The line dividing Martha and Abigail's attic bedroom was a very visible one. As if the space had been cleaved into two opposite poles of existence. Martha's side, a freshly made bed draped with a patchwork quilt made by Jodie, a dark oak chest of drawers, and shelves packed with crystals and herbs, was meticulously cared for. On her desk sat a small stack of spellbooks, her book of shadows, and a copy of the coven's collection of spells and rituals. Her dream journal was placed neatly on her bedside table, a single pen beside it.

Abigail's side was what Martha would describe as tornado alley. Clothes were strewn about dark wood floors and piled high atop her desk chair. The desk was more or less a decoration, as she hadn't used it once. Posters plastered every inch of the wall, even sprawling across the ceiling like invasive Ivy across a home. Horror movies, bands, actors, it was all there. They couldn't be more opposite, yet lived symbiotically in their shared space.

Dangling from a delicate iron chain and drenched in sticky dark blood, a teardrop of amethyst hovered just above the surface of a crinkled map. Chrissy Cunningham and Fred Benson's blood fused into a sickening concoction that bubbled and steamed as Martha dipped the handcrafted pendulum into its depths. Hawkins was not a very large town, it was small by most standards, but when searching for psychic anomalies, it was like shooting in the dark or searching the entire ocean for a single piece of treasure. Martha held her hand as steady as possible while the pendulum swung over the sprawling map in sweeping motions. Drops of crimson speckled over lines of streams, lakes, rivers, and lanes.

Martha and Abigail knelt on either side of a flattened paper map within a ring of salt. The day had grew late sooner than she would've liked. The burning sun was low in the sky, gazing into Martha's window as if watching her work. Hours poring over spell books and ancient texts were arduous, to say the least. Spellwork was a delicate craft, and to achieve her goal of finding the creature that killed those poor high schoolers, Martha needed to not only craft her own spell, but bend the rules and makeup of existing ones. Meta-Composition was a skill she'd only just developed and one only three witches in the entire coven could achieve - reshaping existing spells into something new. Shannon was more than happy to teach Martha the craft, and to her delight, her protege was a very swift learner.

It took four whole hours to work out the kinks in her plan, to plan her modified tracking spell to perfection. Every passing moment weighed on her like the sky on the shoulders of Atlas. Every second she spent was one closer to the next victim's demise. There was no doubt in Martha's mind that there would be another. So she and Abigail worked without pause -- well, Martha did. Abigail was mainly there for moral support.

The spell was not a simple one. A blood spell, a tracking spell, and a psychic spell all whipped into one. The map Martha used was no ordinary map of Hawkins. Hears was equipped with ley lines, spots of energetic significance, and locations of past gates. She had to keep everyone in mind so as not to confuse her spell with their energy. The blood of two victims would be enough to find the psychic signature of their killer.

The pendulum swung without prompting from Martha, and as she methodically moved across every inch of the map, the circles grew smaller. The closer she got to her target, the pendulum honed in its radius. Abigail was engrossed, her eyes following every movement with laser focus. One hand reached across the space between them and entwined with Martha's. Her power channeled through their touch, aiding in the spell. As Martha's hand inched to the right, the pendulum's circles grew to the size of a pinprick. The blood-soaked amethyst jumped from Martha's grasp and hit the map with a dull thud. The witches locked eyes.

"Is that it?" Abigail peered over at the rogue pendulum as if it might jump again. Martha nodded and reached out to remove it from the spot. She wiped the blood from the map with her thumb and saw where it landed.

"Hawkins Cemetery."

"A graveyard? That's a little on the nose." Abigail scrunched her nose with a grimace. Martha had to agree. It couldn't be somewhere less morbid. Then again, what did she expect from a child murderer? "Are you sure it worked?"

"Only one way to find out."

"The elders said to wait. George will kill us if we don't listen."

"The worst he'll do is a little scolding. If we wait any longer, we might as well sign the next victim's death sentence." Martha raised her brows with urgency.

"Shit," Abigail sighed, running a hand down her face. She knew it was true. "We're going, aren't we?"

Fortunately, the only coven member left on the property was Frank and he was too busy watching the children to notice Martha and Abigail slide into the baby blue pickup truck and start the thunderous engine. They both packed a backpack of essentials, pendulum, salt, moon-charged water, and anything Martha could think of that may come in handy. They were going in blind but were prepared for any foe.

Abigail shoved her pack over the leather-covered seat and into the small space at the back of the cab. Swaths of forest swept by as the truck rumbled over the gravel road. It was two miles until they would see a glimpse of mortal civilization. The coven knew the importance of privacy in a world where witches and satanic worship were a one-way ticket to the gallows. Mortals may pretend they were beyond such savagery, but just because something clung to the shadows doesn't mean it's not there.

"What do you think we're gonna find?"

"No idea." Martha gazed out the passenger mirror as Abigail gripped the steering wheel. They were silent for almost five minutes -- possibly a record for Abigail.

"What if it's like one of those Gremlins after midnight? Or like those little girls in The Shining? Or Swamp Thing?" Her eyes widened at the possibilities. Abigail was a horror movie fanatic, one of the many ways they didn't see eye to eye. While Abigail curled up with a bowl of popcorn and Twizzlers, Martha turned her walkman to the max volume. Horror movies were something she dearly wished she could indulge in, but she had enough monsters to deal with in reality for her to seek out those thrills in fiction.

"Something tells me it'll be more like Poltergeist," Martha grumbled bitterly. The truck jostled as they turned into the entrance to Hawkins Cemetery, a sprawling campus of aging headstones and rusted iron gates. A shiver went down Martha's spine as they drove beneath the arching sign and lumbered to a stop amid an army of long-deceased souls.

Martha loathed cemeteries. It was a place she adamantly avoided her whole life. She'd explored one or two as a young teen with Abigail by her side, and each time she left with a growing pit in her stomach. There was something about this particular burial practice that set her on edge. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike the coven, who ensured that they left this life returning to the soil like all things, wrapped in a bundle of cloth or withered to ash on the wind. In this case, there was nothing natural about it. Their bodies, preserved with a mix of chemicals, adorned with material possessions, and locked inside a box, were as macabre as they got.

The energy of a graveyard was of the heaviest kind. It was the agony of grieving widows, mothers, husbands, siblings, and children. It lingered like smoke in the air, waiting to wrap around any unfortunate visitor. Mercifully, Martha found the spirits of those yet to pass on rarely lingered at their burial site. Spirits tended to return to the place they were the happiest, or in the worst of cases, where trauma kept them ensnared in an endless loop. Some clung to objects, even people, traveling from place to place. The lucky ones left the mortal world behind.

As the engine cut and the low hum and rumble quieted, Martha shared a wary look with Abigail. There was something in the graveyard with them. Something that felt an awful lot like what they'd come searching for. Searching was one thing. Finding it was another. Martha knew one thing for sure, the creature that murdered those poor kids was somewhere in that cemetery.

There was no one around, none they could see anyways, living or dead. So the witches set their jaws and made a silent agreement. Martha's boots hit the gravel with a crunch as she gripped the door of their pickup and peered around at the cemetery. The hair on her arms and neck prickled to attention. They parked in the valley of two small hills scattered with gravestones. Some markers were as simple as a slab of stone with a name and date. Others were glorious marble statues erected to honor the dead buried beneath.

Each of the many winding paths made the cemetery a campus of wave-like hills and valleys. Martha couldn't see much beyond the one they stood nestled within. The driver's door slammed, and Martha followed suit, meeting her companion at the nose of their truck. Abigail tucked the keys into the pocket of her jeans and swung her pack over her shoulder, dark eyes darting across the landscape restlessly.

"You feel that?" She muttered and took half a step closer to Martha, who swallowed hard. Their stomachs turned to stone and a spectral chill washed over their skin.

"I wish I didn't," Martha's forehead creased. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever killed Chrissy and Fred was about to claim another victim. The static prickle heightened to a crescendo, and just as it struck a peak of intolerability, a blood-chilling scream broke through the air. Their heads shot to the right. The sound echoed off headstones, seeming to come from every direction. But there was a supernatural source, one that their magic pointed to like the needle of a compass.

"Max!" Another scream, another voice. This time Martha didn't hesitate. She bolted in the direction of the cries.

"Martha, wait!" Abigail called after her, struggling to run with her pack. Terror shot through their hearts as the cries grew louder, more frantic. As Martha crested the hill of their row of tombstones, she saw them. One row over, past the little valley, and atop the next peak was a group of crouching children. Or, three children, one young man. Panting profusely, Abigail stopped beside her, just in time for Martha to throw herself down the hill, running and stumbling towards the group.

"You gotta get out of there!"

"You have to wake up!" Three crowded around one, still as a statue and unresponsive.

"Can you hear me?"

"Call Nancy and Robin! Go get 'em! Call Nancy and Robin! Go!" The eldest shouted, pointing frantically towards the gravel road. One of the kids split off and started bolting back down the hill towards their car. He yanked open the door and threw himself into the driver's seat. The boy didn't notice Martha skidding down the steep incline and running past him.

"Please, Max! Shit!" Abigail was practically crawling up the hill on all fours behind Martha. Martha pumped her legs as hard and fast as she could until her body came to a halt beside the three figures and fell to the ground.

"Oh, god, not again." She stared into the whites of a young girl's eyes, this one even younger than Fred. Max. Her muscles were rigid as the gravestone she sat before. Her eyes twitched and spasmed as they rolled to the back of her head. She clutched a sheet of paper in her hands, crumpling it in her viselike grip. Her red hair was almost as vibrant as the scarlet veins bulging in her eyes. Martha reached out to touch Max's cheek, spattered with freckles like paint across a white canvas. A hand smacked hers away with a ferocity that startled Martha from her stupor.

"What the hell are you doing?" The boy, skin as dark as the soil beneath their feet and hair buzzed short, glared at Martha in bewilderment. "Get away from her!"

"I'm trying to help!" Martha protested and reached her hand out again, only to have a much larger set of fingers clasp around her wrist roughly. Her head whipped to the right where the young man looked fearfully between her and Max. He was about Martha's age, with shoulder-length brown waves and coffee-colored eyes. Panic flashed across his face as he stared intently at the stranger.

"Who are you?" He asked, practically spitting the question like an accusation. He shook her wrist slightly as if he could shake the answer out of her.

"Let me help her." Martha set her jaw and met his gaze with such conviction that he slackened his grip.

"Martha, you can't." Out of breath and holding tight to her pack, Abigail reached them. She dropped it to the ground as she saw Max's eyes. The same as Fred in the woods. They knew what came next.

"Steve, we need something now!" The boy cried, giving Max another desperate shake. Martha knew that it would do nothing to help her. "Max!"

"If I don't, she's gonna die, just like the others!" Martha pleaded with Abigail, trying to make her understand. Abigail scrunched her face and shook her head.

"Goddamn it!" She ground out. "Do it." Then Abigail unzipped her bag and pulled out a container of salt like a sword from its sheath. Steve let go of Martha's hand and stared at the bizarre scene unfolding.

"Do what? What are you doing?" Abigail hurriedly poured the salt, encircling Martha and Max in a protective circle. Martha didn't respond to Steve's frantic questioning. Nor the boy's fearful cries for Max. She placed her hands on either side of Max's head, taking advantage of Steve's distraction, and shut her eyes. "Hey!" His cries fell on deaf ears. Martha's mind was no longer sitting beside them. She was somewhere else entirely. Where that place was, she didn't know.

NOTE

Yayyyyy!!! Steve and Martha have finally met! from now on there will be lots of good content between them. This chapter was fun to write especially cause I got to come up with the tracking spell!Pendulums have tons of uses but this is the closest to a locator spell. Witches will often mark places of significance with a pen or pin, so for Martha it includes all the places from the past seasons that are important. I also had her use a salt ring to keep the energy clear while they worked and protect from other entities or energies while she was using psychic magic.
Abigail really be giving —