Yup, so we've got ourselves another Billy/OC. Honestly, what a lad. How could I not ship him with my OFC who lives in the creepy murder mansion on the edge of town?

This story is part character study, part writing practice, part 'I never write teenagers at high school and this could be fun'. Plus, you know, it's Stranger Things, so I get to play with telekinesis and the 80s. (Oh, and there are overtones of emotionally-unstable Nancy Drew.)

Originally, this was a personal fic, but I figured someone in the wide world might want to read it, so what the hey?

The first chapter is almost entirely Billy and my OC. If you can manage that, we'll get to the rest of the cast later.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

The Meeting

My investigation started with a question:

What happened to Benny?

From there . . . it kind of spiralled.

.

Already it's been a fatal venture. Riya was pushed off the bridge on Monday. They found Madeline in the pool this morning. Time is running out. I can only hope Miss Danielle gets this to you.

Hoping for Salvation

Bethany Norton

Whoever is doing this, they've been paying attention to the story. Joseph lies under the bridge with his head caved in. Heaving, I smother my nose and mouth in the sleeve of my sweater and inhale the scent of budget laundry powder. I whisper a prayer under my breath and tell myself it's only a shell of flesh. It's impossible to believe because that's Joe. I remember him laughing in the seat behind me in Math last year. He had a nice laugh. Open, unguarded.

He is the first dead body I've seen. He will not be my last.

The letter from the principal's office indicates the pool next. The letter might be yellowed and burnt at the edges and written fifty-two years ago, but it's all I've got. Bethany Norton don't fail me now.

This bridge is a storey up, connecting the main building with the east wing of the school. It offers a view over the quadrangle and the black and white bricks of the Gothic revivalist buildings and . . . there. Part of the first floor of the west wing is missing windows and vents have been drilled into the concrete on the second floor. It'll either be the pool or the gym.

I run into the dark confines of the Hawkins College. It closed down in thirty-two due to a scandal involving a secret society. The girl in the letter was one of their victims. If I'm not fast enough, there will be two more.

I cross another bridge into the west wing, leaping over the ivy that crawls through broken windows and weaving around broken portraits. At last my flashlight finds a rusting spiral staircase. Down, down, down, into the dripping darkness. Fear claws at my throat.

This is no time to panic, I think. Lives are at stake.

The air in here is cloying and moist and the windows clogged with dirt. When the school closed down, the pool stagnated, growing algae. A breeding ground has erupted in the damp on the walls. The layer of mould and fungi is as thick as my finger. The whole place feels rotten.

Weed and muck turns the pool to gelatine. On it floats a body.

I send my horror to Heaven. Why would you make me see this?

The reply: Where's Tyler?

Flashlight on the letter.

It's a prison. They drag us from our beds as punishment. They make us clean the kitchens or the basement or the boiler room overnight. If we don't do it properly, we have to spend the next two nights in the attics.

Attics. That must be it.

A boy's shout confirms.

.

I'm halfway to the attics when I hear one set of running feet heading down. I freeze. It's them.

They keep running. Tyler keeps shouting.

Please, let the cops get them, I pray without confidence and head upwards once more.

I come to a long space with exposed black beams and cobwebs coating every corner. I have to pause and absorb. Slit windows shine between free-standing cages, stretching in two rows along the entire top floor of the building. This is where the students were kept as punishment. It's icy, far below the thirty-two degrees outside. All the warmth in the world is sucked up by the steel bars, the webs, the bloated wood. I can imagine the girls locked here in their school uniforms, heat leeched from their fingers and toes as their bodies scrabbled to keep hearts and lungs working. Breath misting. Tears freezing. Unable to speak a word for fear of further abuse.

Tyler hollers in a central cage.

I take a hairclip from my pocket and make quick work of the lock. The door screeches. Tyler quietens.

"It's me, Asher," I whisper.

Tyler Matheson looks as large as a bear in the small confines of the cage. A chain around a pipe on the far wall anchors him in place. I duck down and yank the gag from his blue lips and he starts working his jaw. I start on the newer padlock at binding his wrists, flashlight held in my teeth.

"Strange?" he says. I grunt. "Strange, you've got to get me out of here."

The padlock swings free. Tyler lets me unwrap the chains, grimacing. His wrists have been rubbed raw. The ends of his fingers are purpling.

"Who did this?"

"Some guy. He was nuts, man. He kept going on about his grandfather." Tyler's eyes widen. "Joe. Mikey. Are they alright?"

I place a hand on his broad shoulder. He's colder than an icebox. "I'm sorry. Whoever he was, he got to them first."

Tyler stares, blue eyes welling up with tears. The terrors of the night pile on him before my eyes and he cracks under their weight. Sobs wrench themselves out of his chest and Hawkins High's centre lineman falls forward to bury his forehead in my shoulder. I hug him back. The muscles in his back shiver beneath my fingertips.

The horror hardens into anger. Stop whoever did this, Lord, whatever it takes.

.

"So, you think this was done by a violent group of nut-jobs who have been periodically resurfacing for the past five decades to attack students who go to the school. I get that right?" I nod. "All right. Explain."

Chief Hopper is an intimidating man at the best of times. At the moment, he's downright scary. "I started investigating HC at the end of semester as a local history article for school. I'm part of the newspaper team."

"I know who you are," he cuts in.

Right, that's not terrifying. "Yeah, so I did some digging and I discovered that lots of kids have been going there over the years and coming back with injuries. Thing was, everyone put it down to drunken accidents – you know, it's a place for parties and stuff. The whole haunted boarding school vibe. So, people write the injuries off. I wanted to get the whole story. I start talking to locals who went up when they were teenagers. Claudia Henderson –"

"–Ain't that Dustin Henderson's mother?"

"Yup. She remembered a friend of hers saying that a man had been the one to push her down the stairs. She hadn't slipped and she was adamant she wasn't drunk enough to mistake it. Mrs Henderson herself mentioned feeling like someone was watching her the whole time. I guessed it might be that society or something, protecting the school despite it being closed down. What other reason is there? I mean, stranger things have happened. Like the Hawkins lab leak."

"Indeed," he muses, his leather chair creaking as he plants his elbows on the desk. I've got his attention.

"I kept trying to get out there myself – it's not far from my house – but I had a job all summer and the start of school is always hectic. Then my mate tells me that Tyler and Michael and Joseph were going over for the weekend . . . I had to check it out."

"And you jump on a bike without informing anyone you're going, find two dead bodies, a boy locked in a cage, and your bike gets stolen by the perp. That about sum it up?"

"That'd be it."

Chief Hopper sighs and runs a hand over his balding head. My research says he's early forties. Tonight he is much older. Two dead boys on his watch, another horribly traumatised, and me.

"Flo!" he shouts. I twitch in alarm. He waves a calming hand while heaving himself out of the chair. "Wait here, I'll get one of the men to take your statement and drive you home."

"Is Tyler going to be okay?"

"We'll get him counselling. Matter of fact . . ." He scribbles a note on a random piece of paper and slaps it on the keys of his typewriter. "We'll get you one too."

"I'm fine."

That stare blatantly states 'you are an idiot child.' "You're running on adrenaline."

I roll my eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Counselling," he repeats, and he stomps out to find Flo, the station secretary.

Already I know there's no way I'm letting a counsellor poke around my head. God's good enough for me.

Now I'm alone at last, I lean forwards and peer at the papers scattered all over the desk. There are police reports, eye witness statements, the Hawkins Post article from the seventh that reran a Chicago Sun-Times story. In the article, Barbara Holland's pleasant face smiles next to the blocky Hawkins National Laboratory. Hawkins has been under a spotlight ever since that tape got released that damned the laboratory for unsafe practices. When I bike home there are news vans parked along Randolph Road. A chemical leak, they said.

"Yeah, right," I scoff. "Even though Barb lived on the other side of town."

Oh, now that's interesting. An adoption form? With Hopper's signature too. That's something to add to The Wall. The name of the adoptee is covered by a map. I reach across and –

"Powell will take your statement and he'll drive you home," Hopper declares. I shoot to my feet with an innocent smile fixed in place. Hopper frowns from the doorway, decides not to ask, and jerks his head for me to follow him into the precinct. Tyler waits on the row of plastic chairs opposite Flo's desk. He attempts a smile. Mrs Matheson, a lady half his size, clings to his hands.

"How're you feeling?" I pause to ask.

He shrugs. "I'll be okay."

I touch his shoulder in what I hope is a comforting manner. "Hang in there, tough guy."

Suddenly, he envelopes me in another hug that encircles my whole body. He's warm, finally, and no longer shaking.

"Thank you. Thank you, Asher Strange."

.

Officer Powell whistles. "I always thought this placed was haunted."

"Just by me," I sigh.

"I don't envy you."

"I don't envy me either."

"Ever think about renovating?"

"I am slowly. It's tough going when there's only one of you. Let me know if you know of any free labour."

"Will do."

"Well, thanks for the lift."

"You sure you're gonna be all right?"

I slide out of the passenger seat. "I've been here seventeen years. Another night won't kill me."

"Hey." He leans over the gearstick. "Call if you got any problems. I'm on night shift." He glances at the house and shudders. "Hate to imagine you being alone here after the day you've had."

"Thanks, Officer Powell."

The soft-spoken Calvin Powell smiles. "Call me Cal."

"Will do."

He touches his hat and straightens up. I close the passenger door, moving closer to the house so he has room to turn on the gravel drive. The car heads along the prairie road, takes a left, and goes west. That way will take him into the forest, the barrier between the prairie and Hawkins. The other direction would take him to where Hawkins College hides in a separate cluster of trees.

When the car disappears from sight I feel free at last. Free for my shoulders to slump and a groan to escape my lips and all the adrenaline to fade away so I'm left exhausted and alone.

Fifteen miles west of Hawkins lies a prairie. It's calm out here, a mild thirty degrees. Crickets chirp, frogs croak in obscured streams, the dry tallgrass rattles. The vast sky is alive with stars. Dense clouds are especially bright and take centre stage in the absence of the moon. They bathe the landscape in silver and, far in the distance, the brilliant nightscape lands atop the rising hills of the horizon. Hawkins College fades to the back of my mind in the face of Roane County's display.

There is enough faith in me, even after today, to be impressed.

I remain outside, drinking it in, prolonging the inevitable. A little longer is fine. On the gravel drive, facing the tallgrass, I can almost trick myself into believing the house doesn't exist.

Then, a noise, a crash, breaks the peace. I frown and turn to the black Victorian mansion.

My heart leaps into high gear.

I hadn't seen it before because of the shadows.

Skulking on the porch is my bike. The one that was stolen.

He's here.

"No," I whisper. Cal's far into the forest and I have no mobile phone. Help is the landline inside.

No, no, no. This cannot be how this awful day ends.

Panic settles itself on my shoulders and I have to fight it off. Clear thinking and surprise are the only advantages I have. Losing it is not an option.

Part one: avoid the creaking steps.

I plant my bag in the gravel and slip off my heavy boots. Flip, it's cold. The wood of the steps is old and splinters stab through my tights, burrowing into the balls of my feet. Avoid the second board on the porch, it creaks the most. Fingertips on the iron knob smack in the centre of the door.

Deep breath.

The hinges are oiled and the heavy slab of oak swings. He's switched on the entrance hall chandelier. Small incandescent bulbs burn in the mess of dripping crystals. There is the sideboard. It holds a hideous heirloom vase and the old-style landline hanging on its hook.

A curse from upstairs. At his voice fear ratchets up to terror. I can barely breathe. The base of the staircase is only ten feet away. He could peer over the landing railing and see me.

No, no, no, God's got this. Calm down.

But God 'had' Joe and Michael too, and look at what happened to them.

You're saved. It's going to be okay.

I'm feeling less okay by the second.

As I pick up the phone, my eyes fix on the portrait hung at eyelevel. It's dark with age, depicting a middle-aged man with a prominent scowl and W.J. stitched into his lapel. W.J. Morell, HC's evil principal. Bethany's letter said he was the one who ordered the secret society to murder her friends. He also built this house.

An engine's roar echoes through the open door. Headlights race within the tallgrass and then they turn the gravel drive into a broken landscape of black and white shards. They're heading this way. It must be Cal to the rescue.

I relax in relief and it is my undoing.

Arms strangle me from behind.

My scream is cut off. I scratch, drawing blood, achieving nothing but to make him choke me tighter. The hands are emaciated and vicelike. Prickling darkness starts to swarm, a million tiny pixels flickering on and off at the edges of my vision. He drags me into the kitchen.

"Girls like you killed him," he breathes in my ear, hot and foul.

The car skids on the gravel, the engine cuts out, door slamming. "TOD!"

That's not Cal.

He throws me onto the lino. I'm too weak to do any more than reach, uselessly, for the fire poker. Straddling me, he forces my wrists to the floor on either side of my head.

"Get off." The cry rattles in my throat and leaves my mouth as little more than a cough.

The skeletal man snarls, his teeth glinting in the dimness. Spit collects at the corners of his mouth in his laughter.

"You poisoned Grandpa's house. I will kill you and burn this place to the ground to purify it." His voice is sibilant, lisping. Insanity dwells in those jaundiced eyes.

"Get off!" I screech and drive a knee between his legs. He lets out a croak, falling sideways. For a brief moment, his face is illuminated. He's the spitting image of his grandfather, right down to the W.J. on his blazer.

A newcomer enters the kitchen to see me scrambling out from under W.J. Morell's mad grandson. "The hell?" he says, and then he jerks back because Morell is at him like a snake, hissing and spitting and going for the eyes.

The newcomer punches Morell across the face and Morell thumps against a cupboard. The newcomer hits again, again, again. At last Morell collapses and sprawls, unconscious, on the floor.

"Thanks," I say. Ack, since when does speaking hurt?

The newcomer has a mullet, a leather jacket, a black wife beater, and appears nothing more than intrigued despite the fact that he just knocked out a total stranger. The chandelier casts him into sharp plains of black and gold and reveals a catholic medal shining on his chest. He hooks a thumb into a belt loop.

"Who the hell is that?" demands Billy Hargrove.

I groan, flopping to the floor, and start to cry.

This was not what I meant when I said 'whatever it takes'.

Note: So, this happened. Uh, well. Another one for the 'pairing no one reads in a small fandom' category. Ah, who cares. At least I enjoy it, right?

As soon as Billy stepped out of his Camaro, he became my favourite character. The rest of the season cemented this for me. Not because I think he's a good candidate as a boyfriend or anything, seriously, I'd probably avoid him like the plague if I met him in real life. But . . . the POTENTIAL. You can do so much with a character like him!

And Asher? The name I got from a person I did medical school with (before I quit, go figure) and the girl herself evolved in the writing process. I rather like her. As the story goes on, I feel very, very sorry for her. Poor girl. She doesn't deserve me as her author.

Have fun!

(BTW: I am Christian and I fully support counselling. GET HELP. Talking to people, Christian or not, is necessary. Whether you have God or not you definitely someone to help work through the mess that our brains can become.)

Next Up: The Police are back, Billy Hargrove has issues, and Asher Strange needs help.

TOWRTA