(A/N):
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One Week Earlier...
Maybrook, Pennsylvania...
Night settled over Maybrook like a held breath.
At exactly the same moment—down different streets, behind different doors—seventeen children stirred in their sleep.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Eyes snapped open.
No screams. No confusion. No fear.
As if pulled by an invisible string, they rose from their beds in perfect silence.
Small hands lifted slowly, elbows stright, wrists slack—unnatural, imitative, like wings that didn't know how to fly.
Doors opened. Bare feet touched cold floors, then porches, then asphalt.
Neighbors would later swear they heard nothing. No crying. No shouting.
Just the soft rhythm of running feet disappearing into the dark.
Seventeen children ran out of their homes that night.
They never came back.
Morning tore through Maybrook like a siren.
Parents woke to empty beds. Shoes untouched by the door. Lunchboxes still packed.
Panic spread faster than rumor.
Police cars lined the streets. Officers knocked on doors, questioned neighbors, pulled footage from every security camera they could find.
What they saw made even seasoned cops uneasy.
At the exact same minute, on different streets, seventeen children exited their homes.
Arms raised. Movements synchronized. Faces blank.
Like they were answering a call only they could hear.
The investigation revealed something worse.
"...."
"...."
"...."
All seventeen missing children attended Maybrook Elementary School. All were from the same class.
All—except one boy. Alex Lily.
By the end of the week, the town was boiling.
The church hall filled with angry parents, tear-streaked faces, clenched fists.
Police stood along the walls, trying—and failing—to keep order.
At the front stood Justine Gandy, the children's homeroom teacher.
She looked exhausted. Pale. Hollowed out by days without sleep.
"...."
"She taught them!"
Someone shouted in the crowd of parents.
"She was with them every day!"
While another cried pointing at her.
"You expect us to believe she knows nothing?"
The police chief raised his hands.
"There is no evidence linking Ms. Gandy to the disappearances."
While a father roared interrupting the police chief.
"It's been a WEEK! My daughter vanished from her bed—don't tell me there's nothing!"
Justine's lips trembled, but she didn't speak. She had already said everything she could say.
"...."
She hadn't heard voices. She hadn't taught them anything strange. She hadn't noticed anything wrong.
But Maybrook didn't want reason.
It wanted someone to blame.
And as someone who was new to this place everyone pointed at her to vent their anger and helplessness.
As accusations echoed off the church walls, no one noticed the way the lights flickered for just a second.
After the meeting finally dissolved, the crowd outside the church thinned—not because their anger had vanished, but because it had nowhere immediate to go.
Relief was the wrong word. Exhaustion fit better.
Justine Gandy was escorted out through a side door by a uniformed cop, more precaution than protection.
The parents' eyes followed her like knives.
"...."
"...."
"...."
No one shouted now. That silence was worse.
As she stepped into the parking lot, her breath caught.
Her car. Across the driver's door, in thick, uneven strokes, someone had written a single word in red paint:
WITCH
Her hands trembled.
For a brief, dangerous second, anger flared hot in her chest—sharp enough to burn through fear.
She wanted to scream, to tear the word apart with her bare hands, to ask them what kind of witch lost seventeen children she cared for.
"...."
But she didn't. She bit down hard on her lower lip until she tasted blood, swallowed everything, unlocked the car, and drove away without looking back.
Night in Maybrook offered no mercy.
Trash bags were thrown against her fence. Empty bottles shattered near her porch. Once, a stone struck her front window hard enough to make her flinch.
By morning, someone had scrawled another word across her door in black marker:
BITCH
Justine scrubbed at it until her arms ached, until the letters smeared but refused to disappear completely—ghosts of accusation still visible beneath the cleaner.
The next morning...
Maybrook Elementary School...
Principal Office...
She stood in front of Marcus Miller's office—the principal of Maybrook Elementary—hands clasped tightly to keep them from shaking.
Marcus didn't look up immediately.
"...."
He already knew why she was there.
"I just want to talk to him,"
Justine started speaking quietly.
"Five minutes. Alex is my student."
Marcus sighed, finally meeting her eyes. There was sympathy there. And fear. As he spoke gently and frimly.
-Sigh
"No, Absolutely not."
Her throat tightened by the refusal.
"He's the only one who didn't—"
"And because of that,"
Marcus interrupted her while stating his reason,
"he's been questioned nonstop by police, counselors, child services. The boy barely sleeps."
Justine swallowed trying to came up with a reason but couldn't.
-Gulp
"I'm not the police. I'm his teacher."
"And right now,"
Marcus said, lowering his voice with sympathy,
"you're the person this town wants to tear apart. I won't put that child anywhere near that."
Silence stretched between them.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Then Marcus leaned back in his chair.
"I think it would be best if you take a few days off. Paid leave. Cool off. Stay out of sight."
Out of sight. Justine nodded slowly, even though something cold twisted in her stomach.
-Nod
"...."
As she turned to leave, a single thought echoed in her mind—quiet, persistent, terrifying.
'Alex knows something.'
That evening, Justine didn't go home right away.
She went to the bar.
It wasn't loud—just dim enough to feel anonymous, the kind of place where people pretended not to notice each other's sins.
He was already there, sitting at the counter with a drink untouched in front of him.
Her current boyfriend. Married. Careful.
He glanced up as she approached, his expression softening just enough to look concerned and spoke softly.
"You look like hell,"
She let out a humorless breath and sat beside him.
-Sigh
"That obvious?"
He nodded once, then leaned closer, lowering his voice.
-Nod
"The department's drowning. Pressure from parents, media, the state—everyone wants a head on a spike."
Justine's fingers tightened around her glass.
While her boyfriend continued.
"They still don't have anything, No bodies. No ransom. No pattern that makes sense."
He paused, then added, almost reassuringly,
"It's a good thing you're clean. If they had even the slightest reason of any lead on you… they'd have buried you already. They need someone to blame."
His words were meant to comfort her.But they didn't.
After a while, the conversation drifted—away from the case, away from the town, away from guilt neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
When they finally left the bar, they went back to her house, shutting the world out for the night.
Maybrook slept uneasily.
Alex's House...
Across town, in a house that felt colder than it should have, Alex Lilly sat at the dinner table.
He ate slowly. Carefully.
His parents sat opposite him, their movements mechanical—forks lifting, chewing, swallowing—like actors who had forgotten why they were on stage.
Their eyes were empty. Hollow. They didn't speak.
"...."
"...."
"...."
At the head of the table sat the old woman.
She smiled as she cut into her food, savoring every bite. Her appetite was healthy. Enthusiastic. Almost joyful.
Alex's hands shook. He didn't dare look at her for too long.
He knew better. The silence pressed down on him, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft scrape of cutlery and the old woman's quiet, satisfied hum.
Alex swallowed hard.
-Gulp
"...."
He was the very reason his classmates had gotten into trouble.
And every second he remained at that table, he understood one terrifying truth more clearly than ever:
He wasn't spared either.
At first, Alex had believed the old woman was family.
Gladys Lilly—that was the name she gave.
A distant relative from his father's side, or so she claimed.
His parents believed it without question.
They always did what she said.
At the time, Alex thought it was just politeness… respect for elders.
That illusion shattered a month ago.
It started small. His mother stopped humming while cooking.
His father stopped arguing about the news.
Their smiles stayed—but never reached their eyes.
They moved like clockwork toys, repeating routines with eerie precision.
Alex noticed. And once he noticed, he couldn't stop noticing.
"...."
"...."
"...."
One evening, when the silence in the house became unbearable, he confronted Gladys.
"You did something to them,"
He said, his voice shaking.
"Didn't you?"
For a moment, she laughed—softly, kindly—like a harmless old woman amused by a child's imagination and spoke.
-Fufu
"Don't be silly, Go to bed."
Alex didn't move. The smile vanished.
Her face hardened, eyes darkening with something ancient and cruel. While she snapped.
"I said—go to bed,"
When he still hesitated, she raised her voice, sharp and final.
"No dinner. Not a word more."
Fear won. Alex went to his room, heart pounding, knowing—feeling—that something was terribly wrong.
"...."
The next morning, nothing had changed.
His parents sat at the breakfast table, eating in silence, their movements stiff and empty.
They didn't look at him. Didn't react when he spoke.
Gladys watched him carefully. While she spoke calmly.
"Listen to me, Alex, You will not tell anyone what you saw last night."
He shook his head, tears burning his eyes.
"Please… let them go back to normal."
Gladys sighed, almost disappointed.
-Sigh
From beneath her sleeve, something dark slid into her palm—a spiky, black branch that looked more grown than made, as if it were alive.
She raised it slightly.
Alex's parents reacted instantly.
Their hands moved against their will, bodies jerking, faces contorting as if pulled by invisible strings. Alex screamed, begging her to stop, sobbing, promising anything—
And she did. Just like that.
The branch moment stopped.
His parents froze… then returned to their lifeless calm as if nothing had happened.
"...."
"...."
Alex collapsed to the floor, shaking.
From that day on, he never resisted again.
Gladys grew weaker at night—pale, trembling, often coughing into a cloth—but stronger in other ways. Hungrier.
One evening, she gave him a simple task. As she spoke like it was not a big thing.
"Bring me something, Anything your classmates use. A pen. A ribbon. A notebook page."
Alex knew better than to ask why.
He brought them. Every time.
And soon after, his classmates disappeared on the same night at the same time.
Gladys smiled more after that.
The basement door—always locked—began to feel heavier, louder, as if something inside wanted to be heard.
Alex didn't ask. He didn't cry anymore. He obeyed.
Because he had learned the truth far too well.
Gladys Lilly wasn't staying in his house.
She was using it.
The next day...
Justine Gandy sat in her car across the street from the school, engine off, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel.
She checked her watch.
Five minutes.
The final bell would ring any second now.
Students would spill out laughing, shouting—alive.
The sound always twisted something in her chest these days.
Seventeen desks in her classroom were still empty.
Seventeen names she could recite even in her sleep.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the school gate. While she thought.
'Please, Let him come out.'
The bell rang.
-Ring -Rang...
-Ring -Rang...
The gates opened.
Children poured out in clusters, backpacks swinging, parents calling out names. Justine scanned every face, her pulse quickening—Then she saw him.
Alex Lilly.
He walked alone, head down, steps careful, like someone afraid the ground might give way beneath him.
No friends. No laughter. Just quiet obedience.
Justine's grip tightened on the steering wheel.
'There you are.'
She started the car, pulled forward slowly, and stopped a few feet ahead of him.
She rolled down the window.
"Alex,"
She said gently.While he froze.
"...."
For a second, she thought he might run.
Instead, he looked up—just enough for her to see his eyes.
They were wide, guarded, and far too old for a boy his age.
"I'm not in trouble,"
She added quickly, stepping out of the car.
"I promise."
Alex said nothing.
"...."
Justine crouched slightly so she wouldn't tower over him.
She kept her voice calm, casual—like this was any other school day and said.
"I just wanted to check on you, You've had a rough week. Everyone has."
Still nothing. She tried again, carefully choosing her words.
"Your classmates… some of them were scared before they disappeared. Did you notice anything strange? Anything at all?"
Alex's fingers tightened around the strap of his backpack.
"...."
His eyes flicked—just once—to the side of the road.
Then back to her. His lips parted, as if he might speak.
But no sound came out.
Justine felt it then. Not defiance. Fear. The kind that sinks into the bones.
She straightened slowly, masking the chill crawling up her spine. As she spoke softly.
"That's okay, You don't have to say anything now."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small card, and held it out to him.
"If you ever want to talk—about anything—you can find me. Day or night."
Alex stared at the card. He didn't take it. But he didn't push it away either.
That was enough.
Justine stepped back, giving him space.
"Take care of yourself, Alex."
She returned to her car and drove off, watching him in the rearview mirror.
Alex stood there for a long moment, unmoving.
Then—very slowly—he turned and walked toward home.
Justine's hands shook on the wheel.
She hadn't gotten a single answer.
But her instincts screamed the same thing over and over:
That boy knew something.
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(Author's POV)
(A/N):
Guys it was the new cover image I planned to add to this story what you guys think about it.
As for giving power to others. I came up with a idea contract. While someone can gain ability after being exposed to angle fire like Jenny. But this will make him to be able to give a specific power he needed them to have.
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review and power stone!!!