The night had passed in a deceptive, velvet peace, but the morning arrived with the jarring reality of a world that felt slightly out of alignment. Logan was pulled from a heavy, dreamless sleep by the melodic but firm voice of his mother, Alexa, calling from the bottom of the stairs. He sat up, his head throbbing with a dull ache, and squinted at the digital clock on his desk.
7:30
He groaned, the events of the previous evening—the Sheriff's visit, the weight of the recorder, the promise—rushing back into his mind. He stumbled into the bathroom, splashing ice-cold water onto his face to shock his system into gear. When he finally descended into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and fresh coffee greeted him, but so did his mother's sharp, observant gaze.
Alexa paused, a spatula in her hand, as she studied his face. "Hey, dear. Did you not sleep early? Or did you not sleep at all? You look like you've been up for a week."
Logan felt his heart skip. He knew his mother had a sixth sense for secrets. "I'm just... curious, Mom," he said, trying to sound casual as he slumped into his chair. "Uncle Thomas gave me that thing to look at. I was trying to find what was on it late last night."
George, sitting at the head of the table with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, looked up from his newspaper. "Did you find anything useful, Logan? Or is it just more of the same scientific jargon?"
Logan sighed, his shoulders drooping. "No, Dad. Nothing special. It's mostly just... noise. There's a man's voice that echoes at the end. All he says is 'Be careful.'"
"Lame," Suvi interrupted from across the table, her voice dripping with teenage sarcasm. She let out a short, sharp chuckle. "Total nerd. You spend all night listening to static just for a two-word warning?"
Logan's face flushed with irritation. "What are you laughing at? At least I'm studying something real. You don't even know what the basic laws of physics are, Suvi."
Suvi smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, really? Do you think I should tell Mom and Dad that your 'stupid experiment' collapsed and you wasted all that birthday money they gave you?"
George's expression shifted, his brows knitting together. "Logan? Did you use all your savings on that equipment?"
Logan nodded slowly, the guilt visible in the way he looked down at his plate. Alexa, sensing the rising tension, stepped in with a calming hand on George's shoulder. "Please, everyone, be quiet. Others are trying to eat." She turned to Edward, the youngest, and gently rubbed a bit of stray egg from his chin with a napkin. Edward laughed, oblivious to the drama, and the family finished their breakfast in a fragile silence.
The morning air was crisp as Logan pedaled his bicycle toward the academy. He was halfway there when a cold realization hit him like a physical blow. He skidded to a halt, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The recorder.
In his rush to leave, he had left it sitting right on his desk. He couldn't leave it there—not when Thomas was going to take the recorder away tomorrow morning there is no time for them to do the experiments. He spun his bike around, pedaling back toward the house with a frantic, desperate energy.
When he arrived, the house was silent. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. He then remembered his mother mentioning that she was taking Edward to the clinic for his fever and cold. He circled to the back of the house, his eyes darting upward, and froze.
His bedroom window was wide open.
I know I closed it, he thought, a chill crawling down his spine. I know I did.
He grabbed the heavy wooden ladder from the backyard shed, propping it against the side of the house until it rested firmly beneath his window sill. As he began to climb, a sound began to drift down from the room—a thick, distorted pulse of static.
Bzzzzzz... ssss... Bzzzzzz...
Logan's breath hitched. Had he left it on? He climbed higher, his eyes rising level with the window frame. He peered inside and his blood turned to ice.
A small boy, roughly Edward's age, was standing in the center of the room. He wore a torn white T-shirt and grimy trousers. He was holding the recorder in his small, trembling hands, staring at it with an intensity that wasn't human. He seemed to be listening to the static over and over, his head tilted at an unnatural angle.
"Hey, Logan! What are you doing up there?"
The voice of a neighbor startled him. Logan spun around, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. He frantically gestured for her to be silent, his finger to his lips. The neighbor huffed, rolling her eyes as she walked away. "Kid's acting like a jerk. I was just trying to help," she muttered.
Logan turned back to the window, but the boy was no longer in the center of the room.
He was standing right in front of the window.
Logan saw the boy's face clearly for the first time, and a scream died in his throat. The child's skin was a sickly grey, covered in layers of dried mud and fresh, dark blood. One of his eyes was missing—a jagged, empty socket where blood was still actively pouring down his cheek like a gruesome tear. Shards of glass from the shattered window were embedded in the boy's skin.
The boy let out a guttural, terrifying shout and threw himself at Logan. The force of the impact sent the ladder sliding. They grappled in the air, a blur of torn fabric and bloody limbs, before the ladder gave way entirely.
CRASH.
They hit the ground hard. The recorder slipped from the boy's hand, skidding across the grass. Despite the blinding pain in his shoulder, Logan lunged for it, his fingers closing around the plastic just as the bloody child tried to reclaim it.
The boy hissed, his one good eye wide with a primal hunger, but as neighbors began to pour out of their houses, he scrambled to his feet and vanished into the thick Redwood brush with impossible speed.
Logan tried to stand, but the world began to spin. He felt something warm and wet running down his forehead. He looked at his hand—it was coated in deep red.
"Logan!" someone screamed.
Then, the darkness rushed in.
Two hours later, Logan's eyes fluttered open to the sterile, white glare of a hospital room. The smell of antiseptic was overwhelming.
In front of his bed stood Adison, Lyra, and Jamie, their faces pale with worry. Behind them, his family—Alexa, George, Suvi, and a sniffling Edward—were huddled together.
Alexa immediately rushed forward, pulling Logan into a fierce, tearful hug, while George tapped his head gently, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. Logan looked over at Suvi; her eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
"Did you cry, Suvi?" Logan croaked, his voice raw.
Suvi sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve and regaining her sharp edge. "No, dumbass. I'm not crying. It's the allergies in this place."
"Guys, please," Alexa warned softly. "We're in a hospital."
Edward clung to Logan's hand, sobbing quietly. Logan reached out, ignoring the ache in his head, and rubbed the tears from his little brother's eyes. "Don't worry, little brother. Your big brother is perfectly fine. I'm a hero, remember?"
Once the initial chaos subsided, Logan looked at his parents. "Mom, Dad... can you give me a minute with my friends? Please?"
George nodded, ushering the family out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut, Logan turned to the others and recounted everything—the open window, the boy with the missing eye, and the desperate struggle for the recorder.
Jamie looked baffled. "Why would a kid—especially an injured one—break into your house just for a recorder? And how did he not scream if his eye was literally hanging out?"
Lyra held up a hand, silencing Jamie. "Logan, did you find anything useful in that recorder? If someone is willing to risk their life and endure that kind of injury to get it, it's more than just a souvenir."
"I didn't notice anything odd," Logan whispered, his hand going to the bandage on his head. "Wait... where is the recorder? Where did it go?"
The curtain beside the bed was pulled back with a sharp shink.
Sheriff Thomas Briggs stood there, his face a mask of grim determination. He held up the black device. "I have it."
The group gasped in unison. Briggs stepped forward, his eyes locked on Logan's. "What really happened, Logan? Tell me every single detail. Don't leave anything out."
Logan told him everything—the shattered glass, the mud, the boy's face. After he finished, Briggs stood in a stunned silence.
"A boy with a lost eye," Briggs repeated, his voice low. "You think he hit the window when he was breaking in? That the glass did that to him?"
"I think so," Logan said. "There was blood everywhere in my room."
Briggs nodded slowly, his mind clearly racing. He turned to the others. "Alright, everyone. Go home or get to school. Logan needs to rest." He tucked the recorder into his belt, his hand resting on the hilt of his sidearm.
As Briggs walked out to his Chevrolet Caprice, his mind was a whirlwind of dark thoughts. He looked at the recorder sitting on the passenger seat, the plastic reflecting the midday sun.
"What the fucking shit is happening with this device?" he muttered to himself.
He put the car in gear and sped away from the hospital, the engine's roar the only thing drowning out the imaginary sound of a boy's scream in the back of his mind.