Chapter Text
December 31, 1983
Dear diary, what lies ahead.
The tradition is still alive and well. I'm still writing a little bit about my year here, trying to figure out if I've improved, and honestly, I don't think I have much to write about that. There have been more interesting things, so to speak, this year. More horrible things.
The year itself started out pretty normal and ordinary, as always. I remember saying, "I don't think anything else will happen" at the end of August. But of course, I had to open my big mouth and throw away the boring year to make way for the most surreal one of my entire life.
If I thought Sam was too caught up in a fantasy world with his friends, it seems he dragged me and the whole town into it too. Because I don't think any teenager my age would ever think about whether there's another world beneath this one besides hell.
Sam told me everything from the beginning, or rather, I forced him to.
When Will Byers disappeared, the whole town became dark, uncomfortable, and distant in some way. At first, I thought they would find him. Where could an eleven-year-old boy get lost in a town like this? It sounded impossible in my head. I saw missing person posters the day after he disappeared. Sometimes Mom would go to the Byers' house to see how things were going, and she always came back feeling a little uncomfortable, but I didn't have the courage to ask her about it at the time.
But that wasn't the strangest thing of all. Sam has never been very good at lying, I mean, yes, to others, but I've known him since he was a fetus in my mom's belly, so I didn't fall for his nonsense anymore, even if he thought I did. He was always late because he stayed up playing D&D with the boys, but when he decided to skip school on a Wednesday (Mom always makes lasagna on Wednesdays) to stay "playing at Mike's house," I had already come to the conclusion that he was getting involved in something he shouldn't.
My first theory was that he and his friends were hiding Will somewhere. Just to be sure, I called the Wheelers' house to ask if Sam was there. When they told me that neither Sam nor Mike had been home since morning, I decided that when I saw that brat, I would threaten to destroy his cassettes and his Walkman.
I had my own walkie-talkie from when I talked to Sam when I was at Dad's house. Sometimes I would tune into the boys' channel to have a laugh. Sam had never caught me, so I remember taking advantage of that and doing it.
That's when I found out everything. About the girl named Eleven, that they weren't hiding Will, but that they were in a place called the Upside Down. I don't remember if that's how it was.
I remember when Sam came home on his bike, I was already on the roof of the house with all his cassettes, about to throw them off the third floor. (Maybe I went a little too far, but he had done worse things, okay?)
He told me from beginning to end what was supposed to be happening. I didn't believe him. It all sounded so silly, but the truth is that Sam isn't very good at telling stories or making them up, which is why he's not a Dungeon Master in D&D. Sorry, Sam, it's the truth. And even if Mike or one of his other friends had made it up, I still wouldn't have believed them. Now I regret a little not believing him at the time.
Mom was worried, of course. Joyce Byers was on TV crying and talking about lights and phones, and no one knew what to make of it. Hawkins isn't designed for desperate mothers. It's designed to pretend everything is normal until something rots away on its own. Sam avoided looking at the screen. I did look. A lot. Because something didn't add up, and when something doesn't add up, it makes my head itch.
Days later, Will's body appeared in the lake, and it was definitely the lowest point for Sam and his friends. If the town had been gray before, now it was midnight, and not the pretty kind, the kind where there are no stars because of the thick clouds.
We went to Will's funeral, and you could really feel the heaviness of the place. Something that puzzled me at the time was that Mrs. Byers didn't cry. I always remembered her as someone who wasn't very sensitive, but when it came to her children, she was always very protective and attentive. Especially with Will. Now I understand why.
After that, I remember when I went to the woods to practice my aim, I saw Jonathan nearby. We already talked a little in class, nothing important, just to kill time.
Sometimes, when Sam was younger, we would go to his friends' houses, since my mom said she didn't know how to take care of me on her own yet. I would see him around the house; he hardly ever went out, he just stayed in his room with the volume a little high, and Mrs. Byers would tell him to turn down the music because they had visitors, but his music never bothered me, I think. He had good taste. At the time, I wouldn't have considered him a friend.
I remember that day in the woods he had a bag, I don't think it was from the supermarket or the store. But I didn't ask.
Something strange started happening with Nancy (yes, Nancy Wheeler). Not strange like monsters or lights. She didn't talk as much in class anymore, and if you share even one class with her, you realize how participatory she is. And unfortunately, I shared chemistry classes with her. She would show up with dark circles under her eyes that weren't from staying up late studying. Sometimes she would stare out the window as if she were waiting for something to appear outside. She was called to counseling a couple of times. I heard that her grades had dropped, but I didn't know for sure.
At some point, we started to hang out. Jonathan and Nancy were walking through town, through the woods, at high school. The first time the three of us talked was when I found them in the photography room with the red light on and interrupted their investigation. Now I know it was about Barb Holland.
There I saw the figure of what we now call the Demogorgon behind Barb in the photograph. And that's when we let it all out, in short. I told them what I had heard from Sam and the boys. About a world similar to Hawkins beneath this one. They talked about a portal in the roots of a tree.
At some point, I took the bow with me. It wasn't a dramatic decision. No one looked at me strangely or asked me if I had gone crazy. I've always been good with it. It comes naturally to me, like breathing or tying my boots without thinking. I didn't take it to attack anything. I took it because it made sense. Because covering distance is important. Because having one more option never hurts. In that improvised group, everyone contributed what they did best, and that was it.
As for Sam and the boys, I think they were distant at that point. Sam went to the Hendersons' house alone. They had their own world, their own codes, their bikes, and their poorly concealed secrets. I made sure Sam came home. I checked schedules. I came up with excuses. I pretended not to hear conversations that started with "don't tell my sister." Sam pretended not to notice that I knew absolutely everything. It was our silent agreement. It worked better that way.
Then Eleven showed up.
Not just like that, all of a sudden. Not like, "Hi, I'm a girl with powers." She appeared in fragments. First, it was in cut-off words on the walkie-talkies. In awkward silences when someone asked too many questions. In looks between the kids that said, "Don't say anything" without moving their lips.
Everything started to fit together in an unsettling way. Hopper, Joyce, the kids, Nancy, Jonathan. All holding different pieces of the same puzzle. No one had the whole picture, but it was impossible to pretend it didn't exist anymore.
I didn't know Eleven as a person. I knew her as a concept. As proof. As that thing that confirms you're not exaggerating, that you're not crazy, that it's not just collective imagination. I didn't feel relief knowing she existed. I felt responsibility. And I think that was worse, but it's not her fault, it's my compulsive thinking mind.
There was also Harrington, who showed up at the end. Literally at the end of the madness. That still strikes me as funny, in a twisted way. For weeks, Nancy had been emotionally disappearing from the map, and suddenly there was Steve, bleeding, confused, and holding a bat as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I didn't talk to him much. There wasn't time. But I remember thinking that he didn't fit the image Hawkins had of him. That happens a lot here: people believe their own rumors.
In the end, Will came back.
That should be the perfect ending, right? Lost boy returns home, tears, hugs, collective relief, people breathing for the first time in weeks. And yes, there was all that. Hawkins needed that happy ending badly, like a Band-Aid slapped on with too much faith.
Will was alive. Home. That was what mattered. That was what everyone kept saying.
I repeated it too, of course. To Sam. To Mom. To anyone who asked. I said it so many times that it almost sounded real. Will was back. End of story.
Except it didn't feel like an ending.
Not because he was in bad shape. Not visibly. Will looked tired, pale, quieter than usual, but anyone would be after disappearing for so long. No one expected him to run out into the street celebrating. Joyce hugged him as if he were about to evaporate. Jonathan didn't stray far. All of that was logical. Normal. Human.
What was strange was the atmosphere. The way the Byers house felt smaller, even though no one said so.
The way Sam stopped making jokes for a few days, as if he had used up all the possible jokes and didn't know how to use them again.
The way the kids no longer talked about "the adventure" as if it were an exciting story, but as something to be quickly filed away, neatly folded, without looking too closely.
I had no proof of anything. There were no monsters in sight, no flashing lights, no open portals in the middle of the forest. Nothing spectacular. Just that uncomfortable feeling you get when you clean your room and everything looks tidy, but you know exactly where you pushed the things you didn't want to face.
Maybe it was just fatigue. Maybe it was my paranoia. Maybe after weeks of tension, the body doesn't know how to relax without feeling guilty. That happens too.
Steve Harrington stopped showing up so often after all. I guess he went back to his normal life, to his world where things do have explanations. I don't judge him for that. Hawkins loves to pretend that everything is back to normal as soon as it gets the chance. It's almost a local sport.
Nancy didn't talk much after that either. She was still friendly, but more closed off, as if something inside her had shifted and she didn't yet know where to put it. Jonathan was always like that, but now he seemed even more distant. As if looking too long in a specific direction was dangerous.
I'm still doing the same thing: functioning.
I went back to my schedule. To my responsibilities. To making sure Sam ate, did his homework, came home in one piece. Mom seemed relieved that someone was maintaining structure, though she never said it out loud. That's not her style. She gives thanks in silence, as if naming things could break them.
The bow went back in its place. Clean. Stowed away. Not because I thought I no longer needed it, but because there was no logical reason to carry it around every day. Hawkins isn't a movie. You can't walk around armed without raising suspicion. And raising suspicion is the fastest way to lose what little freedom you have.
Sometimes I wondered if I exaggerated everything. If maybe I saw things that weren't there. If maybe I just wanted to feel like I had a clear role in the midst of the chaos. That's a real possibility. I know myself well enough to admit it.
But even when everything "returned to normal," something no longer fit quite right. No one else seemed to hear her, but I did. And once you hear her, she doesn't go away.
Sam started hanging out with the boys again. Riding bikes. Laughing. Arguing over silly things. He was Sam again. Or something very close to it. I let him do it. I pretended not to watch him so closely. I pretended not to count the minutes. I pretended a lot of things, actually. It's a useful skill.
Tonight is New Year's Eve. There are fireworks somewhere in town. We can't see them from here, but we can hear them. Mom says that tomorrow everything will be different. Sam says that tomorrow will just be Monday with a collective hangover. I don't say anything.
I don't know if next year will be better. I don't know if it will be worse either. All I know is that I see things differently now. Not with constant fear, but with attention. As if the world had raised its hand and said, "Hey, this exists," and I could no longer pretend I didn't hear it.
If something breaks again, I want to be ready. Not to save anyone. Just so I don't close my eyes.
That's all for today.
Happy New Year.
Fun fact: this year I wrote 12 songs.
—Maggie B.