Welcome, brave reader. Do you believe in the supernatural? If so, proceed with caution. But if you're a septic, beware: once you've read a single word, there's no turning back. This story isn't for the faint of heart.

You're about to unlock a gate to the unknown, and closing it may be impossible. You'll be marked, and they will find you, No matter how you try to escape - burning the book, ripping it's pages, burying it, or casting it into the depths of the ocean - nothing will erase the mark.

So I ask you: are you prepared to take this risk? Are you certain you want to proceed? Once you've crossed this threshold, there's no return.

Never say I didn't warn you. Honestly, I never wanted to be an Exorcist. This life may seem exciting, but the dark truth is heartbreaking. No one deserves to fall victim to the Dread, regardless of age or past actions.

Imagine having your life planned, then suddenly, without warning, everything changes. You become distant from friends, family, and everyone who cares. The transformation is devastating.

And then, the unthinkable happens. You lose control, and the dread takes over. Your body becomes a vessel for the demonic. Not only are you lost, but you also become a threat to Exorcists. They won't hesitate to eliminate you.

No attempts to save you, no mercy. Just eradication.

I'm Elijah Kincaid, sixteen years old. Until recently, I was just another student at Backyard High School. Or, at least, that's how it felt. My life's taken a drastic turn, making school seem like an afterthought.

Am I an A-plus student? Hardly. I'm not even average. I'm just...there. My grades are mediocre, my motivation nonexistent.

My days started like any other - late for class, as usual not because I was clumsy or disorganised, but because, honestly, I couldn't be bothered. Everything felt too much effort. I was the embodiment of laziness.

I know most of you normal teenagers will understand - not those uber-motivated freaks who live for school. My tardiness was none other than Mr. Crimson's class. Yeah, I know his last name sounds like a superhero alias, but trust me, he was no hero. More like a villain.

Don't get me wrong, Mr. Crimson was cool. He was the youngest teacher in school, easily mistaken for a student. His classes were awesome - laidback and engaging. He was one of those hipster types, minus the clichés. No unwashed hair or oversized sunglasses for him. Just stylish, long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, trendy reading glasses and clothes that'd make James Bond jealous.

School had already begun like two hours ago, and I was certain my classmates had learned something new by now. But for me, school time was an illusion. I strolled down the street, no rush, no worry.

My mornings were a ritual of delay. I woke up at 8 am sharp, exactly when school started. Then, I'd spend 30 minutes in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. No thoughts, no urgency.

After that I'd get up, make my bed - not once, not twice, but five times. I'd prepare my bath water, eventually. My toothbrush? Who knew where it was? I'd search for it later.

Once somewhat prepared, I'd roam the house in my underwear, munching on cereal and watching TV. It wasn't uncommon for me to leave the house without pants. Yeah, that was my routine.

As I left the house, cereal bowl in hand, I wasn't even sure what time it was. The streets were empty, except for familiar faces.

There was Crazy Joey, an elderly homeless man with unsettling stare and a peculiar companion - a burnt, broken doll. He'd cradle it lovingly, as if it were human. I never understood why, but it seemed precious to him.

Then there was Any Buckleworth, wealthy woman who seemed young for her age, escorting her miniature clone, Little Any, to school. Little Any mirrored her mother's features: fiery orange hair, freckled complexion, and pale skin. Her eyes, though, were a shade I'd learner in school but couldn't be bothered to recall.

"Hey Eli, aren't you running late?" Little Any would release her mother's hand and dash towards me.

"If you spell "late" correctly, I'll answer," I'd tease.

Little Any, bless her heart, wasn't the sharpest tool, but she made up for it with her inheritance. She'd struggle to recite the word, her face strunched in concentration.

My journey finally ended at the school gate, where a familiar, unpleasant face awaited for me. Mrs. Mayors, our vice principal, stood tapping her ruler against her hand.

"Ah, Mr. Elijah Kincaid, always on his own schedule," she'd say with an unnerving smile.

I'd respond with a flirtatious remark, "Mrs. Mayors, you look stunning today! What's your secret? You outshine all the ladies."

Let me clarify something: Mrs. Mayors was far from stunning. She was exceptionally tall, with an unfriendly demeanor. Her long, gaunt face seemed stretched, her hazel eyes dull and lifeless. Heavy make-up made her look almost clownish, and her distinctive mole seemed to shift disturbingly.

"Elijah, you're late, again," she'd say, ignoring my compliment.

"I'm right on time, Mrs. Mayors. My clock's just different." I'd resort.

Seemed like my humour made her even more ugly or maybe that's just how her face is usually like, I don't know.

Mrs. Mayor's ruler havored over me, ready to strike. But I didn't flinch, too lazy to move. Just as the ruler was about to make contact, Mr. Crimson intervened.

"There you are, Kincaid. What you brings you to school? Your mom called, saying you weren't feeling well today."

Mrs. Mayors' face fell, hastily hiding her ruler. "Oh, Mr. Crimson! What brings you here?" She giggled, turning into a blushing teenager.

The intimidating vice principal was smitten. I couldn't help but chuckle.

"I'm sorry I didn't inform you about him," Mr. Crimson said charmingly.

Mrs. Mayors fluttered her eyelashes. "It's okay, I'm you're too busy to worry about just one student."

As she reapplied her lipstick and adjusted her make-up. I wondered aloud, "Why are you putting on make-up, Mrs. Mayors?"

Mr. Crimson ushered me through the gate, Mrs. Mayors trailing behind her flirtation reaching new heights. She blew kisses, intentionally or not, and even added raspberries for good measure.

"Would you mind picking up the pace?" Mr. Crimson asked, growing uneasy.

I halted grinning mischievously. "You want her to chase us like a T-Rex starving for prey?"

We glanced back to find Mrs. Mayors primping, attempting to look alluring.

"Insult to the T-Rex, "Mr. Crimson whispered.

Mrs. Mayors caught up, her proximity to Mr. Crimson making him squirm. "You waited for me."

I made a comical face. "Too late, sir. I'll remember you as a warrior who fell to the mighty Mrs. Mayors."

Mr. Crimson shot me a mock-desperate glace.

I know this makes me sound like a bad guy.

I abandoned Mr. Crimson to Mrs. Mayors' clutches, navigating the empty hallway. Weirdly, my body always felt weak and jelly-like upon entering school.

Why did this keep happening?

The lunch bell rang, and the once-deserted hallway erupted into chaos. You know how rowdy school kids get during breaks.

"Make way for the King of the School!" someone shouted amidst the turmoil.

The crowd parted, revealing a clear path. This title, bestowed upon me by the school, acknowledged my fearless stance against the bullies and my unbeaten record.

Though I didn't see who shouted, I made my way to the club room, my domain.

I entered the room, finding Laura Young engrossed in "Mysterious of the Unseen."

"Hey Laura," I said snatching a chip from her packet.

She lifted her head, giving me a stern "don't-touch-my-food" look.

"King of the School, remember." I grinned.

Laura rolled her eyes, returning to her book.

"Wow, these chips are amazing" I took the packet.

Laura snatched it back. "Where's Otto?" I asked.

"I don't know," she replied without looking up. "He seemed off today, went to the boys' restroom.

Concerned, I left the room. "I'll check up on him."

"Whatever," Laura muttered, eyes fixed on her book.

I pushed open the broken lock and entered the boys' restroom, my heart racing.

Behind the door, claw marks smeared with blood seemed to scream desperation. Human, not animal.

The hot water faucet dripped, distorting the mirror. Messages scrawled in blood: "Do it" and "Help me."

Toilet sinks revealed broken, bloodied fingernails.

"Otto! Bud, are you here? Are you okay?" I shouted.

Suddenly, all the toilet doors swung open in unison, banging against the walls.

Silence.

My voice echoed.

Then, a faint whisper: "Elijah..."

Otto's voice, trembling.

"Otto's?" I exclaimed, relief washing over me, but it was short lived.

Before me stood Otto, yet...not Otto. The same features but distorted.

Blood-covered, claw-marked, and fingernail-broken, Otto resembled the walking dead.

Stretched marred his face; sunken, lifeless eyes stared back.

My gaze fell upon his hand, and my heart sank.

My eyes widened as I noticed Otto clutching a sharp, dagger-like knife, it's blade glinting menacingly.