The forest was the same—but wrong.
Mira and Brittany stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the twisted canopy of trees. The moon hung low, swollen and red, casting long shadows that slithered across the forest floor. The air was cold, but not natural—it was the kind of cold that felt like it came from inside your bones.
"This is the same place," Mira whispered. "But it's night."
Brittany shivered. "And it sounds like a haunted Spotify playlist out here."
The woods echoed with strange noises—whispers, distant laughter, the occasional rustle of something unseen. Then, through the fog, a figure emerged.
A man.
Tall, wearing a hoodie, hands in his pockets, casually strolling through the darkness with earbuds in.
Mira and Brittany exchanged a look.
"Excuse me!" Mira called.
The man paused, pulled out one earbud, and looked at them with mild surprise. "You're not from here."
Brittany stepped forward. "Where is here?"
He tilted his head. "You're in the Forevermore Dimension."
Mira blinked. "The what-now?"
"The Forevermore Dimension," he repeated. "It's where the ghosts go. The ones who haven't found peace. They wait here… for redemption."
Brittany squinted. "Okay, but like… isn't that just the Upside Down?"
The man's expression darkened. "No. There are no Demogorgons here. And honestly, it's kind of disrespectful to compare the two."
Mira stifled a laugh. Brittany raised her hands. "Okay, okay, chill. Didn't mean to offend the ghost realm."
They walked deeper into the dimension, following the man's vague directions until he vanished into the fog like a bad Tinder date.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
People walked the streets. They had phones. They laughed. They scrolled. They looked… human.
But something was off.
Their eyes didn't blink enough. Their smiles didn't reach their cheeks. Their movements were just a little too smooth, like mannequins pretending to be alive.
"This is creepy," Mira whispered.
"If this is a ghost realm," Brittany said, "why do they all have better phones than me?"
They turned a corner.
And there it was.
Brittany's house.
Or… a version of it.
It looked like the 1970s had thrown up on it. The siding was faded mustard yellow. The windows had lace curtains. A rusted tricycle sat on the lawn, unmoving.
Brittany stared. "This is my house. But it looks like the '70s pissed on it."
They stepped inside.
The air was thick with dust and something sweeter—warm, earthy, nostalgic.
Brittany froze.
The living room was old. Really old. The wallpaper was floral and peeling. The TV was a box with dials. And in the corner sat a rocking chair—familiar, creaky, and covered in a crocheted blanket.
Mira sniffed. "Is that… sweet potatoes?"
Brittany's face went pale. "No. No, no, no."
"What is it?"
"This is real," Brittany whispered. "This is my house. From the 1970s. My grandma used to make sweet potato soup for my mom. That's her chair."
Mira's eyes widened. "So this isn't just a copy. It's… memory."
They turned to run.
The front door slammed shut behind them.
Locked.
The lights flickered.
And then—
A soft sound.
A child crying.
They turned.
At the end of the hallway stood a woman.
Her face was shadowed. Her dress was long and old-fashioned. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her.
The crying grew louder.
Mira grabbed Brittany's hand.
The woman stepped forward.