Chapter Text
“Dude, you gotta admit, it’s weird. Like, really weird.”
“Stiles, it’s just a town. You need to lay off the YouTube conspiracy videos.”
Yes, Stiles had watched a lot of YouTube conspiracy videos this week. However, unlike conspiracy theory nut-jobs, Stiles’ growing obsession with the ghost town of Beacon Hills made perfect, logical sense. His best friend Scott McCall, on the other hand, trusted whatever the status quo demanded. He trusted that the government would never commit atrocities on its own citizens, because “that was only in the olden days.” He trusted that his girlfriend Allison did not belong to a weird arms dealing cult, because “her family just likes privacy and gun collecting.” He trusted that if a town in Northern California disappeared from all public records, then a perfectly reasonable explanation existed. Like a clerical error.
“Scott, I just found out that I was born there. Now I’m supposed to accept that the place I was born doesn’t exist? Am I a changeling?”
“You need to lay off the horror movies, too.”
“You used to be fun.”
“You used to be sane.”
Stiles threw a curly fry across the table, hitting Scott’s left cheek. Scott contorted his face in dramatic indignation, threw the curly fry back, and stole another from Stiles’ plate. The server, a woman in her sixties named Marge who was only nice to other women in their sixties, turned to give them a warning glance from a nearby booth while loading the bus tray with dirty dishes.
“Sorry Marge, we’ll be good,” Stiles promised, using his best customer service grin. She curled an eyebrow and pursed her lips, returning to her task.
He wouldn’t blame her for being skeptical. The pair of friends have been causing trouble at Judy's Diner since junior high. A recent incident was about a month ago, when Scott demanded they get burgers with the NorCal University lacrosse team at two in the morning after a lively evening of drinking games. Marge, in an unreasonably unfair assessment, blamed Stiles exclusively for the three separate sodas and one chocolate milkshake that spilled on the floor when Mike O'Malley jump scared a group of cheerleaders at the table behind them. Neither Marge nor the cheerleaders were amused.
“Hey, when are you heading out to Jackson’s thing tonight?” Scott asked, mouth full after biting into his BLT.
“Uh, never? Not really in the mood to willingly relive high school bullying, dude. Again.”
“Hey, he’s trying. He’s gotten better.”
“Okay, one: he didn’t invite me,” Stiles responded, holding up a finger, “and two: he is not trying hard enough. That shit was traumatizing.”
“He wants you to come. He asked about you.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. What did he say this time, Scott? What were his exact words?”
“He said…it would be cool to have a drink together if you came.”
“You are an absolutely atrocious liar.”
“I can read between the lines. I think it’s kinda nice that he wants to be friends with you.”
Stiles disagreed. Nothing that Jackson ever did could be mistaken for nice. Only a few short years ago, Jackson enjoyed mercilessly shoving him to the ground for no reason, accidentally spilling various cold drinks on the front of his pants, or his favorite, violently grabbing his books and throwing them down the hall as far as he could. All were accompanied by a version of “whatcha gonna do about it, queerdo?”
Stiles attributed 100% of Jackson Whittmore’s turnaround to the fact that when Stiles walked into the bathroom during fifth period world history senior year, he found Jackson enthusiastically making out with a very male exchange student. Stiles didn’t out him or retaliate in the slightest. Later that semester, he spotted Jackson’s recently dumped ex-girlfriend Lydia Martin crying under the lacrosse field bleachers long after school had ended. He listened to Lydia admit that she always knew Jackson was gay, and she even told him how happy she was that he admitted it to himself. She talked about how she had waited for him to drive her home after school the next day, and when she realized he wasn’t coming, she broke down. Lydia wasn’t all that sad about the loss of a boyfriend, but she worried that she had lost a best friend. They went from near strangers to close companions that night.
Now that they were sophomores in college, Jackson still wasn’t openly dating men, and Stiles kept a polite distance on campus. It didn’t stop Jackson from being a dick, but at least he wasn’t a bully anymore. Stiles figured the change in attitude was some sort of transactional sense of justice that earned him a modicum of respect in Jackson’s eyes. That, or he was desperate for a queer friend because he had no idea what the fuck to do with his own sexuality. Still, Stiles was always frustrated whenever Scott tried to get him to tag along with anything that Jackson was present at.
“I don’t really care if he wants to be friends, Scott. I’m not going to that party. He can go jerk himself off in the closet for all I care. But you have fun though.”
“There will be lots of guys there, you know. Tall, buff, hairy guys.” Scott wiggled his eyebrows.
“I may be a virgin but I’m not desperate enough to go after straight jocks. High school trauma, remember? Also, college guys aren't hairy enough.”
“Lydia will be there, too.”
“Lydia is absolutely on my side that Jackson is a complete ass, and I don’t owe him anything, no matter how much he tries to be better. She should know best; she dated him for like three years.”
Scott sighed and gave him a pitying look. Stiles appreciated that his friend was trying to help him be social, but there were more important things to address tonight. Investigating a disappearing town was at the top of the list. Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad happened there. At the very least, it was something interesting.
“Fine, go be a hermit. I’ll tell Jackson that you miss him,” Scott said, sporting a mischievous grin.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“Love you too, man.”
They chatted a bit more about their plans for the weekend. Scott had homework and dinner with Allison’s parents. Stiles had plans to play video games, go shopping with Lydia, and look for a map of Beacon Hills. He couldn’t wait to drag Scott on a road trip to the middle of nowhere once he found the place.
They paid for their lunch and parted ways. Scott took off on his highly impractical motorcycle, while Stiles rode away in his ancient sky-blue jeep. It was still early on a Friday afternoon, and Stiles was feeling a familiar itch in the back of his mind that would pop up any time he couldn’t figure out a mystery. He decided that the library might have old maps or newspapers, and if something big happened in Beacon Hills, maybe it would be mentioned there. It was a long shot, but he had exhausted his resources looking elsewhere.
The whole mystery began four days ago, when his father received a genealogy book in the mail. It was from a distant cousin who had made a compendium of their family tree that listed thousands of names with birth years, city of origin, and direct relatives. It cited Stiles, along with 4 other relatives on his mother's side of the family, as being born in Beacon Hills, California. Stiles thought it was weird that he only vaguely remembered the town and the relatives listed, but his birth certificate confirmed that he was delivered at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital in California.
His father wasn't terribly helpful. He reluctantly revealed that they moved to their current home in Chica right after Stiles’ mother passed when he was nine. Stiles kept pushing, asking about their former address, his former school, and friends he left behind—but his dad either didn't remember or, more likely, he didn't want to talk about the painful memories of his late wife.
The itch really started to gain traction when Stiles discovered there were things that were missing—photo albums with baby pictures, yearbooks from before third grade, trophies from playing T-ball at age six, and his favorite bedtime story picture books. He sifted through every single box in the attic, but he didn't find any piece of paperwork dated from before November 2004. There were no mortgage payments from the old house, no bank statements, no taxes—no nothing. He checked the family pictures above the fireplace. There were only a few photos of his mom, which had to be from Beacon Hills. When he took them out of the frames, he saw they were printed on photo paper and not developed at a print shop. Even his birth certificate was reissued after the move.
Next was the internet, which had a plethora of information on Beacon Hills in North Carolina and Beacon Hills in Scotland, but there was nothing in California. It was as if the town had been digitally scrubbed away. That was when Stiles started going hard on conspiracy theories, and he found that Beacon Hills wasn't the only town to be deleted from government records in the last few decades. Unfortunately, the narrators of similar accounts sounded like paranoid recluses, so their credibility was pretty thin.
The distant cousin that started this whole thing had nothing to offer either. Apparently, the book had been a hobby of his for nearly thirty years, and all the notes he took were threadbare at best. He must have filled in that section of the family tree after Stiles was born but before Beacon Hills disappeared. Stiles was on his own to find answers.
Despite his failure to find any useful information all week, Stiles was not deterred. Reaching the city library a little after one o'clock, he barged through the tall, glass entry and made a beeline to the front desk. It was manned by two librarians—the nearest one making small talk with a patron while scanning books, the other focusing on a clunky monitor in front of her. Stiles approached the latter.
“Reference desk?” he asked, stepping up to the counter.
The librarian, an older woman wearing a green sweater, waited three whole seconds before looking up and acknowledging Stiles.
“All the way in the back,” she pointed.
Stiles set off with pep in his step to bother the reference librarian, but he was soon disheartened at what was available. All their travel materials were updated in the last 5 years with no markers for Beacon Hills, and any historic maps were kept in the Library of Congress archive in Sacramento. He groaned to himself at the idea of driving all the way down there if this visit wasn't fruitful.
Next, he headed over to the microfiche machines and checked out all the newspapers from 2004. The year always reminded him of his mother, and he tried to brush away his thoughts of her as he focused on the task at hand. The next few hours were tedious, but he was fired up at the prospect of discovering a clue. He started with local papers first, working his way back from the end of the year. He looked for any articles that mentioned disasters or deaths but still skimmed other stories just in case.
He found it, or rather, found something from the Hutte County Sentinel dated November 28th, 2004.
Beacon Hills fire kills town mayor, 11 others
A devastating fire engulfed a three-story home in a close-knit community, claiming the lives of a family of 4 along with 8 guests. The tragedy sent shockwaves of grief through the community of Beacon Hills, CA, just 20 miles west of Hutte County. The resident victims are believed to be the town mayor Talia Hale (46), her husband Richard Hale (49), and their daughters Laura (20) and Cora (12). The remaining 5 adult and 3 child occupants have yet to be identified, but they are believed to be visiting family members. The family is survived by their son Derek Hale (15), who was out with friends that night. Fire officials revealed that the blaze, which occurred Wednesday evening, led to personnel conducting checks for smoke detectors in homes throughout the area and installing them as needed.
Sheriff Noah Stilinski reported that the tragic incident took place in the historic home where the Hale family resided.
Wait, what the fuck? Since when was his dad a Sheriff? How the hell did he not remember this? Stiles continued to read with his heart beating fast.
Investigators indicated that all 12 victims were unable to escape the blaze due to the rapid onset and spread of the fire. The home bordered the well-known but isolated nature preserve, Hale Wolf Sanctuary. Unfortunately, emergency services did not reach the area before the house was destroyed. Fire Lt. Lawrence Jenkins stated an electrical disturbance as the primary cause, though arson has not been ruled out.
The heartbreaking scene prompted an outpouring of support from friends and community members. The Hale family were long-time residents of Beacon Hills, carrying historic ties to the town's founders. Throughout the next day, cars carrying grieving friends and neighbors arrived at City Hall to give offerings to the memorial display featured in the public courtyard.
As the neighborhood grappled with the tragic loss, community groups extended a helping hand with offers of aid and comfort to the bereaved. Derek Hale is currently in the care of a close family friend and was not available for a statement.
The investigation into the cause of the fire is ongoing, with authorities emphasizing the importance of fire safety measures to prevent such tragedies in the future. The tight-knit community rallied together in the face of adversity, showing resilience and unity during this difficult time.
Well, this was something. This was a big something. A quick look on his phone's calendar let him know that November 28th, the date of the newspaper, was a Sunday. The article mentioned that the fire happened on Wednesday, which would be November 24th. It could be a coincidence that the fire happened on the same day his mother died, right?
The itch was pulling him. He had to know. It said Beacon Hills was 20 miles west of the county border, and he was going to find it.
40 minutes and one gas station stop later, Stiles sat at his dining room table with a large map of northern California and a ruler. He started measuring 20 miles from the edge of the county, noting marks near forested areas where the mentioned nature preserve might be. Nothing looked promising.
Next, he tried Google Earth. There had to be roads or clearings or a blackout or something that wasn’t appearing on the paper map. Stiles painstakingly compared every mile along the marked area until he found it—a slim road that forked off highway 5, heading west into the mountains. There was a street grid barely visible from the satellite photos, and it was missing from the paper map. This had to be Beacon Hills.
The entire town was surrounded by dense forest, and there was a section on the west side that wasn't quite right. It didn't look like Google's usual map restrictions. Stiles would know, because he had looked at many restricted areas when searching for possible government black sites for fun. The western section almost looked like a poor-quality photo, similar to what you might see when the camera didn't quite hold still or there wasn't enough light to get a good shot.
Stiles circled the area on the paper map, penciling in all the missing roads as best as he could. His hands were a bit sweaty and slightly shaking as he erased a few lines that were too hastily drawn. He checked the time. It was nearly 4. Sunset wasn’t until 7:30, and Beacon Hills was maybe an hour away. He was going. Tonight.
He called Scott to tell him the good news.
“Yo, Scotty! I found it!”
“Found what?” Scott asked amid crunching noises coming through the receiver. Stiles would bet hard money that he was devouring a bag of cool ranch Doritos.
“The town, dude, the town!” Stiles exclaimed, waving his free arm into the air. “I found Beacon Hills! It's like, an hour away.”
“Oh, sweet. Hey, can you help me out with my business calc homework? Dumb derivatives are kicking my ass.”
“Yeah, sure, later. Pack up your Doritos because we're heading out. I'll be there in 10.”
“What? Why? We can just do it at my place. Unless you want to work somewhere else.”
“Not homework, Scott. Beacon Hills! Were you paying attention?”
“Dude, I'm trying to finish this so I can hang with Allison tomorrow and not worry about it. Let's go Sunday.”
“There is no way I can wait that long.”
“Alright, be safe.”
“If I get murdered by government agents, I'm coming back to haunt you.”
“Cool, do you think your ghost can still play Call of Duty?”
“You're a terrible friend.”
“Love you too, man.”
He hung up feeling mildly frustrated, though not terribly upset. He knew it was more responsible to wait, but he just couldn’t. The itch was practically killing him. He still had several hours of sunlight available, so he packed snacks, a portable phone charger, warm clothes, and a flashlight in case his trip was longer than expected. It was a ghost town, so it wasn't likely anyone would be there. He hoped. He figured he would send Scott location pins on the way, just to be safe.
Stiles arrived at the forgotten road just over an hour later. More accurately, he arrived at where the road was supposed to be. He pulled to the shoulder on Oldville Way before exiting his jeep and looking around for any sign of a fork. He knew he was in the right spot, one mile past the bridge over Pepper Creek, but there was no turn-off. Squinting his eyes and glaring at the forest in front of him, Stiles noticed a square rock in the ground that looked raised and out of place. He walked up to it for a closer look and saw that it was an old cinder block anchor for a road sign. It had to be here. Where the hell was the road?
He gulped loudly and darted his eyes around, suspicious that he hadn’t passed a single car for the last few miles. The road was here somewhere. Maybe it was covered in dirt, or the path was under the thick brush. Stiles had to check. He couldn’t give up and go home with nothing. He grabbed his backpack of supplies and sent Scott a pin, then let out a loud breath while taking his first step off the street and into the woods before him. He walked slowly, trying to follow the natural absence of trees and brush, and in less than a minute the road seemed to…appear before him. It was so wide and obvious. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He looked behind him and saw the road there too, leading all the way back to a T intersection and his jeep. It looked completely intact though not particularly maintained.
Stiles began to panic a little. Keeping his eyes on the road toward Beacon Hills, he took a couple steps backward and it got lost behind the trees. He couldn’t explain it. He was standing in the dirt again. Taking two steps forward, he was on a complete road. He repeated this action at least one dozen times, trying to figure out how exactly the road kept appearing without him noticing where it came from.
He couldn’t trust his eyes. He tried closing them to see if he could feel when the road turned back to dirt. Blindly, he shuffled a handful of steps towards the main road and felt asphalt underneath his feet with each step. When he opened his eyes and looked at the ground, it was dirt again. He felt dirt again. His brain wasn’t allowing a disconnect between what he could see and what was actually there.
Stiles calmly walked back to his vehicle and sat in the driver's seat, taking several deep breaths. He counted the fingers on each hand, looked at the time on his cellphone, and read an old text message. He had exactly ten fingers, it was 5:32, and the words on his phone were legible. Okay, so he probably wasn’t dreaming. He took another deep breath.
Four possibilities came to mind to explain the present situation. The most likely, purely because it was the most common, was that Stiles was having a psychotic break. Maybe it was triggered by the memories of his mother. Maybe there was a history of schizophrenia in his family that he didn’t know about.
A second explanation was holographic technology. Feeling the dirt where there should be asphalt was a side effect of his brain trying to rationalize visual input. Such technology would be leaps ahead of what was currently possible. Stiles was more comfortable with this theory, since it meant that he wasn’t going crazy.
The third line of reasoning was that he came into contact with a quickly metabolizing airborne hallucinogen. Maybe this was a government testing area, or a billionaire's playground for biological weapons, or a natural phenomenon linked to why Beacon Hills was abandoned. That was a bit less likely, but it was still possible. It was less scary than the next line of reasoning he had.
A final scenario remained that was logically impossible, completely irrational, totally terrifying, and undeniably cool as fuck. It was magic. Magic was real, maybe Hogwarts was real, and probably a lot of other stuff was real. It was real and very, very well hidden. Well, it wasn't that well hidden. Stiles found it in a single afternoon.
If the first possibility were true, he would probably get lost, and someone would find him in a day or two thoroughly dehydrated and raving like a madman.
If the second possibility were true, then the area was probably monitored and someone would be here shortly to scare him off, arrest him, or beam him up to a UFO.
If the third possibility were true, he would definitely have medical side-effects. Thankfully, he felt fine at the moment.
If the fourth possibility were true, then there was no way to predict anything. Maybe he would get eaten by a dragon, maybe he would turn into a frog, or maybe he would save the world. It was hard to tell.
Stiles was not stupid—impatient, reckless, and headstrong, sure. There were still a good 5 miles left on the hidden road before reaching Beacon Hills. Any one of the possibilities ahead of him needed thoughtful preparation before diving in. He would need a GPS tracker so people could find his hopefully living body, a gas mask in case the air was poisoned, a stealth outfit for sneaking in, and…a pure heart with good intentions? Being a virgin was basically magical protection, right? It probably wasn't, and that trope was patriarchal bullshit. This definitely called for more research.
He would have to come back. Thinking quickly, he gathered all the trash he could find and threw it out the passenger window. The breadcrumbs would make it easier when he returned.
When Stiles noticed his cellphone chime later that evening, he had no desire to check it. He only did so because he was currently waiting on a download to finish for a book that might offer credible information about the existence of magic.
Unfortunately, the text message was from Jackson.
Jackass 10:42pm
Scott says u miss me so get ur fairy ass down
here
How charming. Stiles saw he had more unread messages, so he checked those too.
Scotty Boy 8:16pm
Heading to Jacksons now in case you change your
mind.
Scotty Boy 10:02pm
Dude he got teh new halo you shoud cooooooooome
Scotty Boy 10:37pm
Jax say he mis u 2 lol
Scott was already drunk. That was fast. He was more excited about a video game than Stiles sending him the location of a missing town. That was Scott in a nutshell. A minute later another message came through, but Stiles didn’t bother checking since he was absorbed in reading his new digital book. Then two more texts came through, one right after another. Stiles rolled his eyes but read them anyway.
Jackass 10:45pm
You left me on read wtf
Jackass 10:47pm
Stop being a fucken pussy and come drink
R u too gay to handle a few beers?
Stiles didn’t really have time for this. He put his phone on silent and got back to reading. Then, a thought occurred to him. Jackson was rich. Jackson bought nice things. Jackson was some army guy from Jarhead two years ago for Halloween. Stiles wondered if he used a real gas mask for his costume. Thinking about it a minute more, Stiles found that he did not feel at all guilty for asking Jackson for a favor. He opened up his cell again. There were already new messages.
Jackass 10:48pm
If u come i’ll let u play halo
Jackass 10:52pm
Wtf are you even doing when all 2 of ur friends r
here
It was kinda bizarre how Jackson kept trying to be his friend. His high school self would never believe it.
Stiles 11:01pm
hey do you still have that jarhead costume from halloween
a few years ago? did you use a real gas mask for it?
Jackass 11:02pm
Wtf r u talking about
R u coming
Stiles 11:03
DO YOU HAVE A WORKING GAS MASK
yes or no?
Jackass 11:04pm
YES???
Stiles 11:04pm
cool, may i please borrow it
Jackass 11:05pm
I mean ya but why
Stiles 11:06pm
sweet i’ll be there in 30
Jackass 11:06pm
ok???
After hours of research, mostly to try and eliminate the possibilities he already thought of, it seemed unlikely that an airborne toxin was the case. Maybe it wasn’t strictly necessary to have a gas mask for his little field trip. Hallucinations generally weren’t that specific, usually not tied to a location threshold, and probably aren’t recurring with that much detail. There was a chance he was wrong about all that, so Stiles wanted to go prepared.
The psychotic break theory wasn’t likely either, because if it had reached the point of hallucination then the person affected wouldn’t know they were in psychosis. At least, that's what the internet says. Maybe Stiles was special—a new kind of self-aware crazy. The only prep he could do for that possibility was make sure that he was hydrated, and someone knew where he was.
For the secret technology theory, all he could really do was be sneaky…in a bright blue jeep from the 80s with an engine louder than a dying chainsaw. Wearing black clothes might help.
The magic thing would be difficult. There wasn’t much credible information on that. If a random wizard had the resources to scrub the internet of anything Beacon Hills related, then they could do the same with information on magic. However, there were a handful of old superstitions that might have a kernel of truth in them. There was no way Stiles could get ahold of silver bullets, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to use a gun at all. He did have a baseball bat he could use for regular human self-defense, along with iron tent stakes, salt, and a commitment not to make any Faye bargains whatsoever. For the first time in his life, Stiles wished he had befriended one of the astrology girlies that smoked weed every day in the quad. They might have given him protection crystals.
He added the new items to his gear, along with one of the two-way radios Scott got for his birthday one year, which were quickly forgotten about once they both got cellphones. He changed the batteries and packed a spare set. He figured it would be good to take a first aid kit, a notebook, and pencils as well. All that was left was water, food, and Adderall. He didn’t want to be left unfocused when he might need it the most. He didn’t have a dedicated GPS tracker, but he could install a tracking app on his phone and Scott’s.
He prepared himself as best he could. He didn’t want to wait any longer. He was going now. There was no way he would be able to sleep tonight, anyway. Even though he would love it if Scott came with him, maybe it would be better if he went alone. It was safer that way.
As he headed toward the front door, he remembered his dad. They hadn’t crossed paths since his latest discovery, but that was probably for the better. He didn’t want him to worry. He did have a million questions for him, though. Rather than text, since his dad never even checked them anyway, Stiles left a note on the fridge saying that he would be out all weekend, and to call Scott if he couldn’t get ahold of him. Technically, that wasn't a lie. He hated lying to his dad. It was a good thing that he was working the night shift at his security job, so Stiles wouldn’t have to make up a lie before leaving.
Stiles locked up the house and hopped in the jeep. Hopefully the neighbors wouldn’t be suspicious of a man leaving the Stilinski house at night wearing all black and carrying a baseball bat. He quickly headed to Jackson’s even though he wasn’t looking forward to interacting with anyone from the lacrosse team except for Scott. There was nowhere else he could get a functional gas mask in the middle of the night, so Stiles sucked it up and prepared to be repeatedly insulted.
When he finally found a parking spot two blocks away from Jackson’s ridiculously large house, he jogged up to the front door and let himself inside without bothering to knock. He was familiar with the place, having come to a small number of Jackson’s parties over the years. He almost always regretted his choice to do so. First, he looked for Scott in the den hoping he would find him playing video games. There was no such luck. Not wanting to waste any more time, he decided to give Scott a call.
“Yoooooo Stiles! Where you at?” Scott asked cheerfully. There was hooting in the background, and Stiles could barely hear him over the commotion.
“Hey, I’m here. Downstairs. Where are you?”
“Come to the back. We’re Greek!”
Stiles had no idea what that meant.
“Alright buddy. Where’s Jackson?”
“Jackson? JACKSON!” Scott yelled far too close to the phone for comfort. “STILES IS LOOKING FOR YOUUUUUU. Oh, he looks mad haha. He’s always so grumpy. I think he’s—”
Scott was cut off, the voice suddenly replaced by an agitated Jackson.
“Stilinski, where the hell are you?”
“Sorry, sorry. So, you have the gas mask?”
“Where are you?”
“In the den. Where’s the—”
Jackson hung up. This was going to be frustrating. Hopefully he could leave before midnight.
Stiles leaned against a wall and watched a pair of jocks play Halo. It looked pretty good, if he was being honest. He didn’t have much time to appreciate it, because less than a minute later Jackson appeared before him.
He was wearing a pair of bright yellow swim trunks paired with a dark blue vaporwave tank top, and Stiles briefly chuckled at how similar he looked to a Ken doll. An angry Ken doll. He passed a group of women dressed like they were going clubbing, but didn’t stop to respond to one of them calling his name. Stiles noticed that she looked put out by that, and felt kinda bad for her—especially when her friends giggled at her failure to grab Jackson’s attention. If only they knew that Jackson was gayer than a handbag full of rainbows and deeper in the closet than the kingdom of Narnia.
“Come on,” Jackson said, tilting his head in an invitation to follow.
Stiles silently followed him upstairs. They went up to the third floor and down a narrow hallway, stopping before a storage room. Jackson opened the door and stepped inside. It looked a bit too crowded to fit the both of them comfortably, so Stiles waited. A few minutes later, Jackson emerged. He stood in front of the door with crossed arms and glared at Stiles while holding the gas mask.
“Why do you need this?” He asked, brow furrowed.
“Going on a little field trip. Just want to cover all my bases.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, a field trip is like when you go somewhere new to—”
“Jesus, Stilinski. You know what I mean.”
“It’s gonna sound crazy.”
“Try me.”
“I may have hallucinated a phantom road and want to eliminate the possibility that an airborne toxin was involved.”
“...Okay.”
“What, that’s it?”
“No. What do I get out of this?”
Stiles rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know man, I’ll do your homework or something?”
“No, that’s stupid.”
“Well, what do you want, then?”
Jackson paused. He opened his mouth and inhaled, as if he was about to speak, then closed it and turned his head away.
“Nothing, just…stay for a while. I, um, wanted you to meet someone.”
Stiles was instantly suspicious.
“What the hell do you mean, meet someone? You trying to set me up or something?”
“Fuck no, that’s disgusting. He’s just…he’s a friend of mine.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows, suddenly interested in Jackon’s personal life for the very first time.
“Riiiiiiiight. A friend. Lemme guess, he’s blonde and plays some sort of contact sport?”
“How the fuck do you even know that?”
“You’re self absorbed enough to date someone exactly like you.”
Jackson rolled his eyes and shoved the mask at Stiles’ chest with a frown on his face. Stiles sighed and took it from him.
“You know, you’re a lot more pleasant to be around when you’re not throwing homophobic slurs at me.” Stiles smiled.
“Yeah, well you’re a lot more pleasant when you aren’t insulting my taste,” Jackson said as he turned around to head back downstairs. Stiles followed with a chuckle.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be nice. I’ll stay and meet this friend of yours. But I won’t drink, I’m driving tonight. And I’m leaving the second you turn back into an asshole.”
“Fine,” Jackson said, and Stiles thought he heard a hint of a smirk in his response.
They descended the stairs side by side, then headed to the back of the house. Scott was still in the backyard, having lost his shirt at some point, holding up a red solo cup and cheering on two of his teammates wrestling on the lawn. Allison was next to him, clapping joyfully at the scene in front of her. She was probably enjoying the view, as the wrestlers were also shirtless. Jackson steered him away from the crowd and over to the gazebo, where there were a few sports bros laughing way too loudly. Stiles had a gut feeling that it was a fart joke.
“Hey. This is Ethan. Ethan, Stiles.”
They shook hands, passing a look of understanding, and largely ignored the laughing jocks standing right next to them. Ethan, it seemed, had better taste in humor. One point for Ethan.
Stiles gave an approving nod to Jackson, and politely made the usually college small talk. A few minutes later he learned that Etan was on the rugby team, majoring in biology—which, impressive—and grew up in Santa Barbara. It was a little awkward, but not terrible. If Stiles wasn’t itching to get back on the road as soon as possible, he might have even enjoyed himself.
Alas, he had work to do. It was actually good that he was here, since it gave him the opportunity to make sure someone knew where he was going in the middle of the night. He politely said goodbye to Jackson and he’s-just-a-friend Ethan, and thought he should at least say hello to his actual friends.
Lydia was sitting on the edge of the pool with her feet in the water, while no less than 3 men drooled over her and fetched her drinks. Stiles didn’t want to cramp her style, so he just swooped in to kiss her cheek before waving goodbye.
“Stiles!” Lydia yelled after him. He stopped in his tracks and spun around, not expecting her to break time with her entourage. Don’t forget you’re taking me and Prada to Saks on Sunday. Don’t make me wait for you again, it’s tacky.”
“Shall I pick your highness up at 11 for an early lunch beforehand?”
“One, don’t you dare show up anywhere near me in that jeep, and two—there is no way I’m letting my stylist fit me while I’m bloated with mimosas. We’ll do lunch after.”
“Of course, my queen,” Stiles drawled, giving a deep bow while backing away, and almost tripping over a lounge chair.
One of the men attending to her in the pool pointed a distinctly jealous look Stiles’ way. As he brushed it off and headed back, he thought he heard one of them say, I can take you to Saks, I have a BMW. Poor guy.
He found Scott and Allison in the same spot as when he passed them, still cheering the wrestlers on the lawn.Unfortunately, Stiles didn’t have time to enjoy the homoerotic fantasy in front of him. He came up behind Scott and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, Stiles! You came!” Scott turned to him and trapped his arms in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.
They were both 5’10”, but Scott had an extra 30 pounds of jock muscle bulk to him and could throw around Stiles’ lean but athletic frame with ease.
“Umph—yeah, man. I came.” Stiles groaned before Scott set him back on the ground. “Hey…let me borrow your cellphone for a second.”
“Huh? Yeah, here.”
Scott handed over his phone with absolutely zero suspicion in his eyes. There was no passcode, either. He was so trusting.
“Stiles! Did you see that guy from the football team? He’s haiiiiiiry!” Allison giggled while taking her turn for a hug.
“Good lookin’ out, Ally. I’ll go find him and see if he wants to make out in the bathroom. You kids be safe.”
Allison erupted into laughter and grabbed her boyfriend for support, and the couple barely noticed Stiles leaving toward the lawn chairs on the deck to get comfortable. Jackson walked over a few minutes later.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sitting next to him.
“Insurance. In case I get lost on my field trip while having a psychotic break an—well, if I’m having a psychotic break, then this probably isn’t even happening so…yeah, just in case I get lost.”
Jackson didn’t ask any more follow up questions. He just sat there, looking grumpy and stealing glances at Scott’s cell. Stiles installed the Life8 app, then connected both their phones. He double checked his own phone so that he had his location set to always on and enabled tracking memory for the maximum time of 30 days. He then sent Scott a series of texts explaining the app and what he was doing, and he reminded him to look for the two-way radio when he got home in the morning. He might be going overboard for no reason, but it was better to be safe than sorry. In the back of his mind, Stiles knew that doing this alone was colossally unsafe. He figured that it was better for only him to be unsafe than for him and Scott, who was clearly in no shape to come.
Stiles almost jumped when Jackson spoke again, having forgotten that he was sitting so close.
“Stilinski.”
“Umm, yeah?”
“Are you doing something stupid?”
“Maybe?”
Jackson sighed and handed over his phone. The Life8 app was already installed and up on the screen.
“Here, track it on mine too.”
Stiles looked at him for a moment. He could always remove Jackson from the app as soon as he got home in the morning. Maybe it would be good to have another set of eyes looking out for him. For the second time ever, Jackson might actually be helpful.
“If I do this, I’m taking you off my account as soon as I get back tomorrow morning.”
“Whatever.”
“I approve, by the way.”
“What?”
“Of Ethan. He’s smart, not a total asshole, and very pretty. You did good.”
“Shut the fuck up, Stilinski.”
Stiles handed Jackson back his phone after connecting their trackers. He stood up to head back to Scott, when Jackson shot him an angry look.
“Where are you going?”
“To give Scott his phone back, then watch topless straight guys rub up on each other.”
Jackson relaxed and chuckled, following him back to the crowd around the wrestling circle. Ethan joined them soon after.
Stiles stood by Scott again, returning the phone and attempting to tell him to check his text messages in the morning. Scott wasn’t really following along, but he insisted Stiles should join a wrestling match. As exciting as that might be, he doubted one of the jocks would appreciate him popping a boner as soon as he was slammed on the ground. Stiles had firsthand experience in this when he was wrestling Danny Mahealani in 11th grade gym class. Luckily, Danny was a nice guy about it.
He watched the current match half-heartedly, wondering how soon he could bail while still keeping his agreement with Jackson. When he looked around, he saw that Jackson was no longer standing beside him, and he thought this might be a good opportunity to leave. It was past midnight, and he would need coffee before his short trip. Right as he was going to say goodbye to Scott, he saw Jackson saunter into the circle while cheers erupted around him. He caught Stiles in the crowd and beamed. Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle. Jackson really was on good behavior tonight.
He won 3 matches before he was defeated by a 6’4” linebacker that was very much Stiles’ type. When Jackson came jogging back to him, Stiles gave him a punch in the shoulder and told him he did good. He then said goodbye to Scott, waved to Allison, and headed back inside toward the front door.
He was almost down the front porch steps when Jackson called out to him.
“Stilinski!”
Stiles turned and looked at him, waiting for what he had to say.
“Don’t fuck up. And you better bring me back that mask tomorrow.”
Stiles gave a half-hearted salute and continued down the driveway, jogging the rest of the way to his jeep. Finally, he was headed to Beacon Hills.
No one had bothered to clean up his trash. Beef jerky wrappers and old takeout containers littered the side of the road, undisturbed. This gave less credibility for the holographic super-tech theory, since someone would have wanted to get rid of that by now.
Stiles took three calming breaths before preparing himself. He jotted down a quick note, intending to add it to the pile of trash, acting as a subtle last will and testament.
If you find this, thanks for coming after me! I’m probably in trouble, or going crazy. There MAY be a road hidden by magic right here, just walk a few feet in and you’ll find it. It leads to Beacon Hills about 5 miles away. You can find all my notes about it on my desk. Please don’t come alone. I did, and I was prepared.
If I don’t make it back:
Scott, you may have my entire video game, movie, comic book, action figure, and pirated media collection, on the condition that you delete my browsing history.
Lydia, you’re a goddess who wants for nothing. Please take care of my spider plant.
Dad, I love you and miss you. Live a good life. Find happiness for me.
Much love,
Stiles
He crumpled up the note and tossed it out the window, then put on his backpack full of gear in case he had to jump out of his jeep quickly. He put on the gas mask, which hindered his visibility, but he would take it off once he saw any signs of life. The baseball bat was close and within reach. He still wore his seatbelt, but he kept one hand on the buckle for a fast release.
Stiles inched his jeep off the road, trusting that the hidden one would appear below him. It did, and he sighed in relief. He turned off his headlights and cruised down the road at ten miles per hour, constantly checking his mirrors and staying alert for any movement. His heart was practically beating out of his chest. The moonlight above was obscured by the surrounding trees, but there was still enough visibility to barely make out the edges of the driving path without a light source to guide him.
About twenty minutes into his anxious crawling, a deer casually walked in front of the jeep. Stiles slammed on his brakes but still hit the creature, bumping it hard enough to annoy it, but not so hard that it fell over. It leapt away, followed by a young fawn. Well, there goes his poison gas theory. He took off the mask, inhaling a deep breath of relief and waiting a beat to see if he started to hallucinate.
Everything around him was still. He heard wind rustling through the trees but nothing else. The eerie quiet felt oppressive. Weren't there supposed to be birds chirping? Stiles stopped to check his location and saw that the GPS on his phone was holding up even when cell service was not. He saw his icon about where he expected it to be, and he zoomed out to see Jackson and Scott still at the party in Chica.
He kept going. The woods got thicker, and the light grew scarcer. He slowed to five miles per hour, inching along and gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.
After another agonizing fifteen minutes, he finally saw signs of civilization. Well, he saw a singular sign. A large, wooden placard appeared on the side of the road, with thick block letters spelling “WELCOME TO BEACON HILLS”. Underneath it read “Home of the World-Famous Hale Wolf Preserve”. It couldn’t be that famous anymore, considering Beacon Hills didn’t exist. Stiles wondered for a moment if the wolves in the preserve had died or escaped. He hoped it was the latter. Then he hoped they left town. There weren’t supposed to be wolves in California.
Now that he was officially in the town proper, the dense forest opened up to a wide clearing in front of him and let in a bit more illuminating moonlight. With his headlights still off, Stiles could faintly make out the outline of a building or two down the road. He passed them a moment later, the first was a country-style restaurant called Wolf’s Den, and the next was a gas station on the opposite side of the road. Somehow, they looked familiar.
Continuing onward, he saw a street sign that told him he was on Oakwood Road. He didn’t want to start turning off on side streets for fear of getting lost. Straight in and out would be better. It wasn’t long before the clearings and occasional business turned into rows of houses. There were no working streetlights, no cars, and no manicured lawns. Everyone had left the town to decay over a decade ago, and it showed. A house on the left gave Stiles pause. It looked familiar. He pulled the jeep to the side of the road and parked. Steeling himself for the unknown, he slowly opened the jeep door and winced at the loud creak. If anyone was nearby, they would have heard him coming anyway. He shut the door gently after taking out his bat and hiding his keys under the floor mat. He might need a quick getaway.
He stood in front of the house that caught his eye. It didn’t seem so familiar that he wanted to go inside, but it was definitely a home he had seen before. Stiles knew he was close. He felt the same fuzzy recognition with the house next door, and the one next to that. He knew this neighborhood. He kept walking, following the main road without straying.
By now it was past 2am, but Stiles wasn't remotely tired. He walked quickly, getting more and more familiar with his surroundings. It felt like there was a name on the tip of his tongue, or he was on the cusp of gaining an important memory. He started to jog.
The homes began to give way to commercial buildings. A grocery store, a post office, and two or three parking lots passed by. He soon came to a large intersection with three streets crossing to form a central triangle. The middle held a towering statue of an important-looking woman wearing a long skirt and resting her hand on the back of a huge wolf. Stiles inspected the statue, wiping off the plaque to read the inscription underneath.
Genova Hale, pioneer woman and first citizen of Beacon Hills. So loved by all she encountered even wolves swore their fealty.
This town was really into wolves. Stiles started to worry that they might still be here. He gripped his baseball bat a bit tighter.
From the statue he looked around and saw what must have once been a bustling center. There was a hospital taking up multiple city blocks, a park with swing sets and slides, a church with a tall steeple, and a sprinkling of shop fronts and restaurants. One of the shops had flowy, cursive writing on the front sign spelling out Sunday Sweets. Shit, he remembered that.
He went there every time he got his report card back from school. He sat on the bench outside with his parents and dripped rocky road ice cream all over the front of his shirt. Once he ran so quickly toward the front door that he fell and skinned his knee. Once he was at a birthday party where the parents treated everyone to rainbow licorice. Once he went there with his dad, just the two of them, and secretly bought chocolates in the shape of roses for his mom.
Stiles vaguely noticed that his eyes were welling up with tears. He felt as if he was losing his mother all over again. After staring at the storefront a moment longer, Stiles shook out his limbs and collected himself. He wiped his face, drying his wet cheeks, then hiked his backpack up a little further. He knew where to go.
Stiles took off in a run, sprinting past the candy shop and around the corner. He let his body guide him as he cut through yards and jumped fences, finally arriving in front of a weathered home—his home. It was two stories high with a fenceless yard and a porch jutting against three quarters of the front facade. The exterior had light blue wood paneling and white window frames with a heavy dark brown door. He walked up the front steps, carefully testing each one for rotting wood before putting his full weight on it. Reaching for the front door, he found it locked and bolted. There was a painted pot under the left window, bright red and covered in little yellow handprints, with a long-dead plant inside. He lifted up the bottom, spilling brown leaves on the wooden deck. There was a single key underneath that opened the front door. Stiles stepped inside and locked up behind him. For an extra layer of protection against whatever the hell was out here, he took out his box of salt and lined the front doorway with a thick barrier. He felt stupid. He leaned his bat against the wall by the door and grabbed his flashlight, looking around the room he walked into.
It was exactly as he pictured it would be. An earth toned couch faced a fireplace to the left, and a stairway sat against the wall on the right. A round dining table was past the living room, and the archway to the kitchen was behind it. Stiles took a careful step inside. He made his way to the back door and added another salt line there, then headed upstairs to find his old room behind the first door on the right.
Missing things were there. His T-ball trophies were on shelves above his small desk. His beloved stuffed elephant Bernie sat tucked into the blankets on his bed. His favorite storybook lay nearby on his nightstand.
It was overwhelming. He was ashamed that he had forgotten so much. He sat on his small twin bed and took a bottle of water out of his backpack. In a daze, he gulped about two thirds of it down before pulling out his jerky, peanuts, and a single serving bag of Fritos. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there staring at the walls of his old room and letting memories drip back into his mind.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the town as far as he could tell. He didn't pass any windows with lights or stray vehicles anywhere. How was he supposed to find out what happened? He could start at the library and grab all the recent papers to take back with him and read. He could see if he could break into City Hall and find records of…something. He could try and find the old Hale house to see if anything was left after the fire. Maybe the scene would jog his memory the way the candy shop did. He still felt like there were parts missing. He decided to explore the house a bit more first, then head out to the library. He remembered that it was close by. He checked his phone and saw that he still had no signal, but Scott and Jackson were in the same place as they were an hour ago. For some reason, that was reassuring.
Stiles stood up and stretched, now a bit more confident with a full stomach and a plan. He really had to use the bathroom, and if that meant leaving a toilet full of piss in his cherished childhood home, so be it. Somehow that seemed better than going on his lawn outside.
The toilet across the hall had a small pool of dirty water in the bottom. Stiles relieved himself and flushed, mostly out of habit but partially because he was curious to see if it worked. Surprisingly, it did. First a rust-tinged rush of water filled the bowl, but it soon turned clear. He tried the faucet, and found it was the same. The plumbing was working in a ghost town. Weird.
Heading downstairs, he started looking around with interest. The mantle above the fireplace held a plethora of family photos—far more than were at his Chica home. He recognized the original photos of the copies he owned, and others were new to him. He saw his mother smiling at him in a kiddie pool during a summer barbeque. There was one with Stiles sitting under a Christmas tree holding onto a remote-controlled race car. An older picture in a plain red frame showed his parents sitting next to each other on the couch, his mother pregnant and his father looking at her like she hung the moon.
Shit, this was not the time for crying again. He grabbed that photo and put it in his backpack. He could come back for the rest later.
He was about to head back out the front door but one more photo caught his eye. It was a photograph in an ornate gold frame. The image was crowded with people, all posed around a dark green couch in a large living room. Stiles looked about 7 or 8 and sat on the left side of the couch, with three other kids filling up the remaining space. His younger self looked up in admiration at a grumpy teenage boy with his arms crossed, sitting next to him. Two girls were on the other side, and both were smiling at the camera. All three had jet black hair like the woman that stood behind them. Another man with salt and pepper brown hair and light gray eyes held her hand, and Stiles’ parents completed the standing row of four. One of his father’s arms wrapped around his mother’s waist, and the other was resting on the top of Stiles’ shoulder as if he were trying to keep the boy still.
They all looked happy, perhaps with the exception of the grumpy teenage boy. These were people he knew. The Hales. Of course, he knew the Hales. Talia, Richard, Laura, Derek, and Cora. He remembered their house–huge and fancy and full of antiques that he wasn’t allowed to touch. He remembered one summer where there was a gigantic slip n’ slide on their large lawn, and Stiles thought Derek was the absolute coolest when he surfed from end-to-end standing up. He remembered crying on their porch one winter when he got a snowball to the face, and Cora gave him an apology that wasn’t remotely genuine. There was still a piece missing, though. He knew he had more memories. Maybe—
“Well, aren’t you just scrumptious.” A woman’s voice said from behind him.
Stiles jumped, dropping his flashlight and scrambling to pick it back up again. When he got a hold of it and shined the light toward the source of the voice, there was no one there. The deadbolt remained locked shut. His bat still sat propped up near the doorway. The living room window, however, was wide open. Shit.
His only thought was to escape—grab the bat, open the door, and run. He couldn't. His feet had frozen in place. He begged his body to move, but a sense of overwhelming dread and fear kept him standing stalk still. His stomach started churning with anxiety. Suddenly, he heard that same voice right behind him, whispering in his ear.
“Good luck,” she said.
Stiles saw a tuft of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. He felt a pinch on the back of his neck, then heard soft chuckling as his vision faded to black.