2 Corinthians 4:4 "In whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine unto them."
It was Wednesday morning, the day that felt like any other in General Santos City—hot, bustling, yet quiet in a way that only early mornings could be. Paul shuffled through the narrow, uneven streets, his worn backpack hanging loosely from one shoulder. His shoes, scuffed and dusty, dragged along the pavement, his steps slow but steady. The world's weight seemed to press against him, but he didn't mind. He never did.
As he moved down the road, his eyes caught the sight of an elderly woman struggling with a heavy basket, its contents shifting and spilling over the edges. Her frail hands trembled as she tried to lift it onto her cart. Without hesitation, Paul approached her, his heart beating with quiet compassion. He reached for the basket and gently placed it where she needed it to go, his rough hands careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the load.
She offered him a weak smile, her eyes full of gratitude, but it was gone as quickly as it came—just another fleeting moment in a day filled with unnoticed kindness. Paul nodded in acknowledgment, but before he could even turn away, most people had already passed by, absorbed in their world, indifferent to the small act of decency.
Further down the road, a pitiful sound reached his ears—a soft, desperate mew. He followed the sound and found a stray cat, caught in a gutter, its fur matted with dirt, its tiny body trembling with fear. The cat's eyes pleaded for help, and Paul, despite the dirt and grime around him, knelt without hesitation. His sleeves soaked in the muddy water as he carefully reached into the gutter, pulling the cat free from its trap.
The cat didn't thank him. It didn't even look back. It simply scampered away, its claws scraping against the pavement as it disappeared into the shadows of the street. Paul wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up, his shoulders slumping slightly. He had done what he could, but the world would never pause long enough to notice.
He kept walking, his heart heavy with a quiet ache of being unseen, unappreciated. It was a feeling that had become familiar to him, a companion he couldn't shake.
When he arrived at school, the usual group of boys was already hanging out by the gates. Jacob, the biggest bully in his class, spotted him immediately. A cruel smile twisted across Jacob's face as he pushed Paul roughly against the gate.
"Still wearing that ragged shirt, huh?" Jacob sneered, his voice dripping with mockery, and a chorus of laughter rose from his friends.
Paul didn't respond, keeping his head down as he tried to squeeze past them, hoping to avoid the confrontation. But another boy, Nel, saw an opportunity for more cruelty. He snatched Paul's backpack and emptied its contents onto the pavement, sending books and papers scattered in every direction.
"Oops," Nel smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement as he kicked Paul's math notebook into a puddle.
Paul didn't fight back. He didn't yell or retaliate. He simply knelt, his hands trembling slightly, as he gathered his things from the muddy ground. The whispers of other students filled the air—some snickered, others just looked away, pretending they hadn't seen. No one offered help. No one cared.
By the time he made it to class, the bell had already rung, and Miss Ruth was writing on the board, her chalk scraping against the surface in rhythmic strokes. Paul slipped into his seat at the back, unnoticed, the weight of the world still pressing down on him. His heart pounded in his chest, the remnants of humiliation still stinging. He was the invisible kid, the one no one saw, with nothing to his name but the faded clothes he wore.
Miss Ruth droned on about local history, her voice a monotone that barely cut through the quiet murmur of the class. Some students doodled on their notebooks, others whispered, passing notes with giggles. Paul tried to focus on her words, but the unease that had been hanging over the city for days seemed to settle in the classroom, an invisible fog creeping into every corner. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, the sky outside darkened, as if a storm had swallowed the sun. The air grew thick and heavy, and then there was a rumble of thunder, followed by a sharp tremor that made the whole building shake. The windows rattled violently, and a few students let out startled cries. Miss Ruth paused mid-sentence, her eyes wide with confusion, as she steadied herself against the desk.
"What was that?" someone whispered, their voice tight with fear.
Paul's stomach twisted as he glanced out the window. The streets, usually bustling with life, were eerily empty. The shadows outside had thickened, coiling and shifting in unnatural ways, almost as if they were alive. Then, the rain began to fall in sheets, heavy and relentless, hammering against the windows, as if trying to drown the world outside.
The darkness deepened, creeping over the city like a living thing. The classroom, once filled with the low hum of teenage chatter, now buzzed with nervous murmurs. Miss Ruth's voice quivered as she tried to maintain control.
"Everyone stay in your seats." Her voice was authoritative, but there was a tremor in her words, a fear that couldn't be hidden.
Outside, Sheohn, the janitor's loyal dog, stood in the yard, barking fiercely at the growing shadows. The students crowded at the windows, some pointing and laughing at the dog's antics.
"Stupid mutt," Jacob sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "What's he barking at—ghosts?"
But Paul didn't laugh. His gaze remained fixed on the growing darkness, the way it twisted and writhed in ways that defied explanation. Then he saw it—a silhouette moving within the shadows, unnatural and wrong, its form shifting in ways that made his stomach turn. It moved toward Sheohn, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
A surge of fear and determination flooded Paul's chest. Without thinking, he bolted from his seat, ignoring the startled cries of his classmates, and ran for the door. Miss Ruth's shout barely registered in his mind as he dashed into the rain-soaked yard, the wet ground slick beneath his feet, his heart pounding in his chest.
Sheohn was still barking, his fur standing on end as he faced the dark shape. Paul dropped to his knees beside the dog, wrapping his arms around her tightly, and pulling her close to him.
"It's okay, girl... It's okay," Paul whispered, his voice trembling, his fear seeping through the words. The shadows seemed to hesitate, as if taken aback by his unexpected courage.
For a moment, everything stood still—the rain falling in a steady rhythm, the shadows watching, waiting. And then, slowly, the darkness began to recede, pulling away like a retreating tide. The threat had passed, but the air was still thick with dread.
Sheohn whined softly, nuzzling Paul's face, and Paul managed a weak smile, his heart still racing. The students at the windows whispered nervously, some confused, others still too terrified to speak. Paul didn't care. He didn't need their attention. All that mattered was Sheohn, safe in his arms, the darkness momentarily at bay.
Just as Paul managed to calm Sheohn down, the oppressive air around him thickened once again. A low, rumbling growl echoed through the rain-soaked yard, the sound low and guttural, vibrating the very ground beneath their feet. It was a growl born of pure malevolence—a warning. The darkness that had retreated now crept forward with renewed hunger, smothering the yard in a suffocating grip.
The students in the classroom froze, eyes wide with terror as the very fabric of reality seemed to twist. From the deep shadows, a hulking figure emerged—The Claw Shadow. Its form was monstrous, grotesque, towering above everything in sight. Its body was a twisted mass of shadow, distorted and contorted, its jagged silhouette flickering with the ebbing darkness. The claws, long and sharp like obsidian blades, gleamed as though they were hungry, thirsting for blood. The creature's crimson eyes burned with an unholy, seething hatred that pierced through the fog of fear like twin flames.
A sickening stench, like rotting decay mixed with burning sulfur, poured from the very core of the being. The air grew colder, and the very earth seemed to recoil in its presence, as though the land itself feared the being that stood before them.
Inside the classroom, Miss Ruth stumbled back in shock. Her hand shakily reached for her phone, her fingers slipping as the terror gripped her, but she forced herself to dial 911, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke, trembling with dread.
"Th—There's something... outside the school. A—a monster, I think. Please send help!" she managed to stammer, each word a ragged breath torn from her chest.
On the other end of the line, the dispatcher's voice crackled through the static, offering little more than confusion. But at the police station, the call jolted everything to life. The dispatcher's words reverberated through the station, reaching the officers scattered across the room.
One of the officers, Luis, jumped from his chair, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Monster?" he muttered under his breath, his gaze flickering nervously toward his colleagues.
Greg, who had been going through reports at his desk, was already on edge. His attention snapped to the commotion, brow furrowing as his instincts kicked into overdrive. He dropped his pen and stood up, his hand reaching for the radio receiver, voice sharp and commanding.
"Who's on that call?" he asked, his tone laced with urgency.
Luis glanced over, his hand still gripping his radio. "It's from the high school. The teacher's saying something about a monster—something dark, like shadows killing people."
Greg's heart dropped into his stomach. A cold, unrelenting chill gripped him, but his face remained hard, resolute. This was no ordinary call. He knew something dark and ancient was rising, and it had to be stopped.
His voice rang through the room, firm.
"Everybody get ready!" Greg barked, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "We're moving out to the high school now!"
The officers sprang into action, moving with military precision, gathering their gear and loading into vehicles. The ominous weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, but Greg couldn't afford to hesitate. As the team rushed to the vehicles, he held the radio to his mouth one last time.
"Stay sharp. Whatever's out there... it's not human."
The car engines roared to life, their tires spinning against the slick streets as the convoy sped toward the school. The sirens wailed in the distance, but they weren't the only sound cutting through the night. There was something far darker and more sinister lurking ahead—a creature born from a nightmare, and it was waiting.
For Paul. For Sheohn. For all of them.
Paul's heart hammered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. The Claw Shadow crept closer, its claws scraping against the wet concrete with a sound that sent a jolt of icy dread through his spine. He shoved Sheohn back, forcing the terrified dog to retreat.
"Go! Get out of here!" Paul whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling as he gave the dog a gentle shove toward the school building. Sheohn hesitated, her wide eyes reflecting fear, but then she scampered away, whining softly as she vanished into the safety of the darkness.
Paul turned back to face the monster, his breath shallow and quick, his instincts screaming at him to run. But his legs felt as though they were made of stone, frozen to the ground in the face of the nightmare approaching. The creature hissed, a sound so vile it seemed to twist the very air around them. Its long, jagged claws raised high in the air, gleaming like sharpened knives in the dim light. Then, with terrifying speed, it lunged at him.
Pain exploded through Paul's chest as the Claw Shadow's claws slashed across him. He staggered back, a strangled gasp tearing from his lips as blood welled in his mouth. His shirt was torn open, but something beneath it caught his eye—a flash of white, pure and bright, cutting through the darkness like a beacon.
His fingers trembled as he looked down and saw glistening armor covering his torso, radiant with a warm, steady light. It pulsed with an energy that seemed to shield him from the depths of the shadows, and as the Claw Shadow shrieked in fury, the creature recoiled. The pain in Paul's chest subsided slightly as if the light within him soothed the wound. He didn't understand it, couldn't fathom what was happening, but the warmth of the light gave him just enough courage to stand his ground.
"You're the one," the creature hissed, its voice low and chilling.
The Claw Shadow's rage boiled over. It let out a feral screech, its claws twisting in the air like a deadly dance, and it attacked again, this time aiming for Paul's head. His instincts kicked in. Without thinking, Paul raised his hands in a desperate attempt to shield himself, but something extraordinary happened. The armor spread across his body, enveloping him in a cocoon of radiant light, just as the claws came crashing down.
The light flared, blindingly bright, forcing the Claw Shadow to hiss in pain as it staggered back. But it was relentless. It lunged once more, faster this time, and despite the glowing armor, the force of its attack sent Paul hurtling backward. His body collided with a metal bench with a sickening crash. His head spun, his vision blurring from the impact, but the armor absorbed most of the blow, sparing him from lethal injury.
Pain radiated through his body like wildfire, but Paul fought to push himself up. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the brilliant glow from the armor pulsed around him, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. The Claw Shadow circled, its eyes burning with malice, its dark form shifting and flickering, uncertain of how to approach this unexpected challenge.
Inside the classroom, the students were panicking, shrieking and crying out in terror. Some fumbled with their phones, recording the chaos, while others desperately shouted for help. Paul didn't notice any of them—his focus was solely on the creature before him, the darkness that sought to devour him and everyone around him.
The Claw Shadow lunged again, faster than before, but this time Paul didn't hesitate. A surge of instinctive power rushed through him, and before he could even think, a burst of light shot from his palm, a blinding flash that sent the Claw Shadow skidding backward. The creature howled in agony, its form flickering and distorting under the intense glow. Burn marks appeared on the pavement where the light had touched it, and for a moment, it seemed to waver—its form fading and reappearing as though it was struggling to maintain its shape.
The air around Paul was thick with tension, the sound of the creature's growls vibrating in the ground beneath him. Then, just as suddenly as it had attacked, the Claw Shadow retreated, its form merging with the darkness, vanishing like smoke in the wind. Its horrid screech echoed through the alley, a sound that rattled the air, shaking the very walls.
Paul dropped to his knees, his breath ragged, sweat slick on his forehead. The glowing armor began to dim, but it still clung to his body, pulsating faintly like a dying star. He could hear the distant wail of police sirens approaching, but his mind was too clouded to process anything. All he could do was stare at his hands, still glowing, the remnants of the light flickering weakly as the pain in his chest began to ebb away.
Then, the ground trembled again.
The Claw Shadow screeched, a twisted, otherworldly sound that rattled the air, a deep, primal noise that filled the alley and sent an icy chill crawling up Paul's spine. It raised its claws, its dark silhouette emerging from the shadows once more, commanding its minions—hideous, deformed shapes that skittered like nightmarish insects. Their claws scraped across the pavement, sending sparks of malice through the air as they surged toward Paul and the others, their forms flickering in and out of existence like twisted shadows.
Paul's heart raced as terror gripped him, but then—something changed. Deep inside, a surge of power stirred within him, a strange sense of calm that cleared his mind. The chaos around him faded into the background. It was as though time itself slowed, giving him the clarity he so desperately needed.
He blinked.
A figure appeared before him—no shadow, no darkness—but a hand, glowing with the purest light, extending toward him. It wasn't the hand of a monster, but one offering hope, warmth, and strength. The faintest whisper brushed against his mind, a voice so soft but full of power.
"Do not fear. Stand up."
Without thinking, Paul reached out, his hand trembling as it grasped the light. In an instant, he was pulled to his feet, a sudden warmth flooding through him, igniting a strength he never knew he possessed. The shadows around him hissed in fury, recoiling from the blinding light that now surrounded him.
The salvation track Pastor Joseph had given him—the words on it, ringing in his ears:
"For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved."
The words filled him with an undeniable certainty. His heart swelled, the light within him growing brighter. It surged from deep within, bursting forth in a radiant blaze that pushed the darkness back like the sun banishing the night.
And then, as if by divine will, a sword appeared in his hand—a gleaming blade of pure light, so brilliant it was almost blinding. It shimmered with power, its edge cutting through the shadows as though they were nothing more than smoke. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a wave of purpose crashed over him. His body tensed with readiness, and the shadows, now more daring than ever, lunged once again.
But this time, Paul didn't flinch.
He stood tall, his posture unwavering, his resolve unshakable. The sword hummed with power as the first wave of darkness collided with it. The blade cleaved through the air, slicing through the shadows with ease, leaving nothing but a trail of dissipating darkness in its wake.
The Claw Shadow roared in fury, its form flickering violently, but Paul's light would not be extinguished. With each strike, the darkness shrank back, and for the first time, Paul understood—he was not just fighting for his life; he was fighting for everything the shadows sought to destroy.
The battle had just begun.
The shadows surged forward, a relentless, roiling tide of malice, their claws slashing through the air with such force that the very atmosphere seemed to shudder. Each shadowy form was a wraith, its shape flickering and warping as if made of pure darkness and fury. But Paul's blade cut through them with precision and power, its radiant light flashing like a star in the night. Every strike sent ripples through the air, the sword slicing through the creatures' ethereal forms as if they were made of nothing more than mist. With each swing, shadows dissipated, unraveling into the void from which they came, their unnatural shrieks echoing as they were torn apart.
Paul didn't know how he fought. His body moved with a fluid, almost unnatural grace, every strike precise, every motion deliberate. His feet barely touched the ground as he spun and danced, his sword an extension of his will. It was as if the blade itself was guiding his hand, as if he had always known how to wield it. He twisted, pivoted, and sliced, moving through the shadows with the practiced rhythm of someone who had fought this battle a thousand times before. The creatures fell before him like broken fragments of a nightmare.
Then, through the chaos of the battlefield, he saw her—Miss Ruth. She was standing by the school, her face pale with terror, struggling to keep the students safe. The shadows were closing in, circling like vultures. One of the creatures lunged at her, its claws extended, its dark form a blur of death as it aimed for her throat.
Without thinking, Paul's legs moved faster than his mind could catch up. His sword was raised, the glow from the blade intensifying as he sprinted toward her. He closed the distance in seconds, and with a powerful swing, he cleaved through the shadow's arm. The creature howled in pain, its limbs falling limp as it crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud. Paul stood over Miss Ruth, his voice harsh but unwavering.
"Get back to the school!" he commanded, his words sharp like the blade in his hand.
Miss Ruth nodded, her face drained of color but filled with gratitude. She quickly turned, ushering the students away from the battlefield, her steps hurried and panicked.
Paul's sword continued to swing through the dark onslaught, cutting down shadow after shadow, each movement fueled by desperation and an inner fire that refused to extinguish. His body moved with a rhythm that was no longer entirely his own. He shouted commands, guiding the students toward safety, slashing away at any creature that dared approach. His breathing was ragged, his muscles burning with fatigue, but he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not until this nightmare was over.
But then, just as the last of the shadows seemed to fall, the ground trembled beneath him. The very air crackled with dark energy, and in an instant, the Claw Shadow reappeared. Its form emerged from the depths of the night, its monstrous silhouette towering over Paul. Its glowing red eyes burned with unbridled rage, and its claws scraped against the ground, sending sparks of dark power through the earth.
The Claw Shadow was no longer just a mindless beast. It had grown stronger, more focused, and now it turned its full wrath upon Paul. The shadows around them recoiled, parting like the sea before a storm, but the Claw remained unyielding. Its presence was suffocating, its very essence radiating malice, the raw power of ages past concentrated in its twisted form.
The Claw Shadow's voice was a venomous hiss, its words dripping with contempt.
"You are foolish to stand against me, child," it sneered. "You cannot defeat the darkness. You are nothing but a spark in the endless night."
The creature lunged, its claws extended like the jaws of some great predator. The speed with which it attacked was blinding. Paul barely had time to react, but he managed to raise his sword just in time. The collision between the Claw's claws and the glowing blade sent a shockwave through the air, a deafening crack that reverberated through Paul's entire body. The force of the blow nearly shattered his grip on the sword, sending a jolt of pain shooting up his arm. He was sent stumbling backward, crashing to the ground with a painful thud, his head spinning, his vision fading in and out of focus.
Blood filled his mouth as he gasped for breath, his body trembling from the impact. His hands shook as he tried to lift himself, the sword feeling heavier than ever before.
"Is that all?" The Claw's voice was dripping with mockery. "You think your little light can stop me?"
Paul coughed violently, spitting blood onto the ground. His body screamed in protest, his muscles aching, his lungs burning. But he couldn't give in. Not now. His hand tightened around the hilt of the sword, a surge of something deep inside him—something far greater than fear—rising to the surface. The light within him refused to dim, refused to die out.
The Claw Shadow raised its claws again, its mouth opening in a deafening roar as it slashed at Paul with terrifying speed. Paul barely managed to raise his sword, but the creature's claws raked across the blade, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The impact sent Paul flying to the side, his body slamming into the concrete ground with bone-shaking force. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his vision spinning as the world blurred around him.
He could feel himself slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying as his body protested with every breath. He was a child, no match for the ancient power of the Claw Shadow, a creature that had existed far longer than he could comprehend.
But then, through the haze of pain, a voice echoed in his mind. It was faint, but it was there. Familiar. A whisper that cut through the agony and gave him something to hold on to.
"For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved."
The words rang out, clear and powerful, like a beacon in the darkness. The light within him surged, growing brighter, hotter. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, but the words gave him strength. The sword—his only weapon against the night—was more than just steel and light. It was his will to survive. His will to fight.
With a guttural cry, Paul surged to his feet, his body screaming in protest. He swung the sword with every last ounce of strength he had left. The Claw Shadow's claws came down again, but this time Paul didn't hesitate. He dodged beneath it, sliding across the ground with the speed of a shadow, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow. The air whipped around him as the Claw's claws scraped the ground where he had been moments before.
The battle had become a blur—a dizzying, violent dance of light and darkness, of instinct and willpower. Paul's body screamed with exhaustion, but he refused to back down. He couldn't.
With a sharp breath, he brought the sword up, his arm burning with pain as he aimed for the Claw's chest, its dark heart. The Claw Shadow twisted, its claws aiming for Paul's throat, but in that split second of hesitation, Paul made his move. With a fierce cry, he thrust the blade upward, its radiant light cutting through the air like a divine blade of vengeance.
The sword struck true, piercing the Claw's chest with such force that the very air seemed to tremble. The creature's form shattered, its body cracking like glass. Its glowing red eyes widened in disbelief, and before it could even open its mouth to roar, its entire form began to crumble. The darkness that had once held it together unraveled, shifting and writhing in agony as the creature disintegrated before Paul's eyes. The shadows that made up its being evaporated into the air, scattering like ashes in the wind.
The Claw Shadow's screech echoed, fading into nothingness, its form dissolving into a thousand fragments of shadow that melted away into the void. The sword, still glowing brightly, stood firm where the creature had once loomed, a beacon of light in the now-silent battlefield.
Paul dropped to his knees, his breath ragged, his body trembling with exhaustion. Blood stained his clothes, his hands shaking as he held the sword. His vision blurred as he stared at the spot where the Claw had fallen, knowing that for now, the battle was over. The darkness had been pushed back.
The first rays of dawn began to break through the clouds, casting a soft light over the school grounds, dispelling the shadows. The students, Miss Ruth, and the others slowly emerged from their hiding places, eyes wide in disbelief at the scene before them.
Paul looked down at the sword in his hand. It no longer glowed, but he could feel the power of the light still inside it, still inside him. He had won, but the cost had been great. And in that quiet moment, as the echoes of the battle faded, Paul realized that this was just the beginning. The shadows would return. The fight wasn't over.
Not yet.
The rain had stopped, the dark clouds retreating like a bad memory as the sun began to break through, casting a soft, golden glow over the wreckage of the battlefield. The chaos of the fight had left the school grounds eerily quiet, the usual sounds of the world drowned out by the haunting silence that followed. The faint murmur of students, their voices hushed in disbelief, cut through the stillness, mingling with the distant hum of the police radio. The air, once thick with the oppressive weight of the storm, now felt oddly light—tinged with hope, yet fragile, as if the peace it carried could shatter with the slightest disturbance.
Greg and Harriette arrived at the scene, their boots crunching on the wet ground as they pushed through the line of police, their presence like a spark in the heavy atmosphere. The area had been cordoned off, but the scars of the battle were still visible. The ground was marked by dark streaks, twisted remnants of the shadow war that had raged here. Footprints in the mud, fading but still there, like ghosts of the past. And the lingering dread, the sense that something unseen yet still potent was hanging in the air, made every breath feel like an effort.
The students were scattered in groups, each one a picture of shock. Some huddled together, whispering among themselves, their voices trembling as they tried to process the impossible. Others stood frozen, staring ahead as if still trapped in the chaos they had just witnessed. Miss Ruth sat on a bench, her hands trembling as she spoke softly with one of the officers. Her face was pale, drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes—her eyes were filled with a strange mixture of gratitude and fear, like a woman who had stared into the abyss and found the strength to look away. Every so often, her gaze drifted toward where Paul lay unconscious, her expression softening with a quiet, painful understanding.
"He was just a kid," she murmured, her voice barely audible, as if saying the words aloud could make it all seem more real. "I don't know how he did it... but he did. He stopped it. He saved us all."
Her words were almost a prayer, a desperate attempt to make sense of the extraordinary. There was a soft, disbelieving quality to her voice—as if she was still trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
Greg pushed through the crowd, his eyes scanning the scene with growing urgency. His gaze locked onto the figure of Paul lying on the ground. His heart skipped a beat. The boy was battered, bruised, his body sprawled in an unnatural, almost lifeless position. His face was swollen, bloodied, yet there was something serene about the way he lay there, as though his battle had been fought and won. But it was the sword that caught Greg's attention—a glowing weapon still clasped tightly in Paul's hand. The radiance was gone, but the sword's presence was unmistakable, like a remnant of some divine force, an anchor in a world that had just been thrown into chaos.
Greg's pulse quickened as he dropped to his knees beside Paul, his fingers pressing gently against the boy's throat. The pulse was weak, but steady—a fragile lifeline. He exhaled in relief, then immediately reached for his radio.
"Medic team, we need immediate assistance here!" Greg barked, his voice sharp with command.
Moments later, paramedics rushed onto the scene, their footsteps a quiet urgency. They gently placed Paul on a stretcher, their movements practiced but careful. Greg stood, watching as they wheeled him away, his mind a whirlwind of questions. What had happened here? He had never seen anything like this—this was no ordinary fight. This was something else. Something... otherworldly.
Turning his attention away from the medics, Greg's gaze fell upon the claw marks that marred the ground—deep, jagged gouges where the shadows had raked the earth. The remnants of the dark creatures still lingered, a slick, black residue glimmering faintly in the sunlight. Harriette was kneeling next to it, her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined the oily substance with growing unease.
"This... this isn't just residue from the shadows, Greg," Harriette's voice was calm, yet there was an unsettling undertone to it. She reached down with a stick, cautiously swiping through the oily mass, and as she did, something began to happen. The substance shifted, writhing like liquid, forming shapes that seemed almost... intentional.
Greg leaned in, his heart racing as the dark mass slowly transformed before his eyes. It morphed, twisted, until it finally took the form of something undeniably human—albeit disturbingly distorted.
It wasn't just the shape of a person—it was a face. The features, though made of the same dark substance, were eerily familiar, though twisted and grotesque in their unnatural formation.
Harriette froze, her hand hovering over the formation, her eyes wide with shock. She studied the face carefully, as if trying to make sense of the impossible.
"Is that... a person?" Greg's voice was low, strained with disbelief.
Harriette didn't answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the face, her brow furrowing with confusion. "It... it doesn't make sense, Greg." Her voice trembled slightly. "This should be impossible. Shadows don't leave physical remains like this."
Greg ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing with the implications. "This isn't right. We need answers. Now."
Harriette stood up, her gaze shifting to the students who were beginning to make their way back toward the school. Some of them were still shaken, eyes wide with the trauma of what they had witnessed. A small group huddled together near Miss Ruth, speaking in low voices. Some cried, others simply stared blankly ahead, unable to process the horrors they had seen.
"We need to interview the students—get their statements about what happened here. There's something bigger at play, Greg," Harriette said, her voice full of urgency. "And I don't think we've seen the end of it."
Greg nodded, but his eyes never left the face in the black oil. The shadow's power had been unlike anything he had ever encountered. There had to be more—there had to be an explanation, a connection. But with every passing second, the mystery deepened, and the answers seemed farther out of reach.
Suddenly, Harriette gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened with realization.
"Greg... I know who this is."
Greg spun around, his heart pounding in his chest, every muscle tense with anticipation. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning Harriette's face for any hint of what she had just uncovered.
Harriette's finger trembled as it pointed to the face in the oil, tracing the twisted features with growing horror.
"It's him, Greg," she whispered, her voice thick with dread. "It's..."