Somehow, he'd slipped away from the crowd without anyone noticing.
Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Simon took a step forward, gaze fixed on the priest. "What's going on?"
Nicholas didn't answer right away. The air between the three of them thickened. Secrets hung in it. Heavy. Unspoken.
Simon could feel it. Something was unraveling and whatever it was, it had everything to do with him.
How much had he heard?
Steve hadn't seen anyone leave the church. No footsteps. No warning. Yet here Simon was, standing just a few feet away, sharp-eyed and unreadable.
Father Nicholas tensed but didn't speak. Steve cut in fast.
"Come on," he said, guiding Simon by the shoulder, "why don't you tell me more about this ghost driver you mentioned?"
The distraction worked. Simon let himself be steered away, though his eyes lingered on Father Nicholas. The priest nodded once, then slipped into his car and drove off. Clean exit. No more questions, at least for now.
Simon didn't buy it.
"What's going on?" he asked, gaze flicking to his father. "Where's he going?"
"To the city," Steve replied, voice light. "He's looking into that truck. Wants to do some digging. The kind of weird stuff... well, it usually starts there, doesn't it?"
He flashed a quick smile, friendly, familiar, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Simon raised a brow, clearly not satisfied. "That all?"
Steve shrugged, keeping his tone easy. "Pretty much. Ghost trucks don't investigate themselves."
He wasn't exactly lying. Just... editing the truth. Skimming the surface instead of diving deep. For Simon's sake.
"Now," Steve continued, "how about you tell me more about what you saw? The truck. The driver—if there was one. Yeah?"
Simon held his father's gaze a moment longer, like he was trying to decide whether to press further. Then he sighed.
"Alright."
They walked back toward the church together. Steve kept his pace steady, pretending this was just another Sunday. But inside, he was rattled.
And Simon? He hadn't stopped thinking. Not for a second.
—
—
Father Nicholas was going at a very high speed. The road was bleak, unfrequented and wide. From the road, it was obvious that it rarely had passers by. The trees by the right were systematically planted, one after each, abundantly green and full of foliage, indicating health and vitality. It was a beautiful sight to gawp at. By the left was a majestic mountainous terrain standing silently, glaring down at the road with admiration.
The Devil Went Down To Georgia by The Charlie Daniels Band was playing over the radio. The radio, which had been playing music moments before, suddenly began to crackle and hiss. The music was distorted and warped, as if something was interfering with the signal. Then, the radio began to release an eerie, high-pitched screech that could make your skin crawl. As the noise grew louder and more intense, it felt like the car was growing darker and colder.
He tried tuning the radio to get a better signal. All stations were making high-pitched disturbing screech. He turned off the radio for some peace and quiet.
Just as he took his hands off the tuner, the radio turned back on this time the screeching sound was louder and deafening.
As the screeching sound reached its peak, a deep, raspy voice suddenly bled from the radio, it's presence like a cold hand on flesh.
"We are coming for him."
The voice whispered through the static, low and venom-laced.
Father Nicholas didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched. His breath hitched for half a second, just enough to betray the pressure crawling up his spine.
He wasn't the type to scare easily. But this wasn't fear. It was something colder, something deeper.
He stepped back from the radio, eyes narrowed.
Whatever had just spoken... it wasn't bluffing.
And it wasn't human.
Father Nicholas still frozen, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a vice-like intensity, as he grappled with the eerie radio broadcast. His gut instinct screamed at him to turn back and flee from the ominous message, but his rational mind countered, there was no reason to be afraid.
Torn between these two conflicting impulses, he remained still. With a deep breath, Fr. Nicholas steeled his nerves and continued driving, determined to reach his destination despite the unsettling occurrence.
As he drove, he tried to shake off the lingering sense of unease, but a nagging voice in the back of his head persisted, whispering, "We are coming for him."
—
—
The grocery shop door creaked open as Simon stepped into the light, the afternoon sun catching on his silver hair like stardust. It was soft and tousled, brushed but not obedient, and the wind kept tugging at it like it had a crush.
He adjusted his glasses with the back of his hand, the loaf of bread tucked under one arm, an apple in the other. His shirt clung a little to his chest from the rising heat. His jeans were slightly wrinkled. And he couldn't care less.
"You shouldn't be walking around like that," his mom had said softly, worry threading every word. "You should be resting, Simon."
He'd smiled then, just like he always did, gentle and full of that quiet stubbornness she could never win an argument against.
Now, as he walked back under the late afternoon sun, the memory pulled at his lips again. His silver eyes caught the light, glinting like soft mirrors bright, unreadable, and far too kind for a boy who'd nearly died this morning.
Halfway down the block, Old Man Halford sweeping his shopfront was already cursing at his crooked shop sign again.
He whistled as he walked, nodding to Mr. Halford.
"Morning, Mr. H! Your sign's crooked again," he called out, biting into the apple.
Mr. Halford waved his broom in mock annoyance. "It's the wind, I swear it's out to get me."
Simon chuckled, jogging up the steps to straighten it—for the third time that week.
"Maybe I like it crooked!" Mr. Halford barked, then paused. "...Thanks, kid."
"No problem," Simon said, flashing a smile that made his glasses slide a bit down his nose. He pushed them back up and kept walking.
Near the town fountain, Miss Red's cat dashed across the street out of nowhere. Simon paused mid-bite of his apple, crouching instinctively.
"Hey, Leo," he said gently, holding out his hand.
The cat stared at him, ears flattened with wide, bristled fur... then hissed. Backed away. Bolted.
Simon blinked, visibly confused. "Rude."
But he laughed it off, brushing a few strands of hair out of his face as he stood. Weird, but whatever. He took another bite of apple and kept walking, silver eyes squinting at the sky. Blue and cloudless.
A little girl waved at him from beside her mom. Simon waved back and pulled the most ridiculous dramatic bow he could manage, glasses slipping a little again.
"M'lady," he said in a posh British accent.
The girl giggled and buried her face in her mom's dress.
He chuckled and gave her a wink before heading home.
His house door creaked as Simon pushed it open, the scent of sun-warmed vegetables clinging to the brown paper bag in his arm. A loaf of fresh bread peeked from the top, the crust still warm from the bakery.
"I'm home!" he called, his voice echoing into the kitchen where something was already sizzling on the stove.
Jeanette peeked out from behind the open fridge door. "You're back already?"
"Didn't want to give the sun too much time to fry my brains," he grinned, placing the groceries on the counter with a soft grunt. His arm brushed the edge, just barely.
Jeanette closed the fridge a little too fast. "Simon."
He didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he reached into the bag. "Got your bread. And good tomatoes that aren't made of sadness this time."
She crossed the kitchen in two strides, pulling his shirt up and turning him to his back gently but firmly. "Let me see."
Simon sighed, relenting. The bandage peeked from under his shirt, tight but already tinged a little red around the edges. His mom's eyes narrowed.
"I'm fine," he said quickly, gently trying to pull away.
"You literally dragged your back through the road"
"Gently," he added with a teasing smile. "More like... glided."
Jeanette did not laugh.
He gave her a lopsided look, trying to charm his way out of it like always. "I'm okay, Mom. I promise. You'd be proud. I didn't even curse once during the whole thing."
She finally exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temple. "I swear, you're going to give me gray hair."
"You've had gray hairs since I was fourteen."
"That was your fault too."
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Love you."
She swatted at him lightly, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. "You're resting after this."
Simon opened his mouth, probably to argue.
"Nope. I don't want to hear it. You're resting. Especially before tonight."
He blinked. "Tonight?"
Jeanette raised a brow. "Did you hit your head harder than we thought?"
"Only mildly concussed, ma'am. Hit me." He chuckled.
"The Lyons are coming over for dinner."
Simon blinked. Then blinked again.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
He stood there, processing. "Jessica's family?"
Jeanette gave him a look. "Is there another set of Lyons I don't know about?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears going pink. "No. I mean—cool. That's... cool."
She smiled slyly. "You two just saw each other."
Simon shrugged, but his lips twitched upward. "We were busy dying and all."
Jeanette rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove. "Go lie down. And clean up. You look like a very pretty raccoon."
Simon laughed and made his way out of the kitchen, already thinking about what shirt didn't scream "I fought death this morning."