Chapter 2 – Woken up
The wheat field stretched before them, golden and quiet under the last streaks of sunlight. Jack's chest still throbbed from the box's cold touch, and for a moment, he swore the wind whispered his name.
Calvin wiped his hands on his jeans, trying to shake off the unease. "Well… that was weird," he said too loudly, as if saying it could make it less real.
Elena didn't answer. She was staring at the box in Jack's arms, her brow furrowed. "We shouldn't have touched it," she said. "Something's… wrong."
Jack swallowed. The pull he'd felt from the box hadn't left. If anything, it had grown stronger. It pressed against his chest, heavy and insistent, like it had a heartbeat of its own. "It's just a box," he said, but his voice sounded thin even to himself.
They began walking toward town. The wheat stalks whispered around them, brushing their legs like fingers. The air tasted metallic, faintly sour, and carried a chill that had nothing to do with the evening.
Calvin broke the silence. "Do you think we should open it?"
Elena glared. "Are you insane? Not here. Not now. And definitely not alone."
Jack didn't answer. He couldn't. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into some invisible trap. The pull from the box tugged at him, whispering, urging, promising. He kept his eyes on it, on the faint glint of metal that seemed to hum even in silence.
By the time they reached Orchard Lane, the sun had disappeared. Night had fallen, and the weak streetlights flickered in rhythm with their racing hearts. Dry Hill looked normal enough: a car hummed past on Main Street, a dog barked somewhere distant. But it didn't feel normal. Not after what they'd just encountered.
Jack's house was quiet. The porch leaned slightly, its peeling blue paint catching the dim glow. His mom's car wasn't in the driveway, which gave them a small window to examine the box.
Jack set it down on his cluttered desk. The box felt impossibly heavy, more solid than it looked, its ornate edges dulled by rust and age. There was no lock, no obvious way to open it, just a faint line circling the lid.
Elena leaned closer, fingers hovering. "It's… beautiful, in a horrible way," she whispered.
Calvin crouched beside them. "I don't know about you guys, but I think it's alive."
Jack laughed, a short, nervous sound. "It's a box, Calvin. It doesn't—"
A sudden puff of cold air escaped from the seam. Dust swirled in the desk lamp's faint glow. Jack froze. The air wasn't moving, yet it felt deliberate, like a breath from something just beyond perception.
Elena gasped. "Did you feel that?"
Jack nodded, his stomach tightening. Something had stirred the moment they touched the metal. Something ancient. Something waiting.
That night, Jack couldn't sleep. The box sat on his desk, its cold metal edges glinting faintly in the darkness. Every shadow in his room seemed longer than it should have been, and the familiar creaks of the old house were sharper, louder. He thought he saw the box move slightly, ever so subtly, though it stayed on the desk.
In his dreams, the wheat field returned, endless and swaying under a blood-orange sky. A dark shape hovered just beyond the stalks, too large to be a man, too deliberate to be an animal. Its many eyes blinked in the distance. Jack ran, but the shape moved with him, patient and silent, always just behind. He woke with a scream lodged in his throat, heart racing, sweat soaking his pillow.
Calvin's night was different but equally unsettling. He dreamed of doors that led nowhere, tunnels that stretched into impossibility, and whispers in voices he didn't recognize. When he woke, the sound of his own breathing seemed loud, echoing unnaturally in the quiet of his room.
Elena awoke to a faint scratching sound at her window. She lived on the second floor, where no cat or raccoon could reach. The sound stopped the instant she looked, but a shadow shifted in the corner of her room. Her heart thumped, and when she turned on her bedside lamp, nothing was there. But the sense of being watched didn't leave.
The next morning, things felt subtly off. Jack noticed it first: the sun rose too slowly, shadows stretching in impossible angles. Birds chirped, but the melody was wrong, off-key. Even the familiar faces of the town seemed… altered. Mrs. Henderson waved, but her smile faltered halfway, a twitch in her cheek that wasn't there yesterday.
At school, whispers followed them. Calvin swore he heard laughter that came from no one, Elena kept glancing at corners that were empty, and Jack couldn't shake the feeling that the box was still with him, in his pocket or under his desk, even though it sat back at his house.
It wasn't just a box anymore. It was a presence, pressing on the edges of their reality. Small things began to go wrong: doors that slammed on their own, lights flickering, shadows that stretched and twisted when no one was watching. Even their simple jokes, the easy banter that had carried them through the day, felt brittle, like thin glass ready to snap.
And then, in the corner of Jack's eye, he saw something move. A flicker of black, vast and silent, disappearing when he looked directly. The same flicker followed him to the kitchen, the hallway, even when he blinked. And always, a whisper: patient, hungry, waiting.
By the time night fell again, none of them spoke much. The box sat in Jack's room, unassuming, inert to anyone but them. And yet, every one of them knew it was watching, learning, awakening.
Something had been released. Something older than the town, older than the fields, older than the sun.
And it was already choosing its first prey.