"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
- Edmund Burke
Eighteen-year-old Paul Hayes slouched on the frayed, sagging cushions of the worn-out couch in his cramped apartment, the aroma of stale pizza lingering in the air. His tousled hair fell across his forehead as he leaned forward, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen, which cast a bluish glow across the dimly lit room.
The news anchor, with her tightly pulled back hair and sharp blazer, spoke in a tone that brimmed with tension and unease, struggling to maintain her professionalism as she delivered the latest report on the escalating crisis gripping their city. Outside, the occasional sound of sirens wailed in the distance, a haunting reminder of the chaos unfolding beyond his four walls.
"Scientists worldwide are increasingly perplexed by recent observations indicating that the nights are growing progressively longer,"
she said, adjusting her glasses nervously, her brow furrowing with concern.
"Moreover, there have been alarming reports from multiple geographic locations suggesting that the sun itself seems to be... dimming. This change, while subtle, has been documented through meticulous measurements of solar intensity taken over the past few months."
"Experts across various fields, including climatology and astrophysics, are actively investigating whether this surprising phenomenon could be linked to recent atmospheric disturbances, such as increased volcanic activity and unprecedented shifts in global weather patterns, which could potentially be affecting the Earth's climate system in ways we do not yet fully understand."
Paul frowned, running a hand through his messy, unkempt hair, a sign of his restless nights. Social media had been buzzing with fervor for days—dozens of posts filled with striking side-by-side photos comparing vibrant sunrises from years past to the more muted, lackluster hues of recent mornings.
The golden light that once warmed the sky seemed diminished, losing its brilliance.
Users were particularly fixated on how shadows, once crisp and defined, appeared to stretch longer across the ground, as if the night was quietly encroaching, claiming more territory with every passing day.
Conversations dripped with a mix of anxiety and fascination, as people debated the reasons behind this celestial shift—climate change, pollution, or perhaps something more ominous. A shiver ran down his spine, a fleeting chill that he quickly brushed off as nothing more than a momentary lapse in comfort.
It was just another bizarre news story, like the countless tales of strange occurrences that had been surfacing lately. Yet, despite his attempts to dismiss it, an unsettling intuition nagged at him, a persistent whisper that something was fundamentally amiss.
The next morning, Paul dragged himself out of bed, the early light filtering through the dusty blinds casting striped shadows across his room. He pulled on his favorite faded hoodie, its fabric soft and frayed from years of wear, and slung his well-worn backpack over one shoulder—its straps stretched and patched from countless school days.
School wasn't his favorite place; in fact, it was probably the last place he wanted to be. The bustling hallways, filled with laughter and chatter, felt overwhelming to him, a reminder of the expectations and social dynamics he couldn't quite navigate.
Still, he steeled himself for the day ahead. He knew that missing too many days would only complicate things further, burdening him with more assignments and pressure he was already too frazzled to handle. So, with a deep breath, he stepped out into the crisp morning air, determination battling against his reluctance.
As he walked down the cracked and uneven sidewalks, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows between the patches of weeds that had pushed through the concrete.
A group of kids from his neighborhood zoomed past him on their bikes, their laughter sharp and mocking, accompanied by jeers that stung like the chill of the breeze. "Loser!" one shouted, a sneer etched across his face, while another chimed in with "Worthless!" and "Street rat!"
Paul didn't flinch or retaliate. He had heard it all before—each word felt like a familiar weight pressing down on his chest. Instead, he kept his head down, eyes fixed on the ground, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn-out hoodie. There was no point in fighting back; he had learned long ago that responding only drew more attention and made things worse. So he trudged on, a solitary figure amidst the chaos of their laughter, trying to find solace in the rhythm of his footsteps.
As Paul stepped through the rusted metal gates of the school, a chill of apprehension washed over him. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement, but he felt nothing of its warmth. He could sense the stares of his classmates like a swarm of bees buzzing around him—judging, mocking, and waiting for him to slip up in some small way.
He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, staring at the scuffed sneakers that seemed to betray him with every shuffle toward his locker. Each step felt like a heavy weight pulling him down, and he couldn't shake the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach.
Deep down, he hoped that today would be different, that maybe today he would blend into the background and escape the scrutiny, but as he rounded the corner, the laughter and whispers erupted around him like a storm. It never was different.
Just as he reached the cold, rusted metal door of his school, a jarring force slammed into his shoulder from behind, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground. Paul stumbled, narrowly regaining his balance just in time to keep from face-planting on the scuffed linoleum floor.
The air around him crackled with laughter—sharp, mocking, and cruel. He didn't need to turn around to know it was Ethan Rivers and his crew, notorious for ruling the halls with an iron fist, the self-proclaimed kings of the school.
"Watch where you're going, freak," Ethan snarled, a sneer curling his lips as he viciously shoved Paul's locker shut before he could even touch the handle. "Or maybe you're just too weak to stand up straight."
Paul remained silent, glued to the scratched surface of the metal door, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew better than to fight back—any attempt would only make the humiliation deeper. It was a game he'd learned to navigate, and today, silence was his shield. But Ethan misread his quietude; he saw it as an invitation, an opportunity. With a swift motion, he grabbed Paul's worn backpack, yanking it off his shoulder and unzipping it with a triumphant sneer.
"Hey, what's this garbage?" Ethan laughed, pulling out Paul's battered notebook, pages yellowed and frayed at the edges. With little regard, he tore a few sheets loose, sending them fluttering like dead leaves caught in a winter windstorm, scattered across the hallway. The crowd of onlookers erupted in laughter, some students even kicking the crumpled pages further down the hall as if they were mere litter.
"Stop it," Paul whispered, the words barely making it past his lips, frail and defeated.
"Oh, did you say something?" Ethan taunted, leaning in closer, his breath hot and foul against Paul's ear. "Speak up, dirtbag. No one can hear you from your dumpster."
The crowd roared with delight at Ethan's words, howling like hyenas at the sight of Paul's distress. One of Ethan's henchmen, Blake, bent down to grab Paul's notebook from the floor.
With a wicked grin, he scribbled something bold and cruel across the cover—"Loser's Diary"—before tossing the notebook into a nearby trash can with a casual flick of his wrist.
Paul felt the burn of humiliation creeping up his throat and the sting of tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but he fought against it, determined not to show them any weakness. The last thing he wanted was to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. As the bell rang, signaling the end of this torment for now, Ethan leaned close, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're worthless. Perhaps it would be better if you just stopped living like your lazy father."
Paul felt his heart sink further at the mention of his dad, the words echoing in the chambers of his mind, a cruel reminder of struggles he could never escape.
Paul's fists clenched tightly at his sides, the knuckles turning white as he fought to regain control of his racing heart. He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar burn of humiliation rise in his throat, forcing himself to suppress the urge to lash out. As he reached for his worn backpack from the floor—a fraying blue canvas with a few scattered patches—he turned a deaf ear to the taunts and the cruel laughter that echoed behind him, fading as he trudged toward his classroom.
When he finally slid into his seat at the back, the weight of his backpack felt like an anchor dragging him down. He felt small and invisible, like a ghost drifting through a world that had long since forgotten him.
Even the teacher, her voice melodic and light as she chatted animatedly with one of the popular girls, barely cast a glance his way. No one seemed to notice how his clothes were smudged with dirt or how his eyes were rimmed with a weariness that belied his age. No one cared.
He turned his gaze out the window, the gray clouds hanging heavy in the sky, casting a dull light into the room. The daylight seemed weaker, almost reluctant as if it too had lost its will to shine. It felt like it matched the suffocating weight inside him—fading, dimming, ready to dissolve into nothingness.
Deep within, something was shifting, an unsettling feeling gnawing at his gut, making it impossible to shake off. He couldn't pinpoint what had triggered it; perhaps it was the whispered conversations he overheard in the hall or the stares that lingered just a moment too long. Whatever it was, it left him on edge, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface, and for the first time, he wondered if the world had always been this way, or if it was he who was changing.
After school, Paul trudged through the bustling gates, slipping away from the clusters of boisterous students around him as quickly as he could. School let out at 5 PM, but the atmosphere felt eerily dim—it was as if dusk had set in an hour earlier. The sky above was smeared with murky hues of indigo and gray, casting a gloomy pall over the scene, while the streetlights flickered to life, their feeble, sickly glow struggling against the encroaching shadows.
With his head bowed and his heart racing, Paul quickened his footsteps, darting into a narrow alley to evade the older students lingering noisily by the main road. The air in the alley was thick and frigid, an unnatural chill wrapping around him like a heavy blanket as if the sun had completely abandoned this forsaken space. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, crawling up the weathered brick walls like sinister fingers reaching for him, deepening his sense of unease.
Suddenly, a jarring, wet tearing sound pierced the air, making Paul freeze mid-step. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat growing as he pressed himself against the cold, rough surface of the wall, his breath shallow. Tentatively, he peered around the corner, his heart pounding in his chest.
What he saw sent a jolt of terror through him. A grotesque figure loomed in the middle of the alley—no, it wasn't merely a figure; it was a shadow, darker than anything Paul had ever encountered. It was hunched over a man sprawled motionless on the ground, limbs askew and face hidden in the dim light. As the shadow moved, Paul caught sight of something slick and red splattering against the cracked pavement, glistening ominously in the weak light. Fear coursed through him, paralyzing his every instinct.
The shadow shifted, almost pulsing, its form twisting and contorting as long, claw-like tendrils tore into the man's body, dismembering him with a brutal, sickening efficiency. Bones cracked, and the sound of flesh ripping apart made Paul's stomach lurch.
He forced himself to stay silent, hardly daring to breathe as the shadow finished its gruesome task, pooling like black ink over what remained of the man. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it seemed to melt into the darkness, vanishing without a trace.
Paul didn't wait another moment to gather his thoughts. As soon as he was certain the menacing creature was gone, he bolted from the alley, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest as adrenaline surged through him. The gritty pavement felt rough under his sneakers, but he didn't stop running until he finally reached the sanctuary of his apartment, slamming the door with a resounding bang that echoed in the dim hallway. He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the cool wood of the door, gasping for air as he tried to process the horror that had just unfolded.
His mind raced, each horrifying image replaying in vivid detail, but one question clawed at him louder than the rest: What was that… thing?
Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the stillness of the evening, slicing through the oppressive, humid air like a knife. A group of onlookers gathered at the mouth of the alley, drawn by the frantic, terrified cries of a woman who had stumbled upon the grisly scene. Her hands trembled violently, desperately covering her mouth as she staggered backward, eyes wide with abject horror and disbelief. The glow of streetlights illuminated her pale face, casting deep shadows that accentuated her fear, as murmurs began to ripple among the crowd, each person grappling with the unthinkable reality of what had just transpired.
Detective Greg Morales shoved his way through the growing cluster of bystanders, the polished shield of his badge glinting beneath the flickering streetlamp. His voice was curt, all business. "Move aside. Crime scene." People scattered reluctantly, drawn by the morbid magnetism of the unknown.
The moment Greg crossed the yellow tape, the stench hit him—a thick, metallic tang of blood mixed with something older, sourer, like rotting meat and rusted iron. He paused for half a second, steeling himself as his gut instinct screamed wrong. Even after ten years on the force, the smell of fresh death still had the power to claw its way down his throat.
Then he saw the body—or what was left of it.
The torso was a ruin of flesh, split open down the sternum as if some monstrous force had peeled it apart like an overripe fruit. The ribcage jutted upward in jagged arcs, snapped and splintered, casting warped shadows against the alley walls. Limbs were strewn haphazardly—an arm slumped beside a dented trash can, a leg twisted unnaturally beneath a rusted fire escape. The head hung at an angle that defied the rules of anatomy, barely attached by a strand of sinew and blood-matted hair.
The heart was gone. So were the lungs. What remained of the intestines curled like cold spaghetti beside the body, still faintly steaming in the night air.
Greg swallowed hard, dropping to one knee beside the corpse. The pool of blood beneath him shimmered in the pale light, already congealing in places but still tacky at the edges. He slipped on a pair of gloves and leaned closer, inspecting the brutal lacerations carved into the flesh. No clean slices. No hesitation marks. Just raw tearing—like claws, or teeth. But not any claws he'd ever seen.
"This wasn't a knife," he murmured. "Hell, it wasn't any weapon I've ever seen."
He reached for his flashlight and swept the beam slowly across the pavement. No footprints. No drag marks. The blood pooled around the body but went no farther, as if the killer had materialized from thin air—and vanished the same way.
"No blood trail. No signs of movement," Greg said aloud, more for his processing than for anyone else. His partner, Detective Hariette Velasquez, was still up near the alley entrance, trying to keep the gawkers at bay while the first responders cordoned off the area.
Greg's eyes drifted upward. The brick walls lining the alley were unmarked—no smears, no spatter patterns beyond what was directly near the corpse. No scratches, no fingerprints, no broken pipes or damaged fixtures. Just an eerie stillness.
He glanced at the victim's hands—pale, lifeless, fingers curled inwards. No defensive wounds. No signs that the victim had even tried to fight back. That sent a deeper chill through Greg than the cold air.
It wasn't just a killing. It was an execution. Fast. Efficient. Ruthless. Inhuman.
Something wasn't adding up. And Greg didn't like puzzles with pieces missing.
Greg gingerly reached into the remains of a shredded leather wallet, half-soaked in blood and hanging open near what used to be the victim's left side. The ID was partially torn, the edges curled and damp, but still legible beneath the smear of crimson.
Mark De Leon. Age 42. Local address on Yumang Street.
Greg exhaled through his nose, trying to suppress the growing churn in his stomach.
"Mark De Leon," he said aloud, more to anchor himself than anything else. "Auto mechanic. No priors, no record, nothing flagged." He tapped the ID lightly against his gloved fingers, staring at the name as if it might unlock a motive. "Guy probably paid his taxes on time. Just a regular citizen."
He stood, slowly, glancing back at the carnage. "So who the hell wanted him dead like this?"
Greg's mind reeled through scenarios. A revenge killing? Cartel message? Ritualistic murder? But none of it fit. There were no markings, no symbols, no messages painted in blood or chalk. Just raw, unfiltered violence—like something had torn its way through the man with no goal other than destruction.
And the method... It wasn't surgical. It wasn't even human.
Greg replayed the condition of the body in his head: the limbs, the exposed chest cavity, the splintered ribs. There was no precision to it—only brutal force. The muscle had been shredded, not sliced. Bones had been crushed, not broken with tools.
It looked like an animal attack.
But not from any animal that belonged in a city.
Greg turned sharply toward the mouth of the alley, where Harriette was finally making her way toward him, stepping carefully between patches of blood. Her face was pale beneath the streetlight, her brows pinched in that way that meant she was already reading the scene the same way he was.
He kept his voice low, urgent, just for her. "Call forensics. Now. I want every inch of this place documented. Full sweep—blood spatter, fibers, hairs, prints, chemical residue, anything."
Harriette gave a tight nod and turned back toward her phone.
Greg remained still for a beat, letting the silence press in. The alley was too quiet. No cars, no scurrying rats, not even the distant hum of traffic.
Only the body.
His instincts were screaming at him—this wasn't just a homicide.
It was something else.
As Greg scanned the scene once more, his instincts screamed at him—this wasn't just murder. It was wrong, in a way that went beyond blood and bone. Something about it clawed at the edges of rational thought. He had seen death. He had seen depravity. But this? This was something else.
He needed answers. Not just from evidence bags or coroner reports—he needed context. He made a mental note: check local reports. Animal sightings. Break-ins. Disturbances. Anything strange, no matter how small or seemingly unrelated. And then: the victim's home, his garage, his clients. Someone had to know something. Someone had to have seen something.
But in his gut, Greg already knew the truth.
This was just the beginning.
Whatever had killed Mark De Leon... wasn't human. And it wasn't finished.
He crouched again beside what remained of the body, sweeping his flashlight across the pavement. Blood glistened on the cracked asphalt, thick and dark. But it wasn't just the gore that unsettled him. It was the air itself—heavy, pressing in on him like a blanket soaked in dread. The alley felt wrong, as though it had been cut out of the city and replaced with something older, darker.
His beam flicked upward—and froze.
The security light above the alley's entrance was shattered, jagged glass scattered like confetti across the concrete. He followed the trail of destruction further in. Another light—busted. Then another, its bulb ripped straight from the socket. Wires hung down like veins, copper ends frayed and scorched. He moved closer, squinting at the exposed wiring.
Not random. Not careless. Deliberate.
Someone—or something—had made sure this place was pitch-black when the killing happened.
Greg straightened slowly, unease twisting tighter in his chest. He turned toward the nearest security camera mounted on the corner of the adjacent building. It had been yanked upward, facing the sky, blind to the alley. Deep gouges marked the housing. A smear of something dark—not quite grease, not quite blood—trailed down the wall beside it.
His flashlight swept across the street, catching on to something that made him pause.
An old iron streetlamp, across from the alley's mouth, stood at a grotesque angle—its base bent as if something had slammed into it with the force of a speeding car. The steel was warped, not broken. Bent. Pressed. Whatever had done it hadn't just been strong. It had been deliberate.
Greg's breath plumed in the cold night air. His thoughts raced, but a cold part of his mind remained steady, cataloging, connecting. It wasn't just brutality at play here—it was tactical. This thing had avoided detection. It had killed in silence. And then it had disappeared like smoke.
At the far end of the alley, a dilapidated building leaned into the darkness, the boards on its upper windows haphazardly torn away and discarded. A weathered "No Trespassing" sign hung crooked on a swollen wooden door. Greg approached, his light catching a smear of something black along the bricks—too dark for paint, too thin for blood. It clung like soot but shimmered faintly under the beam, as if reacting to the light.
A single scuff mark angled upward across the brick. Then another. Higher.
His eyes tracked the trail up the wall—almost vertical. Not footprints. Not boot treads. Just... impact marks. As if something had climbed.
Greg stepped back, craning his neck to follow the trail all the way to the second floor. The boards were splintered. Something had gotten in.
And it didn't use the door.
Greg pulled out his phone, his hand slick with sweat despite the cold.
He dialed. "Harriette," he said, voice low and tight. "I need utility reports for this block—power outages, transformer issues, faulty wiring, anything that might explain why every damn light is out in this alley. And check for any recent vandalism calls. Also..." His eyes swept the shadows, uneasy. "See if there's street cam footage nearby. Anything we can pull, I want it now."
"On it," Harriette replied, her tone steady, but Greg could hear the edge in her voice—the tension, the same gut-deep warning he felt. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
He ended the call and turned back to the remains of Mark De Leon, or what was left of him. The body was less a corpse and more a message, written in torn muscle and shattered bone.
Whatever had done this wasn't just powerful.
It was calculated.
It had taken out every light source. Deliberately. Precisely. No sloppiness, no noise. It had cloaked itself in the kind of darkness that felt engineered—as if light itself had been exiled.
Greg's jaw tightened as a cold realization slid through his mind like a blade.
What if it hadn't just hidden in the dark...
What if it feared the light?
Or worse—what if the light could hurt it?
He scanned the alley again, every flick of his flashlight revealing something more disturbing. Broken fixtures. Cut wires. Bent steel. Ripped boards. The signs weren't just of violence—they were of intention.
The thing that did this wasn't just a killer.
It was a predator—one that planned, one that stalked, one that enjoyed it.
A faint rustle echoed from behind a stack of crates.
Greg spun, flashlight cutting through the gloom.
Nothing. Just shifting shadows and the low hum of the city far beyond this forgotten corner. He let out a breath, slow and controlled, then wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The cold didn't touch him anymore.
His eyes dropped to the pavement.
His shadow stretched before him in the flickering light, long and distorted, twisting over blood-streaked concrete.
And for a heartbeat... it moved.
Not with him—but ahead of him. Faster. Like it had anticipated his motion. Like it wasn't his.
He blinked. Froze. The beam of his flashlight quivered ever so slightly.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "Fatigue. Stress. You're seeing things."
But the doubt stayed lodged in his chest like ice.
Behind him, deeper in the alley, something shifted. Not a sound—but a sensation. The air grew heavier, as though something large and unseen had stirred. Greg turned, slowly, sweeping his light across the bricks. Nothing but blackness so thick it seemed to absorb the beam.
The alley was empty.
But it wasn't.
He could feel it—eyes, presence, a malice so sharp it tasted like metal in the back of his throat.
Greg stepped backward, retreating toward the street. His flashlight suddenly felt useless, barely a glow in the sea of ink that clung to the buildings. And even as he left the scene behind, the feeling didn't go with him.
He could still feel it watching. Still feel the smile in the dark.
His phone buzzed.
Harriette's voice came through, tight and trembling. "Greg... you're not gonna believe this. Two more bodies. Other side of town. Same pattern. Same brutality. One was found an hour ago. The other... twenty minutes ago."
His blood ran cold.
This thing wasn't lingering.
It was moving.
It was hunting.
Greg turned and looked one last time at the alley. The shadows seemed to pulse, like something just beyond human sight was shifting beneath them, smiling with teeth too many and eyes too deep.
A chill went down his spine as he whispered, to himself and the night,
"What the hell are we dealing with?"