Keven Koul was the kind of kid teachers described as "quiet, but sharp." He wasn't popular, but he wasn't invisible either. He moved through school like a shadow—always watching, always thinking. While other boys his age obsessed over games or girls, Keven collected old horror films, studied body language, and read criminal psychology articles like bedtime stories.
He was fascinated by fear. Not because he wanted to scare people—at least, not then—but because he wanted to understand it. What made people snap? What made monsters human? What made humans monsters?
But at home, none of that showed. Home was his one escape from the thoughts that twisted through his mind like smoke.
The Koul household was filled with light and low ceilings, warm food and worn furniture. His dad was a mechanic with a foul mouth and a heart twice the size of his paycheck. His mom worked in a bookstore and believed every problem could be solved with tea and sarcasm.
They saw Keven—truly saw him. Not the quiet, intense boy others tiptoed around, but their son. And in their eyes, he wasn't strange. He was special.
On Sundays, their world slowed down. Jazz on the kitchen radio. Cinnamon waffles. Keven barefoot in plaid pajama pants, sketching storyboards for horror shorts he never finished. His dad pretending to hate syrup but pouring it anyway. His mom dancing barefoot, flipping waffles with one hand and stealing his orange juice with the other.
It was imperfect. Beautiful. Ordinary. And doomed.
That night, rain came softly—like it was trying not to wake the world. It pattered against the windows in gentle rhythms. Inside, everything was still.
Keven was in his room, editing footage from the weekend—a mock horror film he'd filmed with his dad. It was ridiculous. His dad played both the terrified homeowner and the haunted toaster. Keven had even added dramatic violin stings where the toaster popped.
He was halfway through cutting a jump-scare when something pulled his attention. Not a noise. Just… absence. The kind of silence that stretches wrong.
He paused the video. Took off his headphones.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then— A creak. A heavy, dragging sound. Glass shattering.
He stood up fast, the chair rolling back against the wall. Heart pounding, he opened his door and stepped into the dark hallway.
"Mom?" he called. "Dad?"
No answer.
He moved slowly, bare feet soft against the floor. The living room glowed faintly with the blue light of the TV. Something was off.
Then he saw it.
First, a smear of red on the wall.
Then—his father.
Sprawled near the coffee table, eyes wide open, a look of disbelief frozen on his face. Blood pooled beneath him. His shirt was torn. His chest…
Keven stumbled back. His brain couldn't catch up.
He turned—and saw his mother.
Still. Collapsed near the couch, her hand stretched out toward the phone that never made it off the hook. Her throat was torn open. Her eyes were glassy.
Keven opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Then something moved behind him.
A hand wrapped over his mouth. Another gripped his arm, cold and unshakable. He thrashed, but it was useless.
Breath tickled his ear.
And a voice—not loud, not angry. Just calm. Like a whisper from inside a dream.
"You don't belong to them anymore."
Then everything went black.