The headlights of Steve Harrington’s BMW cut through the gloom of the woods on the edge of town. The car was packed. Steve at the wheel, knuckles white. Mike Wheeler in the passenger seat, leaning forward like he could see better that way. In the back, crammed together: Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Will Byers, and Max Mayfield, who had her face practically pressed against the window.

The car fell into a tense silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under tires.

***

Meanwhile, at 1421 Cherry Lane, the Henderson house was quiet.

Upstairs, in a room plastered with Duran Duran posters and stacks of library books, Dustin’s older sister was having a perfectly normal evening. The radio played softly. A half-finished essay on her desk. The world was right-side up.

Then the bedside lamp flickered.

Not a power surge. A slow, deliberate pulse. On. Off. On. Off.

The hall light outside her door did the same. A faint, electric buzz filled the air, the smell of ozone cutting through the scent of vanilla candle.

Downstairs, the television in the empty living room snapped to static, the volume blaring for a second before dying completely.

Upstairs, the lights in her room went out. All of them. The radio died mid-chorus.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of her own breathing in the sudden, complete dark.

Then, from the wall behind her bed, a slow, wet, scraping sound. Like something dragging claws through plaster.