The evening news crackled through the worn speakers of the living room, casting flickering shadows against the peeling wallpaper of the small Charlesvile home. The reporter's voice was steady, but the words carried a weight that settled like a stone in Josiah's chest.
"Multiple teenagers from Charlesvile High have been found dead," the reporter announced, "each with two distinct puncture wounds on the right side of their necks. Authorities are baffled."
Josiah's little brother, Joseph, sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. "Do you think… it's a vampire?" he whispered, the word hanging in the air like a forbidden secret.
John, their older brother, scoffed and reached out, smacking Joseph sharply on the back of the head. "Vampires aren't real. What's wrong with you?"
"Ouch! Stop it!" Joseph protested, pushing John's arm away with a trembling hand.
John leaned in, a cruel grin tugging at his lips. "Who's going to stop me, Joseph? Huh?"
Joseph's voice cracked as he spat back, "I hope you end up like those kids on the news." Without waiting for a reply, he fled up the creaking stairs, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the heavy silence that followed.
John shook his head, turning to Josiah with a smirk. "Joseph's such a crybaby, isn't he?"
Josiah yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I'm gonna hit the sack soon. Got school early tomorrow."
John stretched and settled onto the worn couch, the house falling into a quiet stillness that felt almost unnatural.
Somewhere beyond sleep, Joseph found himself adrift in a cold, endless void. He was weightless, unable to move freely, trapped in a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. The air was sharp and biting, each breath a struggle.
"Joseph… Joseph… Joseph…" a voice called out, soft and familiar, yet laced with something unplaceable.
"Who's there? Who's calling me?" Joseph's voice echoed, small and desperate.
"It's your mother, Joseph. Come to me," the voice coaxed, tender but strange.
He reached out blindly, fingers brushing against something warm and real. "Mom? Is that your hand? I can't see your face."
"Yes, my son. Come closer," the voice urged, pulling him deeper into the darkness.
Suddenly, a cold hand seized Joseph, dragging him through swirling fog. As the mist cleared, the sight that greeted him was a nightmare made flesh-his brothers lay sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from twin holes in their necks.
A hiss cut through the silence. The figure that had called itself his mother lunged, teeth sinking into Joseph's neck.
Joseph jolted awake, gasping for air, sweat slick on his skin. The nightmare clung to him like a shadow.
"Just a nightmare," Josiah's voice came from downstairs, steady and calm. "It's only a nightmare."
"Joseph, you up? I made breakfast. Eat before school," Josiah called again.
"Yeah, I'm coming," Joseph replied, voice shaky but determined.
John yawned loudly, checking the clock. "It's already eight. No work today, so what's the plan?"
Josiah shrugged, rubbing his eyes. "I gotta be up early, but you?"
"Thinking of hitting the market. We're low on supplies. Might see some friends later."
"Grab some garlic while you're at it," Josiah called after him. "I want to make garlic bread for dinner."
"Got it," John called back from the bathroom.
Josiah descended the stairs, the smell of bacon and pancakes filling the air. "Here's your plate, Joseph. Eat up."
The morning air outside was warm, it tinged with the scent of dew and distant rain. Joseph lingered on the cracked sidewalk, his breath fogging as he waited beneath the skeletal branches of the old maple tree. The neighborhood was waking slowly—windows lighting up, dogs barking, the world dragging itself toward another ordinary day, though nothing felt ordinary to Joseph anymore.
The bus rumbled into view, its yellow paint dulled by years of weather and restless children. Joseph climbed aboard, the familiar hiss of the doors closing behind him. He kept his gaze low, weaving through the narrow aisle, aiming for the sanctuary of the back seat.
But as he passed, a foot shot out—quick, almost casual. Joseph stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a seat. Laughter snickered from a few rows up.
"What the hell?" he snapped, turning to face the culprit.
Aaron, a wiry boy with restless eyes, raised his hands in apology. "My bad, man. Didn't move my leg in time."
Joseph gritted his teeth, brushing off his jeans. "You're good, but that shit hurt." He pressed on, sliding into the far corner of the bus, where the world felt a little quieter.
The ride to Charlesvile Middle School was a blur of chatter and engine noise. Joseph pressed his forehead to the cool glass, watching the city slip past—storefronts, faded murals, the old clock tower standing sentinel over it all.
By the time the bus doors squealed open, Joseph had almost convinced himself the morning's tension was just nerves. The halls filled with the usual tide of students, lockers slamming, voices rising and falling in a familiar chorus. He drifted from class to class, the rhythm of the day carrying him forward.
But by fifth block, the weight of sleeplessness pressed down. History class was warm, the lights dim, and Mr. Jackson's voice droned on about ancient empires. Joseph's eyelids grew heavy. The world slipped away.
He was back in the labyrinth—cold, endless, suffocating. The same voice, the same pull. His brothers' bodies, the blood, the hiss. The bite.
A sharp voice cut through the fog. "Joseph, if you don't wake up, boy—"
His head jerked up, heart pounding. Mr. Jackson stood over him, arms folded, eyebrow raised.
"Huh? What happened?" Joseph mumbled, blinking at the sudden brightness.
"Have you been paying attention to any of this?" Mr. Jackson's tone was stern but not unkind.
"Yeah, yeah," Joseph replied quickly, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
"Oh really?" Mr. Jackson's eyes glinted with challenge. "Then tell me—what are your thoughts on Sargon conquering Sumer?"
Joseph hesitated, searching for words. "Uhh… I feel like no man should have all that power. Him conquering Sumer gave him too much, and I'm not a fan of anyone getting conquered, honestly. That's just me, though."
Mr. Jackson considered this, lips twitching in a faint smile. "Hmm. Try to keep your head up, Joseph."
"Will do, Mr. Jackson," Joseph replied, forcing a small smile as the class moved on.
Elsewhere in the building, Josiah sat in his English class, surrounded by the low hum of conversation. Ms. Catlin, sharp-eyed and quick-witted, called for quiet.
"Let's hear what your groups discussed," she said, scanning the room.
Mary, always eager, shot her hand up. "We talked about Macbeth. He abused his power, especially when he killed the king—even though he was told he'd be king anyway. That led to his downfall. Too much power can ruin a person."
Ms. Catlin nodded approvingly. "Excellent insight. Anyone else?"
Her gaze landed on Josiah, who tried to look away, but it was too late.
"Josiah?"
He sighed, resigned. "I think Macbeth wasn't powerful at all. He was weak—he let others manipulate him and forced the prophecy instead of letting things happen. If it were me, I'd wait. No need to force fate. If you let things happen naturally, you're less likely to be hated or plotted against. Power should be earned, not stolen."
Ms. Catlin smiled. "That's a great response."
The bell rang, a sudden clamor. Students surged for the door.
"Josiah, could I see you for a moment?" Ms. Catlin called above the din.
He approached her desk, uncertain.
"You're good at this, Josiah. Ever thought about joining the debate team?"
He shook his head. "Not for me. I don't like arguing for the sake of it. If I have an opinion and someone else disagrees, that's fine. No need to go back and forth."
She nodded, undeterred. "Still, think about it. You might change your mind."
"Trust me, I won't, Ms. Catlin," Josiah said with a small grin, turning to leave.
The cafeteria was alive with noise and laughter, the clatter of trays and the scent of fried food hanging heavy in the air. John leaned across the table, eyeing Jayla's plate with a teasing grin.
"Damn, you're big. Why you getting all that food for?" he joked, nudging her shoulder.
Jayla rolled her eyes, but her smile was easy. "It's not all for me. I'm saving some for my sister—she gets off work late tonight."
"Oh, I was finna say," John replied, feigning relief. He turned, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "But why you not getting on Caleb? This his third plate of mac 'n cheese."
Jayla jabbed a thumb in Caleb's direction, her laughter ringing out. "For real! Why you gotta air me out? He wasn't even gonna say anything until you brought it up," Caleb protested, mouth half-full.
"No, Caleb, I'm not letting you make it. If he's gonna get on my ass for eating a lot, then he's getting on yours too," Jayla shot back, grinning.
John shook his head, chuckling. "Man, y'all both some big backs. Let's go pay so we can dip. Still gotta go shopping."
The three of them slid out of their seats, gathering their trays and weaving through the crowded dining hall toward the register. They paid, exchanging a few more jokes, the easy camaraderie between them making the ordinary afternoon feel lighter.
As they stepped out into the warm air, the world outside felt different—quieter, as if holding its breath. The city's noises faded into the background as they made their way toward the parking lot, laughter still echoing between them.
Suddenly, a man in a sharp suit, eyes cold and distracted, brushed past them, his shoulder colliding hard with Jayla.
"Hey, watch where you're going," the man snapped, his tone sharp as glass.
Jayla squared her shoulders, steadying herself. "My bad," she said, voice even.
"Yeah, no shit it is your bad," the man fired back, stepping closer, his face inches from hers.
John moved between them in a heartbeat, his presence solid and unyielding. "Yo, we got a problem?" he asked, voice low, eyes locked on the man.
The man sneered, voice rising. "Yeah, we do. Your girl bumped into me."
John's jaw clenched. "Didn't she apologize?" he asked, stepping forward, his height casting a shadow over the man.
The man's lips curled in a sneer. "Man, just control your bitch, alright?"
The words hung in the air, sharp and ugly. John's hand shot out, gripping the man's collar and lifting him off his feet. The world seemed to pause, the tension crackling like static.
"Ayy, watch your mouth," John growled, his voice a warning.
Jayla's hand landed on John's arm, her voice steady but urgent. "John, put him down. Let's go."
Caleb stepped in, eyes wide but determined. "Yeah, let's go. He's not worth it."
John's breath came hard and fast, but he released the man, letting him drop back to the pavement. He stared the man down for a moment longer, then turned away, the anger still simmering beneath his skin.
"Aight, let's go," he said, voice tight.
They walked away together, the city swallowing them up once more.