The rain drummed a soft rhythm against Ethan Cross's bedroom window, its muffled patter pulling him from a restless sleep. Gray light seeped through the curtains, casting a dim glow across his room on Eldridge Avenue. The fog outside clung to Bellingham like a second skin, blurring the world beyond into a haze of shadows. It was Saturday, April 12, 2015, five days since the ritual at Sehome Hill Arboretum had shattered his life, transforming him into something he couldn't yet name.
Ethan sat up, his sheets damp with sweat. His heart thudded, fragments of a dream clawing at his mind: flames wrapping around him, warm yet fierce, and a massive wolf with fiery eyes staring through him. The same dream had haunted him again, it's meaning elusive. Was it tied to the ritual, to the blood-soaked stones and Ryan Matthews's cryptic chant? He shook his head, shoving the images aside. "Not today," he muttered, his voice hoarse in the quiet room. This weekend, he'd vowed to relax, to escape the stress of red-eyed vampires and unexplained powers. The dream could wait.
He swung his legs off the bed, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and planned his day. Breakfast first, then some downtime—maybe a movie or music to dull the edge of his nerves. He'd tackle homework later, saving the evening for a Minecraft gaming session with Jamie. The dreary weather, with its endless rain and fog, was perfect for staying inside, cocooned from the world. As he shuffled to the bathroom, his heightened senses—sharper since the ritual—caught every detail: the drip of the faucet like a hammer, the faint mildew scent in the air, the cool tiles biting his bare feet. He splashed water on his face, the droplets stinging more than they should, and stared at his reflection. His hazel eyes flickered with an unnatural sheen, his jaw sharper, and his frame leaner but muscled. The boy in the mirror wasn't the scrawny boy he'd been a week ago.
Downstairs, Ethan headed to the kitchen, the new oak door installed by Mr. Hargrove gleaming in the hallway. It was a small comfort, a barrier against the chaos outside, though it hadn't stopped Oscar's brutal entry five days ago. He pushed the thought away, focusing on routine. He cracked eggs into a pan, the sizzle loud in his ears, and toasted bread, the butter's smell almost overwhelming. As he sat at the worn kitchen table, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with "Mom." A grin broke across his face, warmth flooding his chest. He answered quickly. "Good morning, Mom!"
"Hi, Ethan," came Elena's voice, soft but tired, carrying the faint hum of a ship's engine in the background. "I'm so sorry for not calling the past few days. Work's been hectic."
Elena Cross was a striking woman, even in her late thirties. Her chestnut hair, often tied in a loose braid, framed a face with sharp cheekbones and warm green eyes that hid a quiet strength. She'd always looked youthful, her beauty undimmed by years of hard work as a cruise ship chef. Ethan had seen photos of her younger days, radiant and fierce, and even now, she turned heads—though she'd never brought another man into their lives. Her sacrifices for Ethan, raising him alone after his father's absence, were a weight he carried with both gratitude and guilt.
"I'm good, Mom," he said, his voice softening. "Don't worry about the calls. You're working hard. Just… take care of yourself, okay?"
"I will, sweetheart," she replied, a smile in her tone. "You sure you're okay? Need anything—cash, maybe?"
"Nah, I've got enough for the month," Ethan said, glancing at the fridge stocked with basics. He'd thought about telling her everything—the ritual, Ryan's red eyes. She was halfway across the ocean, working grueling shifts. He couldn't burden her with his fears, not when she was already carrying so much. "Everything's fine here."
"Okay, good," Elena said. "I'll be back in a few weeks. Have a great weekend, and don't forget I love you."
"Love you too, Mom. Bye." He hung up, the silence of the house settling around him. Elena's absence was a constant ache, but her call grounded him, a reminder of why he needed to keep going. She'd raised him alone, never faltering, and he wouldn't let her down by falling apart now.
Ethan finished his breakfast, the eggs tastier than expected, and washed the dishes, the routine calming his nerves. He settled on the couch, the musty fabric rough against his skin, and flipped through TV channels, landing on a sci-fi movie about rogue AI. The flickering screen distracted him, but his senses kept pulling him back to reality—the rain's relentless patter, the faint creak of the house, the lingering butter scent from breakfast.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Jamie: "Yo, ready to build an epic fortress tonight? Got new mods!" Ethan grinned, typing back, "Hell yeah. Lava moat's making a comeback." Jamie's reply was instant: "Obsession confirmed. See u at 7." The promise of gaming with his best friend was a lifeline, a chance to escape the supernatural chaos for a few hours.
As the afternoon dragged on, Ethan tackled his homework, trigonometry equations blurring together on the page. His pencil snapped twice, his strength still hard to control, and he cursed under his breath. By evening, the rain had eased to a drizzle, and Ethan's mood lifted. He ordered a pizza—pepperoni and extra cheese, a rare treat—and set up his gaming rig, the dual monitors glowing in the dark room. Jamie joined the Minecraft server at 7 p.m. sharp, his voice crackling through the headset. "Alright, Cross, let's make this fortress legendary. I'm thinking obsidian walls, hidden traps, and the works."
"Deal," Ethan laughed, the tension in his chest loosening. They dove into the game, crafting and building with a chaotic energy only best friends could muster. Jamie insisted on a moat of lava, Ethan countered with a secret underground bunker, and they bickered playfully over every block. The server, packed with mods, let them spawn dragons and wield enchanted weapons, turning their build into a fortress fit for a fantasy epic. Hours slipped by, the outside world fading as they lost themselves in pixelated chaos.
"Dude, this is our best build yet," Jamie said, his avatar tossing a fireball at a zombie horde. "We're unstoppable."
"Until you fall in the lava again," Ethan teased, dodging a skeleton's arrow. The banter felt normal, a slice of the life he'd had before red eyes and rituals. But even in the game, his senses flared—the headset's hum was too loud, the pizza's grease sharp in his nose. He pushed it down, focusing on the screen.
As midnight approached, they paused to admire their creation: a towering fortress with glowing Redstone circuits and a dragon perched on the spire. "We're basically gods now," Jamie declared, and Ethan laughed, the sound genuine. They logged off, promising to tweak the build tomorrow.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, the room quiet except for the soft rain outside. The gaming session had been a perfect escape, a reminder that he still had Jamie, still had moments of joy. But as he climbed into bed, the dream's fiery wolf lingered in his mind, its eyes a warning. But for now, though, he let himself hold onto the warmth of the night—a brief respite before the shadows closed in again.