Could vampires exist? Or ghosts? Werewolves? What about other various monsters, creatures of the night? At first, I was sure of the answer. In fact, I knew the answer, no queries or skeptical pondering. Why would there be? Only psychos believe in those demonic creatures. They're false. Works of fiction. Images you see portrayed in teenage angst movies or on the front of chocolate cereal boxes. Nothing less, but nothing more. So, why would I ever, ever question surety? They are less believable than Santa Claus-if you tell a young child that, say, ghosts are real, they would laugh at you, most likely call you a big, stupid brain, and promptly kick you in the shins.
Those things just aren't real. Case closed, done. No one even questions it! So, why am I? Because I thought I may have seen something, and though that's crazy and I'm crazy, I was never one to easily believe the illusions my eyes create for my curious subconscious. Ever since I was a young child, I always thought I…saw things. God, reading this through is unbearable. I sound idiotic-I sound like I require psychiatric help! Mayhap I do… Or, I could be correct. Or crazy, there is always crazy.
Ever since I was a young child, I thought I saw things that were not really there. That could not really be there. Such as a woman standing at the base of stairs in the middle of the night, an animal eating its prey in the late December then lifting up its head and it appears to be a human face, someone that seems to have teeth too sharp and skin too pale-but I told myself they were all merely tricks of the light, that I was simply a young, naïve boy thinking he say something obviously impossible, improbable.
But I had never walked away with a scratch before. Seeing is not believing… but is feeling? I must document exactly what happened, so as to not forget, to write down every minute detail. I had just picked up my math assignment from my college professor-I hadn't been going to my classes for two days, damn flu-and I was returning back to my dorm. (Now, let it be known that I do not have an affinity for going out in the dead of night when it appears a storm is imminent, practically inevitable. But I was fairly popular up until the eleventh grade, bad things happened, and ever since then I've been sort of an introvert. So, I didn't have any buddies I really trusted to pick up my important assignments.)
Anyway, I was leaving the Mathematics building of the campus and was retreating back to the men's dorm when
"Damien! Shut that goddamn computer, you know I can't sleep with any light on, you freaking nocturnal thing!" The scrawny twenty-three year old male flinched at his roommates squawking. How very intellectual he sounded when he insulted him with the name of "nocturnal thing". Quietly, Damien murmured, "Do you mean an owl, you foolhardy moron?"
"I heard that, Devil! Go. To. Bed!"
He sighed, turned a bit in his swivel chair, and closed his laptop. The majority of the students looked right past Damien and didn't even acknowledge his presence, but there were a few that despised him for some reason-maybe jealousy, or maybe they simply found him idiotic-but no matter their reasoning, they called him "Devil", like some sort of immature and juvenile high school adolescent. He supposed it was a take on his name, Damien, since people who hear such name normally think of the anti-Christ, or some sort of Satanic individual.
It was sort of amusing in the way of cruel irony, for Damien Mathews was not only immeasurably kind and caring of other people and their feelings, but was an immense wallflower and the only people he ever communicated or associated with were complete strangers he met over the internet. A few years back, Damien had made a thread about questioning his sanity and told others of things he is always seeing and how when he was younger, around ten or eleven years old, he was put into a mental institution for three days by his parents. They told him, "Damien Anderson Matthews, if you do not stop exploiting your fictitious propaganda about this respectable household, this will be your absolute future."
So, after that he stopped telling his parents that a woman in a white dress walked through a wall or that he saw a mangled face melt and slam into his bedroom window. And his brother was of no help; seven years older and a righteous, close-minded and skeptical know-it-all, he didn't even believe in Santa or the Tooth Fairy as a child, and most certainly ruined it for Damien. Now, that brother-Andrew-had a child by the name of Marie, who went to an all-girls high school and was positively obsessed with an unappreciated and ostracized book series titled, "Supernatural".
The glorious irony of an orthodox family having a daughter that actually had creativity and a prodigious mind of her own was enough to get Damien through those rough days. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the cushioned spinning chair he currently resided in and tried to forget that irritating sting of pain thumping in time with his heart aching on his inner arm. He had wrapped a white bandage around it after biting back tortured screams as he dabbed antiseptic on the wound and figured out of sight, out of mind. He hadn't anticipated it would still bother him throughout the day and night with spouts of fiery discomfort.
He speculated taking off the bandages and seeing how it looked after applying medication to it. Damien wasn't by any means a doctor and he didn't really know what to expect with the lesion, but he knew it definitely shouldn't be a black or purplish color. Or was purple alright? Is it bright red that signaled infection? He should know these things, his intelligence is always being praised, after all, and whenever someone needs a tutor he is customarily who the professors suggest. Sometimes Damien feels somewhat guilty about never accepting, but there are other times he prides himself on the ability to decline such offers.
Straining his eyes, he flicked his attention to his roommate and squinted, trying to make sure he was asleep. Luckily for Damien, the only thing that really awoke Nate was any form of light breaching the darkness, but that was also unfortunate, considering Damien doesn't typically stir or make noise but was constantly on his laptop. Either writing, documenting, or talking to his acquaintances in chatrooms and other forums. "You awake, Nate?" Damien whispered harshly, holding his breath in a wait for response. The room was quiet. He cleared his throat against an enclosed fist. "N-Nate?" He stammered, biting down a bit too hard on his bottom lip. "Nate? Are you up?" His heart dropped to his stomach as Nate turned over in his bed, but he made no sounds of indication that he was awake.
"Whew," Damien breathed, and then arose from his seat with silent squeaking. As stealthily as possible he made his way out the door, down the hall, and to the bathroom. As he walked inside fluorescent lighting lit up the area. Damien trotted to the mirrors lingering up over the sinks already taking off the gauze surrounding his forearm just above his wrist. There lay three fine cuts underneath his arms, red but not bleeding. That was a relief; his first concern was that he would bleed out and die without stitches. Ever since going to that mental hospital, Damien had an internal problem with any form of doctor, mental or physical.
"What am I supposed to believe?" He whimpered in a hushed tone, lower lip trembling. He allowed this outer weakness to show, for no one was here to see the turmoil he let reach his normally impassive surface. Earlier that night as he had tried to previously document, Damien had retrieved his missed assignments and was walking back to the dormitories on foot when he heard a stifled holler. He made himself a mantra of sorts, repetitively telling his mind that he was hallucinating once more, that this was his over active imagination taking over.
Damien tried running past the alley, but to no avail the silenced screech invaded his hearing once more. What if this wasn't some kind of supernatural being, but just a human doing a bad thing to another human? Damien would never forgive himself if that was the case and he did nothing to help. He didn't want to be crowned some hero if he did end up saving a life; he just wanted to be able to say he saved a life. His friends on the message board would be so proud. But, what if he saw another thing…
Cursing under his breath he backtracked to see just what was going on. The screaming had stopped, but that didn't necessarily mean whatever had just happened was over. Damien peered into the wide alley, only seeing a few upturned flower pots and a dumpster. Maybe there wasn't anyone there and it was only some cat making those sounds-it was late, the moon was high in the sky and rain was pouring from the heavens in buckets. It was the perfect atmosphere to let your mind play tricks on you.
He questioned saying, "Hello?" but figured if there was a killer about that it would seem like a cliché horror flick, as if the ambiance wasn't cliché enough as is. So, he took a step inside, shivering as his wet jacket clung to his skin. This was most certainly not going to help his flu. It was just going away, too. (But it's been proven that colds and flu's do not actually spread in wet, cold areas but simply by germs.) After a few steps into the alley, he came to the conclusion that there was no cat or killer-only a disgustingly large amount of bugs and trash.
Damien turned away, only to stumble against something lying haphazardly on the ground. He kept his balance and looked down; the sight before him made him gag and double over, looking away. It was a woman with her throat ripped out, scratches and bruises all over the body, and her jaw dislocated and hanging. After taking one more quick glance at the corpse, he puked up what little lunch he had and panted. He'd always had a weak stomach, ironically. "I was full, but I suppose I could always go for desserts. You don't look very filling, anyway."
Damien felt his stomach drop and his adrenaline pump. He didn't turn back to see who had that deep, rumbling voice or what they looked like in case he had wanted to identify the murderer to a police officer-he did all he always does when he feels fear coarse through his veins; he ran, and he ran as fast as he could. He didn't think, didn't scream-he only pushed his feet as fast as they could move. He had just made it out of the alley when he was abruptly yanked back by an abnormally strong grip on his arm. Damien faltered and staggered back by the force of the mystery person's hand, but with shear desperation managed to yank himself away and bolted back to the dorms, but not without leaving a trail of crimson.
That monster had left three gashes along his arm. Now, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he could still feel the racing of his mind, the terror that squeezed itself around his hammering heart. Damien resolved to keep what he saw to himself. If he called the police, it would just make it all the more real. Besides, that girl must have a family and friends who will miss her-without Damien's help, the police will get involved. They don't need him. Though she appeared familiar, it could just be his excited brain making him see and think things that aren't accurate.
If that was the case, then what was true? What did he really see and what did he imagine? Damien hadn't the clue, but one thing was positively real-he had three cuts that relentlessly burned with each diminutive gust of air. The previous bandages were all soaked through with blood so he decided to see how they fared on their own without any kind of binding. He couldn't get more gauze anyway; it was in the infirmary, and if Damien tried to get in after hours, they'd wonder how this happened and bombard him with questions that he couldn't answer. So, for now it was best treated with luck.
Too bad through the years Damien hasn't had a great supply. The college student trudged back to his shared room and nestled under his somewhat scratchy covers, trying in a futile attempt to add some fluff to his otherwise stiff pillow. Oh, well, he reasoned. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day, a quieter day. The man could only pray-though not in actuality, for he did not have a faith. He neither believed nor disbelieved, but that is irrelevant.
Damien forced his eyelids closed, and after about two hours of endless tossing and turning, he managed to fall into a fitful, dreamless slumber. At least it was something.
{~~~~~~}
The next day, his alarm did not sound. If it wasn't for the crash and a bellowed sob, he most likely would have stayed asleep long into the afternoon. He jolted himself up and out of the bed, and still in a thin black t-shirt and black and red plaid pajama bottoms he raced to the door and turned the knob, desperate to find out who had screamed and why. Hopefully everyone was alright. Oh, God, what if someone found the girl he had seen in the alley last night? Surely she didn't go here. Perhaps she was a friend of someone who does. It did not matter; Damien had to discover what was going on. To his surprised dismay, as he pushed upon the wooden door it did not budge. It was not locked-the locks were on the inside, not the out-something must have barricaded him inside.
"Uhm, excuse me!' He yelled, cupping his pale hands over his mouth. "Excuse me, hello! Is anyone out there? I can't seem to open my door… Hello?" He tried once more, shoving himself against the door, but alas it was of no use. Damien was a twig, anyway; if someone could break down the door, it would most certainly not be him, with his frail and fragile physique. That did not mean, however, that he could not try. So, mulling up as much strength as he thought possible, he took a few bare-footed steps back and propelled himself against the door.
Before his body even connected to the barrier it was opened, and Damien continued to move. He couldn't stop himself; his feet continued to progress and he stumbled forward. Unable to catch his balance he collapsed onto the hard ground beneath him, the red carpeting rushing up to meet his face. Damien slammed into the earth and groaned, landing on his arm and his left side. Owch. "Nice going, Devil." Someone snapped crudely, and various quieted chuckles sounded. He felt his face flush as he stood in a flurry, dusting off his flannel pants.
"I-I couldn't open my door." He explained, hand instinctively going to cover the abrasion on his arm. Or, more accurately, the three thin abrasions. If anyone saw they would definitely make unnecessarily uncouth comments. That was one thing Damien did not need, not right now. "Awww," cooed Jackson, a friend of Nate's as he sneered down at Damien. He brushed his black tresses from his face, straightening his shoulders. "Well, I-I don't care." The oversized bully mocked, and two of his buddies applauded him with laughter. Damien stood tall nonetheless, though all he really longed to do was run away.
But, he thought it was best not to seem like an even bigger pussy.
"I can only assume one of you were putting your great girths against the door so I would be unable to open it. Am I correct?" He queried, raising a single brow. Jacob appeared perplexed by the use of the word "girths", so it was Nate who piped up, "No, actually. How would we even know you were up?"
"Guess he's so weak he can't even open doors!"
"Guess he's so stupid he doesn't even know how!" They guffawed in uncanny unison.
Damien brushed their petty excuse for insults off of his shoulder. "Well, then-" He stopped as he once again heard a shriek of despondency, a cry of dejection. That was what had awoken him, and instead of investigating as he should have done he had been too distracted by these mule-headed imbeciles. Dammit! Nate's group of dimwitted and asinine friends pushed passed Damien and raced down the stairs and ran outside where it seemed the commotion had taken place. "We better get down there, stupid Devil distracted us!"
Damien must have made an ass of himself falling from his room as they were going to find out what the commotion was about. Despite his intense curiosity he turned back around and hurried into his room, rummaging to find a pair of grey jeans and black Converse sneakers. As he tripped towards a mirror, he picked up his bangs and put them behind his head, clipping them back. He allowed the rest of his dark locks to fall, so he had his bangs pulled back and out of his face whilst the rest of his hair rested, coming an inch or two past his chin.
As he finished and was about to skedaddle out, he thought he caught something out of his peripheral vision in the mirror. Suspiciously he backtracked a few steps, looking up, down, left, right- anywhere, searching for what he may have seen, or what he thought he'd seen. No, he decided, he did not see anything. Another trick of the lighting, like always. Damien spun around towards the exit and just as he had somewhat convinced himself he saw nothing unconditional, he found himself face to face with a foreign man. That alone was enough to startle him, for he did not hear anyone entering the room, but his facial appearance is what truly terrified him.
His complexion was that of a rotten corpse. Skin peeling, bites of his jaw exposed, one eye a brilliant shade of ocean blue while the other was nonexistent, a black socket all that remained. Damien screamed from the top of his lungs and fell-hard-onto his back, temporarily knocking the wind out of his diaphragm. As he looked up once more, the outlandishly horrific man was gone. Disappeared. Vanished, just like that.
Damien gripped the thin fabric over his chest, trying to stop his heart from pounding so hard it might explode. He arose once more after a minute of deep swallowing and slow breathing. He was crazy; he most definitely knew that now. At least he was one of those insane persons who were aware they are nuts. If he made it this far in life, surely he could make it just a few more years until the madness was too much and he ended up clawing at his skull so feverishly that he'd rip open his cranium and stab his brain with his own extremities.
Yes, that sounded good. But until that day arrived, he'd just have to get by as he was so used to doing. After slapping his cheek a few times to make himself certain he was awake and not just in some hellish nightmare, he dashed outside where the scream was heard.
{~~~~}
Everyone, it seemed, was crowded around the two dead bodies lying arbitrarily on the concrete. A woman by the name of Samantha was quaking and sobbing something awful, with tissues clutched tightly in her fists and tears a pool on her cheeks. "A-And Ashley was apparently found in some d-dark alleyway or something." Damien's heart dropped, green irises expanding beyond normal size. She did look familiar, he managed to think in his discombobulated mind, brain swirling with questions and fears and theories about life and death and murder.
"Yes," said another woman he had not noticed before, with about a hundred (not an approximate value) cameramen. "These college students all seem to have had the same horrible fate; beaten to the point of death, their throats gruesomely ripped open." Just the mention of such ghastly and macabre doings made Damien's stomach tighten. He swallowed a gag. Curse his weak stomach, curse it straight to Hell. He looked over at the news woman, knowing enough already-there is a murderer among the students, including himself. Poor Samantha continued blubbering, talking to the reporter. Damien wondered if they could make out anything she was saying, for it all sounded incoherently inaudible to him. Maybe they would have subtitles. He hoped he would not be on television, somewhere in the background. The more invisible he was the better.
Sneaking a quick glance at the two bodies-a boy and a girl-he immediately winced. Indeed, their bodies were black and blue and their throats torn, dried blood surrounding them, the ground, everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere Damien looked, there was blood blood blood. He didn't look at them long enough to try and recognize them, though he thought the boy was a man named Alex; a fairly friendly guy who was easy-going and said hi to anyone, even if he didn't really like them all that much. Way to go, Killer; kill one of the only decent people still remaining on this earth.
He turned his back on the whole congregation and ran, as he found he was prone to do. Towards the men's dorms, he ran to the back and fell to his knees, gagging. School was, obviously, cancelled for today, if not for a few days. What would they do about this? Call in police officers, more reporters, the FBI? Would this be the next episode idea of CSI or Criminal Minds? Would Damien somehow get involved? Would they find out he had seen the girl-Ashley-before and did not alert anyone? Was he going to jail? Would they realize he was insane and belonged in an asylum?
His own nauseated dry heaving broke him from his train of thoughts. He had nothing more to vomit; nothing but stomach acid. Damien coughed, gagged, bit his lip, found himself crying, gripped onto his hair, the clip previously holding his bangs fallen and forgotten, all at the same time. This isn't happening, he repeated in his mind, a failure of meditation, a fruitless mantra, This can't be happening. Oh, God, people are dead. People I know. Anyone could be a killer. I could be next. I could be next. I could be next. Why wouldn't I be next? Why would I be next?
Finally, after hours it seemed of Damien wallowing in self-pity, self-hatred, he retreated back to his room. He should get back on the message board and tell everyone what happened. He should tell everyone that he wasn't getting online anymore. Perhaps he should emit himself to the loony bin. Those men in clean, white coats would surely be kind to him. They wouldn't call him a devil, no, not at all. Just Patient Number Whatever. Had a certain ring to it, he guessed.
Damien closed his eyes. He wasn't tired, not physically, but mentally he was already asleep. Could the supernatural be real? Monsters, demons, angels? Could that all actually exist? Maybe…
No. None of that was real. He was just crazy.
Damien fell asleep once more after coming to terms that he would go outside later tonight to just walk, clear his head. Maybe he would go to a damned graveyard and make friends with ghosts.
Little did he know, he would in fact meet three interesting individuals. Making friends with them, though? Well… that was doubtful.
A.N. Alright. Well, this is a thing. I have so many stories unfinished, why do I do this all to you? I'm sorry. Honestly, truly, I am sorry. I know OC's aren't that big and are probably shunned, but I had this idea and it wasn't even going to go on FanFiction until a friend of mine basically forced it on here.
Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed. Sorry if it's not the best, it was written maybe a bit too late into the night. Oh, and don't fret-Sam, Dean, and even Cas are going to be appearing next chapter! :D Please review, comments let me know people are reading! Thanks so much, and tell me what you think about Damien, huh? And the mention of a Marie-that's the same Marie in the theater episode, where she makes Supernatural: The Musical. She may come in later, I'm not entirely sure.
Happy Holidays, everyone!