Two years before the events of Stranger Things: Season 4, Eddie Munson—Hellfire Club leader, metalhead, and Hawkins outcast—has one shot to make it big. Hawkins, Indiana: For most, it’s simply another idyllic, manicured all-American town. But for Eddie Munson, it’s like living in a perpetual Tomb of Horrors. Luckily, he has only a few more months to survive at Hawkins High. And what is senior year, really, but killing time between Dungeons & Dragons sessions with the Hellfire Club and gigs with his band, Corroded Coffin? At the worst dive bar in town, Eddie meets Paige, someone who has pulled off a freaking miracle . She escaped Hawkins and built a wickedly cool life for herself working for a record producer in Los Angeles . Not only is she the definition of a badass—with killer taste in music—but she might also be the only person who actually appreciates Eddie as the bard he is instead of as the devil incarnate. But the best thing? She’s offering him a chance to make something of himself, and all he needs to do is get her a demo tape of Corroded Coffin’s best songs. Just one problem: Recording costs money. Money Eddie doesn’t have. But he’s willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means relying on his dad. Al Munson has just stumbled back into Eddie’s life with another dubious scheme up his sleeve, and yet Eddie knows this is his only option to make enough dough in enough time. It’s a risk, but if it pays off he will finally have a one-way ticket out of Hawkins.  Eddie can feel it: 1984 is going to be his year. Caitlin Schneiderhan is a TV writer and novelist, whose work can be seen on Netflix’s hit show Stranger Things . She hatched from a cocoon of Terry Pratchett novels when she was thirteen years old, and her love of fun, genre-focused storytelling runs deep. Hailing from Silver Spring, Maryland, Schneiderhan now resides in Los Angeles. She still has a full shelf of Terry Pratchett paperbacks. Chapter One “Well. You’re dead.” The kid gapes at me across the table, really showing off his sparkly orthodontic hardware. “No, I’m not.” “You took on a kraken by yourself. You’re f***ing dead, man.” Stan kicks me in the shin. “Can you cut him a break? He’s a freshman.” “He’s been playing for almost a year now. Hey, freshman—­” “Gareth,” mumbles Gareth from somewhere beneath his plume of puffy, wavy hair. “How many hit points you got?” He mutters something I can’t make out, but I’m pretty sure it rhymes with Nero. “That’s what I thought. So let me walk you through the next part.” I lean forward, one hand on either side of my DM screen. “It’s the final swipe of the monster’s tentacles that does you in. Agony crashes through you, overwhelming your willpower. And your lungs pay the price.” Ronnie throws an eraser at my head. “Jesus Christ, Eddie,” she says, but I can hear the laughter in her voice. “On instinct, you try to draw breath. But you’re two dozen feet beneath the surface of the Solnor Ocean, and the rest of your party is all the way back on shore. Which means there is no one to save you as the sea fills your throat.” “That’s sick,” says Dougie, watching me with wide, awestruck eyes. “And there is no one to watch as your body twitches one final time and sinks, lifeless, into the black depths of the unknown. So ends the tale of Illian the Unvanquished, half-­elf paladin and Champion of the Lost Lands.” Applause springs up around the table, a respectable smattering from my players. Ronnie and Dougie are the most enthusiastic, Dougie even surging to his feet in a much appreciated display of approval. Gareth, in contrast, sinks low in his chair, poking at his D20 with a dejected finger. “This is bullshit,” he says. “What is up your ass, Gareth?” Dougie demands. “You got a crazy Munson death monologue. That’s, like, worth its weight in gold.” Gareth’s skinny shoulders are up around his ears, but he still turns an impressive glare on Dougie. “Am I supposed to be happy? He killed me!” “You’re not special, he’s trying to kill all of us!” “Okay.” I hold up both hands, trying to fend off whatever explosion is brewing here. “As your humble dungeon master, would you gentlemen allow me the pleasure of your shutting the hell up?” They shut the hell up. Which gives me just enough time to meet each of my players’ eyes in turn . . . while I scramble around, figuring out what the hell I’m gonna do next. Hellfire membership isn’t exactly bursting at the seams; counting myself, there’re only six of us. Ronnie and I have both been members since we walked in the door together the first week of ninth grade, and even though Dougie had resisted “joining nerd club,” a bare month of listening to us recite inside jokes from our Hellfire sessions had him almost begging for a seat at the table. Stan, a junior, had come along the following year, though his attendance is . . . hit-­or-­miss. His family’s got it in their brains that D & D comes straight from Satan himself, and that even touching