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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FRIDAY 11th NOVEMBER, 1983
BANG! Daphne winces as the wooden drawer flies open more swiftly than she'd expected, and she hesitates for a moment. Only silence follows, Cath appearing to be in her own world. Good, she thinks. But so much for being subtle. After retrieving some woollen socks, Daphne starts hopping around like a rainforest frog as she tries to wriggle out of her black tights.
She glances at her watch briefly, panting hard. There's still time for the plan.
After Will's funeral, she had made plans with Nancy and Jonathan to go on an... expedition of sorts. They are going to be out for the rest of the afternoon, so it's imperative they pack appropriately. All of the other requirements had seemed doable, but "weapons" had thrown her. Daphne knows for a fact that they don't own a gun. And she knows exactly why, too...
Their grandfather, her father had told her, was a complicated man. Thomas knew why he did the things he did, why he was so hard on his son and insistent on him "being more of a man" or why he would suddenly be seized by these bouts of frightening animosity that took him back to the beaches of Normandy. He had been in the D-Day landings — and he had told plenty of stories to Daphne when she was alive, at least when he was in a better mood. Those were better times with him. But regardless of all that, although he's never outwardly said it, Daphne thinks Thomas was terrified of his father to a point. Not him as a human, but his unpredictability. It was hard not to when, allegedly, he once took the pistol from the basement cupboard and fired it in the house. He blew two holes in the ceiling — she can still see the plaster work done to cover it up whenever they visit her grandmother nowadays.
So after that, it's no wonder her father refuses to keep a gun in the house.
But what else is she going to use against that thing she's seen? She has to equip herself somehow.
Daphne shrugs on a brown jacket hanging on her door hook and starts tip-toeing downstairs, her bag slung over her shoulder, as she grimaces at every squeaking step. Cath is the only one to be careful of disturbing here — conveniently, their father had to go out and pick up some groceries, so Daphne made the excuse that she was swamped with homework and wanted to make a start, whilst Cath said she simply wasn't feeling up to much after the funeral. Mysteriously, though, her sister doesn't seem to be in any of the rooms she creeps past. Weird.
She slips into the kitchen and opens the drawers, scanning her options for a suitable knife. She eventually selects a generously sized one, the blade's gleam in the ceiling light making her heart thunk nervously. Daphne holds the handle gingerly in her hands; she would rather not be accidentally stabbed with this thing in her bag. It needs a padding of some sort. Through the window, she spots the perfect source — clean laundry swaying gently in the wind on the washing line. Perfect. She rushes out and, after checking the coast is clear, plucks a pair of Cath's soft stockings from the line, wrapping it around the blade. As she slips it into her bag, it feels perfectly cushioned.
