Date: March 1977 - November 1982
Location: Franklin Orphanage, Hawkins, Indiana
The imploded trailer was a ghost that haunted me. Not literally, but the memory of that raw, uncontrolled power was a cold dread that never truly left. My increased efforts to control my abilities became an obsession. I wasn't just building mental walls anymore; I was trying to construct a mental fortress, complete with sound-dampening chambers for the constant empathic noise and reinforced steel doors for the telekinetic surges. My head ached perpetually, sometimes feeling like it was being squeezed in a vise, but I couldn't stop. I had to understand what I could do, and how to prevent it from happening again.
My physical appearance continued its relentless march toward what the nuns called "angelic." At twelve, my features had refined, my ginger hair was long and lustrous, and my green eyes held a captivating, almost otherworldly quality. The freckles had mostly faded, leaving my skin porcelain-smooth. It was a useful mask, making me seem harmless, even desirable, to the oblivious adults and hormonal teenagers around me. But inside, I was a coiled spring, constantly vigilant.
The Rat
One quiet spring afternoon, I decided to test the limits of my power, carefully, meticulously. I found a lone brown rat scurrying near the orphanage's outdoor incinerator. It was a small, insignificant life, far from human, far from any precious object. My telekinesis felt more like a part of me now, less of a straining effort and more of an extension of my will. I focused, attempting a gentle, subtle nudge, just enough to make it move away from the trash.
The moment my mental energy connected with it, something went terribly wrong. The rat froze, its tiny body stiffening. Its whiskers twitched erratically, then its legs began to spasm. It collapsed, twitching violently, frothing at the mouth, its eyes rolling back. A seizure. My connection, instead of a gentle push, had been an invisible, incapacitating shock.
I yanked my mind back, horrified. The rat lay still, dead. My stomach churned. This wasn't just about moving objects; it was about the delicate, unseen forces that governed life itself. My power was a blunt instrument, and without precise control, I could destroy. The incident terrified me, solidifying my resolve: I could not use these powers on living things without absolute certainty. And I was nowhere near that.
The fear of uncontrolled harm fueled my training. I practiced constantly, meticulously. I'd sit for hours, focusing on a single grain of rice, moving it millimeters at a time. Then I'd try to lift it without causing it to spin wildly. I worked on applying precise pressure, enough to bend a spoon but not snap it. My mental shields became denser, layers of protection against the empathic bombardment. I learned to classify the emotional noise, to differentiate between the mild boredom of Sister Paul and the simmering rage of Billy. It was still a struggle, but the constant headaches lessened, replaced by a dull pressure I could mostly ignore.
Echoes of the Void
Then, when I was thirteen, it happened. Not a thought, not an emotion from someone nearby, but something deeper, something resonant. I was asleep, dreaming of an endless black void, when a feeling washed over me – a profound, bone-deep despair, unlike anything I'd ever felt. It was an ancient, echoing sorrow, laced with the metallic tang of fear and something else… something cold, slimy, and utterly alien.
And then came the images, flashes like lightning in the blackness of my mind: fluorescent lights, sterile white walls, the faint hum of machinery. And then, faces. Young faces, eyes wide with terror, mouths open in silent screams. Children. And a shadow, immense and dark, reaching, consuming. The despair, the fear, it wasn't just a feeling; it was their feeling. The despair of others, like me, trapped, suffering, and dying. And there was a single, piercing thought, not a voice, but an imprint of pure, desperate agony: He found us... he's coming...
I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering. The orphanage dorm was quiet, normal, but the echoes of that psychic intrusion reverberated through me. I lay there, trembling, trying to process it. Others. Children with abilities like mine. And a "he" who hunted them. My research into Marvel and DC suddenly seemed childish. This wasn't some comic book hero-villain dynamic. This was real. This was a nightmare. This was Hawkins National Laboratory. This was the Upside Down. This was the world of Stranger Things.
The realization was a cold, hard slap to the face. I was not just Rupert Johnson; I was a pawn, or potentially a target, in a much larger, darker game. I wasn't just reborn; I was reborn into a world with terrifying, unseen forces. The casual news reports about everyday nuisances like stray animals, flickering lights, and minor power outages now clicked into place, pieces of a h