The first time he heard it was late at night.
Shrieks and wails could be heard from outside Steve Harrington's window. It chilled him to his core, to wonder what was happening beyond the all-too-thin walls of the Harrington home.
And the worst part?
He was the only one who seemed to notice.
He should've thought it was unfair, being the only one to hear those gut-wrenching wails every night. But he didn't. Because out there, somewhere in Hawkins, Indiana, someone was suffering.
He just didn't know who.
When the shrieking had began, Steve had woken up in a cold sweat. Shrill, despair-inducing wails cut through the cool night air like a heated knife through butter.
Steve had rushed to his window, shoving it open with a slight screech. The cold night air catapulted into his face, and the wails grew louder. They seemed to come from all directions, lightly disorienting the boy.
"Hello?" he'd called, checking to see if any of his neighbours had awoken, too. His only response was a shrill 'shut up!' from the lady next door.
Steve's nose crinkled in distaste, however only for a moment, as the wailing grew louder — shriller still.
Steve raced downstairs, threw on a sweater and ran toward the door.
However, when the door opened, it stopped. All was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Steve hated that.
"Are you sure it wasn't just a bad dream?" Robin sighed, exasperation clear in her tone. "I mean, after all the shit we've been through, I wouldn't expect any less.
The bitchy soccer mom on the other side of Family Video sent Robin a sharp look, covering her son's ears pointedly at the curse.
Normally, Steve would've rolled her eyes at her. Today, however, was different.
"Yes, Robin, I'm sure." Steve confirmed, voice steeled in an attempt to make him sound more believable. "Nightmares like that don't just happen."
"Whatever you say," Robin said dismissively, turning back to the box on the counter labelled 'RETURNS'.
Steve didn't bring it up again after that.
The second time the wailing started, it was late.
Like, insanely late.
If Steve wasn't so worried, he'd have half a mind to scream at the person in question, but it really wasn't the time right now!
This time, Steve was faster; quicker. He rushed down the stairs, threw on some temperature-appropriate clothing and bolted out the door.
This time, the wailing didn't stop.
The direction of the noise was clearer this time, Steve thinks. He ran as fast as he could in its apparent direction, the flashlight he had on-hand bobbing up and down, making the measly beam of light go with it.
The wailing seemed to be coming from Lover's Lake, which was concerning. Either some teenagers had taken a liking to fucking in the lake, or someone was drowning. (Every night? his brain criticized him.)
However, Steve could never be sure, because the wailing stopped.
Tonight is the tenth day. Nine back-to-back nights of that terrible wailing. Nine sleepless nights, where even the slightest creak of a door or window would send Steve jumping five feet in the air.
It had starting begging on the fifth day.
It had begun to whisper on the seventh.
"Help me!" the voice had screeched. "My baby!"
"You must come," it had whispered, making him jump. Robin had sent him an odd look.
Every night, it had screamed.
Every night, Steve wasn't fast enough.
But tonight would be different.
He was prepared.
He was sure of where the wails were coming from, now.
Lover's Lake, his original suspicion.
Dustin had called his claims stupid.
Robin had called him delusional.
But he knew, he knew, that he was right.
Something was going on, and if they couldn't believe him, then he'd have to deal with it himself.
On the tenth night, when the wailing started, Steve was already at the door, waiting. He'd tried to run after the wails stopped, but he somehow always ended up back at his house.
("You're just bad at directions," Nancy had dismissed. That's what he gets for trying to ask her for advice, I guess.)
The second the wails started, Steve dashed out the door, full-on sprinting out his driveway and into the woods beyond.
He had essentially twenty minutes to make it to Lover's Lake. He just had to be real fast.
He didn't care that his lungs burned; that his muscles were screaming at him, telling him to stop! or that it wasn't right.
That didn't matter, because someone was in trouble.
This time, he didn't only make it a quarter of the way, or a third of the way. He made it!
He walked onto the pebbly beach, eyes scanning for a sign of someone; anything! It was a cloudy night, the moon deciding it would be a perfect time to hide.
"Hello?" he called. "HELLO!"
A cloud uncovered the moon, and the lake was covered in eery grey lighting.
His ears started to ring..
Everything felt dull, as if the world were closing in.
'Steven...' the voices whispered. 'Ste~ven..'
Steve walked toward the water, feeling it pull him in.
Fully clothed, he walked into the freezing lake, the water sticking to him.
Because water is sticky, he remembered. Cohesion, if he were correct (which, he never was).
He felt like he was a passenger in his own brain, taking a backseat while some unknown force took ahold of him and dragged him to the centre of the lake.
Then, he came back.
He snapped out of whatever trance he had been in, the cold water pulling him down, down, down into the merciless, unforgiving depths of the lake.
It were as if someone was covering his mouth, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as the darkness closed in.
Then, all was dark.
Ten days later, a man had reported a body floating in Lover's Lake. He said he'd heard the wails; that it hadn't felt right.
"I heard 'em once, last night." the man had said. "Sent a shiver down me spine. I look in the lake, and there it is; a body."
The body was easily identifiable, as its owner was extremely well-known.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins' former Golden Boy, had drowned in Lover's Lake.
Some were calling it a suicide.
Others were calling it a conspiracy.
But three people knew.
Nancy Wheeler, Dustin Henderson and Robin Buckley.
He had told them.
And they had dismissed him.
Called him crazy.
Now, he was gone.
Ten days after the body was discovered, a new victim arose. A random middle-schooler, whose name was not published, had been found dead in that same lake.
Ten days after that, another middle-schooler was found dead in Lover's Lake.
A pattern began to emerge.
Every ten days, a middle-schooler (or, as they would find out in a month, anyone under the age of high-school years), was found dead, belly-up in the lake.
Most believed it was a murderer.
Others called it a curse.
Some called it a conspiracy.
The Party called it an Upside Down-related catastrophe.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
Because there, at the bottom of Lover's Lake was a trapped spirit. One that would wail every night for their kids; for someone to care for. Yet, the right people never came.
The spirit became tainted, poisoned by their grief and the anger that after everything they'd done, those they'd cared about would still leave them to rot.
That was the Banshee of Lover's Lake, as the conspiracists called it.
And, well, they were close.
There was a water spirit at the bottom of Lover's Lake, but it certainly wasn't the screaming female ghost from mythology.
No. That was Steve Harrington, the One who was Left Behind.