PARANORMAL | ❝Nothing is stranger than believing.❞
Cath knows a thing or two about Will Byers. Daphne, on the other hand, knows virtually nothing about Tonya McCarthy. Still, none of that changes the fact that both of them have up and vanished with...
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MONDAY 7th NOVEMBER, 1983
RINGO seems to have no recollection of last night — the feline is back to his usual, mellow self as Cath wakes up to find him curled up at the end of her bed. She, on the other hand, still feels an overwhelming fear coursing through her body, seeping into her memory the more she comes to.
The comfort of sunlight bursting through a slit between the curtains spreads a warmth through her chest. Even if it was late at night, the knowledge that she couldn't turn on the lights if she wanted to terrified her. It was fair to say most of her sleep was wasted away with the duvet clutched to her chest, her balding bunny soft toy in a headlock and wide-eyed with paranoia.
At least today will be normal.
Sitting up to rub the glue of tiredness from her eyes, Cath peers at Ringo once more. It's hard to believe last night he was caught up in a rabid fit, hissing and howling into the abyss — the bundle of ebony fur gazing at her from the foot of her bed seems so oblivious in comparison.
She crosses the small space of her room to the oak chest of drawers, chipped at the sides from years of use, and opens it. It's the fairly usual combination she goes for: shirt, knitted cardigan or sweater, skirt, stockings and her Mary Janes. This morning, she opts for a deep cobalt cardigan she found in a car boot sale last summer. She takes care with each button, knowing they hang on only by a thin thread. After that, Cath brushes her hair and pushes back the front strands with a black headband.
When she leaves the room, Daphne's just coming out too with her bag slung over her shoulder. She mumbles a quick "Morning" to her, before bouncing down the steps with arms full of the same green posters from yesterday. Cath greets her in return and sighs, tip-toeing down the stairs behind her.
"... Yeah, I don't think it's gonna work..."
Threads of half a conversation drift into audibility the further she goes down, spotting her father leans against the wall with the phone's spiralling cord bobbing about as he speaks.
"... Did you see that power surge last night? A bunch of our cables are completely fried, and a couple bulbs broke in my room..."
"D'you want toast?" Daphne asks midway through opening the bread bin.
Cath nods. "Yes, please."
Popping two slices into the toaster, Daphne slides into a seat at the table and gathers her posters to her left. She pulls out a black marker from the front pocket of her overalls and begins filling in the bubble writing on the top few papers. For a few moments she watches from afar, fascinated by the careful hand she has — she's always been the most creatively inclined out of them all, whether it be through these posters or the stories and screenplays she writes but never lets her read. Cath isn't too bad either, but could never magic up something so brilliant and unique off the top of her head.
