[ i. sleeping giants ]

march 21st, 1986. friday.

⇝ ⇝ ⇝

"THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS WITH a ticking clock."

Fervently erratic chills began to crawl up Iris Rowe's arms almost immediately as the heavy words escaped her lips and she forced her mind to return to her entrapment of dreams. Though she knew that whatever was going on inside her head could not actually hurt her, she still felt so very on edge in those moments between wakefulness and slumber. As if she were one sleep away from never coming back. From never quite being Iris again.

Which, perhaps, might not have meant all that much to anyone. But it would still hurt to disappear. Or at least she thought it might. Coincidentally, slipping away into a forever sleep did not always seem so bad; sometimes that was all she wanted. But not right now. Not when she was so close to graduating. Not when she was so close to finally being free of her haunted house.

Though it was only haunted because of her. Because of her nightmares. There was nothing about the physical Rowe household that otherwise screamed supernatural. Her family home did not have a scary basement or a dark attic. It did not have anything at all, really, that should have gone bump in the night when the clock struck three—known to many as the witching hour. After all, no, there were no witches in Hawkins, Indiana, Iris's quiet little hometown of over eighteen years. There were no ghosts. There were no monsters.

But there were curses.

And Iris was convinced that she was cursed. She had already tried everything that she could possibly think of to stop the nightmares from happening. From medications to routines, from teas to nightlights, no strategy had worked. None of it kept the horrors in her head at bay that had been occurring for several months now. At first, the nightmares were only happening once a week. Sometimes twice a week if she was stressed. It was nothing that she could not otherwise handle. Then, about a month ago, she started having nightmares four times a week. It had been miserable. The past week had been the worst with every night packing its own horrific punch. Now, though, it felt almost constant. As if every time that she dared to close her eyes, even to merely blink, she was being lulled into a darkened chamber by the doomed ticking of a clock.

"A clock?"

"Yes, Eddie. A clock."

Her shaggy-haired friend, Eddie Munson, lifted his head from where he sat on his unmade bed across the room. His syrupy-chocolate eyes were puzzled as he looked longingly at Iris, but the confused and hazy stare did not seem like it was meant for her. Not when he was also distracted by the beautiful, sleek, amber-colored guitar in his lap. He had been attempting to work the strings for the better half of an hour while she rolled a joint all by herself, but he had not truly made much noise in the sense of actual music. She, however, was now well on her way to a delicious wake-and-bake that her tired mind was in desperate need of.

"Like an alarm clock?" Eddie wondered, near-absentmindedly. Already his attention was back down to his guitar where he was attempting another quiet tune.

Iris took a small puff from the joint and exhaled the smoke through the screen of Eddie's small bedroom window. "No." She shook her head. "It wasn't an alarm clock. It was . . . It was, like, a massive grandfather clock. Scary chimes and all."

Eddie hummed. "Interesting."

Her eyes narrowed at the lack of interest he was truly conveying. "Are you even listening to me?" She demanded.

"Of course, I'm listening to you," He assured, yet it sounded like a drone. "It's hard not to."

"I can't decide if that was meant to be an insult."

"It's whatever you want it to be, sweetheart."

Iris turned in her swivel chair so that she was faced away from Eddie's bed and turned towards his desk. There was not a single clean nor open space on the entire wooden tabletop; it was all covered in magazines and music notes, and cassette tapes. There was even an emptied Pabst beer can, and a Skittles wrapper amongst the mess—with all the yellow-colored candies still at the bottom of the ripped baggie. How he managed to live like this, Iris had yet to understand. But she was not going to ask right then—not when she was attempting to pout.

Yet somehow even with her back turned to him, Eddie's watchful eyes were still on her from a faded black-and-white photograph she had taken of him that was now pinned up on his wall beneath a poster of the Iron Maiden heavy metal band. She had taken the photo of Eddie over two years ago on what should have been his own graduation day. Yet in the picture, rather than a dark green gown, he was donning a leather jacket. Where there should have been a golden tassel hanging over his head, there was a skull-bound bandanna instead. She could not wait to finally have an updated version of the photograph in just a few short months, but—regardless of what the future honestly looked like—the current picture of a younger, spunkier Eddie pinned high before Iris would always hold a special place in her heart.

She had idolized the gem of a photograph for so long before she had worked up the courage to actually give it up and return it to him as a birthday present. At only sixteen, she had been heart-struck by the mere thought of the Munson teen.

But those heartstrings had long since lost their ivory coatings. Now, Eddie was more than just a stupid, innocent crush of silly little Iris. Now, he was actually a person rather than a worshiped preteen dream; he was more than a defiant, hellbent God of a boy determined to stand as a boulder in everyone else's stream. Now, he was just Eddie, the boy who loved his youth and his guitar, and those that stuck around long enough to hear the fun in his music. He was Iris's best friend who she positively loved to ridiculously hate.

From over her shoulder, she called out, "You know, I really do hate you, Munson."

"If you hate me so much then stop smoking my weed," He shot back, quicker than the flickering flame of Iris's dying lighter.

"I wouldn't have to smoke yours if you would just tell me where you're getting it from."

Eddie's voice sounded clearer then, more focused. As if her taunting words had finally rattled him, had forced him to look away from his precious instrument. "You don't need another dealer," He deadpanned. "I give you that shit for free."

Iris turned around in her chair and smirked. "Is that jealously, I hear?"

Eddie just laughed at her taunt. "Fuck you."

Iris's Cheshire smile only grew until she was full-on grinning madly at her friend. She loved teasing Eddie, knowing nothing would come from it. That he would not get mad, or awkward, or turn her away. Quickly, she spun around round in her chair once more and let the tips of her green Converse kicks slowly skid her back to a halt. "I mean, it really wouldn't be such a bad idea—" She spoke aloud. Suddenly, Eddie's eyes widened playfully, and she scoffed loudly, shutting that pipedream down in an instant. "I meant about switching dealers! Jesus, get your head out of the gutter."

A hand was lifted in surrender and Eddie's guitar pick, which was held firmly between his heavily ring-cladded fingers, glinted against the rising sun as it shifted its way slowly through the open window. "I didn't even say anything," He insisted.

"You didn't have to," Iris snickered through a fresh exhale of smoke. "I knew what you were thinking."

"See," Eddie retorted. "Could you read a new dealer like you can read me?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm excellent at reading people," She attested confidently. She took another soft puff and brushed her dangerously wavy dark hair back. Too many times had she accidentally singed the ends off in her misadventures with smoking. "I kind of have to be with the aspirations I have."

"Wow. That's a big word, Rowboat."

Iris rolled her eyes at the familiar nickname. He had given it to her when she was fifteen when she had taken a tumble in Lover's Lake all those summers ago. That—and because it was also a stupid, embarrassing ploy on her last name that was supposedly too good to pass up. At the time, she had been too shy to ask him to call her something else, that she thought it was humiliating. But now she found it funny, too. Though she would never give Eddie that satisfaction. So, instead, she merely lifted her middle finger as she casually continued to spin in her chair.

"Isn't it?" She teased. "Care to guess what it means?"

Eddie shifted on his bed. "What do I get if I'm right?"

Iris held up the joint instantaneously. "You can have the last—"

"I don't want the last hit," He interrupted her with a groan. But then he smirked as he watched her stubbornly take the last hit for herself. "Took the words right of your mouth, didn't I? Could your new dealer do that?"

"No," She admitted as she dropped the finished bud in her unfinished cup of coffee. "But maybe he'd actually listen to me, though."

Eddie's eyes narrowed slightly at her words and the guitar shifted off his lap as he sat up. She could see his shirt now beneath his many layers of leather and denim. Through a thick haze of marijuana smoke, a white Hellfire Club tee looked back at Iris, sharpened devil horns from a reddened evil beckoning her in, but Eddie's guarded expression soon pulled her gaze upward. "All of your nightmares begin with a grandfather clock," He began, deep voice strangely voided of any humor now. "But you're not in a house. Most times you're outside, but sometimes . . . sometimes you're in a morgue—which you don't know how you recognize, but you do. Usually, you see Keithie on the table—or sometimes it's your aunt. But you've started seeing your sister, too, and you don't know why because she isn't dead." He hesitated a moment in the shadow of that revelation. Perhaps watching Iris. Or simply waiting, waiting for her to stop him. "You're also not really sure if it's your sister because you only ever see her from behind. Sometimes you think it might be you. But every time you try to get closer to look, something pulls you back and you wake up."

The gooseflesh had returned to Iris upon his conclusion, and she felt the bumps rise on her arms. Her hands had curled themselves up into her shirtsleeves. She was dry-mouthed as she looked at Eddie. The room had suddenly become chillingly cold and stiflingly hot, all at once, even though it was only the middle of March. It did not make sense, much like her nightmare.

"Does that sound about right?" Eddie dared to question, still staring cautiously at her.

Across the room, now frozen at the desk, Iris was frowning. "Have I really told you all of this before?" She wondered softly.

Eddie nodded and pursed his lips. "Only about a hundred times," He confirmed.

How had she not realized that? Was she really that much in her head, nowadays? Or was she smoking too much? The fact that Eddie was able to relay all that information back to her so easily almost made her irritated, but it was not directed at him. It was toward herself and her clear inability to keep her problems in her own breaking head.

How pathetic of her.

It took everything within Iris to keep the rapid rushing of anger from her tone as she muttered, "We should get going."

She did not even know what time it was, yet Iris still rose to her feet and grabbed her satchel from the edge of Eddie's bed. She was suddenly very eager to get out of his bedroom, out of his trailer-park home entirely, and back into the fresh morning air. Maybe that would clear her smoky mind. Her spontaneous rush made Eddie lurch to his feet, and he quickly side-stepped in front of her, his eyes widening with alarm. "Wait, wait, there's a song that I've been wanting to show you—" He quipped, motioning back to his guitar on the bed.

"Show me after school," She dismissed, avoiding his pleading stare. "We're going to be late."

"But I've been practicing for, like, almost three weeks!"

"Oh?" She said, stepping around him and exiting into the short, narrow hallway. "Well, you know what they say about practice."

"That it . . ." Eddie hesitated behind her, still in his bedroom, and the anger almost subsided within her completely as the silly mental image of his confused face filled her head. She could picture the one lifted brow and the scrunch of his nose so easily. " . . . makes perfect?"

"No." Iris stepped into the single bathroom momentarily to ensure that she looked semi-decent for high school. As the elder daughter of the Rowe household, she, at least, never had to worry about hand-me-downs. But it certainly was not clothing from the Gap she was proudly wearing, either. A striped black-and-white long sleeve tucked into lightly washed denim high-rises was her outfit for the day. But it was missing something. An edge—an edge that even her natural and constantly-exuding attitude could not help to give. "That you can never have enough of it."

Eddie appeared abruptly behind her in the small, tight bathroom. He was standing so close that she felt one of the sewn-on zippers from his leather jacket sleeve scratch her arm. He barely had two inches of height on Iris and had to tilt his head around hers to meet her starlight gaze in the mirror. "Was that supposed to be a jab at my playing?" He asked with a hand to his chest, feigning his hurt.

Iris scoffed and turned around to face him, unbowed by his mock. She then lifted a hand to the side of his head, brushing back a wild lock of his long and untamed dark brown hair as she did so, and pinched his left cheek. "It's whatever you want it to be, sweetheart," She teased, her voice dripping with innocent sarcasm. She stepped back again as he knocked her hand away in annoyance. "Can I borrow a jacket?"

With his own words thrown back in his face, all Eddie could do was laugh. He should have expected that one and she was surprised she beat him to the punch. Usually, he was always on his guard, ready to tear her a new one with any chance that he got. She was even more shocked when he slipped back into his room and grabbed the closest hanging piece of fabric from his exploding closet and tossed it in her chest.

"You're going to be the death of me, Iris."

Iris grinned angelically as she pulled back the clothing to inspect it. From a distance, it appeared to one as a normal-looking black denim jacket. But up closer, one could see that one of the shoulder pads had a darkened leopard print touch to it. Both sleeves were also frayed and repaired with odd yet familiar pieces of patchwork. The lowest button had even, somehow, been replaced with a guitar pick. Her fingers were already playing with it as she shrugged the oversized jacket on.

"Probably someday," She hummed in agreement as she pulled her satchel back on her shoulder. "But not today. We've got chemistry."

That time, he beat her to the punch. "Damn right, we do."

Iris whacked his arm as she moved past him. "Watch it, Munson," She warned. Her head was bent down now as she walked, searching within her bag for her car keys. "Or else I won't let you cheat off my test."

Eddie crossed in front of her and hurried to the front door so that he could open it before she could faceplant into the metal. He had made the mistake of letting her attempt to leave first one too many times. It had taken a bloody nose for Eddie to learn that she would never look up in time to open the door. "I take that back," He professed, and Iris was completely unaware that that was the very memory that he was currently smiling to himself at. "You're going to be the love of my life."

"Not yet I'm not," Iris countered as she walked down the trailer's wooden steps. Her tart-red colored Dodge Coronet was parked idly on the deadened front lawn, a stark contrast against the dullness of the overall trailer park community that loomed around. "Let's just pass the class first." She pulled the driver's side door open and looked across the dented hood. "Today's the last day of the quarter, but we won't find out our grades until after spring break."

Eddie clapped his hands excitedly. "First stop, chemistry. Next stop, graduation," He reckoned. "That's going to be one hell of a party."

"If we survive the week," She reminded him.

"When we survive the week, Iris," He corrected her boldly, warmly. "When."

Because how could they not ace their chemistry test? Iris had been studying for weeks. Eddie had been picking up his slack. The winter quarter was almost over. The sun was shining. Their last spring break was finally upon them, and it was going to be great.

"After all," Eddie Munson cooed as the two teenagers climbed into Iris's car. He knocked his shoulder against hers as he settled into the passenger's seat, innocent and playful, the light shining brightly in his big eyes. Iris could not help but smile back at the chaotic boy beside her, knowing that, no matter what, at least they were in it together.

"This is our year, Rowe."

~~~~~~~~~~

*narrator's voice*: this, in fact, would not be their year.

but ayoooooo!!! welcome to my newest fic, 'master of puppets' the latest in the 'hawkins legacies' series!! i cannot wait for y'all to get to know miss iris. i love her already. my little stoner bean who just wants some darn sleep.

buttttttt there is no rest for the wicked, aka me, so there's going to be a lot of hurting in this book!! i hope you all are ready for it. things are just beginning to unfold, but i would love to hear some thoughts and predictions on how you think this is going to go down!!

stay safe and well.

—B.