Have you ever hated mornings?
Mornings in my life used to be boring.
Boring and loud.
The alarm went off at 6:30 like it had a personal vendetta with me.
Ring!!!
I groaned, flung an arm out, and missed the snooze button by a good mile. Typical.
So instead, I screamed back a 'FUCK YOU... YOU STUPID PIECE OF CRAP METAL!'—because apparently yelling at electronics is a form of communication now.
Ring!!! RIIIIINGGG!!!!
It didn't stop. Of course it didn't.
I rolled off the bed, crashed face-first into the carpet, and mumbled into the floor, "This is how greatness starts, huh? Broken nose and all."
My voice sounded rough, like I'd swallowed dust.
My white hair stuck up everywhere—curse of genetics and poor decisions—and the morning light from the window caught it in flashes of silver. My reflection in the mirror wasn't doing me any favors either: blue eyes half-shut, expression somewhere between zombie and coffee addict.
I vote coffee addict.
I shoved a hand through my hair and muttered, "You look like a rejected anime protagonist, Ken."
Still, shower, rushed, half-burnt toast—that was the routine. Always was. I ate alone at the kitchen table, staring at the cracked edge of my mug while the toast tasted like sadness and smoke.
Lonely? Maybe. But silence wasn't the worst thing. I filled it with thoughts, plans, dumb ideas for my next "big story."
Yeah, that's me. Ken Mercer. Resident reporter, investigator, part-time pain in everyone's ass.
At school, I wasn't the guy acing math or winning sports trophies. Nah. I was "that kid with the camera."
Teachers tolerated me because I made the bulletin occasionally. Classmates tolerated me because sometimes my gossip actually mattered—like when I caught the cafeteria thief red-handed with pizza boxes under his desk. Instant legend.
So yeah, life was… fine. Repetitive. Predictable.
That morning felt the same.
First period: math. I doodled headlines instead of solving equations. "Mysterious Screams in Old Tunnel — Hoax or Haunting?" sounded way more interesting than numbers.
Second period: literature. The teacher asked me to analyze Shakespeare, and I shot back, "Would Shakespeare even survive on social media?" Cue laughter. Cue detention threat. Business as usual.
By lunch, I was ready for my favorite part of the day—interview hour. My camera hung around my neck like a trusted weapon. I hunted rumors, whispers, anything weird. Two freshmen claimed they'd seen something "with glowing eyes" by the abandoned subway tunnel.
Probably a raccoon. Or maybe not.
I wrote it down anyway.
By the end of the day, my notebook was stuffed with chaos: rumors, sightings, nonsense. Maybe gold. Maybe garbage. Didn't matter—I followed noise. That's my thing.
After school, I started my ritual. Bag slung over my shoulder. Camera ready.
Then I felt it.
The air shifted.
I was just passing Grinder's Coffee House—the one that always smelled like burnt hope—when I noticed it. The whole block felt… wrong. Still. Like the street itself was waiting for something or someone maybe.
A crowd had gathered near the entrance, voices low.
"Heard shouting," someone said.
"Men in black," another whispered. "Dragged something out the back."
"Body?"
Nobody stayed long enough to find out.
Me? I lingered. Of course I did. When everyone else looks away, I lean closer.
My gut twisted. Curiosity buzzed under my skin like static. My hands itched to lift the camera.
One picture. Just one.
I stepped closer, pretending to check my phone. The air was thick, humming with the kind of silence that follows a scream.
My heart thudded. "What the hell happened here…"
That's when I saw it. A ripple. Like heat distortion—but cold. The space near the alley behind Grinder's bent, just slightly, like reality had hiccuped.
I blinked. Gone.
"Weird…"
I should've walked away. Should've gone home, eaten noodles, watched reruns. But I didn't.
Because that's not who I am.
–––––––––––
I'll admit something— I think monsters are real.
Not think. I know.
I've seen too many patterns. Too many "random" killings with the same marks. Too many witnesses describing claws, teeth, glowing eyes. Different stories, same script.
But being a reporter—especially an eighteen year old rookie—means you can't say that out loud. People don't like the word MONSTER.
So I write carefully.
I plant questions, not conclusions. A hint here, a description there. Enough for readers to squint at their screen and think, wait, what if…
That's the game. You don't shove truth down their throat—you make them taste it, slowly.
Still, it's risky work. Asking the wrong questions gets you noticed. Sometimes followed. Sometimes warned.
And I'm not dumb. I know I'm just a kid with a camera and way too much curiosity.
But here I am anyway. Chasing things that could eat me alive.
Why?
Because of her.
My mom.
I don't talk about it. Not at school, not with friends. People whisper. They think it was a break-in gone wrong.
"Tragic," they say. "Poor kid."
But I know better.
Because I was there.
Eight years old, hiding behind a cracked door, clutching a toy car so tight it cut into my palm. I remember the sound before anything else—wet, heavy, wrong.
Then claws. Real or imagined, I don't know. Sharp enough to shred wood. And those eyes… pale blue fire in the dark.
Not human.
Never human.
They told me later my mind made it up. That trauma invents monsters. Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm broken.
But every night, I still see that thing climbing the wall, melting into shadow, gone before the cops arrived.
And every night, I remind myself: I'm not crazy.
She was killed.
Not murdered. Killed—by something that shouldn't exist.
So yeah. Every rumor, every blurry photo I chase—it all comes back to that. If I can prove monsters are real, I can prove my mom's story wasn't just a nightmare.
That's my truth. My reason.
And maybe… my curse.
–––––––––––
The next afternoon, I was at the same spot again—behind Grinder's, where the air had felt wrong. Curiosity and stupidity make great partners, apparently.
The alley was empty except for trash bins and a cat licking something that might've once been coffee. I raised my camera anyway.
Click. Click.
Nothing but shadows.
'You're losing it,' I thought, rubbing my temple. 'Maybe it really was just heat or fumes or—'
Something moved.
A whisper of motion near the back door.
I zoomed in.
There—a figure in black. Masked. Carrying a crate that shimmered faintly, like the air around it was bending.
"What the hell…" I whispered.
The guy looked up. Straight at me.
I froze.
For a heartbeat, I swear his eyes glowed blue. Same shade as mine.
Then the world cracked.
A low hum filled the air—like a thousand bees trapped in metal. Light bled from the edges of the crate, spreading across the ground like spilled stars.
Instinct kicked in. I ran.
Didn't look back. Didn't breathe until I turned three corners and collapsed behind a vending machine.
My hands shook so hard the camera almost slipped.
"What… was that?"
I checked the screen. Every photo was static. White noise.
Of course.
I laughed—too loud, too shaky. "Figures. Paranormal one, Ken zero."
Then, behind me—
"Persistent, aren't you?"
My heartbeat did some odd racing.
I turned.
The masked guy stood there, impossibly quiet. Close enough to see the faint reflection of myself in his mirrored visor.
"Uh," I managed. "You're… not from sanitation, are you, sir?"
Shit! What the hell was I saying?!
He didn't answer. Just tilted his head. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"Yeah, well," I said, taking one slow step back, "you shouldn't have—uh—been suspiciously creepy behind a coffee shop."
He raised a hand. Lightning flickered between his fingers, swirling—liquid blue and static.
Magic.
Real magic.
"Shit!"
I bolted. Again.
But before I could make it five steps, a shockwave hit the ground, throwing me off balance.
Bam!
My head smacked against concrete, and everything spun.
"Stop struggling," the voice echoed, distorted through the mask. "We're not here for you."
"Could've fooled me!" I coughed, trying to crawl away.
"Stay down."
I didn't listen. I never do.
I grabbed my camera like an idiot weapon and aimed.