Chapter 17
Carter woke with a gasp, lungs seizing like he had been drowning. His sheets clung to him, soaked through, his skin clammy and ice-cold. For one long moment, he couldn't even move—just stared at the ceiling, heart thundering like it wanted out.
Then the nausea hit.
He stumbled out of bed, crashing against the dresser, nearly ripping the lamp cord from the wall. The bathroom door banged open, his knees hit tile, and he clung to the toilet bowl as his body convulsed. Bile burned up his throat, sour and acidic, flooding his mouth until he spat it out.
The smell of stomach acid clung to the air. His hands shook against cold porcelain, nails scraping faintly as if searching for an anchor.
This isn't real. It was a dream. Just a dream.
But the thought dissolved the moment he dragged himself up by the sink and looked in the mirror.
His reflection wasn't right.
The first thing he noticed was the scar on his hand—thin, pale, but unmistakable. He lifted it, flexed trembling fingers. The exact wound the knight had taken in the battlefield. His stomach clenched so hard he gagged again.
His eyes—he leaned closer, breath fogging glass. They looked darker. Not the brown he'd always known, but a heavier shade, swallowing light. A few strands of hair dangled over his forehead, catching pale against the bathroom light. Blond. Not his.
He pressed his forehead against the mirror, eyes squeezed shut.
"No… no, no, no…" His voice came out as a cracked whisper, half plea, half denial.
I'm sixteen. I should be worrying about failing math. About whether Adam's going to roast me again at lunch. About asking Emma if she wants to borrow my notes. Not this. Not scars from someone else's war. Not eyes that don't look like mine.
His knees gave out, and he slid down the wall, curling into himself. He wrapped his arms around his legs, trying to keep from shaking apart. The bathroom smelled of bile and cold water, the hum of the flickering light above drilling into his skull.
The clock on his nightstand read 4:04 when he finally stumbled back into his room.
He didn't even try to lie down. He sat with his back against the bed, staring at the floorboards, hands clasped so tight his knuckles whitened. Sleep was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, memories crashed down.
Varka's final thoughts—sharp and bitter, like broken glass scraping his mind.
The slave girl's empty eyes, her body collapsing under blows and exhaustion, the unspeakable things done to her.
The knight, trudging through endless corpses, comrades butchered, his people herded like cattle.
It hadn't felt real when he'd lived it—more like a lucid dream. But now, awake, the horrors pressed in, suffocating, and his stomach lurched as if he'd seen them firsthand.
By the time morning light bled through his blinds, Carter was still on the floor. His head ached, his body shivered though he wasn't cold.
"Carter?" his mother's voice floated up, sharp but casual. "Come down, breakfast. You'll be late."
He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself upright. His reflection in the hall mirror made him flinch. Dark circles, skin pale as paper, his lips almost blue.
"You look awful," his mom muttered when he shuffled into the kitchen. She set a plate of toast in front of him, frowning. "Are you even sleeping?"
He mumbled, "Yeah. Just… bad dreams."
Before she could press further, the news anchor's voice filled the room.
"…a student from Saint Alwin's All-Boys School was found dead early this morning. He was sixteen. Authorities suspect he passed in his sleep…"
The words froze him in place.
His fork slipped, clinking against the plate.
Dead. Sixteen. His age. His city.
His mom stared at the screen for a moment, then turned to him. Her eyes narrowed, motherly instinct kicking in.
"Carter. Look at me."
He tried. His throat locked.
"You're pale, you've got those dark spots under your eyes—don't you dare tell me you're fine." Her tone sharpened, a nurse's precision beneath the motherly scolding. "If you've been staying up all night, it stops today. And if you've hit your head—God forbid—if you're hiding any injury, you tell me. You don't joke with things like that. Kids your age—" she faltered, glancing at the TV again, then shook her head. "You're not invincible. Do you understand me?"
Carter nodded, stiff, words buried under the weight in his chest.
The rest of breakfast blurred. The smell of toast made his stomach flip. His mother kept muttering half-concern, half-warning, but he barely heard. His ears still rang with the news anchor's words.
Dead in his sleep. Just like him. Just like—
He excused himself, ran back upstairs, and locked the bathroom door. The scissors trembled in his hand as he hacked away at the blond strands, watching them fall into the sink like pieces of someone else.
---
School was worse.
The air in the classroom felt too thin, chalk dust scratching his throat. The drone of the teacher's voice blurred into static. Carter sat hunched over his desk, eyes on the board but seeing only corpses burning, shadows writhing, voices whispering.
Chris nudged him. "You okay? You look like hell, man."
"I'm fine." Too fast. His voice cracked.
Adam leaned over his shoulder, smirking. "Fine? You look like you spent all night on a horror marathon. What'd you do, cry yourself to sleep?"
Carter didn't answer. His hands clenched beneath the desk.
Chris shot Adam a glare. "Shut up, man. He doesn't look fine. He looks… I don't know. Sick."
Adam scoffed. "He's always sick. The guy panics over quizzes."
The words slid off Carter, faint and distant. He barely heard them. His mind kept circling the dead boy. Kept circling Varka's words.
By lunch, the cafeteria's chatter clawed at his ears. Trays slammed, kids laughed, chairs scraped against tile. Carter sat stiff at the table, barely touching his food. Every sound felt amplified, grating, alien, like someone had turned the volume up on the mundane world just to make it unbearable. His fork rattled against the tray; the metallic clink seemed deafening.
Adam jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. "Earth to Carter! You planning to eat that, or just stare at it like a zombie?"
Carter flinched. Words formed, twisted in his throat, then vanished. He opened his mouth to respond but the only thing that came out was a hollow whisper: "I… I can't focus."
Chris leaned in closer, voice lowered. "Hey… I mean it. Something's wrong. You're not… you're not just tired, are you?"
Carter shook his head. Tried to focus on the beige linoleum and the smell of cafeteria stew—but it was impossible. Every detail from the dream pressed in: the burnt corpses, the groaning of the slaves, Varka's cold, jagged thoughts. It was all bleeding into his reality, like the world was thinner than it should be.
Emma, sliding into the seat across from him, smirked as she plopped her tray down. "Geez, Carter, you're worse than Adam on finals week. You're twitching or something. You okay?"
Her tone carried the same teasing bite as Adam, but Carter caught the edge of concern underneath. The smell of her perfume clung faintly—vanilla and something sharp. He found it almost unbearable, the sweetness clashing with the metallic taste still lingering in his mouth from last night.
"I'm… fine," he repeated, voice tight. His eyes roamed the cafeteria, the faces around him blurring, some shapes elongating, shadows darkening. He caught fragments of conversations, words like "dead," "sleep," "tragedy," looping in his mind like a broken record.
Adam snorted. "Right. Fine. Sure. You always look like death warmed over, man. Maybe you should get a job as a vampire in the school play."
Carter's hand twitched against the tray. He clenched his fist until his nails dug into his palm. Each laugh, each scraping chair, each clattering tray felt like nails on wood, hammering into his skull.
Chris reached over, lightly gripping his arm. "Focus on me, Carter. Look at me. You're not alone here. Okay?"
Carter blinked rapidly, trying to latch onto Chris's steady blue eyes. They anchored him briefly, a tether in the chaos. But just as quickly, the whispers returned. Low, subtle, curling around the edges of his consciousness.
How curious… this version of reality. Perhaps you can influence it.
The words weren't loud, not in the room—but inside his mind, they rang clear and crystalline, slicing through panic and doubt. He froze mid-bite, fork hovering in the air, pulse hammering.
"What… what did you say?" His whisper cracked, barely audible.
Emma leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Say what? Carter? Are you okay?"
The whisper slid through his skull like a blade dipped in ice. Not a sound exactly—more like the suggestion of a voice pressed against the inside of his mind.
How curious… this version of reality. Perhaps you can influence it.
Carter's breath hitched. His chair screeched across the floor as he lurched back, the legs catching on the tile. He went over with a crash, his tray clattering down, stew splattering across the floor. The sound was distant, muffled under the hammering of his pulse.
"Carter!" Chris was already at his side, crouching low, hands gripping his shoulders. "Hey, hey—look at me! What's going on?"
Adam stood up too fast, his chair toppling behind him. "What the hell, man? You're pale as a ghost—"
Emma tilted her head, lips parting, her voice threading concern under sarcasm. "That… wasn't just you being weird, was it? He looks like he's about to pass out."
Carter's mouth opened, but no words came. His vision blurred; the cafeteria's chatter shrank to a thin ringing. Ho—how? What? What was that? His inner voice stumbled and cracked as if even his thoughts were breaking apart.
Chris hooked an arm under his, pulling him upright. "Come on, we're going to the nurse. Now."
"I—I…" Carter tried to speak, but the words stuck. He clutched his temple as Chris practically dragged him toward the door. Emma stepped aside quickly, her tray forgotten. Adam muttered something but followed, his usual swagger gone.
Carter barely registered the hallways flashing by. Lockers, posters, students turning to stare—all blurred like wet paint. His skin crawled as if his own shadow was no longer attached properly. The voice was gone, but its echo clung to him like frost.
What's happening? What was that? I'm losing it. I'm losing it.
---
The nurse didn't even look up from her clipboard when Chris pushed open the infirmary door. "Sit him there," she said flatly. "I'll be with him in a second."
Carter sat. The vinyl of the cot squeaked under his weight. He stared at the floor, still shaking.
When the nurse finally glanced at him, she didn't even reach for a stethoscope. "You're sleep deprived," she said briskly. "I don't need to check your vitals to know that."
Chris's brows shot up. "That's it? He's pale, he almost collapsed—"
The nurse's voice sharpened. "Teenagers who stay up all night playing video games and watching horror films often look like they're about to collapse. He'll be fine if he actually sleeps."
Carter's lips parted, but no sound emerged. He just stared at the tiles.
Chris rounded on him anyway, his voice raised. "You're pushing yourself too far! I know you like your games and movies, but this—this isn't healthy! You can't scare yourself half to death every night and expect to function!"
Adam's hand shot out, catching Chris's arm. "Enough. Look at him, man. He's bad enough already. Don't make it worse."
Chris's mouth worked, but he let Adam pull him back a step, glaring all the same. Emma lingered by the doorway, arms folded tight, her usual smirk gone.
Carter heard every word, but it was like they were underwater. He just nodded at nothing, his gaze fixed on his scarred hand.
The nurse scribbled something on a slip and handed it over without looking at him. "Go home, sleep. Don't come back until you're rested."
---
The walk home felt wrong.
It was bright outside—sunlight glinting off car windows, a breeze carrying the smell of cut grass. But Carter's stomach twisted tighter with every step. The shadows cast by the trees on the sidewalk stretched too far, bent at angles that shouldn't exist. They pulsed faintly at the edges, like black ink swirling in water.
He walked faster.
It's nothing. Just my eyes. Just lack of sleep. Just—
The shadows rippled again, this time in sync with his heartbeat.
He broke into a run. His shoes slapped the pavement, his breath coming ragged. Every glance over his shoulder showed normal houses, normal lawns—but the edges were soft, smearing, like the world was a painting being brushed out.
By the time he reached his house, his chest was on fire. Nobody was home. The driveway was empty, blinds drawn. His hands trembled so badly he nearly dropped the keys. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, double-locked it, bolted upstairs.
He collapsed near his bed, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the carpet. His breath came in shuddering gulps.
Wh—who are you? he whispered inside his head. What are you?
Silence.
Nothing.
The emptiness was worse than the whisper.
He buried his face in his hands, fingernails scraping against his scalp. His chest convulsed once, twice, a sound breaking out of him—half-sob, half-laugh.
"Why is this happening?" His voice was hoarse, cracked. "Why me? Of all people… I never hurt anybody, I never did anything to deserve this… then why?"
His words dissolved into the carpet. The room smelled faintly of detergent and sweat, a grounding, human smell that felt alien now. He curled tighter, like a child bracing against a storm he couldn't see.
---
---
The house was silent. Too silent. No TV murmuring from the living room, no hum of the fridge bleeding through the walls. Just the soft hiss of air through the vents, a hollow, lonely sound.
Carter sat curled at the base of his bed, his head buried in his arms. His heartbeat slowed, not from calm but from exhaustion. His breaths came uneven, catching like he was trying to swallow glass.
I'll wake up soon.
I'll wake up.
This isn't real.
He whispered the words like a mantra, but they felt thin, childish, like talismans that couldn't keep anything out.
Minutes crawled by. Maybe hours. The clock on his nightstand blinked, red digits changing sluggishly. The walls felt closer, the shadows heavier, pooling in the corners as if the daylight outside had been swallowed.
He pressed his forehead to the carpet, squeezing his eyes shut until colors burst behind his lids. "Please…" he muttered, his voice cracking. "Please, just stop. I'm not… I'm not crazy."
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Just his breathing, ragged and damp.
Then the air thickened. Not with sound, but with weight—like a pressure building behind his skull.
A voice, soft as silk and cold as ice, slid into his head:
The same fate awaits your entire species.
Carter froze. Every muscle in his body locked.
The voice deepened slightly, rolling like distant thunder:
You're not special.
He jerked upright, his back hitting the edge of the bed. His hands clamped over his ears though he knew it was useless. "Stop! Stop talking!" he gasped. "Get out of my head!"
But the voice wasn't loud. It didn't have to be. It sat just behind his thoughts, brushing against them, uncaring and immense.
You think this is unfair? It almost sounded curious. This is only the beginning.
Carter's breath came in short, tearing gasps. His fingers dug into the carpet. "Why me?" he choked out. "Why me?!"
No answer.
The silence after was worse than the words. The house seemed to lean closer, listening. The shadows at the edges of his room trembled faintly, like they were alive.
Carter slid down the bed again until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. His heart pounded against his ribs. His throat burned.
"I'm not special," he whispered, the words shaking. "I'm just… me. I'm just me…"
But the echo of the voice stayed lodged in his skull like a splinter, as if it had marked him—not with a scar on his hand, but with something far deeper, something he couldn't scrub away.
---
The silence shattered.
A sharp CRASH ripped through the air outside—metal twisting, glass exploding. Carter's head snapped up, eyes wide. Another sound followed: high-pitched screaming, panicked and raw. Then another impact.
He scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the window, yanking the blinds open with trembling hands.
The street below was chaos. A car had swerved up onto the curb, its hood crumpled against a streetlight. Smoke hissed from the engine. Flames licked along the edges of the wreckage. People were running—neighbors he recognized from the block—faces contorted in terror, scattering like insects in the glow of fire.
"What—what is this…" Carter whispered. His breath fogged the glass. His heart slammed so hard it felt like his ribs might crack.
Sirens? No. Not yet. Only the distant wailing of people.
Then, beneath the noise, came a sound that cut through everything else.
A low, wet growl. Not an engine. Not a dog. Something deeper, like stone grinding on bone.
Carter's stomach turned to ice. That sound—he knew that sound. It wasn't from his neighborhood. It wasn't from this world.
His fingers slipped from the blinds. He stumbled back from the window.
"No…" His voice was barely a breath. "No, no, no…"
The growl rose again, louder, closer, like it was dragging itself up from the street and into his house.
Somewhere deep in his skull, the voice stirred again. Not a word, just a faint chuckle—like wind across a grave.
---