— CHAPTER 1 —
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

SUNDAY 6th NOVEMBER,
1983

DARKNESS.

It's in every corner in the labyrinth of corridors, weaving in and out but all looking so clinical, so identical.

The darkness is only ever disturbed by the fluorescent lights, lined along the walls every few metres, blinking and humming in a low buzz. Intermittent bursts of artificial light wash the floor in an ugly glow, and they reflect in the off-white tiles like an atomic flash. There is light, but when the darkness returns, it swallows the room whole. For split seconds there's an inescapable abyss; everywhere you look, black.

Each winding corridor is reminiscent of some twisted experiment performed on and by humankind. Lab rats have paced through here, been dragged through here, and even trapped in here. It's a maze of hell, unimaginable to conceive any life existing here.

     And yet, the room erupts into complete chaos when the strong metal door swings open, carelessly thwacking into the side of the wall with a deafening clang. A man sprints through, his once pristine lab coat trailing behind him as he hurdles down the corridor.

     He skids at every winding corner — rebounding off the walls, charging head first before re-gaining balance. Right, left, left, right, left. Stopping isn't an option. In the fear that his legs will give way at the slightest loss of pace or being gained on, he continues. Running, and running, and running.

     A grimace contorts his face at the million sounds overlapping in his head like static, but most of all, the disconcerting sound and pulsation of his own heart throbbing through his ears. That's the worst part. It's like he's aware of his own panic. And it drowns out the monotone alarm wailing around him, ringing in his skull. The back of his eyes ache from the strobing fluorescent lights, which light up the thick layer of cold sweat on his bald patch. There's also a terrifying voice in the back of his consciousness, and it shakes him by the shoulders and screams:

     What have we done? What have we done?

     The end is in sight. Doors await him, a way out if he's lucky. He tears towards them, never having been so focused on one purpose ever, and he smacks into them. His hands frantically slap the circular button, the rapid clicking accompanied by no opening doors sending him into a frenzy. Hurry up! — he pleads between wary glances behind his shoulder — hurry up! He hasn't got much time, and if he wants to—

Ding! His brain doesn't quite compute for a moment as the elevator doors open, but the second the crack is large enough, he rams himself through and slams his fist into the close doors button, chest heaving as he's sealed into the metal compartment. He stares ahead through the window at the corridor, enveloped in the flickering lights. Thank God I'm not there, is all he can think. Thank the Lord.

A million sounds are overwhelming him — a cacophony — as he takes the first opportunity to catch his breath since he sprinted out of that laboratory.

Blood pounding, breaths gasping, lights buzzing, alarms wailing...

But wait; there's a new sound. Well, he wishes it was new, because it's all too familiar, but it adds to the horrific orchestra in a skin-crawling chorus of clicks, with an underlying high-pitched growl. He freezes.

Slowly, his gaze is drawn upwards, as if being reluctantly pulled by a string attached to the head. Before he's ready to see it, he's looking right into the eyes of the dark abyss. His mind goes blank, unlike those jittery and blinking lights outside the elevator. It intermits between two feelings. In the first, it's like he sees his whole life flash before him, overwhelming and blinding, all his mistakes seeming so artificial now, so pointless. But in the second, there is numbing darkness.

And just like the lights outside, the darkness swallows him whole.

━━━━━━

     IN the small clusters of teenagers and older filing out of the Hawk Movie Theatre, Cath feels considerably out of place. She's been doing this for years — waiting for her dad to finish his shift, sitting by the ticket booth — but still, there's an ingrained anxiety that kicks into the twelve-year-old about the feeling of being towered over. Late at night there's more chance of the older audiences being... rowdy. Possibly drunk.

     She's seen it before. And she doesn't know how her father handles them sometimes, a fairly gentle man himself; then again, Cath's pretty sure she's scared of many things, not just the intimidating High Schoolers. Once, she made herself jump just by placing her cup of cocoa on the table a little too loud.

     But at least she's not alone here. Not entirely.

     Now and then, in-between being curled up on one of the antique sofas in the foyer, she looks up from her thrice-renewed copy of 'Little Women' to observe Daphne. She's in her element here, she can tell — her older sister paces back and forth with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, inspired as she stared at the movie posters strung on the wall. Who knows what's going on inside that girl's head? Her imagination certainly exceeds the one of her little sister.

Clenching her jaw through a yawn, Cath slips a worn leather bookmark between the pages and rubs her eyes tiredly. It's a school night, so she should be prepared for an early start tomorrow — or she could just get through the last chapter? But then again, she wouldn't have anything to read on the bus ride... besides, she's read the heck out of the book ever since she first borrowed it in September. Two months of renewing it again and again probably calls for a time to choose a new read.

     That's what Sandy Brooks suggested. Well, that's putting it lightly — if she recalled their evening correctly, her friend used the exact words, "For goodness's sake, Cath! When are you going to read something else? You know, my Mom says that you should avoid rereading books — especially back-to-back — 'cause it limits the effectiveness of what you read."

     Cath thinks she's probably right. After all, Sandy's the one with a highly important psychologist for a mother...

     Sighing, she slips her book back into her brown shoulder bag, almost feeling a tad ashamed of herself. She'll finish it when she gets home, the girl decides, and tomorrow she'll borrow a new one. Cath will simply have to save the comforting familiarity of the March sisters for another time.

     Two men working with her father arrive bearing buckets and plastic bags — one of them, she believes is named Harold, opens the door to the screen just emptied and lets out a small, frustrated groan. The source of his annoyance is just visible, a pile of popcorn peeping through the crack of the door. "Oh, brother..." mutters Harold, shaking his head. He turns to the girls and shrugs dismissively. "Wish us luck!"

     Daphne chuckles, rocking back and forth on her heels with a slight nervousness until he vanishes. A silence cloaks the room — a comfortable one at that, prompting Cath to sink into her chair in relief. Peace and quiet. She doesn't like too much commotion. This is perfect... until, out of the blue —

     "Man," says Daphne, "I can't wait to be eighteen."

     A pause. She freezes. Tries to decode what she meant by that. Cath fears the worst, but tries a lighthearted tone and replies, "But... you only turned seventeen last week?"

     "I know, I know, it's just... there's so much more you can do when you're eighteen." Then, under her breath, but just audible enough for her to hear, "Like getting out of here, for a start."

     And there it is. The taboo subject, in Cath's books. Inevitable, but still as terrifying, the prospect of Daphne going off to college draws nearer and nearer every day — especially when she keeps dropping statements about how much she wants to leave, un-provoked words that make her overthink it all every time. If only she didn't have to keep mentioning it all the time, then perhaps she wouldn't be so worried.

     Her apparent eagerness hasn't grown any weaker after the break-up two months ago, either.

The door swings open again, this time a more familiar figure emerging mid-conversation. Their father bundles a cardboard box haphazardly as he tries to push the door open with his back, chuckling at something a disembodied voice said.

     "Yeah, yeah..." his voice trails off, his smile fading a little as he straightens himself up again. "Well, g'night Harold."

     "You too. Oh, and Thomas?"

     Cath stands up, hooking her satchel onto her shoulder as her father spins on his heel. The man, now identifiable as Harold again, pokes his head out from the door and thins his lips into a slightly sheepish grin.

     "You don't mind coming in earlier tomorrow, do you?" he asks, drumming his fingers on the door. "Maybe just a half hour earlier or somethin'... we got a bunch of new reels coming in tomorrow, and I could use an extra pair of hands gettin' them in. A younger pair of hands."

     "Sure thing. Although, I don't know if I'd call myself young—"

     "Goodnight, Delaney."

     Thomas smiles, shaking his head slowly as he turns around with the box in his hands. His two daughters stand patiently waiting for him, as has become routine for a number of Sundays in their lifetime. "Alright?" he asks. "You two didn't cause too much trouble while I was working now, did you?"

     "Oh, good as gold," says Daphne. She nods curiously at the box in his hands. "What're those?"

     "A treat. Some kind old man brought this box in and no one else wanted them, so... looks like we're in for a few movie nights down the road."

     The elder sister peers into the collection, rummaging around eagerly. "Oh!" she gasps all of a sudden, sliding out a VHS cassette and examining the cover. "You... you got 'Blade Runner'?"

     "Yep."

     "From a random stranger?"

     "Mhm."

     "For free?"

   "Basically, yeah."

     "Holy shh— moly," Daphne catches her tongue, thanks to the stare like daggers from her father, along with the not-so-subtle glance at Cath and her innocent ears. "That's what I call a bargain!"

Thomas fondly watches his daughter marvel over the VHS, propping the door open with his back to let them through first. "That'll have to be one for you and I to watch alone, I think," he says, glancing at Cath and adding, "You're too young to watch that."

Honestly, Cath could not be happier to hear those words coming out of his mouth. They had scraped the bar a couple of times before — just so she was able to say she'd seen some classics — but the red flags flew when earlier this year, she caught a glimpse of 'Jaws' late in the evening whilst she was feeding her cat. It wasn't for long, but it was enough to plummet her into weeks of shark-infested nightmares, along with a reluctance to even dip her foot in the Hawkins Community Pool the entire summer. Yes, Cath was certainly much more content sticking to the safety of a black-and-white romance — not that she was a hopeless romantic or anything, but the chances of blood and gore were significantly less.

The russet brown Austin Allegro parked outside has accumulated a small blanket of crisp, autumnal leaves on the hood, which Thomas clears with one clean sweep of his arm after placing the box down. The family of three hopping in, Cath lets herself recline comfortably in the seats worn from years of usage.

She's about to let her eyes flutter closed, just let the tranquility of resting in the backseat take her home when her dad asks, "So how'd it go with Sandy tonight?"

     "Hm?"

     "Did you have fun?"

     "Oh... yeah," Cath responds, straightening up in the seat, "Yeah, it was very fun." A pause. "Her mom made that casserole again for dinner, so that was nice. At one point her dad started talking about his business, and things like that, and Sandy got all excited and chipped in too."

She hears a scoff from the front passenger seat. "That girl seriously needs to chill," says Daphne. "She's, what? Twelve?"

"Thirteen. Sandy's birthday was in September."

"Alright, thirteen. But she's got years to think about college and her future, and it's like— I mean, does she even know how to be a kid?"

Cath says nothing, inhaling deeply through her nose. It's better to say nothing. Like a piece of paper lost in a breeze, she lets the conversation die, resting her temple against the chilled glass of the window. She does the thing she usually does on car rides — pretend she's looking out at things, when actually she's listening to the conversation. As Hawkins pans past her like a panoramic of the small-town American life, she catches words floating to the back seat: something about putting up posters, and her father not being very happy about it. With a subtle crane of her neck, she catches a glimpse of the slogan printed on stacks of seafoam green paper in bubble writing, "Don't be mean! Go green!"

     The sky is cloaked in the darkness of nighttime, moonlight eclipsed by towering oaks and pines that flurry past. Rows of houses are lit up with silhouettes, of families or solitary residents, carrying out their everyday routines in the warm orange glow. Cath feels the car slow down after a few minutes, and she opens her eyes — their neighbourhood is the familiar foreground, with their homely old neighbour pulling her door closed with laboured shuffles of her feet.

There's something else — a bright pair of eyes that mirror the alarm of hers when caught in the headlights, before the feline springs over to the other side of the road. Thomas mutters something under his breath, sighing in relief, whilst Daphne cranes her neck round to follow the cat.

Cath thinks it the same time as her father says it; "What the hell's Ringo doing out here?" he asks, puzzled, not expecting an answer.

"I... don't know." she replies. Not only was she sure the front and back doors had been locked, but her beloved cat had also been trained to her best abilities to not just wander around at any given time — mainly because he went through a phase of trying to maim the neighbour's rabbits. It wasn't even a suggestion, it was an order.

When the car pulls into the driveway, Cath is the first one out; the minute her feet touch the gravel, they're hopping over to the curb to check for passing cars.

"I'm leaving the door open, okay?" Thomas huffs, his eyes poking over box of VHS cassettes he hauls into his arms. She nods, turning back as the other two enter the house. One look left, one look right, then she briskly jogs over to the trees lining the other side of the road. It's a wonder he hadn't strayed any further — with his coat of ebony fur, he blends perfectly into the evening woods.

     "Ringo?" she calls out. A strangled, but clearly audible meow alerts her to his whereabouts, as she walks blindly towards where the cry came from. In a higher pitched, loving tone, she continues. "Ringo? C'mon baby, it's me!"

     Another drawled out mewl, and this time it belongs to a pair of yellow cat-like eyes cutting through the darkness. Cath chuckles, tip-toeing over soggy leaves and stooping to pick him up. She runs her hand along his back, which seems tense and alert under his sleek fur. Upon first touch, he gets up and bounces on his paws to the middle of the road, fixated on the empty distance ahead which he wails aimlessly at. She checks the road again and crosses to him, this time able to scoop him up without any protest. Ringo's fur is touched with the dampness of evening dew, only adding to his miserable demeanour that surprisingly doesn't melt away once he's in the arms of his owner.

     "What're you doing out here, huh?" she coos, cradling him like a baby, much to Ringo's discontent — strange, since he usually loves this kind of thing. Cath sometimes wondered whether she had a dog in a cat's body, for he was the most affectionate feline she'd ever come across.

     Ding ding!

     Cath's heart flutters in her chest, instinctively taking a few steps back to her home before she looks at the road. The bicycle bell came from a young boy, no older than she is — identifiable by the bowl cut, the petit build and the gentleness of his pedalling, she knows it's the same boy from school that goes past their house almost every day.

     The face of Will Byers grows visible in the dim glow of the streetlight, his eyes darting over in her direction whilst also being wary of his direction. A soft, friendly smile spreads across his face in unison with her, and simultaneously they manage a timid "Hi!" before he's gliding past, and Cath goes to close the front door behind her while juggling the weight of a squirming black cat.

     It's only a small, minimal interaction (one day, she hopes to get past the word "Hi") but it's all worthwhile, as she's unable to wipe the internally proud smile from her lips — until upon the click of the door closing, a crackle or a buzz ensues from above, cloaking the room in a brief shadow before light returns again. But it's the faint crash from outside that perplexes the girl most.

     Thomas's back curls up into a straight posture, his brows knitted together — he glances up at the ceiling, before his gaze falls on the front door. "What was that?" he questions aloud.

     "I don't know..." says Cath whilst placing Ringo on the floor. She pulls back a lacy curtain the same time her father does, peering into the night view. Nothing.

     "Well, I don't see anything."

     "Me neither."

     "Maybe... a bird flew into the power lines, or something? I dunno."

     To Ringo, however, it clearly isn't nothing. The cat pounces onto the windowsill, tilting his head to the side and staring longingly down the road with a desperate whimper. She can't think for the life of her why he's so distressed tonight. The only time he's ever remotely in a bad temperament is during the fireworks at New Year's or on July Fourth, or before thunder and lightning strikes. But right now, Ringo doesn't look panicked, more apprehensive. Like he's waiting for something. Warning them of it.

     Perhaps a storm is coming.

     "Ringo," she calls, his triangular ears perking up at the sound, "C'mon, baby boy, let's go." All he needs is some tender loving care, and maybe that will do the trick. She'll take him to her room where she knows he feels safe, curled up at her feet when she goes to sleep, and being there when she wakes in the morning. Ringo hops off the windowsill and trails behind Cath as she ascends up the creaking wooden steps, scurrying past the ajar door into her room when reaching the top.

     Daphne's already in her room, the door left open as she places a disc on a vinyl record player — the sight is almost welcoming her in, painting a vivid picture of the times when she'd whisk her around the room to their favourite songs until she felt motion sick. A glimmer of hope seizes some confidence within Cath, and she bounces eagerly on her heels while watching her bob in time with the music.

     "Hey," she says excitedly, "D'you wanna maybe—"

     Drowned out by the warbling voice of David Bowie, Cath's words become lost in translation as Daphne absentmindedly pushes the door closed with her heel, leaving her facing a cold panel of painted wood. Her heart sinks a little. Never mind, then.

Back in her own room — decorated with softer, pastel tones than Daphne's overwhelmingly colourful mural of a bedroom — Ringo appears to be a mess, still. Like downstairs, he hops onto her wooden desk, walking all over her Math homework to reach the windowsill. He really is different tonight.

Cath reaches into her bag to retrieve her copy of 'Little Women' and on the book cover, there's a shadow cast from the lights flicker again; more violently this time, and accompanied by an eerie distortion of the song lowering two octaves in the next room, before it fleetingly returns to its normal pitch and tempo.

And that's when Ringo starts to howl.

She's never heard or seen anything like it. Ringo's eyes shrink to pin-point slits — his paws dig into the windowpanes and frenetically drag fine slits into them as his blood-curdling screeches fill the room. He's practically rabid. Cath's eyes prick with startled tears that never shed as she watches in horror, panicking that it's her fault, wishing she could do something.

     "Ringo!" she pleads, inching over to him warily. "Please—" The lights strobe even harder, chaotically intermitting between bright and dark; illuminating Ringo in stilted images like a stop motion horror film.

     Reaching her hand out comfortingly to him is a gamble, she soon discovers. She doesn't see it but she feels it — the slash of his claw against her skin, the searing pain that provokes a yelp. Cath stumbles backwards onto her bed, cradling her aching hand and blowing on the cut as she holds back tears.

     "Cath, are you alright?!" her father calls from downstairs.

     But something extraordinary happens. The strobing continues distantly, but the desk lamp grows brighter. And brighter. And brighter. The bulb blares so brightly to the point where it feels as though she's staring right into the sun — her eyes burn at the back of their sockets, and she shields them with her injured hand, shuffling back and curling into a ball as she braces herself. She doesn't know from what. She just doesn't want to watch the brightness of the light, breaking through in orange blurs between the skin of her fingers. She doesn't know what sounds scarier — the screams from Ringo, or the roar of power surging through the electrical system.

     "Catherine!"

     Lights flashing, cat howling, Bowie warbling, static screeching and —

     Silence.

     Complete silence is what follows; the only thing audible is the disconcerting sound of her own breathing. Cath pulls her hands away and blinks. Darkness has swallowed the room whole, after the tiny flicker of light left in the bulb's filament vanishes. The afterglow. She can't see anything — only the phosphenes obscuring her vision, rendering her disorientated when a figure bearing what looks like sunlight opens the door hastily.

     "Are you okay? Is everyone okay?"

     "Yeah!" Daphne calls back, sounding flustered.

     Once her eyes adjust, she sees it's her father holding a flashlight, the beam falling on her throbbing hand. She's bleeding.

     What the hell just happened? "I... I-I don't know what happened..." she mumbles, fumbling blindly in the darkness for some kind of answer. The lump in her throat threatens to choke her with confused tears. "Ringo was just screaming, and I tried to hold him but he scratched me, a-and then— and then the lights—"

     "Hey, hey, it's okay..." Thomas reaches forward, finding his way to the side of her bed and taking her hand in his, inspecting it. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Ooh, that looks like it hurts," says Thomas sympathetically. "We'll get you cleaned up in a minute. I've just gotta go check the fuse box, but I'll come back in a minute, okay?"

     "O-okay."

     "Did any glass break when the lights went out, sweetie?"

     Cath looks around, dumbfounded. She can't see anything. "I... don't think so."

     "Alright. Well, stay right where you are, just in case. Don't want you stepping on any broken glass."

     She feels his figure move away, the flashlight's shine following him down the corridor. However, Cath doesn't need it to see what she can just about make out through the darkness: Ringo's pupils have enlarged back to curiosity-filled puddles, as he hops onto the end of her bed and — as if nothing had happened — stretches and yawns, before curling comfortably in his spot.

━━━━━━

A/N;

*gently bops to the stranger things theme* so it begins...

the fact that cath literally missed will by this much... the frustration is too much to handle 😫

i hope you enjoyed this first chapter! it was very fun to write too. this one was very cath-centric, but remember this story switches between both sisters, so you'll be seeing a lot more of daphne (and her friends) next chapter! stay tuned for more

(fun fact: the first section w/ the man running from the demogorgon was written almost a year ago in the very first draft of 'paranormal' but the rest you see was at the time of posting this chapter!)

— Imogen

[ Published: August 6th, 2020 ]