Fear wasn't something John was used to. Up until that point, he lived a sheltered, if not mundane, life in a suburban neighbourhood surrounded by friends and family. Nothing happened outside his daily routine: wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, return from school, eat dinner, and go to bed. That was the status quo he abided by. It was a repetitive cycle for the eight-year-old, but not in the sense that John grew bored of it. School could be daunting at times, yes, but sooner or later he'd find himself back home indulging in the simple pleasures of reading.
Progress had been slow, given the woes of dyslexia, the words blurring together into an indecipherable mess, though the challenge made it all the more fun. It was one of the few things he truly dedicated time to. Perhaps he found escape in the land of fiction, but whenever something new arose, whether it be someone's birthday party or a hike in the countryside, he'd enjoy it while it lasted. They were a temporary reprieve from the norm, a flash in the pan before everything returned to the routine. It always did. If this was all there was to life, how would he know any alternative? He didn't. Such a concept was alien to him. There was no need to worry about his aspirations for the future and whatnot, for John had no drive; he just existed. As far as he knew, this was everything there was to offer, and he was happy to live in the moment.
That was until he met the monster.
John liked to think he was mature for his age. It was a presumptuous claim for someone so young, being a measly eight years old, but he saw himself as different from his peers. While many children cowered beneath the covers in fear of the bogeyman in their closet, others peered beneath the bed for the beast as well, and he would look down on them and scoffer at both parties for believing such nonsense, knowing that those urban myths were just that: myths. There was no such thing as the tooth fairy, and Santa Claus didn't come down the chimney on Christmas Eve. He expressed this often, and they hated him for that. John never held it against them, as there was a time when he, like those who came before him, was oblivious to the truth.
Two years ago, his father was forced to break it to him that Saint Nicholas was not real, just a story concocted by an amateur poet to entice children into acting accordingly. Of course, John denied it at first, and in a fit of childish stubbornness, he spent the whole night by the fireplace, wholeheartedly believing that the jolly red giant would appear before him, ready to deliver the presents that were his to claim. Suffice to say, even with the temptation of cookies and milk, Santa didn't come. By seven in the morning, John's father had arrived to see his son kneeling before an unlit hearth, face damp, tired, and ready to face the music. It was a heartbreaking revelation, but the wiser man was proven correct.
John's perspective had changed drastically since then. The principle of rationality was hammered into his head, and by the grace of his father, it enlightened him to the ugly truth. The Easter Bunny, the sandman, and even the number taker of all people, figures he'd looked up to for all his short life, were nothing more than figments of his overactive imagination. The world did not revolve around fairy tales, but hard, solid facts. And why was that? Because his father said so, and since he was an adult, he was always correct. His words were the law. At least, that was what John assumed to be true. From that moment on, his elders were always in the right. Everything they taught, he believed without hesitation. It didn't matter how questionable the statement was or the context in which it was made, he absorbed it like a sponge.
His fear of the irrational had long since been tempered, so without the night terrors plaguing his youth, there was little to be afraid of. The wariness of cutting himself on a sharp knife never disappeared, nor did the caution of crossing a busy road, but anything of the supernatural was gone. However, that did beg the question: if these myths had been proven false, why were they still prevalent? John spent many restless nights pondering this, so when that abomination appeared before him, a bulky beast large enough to blot out the sun, submerging the boy in the darkness of its shadow, his answer came in a manner far different than he otherwise expected.
It was the weekend, Saturday, on a bright, sunny afternoon out in the fields. A cloudless sky stretched far and wide, an empty, azure aether home to none other than the merciless sun, its blazing rays cast down to set the grass alight. The meadows stretched beyond the horizon with no end in sight, burning a vivid orange, forcing the merciful shade to withdraw, leaving John to suffer in the sweltering heat. Why his father chose now, of all times, to hike was beyond him, but what right had the boy to argue? It had been a while since their last walk together; he could use the exercise.
They trekked in silence, admiring the simple, yet undeniably beautiful scenery passing by. The plethora of poppies; a lark ascending into the sky; the occasional grazing cow. John had seen it all before, but it still sparked awe within him nonetheless. They soldiered on for hours, and would've continued for many more had his father not suddenly needed the restroom. Unfortunately, the countryside was void of any outhouses aside from the distant barns, so he took refuge behind a tree at the far end of the field. It was an inconvenient solution at best, but their situation gave little room for an alternative.
Well, it was one John was more than happy to take advantage of. His legs screamed for reprieve, and he could do with a little rest. He dropped on the spot, smothering the warm grass and rolling onto his back. He stared into the empty sky, allowing his mind to wander into miscellaneous thoughts. Scenario after scenario played out within John's mind, each one more ludicrous and fanatical than the last. They were silly, trivial matters, really, but they served as a great distraction for when a class was too arduous to endure. It was like second nature to him; he could daydream for as long as it took for the lesson to end, as he had plenty of practise thanks to the mind-numbing boredom. Sometime had passed when John noticed the heat prickling against his skin had faded. It hadn't been a gradual change either; the temperature dropped so suddenly, it was like the shade grew legs and moved to him.
Huh.
John frowned. That wasn't supposed to happen. The person should travel to the shade, not vice versa. And yet, here it was, a shadow so incomprehensively large, shielding him from the sun's wrath. Strange, but not unwelcome. John didn't think much of it at first. Perhaps a cloud materialised out of the blue and glided overhead. That made sense. He hadn't seen rain in quite a while; it was about time for a massive downpour. John remained where he lay, expecting the familiar, cooling sensation of the first droplets assaulting his skin before all hell broke loose and soaked him.
It never came.
On the contrary, the rest of the meadow was still bright and colorful, like the change hadn't affected them at all. Only the area surrounding him had dulled to the greyish tint of shadow. Something was off. John mused briefly on the idea of a time lag between regions before snuffing it out. No, the answer was obvious. Somebody was looming over him.
He desperately wanted to say his father had returned from his bathroom break, or maybe a cow had come over to investigate. They were the most probable, no, the only logical assumptions he could've made at that moment. But the world of reason had abandoned him, for no living animal, much less his father, could trigger such primal emotion, something long since discarded owing to the safety of modern civilisation. What he saw that day left a lasting impression, one John would forever be desperate to get rid of.
The first thing he noticed were the legs. They were thick, impossibly so, like tree trunks, twisted and bent at unnatural angles. It was bizarre for a human, but for a reptile, say a lizard, or even a dragon, the resemblance was there, especially in its bone structure; pillars of pure calcium bound by ropes of muscle, wrapped in a sheath of scaly flesh. What John assumed to be vines writhed around its thighs, long, hissing tendrils snapping to and fro, their incoherent chatter loud and tormenting to his ears. Everything from the waist up was cloaked in a void, though it gave shape to muscular arms branching off a lithe torso. What truly enraptured John, however, were the twin pinprick sparkles emanating from the darkness of its face. They denied all hope of escape, piercing his very being and bestowing the knowledge that their gaze was fixated on him. Yet the creature didn't move to attack. It just stared. And John stared back.
A change sparked within him. His perception of reality was shattered once more, bringing into question everything he'd been taught. Had his father, the omniscient, all-knowing figure in his life, for all his spewing of rationality and reason, been wrong? It was a bitter pill to swallow, but the evidence was right there, hanging over him like an ill omen. Perhaps, John thought, he was the fool, according to his folly, for dismissing the supernatural so swiftly.
For all the good that meant. He was going to die.
The realisation smacked John like a truck, and one revelation after another was far too much. Something strange bloomed within him, something ancient, a forgotten instrument from the age of old, as necessary as it was undesirable. Fear had always been a mystery to him, and now he was about to get acquainted the hard way.
It started with an instinct. A pooling of the stomach, his guts twisting, cringing at the sight of the monster. Though foreign to the concept, John learned fast that he was prey, and this thing was a predator. If it caught him, he was dead. He was food, soil fertilizer. John willed himself to move, to run, to do anything. It was all for naught. His body failed to reciprocate. Something compelled it to remain sprawled in the grass. Then came the thumping in his chest, loud and hard. It rattled his ribcage, forcing air from the lungs, and suddenly, John was suffocating. Yet the drum beat faster, eventually to the point where each thump was indiscernible from the last, an unrelenting symphony of torture threatening to burst his eardrums. A strange coolness seeped into his limbs, giving way to a spasm-inducing lightness that liquefied them to jelly.
John would, in his later years, come to know it as adrenaline, a hormone secreted in response to fight and flight. At this point in time, however, ungraced with the knowledge, hit with so many sensations at once, he was overwhelmed. All this, combined with the shock of his unravelling reality, accumulated into one primal emotion.
This was fear. This was what it felt like to be powerless, at the mercy of another being.
It was horrible.
It was scary.
And John hated it. The monster had done nothing thus far, and yet its mere presence induced such mind-melting terror within him.
"How ridiculous! How unfair!" That was what John would have said, had he been more level-headed in that moment. Unfortunately, fear is surprisingly influential on the mind, afflicting both subconscious and conscious decisions, narrowing one's thought process to the most basic of states. It left him a vegetable in the wake of this beast, vulnerable and ripe for the taking.
Alas, after what felt like hours of stagnation, there was a movement. For years to come, John would have no answer to how he survived that day. Was it in a moment of mercy that the monster spared him, or maybe it considered him too pathetic to feast upon, for what fun was there in killing defenceless prey, after all? Whatever the reason, it slowly twisted around, forced to break its gaze at long last, and with each great stomp of clawed feet, it lumbered away. John watched it leave, the huge shape gradually, agonisingly so, shrinking into the distance, taking its stifling blanket of shadow with it. The danger had passed, and like a prey out of hiding, sunlight broke upon the field. Blistering heat washed over him once more, a welcome sensation in comparison to the inconceivable horror moments before. Time resumed, and save for the trail of trampled grass leading to the distant horizon, all traces of the monster's existence were gone. And long overdue, his father returned.
The walk resumed shortly. From that point on, there were no more sightings of the monster. The pair ambled on at a leisurely pace, John lagging behind somewhat, only stopping to hop over the occasional stile impeding the path ahead. They soon passed beneath the shade of the overhanging trees, and their hike morphed into a treacherous trek across the forest overgrowth. A test of endurance turned to dexterity as father and son fought through the viscous brambles, thorns grasping to tear the skin from their bones. John tried to lose himself in the moment, and briefly, everything was back to normal. He allowed himself to believe the encounter had been a hallucination, an elaborate illusion concocted by the heatwave fraying his brain.
If only he could deny the lingering dread writhing in his gut, then the beautiful lie would have become the truth. But fear had left its mark. He wanted to ignore it, to focus on the peril ahead, but the imprint ran deeper than that of the body. It touched his soul, his mind, it was all he could think about. Even hours later, staring down the acres of countryside from the safety of the hilltops, it refused to let go. He felt watched, vulnerable above all else.
They returned home safely enough, but John continued to stew, replaying the same moment over in his mind, this time within the safe confines of the bedroom. Dusk settled in, and the sun retreated, bleeding the sky of all color. The stars were absent that night, and without the moon to shed light, the world beyond his window was a slab of impenetrable darkness. It was ominous, an omen even, but in spite of his woes, John kept his mouth shut on the matter. Perhaps a small part of him knew that nobody, especially his father, would believe something so bizarre. Adults were a stubborn sort, sceptical of everything lest they witness it themselves. But it did make him wonder whether they were aware of the beast. Had that been so, what reason would they have for denying its existence? It made no sense to disregard something so potentially dangerous; raising awareness of such a threat could save lives.
Too bothered to sleep, John indulged himself with the debate, weighing both sides of the argument in a state of profound concentration. There was a possibility, he mused, given how desperate adults are to rationalise the irrational, that the monster was labelled as an exotic animal. A rare breed of cow, for example, or even an endangered species native to the hills. It sounded ridiculous enough to almost draw a smirk on his face, if only for a moment. Then he thought better of it, and the hilarity died as quickly as it had come. A creature that imposing could not have passed as something natural. His father hadn't seen the monster himself, though the ravaged grass should have warranted the raise of an eyebrow at least, but nothing. The lack of reaction was unsettling and only led to further self-inquiry. Was this a normal occurrence? Could he be the irrational one?
He tossed and turned for a few more hours before finally succumbing to fatigue, but it wasn't until the next day that his answers would come, when, out of the blue, monsters were everywhere. Nothing was amidst to his untrained eye, but deep down, something inherently buried in his psyche was awoken. It was like a sixth sense; John could feel their eyes gnawing into him, the malicious intent permeating the area, radiating off their bodies in waves. It is said negative emotions manifest as physical pain, and for the second time in his life, John realised how true that sentiment was. They served as stimuli, like a rusted knife to the gut, spreading poison to the rest of his body. The signals running through him were disorientating. Terrifying.
"Fear the unknown" much?
Yes.
John couldn't make heads or tails of how beings of that calibre, many of which defy all known laws of physics, could exist without drawing attention. They stuck out like sore thumbs among the common folk, hiding in plain sight and somehow succeeding. As intimidating as they were, the people paid no heed to their presence. Not even the children.
Oh, the irony.
Had John been given the choice, he would've never left the house again. Not with danger lurking around every corner, nor with the fear that plagued him. Unfortunately, school was compulsory, so against his better judgement, he went anyway. Dread became a constant companion for John. He'd step outside for all but a moment, and it would come back with a vengeance and a whole hoard of monsters to boot. They came in different sizes: big, small, bipedal, scaly, the list went on. Some were recognisable, the cyclops being a reoccurring entity; others were obscure, but they all had one thing in common: they always looked hungry. And to rub salt further into the wound, their attention was directed solely at him. Forget the delicious morsels waltzing within arm's reach, apparently the boy straying as far as possible was the more appealing meal. And he had to pass them every day. Fantastic.
Walking to school was an experience in itself; staying there for six hours was even more of a chore. While home was a barrier between him and the outside world, the classroom was a shell waiting to be smashed open. The monsters lurked around the premises, leering at him, though they never moved to attack. Regardless, John knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security. Rather, he was on high alert, anticipating any change in their behaviour. It wasn't uncommon for a predator to play with their food, less so to get bored and devour them anyway. He wouldn't be caught off guard, not like before. Put simply, John was tense. With his attention elsewhere, it was no longer possible to focus on class. There was no respite in daydreaming either; his mind always wandered back to the ever-present threat waiting outside.
Within the span of three days, John had made many discoveries, none of which a child should experience. This was his youth; he should've been enjoying it, not looking over his shoulder constantly. It was funny in a sense, all the other kids with their pumped up kicks, lounging in their seats, some bored, others not, all blissfully ignorant of the invisible danger John so painfully bore witness to. Oh, how he envied them and their simple lives. They got to look forward to video games, gossip, and fun. John had to look forward to a long sprint home. Jealousy aside, this did give way to an interesting theory.
The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon was what came to mind. Known as the frequency illusion, it followed the principle of cognitive bias whereby, upon witnessing something for the first time, the victim would notice it more often. You hear a certain word once, and suddenly, everyone is using it. You could've sworn it never existed before that day, only to hear it was around since time immemorial. We've all been there, and for John, this was it. "Ignorance is bliss" never felt more literal. Since people weren't aware of the monsters, they couldn't see them. Notice how John never saw them before that fateful encounter, the catalyst for his current predicament. In which case, his father wasn't as clueless as he thought. By keeping children under the pretence of maturity, the illusion kept them safe. It made perfect sense, but without concrete evidence to prove it, his claim held little weight. Lest he be made a laughing stock, John opted not to share his idea. What difference would it make if he had? This was his life now, one of fear, paranoia, and eternal uncertainty.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but no matter what came of it, he needed to endure. What other option was there, to give up? Keel over and die? Living with monsters glaring into your back was horrible, yet it was sobering in a way. John felt awake and more alive than he had ever been, unlike the trancelike state of his younger years. It opened his eyes to the real world; he was no longer the aimless child who went with the flow. Now fully aware of his mortality, John had a purpose to fulfill. He would stay vigilant, observe the monsters, note their behaviour, get any sort of leverage over them. So when they finally struck, he'd be ready for them. It sounded impossible. The risks were high and the payoff was small, but John couldn't be pessimistic. He was excited, oddly enough. It was like a game. A dangerous one, like walking a tight rope, but if by some slim chance he succeeded, the euphoria would be worth it.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how it all began. John was exposed to the realm beyond the veil, but did he survive? Well, for that, we'll need to skip ahead into the future. It is 2003, two years before the tale of Percy Jackson. To the mortals who remain oblivious to the truth, all is well, but for the gods and those in between, Brooklyn has never been more hectic...
Author's Note:
A new adventure has begun! I've always wanted to see a fan fiction where the main character doesn't get forced into a camp and just does whatever the hell they want, and after hours of extensive searching, I decided to just make it myself!
Yeah, John is an "original character" I've created, and I should mention that this story will be very OC-centric for the first third or so. We will see the main cast eventually, but that won't be until a long time later.
So, any idea who the monster was at the beginning? Is John a half-blood or a clear-sighted mortal? Will these questions ever be answered?
See you next time for Chapter 2!