There is something stranger yet
that wants to take you, don't forget.
Yes, there is something stranger still,
and if it can, it could and it would and it will.

—Welcome to Night Vale

Tuesday, November 8, 1983. 11:36 pm.

Barbara Holland is not where she wants to be.

Where she wants to be is curled up at home in bed, reading Seventeen, listening in on her mother's phone conversations with her boyfriend of the week, or tying up the line calling Nancy and making stupid jokes just to hear that laugh again.

Where she is is sitting in Steve Harrington's backyard, toes in his heated pool, slowly pruning while her best friend has sex upstairs.

She knew this was a bad idea.

She shouldn't have driven Nancy here. Shouldn't have covered for Nancy about the rally for Will. Shouldn't have, shouldn't have, shouldn't life is made up of shouldn't haves. Shouldn't have bummed a cigarette that one time from Rachel Harris, shouldn't have stolen $20 from her mom's purse.

Shouldn't have a crush on her best friend, and yet here she is, sitting with her toes in a pool and wishing it was her upstairs instead of stupid Steve.

Stupid, stupid Steve. Stupid Barbara, for thinking Nancy could give her a chance.

She kicks at the water and it splashes on her rolled up jeans, and she wishes for the millionth time she were home in her bed.

Why did she even agree to drive Nancy here? She knew this would happen, knew Nancy would run off with Steve and leave her hurt and alone. Ever since Steve entered the picture Nancy's been more and more distant, declining sleepovers and trips to the cinema just to sneak off with her fake boyfriend.

Stupid Nancy. Stupid Barbara. Stupid Steve.

A sharp pain in her hand brings her back to reality. She grits her teeth and clutches the bandage tighter and watches as a drop of blood spills into the pool.

And then the lights flicker.

She doesn't know what to do–okay the power surges sometimes around Hawkins, but never like this—so she clenches her jaw and closes her eyes like it'll make everything go away.

But her hand still hurts and she's still sitting with her thumb bandaged and her toes in stupid Steve's pool and Nancy is still upstairs with him.

And then there's a roar.

And she turns—

And she screams as it reaches out and grabs her.

And as she's kicking and screaming and trapped in a world that is not her world, she wishes she were still sitting with her finger bandaged and her toes in stupid Steve's pool.

From his spot behind the trees, Jonathan Byers watches her disappear.

Wednesday, November 9, 1983. 12:34 pm.

Nancy Wheeler hasn't seen her best friend all day, and she's the only one who's worrying. Even Barb's mother doesn't seem concerned.

Not like Mrs. Holland is ever concerned about what happens to her daughter, Nancy knows. God knows how many nights Barb's spent at her place and her mother didn't even know she was gone. Barb's had a place at the Wheeler's table ever since middle school, eating scrambled eggs on weekends and kicking Mike under the table when he makes faces at Nancy.

Her mother notices when she's gone for two seconds. Nancy can't imagine what Barb's life is like.

But she feels awful about what happened last night–not with Steve, but with Barb. Awful for ditching her, making her drive her there, awful…

And now she's missing.

She can't believe Mrs. Holland even believed her stupid lie about the library, but it was the only one she could think of.

Barb is gone and Nancy can't help but feel that it's her fault.

So she picks up the phone again. She knows she can't call the police, they're too busy looking for Will, and it's not like they're super competent to begin with, anyway.

"Hi hello, can you put me through to the FBI?"

If she's going to do this, she's going to do it right.

Wednesday, November 9, 1983. Washington, D.C. 8:34 am

Dana Scully is late. Late because Queequeg wanted to be let out and then her car wouldn't start and then traffic held her up and now, here she is, red hair askew and glasses slipping down her nose and the elevator down to the basement feels like it's taking forever.

And then the doors open and she runs right into Fox Mulder.

"Mulder, I—"

"Don't bother getting out of the elevator, Scully," he says, telltale grin lighting up his face and she knows what that means.

"Where are we going?"

Wednesday, November 9, 1983. Hawkins, Indiana. 2:21 pm.

"Mulder, where are we going?"

Two hours in the car–he insisted they drive–and god knows how many miles later, and her hair is still askew and her glasses are still falling down her nose and he hasn't even stopped for coffee.

"Mulder if you don't tell me where we're going, the next stoplight we hit I'm going to open the door and hitchhike back to the Bureau."

"Have a little faith, Scully," he says, looking over and grinning at her before fishing a bag of sunflower seeds out of the glove compartment.

He tosses her a file–she doesn't even know where he pulled it from–and the contents land on her lap, almost spilling everywhere.

"Why are we investigating the Department of Energy?" She asks, raising an eyebrow quizzically in what Mulder's come to know is her trademark way.

"Not the Department of Energy, Scully," he says, and taps energetically on the folder. "Read the file."

She opens it.

"Mulder?"

"Mm?"

"Why are we driving to Hawkins, Indiana?"

"Because," he says. "Of the Hawkins National Laboratory and a missing girl named Barbara Holland."

Hawkins is a small town, smaller than any they've been to so far–and Dana Scully has seen her fair share of small towns. One stoplight, a drugstore, a hardware store, and a small restaurant called Benny's Burgers.

"We should eat there, I'm starving," Mulder says, pointing at it.

Scully frowns. "It's closed."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, Mulder, it is," Scully says stubbornly.

Mulder sighs and parks the car in front of a worn-down police station, unlocks his side of the car and steps out. On her side, Scully clips her badge to her belt and fixes her hair in the side mirror reflection.

A man is outside, smoking a cigarette, hat pulled low over his face. He looks for all the world like a stereotypical small-town sheriff.

Scully falls into step beside Mulder, gets ready to pull their badges out like routine. But then the man looks up at them, takes in their clothes, and rolls his eyes.

"Y'all must be here about Will Byers."