Ghostbane

Richard found himself standing in front of his childhood home.

The cold night air wrapped around him, but he didn't shiver. The street was just as he remembered it—dimly lit streetlights flickering, their glow barely reaching the sidewalk. The scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with something metallic, something foul. He already knew what it was.

This was the same nightmare.

The one that had tormented him for years.

He turned his head, and there they were—the flashing red-and-blue lights of police cars parked in front of his house. Officers moving in and out. The murmur of onlookers, their faces twisted with morbid curiosity. Neighbors whispering, pointing, speculating about what could have happened inside.

He saw them.

His grandparents.

His grandmother clung to George's arm, sobbing uncontrollably, her frail body trembling with grief. His grandfather, usually a pillar of strength, stood stiff and silent. But Richard saw his eyes—his tired, broken eyes. The way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back something he wanted to scream.

Then, George moved. He rushed toward the house. The officers tried to stop him, but his voice—firm, commanding—forced them aside. He stormed past them, stepping over the threshold of the bloodstained home.

Richard had seen this a hundred times before in his dreams.

But something was different.

He could move.

He lifted his hand, staring at it in shock. In every other version of this nightmare, he was just an observer. Trapped, forced to relive this horror again and again, unable to change anything. But now? Now, he could take a step forward. He could speak. He could act.

His heart pounded as he ran past the cops, past the onlookers, past his grieving grandparents. No one noticed him. No one stopped him. It was like he was invisible.

He pushed the front door open, stepping inside.

The house was exactly the same.

The furniture was in place. The pictures on the wall were untouched. But the air was heavy—thick with something sinister. The smell of iron and rot burned his nose. His stomach twisted.

Then, his eyes fell upon the bodies.

His parents lay sprawled on the floor of the living room.

The police had already covered them with white sheets, but the blood had soaked through. Deep red stains bloomed across the fabric. Pools of dark crimson seeped into the floorboards, spreading outward like an infection.

His breath caught in his throat.

This was it.

This was where his world ended.

His parents' deaths had always been a mystery. There were no wounds. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. Nothing. The case was labeled "Unsolved Homicide."

But now, as he stood there—he knew.

He saw it.

Above the bodies, standing right there, was a figure.

Draped in a tattered black robe, a scythe clutched in its skeletal grip.

Its face was obscured by a deep hood, but Richard could feel its gaze piercing through him. The air turned colder. The weight of the figure's presence pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe.

This... thing had been there all along.

It was always there.

It had killed his parents.

The figure tilted its head, as if amused. Then, ever so slowly, it lifted its head further, revealing its face—

And smiled.

A grin too wide, too unnatural. Teeth sharp like daggers, stretching across its face.

Richard felt his body lock up, his blood turning to ice.

Then—

He woke up.

Richard's eyes snapped open.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body drenched in sweat. His muscles screamed in pain as if they had been torn apart and hastily stitched back together. His head pounded violently, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his skull.

But none of that mattered.

As soon as he realized where he was, a single thought pierced through the haze of pain.

Jackson.

Richard sat up abruptly—his ribs protested, a sharp jolt of agony shooting through his chest, but he didn't care. He scanned the room, his vision swimming. This was his room. His old, familiar, boring room.

Not the factory.

Not the hill.

Not where he was supposed to be.

The door creaked open.

Richard's head snapped toward the sound, expecting to see Jackson.

But instead, a stranger stepped inside.

A young man with jet-black hair, sharp blue eyes, and a flawless white complexion. He had a confident smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

The guy clicked his tongue. "What? Never seen someone as handsome as me before?"

Richard barely heard him. His mind was racing. His heart was pounding so hard he thought his ribs might crack from the force. His breathing quickened.

Then, behind the stranger, his grandfather stepped in.

Richard's stomach twisted into a knot.

His voice came out raw, desperate. "Where is Jackson?"

The room fell silent.

The stranger—who Richard didn't know, didn't care about—raised an eyebrow, then glanced at George. The old man lowered his gaze, sighing.

Richard's heart dropped.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Where... Where is he?" His voice was quieter now, almost afraid to ask again.

George opened his mouth—then hesitated.

Max, the stranger, rolled his eyes. "This is getting awkward." He turned to Richard, completely unfazed. "Look, you devoured him. He's gone."

Richard blinked.

"...What?"

Max's expression remained casual, almost indifferent. "Jackson. Doesn't exist anymore. You wiped him out."

Silence.

A deep, suffocating silence.

Richard stared. His mind rejected the words. His thoughts came to a screeching halt.

He blinked again.

Then let out a short, confused laugh.

"...What the hell are you talking about?"

Max shrugged. "I'm talking about the fact that your friend? That guy you were so worried about? He's gone. As in, he never existed. You erased him, body and soul. Poof. Like he was never there in the first place."

Richard's breath hitched.

His fingers curled into fists.

His heart started hammering against his ribs.

His lips trembled as he turned to George.

"...This is some kind of joke, right?" His voice was uneven, shaking. "I mean, what the hell does that even mean?! How does someone just... just not exist?!"

George looked at him with tired, knowing eyes. "Richard..."

"No," Richard cut him off, shaking his head violently. "No, don't give me that look. This is bullshit. I remember Jackson. I talked to him. I fought beside him. He was real."

George sighed. "Richard, listen to me."

"No, YOU listen to ME!" Richard snapped. His pulse skyrocketed. His entire body felt like it was on the verge of collapsing under the weight of something he couldn't comprehend.

"You're saying he never existed?!" Richard's voice cracked. "Do you know how INSANE that sounds?! That's like me waking up one day and you telling me the sun never existed!" He was breathing heavily now, his chest rising and falling in erratic motions.

Max's expression didn't change. "And yet, you don't remember where he lived, do you?"

Richard's breath hitched.

He froze.

His lips parted slightly. He wanted to refute it, to yell that Max was wrong.

But nothing came out.

Max took a slow step forward. "What about his parents? His birthday? His last name?"

Richard's hands started trembling.

His mind desperately searched for answers. He knew Jackson. Jackson was his friend. Jackson was real.

But…

What was Jackson's last name?

Where did he live?

Who were his parents?

A sharp ringing sound filled Richard's ears.

His hands clutched at his hair, his nails digging into his scalp. His breathing turned erratic.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no, no, no."

Then, something clicked. A memory.

Jackson... talking.

Rambling, actually.

Richard remembered how Jackson had talked about Hannah. How he had insisted she was real. How he would go on and on about her, even when no one else believed him.

"I swear, she exists."

"She was with us that night. I remember her."

"Why the hell are you guys acting like she was never here?!"

Everyone thought he was crazy.

Even Richard.

Jackson had argued, fought, and screamed, insisting that Hannah was real.

Richard had dismissed it.

But now—now that he was the one hearing those words, the one being told that Jackson never existed...

A deep, twisted sense of dread curled inside his stomach.

He clutched his head, shaking. "No... This isn't happening. This isn't real."

"Face it," Max said, his tone too calm, too casual for the horrifying truth he was delivering. "You burned him out of existence. That's what happens when you can't control your spirit. You didn't just kill him, you erased him."

Richard stumbled back, his back hitting the wall.

His legs nearly gave out beneath him.

He felt suffocated. Like the walls were closing in.

This wasn't real.

This couldn't be real.

Jackson was real.

He was real.

He was.

Richard's breathing turned into short, uneven gasps.

His vision was swimming. His chest felt tight, like something was crushing his ribs from the inside.

Then—suddenly, as if grasping for proof, for sanity, for something tangible—Richard threw himself toward the window.

He yanked the curtains open.

The hill was gone.

Richard froze.

His breath hitched violently, his entire body locking up.

Where the hill should have been—where the factory should have stood—there was nothing.

A void.

An empty space.

As if it had never been there to begin with.

Richard felt his stomach churn. His vision blurred. His mind collapsed in on itself.

"No… No, no, no, NO—!"

His knees buckled. He barely caught himself before crashing to the floor.

His hands dug into the windowsill, his fingernails scratching against the wood. His arms were shaking. His chest was caving in.

His voice came out weak, broken. "It was there… It was right there… I-I was just there…"

His eyes were wide, unblinking.

His body felt like it wasn't his anymore.

His thoughts were spiraling, collapsing, twisting in ways they shouldn't.

George placed a firm hand on Richard's shoulder. His voice was gentle, but heavy.

"It's gone, Richard."

Richard couldn't breathe.

The weight of reality came crashing down on him.

And the truth was more horrifying than any nightmare

Richard stared.

His body refused to move. His mind refused to function. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the empty space where the hill had once been.

His breathing was uneven, each inhale feeling more difficult than the last. The world around him blurred as the realization dug its claws into his mind.

It was gone.

Not destroyed.

Not ruined.

Gone.

As if it had never existed.

The weight of that truth made Richard feel sick. His stomach churned violently, nausea rising in his throat. His fingers trembled as he clutched the windowsill, the wood creaking under his tightening grip.

"Richard," George's voice was firm yet calm behind him. "Look at me."

Richard didn't move. His heart was pounding too hard. His thoughts were unraveling too fast.

He couldn't look away.

If he stopped looking, if he blinked, if he moved even an inch—then maybe the hill would disappear from his memory too.

Just like Jackson.

The name alone sent a violent shiver down his spine. His best friend. His friend who had fought beside him, laughed with him, stood by his side through everything.

Now—

Now Richard couldn't even remember what Jackson's voice sounded like.

A deep, bone-chilling terror crawled up his spine.

What if he forgot more?

What if, little by little, every trace of Jackson faded from his mind, just like it had from reality?

What if, one day, he woke up and didn't even remember Jackson had ever existed at all?

His hands clenched into fists.

"Richard."

George's voice pulled him back. It was firm this time. An undeniable weight behind it.

Richard swallowed hard. Slowly, painfully, he tore his gaze away from the window and turned toward his grandfather.

His face was grim. There was no comfort in his expression—only acceptance.

Richard hated that look.

Because it meant this wasn't some misunderstanding. It wasn't some nightmare he could wake up from.

It was real.

Richard took a shaky step forward, his voice raw and uneven. "Tell me how to fix this."

George didn't respond immediately.

Max, standing beside him, scoffed. "Fix it? You really don't get it, do you?"

Richard snapped his head toward him, his jaw tightening.

Max crossed his arms, sighing. "What you did? That wasn't something you can take back. This isn't some fairy tale where you snap your fingers and—poof—everything goes back to normal."

Richard's fingernails dug into his palms. "Shut up."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Truth hurts, huh?"

"Shut up."

Max smirked slightly. "Face it, kid. You lost control. You burned everything to nothing. That hill? That ghost? Your friend? You erased them like they were never even there. And the worst part?"

He leaned forward slightly, his sharp blue eyes boring into Richard's.

"It felt good, didn't it?"

Richard froze.

His stomach tightened. A cold sweat dripped down his back.

Max's smirk widened. "For just a second—when your flames swallowed everything—you weren't scared anymore, were you? You weren't weak. You weren't losing."

Richard's breath hitched.

Because he didn't know if Max was lying.

Because the last thing he remembered before losing control was an overwhelming rage.

A rage so powerful that it drowned out everything else.

Max saw the hesitation in Richard's face. He let out a short chuckle. "Thought so."

Richard gritted his teeth. He wanted to hit him. Break his smirking face. But deep down, he was afraid Max might be right.

George finally stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Richard's shoulder. His grip was heavy, grounding him. "Listen to me, Richard. What happened... it wasn't just an accident. This was a warning."

Richard looked at him, his vision slightly blurred.

George continued. "Your spirit is awakening. And if you don't learn to control it... if you let it consume you again... next time, it won't just be one hill that disappears."

A chill ran down Richard's spine.

George's eyes were unwavering. "You need to understand, Richard. Your flames—they aren't normal. They aren't something you can just use like a tool. They consume. They devour. If you let them take over again, next time, you might erase a town. A city. Maybe even more."

Richard's chest tightened. His body tensed.

This was too much.

Too much to process. Too much to handle.

Everything felt wrong.

Jackson was gone.

The hill was gone.

And worst of all, Richard knew it was his fault.

His own power—his own flames—had erased them.

And he had no idea how to stop it from happening again.

Richard staggered back. His mind was spiraling, his vision blurring.

But before he could fall any deeper into the abyss of his thoughts, George's voice cut through the chaos.

"I'm going to train you."

Richard's breath caught in his throat.

George's grip on his shoulder tightened. His expression was serious—more serious than Richard had ever seen before.

"You're not ready for the power inside you. But I will make sure you are."

Richard looked at him, feeling a sliver of clarity.

A goal. A direction.

Something—anything—to hold onto.

His hands trembled slightly, his voice quiet but firm.

"Okay."