MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The principal’s voice on the phone was strained, a carefully controlled urgency that made Emma’s blood run cold. “Ms. Lopez, there has been an incident involving Ryan. You need to come to the school immediately.”
The drive to Crestwood Elementary was a blur of frantic thoughts and worst-case scenarios. Her hands were slick on the steering wheel. She parked haphazardly and ran into the building, her heart pounding against her ribs. She found Ryan sitting on a small chair outside the principal’s office, his shoulders hunched, his face streaked with tears. He threw himself into her arms the moment he saw her, his small body trembling. “I did not mean to, Mom,” he sobbed into her shoulder. “I swear I did not mean to.”
Emma’s heart clenched. She smoothed his hair and led him into the principal's office, where Ms. Morrison sat behind her desk, her expression grave. A larger boy, Tommy, sat with his parents, a large scrape on his arm and a terrified look in his eyes.
The story came out in a disjointed, unbelievable narrative. Tommy had been pushing a smaller girl, Sophie, on the playground. Ryan had intervened, stepping between them. According to three teachers and several students, Ryan had simply put his hand on Tommy’s chest to push him away. But the effect had been anything but simple. Tommy had flown backward several feet, as if propelled by an unseen force, landing hard on the asphalt.
“It was the strangest thing I have ever seen,” one of the teachers recounted, her voice still shaky. “Ryan barely seemed to touch him. It was not a normal push. It was not… possible.”
Emma’s mouth went dry. This was worse than the broken toys, worse than the crushed doorknobs. This was public. This had been witnessed.
The ride home was thick with a tense silence, broken only by Ryan’s quiet sniffling. “Why am I different?” he whispered, his voice heartbreakingly small. “My hands got all hot and tingly, Mom. I just wanted him to stop hurting Sophie, and then he was on the ground. It scares me.”
Emma pulled into their apartment complex and held him, her own fear a tight, cold knot in her chest. She had no answers for him, no comfort to offer except the fierce, protective circle of her arms. That evening, after Ryan fell into an exhausted sleep, she sat at her laptop, desperately searching for explanations. Childhood growth disorders, genetic abnormalities, juvenile myositis. Nothing fit. Nothing explained the amber flashes in his eyes, the unnatural strength, or the unsettling precognition.
Defeated, she opened a small keepsake box and pulled out the only memento she had from that night six years ago: a matchbook from the Grand Crestwood Hotel. James Wilson. The name felt like a foreign word in her mouth. For six years, she had convinced herself he would not have wanted to be found. But Ryan needed answers she did not have. His father was her last, terrifying hope.
A sharp knock at the door made her jump. It was Henry, his handsome face a mask of concern. “I heard about the incident at school,” he said, holding up a bag of takeout. “I thought you and Ryan might need a quiet night in.” He was always there, always anticipating her needs. It should have been comforting. Instead, it was deeply unsettling.
“How is he?” Henry asked, his gaze sharp and probing as he stepped inside. “Has he been having a lot of… excess energy lately?”
“Something like that,” Emma admitted, her guard firmly in place.
“The new job will be a good thing for you both,” Henry said smoothly, his voice a reassuring balm. “A fresh start. I think you will find the environment there to be very understanding of his unique situation.”
Before Emma could demand to know what he meant, what he knew, he was gone, leaving her with more questions than answers. Later that night, Ryan woke from a nightmare, his body radiating an unnatural heat. He was trembling violently. “I dreamed about a big house with woods,” he whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder. “And there was a man there with eyes just like mine.”
Emma’s heart stopped. The next morning, while cleaning Ryan’s room, she found a crayon drawing on his desk. It was a remarkably detailed sketch of a grand, gothic-style mansion surrounded by a dense, dark forest. It was a place he had never seen, but a place she recognized instantly from the photograph in the job listing Henry had shown her. Her blood ran cold.