𝔻𝕚𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 ༺ Max Mayfield ༒ Male OC ༻

𝔸 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣

Joyce Byers felt as though she was spiraling into madness, her mind caught in a relentless cycle of hope and despair. She couldn't discern whether the voices of her youngest boys, Harry and Will, were genuine or cruel illusions born of her desperation. It started innocently enough with the phone—first one exploded in a shower of sparks, then another followed suit, leaving her with nothing but dead lines. The boombox had joined the eerie symphony, playing Harry and Will's favorite songs as though taunting her with memories of their laughter. Finally, the lights flickered incessantly, as if trying to whisper secrets of their whereabouts, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly out of reach.

Now, she sat in their shared bedroom, a sanctuary turned battleground in her quest to connect with her sons. The room was a mosaic of their lives: Will's side adorned with gleaming science trophies, a Jaws poster staring down from the wall, and scattered papers filled with drawings and snapshots of his friends. Harry's side mirrored his personality, boasting baseball and football trophies, a Bullitt poster presiding over his bed, and cherished photos capturing moments with family and friends.

"Will... Harry? Sweeties, can you hear me?" Joyce's voice trembled, each word a plea wrapped in a mother's love, as she implored the lamps for a sign. Her eyes flitted from one lamp to the next, searching for a flicker of response. "Will, Harry... Please. It's me... It's me, just talk to me. Talk to me," she urged, her voice a fragile tether to hope.

The creak of the door announced Jonathan's entrance, his face a canvas of confusion and concern. "Mom?" His voice was a gentle inquiry as Joyce turned to him, relief and desperation mingling in her gaze.

"Jonathan! C-come here. Come here." Her voice was urgent, a lifeline thrown into the sea of uncertainty, beckoning him to join her in this surreal vigil. Jonathan approached cautiously, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her face, mirroring her worry.

"Mom, what is this? What's going on?" he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and concern as he settled beside her, trying to make sense of the scene before him.

Joyce clutched his hand, her grip a silent request for understanding. "It's Will and Harry, they're... They're trying to talk to me," she whispered, her eyes darting back to the lamps, searching for validation.

"They're... They're trying to talk to you?"

"Yes, through... T-through the lights." Her voice wavered, a tightrope of hope stretched thin, as Jonathan regarded her with skepticism, a flicker of doubt touched his mind, igniting a spark of reluctant belief.

"Mom—"

"I know! I know. Just... Just watch." She turned back to the lamps, her voice a gentle command, laced with a mother's unwavering faith. "Will, Harry... Your brother's here. Can you show him what you showed me?" she entreated softly, her breath caught in anticipation. The faintest flicker danced across a lamp. "Did you see that!?"

"It's just the electricity, mom," Jonathan countered, his voice a tether to the rational, striving to anchor them both in the familiar. "I-it's just acting up. It's the same thing that fried the phone!"

"No, no! It is not the electricity, Jonathan. Something is going on here!!" Joyce's voice rose, her words a crescendo of emotion as tears traced paths down her cheeks, mingling fear with the fierce certainty of a mother's intuition. "Yesterday, the wall—"

"What? What about the wall?!"

"I don't know! I don't know!" Joyce's frustration spilled over, a torrent of confusion and determination that defied explanation, grasping at the intangible threads of a mystery she could feel but not see.

"Mom, first the lights, then the wall?" Jonathan's voice was edged with disbelief, yet the undercurrent of worry for his brothers softened his skepticism. His own fears mirrored hers, tears welling at the thought of his missing siblings.