CHAPTER 2: Solomon Vance
My name is Solomon Vance. On paper, I live in Ravenswood Manor, the gothic monstrosity perched like a vulture on the hill overlooking the decaying town of Blackwater. My father is stanley vance ,local philanthropist, reclusive millionaire industrialist, and connoisseur of fine wines. They think he collects antique blades. They're half right. He collects experiences. And I… I am the silent witness, the invisible son, the janitor of his atrocities.
School is my sanctuary and my purgatory. Blackwater High smells of cheap disinfectant, adolescent desperation, and stale cafeteria grease. To them, I'm Solomon Vance: quiet, unremarkable, perpetually tired. The kid whose expensive but slightly ill-fitting clothes suggest wealth but whose hollow eyes and flinch-reflex scream something else. An outcast by design. Friends are vulnerabilities. Conversations are minefields. Attention is death.
I slide into my usual seat at the back of Mr. Henderson's AP Biology class. Sunlight, weak and watery, streams through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes dancing like agitated spirits. Henderson drones on about mitochondrial DNA, his voice a monotonous hum competing with the frantic scribbling of notes and the low thrum of teenage gossip. Chloe Miller laughs too loudly at something Jason Pike whispers. The sound is jarring, alien. Normalcy feels like a poorly staged play, and I'm the only one who knows the script is written in blood.
My gaze drifts over the diagrams of cell structures on the whiteboard. But I don't see organelles. I see anatomy. The clean lines of the cell membrane? I see the precise incision dad made along Elara's collarbone last night. The intricate folds of the mitochondria? I see the glistening layers of muscle he exposed on her thigh. Biology is just torture with Latin names. Dissection isn't academic here; it's a memory.
My notebook lies open. Not to Henderson's notes. To *my* notes. Scrawled in a tight, anxious hand, hidden beneath a veneer of doodled geometric shapes, are lists, diagrams, fragments of desperate plans.
POTENTIAL DEFENSES (PHASE 1 - DETERRENCE/DELAY):
1. Sonic Deterrent:High-frequency emitter. Pros: Non-lethal, disorienting. Cons: Dad's tolerance for pain/discomfort is unknown. Might only annoy him. Source? Expensive. Traceable? Likely. **RISK: High.**
2. **Barricades:** Reinforced door hinges/jambs (steel plates?). Window laminates? Pros: Physical barrier. Cons: **Dad** doesn't *use* doors. He appears. Disappears. Like smoke. Pointless against teleportation. **RISK: Futile.**
3. **Early Warning:** Pressure plates? Motion sensors linked to silent alarm (vibrating bracelet?). Pros: Seconds of warning. Cons: Seconds mean nothing against his speed. False alarms induce panic. Panic is fatal. **RISK: Moderate (psychological toll).**
4. **Camouflage/Evasion:** Hidden compartments? False walls? Pros: Hiding *might* work if he's merely toying, not hunting seriously. Cons: He knows the Manor better than I do. He can likely *sense* life. **RISK: Low probability of success.**
5. **Distraction:** Remote-activated devices (lights, sounds) elsewhere in the manor. Pros: Might draw initial attention. Cons: He's not easily fooled. Could backfire, revealing preparation. **RISK: High.**
A drop of sweat trickles down my temple, cold despite the classroom's stuffy warmth. I clench my fist under the desk, nails biting into my palm. The sharp sting is grounding. A reminder: *Feel this. Not the phantom snap of Elara's ribs. Not the wet schlick of the blade.*
Jason Pike lobs a crumpled ball of paper. It bounces off my shoulder. "Hey, Zombie Vance! You alive back there?" A few snickers ripple through the rows in front.
I don't flinch. Don't look up. Don't react. Invisibility is an art. You become furniture. Part of the background noise. **Dad** taught me that, though not intentionally. Reacting paints a target. I keep my eyes fixed on my notebook, on the diagram I'm sketching: a cross-section of Ravenswood Manor's west wing, marking blind spots in the security cameras *I know **dad** monitors, but pretends not to*. I mark a potential crawlspace near the old boiler room. A tight, dark place. Maybe.
Henderson calls my name. "Solomon? The role of tRNA in protein synthesis?"
My head snaps up. Thirty pairs of eyes, momentarily curious, swivel towards me. The attention is a physical blow. My throat constricts. *Don't stammer. Don't show fear. Be bland. Be forgettable.*
"It carries specific amino acids to the ribosome," I say, my voice flat, devoid of inflection. Monotone. Safe. "Matching the codon on the mRNA strand." Textbook answer. Perfectly dull.
Henderson blinks, perhaps expecting more, perhaps surprised I answered at all. "Correct," he says, already turning away. The eyes slide off me. The wave of attention recedes. I sink back into the blessed obscurity of the back row. Crisis averted. For now.
Lunch is spent alone in the farthest corner of the library, tucked between towering shelves of forgotten reference books that smell of dust and dry decay. The muffled chaos of the cafeteria is a distant roar. Here, the silence is thick, watchful. I pull out a different notebook, smaller, bound in unassuming black. This one holds the dangerous thoughts. The *real* plans.
**POTENTIAL DEFENSES (PHASE 2 - ACTIVE COUNTERMEASURES):**
* **Electrical:** Modified outlets? Electrified door handles? Pros: Potentially incapacitating. Cons: Lethal force. If it fails… **dad**'s retaliation would be biblical. Requires bypassing mansion systems. **RISK: Catastrophic.**
* **Chemical:** Capsaicin aerosol? Tranquilizers? Pros: Disabling. Cons: Delivery is near-impossible against his speed/reaction time. Dosage uncertain. Acquiring substances risky. **RISK: Extreme.**
* **Kinetic:** Traps? Falling weights? Pitfalls? Pros: Simple physics. Cons: Requires precise timing/location. He perceives space differently. Might simply… avoid it. **RISK: High chance of failure.**
* **Fire:** Arson as a last resort/diversion? Pros: Creates chaos, potential barrier. Cons: Uncontrollable. Could trap me. Evidence. **RISK: Unacceptable collateral.**
Every option feels pathetic. Like trying to dam a tsunami with tissue paper. **Dad** isn't just strong or fast. He operates outside normal physics. Teleportation is just the surface. I've seen him… *influence* things. Shadows that cling too eagerly. Objects moving just slightly wrong. A chilling, unnatural stillness that precedes his arrival. Fighting him head-on is suicide. Running? He'd find it amusing. Then he'd find *me*.
My finger traces a faint, almost invisible scar on my left wrist. Not from **dad**. Not directly. From cleaning up after him when I was twelve. A shard of bone, sharp as a dagger, hidden in the gore. A stupid mistake. A permanent reminder of the cost of carelessness. The scar itches, a phantom echo of that night's terror.
The final bell is a reprieve. I move through the crowded halls like a ghost, shoulders hunched, backpack a shield. The ride home in the silent, black town car (driven by Martin, who never speaks, never looks in the rearview mirror for too long) is a tense transition. The familiar, oppressive weight of Ravenswood settles over me as the wrought-iron gates swing open. The Manor isn't home. It's a mausoleum. A hunting lodge. A stage for **dad**'s performances.
I head straight for my room – a spartan space on the third floor, chosen for its distance from **dad**'s wing and its single, easily barred door. I drop my backpack, the mundane weight of schoolbooks suddenly absurd. My eyes instantly scan the room. Nothing out of place. The hair I'd left precisely aligned on the edge of the dresser drawer is undisturbed. The book on the nightstand sits at the exact same angle. No one has been here.
Relief, thin and temporary, washes over me. I walk to the window, looking out over the sprawling, manicured grounds that slope down towards the dark line of the woods. The woods where Elara died. Where so many others have died. The crescent moon will rise again soon.
I turn, intending to start homework, to maintain the facade. And freeze.
He's there.
Not teleported. Just… standing inside my doorway. Filling it. **Dad**. Immaculate in a charcoal grey suit, his face an expressionless mask. He must have walked up the stairs. Silently. The air in the room chills several degrees. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne mixes with something else, something fainter, metallic – the phantom smell of last night's work clinging to him, or maybe just imprinted on my senses.
He doesn't enter. He doesn't need to. His presence is a suffocating blanket.
"Solomon," he states. His voice is calm, smooth, devoid of anything resembling warmth. It's the voice he used just before telling Elara to get up.
My blood turns to ice. My carefully constructed invisibility shatters under his obsidian gaze. Every defensive plan scribbled in my notebooks evaporates, leaving only primal fear. I force my face into neutrality. "Father."
He studies me for a long, terrifying moment. His eyes linger on my hands, still slightly clenched at my sides. Does he see the tremor I fight to suppress? Does he smell the fear sweating through my pores?
"Dinner will be at seven," he says, his tone conversational, yet utterly devoid of conversation. "Do not be late."
It's not a request. It's a verdict. He turns to leave, pausing only for a fraction of a second, his profile sharp against the dim hallway light. He doesn't look back.
"And Solomon?"
I hold my breath. The silence stretches, thin and razor-sharp.
"Ensure your focus remains… sharp." His head tilts, just slightly. It's the same dismissive gesture he gave Elara. The gesture that preceded the boot to her ribs. "The mundane can be a soporific. Do you require motivation to stay alert?"
The unspoken threat hangs in the air, colder than the deepening twilight outside. *Motivation*. Like Elara. Like the others.
"No, Father," I manage, the words ash in my dry mouth. "My focus is sharp."
A pause. Then, a sound almost like a sigh, but devoid of any human weariness. It's the sound of a predator considering its next move. "Good."
He's gone. No footstep fades. The doorway is simply empty. The oppressive weight lessens by a fraction, but the chill remains, seeping into my bones.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, my legs suddenly weak. My hands are shaking visibly now. I stare at the empty doorway, at the space he occupied.
*Motivation.*
He knows. He always knows. The plans in my notebooks are childish scribbles. The invisibility at school is a flimsy shield. The fear is the only real thing. It's the leash. And **dad** holds the other end.
Dinner will be at seven. A performance of normalcy across a gleaming mahogany table. I will sit. I will eat. I will be silent. I will be invisible again. And the whole time, the question will scream silently in my skull, louder than any biology lecture, any high school taunt:
*Am I next?*
The woods outside my window seem darker now, the shadows deeper. Waiting. The crescent moon will rise soon, painting the world in its cold, indifferent light. **Dad**'s light. I close my eyes, but all I see is the glint of the hooked blade in its pale glow, and the frozen plea in Elara's dead, unanswered eyes. Cleanup is never just about the body. It's about erasing the "why." And **dad** is very thorough. He's teaching me to erase it too. Starting with my own hope.