Chapter Text
It was spring in 1982. Steve Harrington was hosting a party at his house tonight to celebrate his upcoming sophomore year and his appointment as captain of the Hawkins High swim team. His childhood friends Tommy and Carol were there, along with members of the basketball and swim teams, and a bunch of high school classmates he didn’t know.
These minors indulged in the freedom of their youth, without adult supervision, only teenage recklessness. No one knew exactly what the boys and girls got up to behind closed doors, and no one was sure how much punch they had drunk… though it probably included some wine Steve had taken from his father’s cellar.
But… who cared?
His parents weren’t home anyway. They never were. Even when they were around, they didn’t care what Steve did in the house.
Tommy and Carol had disappeared into one of the guest rooms not long after they arrived. Steve tried hard to ignore the twinge of discomfort—the feeling of being left behind since they had become a couple. He flirted with a cheerleader by the pool, quickly making her laugh with his smooth talk, but at some point, it all started to feel dull.
He was about to excuse himself to get another drink from the kitchen when he heard a car horn outside the fence.
“Hey! Harrington!” a rough voice shouted, a flashlight beam sweeping over them all. Jim Hopper from the police department stood there yelling, and his presence meant only one thing—every high schooler scattered, afraid of getting caught.
“Hi, Chief!” Steve raised his glass in a toast, secretly relieved, but the gesture only earned a sigh from the chief.
“Harrington!” Hopper put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “How many times is it this month?”
“Well...Actually we’re all good kids, just having a small party,” Steve replied, realizing he must be drunk again, his brain fuzzy from the alcohol. His sluggish mind wondered if anyone had been dealing weed in his kitchen.
A strong hand suddenly grabbed his collar. “Hey, kid!”
Hopper pulled him up, his wolf-like eyes locking onto Steve’s. “I know your tricks. You can’t fool me.”
“I’ve seen too many kids like you.” His words stung Steve deeper than he expected. “Now, tell me where your parents are.”
“They’re, uh, well…” Steve tried to remember. New York? Florence? Or was it that place with the Little Mermaid? Steve vaguely recalled a postcard from some island, but his geography had never been great—in fact, none of his subjects were.
Hopper stared him down before finally letting him go, a familiar look of disappointment flashing in his eyes. The chief pointed at him. “Fine. I’ll find a way to talk to your parents. Until then,” he gestured at the mess around them, “clean all this up tomorrow. And don’t let me catch you causing trouble again.”
Steve swallowed. Well, it looked like no more parties this spring.
What lousy luck. He ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the wrecked living room. Maybe he could call a cleaner tomorrow. He carefully pushed some bottles aside—Carol and Tommy had long since fled. Now the house was empty, silent except for his own breathing and the clinking of glass.
He tried to tidy up but felt a wave of dizziness. He must have had too much mixed alcohol. And he knew Biff from the basketball team had kept pouring him drinks—the guy had held a grudge forever. Steve bet Biff had spiked his punch with vodka on purpose.
Steve let out a muffled groan and, with his last bit of willpower, grabbed the blanket by the sofa. At least it didn’t smell like vomit yet. He collapsed onto the couch, clutching the blanket, and sighed in relief.
Then, he slowly sank into darkness.
He didn’t dream, or maybe he dreamed all sorts of strange, disjointed things.
After some time, a chill woke him. Steve shivered, the hardness of the floor slowly bringing him back to consciousness—when had he ended up on the floor? He fumbled for the blanket that should have been covering him but found nothing. Then, rubbing his bleary eyes, he slowly looked around.
Steve suddenly realized he was not alone.
He looked up. In the pitch darkness, a grimy little boy was curled up opposite him, as if leaning against the corner of the wall. The child was trembling uncontrollably, his hair disheveled and his face deathly pale. What terrified Steve the most were the countless wounds covering his body, with several bloody scabs crusted on his arms. Then, the boy suddenly opened his mouth:
HELP!
Steve jolted awake.
The next day at school, Steve couldn’t get last night’s nightmare out of his head. Maybe it was the alcohol, but after dreaming of that boy, he hadn’t dared to fall back asleep. Tommy and Carol thought his dark circles were from getting caught by the chief and the brutal hangover, so they didn’t dare provoke him.
Steve didn’t clarify. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want to tell them about it.
As usual, he muddled through the school day in a daze.
It was just a dream. Just a side effect of the hangover. That night, lying in his own bed, he told himself it was no big deal.
He closed his eyes and sank back into a dreamless sleep.
Darkness.
Endless darkness.
Steve couldn’t see anything, so he started walking forward.
“Hello?” he shouted, turning to look around. “Hey! Is anyone here?”
“Hah…” A panting sound suddenly erupted by his ear. Steve whipped around.
“Gosh, no way…” Steve muttered, stunned and fearful as he stared at the scene before him. “You must be joking…”
The boy from yesterday was still sitting there, seemingly leaning against an invisible wall. He stared straight ahead, trembling and panting heavily. Steve looked down. Compared to yesterday, most of the scabs had fallen off. But right in the center of his palms was a fresh, bleeding wound.
This has to be a dream. Steve remembered something from The Twilight Zone — he’d watched a couple episodes alone late at night to pass the time — but he’d never told anyone. This is just my dream. I need to wake up. He closed his eyes, trying to rouse himself from the dream, only to open them and find, disappointingly, the same scene.
He tried a few more times, failing each time.
“Why am I dreaming this?” Steve complained, holding his forehead. “God, why can’t I wake up?!”
The rational part of his mind whispered: Why was he so aware that this was a dream?
The boy leaning against the wall (?) seemed to hear something and suddenly turned to look at Steve.
“Can you see me?” Steve yelled at the eerie boy. “Who are you?!”
But the boy didn’t answer his question. He just kept staring intently at Steve—no, more accurately, at something inside him.
The next second, he reached his hand straight toward Steve, as if about to attack. The high schooler instinctively raised his arms to block. But to Steve’s surprise, he didn’t grab the boy’s arm.
The boy’s hand passed straight through his chest.
Steve’s breath hitched, but he immediately realized he didn’t feel the discomfort of being touched. Instead, he felt only a feather-light brush against his chest—his heart—a sensation that made him shiver.
Holding his breath, he watched as the boy pulled a… telephone receiver out of his body (?).
The boy gently placed the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“What the hell?” Steve blurted out.
“Wh-what?” the boy stammered. He looked around nervously, seemed to confirm something, then pressed the receiver closer to his ear. Holding it carefully with both hands, he asked hesitantly, “Who are you?”
Baffled, Steve watched the scene intently, holding his breath. The boy just asked again, “Who are you?”
“Who are you talking to?” Steve couldn’t help asking.
“I’m… talking to you?” The boy’s reply startled Steve.
“Who?… Me?” he replied confusedly, watching the boy’s frown deepen.
“Yes… you.” The boy swallowed and asked again, “Who are you?”
Steve’s heart sank. At this moment, he was sure — for some reason, he was having a bizarre dream. In it, there was a creepy little boy who could not only pull a telephone out of his body but also use it to communicate with Steve.
This was officially the weirdest dream he’d ever had.
Steve couldn’t help muttering, “This isn’t possible.”
“What isn’t possible?” the boy asked. Unlike his earlier fear, the boy now seemed calm—a bizarre, unsettling level of calm. He asked again, “Who are you?”
“Then who are you?” Steve asked. “Is this not some kind of ghost story? Like, are you actually a demon that will drag me away if I answer your name or something?”
“No,” the boy denied immediately, his expression a mix of confusion and bewilderment, as if he didn’t understand why anyone would ask that. He thought for a moment before continuing, “I’m human. I… I can tell you my name. I… I’m Finney.”
“I’m Steve?” Steve replied hesitantly. He waited two seconds, and when nothing happened, he finally let out a sigh of relief.
“…Hello? Steve?” The boy paused. Getting no further response, he continued, “You… why did you call me?”
The conversation was too strange. Steve felt a chill. “I didn’t call you.”
“But…” Before the boy could finish, a powerful tug gripped Steve’s abdomen.
Steve woke up in his bed, gasping in terror, drenched in sweat.
Steve slammed his locker door shut. The metal door clattered loudly. He ignored the startled or disdainful looks from the people around him and trudged toward his classroom. The bizarre dream from last night lingered in his mind. He’d even been too afraid to sleep for the rest of the night, sitting alone in the living room until dawn.
Who could he tell? Tommy? Carol? They’d probably just think he’d lost his mind!
Anxiously clenching his hands, Steve leaned against the wall at a corner, pressing his forehead against the cool surface, trying to dispel the unease in his heart.
“…Are you okay?” a slightly uneasy female voice sounded behind him.
Steve glanced quickly, then immediately adjusted his posture, turning to face the girl.
Of course he knew her—Nancy Wheeler, the valedictorian of their year, stood there holding her books, looking at him with a hint of unease and concern. Her red-haired, bespectacled friend stood beside her. Steve knew her last name was Holland or something. She looked uncomfortable, as if ready to flee at any moment, yet she stood firmly by her friend’s side.
“Uh,” Steve adjusted his stance uncomfortably. He instinctively put on his “King Steve” mask, clearing his throat. “Th-thanks? I’m fine, just… tired from training.”
What are you saying, Steve Harrington? She’ll just think you’re not working hard enough.
“Oh, I heard. Congratulations on becoming captain,” Nancy said, a flash of understanding and realization crossing her face. She offered an awkward smile. But she didn’t walk away immediately. Just like the look on her face, it was as if she saw right through Steve’s facade. Beneath her smile seemed to lie deeper confusion and doubt. “But you should pace yourself with training too… I guess?”
“Thank you,” Steve said with a smile. He really wanted to leave now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Harrington — Steve,” she finally called out. Steve turned to look at her. That concern was still in her eyes — the kind that… seemed like she genuinely cared from the heart. “If you really have something you want to talk about, you can come find me too.”
Steve didn’t answer her, just gave a slight nod before turning and walking away.
As soon as Steve got home, he brewed a large pot of coffee. He spent the entire night gulping it down cup after cup, then running around the house and doing push-ups—it was his last resort to stay awake. And he hadn’t sunk so low as to go find Munson in that trailer selling “that stuff.”
The night could be called a success because Steve didn’t fall asleep, which meant no strange child.
Of course, he ignored the direct consequence: the next morning at school, Steve couldn’t stop yawning and was completely drowsy. To make things worse, the last class of the day was History.
Ms. Map’s droning voice sounded like a lullaby in his ears. His head nodded like a pecking chicken. Though he tried to fight it, the exhaustion from a sleepless night quickly overwhelmed him.
Steve’s face hit the floor. He jolted awake, his weariness instantly gone.
He was staring at the familiar darkness again.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Steve cursed loudly, then realized something and immediately turned around. Sure enough, that weird kid was there again.
“You just won’t let me go, will you?” he cried out, sad and desperate.
The boy had been curled up tightly, face buried in his knees. He quickly lifted his head and turned toward Steve, as if listening intently.
“Can’t you let me out?” Steve was still caught in his own emotions. “Are you some kind of ghost? Why won’t you leave me alone? I swear—”
Steve’s words were abruptly cut off as the boy once again reached into his body.
The eerie boy picked up the black receiver and held it to his ear.
“Hello?” the boy—Steve remembered his name was Finney—asked softly. “Who are you?”
“Didn’t I tell you already?” Steve shouted. “I’m Steve!”
“Steve?” Finney said. “Why are you calling me again? You only ever called at night before—”
Steve interrupted him. “What are you talking about? I didn’t call you! It wasn’t me!”
“But…”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m trapped here! Trapped by you in this pitch-black place where I can’t see anything, and I can’t get out!”
“…Are you like me too?” Finney asked urgently. “Are you here too? Are you also one of his victims?!”
“I… what? Who?” Steve was caught off guard by the question, asking in confusion. He blinked, suddenly noticing the boy looked much thinner than before. The bloody wound on his palm from the other day stood out starkly.
“Him. The one who took us.” Finney cried out, almost desperate. “He locked us in this basement.”
“What basement?” Steve said, bewildered, completely unable to make sense of anything the boy was saying. Even so, he could feel the overwhelming waves of despair and anxiety rising in the child.
“I—”
“Thump, thump.”
Just then, a muffled sound from outside interrupted their conversation. Finney looked up nervously, his gaze fixed straight ahead as if a monster from hell was about to sink its teeth into his throat. The boy quickly and quietly put the receiver back and turned away from Steve.
“What? Finney, who—” Before Steve could figure out what was happening, a strong tug and the “thump, thump” sound yanked him awake from the dream.
“Mr. Harrington.” Ms. Map stood over his desk, looking down at him sternly. “My class is not the place for you to catch up on sleep.”
“…Sorry, ma’am,” Steve replied automatically.
“If it happens again, I’ll have to keep you for detention.”
Whispers and malicious snickers spread around the room.
Steve ignored them. He touched the back of his neck; it was damp with sweat. He couldn’t help but let out a breath, unsure if it was from relief at being awake or from the look on the boy’s face in the dream.
He couldn’t help but glance around and happened to meet Wheeler’s gaze. She had turned around from the front row to look at him, her eyes full of concern.
Steve swallowed, his throat dry.
“What’s wrong with you, Steve?” Tommy asked him after class. “You’ve been off lately.”
“I…” Steve wanted to say something but ultimately held back, asking a different question instead. “Guys… have you ever heard about dreams? Like, sharing the same dream with someone?”
“I don’t know. Sounds like something nerds would know about,” Carol said, puzzled. “Since when do you believe in those stories?”
“No, I… it’s nothing,” Steve finally said dejectedly. “I just overheard someone talking about it.”
Maybe he should go find Munson. Steve thought. Coffee wasn’t working anymore. He’d better get his hands on a couple of pills—the kind he’d seen patients in mental hospitals take. Maybe this dream was just a manifestation of his low self-esteem, or maybe he really had a split personality he didn’t know about, like the suspects on TV.
But then, the image of the boy’s shattered, desperate expression flashed before his eyes again, as if he were right there in hell — Steve shuddered. No amount of activity could erase the unease in his heart.
He sat in Benny’s diner, frowning and anxiously scribbling on a small notepad in front of him, a ketchup-dipped french fry dangling from his mouth. Steve knew Benny was watching him, and the guy happened to be pretty tight with the chief, but sitting alone in a diner late at night wasn’t a crime.
He looked at the list he’d written:
Dream?
Pitch black—invisible wall?
A boy? (Blond? 12-13? Same clothes? New wounds?)
Telephone? (From inside me?)
Other people? (I can’t see them? The boy can?)
Damn it! He’d never been good at reading comprehension or puzzles, and honestly, he couldn’t be bothered to think too hard. He tilted his head, dejectedly closed the notebook, and tapped his leg anxiously.
Someone slid into the seat opposite him.
“Hi?” Nancy Wheeler greeted him, looking around a bit uneasily.
“Uh… hi?” Steve scratched the back of his head, hoping his hair wasn’t too messy.
“I saw you’ve been sitting here for a while… seems like you have a problem?” Nancy clasped her hands together, shrugged nervously, and let out a breath. “I happen to be pretty good at solving problems. Need any help?”
Steve was about to refuse, but seeing the genuine concern and seriousness in her eyes, he faltered. He hesitated for a moment, and the girl just waited quietly for his reply.
Well, what’s the worst that could happen? Steve asked, “Do you… know anything about dreams?”
“What?” Nancy blinked (adorably), seemingly not understanding his question.
“Uh,” Steve scratched his head, “like, when you realize you’re dreaming in a dream?”
“Oh,” Nancy said with a smile. “That sounds a lot like lucid dreaming.”
“Sorry, what?” Steve asked, confused. “Lucid dreaming?”
“I read about it. Some people can become aware they’re dreaming while in the dream,” Nancy explained. “I think it’s a psychological theory.” She looked at Steve’s slightly stunned expression and lowered her head shyly. “Sounds a bit nerdy, doesn’t it?”
Oh, she really was smart.
“No,” Steve stammered. “Not at all, actually.”
“Then, have you ever heard of people sharing dreams? Or entering other people’s dreams? Like those, uh… dream ghosts or something?”
“Dream walkers?” Nancy immediately countered, shrugging. “Oh, my… my brother loves all that stuff. He talks about it all the time, my ears are practically calloused.”
“I have heard of that, but I’ve seen some news reports saying that some soldiers who’ve been to war die in their sleep, and investigations suggest they might have had similar dreams.” Nancy frowned, lost in her thoughts, not noticing Steve’s stiff expression. “But I don’t think so. I think it must be something else.”
“I hope one day I can find out why.” She looked up, stealing a glance at Steve. “That’s my dream. Finding…and uncovering the truth, doing stuff like that.”
“That’s great.” Steve replied instinctively, and he meant it. Even though half his brain was still tormented by the dream, he still thought it was a wonderful dream—and Nancy Wheeler really didn’t seem like a girl who’d be confined to this small town. “I mean, that’s really cool, pretty cool.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes suddenly brightened, and Steve’s face felt inexplicably warm. “Thank you. Actually, besides Barbara, not many people say that.”
Steve smiled, his thoughts drifting back to his own dream. “So… you don’t think people can enter dreams?”
“I’ve heard some folklore. It seems some shamans might have psychic abilities, and they can enter or influence people’s dreams? Some also say they dream of victims before they’re harmed, which might be a kind of psychic warning, like a sixth sense.” Nancy said, not missing how Steve’s expression grew more dejected at her words. “Steve, does this have something to do with why you’ve been so out of it lately?”
“I…” Steve didn’t know whether to tell the truth. “I don’t know.”
Nancy didn’t judge him, though her eyes held clear concern.
After much hesitation, Steve finally asked, “Listen, hypothetically, if you had a dream like that, should you try to do something to break it, even if it might be… a variable? Or… just let it keep happening?”
The question seemed to stump Nancy a bit, and Steve immediately regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t —”
“No,” Nancy said thoughtfully. “I think… I would try to break it? Well…I’d have to say, I’m not the type to just sit and wait.”
“Why not try? After all, waiting might lead to something worse.”
The words hit Steve like a revelation. He abruptly stood up — the motion causing him to bump the table. “Ow — it’s fine!” He grabbed his jacket. “I got it! Thank you, Nancy!”
“You’re welcome?” Nancy blinked in confusion twice, watching as Steve almost bolted for the door, completely baffled by what had just happened.
“And,” he said just as he was about to rush out, “that really is a great dream!”
Steve didn’t notice the blush that spread across Nancy’s face.
That night, when Steve lay in bed again, for some reason, he didn’t try to drink another cup of coffee. He closed his eyes, gathered his courage, and then allowed himself to fall into the dream.
“Hi,” Finney said to him, holding the receiver. He gripped it tightly, as if it were his only lifeline. “Steve? Did you call again?”
“Hello… Finney.”
He didn’t say it wasn’t him. Instead, Steve carefully studied the boy before him. Compared to the dream earlier that day, he looked even more exhausted. He was still trembling, still wearing that blue-and-white top. But what unsettled Steve the most were his palms. There, the wounds that had almost healed had somehow reopened and were still oozing blood. “Are you hurt?”
Finney instinctively tried to hide the wounds, but with nothing but his shirt to cover them, it was futile. “…Yes. That was him… He did it after I hung up the phone.”
“Finney, who is he?” Steve asked. “Why is he doing this to you?”
“You don’t know him?” Finney looked bewilderedly at Steve’s chest, as if seeing nothing there. “He’s the one who took us.”
“I’m not, Finney,” Steve leaned down toward the boy. Even though the other couldn’t see him, he still tried to explain everything clearly. “I wasn’t caught by him.”
“But you…” The confusion in Finney’s eyes suddenly cleared for a moment. He understood now. “Oh.”
“I’m here because of you,” Steve said. “Finney, now, tell me who he is.”
TBC