Chapter Two
Carter woke to the dim glow of his alarm clock.
3:00 a.m.
Perfect. Demon hour.
He hadn't even played any horror games lately, so why the hell was his brain hosting one for free?
It had been years since his last nightmare—at least, one that stayed. But this one wouldn't fade. It clung to the back of his skull, heavy and sour, like smoke that refused to leave.
He stayed still beneath the blanket, frozen in that childish instinct to hide from the dark.
How pathetic, he thought. Eighteen years old and scared of the air.
Eventually, he threw the blanket off and turned on the lamp. The warm light spread weakly across the room, chasing away nothing.
Carter sat on the edge of his bed, hair a mess, heart still uneven. He waited for calm that never came. An hour passed—maybe more—before he gave up on sleep entirely.
He turned on his console instead.
Pixels. Menus. Music.
Something he could control.
He gamed until the night bled into morning.
---
When consciousness finally caught him again, he was slumped over his desk.
The screen blinked YOU DIED in red letters.
Fitting.
His mom's voice carried through the house. "Carter! Breakfast!"
He groaned, dragging himself to the bathroom.
The mirror didn't flatter him.
A pale face stared back—skin washed out, dark hollows under the eyes, hair pointing in random directions.
"Perfect," he muttered. "Zombie chic. Adam's gonna love this."
He splashed cold water on his face, trying to shock the fatigue out. It didn't work.
---
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of toast and something burnt. His mom sat at the table, scrolling through her phone with one hand, coffee in the other.
"You were up all night again?" she asked, tone clipped. "You look awful."
Carter sat, expression blank. "Thanks."
"I'm serious, Carter. You can't keep doing this. Your father's going to have my head if he sees you like this again."
Her words were sharp, but not heavy—annoyance, not concern. The kind that said she'd already given up trying to understand, just trying to avoid a fight.
Carter poked at his toast.
The silence between them wasn't tense—it was empty.
Like both had accepted it would always be this way.
---
Carter walked to school that morning, the air still heavy with last night's exhaustion.
Just another day—same road, same faces, same dull rhythm.
Except this time, he was too tired to even pretend.
By the time he reached class, the bell had long since rung. The teacher barely looked up as he slipped in and took his seat, eyes half-lidded. The words on the board blurred into meaningless squiggles.
Even by Carter's standards, he was running on fumes.
He was just about to fold his arms and surrender to sleep when a familiar voice came from behind him.
"Dude, did you stay up all night again?"
Carter didn't bother turning. "Mhm."
Adam leaned forward over his desk, whispering, "Man, and here I thought you were finally turning your life around. Y'know, doing something productive for once."
"You're the last person I want to hear that from."
"Excuse me?" Adam said, mock-offended. "I'm a beacon of self-improvement."
"Yeah," Carter said flatly, "you probably stayed up all night talking to your girlfriend."
Adam grinned. "Better to spend time on something worthwhile."
Carter huffed through his nose. Productive, my ass, he thought. If that relationship lasts a week, I'll start believing in miracles.
---
The teacher looked up—just half a second, no words, just that stare. Carter knew what it meant.
Time to shut up.
After what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only minutes, he slumped deeper into his seat.
"Who the hell teaches literature first thing in the morning…" he thought, eyes closing.
Just a few minutes wouldn't hurt, right?
He rested his head on the desk. The classroom faded.
Then came the voice.
"Our sacrifice WILL NOT be in vain."
Carter's breath hitched. He was dreaming again.
Only this time, he wasn't himself.
He was clad in armor, heavy and cold, kneeling on blood-soaked ground. The sky bled rain that wasn't water—it was red, thick, alive. He held someone in his arms, a man whose face he couldn't see.
Around them, chaos reigned—shadows tearing through soldiers, screams that sounded less like pain and more like things not meant for human throats.
Through it all, Carter stayed kneeling, untouched by the madness. Forgotten by the world.
Then—fingers, cold and rough, wrapped around his neck from behind.
"Carter."
"Carter!"
He jolted awake. His desk rattled as the classroom snapped back into focus.
"Is my class really that boring for you, Mr. Leywin," the teacher said sharply, "that you'd rather sleep through it?"
Carter sat up straight, pulse racing.
Laughter rippled through the class. Adam was grinning like an idiot.
"Perhaps you'd like to teach instead, since you already know everything?"
Carter muttered an apology, barely audible.
---
School ended early again that day. Normally, Carter would've been glad—just not when the reason was "for safety precautions."
Another disappearance.
Not many, just a handful across the city.
Still, enough to make people talk. Enough for the school to act like the sky was falling.
People vanish every day, Carter thought. Guess it's only news when it's close to home.
He walked out with Adam. A few of their friends trailed behind, laughing about something he didn't catch.
Then came Chris.
"Hey, Carter," he called. "You gonna do the homework today? The literature teacher's gonna kill you if you don't."
"Nah," Carter said, barely looking up. "You can lend me yours."
Adam slung an arm around him. "Damn, Carter. And here I thought I was supposed to be the bully."
"I was joking," Carter replied.
Chris frowned, unconvinced. He was always like that—rule-following, polite, trying too hard.
Carter didn't dislike him. They just didn't talk much. But for some reason, Chris still treated him like a friend.
---
Adam's friends left for their clubs. Adam himself was swept off by Emma before Carter could even comment.
"Guess I'll be busy doing my productive work," Adam said with a sly grin, letting himself get dragged away.
Carter didn't reply. Just waved half-heartedly and started the long walk home.
The streets were quiet—the kind of stillness that made every footstep sound too loud. He kicked a rock along the sidewalk.
"Ouch," he muttered when it rebounded into his shin.
After a while, his soles started to ache. A vending machine glowed on the corner.
"Well… might as well spend some of that allowance."
He squatted beside it, can in hand—a picture of peak motivation.
The first sip was cold, sharp, grounding. But halfway through, something shifted.
The air.
Not wind—just cold. A faint pressure on his skin, like the air itself had weight. The shadows along the street thickened, and color drained from the world as clouds gathered overhead.
Carter stood straight, scanning the dim street.
"Well, what the hell? Why's it suddenly so dark?"
That's when he saw it—at the far end of the road.
A figure.
Or maybe the shadow of one.
Bent. Twisted. Wrong in all the wrong places.
Carter froze, heart hammering. His instincts screamed run, but curiosity held him still.
He took a step forward. Then another.
"This is how horror movie idiots die, isn't it?" he muttered.
He tossed the half-empty can aside and turned the corner—
—and stopped.
A bent mail post.
"…Okay, what the hell. Who puts a mailbox at the corner of a street?"
A pause.
"…Right. Probably everyone."
He rubbed his face. "I seriously need to stop playing so many video games."
---
The house greeted him with its usual silence. No lights. No voices. Just the hum of the fridge—eternal, indifferent.
Dinner was easy: frozen meal, microwave, beep, sit, eat.
Halfway through chewing, exhaustion hit like a slow, invisible punch. His eyelids felt like sandbags strung together with regret.
"Well," he mumbled, "as far as naps go, this one shall be divine."
He collapsed onto the couch with all the grace of a tranquilized cow.
But just as sleep began to creep in, his eyes blinked open again.
A thought flickered.
…What if I get nightmares again?
He scoffed. "Bah. Nothing to worry about. I may be stupid, but I'm not childish enough to freak out over a dream."
The words sounded brave enough. Almost convincing.
Still, his chest tightened at the memory of that gaze from the night before—cold, curious, wrong.
But sleep came anyway.
And this time… nothing came with it.
No battlefield. No smoke. No creatures staring through his skin.
Just darkness—blank, peaceful, numb.
When he opened his eyes, the living room was dipped in orange. Evening already.
Relief washed through him like warm water. Maybe it had just been a one-off freak show. Maybe his brain had blended too many late-night games into psychological soup.
Reassured, he went about his night. Ate again. Showered. Gamed until 2 A.M., lights off, headphones on.
When he finally dragged himself to bed, his body felt pleasantly heavy, brain fried.
Sleep came fast.
Too fast.
Because the moment his consciousness slipped—
—he wasn't in his room.
He was standing in the same impossible nowhere as before.
And this time, the door was already waiting.