Without a second thought, Brock hurried back online, hoping—begging—that the thing he'd seen could've been anything else. He chased forums, news articles, late-night threads full of blurry pictures and theories. None of it helped. If anything, every post made him more aware of how little he knew. What was the figure ? Why had it just stood there, unmoving? And why did he still feel watched?
Still shaking, he pushed away from the desk. "It could actually do something this time," he whispered to himself, the thought hitting him like cold water.
Trying desperately to scrub the image out of his mind, he headed to the bathroom for a shower. He flicked on the only bulb that still worked, its dim yellow glow flickering like it was struggling to live. He debated grabbing something—anything—to use as a weapon, but what would he even fight with? What could possibly help?
He stepped into the hot, uneven water. The steam should've calmed him, but instead his shoulders tensed. He kept glancing over his shoulder, barely washing his hair. When he finally lathered shampoo, a streak slid into his eyes.
"Dammit," he hissed, rubbing frantically at the stinging soap.
Then—something brushed his back. Light, like fingertips.
He gasped and jerked forward, slipping on the tile. His heart surged up into his throat. Forcing his burning eyes open, blinking rapidly, he realized he had only bumped into his towel hanging behind him.
"Okay… I am going insane," he muttered. "This is killing me. I'm way too paranoid."
He finished the shower as fast as he could, stepped out, and toweled off. For a moment—just a moment—he almost forgot about the moment. He pulled on his underwear, his worn joggers with a hole in the knee, and the faded cotton shirt that looked older than he was but, miraculously, had no tears.
On his way to his room, he heard his mom talking on the phone. Her voice was firm but trembling.
"Yes, I'm telling you—he broke his door."
Guilt hit him like a punch in the stomach. He slowed, moving like the air had thickened around him. Staring at the broken frame, he sat heavily on his bed. Then, without thinking, he reached into the closet and dragged out his old baseball bat. He dumped the contents of his backpack onto the floor, then stuffed in a shirt, the bat, and a flashlight—because the darkness inside him felt deeper than usual tonight.
He shuffled toward the front door. His mom wiped tears from her cheeks as she saw him.
"Brock, where the hell are you going? You know you're still in trouble!"
He walked past without looking at her, his expression blank.
Damn, she's gonna kill me, he thought numbly.
He closed the door behind him—not slamming it, but with a kind of finality. Whatever waited out there, he was done running from it.
He called Quinn as soon as he stepped off the porch. "Please pick up—please," he whispered, gripping his phone tightly.
"Yo Brock, it's been a minute."
Brock exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. "Hey… can I come over?"
Quinn didn't question it much, just told him yeah.
After a long hike across quiet streets and dark yards, Brock reached Quinn's house. Quinn sat on his bed in an oversized hoodie, the back half of his dark brown hair tied up, the rest messy around his face. The lighter streaks he'd dyed into his bangs almost looked natural in the low light.
He adjusted his hair, ready to hear whatever Brock had come to say.
Brock explained everything. Every detail. And Quinn listened—until he didn't. His lips twitched, his face tightened, and he burst into hysterical laughter.
"Bro… a "Dark figure, standing in your room"?, throwing up air quotes. "Sure" Quinn wheezed, barely breathing between laughs.
He tried to stop several times, but every glance at Brock's dead-serious face set him off again.
"Listen, Quinn," Brock said, voice steady as stone. He didn't blink. Didn't frown. Didn't move. He hoped that seriousness alone would finally get Quinn to shut up.
Eventually Quinn did. And despite his disbelief, he agreed to help Brock "stop" the thing—though he clearly didn't think any of this was real.
They headed to the kitchen for food and water. Before they could grab anything, a knock echoed at the front door.
Quinn walked toward it casually. Brock's whole body flinched.
"Dude—stop," Brock hissed.
Quinn rolled his eyes and peered out the window. "There's nothing. You're paranoid."
And before Brock could say another word, Quinn turned the knob.
The door creaked open.
At first, Quinn smiled triumphantly. "See? There's nothing, Br—"
He froze.
A tall, broad silhouette stood in the doorway—perfectly still, perfectly black, like it absorbed the light around it.
Brock felt his throat close. He swallowed, the sound painfully loud.
The silhouette didn't move. But Brock felt it looking at him.
"Quinn," he whispered tightly, "if no one was there… who knocked?"
Quinn inhaled sharply, panicked laughter bubbling up. "Maybe—uh—a ding-dong ditch? Kids do that, right?"
"Quinn," Brock said flatly, "he's here."
That was all it took. Quinn bolted for the kitchen at a full sprint. Brock felt the rush of air as he ran by.
Quinn snatched a stained kitchen knife—the only one he had that wasn't bent. Holding it up, he whispered, "He can be hurt, right?"
"I don't think so," Brock admitted. "And if he can… I have no clue how."
Quinn's face fell. The knife lowered.
And in an instant, the figure moved.
A blur. A rush. Suddenly it was over Quinn, towering, and Quinn crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry. Its long hand extended and pointed at him, as if choosing him.
"Look out!!" Brock yelled, lunging with his bat.
The shadows other hand snapped out, catching Brock's face mid-air. Its grip was ice-cold, vice-like. Brock's legs kicked as he hung inches off the floor, unable to breathe.
Quinn, terrified, scrambled backward. Seeing Brock suspended made him scream—a raw, panicked sound. He swung the knife wildly at the air, hoping to hit something.
Brock's backpack slipped off his shoulder and smacked the floor. The noise yanked Quinn's attention. He dove for it, digging through clothes and junk with trembling hands.
Brock wheezed, purple imprints forming across his cheek where the figure held him. His fingers clawed at the air.
Quinn found the flashlight.
"Close your eyes!" he shouted.
Brock clamped them shut.
Quinn flicked the light on and fired it directly at Brock's face—at the creature's hand.
A hiss. Smoke curled upward. A horrible, decrepit scream rattled the walls.
The figure jerked back, releasing Brock. It darted out the open door and vanished into the night.
Brock slammed onto the floor, catching himself awkwardly on his shoulder. He coughed until his airway opened again. "He's gone," he rasped.
Quinn stared at him, still shaking. "Dude… you see that? Killed that bitch."
Brock didn't bother correcting him fully. "He's not dead. But… he's gone for now."
Quinn packed Brock's bag quickly—food, water, whatever he could grab. They headed toward the door together.
Then Quinn cursed under his breath, spun around, and sprinted back inside. He grabbed the flashlight from the counter, clutching it like a lifeline.
Only then did he rejoin Brock, ready—whether he wanted to be or not—for the journey ahead.