Chapter Text
“They are cursed”
“They are of the devil”
“Witches, the lot of them”
Those are the phrases that filtered the town, warnings, rumours, myths. All to demonise a family, all to keep the children at bay, all to keep the town supposedly safe from the Devil. The town isolated them, the 4 members of a family plagued by tragedy.
A mother.
Hair constantly frayed, eyes sunken into her face, lines that drew a map of her life. Most rumoured that they are lines for her sacrifices. That she lost her mind, that she lost herself to the demons at her first sabbath. That she drove her husband away, that she caused the tragedy of the town. That she was the reason for her son’s disappearance and her daughter’s death. A witch they called her, blamed her for flickering lights, ruined harvests, and the deaths of teens, children and adults alike. Committing rituals on those she deemed worthy, even on her own son. She was the trunk that her children branched off of, causing havoc wherever they pleased.
A son.
Following in his mother’s wake, contorting spells of maleficium. Making everyone he met shiver with unknowing. Pale skin, unfocused eyes, eyebrows constantly looking for something more than what is there. Taking photos of everyone, to commit diabolical acts in his haze of isolation. Luring people into his mind, all going insane with him. All dying, all making the same pact with the devil. He was their provider, provider for the devil’s family. That’s what they all told us.
Twins.
That should have been the first warning sign. Two children gifted to a woman who had already lost everything, it is no wonder they became sacrifices to her diabolism. Both in constant, looming tragedy. Year after year more things cursed them.
The boy disappearing, dying and then being found… alive. A true miracle… or curse. The devil resurrected him for a reason, a reason no one could fathom. Why revive the boy who was so clearly meant to die? This boy went insane, much like his mother. Claiming to see visions when he returned from his death, claiming something was stalking him and taking over his mind. Most called it the Devil himself taking place in the boy, to be his vessel. He was an obvious choice.
The girl was just like her mother. Looming gazes of uncertainty, believing, seeing, feeling things that were never there. Disappearing much like her brother, only years later and on the near same day. Sacrificed to the devil, gifting more tragedy to the town. This twin stayed dead, a rumour of her name was left. Two children bound to go insane alongside their mother and older brother.
Stories were told of this family, a family bound with the Devil for generations to come. The Byers Family. A family who lived on top of the hill shadowing the town, a darkened cloud always loomed the fence.
Clouds of souls that blanketed them, marking the land with the tragedy that struck them all. Each tragedy looming like a blood stain on a once pristine bedspread. Never to be removed. The deaths lingering, proof it was not all a fabrication.
“Don’t go to close to that house”
“Don’t ever speak of those witches”
“Don’t even think of talking to them”
Warnings, they were told to every child. To never interact with them unless you also want to pulled into their circle of death.
Church sermons, school lectures and family meetings, all told same message.
Don’t interact with the Byers, the Devil’s family.
I had heard every variation of the rumours. Impossible to not to in a town as small as the one I resided in during my youth. That they had caused the deaths of 3 teenagers in their ritual sacrifices, that they were the reason for the earthquake that shook through everything, that they caused the fire that killed the chief of police. They caused it all, but they weren’t alone.
They had accomplices, the Hellfire Club, a club in my high school.
A club I am was apart of.
A club forcibly removed from the school in an attempt to keep the panic at bay, to stop targeting innocent teenagers who were playing a game. A game rumoured to be a haven for rituals and sacrifices. A game the resurrected son was said to play, tying him to the Devil more. No wonder his mother let him play the Devil’s chess.
A chess game I ran, a game I played that fuelled my imagination and wonder, a game that my life was built around. Until it wasn’t.
A friend of mine, she was victim to the rituals that took place. She had no business with the world I, the party, lived in. And yet she payed the price of knowing the people that were the Byers’ accomplices in sacrifice.
At least that is what they called us when the world split open all those years ago.
“You boys should’ve never played that game!”
“Let’s hope the Lord forgives your sins”
“The town will not hold you accountable, you were pulled into their hands”
We were forgiven… my friend lived as a grace from God, that’s what they said. We were only unknowing victims in the Devil’s pact, working with the Devil’s family. We were welcomed back into their waking arms, cleansed of the dark magic that resided in us.
But why not them? Why not the Byers? Why were they not forgiven?
If people truly believed of their diabolical behaviour, why not execute them?
Much like the myths and legends of the past, the horror story of the Byers Family has its own truths and lies. The question that always plagues my mind, how many of the truths I was told as a child about the Devil’s Family are truths or fabricated lies to scapegoat an easy target? How many of the stories of my childhood just stories? Stories I will pass on to my children, warnings for every child.
There are many interpretations to the start of the Byers’ pact with the Devil. Some say it was the mother in her teens, when she worked alongside another cursed child, Henry Creel. Some say it was rooted in the family, as far back as the Middle Ages, saying they had a descendant who was a witch in the Salem Witch Trials. Some suspect it was the day the mother’s husband left, saying that was the day the family turned to diabolism. None of them ever proven to be fact, all of them believed in the town.
That’s all the town thrived on, belief. Belief that the Lord will save us, the belief that there is humanity amongst the hated. Belief that everything has a cause, the cause being the family everyone hated more than the Devil himself. As they were his messengers, his workers, his heretics.
…
“Mr Wheeler, the library is closing. I must ask you to leave.” A soft voice cut through the silence, breaking apart the sounds of paper turning and pens scratching. I didn’t even notice that the time had gone so quickly, then again, time always does when I am working.
“Sorry Janice, I didn’t realise how much time has gone,” I stated as I picked up my papers, placing pens in their cases and closing the books I was reading for hours. “I’ll be heading off now, wouldn’ want to keep you from getting home to your lovely family.” A smile pricked on my lips, stuffing each resource and material I was using into my worn backpack.
“Flattery will get you no where Mr Wheeler,” Janice laughed out, picking up the spare books from the table I was using and walking away. Her dark hair swaying in her braid as she walked, matching the rhythm of her skirt that reached her Mary Jane shoes.
I couldn’t help but smile, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and tucking in my chair. Looking back at Janice before walking the opposite direction, out the library where I spend hours of my time.
Hours researching, studying, writing, composing papers, essays and presentations. All for a degree that could impact my future career. A career I am still uncertain exists beyond my vague dreams as a child, and impossible aspirations. Dreams of one day writing my own stories, or to lecture about the ones of the past to inspire the next Stephen King or R.L Stine. Aspiring to be one of the great authors of the time, a silly and childish dream. But there is no harm in trying the impossible.
That was why I was in the architectural masterpiece that holds pages upon scrolls of knowledge, to try and fight the absolutes of the town I grew up in. A town I had left as soon as I could, to escape the strangling claws that held my voice tight. A town where evidence remains non-imperical, even by scholars of the time. Holding no science behind their claims, but believed nonetheless. Absolute claims that ostracised an entire bloodline based on words and possibilities.
“The Byers Family is the Devil’s Family”.
I have heard that sentence ring through every assembly, church garden and dining table. Rumours masked as caution for the children. Cautionary tales I have grown to wonder about the validity of, that maybe they are not as the people say. That they are not the Devil. That maybe, out of pure willpower, I can present a thesis that proves that the family they call Satan was of angels.
If I can prove that my hesitation all those years ago was not based on a dream of vengeance, but rather evidence that people have ignored. If there is a motive, there is way.
Exiting the library was like being blanketed with the coldest weighted blanket. Icy winds burying into my skin, howling as they battered against the building that held all files. The same building that arched over, shadowing anything that fell underneath, hiding them from the judgement that knowledge was far from powerful. Pillars stood tall, bracketing the stairs that I have fallen down one too many times on a snow filled afternoon.
The roads were empty, as they often were this time of year. Everyone deciding that the radiated heat of their homes was far more pleasant than the icy paths and delicate snowflakes. Comfort, that was the norm that everyone desired. It’s human, to want things that benefit themselves.
Maybe that was the case for the conversations I have heard for years regarding the Byers Family. Maybe it was all out of the desire for comfort, to blanket themselves in lies to escape from the truths. The town’s greed for comfort causing suffering for an entire family? Is that truly what God wants from his children who claim to worship him? To hurt each other?
I find myself sighing, listening to the sound of my own footsteps. A steady, predictable sound. Crunching along the snow danced floor, shoes against paths. The only sound for meters around, everyone already inside. I would have been listening to my walkman if it weren’t for the fact I left it on my desk this morning.
The sun bleeding through curtains to announce a new day, stains flushing my shirt I pulled over my head haphazardly. All whilst trying to pull myself out of my warm house to walk to the library, through the morning winds. I must remember to put it into my bag when I get home. Thankfully I didn’t forget my keys- wait…
I quickly slap my hand over my pockets, heart rate increasing before I heard the metal clashing against each other. A bell ringing to let me know I did have them. Letting out a breath, calming after a mild panic that could have caused an issue when I got back home. Such a simple action, stopping me from going into a mental rollercoaster.
Maybe that could help the Byers?
A simple action, a simple moment of proof that all the rumours and stories were false. To prove to the town that hated them that they were nothing more than a family trying to live. Is that even possible? Would it even work? This is not as simple as proving your key was in fact in your pocket, but unravelling years of beliefs and history. Something that is impossible to do without opening Pandora’s box. But what if what was inside was the root truth?
I took a deep breath, pausing in my steps. Feeling a sudden spike run down my spine as the cold breeze passes through. Brushing white snow into my black curls and my ice-blushed cheeks. There is something so deeply human with the uncomfortable sensations that come from our natural world. From frost biting our fingertips, to sun bleaching our skin with browns and reds. We were born to survive this world, so why shy away from it? Why risk our humanity for comfort? Then again, humans will always want more than what is made. Even in Genesis, with Adam and Eve. Eating from the tree of knowledge, knowledge we now use to destroy even our own instincts.
Another breath in, taking another step on the path. Hearing my shoes crush fallen dust against concrete. A continuous lift, then scream from the ground like a pianist dancing on the keys creating a melody of death and souls. My eyes focus on the journey ahead of my steps, a journey I have memorised since I was a boy. Much like the quotations my mother would tell me and my sisters, and the sermons I would hear in church. Especially around the autumn where fear and horror was rampant about the Byers’ return. Every year they would predict another catastrophe, but it will never come….
Was it just to make the townsfolk fearful, if so why? Why make a town so scared when in the words of God, ‘do not fear, for I am with you’?
Yet another breath, puffs of frozen air bleed from my lips. A sign of life, that I was still a warm body that death could not take. That I am able to hear my own heart beat each day, and watch as the school children rush to classes. It is a gift. One I cherish with each passing hour, as one breath may be my last. As death is cruel and takes no matter the goals the person has, no matter if the person had dreams. It will just take. I find my head turning towards the gates of the yard that shields the dead. Iron bars stopping anyone from entering… or leaving… past a certain threshold. Much like how death will stop those who are not ready to join him, but once you are behind those gates, you cannot leave. At least not in the same way you once were.
So why did death pull the boy into his loving embrace, to then spit him back out? Why not keep him in the graves where the dead are meant to stay?
I shook my head, speeding past the graveyard, something about the prospect of the spirits looming behind the gates causes my skin to shake. Reminding me of the graveyard that was in my childhood town, a replica. Same towering trees and ghosts of black feathers and calls. I had spent hours sitting on grass to the point my knees turned green, talking to headstones for answers. For reasons. For a sign that maybe it was all an illusion. It had been years since I had returned to that grave-sight, since I had spoken to a headstone with a same carved into it. A symbol that the person buried in the soil was once loved, a child of parents, a sibling, a human. Someone who was cherished enough to have their life celebrated. From spending hours staring at stone, to now having not seen it since I was a teen… maybe I should return.. only for a day. To have a conversation with someone who will not answer.
Turning a corner, my house in sight. Flushed with a winter glow, it was not a largest of estates, but it was mine. A small house that I can call my own without worrying about getting talked down by my parents, to endure lectures about tradition and family. It was pleasant to finally be free from those hounding voices, but it was lonely. My friends were back where my childhood was, staying in the town that had experienced so much chaos. I had left the moment I could as I could not stay in the place that strangled my curiosity and voice, a place that ostracised the ones who could not follow conformity. How is anyone supposed to live in a cage like that?
I soon had made it to the door of my home, pushing my hand into my pocket. Resting it in my palm for a moment, recounting the panic I had minuets ago. The worry that the key to the place I can call my sanctuary was not with me, that the small jingle of the keychain gave me relief. Something so simple creating peace for a panicked heart…. I let out a sigh, holding the cut metal between my fingers and pressing it into the lock. Turning it to open the door. A small act to open up a whole new world, could that be put into practice for people’s minds?
Or are the minds of scared humans locked by a padlock, and we all have a broken key?
It’s a mystery that cannot be solved, even with the wits of time.
My hand rested against the brass doorknob for a moment, running my thumb over the grooves engraved into the metal. The intricate design that someone with artistic talent took time to make, to create, to imagine, something so simple that most don’t even appreciate as they open the door attached. More focused on finding their way to comfort and warmth, to relax after a harsh day in the workplace. A small push, the doorknob escapes my grasp and causes the oak door to close with a harsh thunk. Letting the world know that the cage has been closed for the night, that I have made my way home.
I lean down, removing my snow covered, leather shoes to place them on the rack that had made its’ home by the door. All of the shoes that lived there were of similar colours, black, browns and greys. All made of leather to withstand the heats and freezes of Michigan. Replacing my boots with soft slippers, pulling them over my feet before walking down the hall, the heels of my shoes hitting the hardwood with each descent. The light from the covered sun filters into each room, not too harsh but delicate- a gentle frost that cloaked the furniture. Creating a serenity that paralleled yet contrasted the uneasy stillness the town gave, as out there, there were people that chose to hide from the world. In my house, I am alone, no hiding ghosts or whispered breaths. Just me, alone, my only companion being the flickering lightbulbs.
The serenity was broken by a harsh ringing, rattling the walls as it came from the phone. I find myself walking over to the phone, expecting a telemarketer who wanted to sell me another type of insurance. Someone who lived by the phones to talk to others, between those calls listing down sales and failures to do so. I lifted the electronic to my ear, the soft plastic steady in my hand, cord brushing against my covered arm.
“Wheeler residence, Micheal speaking” I say into the phone, hearing a relieved sigh rush through. Hearing voices in the background, I could not make out what they were saying. As if the microphone on the other end was covered by the caller’s palm.
I was tempted to hang up, to not talk to this person and to get on with my day, before a voice buzzed into my ear. “Mike, it’s me Lucas.” A familiar voice, on instant my mind relaxed. Knowing the person on the other end of the line was not a stranger but a friend, my best friend.
“Hey Lucas, how’s everything been?”
“It’s good man. Real good. What about on your end?”
I could only smile, even after years of little to no contact to him, Lucas’ bright demeanour and charismatic voice stayed the same. Still carrying happiness and courage, as if he did not have to fight battles to keep his love alive.
“It’s been decent, colder since winter has rolled around. Other then that, it’s been steady”
“That’s great. You doing anything over Christmas?”
Christmas, I hadn’t even thought about the international holiday that happens every year. Turning my head to the calendar, it was the 6th of December, Christmas was in 19 days. And I was yet to make plans, then again I haven’t made plans for Christmas for years. Only ever sending a card across states to family and friends, receiving my own in return. It was never a priority to celebrate, my family was shattered from the death that plagued it years ago, my friends all had their own lives to live. I was only me, me my mind and ideas, me alone.
“No, why’d you ask?”
“Well, me and Max were thinkin’ of having a little party reunion. And have a small wedding down at the courthouse. What you think?”
A reunion, my eyes darted to my hands, holding the phone tight in my hand. That would mean returning to the town I had spent the last years escaping, going back into those claws that choked me. I couldn’t go back there, not to that chamber that filtered stories as if they were sonnets, not without reason… but there was a reason. My best friend was wanting to get married, he wants me there to witness it. To celebrate the achievement with wide smiles and cheers. Swallowing my panic, running my tongue over my drying lips.
“Of course I’ll be there…”
A promise leaves my mouth, a deal with the universe that I cannot break. A duty I must follow through, having given it before I even let my bag fall from my shoulder. Books and papers still lying restless in my backpack, knowledge screaming to be let out. Theories, stories, myths, evidence…. All leading back to a family that haunted the town I was now going back to.
Thoughts came to my mind, eyes moving to find a board that rested on my wall. A pinboard with images, strings and newspaper clippings, my final assignment. All about proving that maybe, just maybe, the town’s theories were truly just that. Theories. Luck may be on my side, as I now have the opportunity to go back there, to a place I tried so hard to avoid.
I now have two reasons to go back… to celebrate the union of my best friends, and to investigate the question that has filled my head for years.
Is the Byers family truly evil?