Fourteen-year-old Brock lay sprawled on his bed, dressed in a sleeveless shirt—its arms torn off—and a pair of gym shorts. This was one of his favorite outfits, being comfortable and convenient. Though he didn't have much money, he often said, "Broke's a mindset." The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting patterns on the walls as he sat and thought of his next move.
Deciding to read he grabs two books ok his shelf before sitting back down "Should I read Lands of Concrete or Roll for Fate?" he mused aloud, reaching for both.
A sudden set of knocks interrupted his thoughts as his door shook.
"Hello?" he called out, but was met with silence.
Shrugging it off, Brock opened Roll for Fate, only to be halted by another set of knocks— only this time more persistent.
"Seriously?" he muttered, irritation creepied in more and more as intimidation settled.
He tossed the book aside and approached the door. Before he could grasp the handle, a deafening bang echoed, as it seemed to be heard across his small town as the door burst open, splintering into pieces that flew across the room.
Staggering back, Brock shielded his face from the debris. As the dust settled, a tall, dark silhouette stood ominously in the doorway.
"Who... who are you?" Brock whispered, his voice trembling.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he felt his knees weaken. Desperate, he grabbed a chunk of drywall and hurled it at the figure. The fragment passed through the shadow, vanishing into its form.
The figure advanced, its form shifting and undulating like smoke. Brock lunged forward, swinging a broken chair leg through the air. The makeshift weapon met no resistance, passing through the entity as if it were mist. Suddenly, the shadow retaliated, a tendril of darkness lashing out and striking Brock's shoulder, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly until his mother's footsteps echoed up the stairs. She gasped at the sight of the shattered door.
Brock's only thought at this moment was if she would hurry up, as it felt longer and longer. But finally, she walked right through the shadowy figure.
"What the hell, Brock?!" she exclaimed angrily.
Still shaken, Brock attempted to explain—the knocks, the door's explosion, the shadowy figure—but his words faltered.
"I-it was a man... you didn't see him," he stammered.
His mother, exhausted and skeptical, sighed. "Clean this up. We'll talk later." She turned and walked down the hallway, then descended the stairs.
An hour later, with the debris cleared, Brock sat on his bed, phone in hand. He hesitated before texting his friend about the incident.
"Bro, you read way too much. You're going insane," came the immediate reply.
"Maybe I am," Brock muttered, forcing a smile.
Unable to shake the image from his mind, he turned to the internet, searching for similar encounters. One result caught his eye, but it didn't quite match.
"This might take a while," he thought, determination settling in. "But I'll find out who—or what—that silhouette was."