vecna's curse | mike wheeler x fem! oc
♡ summary: the turnbow trap was a success but things took a turn at the barn. layla fell under vecna’s curse, but it wasn’t an ordinary curse—it was a whimsical fantasy of layla's imagination. trapped in this dreamlike trance, her mind held the key to her freedom.
♡ a/n: hii!! this is my second story and I was lowkey inspired by an edit I made for my stranger things dr. recently I rewatch Labrinyth and I was like "wait I need to cook something up" this may be a mike wheeler fic, but ended up more about my oc, whoops sorry! anyway I hope you enjoy reading this! please be kind! x.
The Turnbow trap was set in stone. Layla went to the barn with Will, Robin, Erica, and Joyce, carrying the bodies of the Turnbow family. Her boyfriend Mike was with the others capturing the Demogorgon. Nancy had pressed her extra revolver into Layla’s hand for protection; she’d fired a gun before—she kinda had to these past few years.
Will stepped outside with his mom. Robin and Erica stayed back, keeping watch on the family. Layla sat on a bench with the gun resting across her lap, her Labyrinth screenplay open in her hands. She used a Polaroid of Mike as her bookmark.
She closed her eyes and whispered her favorite line.
“For my will is as strong as yours, and my shield— and my kingdom is great…”
She repeated it, trying to regain it into her memory. “And my kingdom is great… damn, she’s right, that is a hard line to remem—”
A crash cut her off. The youngest Turnbow lunged, shoving Robin and Will to the ground.
Layla dropped her book and sprinted toward the chaos. She and Will slammed into Derek together, trying to pin him.
“Help! I’m getting kidnapped!” Derek screamed, moving under their grip.
“The door, get the door!” Layla yelled. “Mom, the rope! I need the rope!”
Will spun toward his mother, but both he and Layla were already losing their grip on Derek.
Derek twisted, shoving Layla hard to the side. He scooped a handful of dirt and flung it at Will’s face. “Eat dirt!”
“Damn, he’s strong…” Layla groaned, clutching her head. She scrambled back to Will, helping him up and brushing grit from his eyes.
“Come get us, dipshit!” Erica shouted, bracing herself to charge.
Derek didn’t take the bait. He bolted toward the ladder instead.
“Hey stop!” Layla sprinted after him, grabbing the rungs and climbing. “Derek, we need to protect you—”
“Yeah, right. Suck a fat one.”
He was already at the top by the time she was halfway up. Derek pushed the ladder backwards. Layla felt the world flip.
The ground slammed the back of her head. Will’s voice shouting her name warped and stretched like it was underwater.
Minutes or something like minutes passed before Layla blinked her eyes open. She expected the barn ceiling, the rafters, the dust. Instead…
She wasn’t in the barn at all. She was somewhere else.
A shimmer clung to the air. Glitter drifted like dust motes caught in a spotlight. Music—soft and haunting, floated from unseen strings. Layla pushed herself upright, dizzy.
A full, grand, impossible ballroom—marble floors reflecting golden light, chandeliers dripping crystal, masked dancers spinning in elegant circles to a melody she was sure she’d heard before.
Layla staggered, her foot catching on something,
She looked toward a mirrored wall. Her own figure stared back, she thought she recognized.
She wore a white gown with puffed shoulders and a full skirt that glimmered as she moved. Her hair was styled in soft, fluffy curls, threaded with white ribbons. Glitter dusted her cheeks and eyelashes.
She had never felt more beautiful. Or more out of place.
Layla brushed her fingers over the gown’s skirt.
“I’ve seen this dress before… and this room,” she whispered.
“Turkish delight, my lady?”
Layla jolted. A boy stood beside her, holding a silver tray piled with pastel sweets. His mask covered half his face, but not the curls—soft, and the familiar crooked smile. And those teeth. She knew those teeth.
She knew him. She went to call his name but her mouth couldn’t shape the name.
“Oh yes, please. Just… one.” She plucked a cube of sugared jelly and popped it into her mouth.
The sweetness melted instantly, and with it—her thoughts. One by one slipped through her fingers like sand. Dustin’s face blurred. The tray was gone. The boy was gone.
Time stretched thin, like elastic, Layla felt unreal. Minutes smeared into hours. Hours into shimmering nonsense.
The dancers wheeled around her, their masks gleaming. Glitter sifted down from the ceiling like slow-motion snow. A warm, weightless feeling seeped into her limbs, loosening her stance, her vision becoming blurry.
And she kept seeing him. A man.
Tall. Sharp. Gone the second she focused. Always vanishing at the edge of her vision as though he lived in her eyes.
She spun—nothing. Turned gone again. The guests laughed behind their fans, their voices bending like warped reflections. She swore she saw him peering over a hand fan’s rim, then dissolving into the crowd.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m… going crazy.”
A soft tap touched her shoulder.
Around her, dancers gasped and stepped back, forming a loose circle of glittery silence.
A man stood before her—older, maybe late thirties, with blond hair and striking blue eyes that shimmered like frost over fire. His outfit looked plucked from a storybook: a velvet tailcoat that shimmered between deep midnight blue and lavender, threads of tiny crystals catching the light with every breath he took. His trousers tapered elegantly, dusted with a faint glitter that shifted like stardust when he moved. Ribbons trailed from his cuffs, whispering like playful spirits in the air.
He bowed, and even that small gesture made the fabric sigh and sparkle.
He was… handsome. Unsettlingly so. Enchanting in a way that made the room tilt just slightly.
And the longer Layla looked at him, the more handsome he became—as if the sight of him rewrote her memory of beauty in real time.
“Care for a dance, my lady?” the blond man asked.
Layla could only nod. Her hand slid into his, warm and steady, and he guided her toward the center of the ballroom. As they stepped into the golden wash of candlelight, she felt dozens of eyes turn toward her—curious, hungry.
She lifted her right arm, letting his fingers lace with hers. Her other hand rested on his shoulder. His hand settled at her waist—firmer, tighter than she expected. They began to move, gliding in time with the lilting melody. With each beat, the space between them shrank. Her breath hitched; her face grew warm from their small gap.
He tilted his head, blue eyes locking onto hers.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Layla parted her lips, but only silence fell out.
“I—I don’t… remember my name.” She frowned and looked away, embarrassed and unsettled.
“That’s all right,” he said gently. “Many of the children don’t remember their names for a couple of days.”
“Children?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “What children?”
“You’ll meet them soon,” he assured her with a soft, unsettling smile. “Don’t worry.”
Layla’s thoughts wavered, like someone had shaken her mind like a snow globe. She reached for something—someone—she was certain she should remember. Something tugged at her. A sound. A voice.
La… — hurry! Music, we need music!
Layla’s brow tightened. The sound didn’t fit here. It wasn’t part of the ballroom. It was from somewhere else. Somewhere real.
She shook her head, dizzy.
The man’s hand tightened around her waist—too tight now. Almost possessive. Her stomach flipped, unease crawling up her spine. The glittering room seemed to dim around the edges.
“Lay—” The voice again, cracking through the dream like static.
His fingers pressed harder against her side.
“I would like you to meet the children,” he murmured, leaning in. “I’m sure they’d love someone like you to watch over them.”
Her heartbeat quickened. Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
“You know…” the man murmured, “you remind me of someone I used to know.” His fingers brushed the side of her cheek—slow, lingering.
“Her skin was soft like yours. And her hair…” His hand drifted to one of Layla’s curls. “Her curls were just like this. Bouncy. Perfect.”
Layla’s breath caught in her throat. The man leaned closer, their lips only inches apart.
“Oh really?” she asked softly. “What was her name?”
His expression softened—but something in his posture shifted.
As if the question hit a nerve.
The name hung between them, delicate and dangerous.
They swayed in silence, never breaking eye contact, the world around them blurring into glitter and motion.
“You know I could give you all your dreams come true,” he breathed into her ear.
Layla inhaled sharply. Her stomach twisted.
Mi… do you copy? Lu…? This is a code red—
The voice—real, frantic—cracked through her mind like a radio interference. Someone was trying to reach her.
The man’s grip tightened again.
“The only way for me to give you your dreams,” he continued, “is if you join me. And forget your friends.”
He smiled thinly.
“Especially that boyfriend of yours.”
Layla’s vision wavered. Her heartbeat stuttered.
A name surfaced—broke through the fog.
“Mike…?” she whispered. Then she remembered, "For my will is as strong as yours, and my shield— and my kingdom is great…"
The man's eyes grew darker, as Layla struggled with her line,
"My kingdom is great...damn. I can never remember that line"
The man's expressions pleaded with desperation, "Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave."
Layla looked down "My kingdom is great. My kingdom is great." For a second Layla paused as she finally remembered the line and looked up at the man,
"You have no real power over me."
A collective gasp rippled through the guests. The music warped.
The walls pulsed. The dancers flickered like faulty projections.
The room began to spin—faster, harder—until faces stretched into grotesque smears of color. The guests circled her, laughing, whispering, their masks distorting.
The man’s eyes—cold, hungry blue—locked onto hers.
Lights flashed. Glitter fell like shards. The world cracked along its edges. And then—
That clock. That damn grandfather clock.
The sound sliced through the illusion like a blade. Layla whipped her head toward it and then back to the man— only to find she was no longer staring at the handsome prince in shimmering lavender and navy.
She was staring at Mr. Whatsit.
His expression was the same, but his beauty was gone—replaced with something hollow, ancient, and wrong.
“Hello, Layla.” Mr. Whatsit—no, Henry Creel smiled, cold and razor-thin.
“Henry Creel?!” Layla choked, stumbling backward. Panic surged through her. She shoved past masked dancers, their bodies oddly weightless as she pushed them aside. Her gown tangled around her legs; she gathered the skirt in her fists and ran.
She made the mistake of glancing back.
Henry stood in the center of the ballroom, no longer the charming man in shimmering blues. His outfit was bleached bone-white, stark against the growing darkness—but his left hand had twisted into something monstrous, a clawed appendage dripping with blood.
Layla’s breath caught. Her knees nearly buckled.
Red—fresh blood, vivid spread across his clothing as if it were blooming from inside him.
She turned and sprinted blindly, only to crash into the mirrored wall. the mirrored wall. Her palms slapped against cold glass. Her breath fogged it.
“Think, think, think—” She spun, scanning wildly. She needed help. She needed a weapon. She needed something. Anything.
Soft. Familiar. Comforting.
I’m sorry, but I’m just thinking of the right words to say…
Layla froze. That voice. That song.
I know they don’t sound the way I planned them to be…
She turned toward the mirrored wall and saw her reflection shimmer then melt into a memory.
They were on his basement couch, legs tangled, a movie playing. His arm around her. Her head on his shoulder. Both of them relaxed, laughing softly in the warm glow of the TV.
On the screen, the main girl in the movie stood where Layla stood now—same gown, same nightmare ballroom.
The girl picked up a chair and smashed the mirrored wall open.
Layla’s breath steadied. Just a little.
She tore her gaze from the memory and scanned the ballroom. A chair sat abandoned near the edge of the dance floor. She sprinted to it, grabbed it with both hands, and hurled it at the mirror with every ounce of strength she had left.
Her memory shattered into thousands of glittering shards. The ballroom distorted, melting, dissolving into a whirl of fractured images and floating glitter. Layla climbed through the broken gap
Wind whipped through her hair as she dropped through darkness, scraps of the ballroom drifting with her like torn pieces of a dream. Ribbons, glitter, music notes, scraps of ribboned cuffs—all swirling around her.
The fall seemed endless. Then—
Layla landed on something soft. A bed.
She sat up fast, her heart punching her ribs.She wasn’t in her own room. This was Henry’s room. Dim. Cold. Familiar in all the wrong ways.
And the song was still playing— The Promise by When In Rome— but warped now, echoing off the walls like a memory trying to fight its way through a nightmare.
She had escaped the ballroom. But she was still trapped.
“Mike!” Layla shouted. Her voice echoed down the walls like it had nowhere else to go. “Mike! Mike, where are you? Will? Lucas!”
She spun—and there it was.
A portal ripped open at the end of the hallway, light spilling through it like a sunrise.
On the other side she saw Robin, pressing headphones firmly to Layla’s real body. Erica stood behind her, yelling orders.
And Mike—Mike was kneeling in front of her, gripping her hands like a lifeline.
“Layla! Layla, wake up—please, please wake up,” he cried, his voice cracking.
Tears welled in Layla’s eyes. She staggered forward, hope burning in her chest, and then broke into a sprint.
But something yanked her backward. Her breath caught—she turned
He clamped onto her arm, his grip bruising, his eyes hollow.
“I—please—please let me go,” she begged.
Henry blinked. And when he spoke— It wasn’t Henry’s voice at all.
Vecna’s voice crawled through the air, cold as a grave. “I will show you what happens next.”
His clawed left hand hovered over her face. “No!” Layla tried to pull away, but her body wouldn’t obey.
The world exploded in images—Fire. Fields of dead soldiers. Children screaming. Demogorgons tearing through a bunker.Kids running. Falling.
She saw herself, Mike shielding her from a charging Demogorgon, refusing to move even as it lunged. Then— a final flash Layla didn’t understand, and Vecna clearly didn’t expect it.
Bones snapping— Demogorgons collapsing— Will on his knees, head down, shaking.
Layla collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. The vision vanished. Henry’s room vanished. She was back in the hallway again, the portal glowing at the far end.
“Why isn’t she waking up!?”
“The song is almost over!”
“Layla, please—please don’t leave me!”
Layla pushed herself up, trembling.
She ran. She ran with everything she had left.
Memories flashed around her like flickering film: Her friends’ laughter. Mike’s smile. Movie nights in the basement. D&D campaigns where Will always surprised them. Max’s jokes.
El’s soft hugs. Her home. Her life.
She reached out stretching her arm toward the light
fighting the pull of the darkness closing in around her.
She gritted her teeth pushing through
At the Turnbow residence, Mike dropped his axe with a heavy thud.
Lucas clapped him on the shoulder. “That was a close one, dude.”
“Yeah… I hope the others are okay,” Mike sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Hey man, I know Layla can handle herself. Come on—let’s get moving.”
Lucas nudged him, then sprinted toward their bikes. Mike followed. They hopped on and pedaled hard toward the barn.
On the way, something caught their attention: a military bus idling nearby, its doors open. Inside, kids no older than nine or ten were climbing aboard. Both teenagers froze, exchanging confused glances.
Before Lucas could speak, Mike’s talkie buzzed sharply.
“Mike, do you copy? Lucas! This is a CODE RED!”
Mike grabbed the radio. “I’m here—what’s wrong? Over.”
“It’s Layla! Vecna’s got her! Hurry—what’s her favorite song?!” Robin’s voice crackled urgently from the other end.
Mike’s eyes went wide. Lucas pressed his hands to his head. “Oh shit.”
Mike continued, “Check her bag! There’s a mixtape. A mixtape I made for her. Play that—play it, and we’ll be there as fast as possible!”
Mike shoved the radio into his backpack, slammed down on the pedals, and tore down the road.
Every second felt like an eternity as Mike and Lucas raced toward the barn, hoping the music could reach Layla before Vecna did.
Once they arrived, Mike dropped his bike and sprinted to Layla’s motionless body on the ground. Joyce knelt beside Will—who was unconscious also. Robin was crouched next to Layla, holding the headphones tightly over her ears.
Mike slid beside her, gripping her hands, his voice raw. “Layla… wake up, please… wake up.”
His eyes welled with tears.
“Why isn’t she waking up?!” Erica shouted.
“The song… it’s almost over!” panicked Robin.
Mike pressed his forehead to hers. “Please… wake up.”
Then, gasping, she drew a deep breath. “Mike!”
He grabbed her instantly. “Layla! Oh my God!” He hugged her tightly, relief and fear mixing in his shaking arms. “I thought we lost you. I thought I lost you.”
“I’m here. I’m here,” she whispered, tangling her fingers through his curls, holding on.
“Holy shit, Layla—what happened?” Lucas asked gently, resting a hand on her arm.
“I—I don’t know…” Layla admitted, her voice small but steady. But she only looked at Will's body, remembering Vecna's vision.
“T-the military…” Mike said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “They have the kids in Hawkins. We need to protect them.”
Layla’s jaw tightened. Even after everything she’d just gone through, the weight of the mission didn’t escape her.
