The bright and warm rays of the sun shone across multiple fields. The sky was clear of clouds, revealing that beautiful, deep blue. Birds sang and chirped from their spots perched on branches, while others flew by, doing the same.
Everything was fine.
Then, on an asphalt road, a single ember
fell from the sky. It landed gently on the road, soon followed by more and more embers.
The clear blue sky was suddenly choked by thick, dark smoke. Sunshine was blocked by the smoke, which stretched for miles across the Earth.
Wind whipped through countless fields, flowing through the trees and tall patches of grass.
A fourteen-year-old boy sat in front of a burning house on a large plot of land.
This building was the source of the embers littering the road and the field around it.
The teenager's head was lowered, eyes fixed on the ground. He was still. He was silent. His eyes were hidden behind black hair that, strangely, never swayed in the fast-paced wind.
The house continued to burn. Not a single person was in sight.
No help was called. No help would come.
From the blazing structure, screams erupted, making the teenager's head snap up, his eyes locking on the front door of the house.
These screams belonged to his parents, who were trapped inside. However, no attempts at escape were ever made. There were no pleas for help—just screams of pain and agony.
It unsettled the teenager. It felt like a trap of some kind, meant to lure him inside the building.
Why was this happening? Why did any of this happen?
The door to the house creaked open, revealing a tall, jet-black figure. It wore a trench coat as dark as the rest of it. Its head exceeded the height of the doorway, blocking any view of its features.
Its footsteps filled the air—a boot-like sound that drowned out the crackling of the fire and the howling wind.
It knelt down, lowering its head to fit under the doorway, and stepped out onto the porch.
The sight of the creature shook the teenager to his core. There were no facial features. No nose. No eyes. No lips. No hair. Not even ears. The only feature the teenager could make out was a top hat on its head.
The figure stepped off the porch and onto the grass, moving directly toward the teenager.
As it walked, the grass beneath its feet withered and died. The teenager felt his heart race.
His stomach churned. His eyes watered. The hair on his arms stood up. A sudden chill ran through his body.
The fire, which had burned so hot, now felt like a distant warmth inside a blizzard. The frigid cold this thing radiated overpowered both the fire and the wind. It was the only thing he could feel—the cold.
The teenager desperately tried to move his body. His arms. His legs. Even just a pinky finger. Anything, to try and get away from this monster. But even if he had wanted to run toward it—even if he had wanted to leap at it—his body would not allow him.
Itt froze in place.
In shock.
Perhaps in terror.
The figure now stood before him. The cold had never felt stronger. Never so overwhelming.
It reached out with a hand.
The fire consuming the house paused. The wind flowing through the fields stopped. Even time itself seemed to freeze...
The figure's hand hovered above the boy's face, just about to make contact—
—when he jumped awake in his bed, back drenched in sweat.
He looked around his room and switched the lamp on. Then checked under his bed and inside his wardrobe—finding nothing.
A sigh escaped his lips.
The teenager's name was Alma Daedulus Alastor—a fourteen-year-old Mexican-American.
He walked around his room, gathering the clothes he would wear for school. Once he had his outfit ready, he made his way to the calendar and marked off the previous day—June 9th, 1954. Tomorrow would be the day Alma took the end-of-grade test.
Alma entered the bathroom, grabbed the hanging chain, and pulled it, turning on the lights above the counter and near the tub. He laid his clothes on the counter and peeled off his soaking wet shirt.
His eyes scanned over his body. There were hints of muscle beginning to form, but they weren't prominent. He stood at an impressive six foot, one inches tall.
Alma was his own harshest critic—always mentally berating himself over even the smallest mistake. He carried a mindset for himself only where everything had to be perfect. There could be no room for error.
He sighed and turned toward the tub, walking to it. He twisted the knobs for both hot and cold water and waited as the tub began to fill.
Throughout his life, Alma had always been extremely critical of himself. That mindset stemmed from a deep fear of failing his parents. Since he was three, Alma had strived to make them proud.
The things most kids his age did seemed foolish to him. Immature behavior felt like a personal embarrassment. Watching other kids act their age made him cringe inside.
He slid into the tub, letting the warm mix of hot and cold water cleanse his body. A soft sigh of bliss escaped his lips as he finally relaxed.
But his mind drifted back to the nightmare.
It had been recurring for nearly a week. Today marked the sixth day—and there was no sign of it improving.
Deep down, it terrified him. He'd told his parents—and his doctor—that the dreams were fading. That things were getting better. But that couldn't be further from the truth.
Alma had never wanted to disappoint his parents. These nightmares felt like yet another task, another test. And if he failed this one, he feared they'd be let down. That was his greatest fear.
Fifteen minutes later, Alma stepped out of the tub. He dried off with a white towel, rubbing his hair in quick bursts before drying the rest of his body.
He got dressed in the clothes he'd picked out:
A white T-shirt, green pants, dark brown saddle shoes, and his school jacket.
After combing his hair into a neater style, he sprayed some cologne onto his torso and stepped out of the bathroom.
Alma walked down the staircase and into the living room. From the fifth-to-last step, he noticed the kitchen light was already on.
Only one person ever woke up this early: his father, Ramiro.
He walked into the kitchen, where Ramiro was pouring coffee into his iconic green mug—a small piece chipped from the rim.
"You're up early. School doesn't start for another hour," Ramiro said as Alma grabbed a banana from the kitchen counter.
"I'm just nervous about the end-of-grade test tomorrow, " Alma said, peeling the banana and taking a bite.
Ramiro gave his son a worried look. The nightmares weighed heavily on his mind—and Alma's silence about them only deepened his concern.
"You didn't have another nightmare, did you?" he asked gently.
Alma's eyes widened—but fortunately, he was turned away when they did.
He hesitated, struggling to come up with an answer that wouldn't lie directly to his father.
Just then, footsteps approached the kitchen window, and a figure appeared. It was Alma's mother, Sonia.
She leaned on the windowsill, propping her chin in her hands. Her eyes lingered lovingly on Ramiro.
"Good morning, Rrrramiro," Sonia purred, rolling the R seductively.
Ramiro cleared his throat, clearly affected by her tone.
"Good morning, my love," he replied, walking over as Sonia beckoned with a finger.
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Alma quietly slipped out of the room.
He stepped outside and inhaled the crisp morning air.
School wouldn't start for another 50 minutes, and the bus wouldn't arrive for 20, so Alma looked for ways to pass the time.
He entered the workshop where his father worked, reorganizing tools, spare parts, and broken equipment. At one point, he hurled a rusted brake pad into the woods.
Alma walked to the end of the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes with each step. The early morning sun was just beginning to peek through the trees, casting long shadows that stretched across the quiet road like reaching fingers. Birds chirped softly in the distance, and a cool breeze stirred the leaves. For a moment, everything felt still — almost peaceful.
Then his eyes caught something.
Across the street, just beyond the edge of the forest, it stood.
His breath hitched.
A tall, dark figure — featureless, motionless, and utterly out of place. No face. No eyes. No outline clear enough to grasp. Just a silhouette, darker than anything around it, absorbing the morning light instead of reflecting it. It didn't move, but it watched him. Alma could feel it.
His blood ran cold.
He couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe. The silence around him deepened, as if the world had gone mute. Even the birds stopped singing. His heart pounded in his chest — not like the steady rhythm of nerves, but like a drum trying to break free.
No... this isn't real. This can't be real.
He tried to move, but his legs were frozen. His skin prickled with fear, a chill running from his spine to the base of his skull. This thing — this shadow — it had haunted him for nearly a week in his dreams. But this wasn't sleep.
This was real.
And it was here.
Then — the sudden hiss of air brakes broke the silence. The school bus rolled into view, stopping right in front of him, its yellow body blocking the street from sight.
He snapped out of it, gasping softly, as if surfacing from underwater. Blinking rapidly, he rushed toward the bus, glancing over his shoulder as he rounded the front.
Nothing.
The figure was gone.
Only trees now. The forest quiet and undisturbed, as if nothing had ever been there.
His hands trembled as he climbed aboard, the warm, familiar scent of the bus — old vinyl, oil, and pencil shavings — grounding him just enough to keep moving.
He walked down the aisle, eyes distant, mind still trying to process what he had seen. That wasn't a dream. He knew it wasn't a dream.
And if it was real...
What did that mean?
Alma made his way toward the back, taking a seat beside someone.
"You okay?" asked the student next to him.
It was Jack Kayode Starr—Alma's best, and only, African-American friend.
Alma nodded slowly, still shaken. "It's nothing. I thought I saw something, that's all."
"Something like what?" Jack asked, glancing up from his notebook, where he was sketching his favorite superhero—a man with a bold, red 'S' on his chest.
"That's a good drawing," Alma said, dodging the question. "How long did that take you?"
"Thanks. About nine hours. I worked on it between classes yesterday and finished it last night," Jack said, turning the notebook so Alma could see better.
"Wow. Beats anything I could do," Alma said with a small smile.
Jack chuckled. "You just don't draw. If you did, you'd probably paint the greatest masterpiece mankind's ever seen."
Alma turned to look out the window, watching trees blur by as the bus sped down the road.
"Yeah… maybe I could," he muttered.
"But I don't think I'd enjoy it. I've never seen myself as a painter or artist."
Jack shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "You have to be open to new things," he said, continuing to draw. "How will you know what you like if it lies in the unknown?"
Alma paused, the line hitting deeper than expected. "Perhaps... maybe after I graduate from school entirely," he replied.
He glanced at Jack's drawing—different from just moments ago. It was a man with a bat symbol on his chest.
"That's really impressive. From the comics I've seen, it's an identical match. Maybe even better," Alma said, making Jack smile.
"Thank you," Jack replied. "It's my dream to become a comic artist—and write stories—after I graduate."
Alma nodded. "You should. Even without art school, you're better than most professionals." Jack smiled again at the compliment.
"Thanks. Again." Jack tucked his notebook into his backpack. "Are you still having those nightmares?"
The mood shifted instantly. Silence followed. Jack didn't need an answer—he already knew.
"...Yes. I am." Alma finally spoke, voice hushed and weak.
"Do your parents know?" Jack asked gently.
"No, they don't. And I haven't lied to them either. God was just... really with me when I needed Him most," Alma added sheepishly.
"Meaning you weaseled your way out of that talk with your parents, right?" Jack deadpanned, face blank.
Alma grinned. "Bingo."
The bus ride took another 20 minutes to arrive at the school, leaving just 10 before first class.
Alma and Jack walked the hallway together, weaving past other students and rows of lockers. They entered the combinations on their respective lockers, stashed a few books, then split down different halls.
"I'll see you at lunch!" Jack called.
"Race yah!" Alma replied, watching Jack's face shift from cheerful to worried, realizing he'd lose.
"Hey! That's unfair!" Jack called after him. Alma chuckled, heading into his first class—math.
Math was Alma's favorite. He had a fondness—bordering obsession—for calculus. His favorite property was the Property of Zero, and he especially enjoyed working with integers.
He received the assignment sheet and got to work immediately. Thirty questions—solved effortlessly. While the others struggled with the first few, Alma was the first to turn in his paper and walk out.
The teacher didn't need to check his answers. He already knew they were right.
Alma breezed through the day: U.S. Government, Sociology, Science, Literature—all passed with ease.
But then came Geography.
The one class Alma despised. He had no interest in other nations or their regions. To him, only three mattered: the United States, Mexico, and Canada. Everything else? Meaningless—except for the people who lived there. That was ALL.
He stood in front of the door, the one leading to the only class he was failing. His teacher, Rosanne Emillia, handed out F minus grades like candy—at least to him.
Alma entered. Rosanne sat at her desk reading a book. A few students were already there, five minutes early, trying to cram in whatever they could.
Alma took his seat and waited. The room slowly filled. Rosanne stood and began briefing them on today's lesson. Students focused, eyes glued to the dark green chalkboard.
All except Alma.
The bell rang, and the class began. Long, dragging minutes passed. Eventually, it ended.
Alma stood quickly, heading for the door—but then:
"And where do you think you're going, Alma?" Rosanne said, still at her desk.
He stopped. Turned. Her head shook. A solid "no."
Other students filed out. Some smirked at the irony: the smartest kid in school—possibly even smarter than some teachers—flunking Geography.
"Sit down," Rosanne said gently, yet firmly.
Alma obeyed, eyes dropping to his lap. He knew what was coming.
Rosanne approached with a stack of books, thudding them onto his desk.
"You've been failing my class lately. Why?" The bluntness hit harder than expected.
Alma couldn't say the truth—it was apathy. But it was the truth.
"I'm too focused on my other subjects," he said. Rosanne raised an eyebrow.
"You nail anything involving America, Mexico, or Canada. So why does everything else trip you up?"
"I grew up in America. My parents were born in Mexico. And Canada's our neighbor. Naturally, I'd know less about other countries," Alma explained.
"Maybe. But for someone who absorbs information like you, that doesn't explain your grades."
She placed a new sheet in front of him. "Today, you're not getting an F minus. You're going to learn about the rest of the world."
Alma sighed but nodded.
Hours passed.
It was 7 PM before Alma finished. Just as he was about to close his book, the atmosphere shifted.
He was in the center of the room.
All desks—gone. No Rosanne. No chairs. Just him.
The room was dark, except for a faint light from the window that managed to illuminate everything.
Alma looked outside. The parking lot. Still there.
But beyond it stood a hill—with a single apple tree atop it.
He squinted. Something about that tree... it made his skin crawl.
Behind the tree: darkness.
It flowed like liquid, swallowing everything. The hill. The tree. The cars. It crept across the lot, stuck to the window like tar.
It began to bang—over and over—trying to break through.
Alma fell from his chair in terror as the glass cracked.
He rushed to the door. It wouldn't open. He kicked it, but left no dent.
He turned to grab his desk—gone.
And somehow, he was back in the center of the room.
"You'll never be good enough," said a voice from behind.
He spun around—no one.
"You were a mistake," came his father's voice.
Alma turned—nothing.
"What...?" he whispered, but was interrupted.
"I should have aborted you," said his mother's voice.
His eyes widened. He turned—she was standing there.
"Mother...?" Alma stepped toward her.
Then—his father appeared. "You..."
Both of them stood in front of him.
"Disappoint us." They both said.
Tears spilled down Alma's cheeks as the darkness engulfed the room.
He fell to his knees.
"Worthless." "Pitiful." "Useless."
Jack's voice echoed from every direction.
Alma spun in every direction, dizzy and desperate to find him.
He collapsed at the window. It shattered, knocking him flat on his stomach.
"You're Disposable." came Jack's voice behind him.
Alma looked up, confused, trembling.
He stood, continuing to look at Jack.
"What is happening—" But a shadowy hand coiled around his waist, pulling him into the void.
Alma jolted awake.
He sat at his desk. A book open in front of him. Rosanne grading papers.
The room was normal again.
"Can I... leave now?" Alma's voice was quiet. He was shaking.
"Yes, you may. Excellent work, Alma. An A plus!" she said cheerfully—but Alma had already left.
He walked the hallway, body trembling and cold.
His face lit up when he spotted Jack at his locker.
Alma ran toward him and hugged him tightly.
"Whoa! You're freezing," Jack said, startled. "Are you okay?"
"Let's just get out of here. We're already late," Alma murmured.
Jack looked at him with concern. "Seriously, you should go to the infirmary."
"I just want to go home," Alma pleaded, eyes searching Jack's.
Jack nodded. "Okay. Let's go, then."
They made their way outside and waited.
It was 7:30 PM. They were behind.
A bus finally pulled up. They climbed aboard, the only passengers aside from the driver.
As the bus rolled through the night, Jack broke the silence.
"What happened?"
He hesitated, the words stuck in his throat like thorns. He glanced at Jack, whose eyes held nothing but concern. That made it harder.
"I… I think I had a nightmare," Alma finally said. "But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt real. Too real."
Jack leaned back, arms crossed. "What happened in it?"
Alma looked down at his hands. They were still trembling. He tightened them into fists to stop the shaking.
"I was alone in the classroom. Everything was gone—desks, people, even the teacher. Then this… darkness started seeping in. From the window. It tried to get in. I couldn't escape."
Jack didn't say anything yet. He waited.
"And then…" Alma paused, trying to gather himself. "Voices. My parents. Jack… you. All of you saying horrible things. That I was worthless. That I was a mistake. That I'd never be good enough."
Jack's eyes widened, and his expression tightened. "Alma, I would never—"
"I know," Alma said quickly, cutting him off. "I know it wasn't really you. Or them. But it still felt like it."
The bus rumbled on, streetlights flashing across their faces through the window. Jack reached out and rested a hand on Alma's shoulder.
"That… sounds like more than just a bad dream. Like something's trying to mess with your head."
Alma nodded slowly. "It is. And the worst part? It felt different that the others. So much worse..." his voice was weak, "I've had nightmares before, but this one… it stuck. Like it left something behind."
Jack looked ahead, thinking. "When we get to your place, you're calling someone. A counselor, a priest, someone. This isn't just stress anymore."
Alma gave a weak smile. "You sound like my mom."
"Good," Jack said. "Someone's gotta look out for you."
They rode the rest of the way in silence, but it was a silence filled with thought, not distance.
The bus slowed to a stop in front of Alma's house. The lights in the windows were still off.
Jack stood first. "You sure you'll be okay?"
Alma nodded. "I will be. Thanks, Jack."
Jack walked Alma to the front of the bus, near the doors. His house was still a block away.
"Call me. Visit me. Just… don't let this stuff fester." Jack spoke.
Alma stepped down, gave one last glance at the empty road behind them, then headed to his door.
As he stepped inside, a cold breeze brushed past his neck.
He froze.
The house was dark. Silent.
But something felt… off.
Like someone—or something—had been waiting for him to come home.
And in the distance, just barely audible… the sound of glass cracking.
Again.
Alma turned slowly. Every nerve in his body told—screamed at—him to run inside, lock the doors, bolt every window.
His eyes met the shadows of the night.
In what little sunlight remained, he could barely make out the silhouettes of the trees that framed the wide expanse of the yard.
At the end of the driveway—where he had stood not long ago—stood the figure.
The top hat. The trench coat. The same figure from his dreams. The same one that stood opposite him this morning.
Alma had questions. What did it want? Why was it haunting him? Had he done something to provoke it? Did he remind it of someone?
He turned fully to face it. His voice trembled, the fear barely concealed.
"What do you want?"
The figure didn't move.
A sudden breeze swept through the field and trees, bending branches and rustling leaves.
It howled—an all too familiar sound.
Alma didn't wait. He unlocked the front door and rushed inside, slamming it shut behind him and locking it tight.
He ran to the living room window near the door and peeked out cautiously.
The figure was gone. Or maybe... somewhere else.
He stayed at the window a little longer before finally stepping away.
He turned on the living room lamp, the kitchen light, and the dining room light. He couldn't stand the dark anymore.
Half an hour later, his parents returned. His father parked the car inside the shop.
Alma heard their footsteps on the porch and peeked through the curtain.
When he saw it was them, he unlocked the door.
"Did you take a bath?" Sonia asked, noticing Alma still in his school clothes.
"Uh, no. I stayed after class," he replied. His father raised an eyebrow.
"After class? Rosanne make you stay?"
"Yeah, she did. She said I got an A-plus in Geography." Alma smiled slightly.
"That's very good. When I was in school, I flunked every lesson in that subject," Ramiro said. "Don't be too hard on yourself if you don't get a perfect score."
Alma smiled at his father's reassurance, feeling a strange comfort in his failures.
"Thank you, Father."
"You're welcome. Now let's go eat those leftovers. I. Am. Starvin'!" Ramiro said, making Alma chuckle and Sonia roll her eyes playfully.
After dinner, Alma took a bath, brushed his teeth, and changed into his pajamas.
He dreaded bedtime—afraid another nightmare awaited. But with tomorrow's end-of-grade test, he couldn't risk staying up.
Before bed, he knelt and prayed to the Almighty—asking only for peaceful dreams, and the chance to wake up tomorrow.
After his prayer, Alma slipped into bed... closed his eyes... and fell asleep.