[ xi. the ghost's echo ]

november 9th, 1983. wednesday.

⇝ ⇝ ⇝

TRAGEDY WAS A TERRIBLE thing.

It crept into bustling, mundane lives. It tore through perfectly beating hearts. It destroyed entire unsuspecting families, leaving holes so gaping, so painful they could never be filled.  Tragedy touched millions every single day, yet somehow, still no one quite ever believed it would land on their own doorstep.

Until it did.

Melanie Wheeler had not expected it. The devastating rooting of her own young life, that was. She had still been internally fuming from her afternoon in detention. But the frustration that coiled within her tiny, frail body evaporated the moment she heard her front door burst open, followed by the unmistakable sound of Mike's sobs.

It was a noise so broken, so impossibly rare, that she had barely recognized it.  Her legs had moved on their own accord, carrying her from her bedroom to the top of the stairs.  She clutched the wooden railing, staring down, into the landing at her brother as he collapsed into their mother's arms, his shoulders convulsing with every heaving breath.

She had never seen Mike cry like that before. Not when their parents shouted or grounded them, not when he scraped his knees bloody trying to learn to skateboard, not even when the twins' shared goldfish died when they were six.

But now, Mike was hysterical. And Melanie already knew why.  She could feel it in her chest, in her bones. Somehow, she had known from the moment her twin stepped through the door.

Will Byers was dead.

The blatant words spun in Melanie's head, over and over, louder and louder until they were all she could hear. Will.  Gone.  Forever.

She could not process it.  Her mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt like it had hit a brick wall.  Lost.  Yes. That was what she felt. Lost in a universe she no longer recognized, spinning alone in a cosmos that no longer held her best friend.

Immediately thereafter, rather than comfort Mike, Melanie retreated to her bedroom once more, shutting the door against the sounds of her brother's frantic sobbing. She hurried toward her bunkbed, but her legs gave way before she could properly reach the ladder and she slid to the floor, putting her back against the frame of the lower bunk.

It was not supposed to happen like this. Not to Will. He was one of the kindest, gentlest people Melanie had ever known.  He did not deserve this.  Why?  Why had she been allowed to walk away from her accident with a broken arm and some bruises, while Will had not been allowed to walk away at all?

That cruel question hit the reeling Wheeler daughter harder than the car ever did.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Melanie's gaze drifted across her darkened room, stopping at her cluttered dresser.  A photograph sat there. The same damned one. Her sixth-grade science fair, back when the world had made sense.  She was standing in the middle of the group, holding a ribbon for second place, surrounded by the Party.  Mike, Dustin, Lucas, and Will.  They would never be that group of five again.  Now, there would only be four broken souls and the ghost of their deceased friend between them.

Melanie's stomach churned with anguish the longer she stared at the photo. But another emotion coiled, too. Something darker—anger. Anger because Mike, Lucas, and Dustin had at least seen Will's cold, lifeless body.  They'd had the moment she had not. They knew without a doubt, right then and there, that he was gone. Melanie had no such closure.  All she had was a fading memory of Will riding his bike away from her house, pedaling into the night. She did not even remember if he had been smiling or not.

She did not get to know.

Her attention dropped to her cast. Automatically, her eyes scanned the familiar signatures.  There were only five: Mike's messy scrawl; Holly's shaky letters; Lucas's blocky print; Dustin's exaggerated looped D; and Will's.  His signature was the smallest, neatly written and deliberate, the ink faintly smudged in his excitement.  He had been so proud to sign it.  That was the last smile she could really remember.  The last time she could remember his laugh.

A quiet knock at her bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Melanie?"

Nancy's voice was soft, almost hesitant, through the wood, and for a moment, Melanie did not answer.  Her face felt hot and sticky with tears, her chest still uncomfortably tight as she struggled to pull herself together.  She did not like crying.  She especially did not like others seeing her cry.

Nonetheless, before she could tell her older sister to go away, her bedroom door creaked open, and Nancy peeked her head inside.  Her narrow face was pale and drawn, her lips pressed into a thin line.  She did not say anything at first, her eyes sweeping over the twins' shared space, the mess of combined clothes, the discarded schoolbooks and toys, and finally, Melanie herself—curled up on the carpeted floor.

"What do you want?" Melanie questioned. Her voice sounded hollow.

Nancy took a cautious step into the shadowy room. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Do I look like I'm okay?"

"Sorry, that was a stupid question."

Melanie did not respond, though she inwardly agreed. She, again, waited for Nancy to take her cue and leave, but instead, she lingered near the door, her back against the wood, staring at her younger sister like she was searching for the right thing to say.  Then, as if deciding silence was not enough, Nancy crossed the bedroom, her steps light on the carpet.  She grabbed the chair from Melanie's desk, dragging it back until it faced her sister and sat down.

Melanie still refused to look directly at her, her attention locked on her cast, her fingers tracing over the grainy texture.

"They say he drowned," Nancy said finally.  Her words were clinical in that elderly sibling-way, detached somehow, but Melanie caught the crack in her tone underneath. "That when he got lost, he must've wandered to the quarry. Fell in."

Melanie shook her head. She did not care how Will died. She only ever wanted him to be found.  She only ever wanted him to live.

Moreover, such an explanation felt like sandpaper against Melanie's skin.  Her mind was unwilling to understand her friend's death.  Will was smart.  Careful.  She could not picture him wandering blindly into danger; not when he knew the area so well.  The quarry did not make sense.  Nothing about his death made sense.

But sense did not matter, she supposed.  Not anymore. Will was gone, and there were no puzzles left to solve. Just grief—impossible, unbearable grief.

Nancy shifted in her chair again. "Barbara's missing too."

Melanie's head snapped up, her brow furrowing as she stared at her sister.

It was only now that she noticed Nancy's cracked lips quivering. "And I think it's my fault," she continued. "I told her to go home last night. I didn't need her there. I didn't want her there. So, she left. I let her leave. And now—" Nancy's voice broke entirely, and she dragged a hand across her face, wiping away the fresh tears that spilled down her cheeks. "She never even made it to her car. There were no tracks. No note. Nothing. She's just . . ."

"Gone?" Melanie mused flatly.

Nancy nodded, her shoulders crumpling inward. "Yeah. Gone."

Melanie pursed her lips and leaned back against the side of her bed, staring up at the ceiling.  The glow-in-the-dark stars she had put there years ago had started to peel, leaving only faint outlines of their shapes. "I hope they find her," she supplied weakly.

Her voice lacked warmth, but the words were genuine. She hoped that Will Byers was the last tragedy of Hawkins, and that Barbara Holland was the next miracle.  She did not want anyone else to know this kind of pain.

Nancy sniffled.  Then, unexpectedly, she reached out hesitantly, and her hand closed over Melanie's.  It was warm, trembling, but firm. "I'm sorry about Will," she whispered.

Melanie turned her head to meet Nancy's gaze.  For the first time, she saw her sister's tears up close.

"I'm sorry about Barbara," Melanie whispered back.

Nancy's fingers tightened momentarily around Melanie's hand before slipping away again. After, the silence that followed felt heavy, dense with all the other words the Wheeler sisters could not bring themselves to say to each other.  The separate memories of their friends sat between them like an invisible barricade.

However, it was not long before Nancy broke the quiet again. "How do you think Mike's taking it?"

Melanie shrugged.  Mike was her twin, her mirror. But even she did not truly know how he was taking the loss of one of their best friends.  She knew that he was devastated, that he was hurting, but she did not honestly know how he would recover from this.  Will had been Mike's first friend, chosen right from the playground when they had barely been tall enough to climb the swing set.  Will had been the brother that Mike never received biologically.

"I don't know," Melanie admitted.  "But . . ." Slowly, she pushed herself up from the floor. "I should probably go check on him," she said. "Make sure he's okay."

Nancy scooted back. "Sure. Yeah. That's probably a good idea."

Melanie made for the exit but paused at the door and glanced back at her sister.  For the first time since her accident, neither sister had raised her voice or hurled an insult during their conversation.  That realization felt strange, almost grounding, like proof that common ground between them still existed.  Maybe, just maybe, they could still turn to each other without needing their mother to mediate.

When Melanie finally stepped out of her bedroom, leaving her older sister to her own thoughts, the hallway felt instantly colder.  She descended the stairs slowly. In the living room, her parents sat side by side on the couch, their faces lit by the flickering glow of the television.  The nightly news played softly, but Melanie did not need to hear the words to know what the hosts were saying.  She caught a glimpse of the screen as she passed—a picture of Will, smiling shyly, with bold text underneath: LOCAL BOY FOUND DEAD IN QUARRY.

Melanie's empty stomach twisted further, and she forced her attention away.  She did not want that to be the image that stayed with her—the polished, posed version of Will Byers that the news paraded around for a profited tragedy.

Without a word, she silently went to the basement door and slipped inside.  The first thing she noticed upon reaching the bottom of the stairs was the faint buzz of static.  Eleven sat in her nest of blankets, hunched over Mike's radio, her fingers carefully turning the dials.  As Melanie made her presence known, her eyes met Eleven's momentarily, but the latter girl quickly looked away, as if ashamed.  Melanie frowned but did not push it.

Across the room on the couch, Mike slumped forward, a stack of Will's drawings in his lap.  Melanie quietly crossed to his side and sat down, leaning in to see which one held his focus. His fingers traced the lines of a massive dragon that loomed over a colorful lake.

The drawing had been one of Will's favorites—Melanie remembered him excitedly explaining how the dragon's eyes were meant to sparkle like rubies. Now, that red reminded her of something else entirely.

"We should put them up on the wall," she said quietly, attempting to distract herself as much as her brother. "I think Will would like that."

Mike did not respond right away.  His eyes stayed locked on the dragon, his shoulders tense.

Back beneath a makeshift fort, the static from Eleven's radio grew louder, becoming a faint, eerie whine.  Mike's head snapped up, his expression suddenly angry.

"Can you please stop that?" He snapped. Eleven did not look up.  Her fingers kept turning the dial, her face tight with concentration. "Are you deaf?" He barked at her.

Melanie sat frozen, mute.  She was not shocked at her twin's hostility—but it pained her to see him lash out at Eleven regardless.  She had no part in what had happened to Will; Melanie knew that much.  And deep down, she knew Mike knew it, too.  He just needed someone to blame.

"I thought we were friends, you know?" Mike continued, pointing an accusing finger at Eleven. "But friends tell each other the truth. And they definitely don't lie to each other. You made us think that Will was okay, that he was still out there, but he wasn't. He wasn't! Maybe you thought you were helping, but you weren't. You hurt me. You hurt Mel. You hurt Dustin and Lucas. Do you understand that? What you did sucks." He took a shuddering breath. "Lucas was right about you."

At that, Eleven's head jerked up.  Melanie saw the hurt flash in her dark eyes.  She did not defend herself.  Did not flinch.  She just sat there, taking every word. Like she deserved it.  The sight of it twisted something in Melanie's chest. Eleven looked small.  Helpless.  A kicked puppy.

Finally, Melanie could not stand her brother's bullying any longer. "Stop it!" she chided, reaching out to smack Mike's arm. "I think she gets it."

He recoiled, his furious glare snapping to her. "Stop defending her, Mel!"

"I can defend Eleven because I am still her friend!" Melanie shot back. "You don't get to belittle her and make her feel bad when she's already tried harder than any of us to help find Will! She doesn't even know him, and she's still doing everything she can!"

"She lied!" Mike exploded. "She made us believe—"

"She didn't make you believe anything!" Melanie interrupted. "You wanted to believe! We all did! You think I wasn't hoping she'd lead us to him? You think I don't feel just as crushed as you do?" Her voice softened, though the frustration remained. "She was just trying to help, Mike. That's what friends do. And at least now we know—we know what happened to Will."

"No, we don't! We don't get to know what happened!" Mike's hands curled into fists. "You don't get it," he hissed. "You weren't there!"

Melanie felt tears burning in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.  She would not let this turn of events tear them apart further—not her and Mike.  Will would not have wanted this.  She opened her mouth, ready to remind her brother of just that, but before she could say a word, the static from the radio behind her shifted.

"So come and let me know . . . Should I stay or should I go? . . . Should I stay or should I go now? Should I stay or should I go now? . . . If I go there will be trouble . . . If I stay it will be double . . ."

Melanie whipped around, her breath hitching in her throat.  Eleven was still crouched beneath her table shelter, her hands clutching Mike's radio tightly.  A thin stream of blood ran down from her nose, pooling at her upper lip, but her focus on the device did not waver.  The voice it exuded was hauntingly familiar, its tone filled with an exhausted, desperate energy that sent chills racing down her spine.

It was the voice of—

"Will!" Mike shouted, scrambling forward, the pile of Will's drawings spilling from his lap onto the floor.  His knees slammed against the floor as he grabbed the radio.  Eleven did not resist, handing it over. "Will, is that you? It's Mike! Do you hear me? Do you copy? Will, are you there?!" His words tumbled out in a frantic rush.

The radio hissed, static crackling through.  But no other response came.  The ensuing silence should have been damning.  Yet, the fact that a voice had broken through at all—that his voice had shattered the impossible—was enough to send the Wheeler basement spinning.  It was enough to rewrite the grief that had only begun to strangle the Wheeler twins. Enough to unravel the certainty that Will Byers was gone.

Melanie stared at the stilled radio in Mike's hands, her thoughts spinning wildly.  Stubborn, blistering logic clawed at the edges of her mind, screaming that it was not possible, that it could not be real.  But she ignored it.  She had to ignore it.

There was no logic here.  No normal rules to abide by. A body had been found in the quarry.  But it was not Will's.

Will was alive.

Melanie felt her heart swell painfully against her ribs, the enormity of that realization threatening to overwhelm her.  She now accepted that nothing about this disappearance was going to be ordinary.  This was not a mystery that she could solve by piecing together clear, black-and-white answers.  The world, her world, had just shifted once again, breaking away from the mundane and spiraling into something unknown. Something strange.

Melanie's new reality was the echo of a ghost. A ghost who was not really gone. A ghost who was her best friend and needed help. And she would do whatever it took to find him—even if it meant tearing apart the very fabric of her universe.

Mike's trembling voice broke through Melanie's thoughts. "Was that . . ." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. His watery eyes held Eleven's, pleading, searching for reassurance that this was not a dream. "Was it really . . ."

Eleven's gaze flickered carefully between the expectant Wheeler twins. She nodded, her lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile despite the blood staining her face.

"Will."

~~~~~~~~~~

edited 02/04/2025.