CHAPTER ELEVEN
Haunted House With Living Ghosts

☾

THIS WAS NOT how Rhiannon would've liked to spend her Saturday morning.

Trips to the lab meant she had to get up early, and as the antithesis of a morning person, it was her worst nightmare. If you asked her, her parents were being entirely unfair when they made her see Dr. Owens every few weeks... Like, she didn't need a shrink when she had the power of music and faking smiles, thank you very much.

Always a skeptic, her dad was weary of the lab people because he didn't like them — didn't trust them. Only Dr. Owens. And though he said Dr. Owens was the most qualified person to help her, she always thought the lab was too clinical for her comfort. Too suffocating. Too many questions. She felt like they'd lay her body on a cold, metal table and dissect her insides in the name of science. They would do so in steps: cut her intestines to check if black fluid would ooze out, probe her beating heart, then leave the flaps of flesh split apart when they were done for the flies to swarm around... Her imagination could be so charming.

The white walls made her skull pound, dug into an odd crevice in her brain that left her uneasy. The rooms reeked of antiseptic and the sharp, sour trace of cleaning products. They tried to make it welcoming but it was anything but. And she wasn't fond of the people either.

"This place gives me the creeps," she said as she sat on the stiff examination chair. "I wouldn't be surprised if they hid aliens in here or something."

"Just keep your cool," Hopper said, clamping a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "And if it gets too much, you let me know."

"Keep my cool," she echoed with a nod, gaining strength.

"So, uh..." Hopper trailed off, and he had this weird tone in his voice that made her wrinkle her nose. "You and Steve—"

"This is so not the time."

"We'll talk about it later then."

A few minutes passed before Dr. Owens came in. Rhiannon had been reading an issue of Seventeen she brought, flipping through the pages about fashion trends, relationship advice, and celebrity couples. It helped her disconnect before the session started, and she liked to pretend she knew the famous people personally, acting as if she was offended on her friend's behalf by what the articles had written.

Like always, Dr. Owens would ask her a series of standard questions to see what was going on with her. She thought about that for a moment. What had been going on with her?

Let's see... I had a fake date with my fake boyfriend. I ate a guy named Chad because I need to satisfy my hunger or else I'll turn ugly and shrivel up and die (sorry, Chad).

You see why she didn't tell him everything?

Her eyes fell on the clock mounted to the wall, on the slow ticking of the hand. "I don't think any of this is necessary."

"Rhiannon, you suffered through a very traumatic experience. It'll take some time to heal, but I can't help you if you won't let me," Dr. Owens said. "It's coming up on a year now. That'll bring its own well of emotions we'll need to address."

"I've been answering the questions. Isn't that what you want?"

He didn't surrender. "I promise we're on your side here."

Through the glass door, she looked at her dad, who was sitting outside with his arms crossed over his chest, wracked with concern. On one hand, she didn't like lying, even though it seemed she'd been doing a lot of lying recently — about being with Steve, about what she was. On the other, she had a good reason to lie. At least about the second bit.

"Now." Dr. Owens slouched in his chair, caging his fingers together. "Are you still having nightmares?"

She expelled an explosive sigh. "Not as much as I used to. At least, not until this week. They've come back."

"And when you do have them, can you describe what you see? How you feel?"

"I'm in the house again. There's blood on the walls, the whole deal. I can barely keep my eyes open..."

The routine went on, same as always. She described the gory details of her dreams. She omitted the wasteland she saw at the middle school the other day.

In turn, Dr. Owens made comments on her progress. He tried to pry any new information out of her, but she couldn't remember what happened after slipping into unconsciousness, except being somewhere very cold and dark — what she believed was that rotting limbo — and then... nothing. A void had wedged itself into her mind, turning the events into threadbare pieces she couldn't grasp. Dr. Owens said blocking out disturbing events was normal.

Her memories began again with her waking up in that house, covered in blood. She was different by then, and smelled of wild animal and mildew and death.

The last one standing, yet she didn't understand why or how.

Joyce Byers stood in the hallway as they left, waiting for Dr. Owens too, it seemed. She was with her youngest, Will, but she was wringing her hands together. Always in a constant state of worry over her sons.

"Hey, Joyce," Hopper said.

"Hey, Hopper. It's good to see you, Rhiannon," Joyce greeted warmly, mustering a smile despite herself. "How are you? How's Heather?"

"She's doing okay. Working at the hospital most of the time."

"You send her my best, okay?" Joyce said, planting a consoling hand on her arm.

"He here for another check-up?" Hopper asked, nudging his head at Will. The boy had wandered off to stare into a room of scientists scurrying around.

Joyce nodded. She looked at Rhiannon cautiously. "He keeps having episodes."

Then Joyce and Hopper started talking about something, but Rhiannon's attention had lapsed. Will was staring at her. She joined him down the corridor, stepping in front of glass panels that reached the floor.

"Hey, Will," she said.

"Hey," Will said meekly.

"Anything interesting to see?"

"Not really, no. They do a lot of walking around," he said, watching the men in lab coats tamper with different vials.

Her face twisted with concern. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Will answered in an automatic, almost hollow way. He didn't look fine. His cheeks were gaunt and his skin was sickly pale. Sunken shadows had made a home beneath his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping. This little kid bore the brunt of his family's tragedies.

"Did you guys find Dustin's pet?"

"I did," he said. "I thought I heard you in the hallway that day. You were calling me."

She frowned. She'd left in such a hurry to hide El that she didn't think to check on Will. "You heard me? I thought I imagined that."

"So you were there? In the Upside Down?" Will said gravely.

Her brows crinkled. Children were so cryptic for no reason. "Upside... down?"

"You've been there before, haven't you? You've been there before. Not just at school," Will repeated with fever bright eyes. He didn't seem all here.

"How did you know—"

"Answer me." His voice was disturbingly deeper.

A chill slithered across the back of her neck, raising goosebumps. "Well, maybe. I don't know. It's all a blur—"

"You have, Rhiannon," Will whispered. She wasn't sure it was sweet little Will she was looking at anymore. Something else had overcome him. Something wrong. The empty chasms that had grown in his eyes were proof of it. "I know you have. Deep down, you know it too."

"Will, you're scaring me," she gritted out, desperate and severe.

"Rhiannon!" Hopper called out, startling her.

"What, Dad?" she snapped with a harsh breath.

"We're leaving."

"You didn't have to scream. I'm right here." Rhiannon gestured at herself for emphasis.

"Let's go."

"Give me a second," she replied sharply. Her expression hardened as she looked back at the boy, lowering her voice, "Will, are you sure you're feeling fine?"

But Will didn't answer. He was called into a room with Dr. Owens, so her question was left listlessly hanging in the air. She pinched her nose, hungry for answers, but also hungry in general. If there was one thing about the dead, it was that they were always starving. Always consuming. Plants, insects, grieving people — whatever fulfilled them.

She didn't miss the way Hopper's gaze had lingered on Joyce as the Byers left. His crush was so painfully obvious. He always denied, reminding her that Joyce was dating someone else, but Rhiannon knew the truth even if he wouldn't admit it.

"Do you think Will is gonna be okay?" Rhiannon asked as they walked through a series of labyrinthine hallways, each identical to the last. "He seems... off."

"Owens says the episodes are normal. Has to do with that post-traumatic stress stuff. You know how he always says it gets worse before it gets better."

"Maybe he'll be able to help him," she said thoughtfully. "So. You and Joyce? What's going on there?"

Hopper scrunched up his face. "Let's just get out of here."

Rhiannon pointed at him with a knowing look. "We'll talk about it later."

Here were three things she knew: 1.) Will Byers went missing for some time last year, 2.) he came back cadaverous and wrong — nicknamed "The Boy Who Came Back To Life" in the papers — and 3.) he'd seen the wasteland she had. They were not that different from each other in these aspects. She was searching for similarities in the facts, desperate to form a connection. Maybe while he was gone, he went to the rotten place. The purgatory she barely remembered. The Other Hawkins.

Maybe, like her, he brought back something with him.

She wondered. She really did.

☾

Hopper dropped her off at her mom's before heading back to work. He said there was a case of rival farmers and decomposing pumpkin patches he had to crack, which all sounded so interesting (sarcasm, if you couldn't tell) but also so very Hawkins. Around midday, as she was painting her nails a shade of autumn red, she received a call from Steve.

"I have a precalc test coming up and I didn't do so well on the last one," he said. "I was wondering if maybe you could help me out a bit?"

"You think I'm qualified?"

"I figured I could study better with you since you're such a smarty pants— and you fixed my essay and stuff." This, to her, came unexpectedly. Steve was never one to put any effort into school. The classes, much less the teachers, didn't call his attention. But where he lacked in academics, he made up for in athleticism; whether it was in basketball or swimming. He was a talented team leader, exceptional at any sport he played.

"And the sudden interest in precalc is because...?"

"Well, if I actually wanna have a shot at getting into a school, I need to get my grades up."

She tucked the phone under her chin, setting it between her ear and shoulder as she applied another coat to her nails. "That's funny. I don't remember tutoring being part of the deal?"

Though she couldn't see the expression on his face, she imagined it was a look of mild hurt. "Right— no... it's not. That's okay. I can figure it out myself."

"Steve."

There was a pause. "Oh. You were kidding."

"You're learning already," she replied, smiling. "I'll be there in fifteen."

She changed into a cream knit sweater and jeans, slipping on a pair of sneakers. The braid her mom did in the morning was still intact so she kept it. She slung her backpack on and took her bicycle, wanting to soak in the scenic route, feel the wheels crunching over the fall leaves.

The ride gave her time to think, and Will's frantic words immediately came to mind. If he'd been to that place — the Upside Down, he called it — then that meant it was real. It solidified its realness, it amplified her strangeness. She felt dizzy. She was starting to think it'd be a good idea to visit the Byers later. Maybe the questions flocking around in her brain could be tamed on a leash if she spoke with him again.

Steve's house was nestled in the heart of Loch Nora. It was a massive three-story structure with paneled windows and wooden double doors. Inside, the furniture looked like it'd been handpicked by an interior designer, and then styled for a photoshoot about model homes. A sleek kitchen of glossy white and polished floors; a pool with lounge chairs out back. Abstract paintings worth thousands on the walls and a pretty chandelier dangling in the foyer. But there was no warmth. It wasn't the way a home should've been. It was the polar opposite of the Liu house. Hell, it wasn't at all like her dad's cabin, which was a total mess, but at least it was homely in its shabby way. A portrait of Steve's parents hung on the wall — his father cold and imposing, his mother much younger and reserved — and she thought about the rumors. The whispers circulated so quickly. People grappled for any taste of drama, and the nuclear family trying desperately to pick up the pieces after detonating at the end of the cul-de-sac was extra savory to gossip about.

A house didn't need to have ghosts to be haunted. It could be haunted by the aftermath of families falling apart — the slamming of doors and the explosive arguments and the cracks in the roof under the pressure of trying to be perfect. 

"It's nice," she lied, for his sake. She didn't want to say that his house was empty and sad. "Really fancy."

"I'd say thanks, but it's all my parents," he said.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "My dad's on a business trip and my mom always goes with him. And if she's not with him, she's probably working or on vacation."

"Doesn't it get lonely?" Rhiannon asked, staring at the decadent decor. Was it always like this? Did he grow up alone, in this house without any life or love?

Steve shrugged. "I'm used to having the place to myself by now."

"Same with me. My mom has long shifts. I always told her I wished I had someone to keep me company. I guess I have Nyx now, so it's not so bad."

"Maybe I should get a cat."

"He could live here, at this point, since he seems to love you so much."

Recognition flickered across his features as he passed a closet near the guest room. The cursed closet had her mind flashing back to her poor attempt at her first kiss. "Hey, remember when—"

Rhiannon's head snapped up so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. "Don't say what I think you're gonna say. I have decided we can never talk about that. Like, ever."

"That was really bad." Steve's smile was boyish. Charming, even. It made him look more beautiful than he already was, and Steve Harrington was nothing if not a beautiful boy. "I'm surprised you didn't give me a scar."

For context: the first time she'd been to his house was before ninth grade started, when his popularity was on the verge of skyrocketing and his hair was not yet as big as his ego — also known as when he was still just Steve. Not yet 'Harrington' or 'King Steve.' Just Steve. He decided to host a pool party at the start of summer, inviting all the coolest kids at school, so boys and girls were there without their parents. Looking back, it was a time of change; Rhiannon was fourteen and becoming more in tune with her body and learning about the power her looks might have over others if wielded correctly. Heather had just started letting her use makeup. She'd sometimes wear shirts with lower necklines. She thought she had a grasp on what sex was, more or less, because her friends would whisper about it at sleepovers.

One round of Seven Minutes in Heaven later, and Rhiannon found herself standing in the closet with Steve. Beforehand Priscilla had whispered in her ear that she was lucky they were paired together because all girls had a crush on him. Rhiannon knew Priscilla would cheer for her if she decided to go out of her comfort zone — Priscilla had already been sneaking around late at night to meet up with older boys at Lover's Lake and she knew things only adults would talk about. Lori would support her no matter what she did because Lori was Lori.

This was her first boy-girl party, after all, so Rhiannon figured she might as well have fun. So, when Steve leaned in to kiss her, she gathered enough courage to try meeting him halfway.

But then she miscalculated the distance and her movements were all wrong and she bumped into his forehead so hard she was sure she saw little cartoon birds flying around their heads.

It was by far the most embarrassing thing she'd done in her life — so embarrassing that she liked to block it out of her mind.

"We won't bring that up," Rhiannon threatened, narrowing her eyes.

"I remember what's his face asked you out that day— the kid with the red glasses..." Steve snapped his fingers, grappling for the name. "Aaron? Austin?"

"Who knows? God, that was so embarrassing." Rhiannon followed him up the stairs, her hand tracing the smooth surface of the dark wood railing.

"He saved himself the trouble of getting bumped in the head, that's for sure." Holding onto the railing, Steve stared back at her with an odd light in his eyes. "You did want to kiss me then, though. Don't deny it."

"You're so full of yourself sometimes," she said, trying to suppress her smile.

"Hey, at least we have a rule so it won't happen again, right?"

"Exactly."

No kissing was one of the most important rules they'd established.

His room was exactly what she expected it would be. Walls with striped wallpaper. Blue bed sheets. A poster of a bikini model pinned up and a painting of a red convertible over his desk. Stray soda cans here and there, though overall more organized than an average boy's room would be. There weren't as many pictures of him and his parents as there were trophies for different sports. The faint smell of cologne and aftershave lingered in the air, something akin to sandalwood and citrus. She set her bookbag down on his bed, taking out her binder and books.

"Whoa," he said. "Why'd you bring a whole library?"

She pouted. "They're my notes."

"I bet they're all color-coded and everything, aren't they?" Steve asked, looking at her as if he thought he had her all figured out. She didn't like that. "I wouldn't expect anything less from the girl with plans."

She shot him a dirty look. "Shut up," she said, because he was right. After she spread out the books and took out her pens, they climbed on the bed. "Let's start with something simple. The longest side on a right-angled triangle is...?"

Steve paused, deep in thought. "Uh, the... left side?"

Rhiannon inhaled sharply. "I'm gonna need you to actually try for this to work."

He scratched his head. "Right, okay. Give me another one."

☾

Time bled away into the late afternoon as they got through chapters in the textbook. The house might've been empty, but at least he had Rhiannon to keep him company. Steve liked watching her explain stuff to him, and seeing her smile whenever he answered correctly. She sometimes called him Stevie as a joke, but he liked the idea of being associated with something she adored, and so he didn't protest anymore. He didn't mind the sight of her smile either — not the rehearsed one, but her very real and very pretty smile.

Not that he would outright admit it, but Rhiannon had always been pretty. All sharp angles and dark eyes. Pretty in a lethal way, like a warning to beware, to not get too close unless you wanted to pay for it.

Sadly, he'd always been the curious type. The kind to slice his finger on thorns because he thought the flower was nice enough to touch. Too curious for his own good. And the problem with his curiosity was that it only grew the more he spent time with her.

Because behind the smile and scent of wildflowers, she wore secrets like silk. Things she kept locked away in a box, waiting to be spilled open. She'd given him fragments, a single glimpse through the cracks to show a part of her, but now he was interested. Now he felt starved, selfishly aching for more bits of information.

"Do you go down to the lab a lot?" he asked, highlighting his book.

"Every once in a while, so Dr. Owens can do his checkups. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

"I told him all about our relationship," she said. "He's excited. Said we should go in for fake couples therapy if we need it."

He grinned as he looked into her eyes, black like ink drops. "You're funny, Liu."

She twirled her pencil in her hand, growing serious. "I don't bring that up a lot, with anyone. All that lab stuff is like the opposite of normal."

"You have no idea," he muttered.

Rhiannon cleared her throat, looking desperate to change the subject. "Anyway. I should probably go, start heading home and stuff."

Steve casted a glance outside. Raindrops were pattering against the window, sliding down in thick droplets that formed puddles on the windowsill. "It's raining, though. Why don't you let me take you?"

The rain had withered to a drizzle by the time they returned to Maple Street. They were standing in her garage as Steve carried her bicycle inside, when they heard crazed shouting behind them.

"Guys! Over here!" Dustin, wide eyed and out of breath, came into view as he climbed off his bicycle. "I need your assistance."

Steve was taken aback. "Dude. Where'd you even come from?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Listen, there are more important things than whatever you two were doing," Dustin said, wheezing. "We have a code red. Do you still have your bat?"

"What bat?" Rhiannon asked, her gaze falling on Steve.

"The bat— the one with nails!" Dustin urged.

"You have a bat with nails?"

Steve blinked. "Yeah...?"

Her brow arched. "How... very?"

"I'll explain everything on the way. We gotta go. Right. Now," Dustin said. "It's about Dart."

Before Steve could ask who the hell that was, Rhiannon perked up. "Can Nyx and I come? We're good at finding things. Him especially."

"You totally ditched us the other day." Dustin scoffed. "What happened to helping us?"

"I had an emergency," she said defensively.

"Let me guess, six months left to live?"

She pursed her lips. "Would you look at that? I'm miraculously cured. They'll write a news special about me."

Dustin exhaled a thin breath. "Look, lady, you can come as long as your cat doesn't try eating what he isn't supposed to again."

Rhiannon smiled, saccharine and sweet. "Deal."

author's note.
it's all coming together!!

as a heads up, i had a 3am writing spiral this week and decided to tweak some things about the story lmao. i made very minor edits to the last couple of chapters but most important thing is that rhia's cat salem is now called nyx ✨ more of a reference to greek mythology and not the makeup brand but we move 🗣️🗣️