In this world, there are two kinds of beings: the living and the dead. People say only the "special" ones can see the dead, but I don't believe that. I can see them too, and I'm far from special.

The dead are everywhere, scattered like shadows only I seem to notice—watching, lingering, moving through the world of the living as if they still belong. But for as long as I can remember, they've been nothing more than a part of the scenery. I don't know why I see them. I never asked for this, and I don't pretend it makes me unique or destined for something greater.

If anything, it feels like a nuisance, a quirk I'd sooner forget than flaunt. I mean, what good is seeing what everyone else pretends doesn't exist? What am I supposed to do with it.

But lately, things feel different. I can't put my finger on it, but the dead don't seem as distant as they used to. And for the first time in a long time, I have a feeling they might actually be out to kill me.

[7 Years ago]

At eight years old, Ezra didn't fully understand fear, but he knew what it felt like—a prickling unease that crawled down his spine, as if something dark was waiting just out of sight. That night started like any other. He lay in bed, listening to the soft, comforting sounds of his family moving through the house. His parents' quiet voices drifted from the other room, a steady hum that lulled him into a sense of safety.

Then, without warning, the sounds changed. The murmurs shifted to gasps, then to frantic whispers. It was as if a shadow had crept into the house, pressing down on its walls and filling the air with something cold and unnatural. Ezra felt the chill settle in his bones, though he didn't know why. He only knew he was suddenly wide awake, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Then he saw them.

Figures drifted into his room, silent as shadows, their faces blurred, their bodies twisting and distorting like smoke. The dead. Later in life, he'd realize that's what they were, but in that moment, he could only stare, frozen in place. These weren't the ghosts from storybooks; they were warped echoes of life, silent and shapeless, moving with a purpose he couldn't understand. He tried to scream, to call for his parents, but his voice stuck in his throat, his body paralyzed by fear.

The figures moved through his room, passing like cold wind, brushing against him and leaving a numbing chill in their wake. He wanted to believe he was dreaming, that he'd wake up any moment. But then he heard something—a muffled thud from down the hall. Then silence.

Ezra crept from his bed, every step heavy, his heartbeat a pounding echo in his ears. He made his way to his parents' room and pushed the door open. The air was colder here, piercing and unnatural, filled with the same twisted shadows that haunted his own room.

The figures were gathered over his parents, drifting around the bed in a slow, haunting circle. He wanted to shout, to make them stop, but he couldn't move. The air felt thick, pressing down on him, crushing the breath from his lungs. All he could do was watch, helpless, as the last bit of warmth faded from his parents' faces. His mother's eyes, wide and empty, seemed to look past him, into something he couldn't see.

And then, darkness.

After that night, Ezra was alone. No one else could see the figures that haunted him, the shadows that flitted around corners and lingered just out of sight. He tried to tell himself it was just a nightmare, a memory warped by grief and fear. But deep down, he knew the truth.

The dead had taken his family. And they hadn't stopped watching him since.

[Now]

Ezra bolted down the narrow, crowded streets of the city, weaving through throngs of early commuters and narrowly dodging vendors setting up their stalls. The sunlight was barely breaking through the skyline, casting a hazy morning glow over everything. He glanced at his watch, panic flashing across his face. "Shit, shit, I overslept! I'm gonna be late!" he muttered, his legs pumping faster as he dashed toward the school.

As he neared the gates, he barely slowed down, his sneakers skidding against the pavement as he launched himself through the doors, startling a few students lingering in the hallway. He took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and tried to tame his wild hair with a quick swipe of his hand before slipping into the classroom.

The teacher, Mr. Tanaka, looked up from his notes with a disapproving raise of his eyebrow. "Well, well, if it isn't Kurenai, our very own track star. You're late," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of sarcasm and amusement.

"I know, I'm sorry," Ezra replied, giving a quick bow of apology as he hustled to his seat in the back row. His cheeks flushed as he took his seat, acutely aware of a few snickers and sideways glances from his classmates. Catching his breath, he forced himself to settle down, hoping his morning scramble wasn't setting the tone for the rest of his day.

The school bell rang, signaling the end of classes, and Ezra wasted no time packing his bag. As he stuffed his books and notebooks inside, a familiar voice broke through the clamor of students.

"Two more months 'til summer break," a boy beside him said, a hint of excitement in his voice.

"Yeah, I know," Ezra replied with a nod, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion of the school day.

The boy leaned in, his tone more serious. "Oh, and Mr. Jones said you should come by for your sword. He's leaving early today."

Ezra's eyes widened as he froze mid-pack, realization hitting him. "Ah, crap! I forgot I left my sword in the club room. Thanks, man!" he called over his shoulder, already dashing out of the classroom.

He sprinted down the quieting hallways, weaving through lingering students and teachers as he raced toward the club room. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mind flashed to the sword he'd spent weeks refining – a symbol of everything he'd been working toward.

Reaching the door to the sword club, Ezra slowed, catching his breath. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside, only to stop in his tracks at the sight before him.

In the center of the room, Mr. Jones knelt in perfect form, his gaze focused and serene. The teacher's sword was drawn, glinting under the dim lighting, and he moved with an almost ethereal grace. His steps were fluid and controlled, each movement blending seamlessly into the next as he executed a sword dance. The blade carved precise arcs through the air, slicing with elegance and power, his every motion an expression of honed skill.

Ezra stood at the doorway, transfixed, unable to look away from the mesmerizing dance. In that moment, he felt the weight of his own ambitions – and the level of mastery he hoped to one day achieve.

Outside the school, a thick fog crept along the ground, swirling in strange, unnatural patterns, almost as if it were alive. The air grew colder, carrying with it an uneasy silence, and the usual sounds of students laughing and shouting seemed to vanish. From the depths of the mist, a figure began to take shape—an outline that twisted and pulsed, as if struggling to hold a form it wasn't meant to possess.

As the fog parted, the creature emerged, hunched and distorted, its limbs stretched too long and its skin an unnatural shade of mottled gray. Its face was a grotesque mixture of humanoid features twisted beyond recognition; one eye bulged out larger than the other, pulsating like a strange, feverish light, while its mouth stretched across its face, too wide and filled with teeth that seemed too sharp, too jagged, like broken glass. Thin, stringy hair hung over its face, dripping with a viscous, black fluid that reeked of decay.

Its body was emaciated but muscular, skin stretched tightly over sinewy limbs and bony joints that jutted out at unnatural angles. When it moved, its fingers clawed into the ground, each digit ending in sharpened, spindly claws that left trails in the dirt as it crept closer. From its back, long, barbed tendrils slithered out, each twitching with an unsettling life of its own, as if sensing every movement, every sound, every heartbeat around it.

Then, as the full sight of the creature came into view, its body contorted in a slow, eerie dance, shifting and rippling as though it were made of shadow and flesh combined. Each motion seemed to defy the laws of nature, like it was rejecting the very world it had invaded. Its eyes, hollow yet filled with a simmering hatred, fixed on the school building, and an unnatural, guttural growl rumbled from deep within its chest.

The air grew colder still, and Ezra,felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The creature's mere presence felt like a curse settling over the area, infecting the surroundings with a deep, primal fear that crept into every corner of his mind. This was no ordinary monster; it was something ancient, something that did not belong in the human world, a nightmare made flesh.