Ghostbane

A young boy stood outside his house.

It wasn't the home he knew anymore.

It was surrounded—police officers, reporters, and curious onlookers forming a wall around him. Camera flashes burst through the morning mist, each one feeling like an attack on his senses. The murmur of voices faded in and out, a blur of noise he couldn't focus on.

His hands clenched into fists. His face was blank.

But in his mind, one question echoed over and over again.

Why?

His gaze drifted to the house behind him—his home—where the police moved in and out.

Where his parents no longer lived.

A sharp movement broke through the crowd. Two figures—an old man and an old woman—his grandparents.

His grandfather rushed forward and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Richard! Are you okay?! Answer me!"

The boy didn't answer.

He just stared past him, past the flashing lights, past the reporters, past the world that suddenly felt too large for him.

Because his world had changed forever.

And then—

Richard woke up.

Richard's eyes snapped open. His heart was hammering in his chest.

That dream again.

He let out a slow breath and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the leftover haze of sleep to fade.

For nine years, that moment haunted him.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many days blended into each other—it never truly left.

Richard ran a hand through his hair and turned his head slightly. His phone sat on the bedside table, the screen faintly glowing. He reached for it and squinted at the time.

7:03 AM.

His brain processed the numbers at a snail's pace.

Then it hit him.

"…Shit."

He shot up from his bed, practically throwing his blanket aside. His school uniform was crumpled in the corner of his room, untouched.

Late. He was going to be late.

Richard scrambled to get dressed, buttoning his shirt halfway before giving up on the rest. He shoved his books into his bag, grabbed his phone, and sprinted downstairs.

---

The smell of cooking bacon hit him as he bolted into the kitchen.

His grandmother was at the stove, flipping bacon in a pan. The morning sunlight made the room feel warm and peaceful. A sharp contrast to the sheer panic in Richard's mind.

She turned her head slightly and smiled.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

Richard ran a hand through his messy hair. "Morning, Grandma."

His gaze dropped to the table. A tall glass of milk sat there, waiting for him.

Richard frowned. "Milk? Really?"

His grandmother narrowed her eyes. "Yes, milk. You need strong bones."

Richard groaned. "I'm not a kid anymore."

"Says the boy who can't wake up on time."

Richard had no comeback.

He grabbed a slice of bacon and bit into it, chewing quickly.

"Where's Grandpa?" he mumbled between bites.

His grandmother set down a fresh plate. "He already left. Unlike you, he wakes up early."

Richard froze mid-chew. "…Wait."

Something wasn't right. His gut told him something was very, very wrong.

He slowly turned his head toward the kitchen clock.

7:38 AM.

"…FUCK."

"LANGUAGE, RICHARD!"

"FUCK—I mean, SHIT—I mean—DAMN IT—I'M LATE!"

Richard grabbed his bag and ran for the door.

His grandma called after him. "At least take breakfast!"

"I'LL EAT WITH MY SOUL!"

And with that, he sprinted out the door

The neighborhood was peaceful. Birds chirped, students walked lazily toward school, and cars rolled down the streets.

And then there was Richard—running for his life.

His half-buttoned shirt flapped behind him as he dodged pedestrians. His bag bounced against his back, each step a reminder that he had exactly seven minutes to get to class.

"Move, move, move!" he muttered to himself, weaving through the crowd like an Olympic sprinter.

Then—

BAM.

He slammed into someone.

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, DUMBASS!" a girl's voice snapped.

Richard barely managed to keep his balance. He waved an apologetic hand without looking back.

"SORRY!"

He didn't have time to stop. He had bigger problems.

Like the fact that—

The school gate was closing.

Richard pushed himself harder, forcing his legs to move faster. The security guard was pulling the gate closed—inch by inch.

Five meters.

Three meters.

One meter.

"SHIIII—"

With one final burst, Richard dove forward, sliding across the pavement.

He hit the ground hard, but he made it.

Panting, he wiped his forehead.

Safe.

Or so he thought.

A deep voice loomed over him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Richard?"

Richard froze.

He slowly turned his head.

Standing there, arms crossed, was Mr. Hargrove.

The school's disciplinary officer.

A nearly bald, fifty-year-old man with a mustache so thick it could probably deflect bullets. His tie was always a little too tight, his shirt always slightly wrinkled, and his hatred for tardiness unmatched.

Richard swallowed. "Uh… morning, sir?"

Mr. Hargrove's eyes narrowed. "This is the nineteenth time you've been late this month."

Richard's mind raced. He needed a solid excuse.

Then—an idea.

He lowered his head dramatically. "Sir… my grandpa…"

Hargrove raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"

Richard took a deep breath. "Stage five breast cancer."

Silence.

Mr. Hargrove blinked. "…Breast cancer?"

Richard nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Real tragic stuff."

The older man rubbed his temples. "Richard, do you even know how human anatomy works?"

Richard nodded faster. "Of course! See, there was this one case, like, in a medical journal—"

"Enough." Mr. Hargrove sighed. "What's the real excuse?"

Richard straightened up. "I swear, sir, I was on my way, but an old lady needed help crossing the street."

Hargrove crossed his arms. "Oh? And how long did that take?"

Richard didn't hesitate. "Thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes?" Hargrove's eyes twitched. "Did you carry her across on your back?"

Richard gasped. "Sir, that is an excellent idea. Next time, I'll—"

"Richard."

Richard winced. "Yes, sir?"

Hargrove rubbed his forehead like he was fighting off a migraine. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

Richard thought about it. "Nope."

Hargrove took a deep breath. "I should suspend you."

Richard's heart stopped.

"Wait, wait, wait—sir, come on!" He smiled nervously. "A suspension is way too much!"

Hargrove's expression didn't change. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

Richard's brain went into overdrive.

Think, think, think…

Then—he gasped. "Sir! You know how I'm always late?"

Hargrove raised an eyebrow. "That's not exactly helping your case."

Richard pointed dramatically. "But what if I told you… it's all part of my training?"

"...Training?"

Richard nodded seriously. "Yeah. Think about it. Every single day, I run full speed to school, dodge obstacles, slide under closing gates—"

"That just means you don't wake up on time."

Richard ignored that. "Sir, I am basically an athlete. If you think about it, I should be praised for my consistency."

Hargrove pinched the bridge of his nose. "Richard, running late every morning doesn't make you an athlete. It makes you a dumbass."

Richard put a hand on his chest. "Sir, I take offense to that."

Hargrove stared at him. "No, you don't."

Richard sighed. "You're right. But look, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Hargrove gave him a long, exhausted look. Then, he sighed. "You know what? I don't have the energy for this today."

Richard internally cheered.

And

Richard bolted toward the assembly hall before the old man would change his mind and kill him

---

Richard stood in line with his classmates, trying to steady his breath after his close call with Mr. Hargrove. The massive assembly hall was packed with students from all grades, all dressed in Stanton High's signature navy blue and white uniforms. The ceiling fans whirred lazily, failing to do much against the heat of so many bodies gathered in one place.

On stage, the principal—a short, balding man with glasses too big for his face—stood at the podium, clearing his throat into the microphone.

"Good morning, students," he began, his voice carrying through the speakers. "Before we begin today's assembly, I'd like to remind everyone about the importance of punctuality—"

Richard sighed. "Here we go again."

Jackson, standing beside him, smirked with a bright teeth,and a dark future."Bet he's about to go on a rant about respect and discipline."

"Ten bucks says he brings up 'the future of the youth' in the next thirty seconds," Richard whispered back.

Jackson pretended to check his watch. "I'll take that bet."

The principal continued, "As young men and women of Stanton High, you must take responsibility for your actions! Punctuality, discipline, and respect are the pillars that build a successful future!"

Richard elbowed Jackson. "Pay up."

Jackson groaned. "Damn it."

As the speech dragged on, Richard felt a presence glaring at him. He turned his head slightly and spotted her—the school's top student, Cassandra Lee. Black hair, nerdy glasses, and an ever-present look of disapproval.

"Can you two please be quiet?" she hissed. "Some of us actually care about what the principal has to say."

Richard gave her a blank stare. "Someone actually listens to that good-for-nothing parasite?"

Cassandra gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?! How dare you call our great principal a parasite?"

"Who are you, his personal cock sucker?" Richard shot back, unimpressed.

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "I'm reporting you, Richard Cross. You're ruining the image of our prestigious school with your stone-age thinking."

Richard smirked. "Damn, stone-age? You on a roll today. What else you got?"

"You have no future ahead of you," she continued. "You'll be stuck in poverty, a failure who—"

"That's what your mom said about you last night," Richard cut in smoothly.

Jackson burst out laughing, clapping Richard on the back. "Ohhhh, that was cold!"

They exchanged a victorious dap, grinning.

Cassandra stood there, mouth open in absolute shock. Words failed her.

Before she could recover, the principal's voice boomed, "And now, we will proceed with the national anthem!"

Richard sighed, rubbing his temples. "This day is already too damn long."