Trust Fall

The floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned with the weight of decades of neglect, sounding uncomfortably like human teeth grinding together. Mike Wheeler adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his knuckles white as he gripped his flashlight. The beam cut through the heavy, dust-mown air of the foyer, illuminating peeling floral wallpaper and a grand staircase that looked like it belonged in a funeral parlor.

"I’m just saying, if we die in here, I’m going to spend the afterlife making sure your soul never knows a moment of peace," Max Mayfield said, her voice echoing sharply against the high ceilings.

She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her oversized corduroy jacket. Even at five foot nothing, she managed to project an aura of pure, unadulterated annoyance. Her red hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her blue eyes flickered with a mix of genuine irritation and the bravado she used as armor.

"Oh, because being trapped in a literal haunted house with you isn't already my personal version of hell?" Mike shot back, his voice dripping with the dry sarcasm that had become his primary defense mechanism since he’d hit his latest growth spurt.

He was gangly now, all elbows and knees, dressed in a black oversized sweater and ripped jeans that his mother constantly tried to throw away. He looked like he belonged in a basement listening to The Cure, not exploring the outskirts of Hawkins in the middle of a thunderstorm.

"We wouldn't even be in here if you hadn't insisted that the 'energy readings' were coming from the attic," Max mimicked, her voice dropping an octave to mock his seriousness. "’Oh, look at me, I’m Mike Wheeler, I read a book once and now I’m the leader of the party.’ Give me a break."

"It was a logical deduction based on the frequency!" Mike snapped, turning his flashlight toward the heavy oak front doors. "And for the record, you’re the one who kicked the door open like you were in an action movie. Which, by the way, triggered the deadbolt."

Max stepped toward the door, grabbing the iron handles and heaving with all her might. The wood didn't even shiver. It was as if the house had swallowed the door frame whole.

"It’s stuck," she muttered, kicking the base of the wood with her sneaker. "Great. Fantastic. I’m trapped in a Victorian nightmare with the most melodramatic person in Indiana."

"Melodramatic? I’m being realistic! We’re locked in, there’s no cell service, and nobody knows we’re here because you told Lucas we were going to the arcade!"

Max turned on him, her face flushed. "Because I didn't want him worrying! He’s already stressed enough about the basketball finals. I thought we could just check the place out, see it was empty, and go. I didn't plan on the house being sentient!"

Mike sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate his tall frame. He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. "Okay. Fine. Arguing isn't going to get us out. We need to find another exit. Kitchens usually have a servant's entrance, or maybe there's a cellar with a coal chute."

Max rolled her eyes, but she started walking down the long, dark hallway that led toward the back of the mansion. "Fine. But if a ghost jumps out, I’m using you as a human shield."

"Duly noted," Mike muttered, following her.

The mansion felt like it was breathing. Every time the wind howled outside, the house shifted, the wood popping and the glass in the tall, narrow windows rattling in their frames. It was the kind of place that felt like it was watching them. Mike kept his flashlight steady, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He hated that Max seemed so much cooler than him, even if he knew her bravado was mostly a front.

They passed a dining room where a long table sat covered in white sheets, looking like a row of crouched ghosts.

"Do you smell that?" Max asked, stopping suddenly.

Mike sniffed the air. "Dust? Mold? The scent of our impending doom?"

"No, smartass. Ozone. Like right before a storm hits, but stronger."

She was right. The air felt heavy, charged with a static that made the fine hairs on Mike’s arms stand up. He swept the beam of his light across the ceiling. "The wiring in these old places is usually shot. If there’s a leak in the roof and water is hitting the old lines..."

"Then we’re in a giant tinderbox," Max finished for him. Her sarcasm had vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. "We need to move faster."

They reached the end of the hall, but instead of a kitchen, they found a library. It was a circular room, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books that looked like they hadn't been touched since the turn of the century. In the center of the room was a heavy mahogany desk.

"Great, a dead end," Mike groaned, spinning in a circle. "Where’s the kitchen? This layout makes no sense."

Max didn't answer. She was walking toward the far wall, her eyes narrowed. "Mike, look at the floor."

He pointed his light where she was gesturing. The thick layer of dust on the floorboards was disturbed. Not by footprints, but by long, straight grooves, as if something heavy had been dragged in a semi-circle.

"A hidden door?" Mike whispered, his inner nerd momentarily overriding his fear. "Are you serious? That only happens in movies."

"Well, welcome to the feature film," Max said, grabbing the edge of a massive bookshelf. "Help me pull."

They both gripped the wood. On the count of three, they heaved. With a screech of metal on stone that set Mike’s teeth on edge, the bookshelf swung inward, revealing a narrow, stone-lined staircase descending into the dark.

"Absolutely not," Mike said immediately. "That looks like the beginning of a snuff film."

"It’s a way out, Mike! It probably leads to the basement, and the basement has to have a way out to the yard," Max argued, already stepping over the threshold.

"Or it leads to a dungeon! Or a pit! Have you never seen a horror movie?"

Max paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. The dim light caught the fierce set of her jaw. "I’ve spent half my life running away from things that are scarier than a basement, Wheeler. If you want to stay up here and wait for the house to burn down or the ghosts to get hungry, be my guest. I’m leaving."

She started down the stairs without waiting for an answer.

Mike cursed under his breath, his pulse racing. He couldn't let her go down there alone, not that he’d ever admit it was out of concern. He told himself it was because she had the only other heavy-duty flashlight.

"Wait up!" he hissed, scrambling after her.

The air grew colder as they descended. The walls were damp, smelling of earth and ancient rot. The staircase seemed to go on for much longer than a single story should allow, twisting in a tight spiral that made Mike dizzy.

"Max, stop," Mike said, his voice trembling slightly. "The geometry is wrong. We should have hit the foundation by now."

"Just a little further," Max said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She was walking slower now, her flashlight beam dancing erratically.

Suddenly, the stairs ended, opening into a wide, vaulted chamber. But it wasn't a basement. It was a laboratory—or a twisted version of one. Rusted equipment sat on stone plinths, and glass jars filled with murky fluid lined the walls. In the center of the room, a large metal door stood bolted shut with a heavy iron bar.

"See?" Max said, pointing at the door. "That’s it. That’s the exit."

They ran toward it, but as they reached the center of the room, the temperature plummeted. Their breath turned to mist in the air.

"Mike," Max whispered, her bravado finally cracking. "Look at the jars."

Mike turned his light toward the shelves. Inside the jars, things were moving. Small, pale shapes that looked like a cross between a frog and a human hand were twitching in the preservative fluid.

"We need to go. Now," Mike said, grabbing Max’s arm.

He didn't care about being sarcastic or cool anymore. He gripped her sleeve, pulling her toward the heavy door. Together, they grabbed the iron bar. It was freezing, the cold biting into their palms like needles.

"Lifting on three!" Mike yelled over a sudden, rising hum that seemed to vibrate in his very bones. "One! Two! Three!"

They shoved the bar upward. It resisted, rusted into place, but they threw their combined weight into it. With a deafening crack, the bar gave way, clattering to the stone floor. Mike grabbed the handle and yanked.

The door swung open, but it didn't lead outside. It led into another hallway—identical to the one they had just left upstairs.

"No," Max breathed, stepping into the hall. "No, no, no. We just went down. We went down at least three flights."

Mike looked back at the room they had just left, but the door didn't lead back to the lab. It led into the dining room with the sheet-covered furniture.

They were back where they started.

"It’s a loop," Mike said, his voice flat with horror. "The house... it’s not just a house. It’s a trap."

Max spun around, her eyes wide and panicked. She looked at the front door, which was still bolted shut. Then she looked at Mike. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked truly small.

"We’re not getting out, are we?" she asked, her voice small.

Mike looked at her, and the irritation he’d felt all afternoon evaporated. He saw the girl who had lost her brother, the girl who put up walls so high no one could climb them, and he realized he’d been doing the exact same thing. He’d been so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room that he’d forgotten how to be a friend.

He stepped closer to her, closing the gap. "Hey. Look at me."

Max blinked, her gaze snapping to his.

"We are getting out," Mike said, his voice firm. "We’re the Party. We’ve dealt with the Upside Down, we’ve dealt with Mind Flayers, and we’ve dealt with government goons. A creepy Victorian loop? This is nothing."

Max let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "You’re being melodramatic again."

"Yeah, well, it works for me," Mike said, offering a small, awkward grin. "But we have to stop fighting. If we’re going to find the exit, we have to actually work together. No more insults about my height or my hair."

"I can’t promise anything about the hair, Wheeler. It’s a lot to work with," Max teased, though she reached out and grabbed his hand. Her palm was cold, but her grip was like iron. "But okay. No more fighting. For now."

Mike squeezed her hand. "Okay. Think. If it’s a loop, there has to be a glitch. Something that stays the same even when the rooms change."

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the house breathe.

"The clock," Max said suddenly. "In the foyer. It was stuck at 12:04. And when we went into the library, there was a small desk clock. It said 12:04 too."

Mike nodded, his mind racing. "And the lab? Did you see a clock?"

"On the wall," Max confirmed. "12:04."

"Okay," Mike said, a plan forming. "The house is trying to keep us in a single moment. We need to break the time. We need to break the clocks."

Max grinned, a sharp, dangerous look that reminded Mike why she was so vital to their group. "Breaking things? Finally, something I’m actually good at."

"I’ll take the foyer," Mike said. "You take the library. We do it at the same time. On the count of three over the walkie-talkies."

Max pulled her radio from her belt, checking the channel. "Ready when you are, Wheeler."

They split up, Mike running back toward the front door while Max bolted for the library. As Mike reached the tall grandfather clock in the foyer, he felt the house begin to rumble. The floorboards buckled, and the wallpaper began to bleed a dark, viscous liquid.

"Max! Are you in position?" Mike yelled into the radio.

"Ready!" her voice crackled back through the static. "On three?"

"One!" Mike lifted his heavy flashlight, aiming for the glass face of the clock.

"Two!"

"Three!"

Mike swung with everything he had. The glass shattered, the gears inside exploding in a spray of brass and springs. Simultaneously, he heard the distant sound of Max smashing the library clock.

The house screamed.

It wasn't a metaphorical scream; it was a physical wall of sound that knocked Mike to his knees. The walls blurred, the colors running together like wet paint. For a terrifying second, Mike felt like he was falling through empty space.

Then, silence.

The air was cold and fresh. Instead of the smell of dust, Mike smelled rain and wet pavement. He opened his eyes and realized he was lying on the overgrown grass of the mansion’s front lawn. The sun was just beginning to peek through the clouds, the storm having passed.

"Mike?"

He sat up, his head spinning. Max was sitting a few feet away, her hair a wild mess of red tangles, looking equally dazed. Behind them, the mansion stood silent and dark. It looked like a normal, albeit dilapidated, old house again. The front door was hanging slightly off its hinges.

"We’re out," Max whispered, looking around at the trees. "We’re actually out."

Mike stood up shakily, brushing the dirt off his jeans. He walked over to her and held out a hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

"See?" Mike said, his voice regaining some of its usual confidence. "I told you. Logical deduction."

Max laughed, a genuine, bright sound that took Mike by surprise. She didn't let go of his hand immediately. "Yeah, yeah. You’re a genius, Wheeler. Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he joked.

They stood there for a moment in the morning light, the tension of the last few hours finally beginning to fade. They still didn't agree on much—they were still the two most stubborn members of their group—but as they started the long walk back toward town, the silence between them was different. It wasn't the silence of two people who couldn't stand each other; it was the silence of two people who had survived the dark together.

"So," Max said, breaking the quiet as they reached the main road. "Are we going to tell the others about the hand-frogs in the jars?"

Mike shuddered. "Actually, I think I’d prefer to take that secret to my grave."

"Agreed," Max said, bumping her shoulder against his. "But I’m still telling Lucas you screamed like a girl when the bookshelf moved."

"I did not!"

"You totally did. It was high-pitched. Very melodic."

"Max!"

Their bickering continued all the way back to Hawkins, a familiar rhythm that felt, for the first time, like home.