Under a heavy downpour, a car drove on the highway with measured speed. Rain pounded against the windshield of the car like a drum, each drop drowning out the external noises of other cars on the highway. Eight-year-old Marcus Thorne sat in the back seat of his parents' sedan, watching water streak across the glass. His father, James, leaned forward in the driver's seat, squinting through the downpour, while his mother, Elena, looked through the Digital Map on her phone to help navigate to their destination.
"We should have stayed another night."
Elena said to her husband, her voice tense. Then, a resounding thunderclap threatened to drown out her voice.
"This storm is getting worse, James."
"We'll be fine."
James replied, though his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his confidence. They had been on the road for hours under the downpour of heavy rain. They were on the highway and couldn't park anywhere. They had no choice but to brace themselves and make their way home in the terrible weather.
"Just another hour and we'll be home."
James reassured his wife, Elena.
Meanwhile, Marcus clutched his toy robot tighter, sensing the unspoken anxiety. They were returning from his grandmother's funeral—a somber affair that had left the family drained. His uncles and aunts had exchanged hushed whispers throughout the reception, casting furtive glances his way. Even at his young age, Marcus could tell something was wrong, something beyond the natural grief of losing a loved one.
He had overheard his father speaking to his mother the night before. "They were staring at us again."
His father sounded extremely annoyed.
"My own brothers and sisters, looking at my son like he's some kind of—"
"Don't, Marcus is nearby."
Elena, his mother, had interrupted.
"It's just superstition. Old family nonsense."
Marcus never learned what that "old family nonsense" was, nor was he interested. The car made a round turn in a curve around a mountain road, headlights cutting through sheets of rain to reveal a massive logging truck stationed across both lanes. Witnessing the jackknifed truck at the last minute, James slammed his legs on the brakes, the car's tires hydroplaning on the slick asphalt.
"Hold on!"
He shouted, trying his best to regain control of the car to no avail. The slick road turned his effort in vain.
Time slowed. The sedan spun around like a carnival ride gone wrong. Marcus saw his mother's hand reach back toward him, her face a mask of terror.
Then…
BOOM!
Marcus heard a reverberating clash that sent ravaging shockwaves throughout his entire body.
—They had crashed into the guardrail.
Marcus's last memory was a sickening sensation of falling, and finally, darkness.
…
Seventeen years later.
The persistent beeping of the alarm clock pulled Marcus from another night of restless sleep. He lay still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling above his bed.
"That dream again…"
He murmured, turning to look at the time. It was currently 6:15 in the morning, but he still chose to wake up this early for a reason. He was preparing for another hellish day.
With practiced movements, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, dragging his useless legs across the mattress. His wheelchair waited beside the bed, his faithful companion for the past seventeen years. At twenty-five, Marcus had spent more of his life in that chair than out of it.
"Time for another morning routine…"
He muttered to himself, a ritual phrase that helped structure his day. It was either that or give in to the crushing weight of memory and hatred that constantly threatened to consume him whenever he thought of his life compared to others.
The apartment he resided in was small but functional, modified for his accessibility needs. He lived on the seventh floor with a reliable elevator on most days. Naturally, he hadn't picked the highest floor on purpose. That was the only space available.
The bathroom was connected directly to his bedroom, allowing him to roll in without navigating doorways. The specially lowered sink let him brush his teeth and wash his face without strain. These accommodations cost money, but money was the one thing Marcus didn't lack.
The insurance payout from the accident had been substantial. His parents' assets, combined with wrongful death settlements, had left him financially secure. His extended family had ensured the money was placed in trusts until he turned twenty-one, but they had done little else.
Marcus grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles underscored hollow eyes, a stark contrast to his pale skin. He hadn't been outside in three weeks, not since Mrs. Abernathy's death.
Thinking back to her last moments, Marcus was filled with rage and helplessness.
Celia Abernathy had been his caregiver for eight years, arriving every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to help with laundry, grocery shopping, and the occasional outing. More importantly, she had been the closest thing to family he had left. His father's brothers and sisters had made their position clear at the hospital after the accident.
They neglected Marcus because of their superstitious beliefs, even blaming him for his paternal grandmother's death. When asked why they refused to take him in, they said the Thorne family's curse had finally manifested, and Marcus was its living embodiment. They feared for their lives and refused to engage with him.
—Their superstitious fears had trumped any sense of obligation to their orphaned nephew.
After their neglect, Mrs. Abernathy, a widow and a friend of his mother, was the only one who didn't care about the so-called curse despite Marcus's warning. She chose to work as his caregiver for minimum pay, knowing he wanted to preserve his trust fund for the future.
"You shouldn't be alone so much."
Mrs. Abernathy had often told him.
"A young man needs connection, or they'll be lonely in the future."
But connection had never been Marcus's strong suit. Not after the accident, not after the rejection of his extended family, and certainly not after watching the light fade from Mrs. Abernathy's eyes three weeks ago.
They had been returning from the grocery store when it happened. The specially equipped van had stopped at a crosswalk. Mrs. Abernathy had stepped out to help him with the ramp when that thing appeared.
There was a sudden shimmer in the air like an undulating heat wave rippling through the air. Before their eyes, the shimmer had taken form in a grotesque-looking creature, terrifying Marcus to his core.
Elongated limbs, translucent skin, and eyes like burning coals.
—Those were the features of the monster that appeared out of thin air.
No one else had seemed to notice the creature. Not the driver, not the pedestrians crossing the street, no one except Marcus and Mrs. Abernathy.
She had frozen, mouth open in shock or recognition. Marcus couldn't tell which, but he heard her whisper for him to run. Then, she collapsed, her body convulsing as if gripped by an invisible hand.
By the time the paramedics arrived, she was gone. They said it was a heart attack, that it was a natural cause. But Marcus had seen the illusory creature press its ethereal fingers against Mrs. Abernathy's chest. He had watched it feed on something intangible that left her body in wisps of light after it retracted its ethereal fingers.
The official reports mentioned nothing of monsters or supernatural attacks. Why would they? To the world, it was just another unexpected death. However, to Marcus, it was another tragedy in a long line of misfortunes that seemed to follow him.
There was another strange discovery that day.
The creature had looked at him before disappearing, its coal-ember eyes meeting his fearful gaze with what he could only describe as recognition. Not surprise, not curiosity, but recognition. It was as if it had been seeking him all along and Mrs. Abernathy was simply a collateral life it claimed to spite him.
Marcus finished his morning routine mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He rolled into the kitchen and prepared a simple breakfast of instant oatmeal. The apartment felt hollow without Mrs. Abernathy's cheerful chatter. The silence amplified the thoughts he had been wrestling with for weeks.
Revenge.
The word had taken root in his mind, growing stronger each day. That was the fuel that kept him alive until now.
He wanted revenge. Not just for Mrs. Abernathy, but for his parents, for his girlfriend, for the life stolen from him, for everything he had lost to forces beyond his understanding.
Marcus's gaze turned solemn as he turned his attention to his laptop. His laptop sat open on the kitchen table, the screen displaying the webpage he had fallen asleep reading the night before. Forums dedicated to strange phenomena, to creatures that existed in the peripheral vision of humanity. Most of it was conspiracy nonsense, but buried within were accounts that matched what he had seen—descriptions of translucent entities that fed on life energy, that could only be seen by those who had brushed with death themselves.