a Stranger Things drabble
(warnings: past character death is mentioned)
The grandkids didn't grow up with clunky video cameras. They couldn't believe we used to cart them everywhere. When my daughter was going through the attic this past July, she found the old tapes.
All of them, neatly organised and boxed up by me all those years ago. Of course I kept them. Of course I treasured them as my most valued possessions. But I put them in the attic. Threw out my VHS player so I wouldn't be tempted. I couldn't watch them. Couldn't bring myself to try.
I'd hear the voices. I'd see the smiles.
I'd look at the people we lost, and it would take me back to Hawkins, Indiana.
The town doesn't exist anymore.
It was wiped off maps, erased from history books. All documents burned. They didn't bother rebuilding it after everything happened. They marked it off, claiming dangerous chemical leaks and radiation, and people stayed away. Nobody grows up in Hawkins anymore.
The grandkids don't know that I wasn't born in California. They don't know that I spent my childhood in the Midwest, riding my bike along leaf-strewn paths with my three best friends.
Sure, they've heard a story or two about Uncle Mike and his wife, Aunt Jane. They've heard about Lucas. They've heard about Jonathan and his kid brother, Will. They know that these were the people who shaped my life when I was young.
My daughter sporadically asks me why I don't speak about it. She asked me when she was a teenager, and the day before her wedding, and last Christmas when everyone was in town for family dinner.
She asks quietly, when nobody is around. When it's just me and her in the garden, or in the kitchen washing dishes together.
I guess she's clever like that; clever like we used to be.
She asks me timidly, scared that I'll actually answer. Scared that she'll finally hear the truth about what happened all those years ago. But I don't tell ghost stories anymore.
They told my daughter about some newfangled technology that converts tapes into online files. Don't ask me what that means. I barely understand Blu-ray.
But she let them convert the tapes.
And then they came to me, brimming with curiosity, and told me what they had done. Promised that they didn't watch anything. They wanted permission from me. Wanted me to see the tapes first.
It's been decades of keeping the past buried. Decades of refusing to think about them. I guess I was curious too.
I watch the tapes with my daughter perched on the armrest beside me, her hand on my shoulder. My grandsons, both of them lanky teenagers, are on the floor in front of me. My granddaughter sits on my lap.
I watch the tapes and see them. All of the ghosts that have haunted my mind for sixty years. All of the memories that I left back in Hawkins, Indiana.
"That's my friend, Will," I tell them. "My friend Lucas. That's Uncle Mike. And that's his wife, El—Jane. Jane."
My granddaughter has red hair. She points to the screen with delight and asks me about the girl grinning at the camera.
"That's my friend, Max," I say, and my voice is thick with emotion. I can't help it. She's alive in the video. She's laughing at Lucas. Digging an elbow into Mike's ribs. Slinging her arm around El's shoulders.
My daughter asks me about the pretty girl loading bullets into her revolver.
"Nance," I say. "Nancy Wheeler, she was Mike's big sister. She was...like a big sister for all of us."
The grandkids are chattering, pointing to the clothes and the hairstyles. They're full of excitement. They're full of questions. They fall silent when the videos become more somber.
Cracks in the pavement. Cars speeding out of the town with suitcases tied to the roof. The school gym housing the people who lost everything. I stop narrating and let the videos speak for themselves.
The kids stop asking questions.
I can hear my daughter softly crying next to me. My granddaughter is still, her shoulders tense. She's about the age I was when Will went missing.
The camera swivels around in one video. It's Robin. She lives in Australia with her wife now; calls me a couple times a year.
She's talking to the camera with that goofy smile on her face, gesturing wildly. Her eyes look up, and the camera turns back.
Steve Harrington's arguing with her. It's the first time he's appeared on the videos.
I open my mouth to say something. Nothing comes out.
I watch him and I see that my old, worn memories are perfect replicas of the truth.
The video ends, another one starts up. This time, it's Steve and Nancy sitting on the porch outside Nancy's house. He's cleaning his bat with the nails hammered in, and she's loading more bullets into her gun.
I miss Nancy. She's always there in the corner of my mind, with her wry, sardonic smile and her gentle eyes.
I miss her like I miss Max, like I miss Will. I miss them like they were my family and I'm alone without them. I miss them and keep the memories of them safe in my heart.
I watch him in the video, sitting on that front porch with the love of his life on the last day of his life. He's talking to her quietly, and the camera zooms in and you can see all of the hope on his face. She's beaming, her cheeks rosy.
They don't know they'll die that same day.
"Steve was my brother," I finally mumble, and my voice is rough. My daughter's hand slips into mine and she squeezes tight. She's thinking about her brother—my son—Steve, who lives out of state.
My eldest grandson asks what happened to Steve and Nancy, but I can hear in his voice that he already knows the answer.
I tell them about the monsters, and the nightmares, and the way we fought to save a town that doesn't exist anymore. I tell them how it was my fault that Steve died, because I'm the one who made him come with me to find the tiny monster that ate my cat.
"If I hadn't done that, maybe he'd be alive today," I say, but I know it's not true. Steve couldn't stay away from danger. He couldn't stop himself.
"He was a goddamn hero," I say. "I owe him my life."
We watch some more. I don't know why I was filming him for so long, but I'm glad I did. I'm glad I captured him happy and lighthearted and talking to the only girl he ever loved.
My daughter tries to lighten the mood. She compliments Steve's hair. I burst out laughing.
"He was so proud of his hair," I tell her. I lean forward and ruffle my grandson's hair. "He had this elaborate routine. He taught it to me."
Steve looks at the camera. He's noticed me filming. I can remember that day so clearly, and as I look at him, it's like I'm a kid again. I'm standing there on the path and I'm making fun of him. He's talking back, telling me I'm a moron.
He looks at Nancy. Shakes his head. Flips me off, but he's smiling. It's the last conversation we'll have before the world ends.
The videos stop playing soon after that. We didn't record anymore after our friends died.
They took the light with them.
We sit in the dark; my daughter next to me on the arm rest, my grandsons on the floor and my granddaughter on my knee.
My name is Dustin Henderson. I'm an old man now. All grey and wrinkles. My knees are creaky, and I'm a stick in the mud when it comes to what I like and what I don't.
I forget things sometimes. But I don't forget the people who died.
Steve Harrington doesn't change in my memory. He's forever young. They all are.
