Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Nine months later, March 21st 1986
If there was one thing the citizens of Hawkins could agree on, it was that there was something peculiar about the secluded community on the outskirts of town. Ever since the large plot of farmland was bought in 1899, rumors of its owners ran rampant. Though the consensus that those who dwelled on it were undoubtedly odd, no stock was put into their speculation. They were never officially ostracized from society, but they were never truly welcomed, either. It was all just the same to them, and in the eighty-six years that followed, these peculiar souls kept to their circle, never drawing too much attention, never extending an olive branch to the rest of town, and never alluding to their true nature. All that time, they lived unbothered, in peace, in their little sanctuary.
Of course, nothing could last forever, and after the events of the summer of 1985, the community was labeled a cult. The correct term, however, would be coven. It didn't matter that none of their members were anywhere near the Starcourt Mall that night. Humans would never be comfortable with the unknown, and fingers inevitably pointed towards the secluded community on the outskirts of town that never seemed to venture far from home and never invited outsiders in. As the days dragged on through fall and winter, the whispers of witch, witch, witch, became less speculation and more accusation.
It was a rare occurrence that the pitchfork mob was correct in their conviction. While the coven may not have been at the mall that night, they were fighting on a different front. They were in no way disillusioned to think that the fire was just that and nothing more. For three years, The Coven fought battle after battle, sacrificing time after time, all to keep the tendrils of darkness from leaching into this world from the next. It was only recently that mortals grew wise to the things that went bump in the night. One could only lean on logic for so long until the coincidences became patterns, and patterns became undeniable.
The late afternoon sun shone down upon the open field with burning golden light as groups of men and women bustled about in preparation. In the center was a perfect circle of soil surrounded by acres of growing crops that had just been seeded. Martha Labelle paced the clearing, making a practiced march along its edge. Smoke trailed behind her as she went, stemming from the bundle of sage in her left hand. It was a slow lazy burn. Not a flame at its tip, only a dim glow of embers as it was strengthened by a crisp breeze.
