- Sam...
- Sam.
- SAM!
- WAKE UP, YOU LITTLE BRAT! THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!
Sam jolted awake as if he'd just been thrown off a building. His eyes were still sleepy, but his body had already sprung off the bed.
- Fire! Fire! Somebody help!!
Without thinking, he grabbed everything on his desk — a pile of crumpled history books, a few messy handwritten notes about ancient civilizations. But the most eye-catching thing was his great-grandfather's old journal — its worn leather cover and the strange scribbles inside that didn't belong to any known language on Earth.
Morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, brushing over the strange symbols on the journal... and for a brief second, Sam could have sworn they were moving.
- Dad, what are you standing there for!? Help me pack this stuff!
A moment of silence.
- Sam Witwicky...
His father leaned against the doorframe, running a hand down his face, voice thick with exasperation. He raised his hand, mimicking his son's panicked gestures while exaggerating his tone:
- Fire! Fire! Somebody help!!
Then, with a long sigh, he jerked his chin toward the clock on the wall.
- There's no fire. It's time for school. Two years till college, and you're still acting like you're in elementary school?
Sam froze, heart still pounding like he'd just run a marathon. He glanced around — no smoke, no fire. Just the mess he'd made himself.
- Seriously, Dad!? Who jokes about a house fire!?
- You tell me. The whole neighborhood's awake now.
His dad sighed again, turning to head downstairs.
- Hurry up and get ready for school. I'm not driving you late again.
Sam flopped back onto the bed, letting out a long breath. But his eyes never left the journal. He reached out and ran his fingers over the cold leather cover.
"Great-Grandpa... what the heck is this thing?"
—-
During History Class.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a golden hue over the old tiled floor. The rustling of leaves outside was occasionally drowned out by the honking of cars.
Sam sat at the back of the class, flipping through the worn pages of his great-grandfather Archibald Witwicky's old journal. Strange symbols stretched across the paper, whispering secrets only he could feel.
Even though he had never studied this language, Sam somehow understood it. Something monumental was buried, hidden away. His heart pounded in his chest. These symbols… they weren't just writing. They whispered, they lived.
- Sam Witwicky.
The teacher's voice rang out.
- Please come up and present.
Sam jolted, snapping his head up, disoriented like he'd just woken from a dream. The assignment was simple — a presentation on anything related to the past or history. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his books and pens to the floor with a loud clatter, followed by a few muffled giggles.
The teacher sighed. But instead of disappointment, there was only a slight shake of his head.
- Relax, Sam. You've got this.
Still blushing, Sam made his way to the front of the class. He clutched the journal tightly in his hands, as if letting go would cause all its secrets to vanish.
- My presentation is about… an explorer. Archibald Witwicky.
There was a snicker from the front row. Who presents on their own great-grandfather? But Sam didn't care.
Sunlight brushed softly over the journal in his hands. For a brief moment, the symbols seemed to shift.
- In 1897, in the Arctic Ocean, my great-grandfather — then a young sea captain — led 41 sailors into the polar ice shelf, driven by a desire to conquer the unknown.
Sam paused, eyes flicking down to the journal.
In his mind, the scene played vividly...
A ship trapped in a sea of ice. The howling wind whipped through tattered sails. His great-grandfather and the crew shouted, hammers pounding relentlessly against the thick ice.
- Faster! The ice is closing in! Break it! Break it harder!
His great-grandfather's voice echoed — strong and resolute, like the very spirit of the ship itself.
- No sacrifice! No victory! We will get out of here!
Faces of the crew filled his mind — sweat freezing on their foreheads, breath heavy with exhaustion, but their eyes burned with determination.
Sam took a deep breath and looked up at the class. A few students were paying attention now. Near the window, Mikaela rested her chin on her hand, her gaze wandering until it lingered on him for just a second — long enough to make his heart race.
- On that expedition, they stumbled upon something… beyond imagination. Not treasure. Not the ruins of an ancient civilization. But… a giant metal being.
The room fell quieter. Some students looked intrigued. Others remained neutral. A few rolled their eyes as if it was just another ridiculous story.
- On its metal body were strange symbols — unlike any language on Earth.
Sam paused.
- After that journey… my great-grandfather nearly went insane.
A few snickers broke the silence again.
- At least… that's what they say. But my great-grandfather was a rational man. How could almost he lose his mind over one expedition? What did he really see out there? What do these symbols actually mean?
This time, Mikaela tilted her head slightly, her expression softening. The giggles faded. A few students sat up straighter. As Sam's gaze swept across the room, he noticed something — more people were listening now.
- They say history is written by the victors… but what about the mysteries left unsolved? I believe history is so much more than what we're taught.
As he finished, Sam let out a breath of relief and made his way back to his seat. Before sitting down, he snuck another glance at Mikaela — this time, she smiled softly.
After class ended, when everyone had left except for Sam, he approached the teacher to ask about his grade. The teacher, visibly pleased, smiled at him and said:
-That was an excellent presentation, Sam — exactly what I expected from you. Regardless of its authenticity, an A+ is well-deserved.
But then, he paused and let out a sigh.
-I really like you, Sam.
The old teacher adjusted his glasses and leaned on the edge of the desk, his weathered face reflecting the regret of a man who had seen the ups and downs of life.
-But if history is the only subject you're good at… that's a shame. I've taken a look at your other grades — not that I really had a reason to — and they're… surprisingly bad. None of your other subjects are above average, except for mine.
Sam lowered his head, clutching the old notebook tightly in his hands. His throat tightened — he had tried. He had really tried. The late nights, the repeated failures… why wasn't anything changing? Why was he still stuck in the same place? He didn't understand. His breathing grew heavy. The ticking of the classroom clock echoed louder than usual.
The teacher stepped closer, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. The boy flinched slightly, but the warmth of that touch didn't make him want to pull away. In a calm voice — far from the gruff tone most students knew — the teacher spoke:
-But you don't need to be ashamed of that. You still have a long road ahead of you, full of opportunities. Stay optimistic. Success will come in time.
Sam looked at his teacher — the same stern face he had known since their first meeting, but something was different now. His eyes were full of hope.
-I've seen many talented students, Sam. But not all of them are as persistent as you. Don't give up.
With that, the teacher gathered his papers and left. The door clicked shut. Sam remained standing there, his mind churning like stormy waves. But this time, it wasn't just disappointment — it was determination. He ran his hand gently over the old notebook his great-grandfather had left behind. Somewhere deep inside, a small flame flickered to life.
Sam wanted to be strong — not just to escape the shadow of his great-grandfather, but to prove to himself that he could do it.
And this time, he wouldn't stop.
Not ever.
---
As Sam walked out of the school gates, clutching the old notebook like it was the most precious thing in the world, his face beamed with joy. He barely noticed anything around him. By the roadside, his father's car was waiting.
Sam jumped in, barely getting the chance to buckle his seatbelt before his dad squinted at him with a teasing grin.
-You look excited. Did some girl just confess to you?
-Even better!
-Oh yeah? More than one girl?
-No!- Sam laughed, playfully punching his dad's arm.
They both burst out laughing. It was one of those rare moments — a genuinely good day.
But there was something odd about his father's smile. His eyes shimmered slightly, as though he was holding something back.
-Hey…-his father said, lowering his voice mysteriously.
-Your day is about to get even better.
-What do you mean?
-You'll find out soon. Let's just say… it's a special gift.
Sam leaned back in his seat, raising an eyebrow.
-What is it?
-A…
-A…?
-A car of your own!
Sam blinked.
-A car of my own?!
-Exactly!
For a second, Sam felt like he was about to explode. He let out a loud yell, pounding the dashboard in excitement, unable to contain his joy.
-OH MY GOD! HOLY CRAP!
His dad laughed, shaking his head.
-Alright, alright… calm down. It's not like you won the lottery.
Sam slumped back in his seat, his hands still trembling with excitement. But then, amid the joy, something felt… off. A faint, nagging sensation at the back of his neck. Like someone was watching him.
He glanced out the window.
Across the street, a battered 1970's Camaro in faded yellow sat quietly under the shade of a tree. The sunlight glinted off its scratched paint, but there was something… strange about it. A gentle breeze blew by, sending a sudden chill down Sam's spine. He swallowed hard, blinking — but the car remained there, still as a ghost. In the distance, the harsh cawing of a crow echoed through the trees.
Sam's eyes drifted downward. He noticed a reflection on the car's window — not just sunlight — it rippled slightly, softly… like it was breathing.
The car was watching him.
And his notebook.
Very, very carefully.
—-
The father and son's car slowly rolled into the old scrapyard.
-So... why did you suddenly decide to buy me a car, Dad?
-Because you keep waking up late, which makes me late for work too. This time, I'm leaving that problem for you to deal with.
His father chuckled. Sam shrugged slightly. He wasn't wrong.
The road leading into the yard was covered in dust. Rows of cars sat silently under the afternoon sun, their peeling paint like the weathered skin of old warriors who had long forgotten past glories. The air reeked of oil and burnt rubber, carrying a faint, melancholic sense of time long gone.
-Welcome to the kingdom of junk!— His father spread his arms dramatically.
Sam stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. He never imagined buying his first car would happen in such a rundown place. The excitement in his eyes faded, replaced by a hint of disappointment. But regardless, this was still a milestone in his life.
From afar, a deep, drawn-out voice called out:
-Well, well... Look who we have here. A young man looking to take a sweet ride home?
Sam turned around. An older man approached — short and weathered, his sun-darkened skin telling of a life spent outdoors. He wore a faded cowboy hat and clenched an unlit cigarette between his teeth.
-Father and son, huh? What are you looking for? A garbage truck? A bulldozer? Or maybe something to impress the ladies?
Sam's dad laughed while Sam awkwardly scratched his head.
-I just... want a normal car, sir.
-Normal?— The old man squinted. —
-What kind of normal? The kind that smokes after three miles, or the kind that makes your neighbors yell when you start it up?
His father burst out laughing again. Sam could only sigh.
-Alright, alright.— The old man waved his hand dismissively. —
-Follow me. I'll show you the best car in this whole sorry lot.
Sam trudged behind him. The cars sat crowded together, with twisted frames, shattered windshields, and faded paint that barely hinted at their original colors. His footsteps crunched over the gravel-covered ground. The excitement he'd felt earlier slowly faded with each row of broken-down vehicles he passed.
-Here it is!— The old man stopped abruptly, slapping the hood of a car. —
In front of them was a 1970's Camaro, painted yellow... or at least it once was. The paint was patchy like leopard spots, the tires caked with mud, and the windshield thick with dust.
-The best ride in the yard! Lucky it's still here today!
Sam caught that last part and thought to himself:
"'Still here'? What's that supposed to mean?"
His dad chuckled softly.
-Compared to the junk we saw earlier... yeah, this one's a real beauty.
Sam walked closer. He placed his hand on the hood — rough and cold. But in a single heartbeat...
A strange warmth pulsed beneath his palm, as if the car had exhaled softly.
Startled, Sam pulled his hand back. His heart pounded faster. But instead of fear, he felt an odd urge — he needed to have this car.
-I like this one!
-That fast?
-Yes. I want it!
He couldn't explain it. Something wasn't normal. It felt like the car was watching him.
-I want this one!— Sam called out to the old man.
-This one? Well... truth be told, I don't know where it came from or who owned it. But... hey, kid... you wanna know something about this car?
-What?
-It's haunted.
Sam laughed.
-Haunted?
-Yep! It started itself when I dozed off in the driver's seat. I swear! And it blasted rock music in the middle of the night too! Even disappeared once and came back on its own! But... haunted or not, it's a good car. I'll sell it to you for a good price. If I keep it, I might just die of a heart attack someday!
-You seem... pretty calm about a haunted car.
-Pfft... my wife's scarier than any ghost. This is nothing!
Laughter filled the air, but Sam didn't laugh. He stepped closer, placing his hand on the hood again.
Cold.
And then once more.
Warmth.
This time, stronger. A tingling heat spread from his palm to his shoulder. Sam's heart skipped a beat. The feeling... it wasn't like metal. It felt like a heartbeat.
He took a step back.
-This car...— He mumbled.
A memory flickered through his mind.
This was the same car that had been parked outside his school hours earlier. Yellow paint, scratched and weathered. The sunlight slanting through the windshield... And that eerie sensation — the feeling of being watched.
Sam swallowed hard.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
The interior was coated in dust, but the steering wheel was different — shiny and clean, almost impossibly so.
And right in the center of the wheel was a strange symbol.
Sharp lines intertwined, forming the shape of a face. A strange energy pulsed from it — as if it were alive.
-What is this...?— Sam whispered, his trembling finger brushing the symbol.
A deep, low rumble echoed from deep within the car.
And then it shuddered slightly.
Sam jolted in surprise.
The symbol on the steering wheel seemed to glow faintly.
And then he remembered — he'd seen this symbol before, in his great-grandfather's journal. It was drawn alongside another symbol.
Similar... but sharper.
Much sharper.
EndofChapter2