Beacon Hills was a small town, nestled against the shadow of dense woods, where the air always smelled faintly of pine and rain. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and secrets were a rare commodity. For Scott and me, it was home. A home filled with the laughter of childhood, the comfort of family, and the dull ache of absence.
Growing up in a small town like Beacon Hills meant that life was simple, predictable. We had our routines, our friends, and our parents—well, one of them at least. Mom did her best to make up for Dad's absence, but there were days when the weight of it all became too much for her. The long hours at the hospital, the late-night shifts, and the rare occasions when she'd come home too tired to do anything but sit on the couch, staring at the TV as if the world was too heavy to bear.
"Hey, Ethan, pass it!" Scott shouted, his voice full of excitement as we stood outside in the backyard, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. He had always been the more energetic of the two of us—always the one to initiate the games, the mischief, the challenges. I was content to follow his lead, enjoying the simplicity of it all.
But even as I played, there was something off—something I couldn't quite put my finger on. The ball soared toward me, and as I ran to intercept it, my body moved with a grace and speed that surprised me. My foot connected with it perfectly, sending it sailing toward the makeshift goal with unanticipated force.
Scott stopped mid-run, his eyes wide. "Whoa, slow down, man! You're like, really fast."
I shrugged, trying to mask my confusion. "Just lucky, I guess."
He grinned, clearly impressed. "Lucky? Dude, you're speeding around like you're in one of those pro sports commercials." He jogged over, picking up the ball. "I swear, sometimes it's like you're not even trying."
I wanted to brush it off—just a fluke, right? But deep down, I couldn't shake the nagging sensation that something wasn't normal. That wasn't the first time something like that had happened. I had started noticing little things—little moments when my reflexes seemed just... quicker than they should be, when I could hear things from farther away or catch a glimpse of movement before it even registered in my brain. Things that didn't make sense.
The next day, I was sitting at the kitchen table, half-heartedly poking at my breakfast. Mom was busy in the kitchen, preparing for another long shift at the hospital. Scott sat across from me, shoveling his food down with enthusiasm, as usual. He always ate with the kind of hunger that came with being a growing teenage boy, but I noticed something today—a subtle, unfamiliar weight in his eyes.
"Everything okay?" I asked, not sure why it felt so important to ask.
He paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and glanced up at me. "Yeah. Just... missing Dad, you know?"
The words hit me harder than I expected. Mom had raised us on her own ever since we were babies. Dad left when we were too young to remember him, and the occasional, impersonal letters he'd send never seemed to make much of a difference. I never had much of an attachment to the idea of him, but Scott was different. He remembered, even if just in flashes. He remembered the man who had been there for the first few years of his life, who had held him and played with him, before he disappeared without explanation.
"I know, Scott," I said quietly, pushing my cereal around in the bowl. "I miss him too."
It wasn't just that he wasn't there physically. It was the absence of his presence in our lives. No guiding hand, no fatherly advice or wisdom. And no matter how hard Mom worked, it felt like there was a piece missing, a hole in the fabric of our family.
"Don't worry," Scott said after a pause, his voice a little less heavy. "We've got each other, right?"
I smiled and nodded. "Yeah, we do."
The next few days passed in much the same way—soccer games, schoolwork, and the usual small-town routines. But the more I paid attention, the more I noticed how different I was from everyone else. I was quicker to react in class when a paper flew off the desk. I could hear whispers across the hall, even when they weren't aimed at me. And the strangest of all—whenever I focused really hard, I could sense the emotions of those around me, a sort of pressure in the air that was impossible to ignore.
One afternoon, as Scott and I walked home from school, we passed by the old park near the edge of town. I had always liked this place. The swings creaked in the breeze, and the trees formed a canopy over the path that led toward the river. The light from the setting sun filtered through the leaves, casting long shadows across the ground.
Scott, ever the adventurer, took off ahead of me, darting toward the swings like it was a race. "Last one there's a rotten egg!" he yelled, grinning from ear to ear.
I didn't bother running after him at first. Instead, I stopped for a moment, taking in the peaceful surroundings. But then, something caught my eye—something in the distance, just beyond the trees. A figure, standing motionless, watching us.
It was just a flash, a brief movement in the shadows. I squinted, trying to make out the shape, but by the time I looked again, it was gone. I shook my head, chalking it up to my mind playing tricks on me. The woods were dense here, and I had always been a bit jumpy in places like this. But there was an odd twinge of unease that lingered in my chest.
"You coming or what?" Scott called, his voice snapping me back to the present.
I nodded and jogged to catch up, trying to shake the strange feeling that had settled over me. "Yeah, just got distracted for a second."
But even as we made our way back home, I couldn't help but feel the strange pull—the sense that something in Beacon Hills was not as it seemed. That I wasn't as I seemed.
That night, as I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the same thoughts swirled in my mind. Was I just imagining things? Or was there something more going on here? I reached under my pillow, pulling out the small journal I had been writing in for months. It was filled with fragments of memories—bits and pieces of things I couldn't quite explain. Glimpses of something... someone, that I couldn't quite remember.
I wrote in it every night, hoping the answers would come. But so far, it only raised more questions.
"Something's different about me," I whispered into the silence of the room. I didn't know what it was yet, but I could feel it, in my bones, in the air. It was only a matter of time before it all came rushing to the surface.
I closed my journal and put it back under my pillow, glancing at Scott's sleeping form in the bed across from mine. I could still hear the faint rustle of his breathing, steady and calm. He didn't seem to notice the world was changing—not yet, anyway.
But I had a feeling the world was about to become something neither of us could ever have imagined.