't want to be in anyone's debt for any reason, no matter how innocuous.

A week later, Beth handed in her essays and sat through three different tests in one day. One on calculus. One on English literature and history. One on science.

A few days later, the principal called them in for a meeting. Mandy and Brian's school records had finally been faxed over, and the principal wanted to go over some recommendations from the teachers regarding which classes they should all take—including APs, which would help with college applications.

Beth hadn't wanted to go, seeing as there was no college in her future. But it was an argument she didn't care to have with Mary, so she went along regardless.

Mandy was convinced she'd be placed in advanced classes. At her old school, she'd consistently ranked among the top ten students. She was nearly fluent in French. She made her own clothes. She'd volunteered heavily back in New York to build a well-rounded candidate profile. There was only one outcome Mandy cared about: being accepted into New York's Fashion Institute.

Brian's attitude toward school was nearly the opposite. He struggled academically but had an affinity for basketball and baseball. His only hope was being allowed to play on one of the teams. He didn't care which classes he ended up in, but Mary insisted he take at least one AP.

"If the principal says you're not ready for senior year, I think you should consider going into junior year," Mary told Beth while they waited in the lobby. "There's nothing wrong with finishing school later, especially given how you were raised."

Beth barely paid her any attention. Oliver and Freddie had stayed behind at the house, helping Paul paint the back deck.

"Maybe."

Once inside the principal's office, Beth positioned herself by the window while Mary and Mandy took the chairs in front of the desk. Brian leaned against the wall near the door.

Principal Simolett wasted no time. Mandy was recommended for one AP and perhaps an Honours course in a second subject. Brian was told he could sign up for early tryouts with the basketball team, though he'd have to maintain a C or above in all his classes to stay on the roster.

Mandy glowed with pride. So did her mother, who smiled from ear to ear.

"Perhaps she could take another AP?" Mary asked. "Or two Honours? Mandy was already in three Honours classes back in New York."

The principal offered the kind of smile that told Beth he'd had extensive practice fending off overeager parents.

"I'm aware. Her transcript shows strong performance across the board. Excellent SAT scores. She can, of course, take another AP, but I'd caution against overloading. There's still quite a jump between Honours and AP in terms of commitment." He glanced down at the files before him. "You wish to apply to the fashion program in New York? The Fashion Institute?"

"Yes. It's one of my top three choices. The others are Pratt and Rhode Island."

"Good. Our Home Ec teacher, Mrs Lewis, covers both cooking and sewing. I trust you're interested in the latter."

"Can I take AP French as well?"

"I'm afraid we don't offer it. Only Spanish."

"Oh." Mandy's shoulders dropped slightly. "Alright. No problem. I'll keep AP US History and AP Art History, if that's alright. And Honours in—" She glanced at the sheet of paper she'd been handed. "—Latin."

Mary reached over and patted her hand. "We'll talk more about it at home. We have time to decide, don't we, Principal Simolett?"

"Of course."

"And Beth?"

The principal cast a hesitant glance between Beth and Mary, lips pursed.

"Perhaps this could be a private conversation?" he suggested, voice soft. "Normally, I only meet with students individually with their parents, but given the circumstances…"

Mary waved a dismissive hand. "No need! Beth won't mind, will you, dear?" She didn't wait for a response. "Naturally, I understand Beth might need some adjustments after her… unique homeschooling experience. Real school is quite different, after all. Nancy did her best during those four weeks, but if she requires further support, I'm happy to provide it!"

As if.

Beth stared at her aunt, a cold wave of disgust washing over her. She smiled politely at the principal when she met his gaze again. She had no concerns about her academic abilities, and based on how puzzled the man appeared, neither did he.

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," he began, clearing his throat. "My concerns aren't about Beth's ability to handle senior year. In fact, I'd like to make a recommendation I don't make often—that Beth take at least three APs."

"Come again?" Mandy's jaw went slack, eyes blinking rapidly.

Mary echoed, brows furrowed, "I'm sorry—what do you mean?"

Beth rolled her eyes. If the principal noticed, he didn't seem to care. Brian was visibly amused.

"No, Mrs Baker," the principal said, his tone firm yet patient. "Not at all. Are you certain this conversation wouldn't be more productive in private?"

His request wasn't even acknowledged before Mandy burst out, "She has more APs than me? Oh my god, she does, doesn't she?"

Oh boy.

The principal's smile strained at the corners. He shifted his gaze to Beth, who met it evenly.

"Your test results were outstanding," he began, voice measured. "Calculus was the only area we might need to keep an eye on, but a B-plus from Mrs Antol is nothing to scoff at—especially considering a quarter of the questions came from the second semester of senior year." He paused, letting the significance sink in. "You only needed a C to demonstrate readiness. All your other scores were straight As. Your essays impressed Mrs Samson, our English teacher. She thinks you'd excel in AP English."

A beat of stunned silence followed.

Beth absorbed the principal's words with a mix of surprise and vindication. Mary sputtered, her manicured façade cracking.

"…Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course." Principal Simolett leaned slightly forward. "Now, I know you don't have your SATs, but with your international background and the APs, you'd have some very strong college options. Ivy League, even."

Beth smiled tightly. "I'll think about it."

Easier to seem malleable about her future. If she said she didn't plan on going to college, the principal would undoubtedly want her to elaborate.

"May I see my proposed schedule, please?"

"Of course."

She approached the desk and accepted the sheet of paper. Ignoring Mary and Mandy gawking at her, Beth scanned the proposed schedule.

"Is physical education compulsory?"

Not that it would be a challenge—but she abhorred the idea of team sports. And then there was the matter of communal showers, which made her skin crawl.

"It is not, but we strongly recommend it." The principal leaned back in his chair. "However, you could select another elective instead. You've been put down for Home Ec already, but as I mentioned earlier, we also offer Spanish and Business. Our computer science class is brand new, ust launched last year. Very popular." He paused. "Based on your results, I'd recommend Business, and perhaps even our debate class."

Beth wasn't interested in Business, and while debate class sounded like an interesting challenge, she'd had enough of that incorporated into her previous education. Besides, she didn't want to interact with other students more than necessary.

"Fine Arts, Spanish, and shop class."

"What?" Mary blurted, mouth twisting. "Shop class?"

"Fine Arts?" Mandy scoffed. "You're not artistic."

Beth ignored her and placed the sheet back on the desk. "I'll go with those three, if that's alright. I already speak Spanish, so it won't be an issue. I can test for it, if necessary."

"No, not at all. Not necessary." Principal Simolett waved a hand.

Mandy and Mary's expressions were priceless.

"Very well. Are you certain about shop class? It's not a common choice for… young ladies."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Very well."

.
.

Dinner that evening was, needless to say, very tense.

Paul, ever oblivious, assumed everyone was just tired. "Oh, by the way, how was the meeting today? Did you get the classes you want—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Mandy snapped, then got up and stormed off.

Paul stared around the table, confused. "Did I say something wrong?"

Beth shrugged. "I'd say it went well."

Brian was visibly amused.

Mary just downed her glass of wine.

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.

Oliver scored high on his own mock tests with ease. He impressed his future teachers but held back just enough not to draw too much attention, especially when it came to his aptitude for chemistry and physics. He was placed in eighth grade, which meant he was bound to be younger than other students when he transitioned into his first year of high school the succeeding year. Hawkins Middle School didn't have a gifted and talented programme, so they worked around it by allowing mixed-grade classes.

Freddie, meanwhile, had to attend a few weeks of summer school between July and August because of knowledge gaps left by his inconsistent educational background. Beth and Oliver both helped him during those weeks to make sure he felt confident going into third grade.

And just like that, they were preparing to become Hawkins' newest students.

Her father would have rolled in his grave if not for the fact that she'd made sure his body was burned.

.
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Moonlight dripped through the gaps in the weathered wood of the wrap-around balcony, casting the second floor of the log house in an eerie patchwork of silver and shadow. Despite the late August warmth, a chill clung to the air, mirroring the unease that gnawed at Beth's insides. Sleep mocked her, replaced by feverish dreams of melting flesh and the sterile silence of a morgue. Each blink brought the image of her father's lifeless face, impossibly still, sharper into focus.

She inhaled the musky scent of pine, idly noting the distant call of a night owl. Hawkins at least made for a better place to sit and listen than New York. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of the cabin, sounded like a whisper from the shadows. Hawkins didn’t sound any different than other places they’ve been, not really. But the town continued to make her feel on edge. 

Leaning over the wooden railing, she stared at the forest silhouette stretching under the moonlit sky. 

She couldn’t shake off the sensation that something was just off with that place. 

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.
.

Back in July, Beth got a job at Hawkin’s only movie theatre, The Hawk was located in the town’s square. 

She’d been looking all day for vacancies available, and there weren’t many. Even fewer that’d accommodate her school schedule, or offer her flexibility in choosing her hours. Then she noticed the sign posted near the entrance to the movie theatre. Beth went inside, asked about it and was directed to the manager, a mild-mannered man in his early fifties who asked her if she’d be available to interview on the spot. She agreed. He didn’t mind that she wasn’t dressed formally, but liked that she’d had experience working with people before. She didn’t. And the name she’d put on her printed, while to be counted on for a good reference, didn’t belong to a former employer. Mr Williams did not care much for a reference, however. He did ask her to complete a ‘trial’ shift later that evening, which she agreed to. 

That was the first time she met Jonathan Byers. The older brother of the kid who’d gone missing nearly a year earlier. Beth hadn’t made the connection until later, but it hadn’t made much of a difference. He was nice and easy to work with. When he found she was doing a trial shift, he showed her around and told her that Mr Williams likes to hire people who don’t lean and do nothing if it’s quiet. So she didn’t. Mr Williams didn’t watch her for the entire four-hour shift she had, but he’d done more rounds near the concession stand than he usually did according to Jonathan. 

At the end of her shift, Mr Williams called her in his office and told her she was hired. He was in need of someone open to completing different tasks at the movie theatre, not just serving customers at the concession stand. That meant she might need to do some ushering, as well cleaning and maintenance and on the rare occasion, handle the loading and threading of film reels. She’d be fully trained on that, and only as a back-up in case the main projectionists - Jonathan and another guy - were not in. Officially, she committed to two shifts a week, on Fridays and Saturdays, but Mr Smith told her there’d likely be more hours available. Autumn tended to bring on blockbusters as well, even if a little later than the big cities at times, and with Hawkins experiencing harsh winters, most residents didn’t have much to do in terms of entertainment, other than go to the movies. 

Beth was given her uniform and a badge with her name on it, and the title ‘General Assistant’ underneath it. Her first real shift was the next day, which happened to be a Saturday and was thus quite busy. Jonathan, whom she learned often accepted extra shifts to help his family, gave her a full training and allowed her to shadow. She’d have lied if she hadn’t felt some nerves, if only because the entire experience was rather surreal. She was pretty sure having a job went against her father’s rules, but Mr Williams didn’t ask for much in terms of documentation. She had a social security number, and legally an adult, so she’d been able to sign her contract the day he’d offered her the job. 

Oliver hadn’t been happy about it, but he didn’t protest much once she pointed out that they could use the extra money. They had cash left, but it wasn’t going to last them forever. Magnus could help them, if they were tight, but as things currently stood, their father’s lawyer back in the UK was still trying to understand the will left behind  Beth and Oliver hadn’t even known their father had a lawyer, let alone a last will until a few months earlier so they had no idea what to expect. Some money was involved, apparently, but she didn’t know much more than that. 

A week after she began working at The Hawk, Beth met Jonathan’s younger brother, Will. He came by with his gaggle of friends, who were quite the characters. Will was easily the quietest of them, with his mop of dark hair and big eyes, which made Beth later suspect he might be related to the woman who worked at Melvald. He was. Joyce was Will and Jonathan’s mother. 

Amongst Will’s friends, there was also Mike, Nancy’s younger brother; a cheerful if a little loud kid named Dustin who smiled widely when she topped his bag of popcorn a little more on his request and Lucas. Beth had met the latter’s mother once, at the gathering Paul and Mary had at the house earlier that summer. The Sinclairs were very polite, and Beth got the sense Sue Sinclair didn’t like Mary very much. Clearly she’s a good judge of character.  

“Should I get sweet or salty?” Lucas asked his friends. “I always have sweet.”

Beth was mildly amused. “You could have it in layers.” That drew all of the boys’ attention, as if they were deer and she’d just presented them with some very luscious, tasty-looking leaves. “Sweet, salty, sweet, salty. Best of both worlds.” That was how her brother liked it. 

“Oh shit, why didn’t I think of that?” Dustin cursed. A quarter of his popcorn was already gone even though he’d only had it for three minutes. Jonathan reluctantly refilled it for him, pointing out it was a one-time thing and they were lucky it was quiet, so no Mr Williams or other customers to see him make an exception. 

“Can I have that, please?” Lucas asked Beth. “The layered one.” 

“Sure.” 

Then they all ordered the largest drinks they could get their hands on. Both Jonathan and Beth pretended they didn’t know their backpacks were probably full of candy and other sweets, even though there was a sign discouraging food from outside the movie theatre. 

“Layers. Nice.” Jonathan remarked, once the boys headed in. They were watching Ghostbusters which had been on for weeks, but had been somewhat of a hit in town. Beth made a note to bring Oliver and Freddie. She was allowed to go in for free, but Mr Williams told her that as long as the screen wasn’t close to being sold out and kept quiet about it, she could bring a friend or two. She had none of those, so the offer was moot. 

“My brother eats it like that.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger.” Beth said. Jonathan was bound to find sooner or later, about her brothers in a small town like that. She was surprised he hadn’t already. “Two of them, actually. Oliver will be in seventh grade in September. Freddie is third.” 

“Yeah, I figured you were a big sister.”

Beth looked at him curiously. “Why?”

He shrugged, then scratched at the back of his neck. “Usually people get annoyed when my brother and his friends come by. They can be…a lot.” He said. “Then again, you could have just been good with kids.”

Beth wouldn’t have known. She hadn’t ever been good with kids, in general, not even when she’d been a kid herself. Except…She shook her head. “That’s fair.” She said, then glanced at her watch. “Screen one will be done soon. I can take that one.” 

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s no issue.”

She preferred cleaning and ushering more than she did handling the concession stand. Beth hadn’t been assigned to the ticketing booth yet, but she already dreaded it. She hated tight spaces. Jonathan told her that it rarely happened that Mr Williams put anyone in there other than the usual two employees, who were also high students themselves or just a little older. She hoped the manager wouldn't break that habit anytime soon. 

Beth wondered what her father would have said if he’d have seen her in that black and red and white outfit, interacting with customers and sweeping popcorn off the floor. He might have understood her reasoning. 

But she doubted he’d have approved. 

Dead men tell no stories, though and certainly give no opinions. 

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.
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A couple of weeks into moving into Hawkins, once Beth studied all there was to be studied in maps of the town, and even read some books on the town, she decided she couldn’t finish her reconnaissance by car. 

She wouldn’t have said she knew the woods as well as the ones back in the Catskills, nor had she managed to grow any more at ease in that town, but she felt more confident with the topography. She made a note of the variety in mushrooms she came across, and the types of trees that grew in Hawkins. Oaks. Mulberries. Sugar maples primarily on private lands, owned by the Anderson family who had been proudly producing syrup for almost as long as the town had existed. Beth also noticed some red and silver maples scattered in the southern part of Hawkins. 

Hawkins truly was a picturesque place where people moved at an unhurried place, at least compared to New York. The town square was easily the busiest part, in terms of commercial businesses. Mom-and-pop shops with a long history, cosy cafes and enough shopping stores that the residents did not need to travel further, even if they needed something a little more than essentials. Mandy complained regularly how fashion in Hawkins was behind New York by at least a year or two. Beth didn’t care enough or know enough about what was in or out to judge that statement as accurate. She’d quite literally lived in the wilderness before. 

If she had to pick, Beth would have said the town’s boundaries was where its charm lied in. Verdant parks and open spaces near residential areas, providing areas for families to gather for picnics under oak trees and children to play. The properties became more and more scattered the further one moved away from the town scare, until thickets and generous lawns were replaced by groves, and then again, by miles of rolling hills dotted with farmhouses and grazing livestock. There were only a handful of farmers who kept animals, her research revealed, but most of them - a dozen separate families at most - also had fields of corn or vegetables, like pumpkins. Beth marked them all on her map, which had gradually filled with all manner of scribbles and colour-coded markings over the summer. 

There was one area, in particular, she hadn’t fully gotten examined. The headquarters of the Department of Energy where Paul worked. Beth had gone there, twice. One time, she’d had to turn her car back when she realised she’d have never been allowed to go past the security barrier, and pretended she got lost. It was plausible. She was new to the town. The guard didn’t even bat an eye, just told her to be careful next time. The second time, she approached the building on foot and took a closer look from the woods. 

There was nothing special about it, except it was the tallest building in Hawkins. 

And there were dozens of cameras.

And armed guards. 

Beth wasn’t sure if that was to be expected. Did the Department of Energy hold such important information that it’d require men with weapons stationed about? The camera’s made sense, to an extent, although excessive. She made a mental note to probe Paul about that place. Beth didn’t return, after that. That place made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It inspired no good emotion, and her instincts were rarely wrong. It was best to keep her distance. 

She couldn’t shake off the sensation that a storm was coming. 

The weather remained mild. 

.
.
.

Mary snooped. Beth hadn't caught her red-handed, but she was confident Mary went through their rooms. Not every time they left the house, but periodically. Beth could always tell. The handle to her door would be in a different position, the toothpick wedged between the boys' door and the frame would be on the floor.

She didn't bother to confront Mary about it. Mary would likely have denied it or made an excuse, something along the lines of I just wanted to check if there was any laundry to be done or to hoover your room. Beth knew she would, because that was the justification she offered whenever her own children called her out on her habit of going into their rooms.

Beth couldn't say whether Mary snooped through her children's personal effects, but she was certain she did so with Beth's.

It was unclear what she expected to find. Drugs? Hidden money? Weapons?

Well. She'd have been right on the money for two out of three, except Beth knew better than to leave herself exposed.

"Hm."

"Hm?"

Oliver's green eyes roved around the old barn, assessing. It was over a century old. Thomas Fine had wanted to transform it into a pool house of sorts, or perhaps a smaller accommodation for couples. Or so the agency claimed.

Oliver found it fascinating how the listing had managed to put a spin on the actual state of the place.

The weathered wooden exterior—the formerly red paint turned a murky, peeling brown—still held strong against the elements. The craftsmanship of a bygone era was evident in the sturdy beams and meticulously joined planks, a testament to generations of skilled hands. Neglect, however, had begun to etch its own story onto the once-proud structure. Inside, the air hung heavy with the musty scent of disuse. Motes of dust danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced through a cobweb-draped window. Cobwebs, thick and grey, hung from the rafters like old curtains, their intricate patterns a testament to the long-abandoned tenancy of resident spiders.

Oliver's boots crunched on a thick layer of dust coating the floorboards, obscuring the original purpose of the space. Hay storage, perhaps, or a haven for livestock. Rusted farm implements leaned precariously in one corner, their once-gleaming surfaces dull and pitted. The silence was punctuated only by the occasional rustle of unseen creatures disturbed by their intrusion.

The faint outline of a loft was visible above, accessible only by a rickety wooden ladder that looked more suited to a daring escape than a practical ascent.

"Paul might decide he wants to spruce this place up."

"Paul's too busy with work. He has a six-month probation to get through, so he'll focus on that." Beth had eavesdropped enough on Mary and Paul to know they intended to be frugal with their expenses. "Plus, they have to fix up the log house before the rainy season. That comes first."

Beth had done some snooping of her own—in Paul's office—and found the quote he and Mary had been given for all the major repairs and wood treatments they needed done before bad weather set in. They had bigger things on their plate than worrying about the state of the barn.  Under the old floorboards toward the back of the barn, Beth had hidden a metal box. She doubted the walls of the box would hold against very determined rats, which was why she'd added traps and steel wool around it. The box contained five thousand dollars, Oliver's crossbow, a first aid kit, maps, and other items that might prove useful in an emergency—matches, a flashlight.

Beth had also stashed one of their fake identity documents inside, keeping the others in her car along with the rest of the money and weapons they had. She didn't like leaving their belongings out of sight and unguarded, but she couldn't risk the Bakers stumbling across them. Even setting aside the crossbow and forged documents, Beth would have struggled to explain where the money came from.

As far as the Bakers were concerned, Harry Stirling had abandoned her and Oliver before he died. In his wake, he'd left them with just enough savings that they could have kept living on their own for a while, until Beth found a job. It was all true, except for the actual amount.

"Remember," Beth said as she placed the floorboards back into position. "Don't touch the rat traps, alright, Freddie? If you ever need to get inside the box, always make sure you're wearing gloves."

They'd already established that the only time they should be going through the box was in case of emergency.

"Got it."

Oliver helped her push an old wooden barrel over the spot, and Beth made sure they hadn't left any obvious marks in the dust leading to the hiding place. If Paul or Mary did wander in and noticed footprints, she could just tell them the kids had been curious.

"I'd rather have kept my crossbow," Oliver remarked dryly.

"You've got the other one in the car," Beth said calmly, conscious that normal people only ever spoke with such nonchalance about spare snacks or toys—not weapons.

"You're still going to teach me how to use one, right?" Freddie asked.

Beth hesitated. "Yes. But I don't want you playing with one when we're not around, okay?"

"Okay, Beth."

"What about the rest of our stuff?" Oliver asked as they made their way out of the barn.

Mary was at the pool. Mandy and Brian were out doing whatever it was they did in town. Paul was at work. They were alone.

"And the RV? It'd sell well, even around here. I looked it up."

Beth had considered that. "We'd have to bring it here first, and I'm not sure it's worth the hassle when we'll be gone by winter." She paused. "But I'll talk to Magnus about it. The rest of our stuff is safe. He's already had everything moved."

Freddie stared at them. "Magnus won't go through your things, right?"

"Even if he does, there's nothing of value," Beth said. "Monetary value, anyway."

The younger boy's head cocked to the side. "What about your other things? Like clothes and books and—photos? You had those when you lived in Europe, right?"

Beth nodded. "Most of it's still abroad."

"But you're not going to ask Gavin to send them, right?" Freddie asked. "Because we're going back there anyway."

She touched his head, gently carding her fingers through his dark curls.

"That's the plan."

Later, she'd wonder at what point the universe would be done fucking with them.