BOOM
Damon's back slammed into the lockers hard enough to dent metal, and the lockers carved in. As he hit the floor and his head bounced off the polished floor, his vision swam, everything was spinning, but he focused—just long enough to see it: skin splitting like rotten fabric, bones breaking up and tearing apart into jagged spikes, a mouth unhinging to reveal rows of needle teeth. The thing screamed, a sound that wasn't human, wasn't animal—just wrong.
Run.
His body moved before his brain caught up. He scrambled on all fours, sneakers slipping in something wet (blood? piss?), then bolted for the nearest possible exit but the only open space was the staircase. Behind him, the creature gave chase—fast, but uncoordinated and heavy, shoulders smashing into lockers hard enough to buckle steel.
Damon took the steps three at a time, ribs burning, running like his life depended on it and it did, as he reached the second floor after a flight of stairs.
For a moment he scanned the entire floor in seconds for a place to hide, breathing heavily and wide-eyed. A classroom. Hide.
He slammed the door with a purpose and immediately dove under a desk, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence his gasps and trying to catch his breath. The beast still smashed against the metal railings in the stairwell but when it got up the hallway outside went quiet. Too quiet. Then—
CRASH.
The door exploded inward flying off its hinges. Desks flew like they were made of cardboard, crashing against walls. Closer. Closer. Damon squeezed his eyes shut—
The desk before his shattered and just before it was about to get to his—But Damon was already moving, grabbing two pieces of wood from the wreckage of broken tables. As the creature lunged, he stabbed downward with a raw scream. The pencils sank deep into its chest—cutting Damon's hands too but then, like a slap to a bug
SMACK.
A clawed hand sent him flying but with a porcupine quill deep within his right shoulder. He crashed through the teacher's desk, splinters biting into his skin and pulling the quill out. Blood filled his mouth. Across the room, the creature howled, yanking the shards free from its chest. Its snake-like eyes locked onto Damon's.
Oh shit, I'm fucking dead.
He ran, tripping and sliding in an instant to get a good grip of the floor. The thing followed, gaining fast. Damon rounded a corner and jumped, plummeting down the stairwell. His ankle bucked and screamed on impact, but he forced himself up—run or die, run or die—
The creature leapt after him.
Damon ran begging for this all to be a dream, but everything was vivid, the pain in his ankle, the blood from his shoulder, the several splinters in his hands and the pounding headache in his head, this was really happening and then on his final attempt he turned the corner and grabbed a Thunderbird flagpole always next to the trophy case.
Damon grabbed it and spun.
The creature impaled itself while running with all its speed and force, the pole punching through its heart.
For a second, it kept pushing through, it just didn't want to give up, gnashing its teeth for Damon's head so close Damon felt the hot breath and desperation but with every last ounce of strength in his body he pushed the pole through and Damon saw its slit eyes turn back to normal, a tear drop from them. They were frozen: Damon gripping the pole, and an ooze-like substance dripping from its wounds and onto the pole, the thing twitching on the end like a bug on a pin. Then—
THUD.
It collapsed. Damon fell backward into a spreading pool of green ooze, his stomach heaving. He vomited, then wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, ran his hands through his hair. His ankle throbbed. His ribs felt broken.
But he was alive.
Damon slapped himself—hard. Once. Twice. A third time. "Wake up. Wake up. Please be a dream." His palms stung, but the monster stayed dead on the floor. Why me? Why the fuck is it always me?
He fumbled for his phone, thumb hovering over 911. Then he froze. The scene around him—green ooze, splintered wood, the thing impaled on a flagpole—defied explanation. "How the fuck do I even—" He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
One step at a time.
The bathroom mirror showed a nightmare: blood streaking his shoulder, vomit crusting his lips, splinters embedded in his gums. He scrubbed until his skin burned, picking wood shards from his teeth with shaking fingers. His ankle gave out mid-step, sending him crashing to the tiles. The pain was white-hot, but he forced himself up. Call someone. Anyone.
Why had no one heard? The game's roar, maybe. Or something else.
The Thunderbirds were winning. Cheers shook the stands as Damon limped toward Caleb, dodging blue-painted lunatics. He grabbed Caleb's arm, shouting over the noise.
"Dude, what the—?" Caleb's grin faded. "Why do you look like you lost a fight with a woodchipper?"
Damon dragged him to the parking lot.
"Alright, weirdo," Caleb snapped, shaking free. "Explain why you're acting weirder than usual."
The hallway was pristine. No ooze. No blood. The flagpole gleamed like it had never been used as a weapon.
"What am I supposed to be seeing here?" Caleb asked and raised his arms in the air, bored.
Damon's throat tightened. The classroom—wrecked minutes ago—was untouched. Desks stood neatly in rows.
"Bro," Caleb sighed, "I know you're going through shit, but Patrick's in a game and I love him so even if you don't like him least you can do is fucking make an attempt. If you don't wanna be here, just go home." He walked away, leaving Damon mute with shock.
I know what I saw.
A shadow detached from the wall with a slow walk. A man in a tuxedo, rocking on his heels.
"I know what you saw too."
"You're not crazy Damon, not yet at least."