---
The Next Morning
Mrs. Clara woke up with a heavy feeling in her chest. The strange events from the night before clung to her mind like a shadow she couldn't shake off. She tried to push the unease aside and start her day, but it lingered.
As she sat quietly, lost in thought, her phone rang. Sheila.
She ignored it.
A few seconds later, it rang again. Still Sheila.
This time, Clara answered.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Clara, have you seen the news?" Sheila's voice was tight, almost panicked.
"No," Clara replied, her heart skipping a beat. "What news?"
"You've got to check, ma," Sheila urged. "It's... it's—"
The line went dead before she could finish.
Confused and now anxious, Clara grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
BREAKING NEWS:
"We're reporting live from Ohio, where a shocking tragedy unfolded overnight. Authorities have confirmed the mysterious deaths of 28 individuals—16 men, 4 women, and 8 children. No signs of struggle. No known cause. Similar reports are coming in from around the world, baffling detectives and researchers alike.
The world wants answers. And we'll keep you updated as this terrifying mystery unfolds."
"Are we safe, Mom?" a small voice asked from behind her.
Clara turned to see her son, Dexter, standing silently in the doorway. How long had he been there?
"Yes, sweetheart," she said quickly, masking her fear with a smile. "Everything's fine. How did you sleep?"
"Good," Dexter replied.
"Great. Now go brush your teeth and get ready for school, okay?"
Dexter nodded and went upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, both mother and son were ready—Dexter for school, Clara for work. She dropped him off and headed to the office, her mind still racing.
---
At Work
Sheila burst into Clara's office the moment she arrived.
"Ma," she said in a hushed, urgent tone, "what if last night's incident is connected to the artifact?"
Clara froze. The possibility had been gnawing at her too, but hearing it out loud made it real.
"You think... the veil between worlds is weakening?" she asked, voice low. "That the gateway to the demon realm is beginning to open?"
Sheila nodded slowly. "And on the night of the full moon…"
"When is the next full moon?"
"In a week."
Clara stood up abruptly. "We need to inform the CEO. Now."
The two women rushed down the hallway, heartbeats pounding in sync. When they reached his office, the assistant told them he was already in a meeting.
Without hesitation, Clara and Sheila stormed toward the meeting room.
There was no more time to waste.
---
Clara told the CEO about the incident from the night before, explaining that it might be connected to the artifact. She believed the rings were gaining power, and once they were fully charged, they could open the bridge—especially under the full moon. With each passing day, she added, the barrier between worlds seemed to be weakening, allowing demons to slip through more easily.
The CEO sat in silence for a moment, processing everything. Then he asked, "When is the full moon?"
"In a week," Clara replied.
He nodded slowly. "I'll look into it," he said. Then he dismissed Clara and Sheila, instructing them to keep digging for answers.
Later that evening, Clara returned home exhausted. All she wanted was a hot bath and a few hours of sleep.
But her son, Dexter, greeted her with a troubled look. "Mom, something's wrong," he said. "I feel… different. Stronger."
He hesitated, then confessed. "I got into a fight with a bully today. I punched him once—and now he's in the hospital."
Even when Dexter went to the toilet to wash his face, he couldn't help but glance at the mirror. His eyes—glowing red.
His reflection wasn't his own. His shadow twisted behind him—monstrous.
"That's not mine," Dexter whispered. "That shadow... it's something else."
His mother, Mrs. Clara, stood silently in shock. She didn't speak. Not at first.
Could it be? she thought. Is he becoming like his father?
Then she finally spoke, voice trembling. "It's your powers, Dexter. They're awakening."
Dexter stared at her, confused and afraid. Powers?
They went to bed, the silence heavy between them.
That night, the same thing happened again. Groans echoed from Dexter's room. He twisted in pain, his body drenched in sweat, the air thick with an unseen presence.
The next morning was Saturday, but Mrs. Clara was urgently called into her office. When she arrived, the staff showed her something strange—footage from the security cameras. The visuals were warped, static-ridden, as if something had interfered with the recording.
A flickering silhouette moved through the frame—inhuman, jerky, almost as if the camera itself was afraid to see it.
When Mrs. Clara saw it, her eyes widened in terror.
"They're here," she whispered, then screamed. "They're here!"
Rushing to her files, she pulled out a worn book of ancient history. "They were on Earth before... These creatures. But they were defeated by a greater demon—a guardian—who imprisoned them and sealed the bridge to their realm."
She turned to the others, panic setting in.
"As the full moon approaches, the weaker ones—the Stage 7 demons—can slip through. They are the scouts. The ones who clear the path for the stronger ones."
She looked up.
"We're doomed."
---
That evening, the house was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Mrs. Clara didn't say a word to her son before heading off to bed. No goodnight. No reminder to lock the door. Just the soft shuffle of her slippers fading down the hallway—and the click of her bedroom door, sharp and final.
Dexter sat alone in the living room, the TV flickering silently across his blank expression. He wasn't watching. He barely blinked. Something about the silence clung to him, pressed in around him like a weight. It wasn't just quiet—it was expectant.
Outside, the wind began to howl. Low at first, like a distant cry, then rising, threading through the cracks in the walls with a voice all its own. The curtains stirred, though the windows were sealed shut. A whispering draft brushed the back of Dexter's neck.
Then, without warning, a window creaked open—violently.
The curtains whipped like panicked birds against the glass. Dexter flinched. He stood, slowly, skin prickling, and took a cautious step toward the window.
But before he could reach it, the lights cut out.
Total darkness swallowed the room.
And then—nothing.
---
He woke to pain.
A deep, grinding ache that bloomed from his shoulders and wrists, blooming deeper with each breath. Cold metal pressed into his flesh—wet, rusted, unyielding. His head throbbed. His eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus in the dim, pulsing glow of something unseen.
He wasn't standing. He wasn't lying.
He was suspended—spread wide, limbs pulled taut. Shackled. Trapped. The iron cuffs dug in with cruel precision, and above him loomed a towering X-shaped structure, ancient and corroded, humming faintly with a sound that didn't belong.
The air was wrong.
It was thick, wet, filled with the stench of sulfur, rotting meat, and something else—something bitter and old. Something that had waited a long time.
He swallowed hard. "Where… where am I?" His voice cracked. "Who brought me here?"
Silence.
Then: the scrape of something moving—slow, deliberate—in the dark.
His chest tightened. "What do you want from me?"
A voice answered—but not aloud. It bypassed his ears and dropped directly into his mind like a falling stone.
"You called us. You just didn't know it."
Shapes emerged from the shadows—tall, skeletal figures cloaked in blackened flesh that crinkled with every movement. Their eyes glowed faintly, red like dying coals. Their mouths didn't open, but their voices slithered through the air, vibrating beneath his skin like a fever.
"We've waited. So long. So hungry."
He thrashed against the restraints, metal groaning beneath the strain. His wrists tore open. Warm blood slid down his arms. Still, he pulled harder.
Nothing gave.
The creatures began to circle. Slowly. Rhythmically. They chanted in a tongue he couldn't understand—but the sound alone made his vision shudder and twist. Every syllable felt like it was being etched into the marrow of his bones.
The shadows around them moved too. But not like shadows should.
One of the demons leaned close. Closer. Its breath was a sickening mix of scorched flesh and damp soil. The heat of it made Dexter gag.
"You are the doorway," it rasped. "And tonight… we open it."
Dexter screamed.
But the walls didn't echo.
They swallowed the sound whole.