Shadows of the Night •a Stranger Things story•

Water it Down

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Nancy grips the recorder in her hand, playing the clip to Murray in his very secure home. Murray is listening intently, but also not watching the three teenagers. He is sitting on his sofa. Jonathan is leaning against the table.

"What if they try to replicate that? The more attention we bring to ourselves, the more people like the Hollands who know the truth, the more likely that scenario becomes. You see why I have to stop the truth from spreading, too." Dr. Owens' voice sounds calm, but slightly menacing. Ronda cannot tell if he's truly a good guy or not. She's never met him, and she knows that Chris has, but Chris isn't sure what to make of him. "Just the same as those weeds there. By whatever means necessary."

The tape comes to a stop. Murray does not speak. Nancy asks, "So, is it enough?" Again, Murray doesn't say anything. Nancy raises her delicate eyebrows at the man. "The tape recording, is it enough?" She starts sputtering, anxious. "Is it incriminating?"

"What are you doing?" asks Ronda, as Murray rises from the sofa and moves toward his kitchen, He grabs a bottle of vodka, pouring himself a glass with ice. He starts shaking a cocktail shaker with the alcohol inside.

"Thinking."

"With vodka?" she presses, disapprovingly.

It's a central nervous system depressant. So yes, with vodka."

Nancy looks down in disappointment. Murray turns to his record player, putting a record on. Jazz music starts floating through the room. "Music? Really?"

"Yes. It helps me—" he comments, not at all bothered by their incessant doubts and questions. Murray starts drifting around the room, sipping on his vodka.

"What? Think?" inquires Jonathan.

"How long is this gonna take?" asks Nancy, trailing after Murray.

"Longer if you keep talking," he says, without looking back at her.

Nancy stops moving, repeating herself, "Is the tape incriminating or not? It's a simple question."

Murray laughs mockingly. "There's nothing simple about it. Nothing simple about anything you've told me."

"You don't believe us, do you?" wonders Jonathan, standing behind Nancy.

The man turns, facing the three of them. Nancy and Jonathan stare at him expectantly. Ronda surveys them all from a distance. Murray tilts his head. "I believe you, but that's not the problem. You don't need me to believe you. You need them to believe you."

"Them?" Jonathan retorts, leaning forward.

"Them." Murray gestures to the outside world with his glass of vodka. He starts moving around again. "With a capital 'T'. Your priest, your postman, your teacher, the world at large. They won't believe any of this." Murray stares at his reflection the multitude of TVs he has against the wall.

"That's why we made the tape," says Nancy.

"Oh. That's easy to bury. Easy."

"He admits it," she says, raising her voice. She waves the recorder in Murray's field of vision. "You heard it. He admits culpability."

"You're being naive, Nancy!" he snaps, shutting her down. "Those people, they're not wired like me and you, okay? They don't spend their lives trying to get a look at what's behind the curtain. They like the curtain. It provides them stability, comfort, definition. This—this would open the curtain, and open the curtain behind that curtain, okay? So the minute someone with an ounce of authority calls bullshit, everyone will nod their heads and say, 'See? Ha! I knew it! It was bullshit'. That is, if you even get their attention at all."