disclaimer: although the world of Stranger Things & its characters take up a huge portion of the real estate in my brain... I do not own any of it! this is a work of fiction based off the Netflix show & I have added my own original characters and plot lines.
ACT I: Twilight Zone
"Help I'm stepping into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse,
Feels like being cloned
My beacon's been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go, now that I've gone too far?"
POV: Winter Reid
I suppose growing up in any suburb in any corner of America in 1986 is largely the same. There are all the markers of a "thriving" small town.
A locally owned grocery market, a brick library building, sheriff cars rolling down quiet streets looking to catch teens getting high in the alleyway outside the movie theater. You will probably pass a quaint elementary school just steps from the high school, where kids park their bikes and teenagers park their cars not too far apart. And, of course, it wouldn't be the 1980s without the local video store.
Inside, two teens stock the shelves with movies about young boys riding their bikes searching for buried treasure, movies about girls who sit in class and pine after the jock with the luscious hair who sits with his feet up on his desk one row ahead of her, or, if it's to your taste, scary movies, ones full of nightmares, kids toys gone wrong, or brushes with something extraordinary and extraterrestrial.
The neon, the flashing lights, the fireworks... it all keeps our heads swiveling. We look incessantly for opportunities to waste hard-earned dollars on the latest trend or gadget.
Madonna and Michael J. Fox.
Walkmans and Weird Science.
Hair Metal Bands and Farrah Fawcett Hairspray.
It's the simple life, right? Everyone is looking for distraction.
Mom sets a casserole on the table at dinnertime and secretly crushes on the lifeguard at the community pool. A teen turns up the radio in her room and sneaks out of the window to meet a boy in an idling Ford outside. Dad grabs a can of beer, leans back in his la-z-boy, and laughs at sitcoms on TV.
Follow the trends, don't look up.
It makes people feel safe. It makes people feel normal. But Hawkins is far from normal.
Ignorance can be bliss. We try not to worry too much about the missing boy from the outskirts of town or how the brand-new mall tragically burnt down in the summer of '85. Those are unpleasant events in small-town life, the dark underbelly living under all the newness.
If you can, you will ignore it.
The illusion begins to waver once you leave the big houses with their long driveways and Reagan/Bush 84 lawn signs. If you travel outwards, you'll pass dense trees and black roads littered with potholes.
A deer struck by a car is left out in the cold, taking its last shuddering breaths in the ditch - its eyes watch the first few drops of rain beginning to fall. This is the edge of Americana, not as shiny or as new, but real nonetheless. A lopsided wooden sign at the top of a sloping dirt drive reads:
Forest Hills Trailer Park
Trailers sit at odd angles like monopoly pieces left out in the mud, abandoned by a careless child. They are identical in their desolation, with the same rectangular shape and dirty exteriors. There aren't any pools or lawns unless you count the clumps of grass spread across the dirt like patches of hair on a balding man's skull.
People live here, too, although no one thinks much of them. We all go to the same schools because there is just one Hawkins High and one Hawkins Middle. Inside the trailers, you'll see people working to live. They get home after a long shift to their quiet box and find comfort in a microwave dinner and a can of beer.
The drink is not entirely cooled because the fridges here are always lukewarm, but they open it and sip nonetheless. They're trying to be oblivious, too, although it's much harder when you don't have all the modern comforts to stack around you and create a wall between yourself and reality.
The air smells different here - it isn't spiced with pies cooling on window sills or the scent of fresh-cut lawn. The wind cuts sharper against the exposed cheeks of the residents. Lights buzz and flicker at random. Stray cats drink out of muddy puddles. Sheets hang on clotheslines, billowing and floating like ghosts in a graveyard.
It's quiet here... well, quiet enough. Eventually, you get used to the sound of a guitar blaring from the Munson trailer or the incessant barking from the Johnson's dog. Even the strange sounds from the woods, the low groans and chitters, add to the soundtrack and it all turns to white noise.
We do our best here. You learn to accept what you can't change and find comfort in dreams and wishes.
Trailer park life is tough, and so are its residents.
When I first got here I was too afraid to leave my trailer, and so I watched.
I studied life from the lens of my living room window, my chin set atop my folded hands, my brain documenting the players on the dirt stage before me.
Mr. Wilkins two trailers down has a severe case of insomnia, one that worsens during the full moon, and he'll spend all night outside in his bathrobe staring up at the stars.
Rebecca Martin likes to lay out on a sun lounger in a swimsuit regardless of the weather, her long legs slathered in baby oil and her lips painted a coral red. She ran off to Hollywood with dreams of modeling after booking a spread in The Gap catalog when she was just a teen. The dream only lasted a year, but if you go to hers for a haircut, she'll sit you down and tell you stories about disco balls and downtown bars.
In the last trailer lives Bee, a woman who hasn't said a word to anyone since she moved in, and that was well before the Watergate scandal. No one knows why she keeps to herself, the children claim she's a witch, while the adults say she's just dim-witted.
But if you walk to the end of the lane and find her out in her vegetable garden, wide-brimmed sunhat and flowing caftan, she'll wave you over with one hand, and then pass you a spade. She doesn't need to say a word, just her dirt-covered hands gently guiding yours and a smile that crinkles her eyes is the best conversation you'll find out here.
And there's one boy I like watching best, who plays his guitar a little too loud, drives a little too fast, and dreams bigger than anyone I've ever known.
He taught me how to survive here, and soon we were off, exploring every corner from the town line to the old abandoned lab.
I fell more times racing alongside Eddie Munsion than all the days spent running alone on the beach back home in California.
I would return to my trailer as dusk fell, with skinned knees and palms, tangled hair matted with sweat, grass stains and tears in my clothing, and a smile that refused to fade.
One particularly humid day last summer, a few days after the mall fire, I sat out on the picnic table, sketching a wildflower and listening to Eddie ramble on from his front porch.
He was dressed in cut-off blue jean shorts with a chain hanging from the belt loops on his right hip, and a white sleeveless band tee that frayed over his tanned arms. He spoke, cigarette between his lips, arms straight out like a tightrope walker as he set one black hightop converse sneaker down, then the other right in front.
The warm breeze fluttered my pale cotton sundress above my knees, and the overgrown weeds scratched around my legs. I let my denim jacket hang at my elbows, relishing in the warmth that caressed my upper back.
I hunched closer to the notebook in front of me, my mouth twisted in a pout and my eyebrows furrowed as my pencil sketched across the blank page.
"I can't believe the mayor's precious mega mall is now a pile of ashes," Eddie said, taking a long puff and blowing the smoke upwards.
"People died, Eddie."
I looked over at him and drew my eyebrows together, bothered by his lack of sensitivity. He met my gaze with a small smile, finding my tendency towards compassion a little naive.
"What's the official story?" He asked sarcastically, head tilted. "Oh yeah... teenagers break in and set off a roman candle through skylight."
His voice thundered like a newscaster reading a scrolling headline. With one hand lifted, he stretched his fingers wide, then snapped them shut like a firework exploding in the air, mouthing boom.
I shook my head at him in disapproval, which he seemed endlessly pleased by. He jumped off of the porch steps and shuffled over to me with a wide grin.
He plopped on the picnic bench, his legs straddling the seat, and faced me. I focused on tracing the stem of a marigold, but I could feel his eyes on me.
"I'd say it's a win in the battle against conservative, conformist culture," Eddie declared.
I kept my head down, pretending to be unimpressed by his big words.
"Now that they've burnt down their precious The Gap and hot dog on a stick..." Eddie continued, inching closer to me. He propped his elbows up on the table and smirked. "Where, oh, where will the moms go to do Jazzercise now?"
I snorted and tried to stifle a laugh, covering my mouth with one hand.
Eddie's eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned even closer, trying to catch my attention.
"Well, with any luck, maybe the moms will move their Jazzercise club here," I sighed, rolling my eyes over to meet his and smiling innocently. "That way, you can watch them from your bedroom window."
"Yeah, that's not really my type," he scoffed.
"Don't lie, Eddie," I teased, a sly grin playing on my lips. "I know you have a secret thing for Olivia Newton-John."
A beat of silence passed between us, Eddie's eyes narrowed challengingly, and I held his stare, leaning closer to show he didn't intimidate me.
His hand suddenly shot out and snatched the pencil from my hand.
"Hey!" I protested, trying to snatch it back.
He leaned back, the pencil twirled through his fingers and rolled along his knuckles.
"This town is cursed, Winnie," he said, using the nickname he had given me when I first moved here, even though I hated it.
"It's just another Hawkins tragedy," I sighed.
I reached for my pencil, but Eddie slid backward and teasingly swished it through the air, just far enough out of my reach.
A short, perturbed groan escaped my lips and I propped my elbow on the table, leaning my cheek against my palm.
"I don't know," Eddie said, squishing my pencil between his flattened palms and rolling it back and forth. "Maybe there's an evil sorcerer lurking in the shadows, casting spells on the poor souls doomed to wander this town-"
I rolled my eyes, closing my notebook with a slap.
"Or maybe it's trolls," he continued, a wide grin cracking across his face. "Goblins and trolls coming out after dark and running amok."
"You wish the explanation would be that exciting," I murmured, shaking my head in amusement. "But bad stuff happens everywhere."
"And with great frequency in our peaceful little town," he snorted. "Just like that kid everyone thought was dead two years ago, and the pumpkins that were poisoned last Halloween-"
"Tragedies, Eddie," I interrupted. "That's all it was."
Eddie's brown eyes narrowed, his lips pursed in thought, and I knew he wasn't finished.
His face revealed a slow, sweet smile, one that always makes me feel like someone draped a warm blanket over my shoulders, and extended the pencil in my direction.
I sighed gratefully, my fingers brushing against his, before he yanked it back again and tucked it behind his ear.
"Hey-"
Eddie's palms slapped down against his thighs, and he stood up suddenly, hopping onto the table and towering above me.
"Oh god," I muttered. "What are you up to now?"
His cigarette was clasped loosely in one hand, and the other slowly raised to his mouth, forming a fist. Suddenly, a discordant jumble of sounds fell out of his mouth, causing me to flinch and let out a surprised giggle. His neck snapped left to right, and he continued to produce a sound effect that I gathered was meant to sound like radio static.
I held my breath in anticipation, unsure of what he would do next, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.
He began to speak softly into his closed fist as if it was a walkie-talkie.
"Status report: USA, Indiana, 1985..." He began, enunciating every word with precision.
As he spoke, his eyes darted around him as if he were observing something foreign. I could feel the excitement building within him, fizzing like electricity through the air.
"This is Starman speaking," he announced, his voice booming with authority. "It seems the American dream experiment has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Somehow, the creatures who inhabit this place made a wrong left turn straight into conformism and unchecked capitalism. No signs of intelligent life anywhere, but... plenty of fried foods."
I stared at him in amusement as he pointed his still-smoldering cigarette at me.
"I have just found one being with an IQ higher than 75," he declared, a playful glint in his eye.
I looked behind me quickly, then back at him and mouthed me?, finding it hard to resist playing along.
"She informs me that the outlook here is bleak," Eddie continued, his tone growing more serious. "My ship crash-landed and is beyond repair. I seem to only have two options."
His voice trailed off and he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"One, enter the ranks and join a weird ritual where men sweat on each other. I believe they call it a sports team," he said, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "The creatures of the male variety here seem devoid of any basic communication skills or emotional depth. They seem to have designed an entire system of ball throwing and back-slapping just to allow them to touch one another and express affection without being judged."
He made a rather intelligent point in the middle of his imaginary scenario, and I found myself tilting my head in agreement.
"My second option..." Eddie trailed off, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for an answer. "Fling myself off the nearest cliff and promptly dive into the unknown."
He raised the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag, lost in thought for a moment. Rolling his neck around, he seemed to come to a difficult decision.
"This is Starman again," he said softly, voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "Informing HQ that this will be my last transmission."
I watched as he sauntered to the end of the picnic table, the toes of his shoes tipped past the edge.
He raised his head - a steely determination lit up his deep brown eyes.
Once more, he raised the closed fist to his lips and whispered wistfully, "It has been a pleasure serving with you boys. Starman, signing off. Over and out."
His voice mimicked static again as if the "radio" call had abruptly ended.
The humid air hung thick around his frame, tall and wily, standing atop the picnic table like he was on a stage delivering a monologue.
Life puttered around us, Rebecca Martin flipped onto her back and undid her bathing suit top. Mr. Wilkins opened his door to scoop up the morning paper. And Bee flit about her tulips and turnips, perfectly happy in her solitude.
But all I could see was the boy with curly hair and a wide grin.
He flicked his cigarette, the embers scattering onto the grass below, then turned slightly to offer me a wink and a two-fingered salute.
With one deep breath to steel himself for the impact, he threw his body forward, dramatically falling off of the picnic table and landing with a thud.
I gasped lightly in surprise, watching him turn onto his back, his legs kicking and his hands clasped theatrically against his heart.
Eddie lay convulsing on the ground, pretending like blood was spurting from his chest.
I pursed my lips to hide a growing smile, and slowly brought my hands together in light applause.
"Outstanding performance, Eddie," I said. "But I think Sigourney Weaver made a better point about the destruction of humanity... and she looked better doing it."
As he lay on his back in the dirt, his eyes rolled over to meet mine. A look of offense passed over his face, and he slowly held up one middle finger in my direction.
Laughter burst forth from my chest, my shoulders shaking as I slid off the table and offered a hand to pull him up.
Was he dramatic? Yes. But he's not totally wrong.
Hawkins is full of people pretending and conforming, but not Eddie Munson.
He'll stand on the cafeteria tables at school and give a loud rebel yell while the boys in his Hellfire club are sitting there, watching him with sparkling admiration. Most days, I wish I was more like him. Instead, I clutch my books and walk down the hallway, observing life blurring past me.
Forest Hills Trailer Park's homes are certainly not split-level ranch houses on Oak Street.
The first two trailers you'll see as you drive in stand opposite of each other, separated by a patch of dirt. In the back bedroom of the one on the right, a teen boy headbangs while Poison blares in his room. Across the way, a girl sits at her desk and sketches a wildflower while a Fleetwood Mac vinyl spins on the console in the corner.
Author's Note:
I do not describe body types, hair or eye color, skin tones, or height so please imagine the main character however you'd like!
ACT I: introductions, shenanigans, tensions
ACT II: revelations, Vecna shit, conclusions
this fic dives deep into themes hinted at in the show, as well as seriously discusses mental health! if you're looking for a fun little romp or a quick retelling of season 4... this is not that. but I hope you choose to stick around & enjoy yourself!
happy reading!