Chapter Text
You finish teaching your class, your voice still echoing faintly off the cinderblock walls as you wrap up the lesson. Chalk dust clings to your fingers as the bell rings, erupting the students out of their seats. Chairs scrape back, notebooks are shoved into bags, and laughter fills the air as they stampede toward the door, already halfway to lunch.
One by one, they call out their goodbyes. Some linger a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to leave the safety of the room. You wave to each of them until the final student has filed out.
You turn back to your desk and begin sorting through papers, aligning crooked stacks, tapping their edges into neat piles. The ticking clock grows louder in the sudden quiet. Sunlight slants through the windows, promising a fast-approaching end to the day, dust motes floating lazily in its path.
“Your students clearly love you.”
The dulcet sound of a stranger’s voice startles you.
You look up.
A man stands in the doorway. He’s dressed in a brown three-piece suit, immaculately pressed, glasses catching the light, a matching hat perched neatly atop his carefully coiffed blonde hair. His features are sharp, almost sculpted, and his blue eyes are striking. They gleam with intent.
You smile, confused but nevertheless welcoming, “I’m glad somebody thinks so. How can I help you, mister…?”
He steps forward and removes his hat, a rehearsed smile settling easily onto his face.
“Creel. Henry Creel.”
The surname cycles rapidly through your brain, “Creel… I don’t recognise that name.” you admit.
“Oh! No, no, I’m not a parent, just a passer by,” he says, his hat moving with his expressive hands. “Sorry, I realise that’s a strange thing to say in a school.”
“Only a little bit,” you laugh, folding your arms loosely. “Though I doubt you’d come straight to a teacher if you had any dubious intentions.”
“It's true,” his cerulean eyes crease at the corners. “I’m actually a teacher… well, ex-teacher. I’ve recently taken up a new job, but my heart keeps pulling me back. Every time I see a school, I feel it.” His gaze sweeps over the room. “That pull. I had some time to kill, so thought I’d indulge in a little nostalgia.”
You lean back in your chair, thoughtfully regarding him from your perch, “What subject did you teach?”
He pauses, his eyes clouding as if caught in a distant memory. A flicker of darkness crosses his face. “I didn’t teach a subject, per se,” he says finally. “I worked with very young children. So… a mix.”
You study him, wondering if your imagination is running wild, “I see. I’ve never had the courage to work with very young children. They’re so delicate, don’t you think?”
“They are easy to break.” The bluntness lands heavily between you. You blink, the words echoing unpleasantly. It was probably meant as a joke, one that missed its mark. You offer a polite laugh to ease the tension.
The chair scrapes against the linoleum ground, as you stand to greet him, at least extending a hand, "Welcome to my humble classroom. I’m Miss Effingham.”
The surname rolls off your tongue smoothly now. It hadn’t always. It isn’t the name you were born with, but due to circumstances from the past, this is the one you chose to replace it.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Effingham.”
“Nice to meet you too. Please, sit.” You gesture to the chair opposite your desk.
It’s a small, scuffed chair, but he sits without a word of complaint, the same disarming smile on his face. As an ex-teacher, you’re sure he’s endured plenty worse, “Thank you,” he says. “You’ve made this room very comfortable.” His gaze drifts slowly across the classroom, lingering on the posters, the worn books, the plants you nurse back to life every semester.
“Thanks. Most of it comes out of my pay check, but it’s worth it.” You take your seat across from him.
“Homely and disarming. Makes it easier for them to stay in their seats.” His mouth still smiles, but his eyes darken briefly, as if a thought passes through him.
“It certainly makes them less troublesome.” You study him more openly now, your instincts pricking. “I’m curious, Mr. Creel—”
“Henry,” he corrects gently, but firmly.
“Henry,” you repeat. “How did you manage to get into Hawkins? I didn’t think the military was letting anyone in, given the quarantine and…”
“Massive craters?”
“Yes. Those.”
His eyes glint, or perhaps the sunlight caught his glasses, “Incredible, aren’t they?”
“That, and terrifying.”
“Of course. Can’t forget the terrifying part,” he nods thoughtfully, tone oddly light, as if discussing a strange weather pattern instead of rapture-like devastation. “I arrived before they appeared. I’ve been… forced to extend my stay. Hence the visit. I have a great deal of time to kill.”
“Who are you staying with?”
“My cousin. And her husband.” He leans forward, elbows resting on your desk. A shadow flickers across his face, “Should I be flattered by your interest?”
You laugh lightly, caught in your attempt to interrogate him. With everything going on – the rifts, the military occupation, quarantine – it feels only natural to be suspicious. Still, he doesn’t need to know that. You relax your face and summon a disingenuous smile. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to talk to someone new. I got a bit carried away.”
“I imagine it gets dull in a sleepy town like this. Normally, anyway.” He smiles, but the first thing your brain thought when you saw it was that he was playing along.
“It can feel very small sometimes. Like everyone’s watching you.”
“Isolating.”
“Yes. But in a big city, no one sees you at all. That’s isolating too.”
He leans back, arms folding over his chest, regarding you as you had regarded him, “So what brought a young woman like yourself to Hawkins?”
The question sinks deeper than he likely intends. Your mind races through your past, the many pains and betrayals that led you to leave everything and reinvent yourself in a new town. Sadness and loneliness, that’s what brought you to Hawkins.
You realise a long silence has passed between you both, as you stare at the wall behind him, “I needed a change,” you offer, forcing a fake brightness into your eyes as they’re brought back to him.
“And what got you into teaching?”
Seems you’re both interrogating each other.
“Nothing special. I had a degree. Needed money. Teaching’s easy to fall into.” You shrug. “It wasn’t the long-term plan. Still isn’t. But I’m not in a rush, and these kids are sweet.”
“They are, aren’t they.” he agrees, grin growing wider, “Something about children, their minds are so open to things adults could never be capable of.”
“We certainly look after them during an important time in their lives. They’re the most” – you look for the right word – "susceptible than they’ll ever be in their entire lives. It’s a privilege for us to help guide them during this vulnerable period. We have to keep them on the straight and narrow. I cannot tell you how many boys I’ve managed to convince that women are more than just sex objects.” you scoff.
Mr Creel doesn’t say anything. He stares at you, the same smile on his angular features, remaining completely unreadable. “Do you have any favourites?” He says, at last.
You laugh reflexively, fingers tightening on the desk, “I try not to, but everyone does. Still, I don’t treat them any differently from one another.”
“Of course.” He agrees, but leans forward regardless, “Who’s your favourite?”
You meet his gaze, returning his cheeky expression. “I couldn’t say.”
“There’s nothing unprofessional about it. Like you said, everybody has a favourite. And your secret is safe with me.” He rests his arms on the desk.
You think for a moment, tempted to tell him. But this interrogation has been going one way for far too long, “Who was yours?”
“A young girl called Jane,” he responds simply, though his smile falters, “I saw a lot of myself in her. She was so brilliant, but her peers just couldn’t understand it. They felt threatened, often taking out their frustrations on her.” his finger begins to tap rhythmically on the desk, “But I looked out for her, tried to keep her on the straight and narrow, like you say.”
“How is she now?”
His expression sours, “She’s gone down a path I don’t quite approve of. Made a faux family.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing. No child should feel alone.” You offer gently, though you know that if your favourite student ever went down a bad path, you’d feel responsible. Disappointed, too.
“Mm,” he hums, thoughtfully. His throat works as he swallows, like he’s forcing something unspoken back down, “And you?”
“Also a young girl, named Holly.” you admit, “I’ve taught her two older siblings, but something about her quiet strength and kindness. I suppose I see a lot of myself in her too.”
He leans back, studying you openly, curiosity etched into his expression, “Holly.” he echoes.
“She’s recently fallen in love with this book called A Wrinkle in Time, have you heard of it?”
“I didn’t read much as a kid.” he admits, though he seems bitter about it.
“I didn’t read it as a kid either, my favourite book was Peter Pan.”
“Did you dream of being whisked away to a fantasy world?”
“Oh, absolutely.” You laugh softly. “A part of me still does.”
His lips curl upward, not teasing, but pleased. Like you’ve passed some unseen test.
A chill crawls up your spine.
“I used to dream of the same thing, as a kid,” he admits. His grin stays fixed, but whatever emotion had been behind it fades away. A ghost of something old flickers in his eyes.
You lean forward. He’s left himself open, just for a moment, and years of managing unruly children has taught you how to recognise vulnerability when it appears. You lower my head slightly, angling yourself to catch his unfocused gaze. It works. His blue eyes snap back to yours, “I understand.” you say, your voice soft, compassionate.
You both straighten in your chairs, neither of you looking away. His gaze feels invasive, intense in a way you’ve never experienced before. It’s as though he isn’t just looking at you, but through you, like he’s reached inside your thoughts. You can’t quite explain it, only that it’s hypnotic, and you find yourself unable to pull away from the scorching intensity of his stare.
“I see that now…” he breathes.
Suddenly, his head snaps toward the door. A wave of dizziness washes over you as he does, and you clutch your head to steady yourself.
In one swift motion, he rises to his feet, turns, and bows. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Effingham, but I should really get going. Hopefully I’ll see you again around Hawkins.” He places his hat back onto his perfectly coiffed hair and exits hastily, disappearing before you can form a response.
The second he rounds the corner, one of your students comes bounding into the room, carefree and oblivious. She beams. “Miss Effingham! I came to help you clean the class today, if you’d like.” You stare at her, your thoughts still tangled around the man who had so abruptly stepped into — and out of — your life.
You shake yourself free and smile. “Ah, yes Martha. Lets clean the room.”