The morning was colder than usual. Not the kind of cold you'd feel on your skin—this was inside. In the walls. In the air. Hale woke with a sharp inhale, the type that follows a nightmare you can't remember. The light filtered through his blinds, dusty and pale, like it hadn't fully committed to being morning yet.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
That's when he felt it.
A sting across his chest.
He pulled up his shirt, expecting maybe a rash or a scratch from something he rolled over on in his sleep.
But what he saw made him freeze.
A thin, red line, just beneath his collarbone. Not fresh, but not old either. It looked almost... carved.
He leaned closer to the mirror above his dresser. It wasn't a straight line—it curved slightly, like part of something. A symbol? A shape? He couldn't tell.
"Maybe I scratched myself in my sleep," he muttered. But something about it was too clean. Too deliberate.
And it didn't hurt the way a fresh wound should. It pulsed—like it was awake.
School felt too loud. Too bright. Hale drifted through the day in a haze, constantly tugging at the collar of his hoodie to make sure the mark wasn't showing. His skin prickled every time someone brushed too close, like they might see it, or worse—feel it.
At lunch, Barney dropped into the seat beside him, slamming down a soda and a tray of something barely resembling food.
"Why do you look like you've seen the devil doing yoga in your closet?" he asked, mouth full.
Hale barely glanced up. "Didn't sleep."
Barney leaned in, lowering his voice. "No offense, but you look like something crawled out of you last night."
Before Hale could respond, Barney cracked a grin. "Wait—did something go into you last night? Is that what's got you glowing like a haunted doll?"
Hale groaned, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You're disgusting."
"I try," Barney said proudly, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Hey, if you're ever possessed by a demon with hot sister energy, let me know. I've got boundaries, but they're... negotiable."
That actually got a laugh out of Hale. A small one. But real.
Barney raised his soda. "There he is."
But the unease didn't leave. The mark on his chest stayed hidden beneath layers of fabric, but it felt heavier with each passing hour.
That evening, while brushing his teeth, Hale noticed it again in the mirror.
The curve had grown.
It wasn't his imagination.
It was shaping itself.
He snapped a photo of it, just in case, but somehow the image on his phone looked… dull. Flat. It didn't capture the depth, the eerie sense of motion he felt when he looked at it directly. Like the mark didn't want to be seen through a lens.
Later that night, while lying in bed, Hale turned his head toward the window. The moonlight poured in gently, and for a moment, he felt peace.
Then he blinked.
Something moved in the corner of the room.
His breath caught. He sat up fast, heart racing, eyes darting across every shadow.
Nothing.
But when he turned back to his bed, he saw it.
Tiny scratch marks on the pillowcase. Three of them. Like claws. Perfectly spaced.
He stumbled back, slamming into his desk.
His bedroom door creaked.
Not open. Not closed. Just a slow, groaning movement that stopped halfway.
A gust of cold air slithered in.
The mark on his chest pulsed again.
This time, it almost itched.
Not on the skin.
Under it.