Chapter 25: THE ROT
The wrongness had been pulling me east for three days.
Not a conscious thing—more like a compass needle swinging toward magnetic north. Every time I drove through Hawkins, my attention drifted toward the outskirts of town, toward the farmland that sprawled beyond the school and the strip malls and the ordinary houses where ordinary people lived ordinary lives.
Tonight, I followed it.
The Camaro's headlights cut through the September darkness as I left the main roads behind. Past the high school. Past the last subdivision. Into the agricultural zone where Indiana's heartland took over and Hawkins became just another speck on a map of corn and soybeans and struggling family farms.
The wrongness intensified with every mile.
I'd felt variations of this sensation since arriving—the ambient pressure near the lab, the spike during my first quarry training session, the low-level hum that never quite went away. But this was different. This was a beacon, a signal fire in the darkness, something calling out to whatever sense had awakened in me alongside the fire.
The sign appeared in my headlights: MERRILL'S PUMPKIN FARM. Hayrides. Corn Maze. Pick Your Own.
I pulled off the road and killed the engine.
The farm spread out before me, orange globes scattered across dark earth, the kind of scene that should have looked wholesome and autumnal. Instead, it looked wrong. The pumpkins nearest the road were fine—fat and healthy, ready for Halloween carving. But further back, toward the far edge of the property, something had happened.
I got out of the car and walked toward the dying section.
The rot started gradually. A few soft spots. Some discoloration. Then it accelerated—pumpkins caved in on themselves, flesh blackened and putrid, stems collapsed into the soil like they'd been eaten from below. By the time I reached the back of the field, I was standing in a graveyard of vegetation.
The fire churned inside me, responding to whatever was causing this. I could feel it in my chest, hot and agitated, like a dog straining at a leash.
I knelt down and touched the ground.
The soil was wrong too. Not just moist from irrigation—soft in a way that suggested emptiness beneath. Hollow. Like walking on a thin crust over a cave system.
My boot pressed into the earth, and the crust gave way.
I jerked back instinctively, but not before I saw what was underneath. Dark soil threaded with something organic—pale tendrils spreading through the dirt like veins, pulsing faintly in the moonlight. The tunnels. The Upside Down's infection spreading beneath Hawkins, corrupting everything it touched.
The wrongness spiked so hard I nearly staggered.
Then I felt something else. Movement. In my peripheral vision, at the edge of the dying field—a shape that shouldn't be there.
I didn't wait to identify it.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, to sprint for the Camaro and floor it back to civilization. But running triggered chase instincts, and whatever was out there might be faster than me. So I walked. Steady, controlled, fire ready in my palms but not ignited.
Twenty feet to the car. Fifteen. Ten.
The shape at the field's edge didn't follow. Maybe it hadn't seen me. Maybe it was waiting for easier prey. Maybe I'd imagined the whole thing.
I didn't care. I got in the Camaro, started the engine on the first try for once, and drove.
The wrongness faded in the rearview mirror, but it didn't disappear. It never disappeared anymore.
A mile down the road, I pulled over and let myself process.
My hands were shaking. Not from the encounter itself—from what it meant. The show had depicted Season 2's tunnel system as something that emerged over weeks, spreading beneath the town while everyone went about their lives. But I'd been treating it as future tense, something that would happen eventually.
It was happening now. Had been happening since I arrived, maybe longer.
Will Byers was already being possessed. The clock wasn't winding down to some distant deadline—it was already in the final hours.
I looked down at my boots. Dark soil clung to the treads, threaded with those pale organic tendrils. Evidence of the infection spreading beneath Hawkins.
The fire in my chest pulsed, demanding action. But what action? I was one person with powers I barely controlled, facing an interdimensional invasion that had taken a government laboratory and a psychic child to stop the first time.
I needed to train harder. Get to Phase 3. Build the alliances that would make the difference when everything went wrong.
The drive home was quiet. I parked in the driveway and sat in the darkness for a long moment, collecting myself before going inside.
Susan was in the kitchen. Neil was nowhere to be seen—avoiding me, as usual. Max was in the living room, watching television.
She looked up when I came in.
"Where were you?"
"Driving."
She knew it wasn't the full truth. I could see it in her eyes, that sharp awareness that had developed over weeks of learning to read me. But she didn't push.
"There's leftover lasagna in the fridge."
"Thanks."
I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. My mind was still at Merrill's farm, still processing the implications of what I'd seen.
Season 2 was active. The tunnels were spreading. Something was in the fields.
And I was running out of time.
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