58: The Dread [1]

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The beeping of the heart monitor was steady, almost hypnotic, as Scott's eyelids fluttered open.

Consciousness slowly returned, but with it came a dull ache radiating through his body. He groaned softly, his muscles stiff and sore, every movement a reminder of the previous night's chaos.

"Hey, Scotty," came Stiles' familiar voice, carrying with it a faint attempt at humor. His trademark goofy smile was in place as he leaned forward from the chair beside the hospital bed.

Scott winced as he tried to sit up, his head pounding and his body protesting every movement.

Flashes of memory—blurry and fragmented—flitted through his mind: claws slashing, screams echoing, and blood staining the floors.

He reached up to rub his temples, trying to steady the whirlwind in his head.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse and groggy. His gaze drifted downward, catching sight of the bandages wrapped tightly across his chest and arms.

Stiles sighed, leaning back in his chair, the playful glint in his eyes fading. His expression turned grim, his usual air of lightheartedness replaced with something heavier.

"Last night was, without a doubt, the dumbest thing we've ever done," Stiles said, his voice low and serious. "And, Scott, you know I've done some dumb things—like that time I put laxatives in the sheriff station's espresso machine—but last night? Last night was on a whole other level of stupid. We put people in danger, Scott. A lot of people."

Scott opened his mouth to respond, to defend himself, but no words came. A deep pit of guilt had formed in his chest, swallowing any protests he might have had. He felt the weight of Stiles' words pressing down on him.

"Did the Alpha…" Scott hesitated, dreading the answer. "Did the Alpha kill anyone?"

Stiles looked away, his jaw tightening as he took a deep breath.

"Yes," he said, and Scott's heart plummeted, but before he could fully process the grief, Stiles added, "but no."

"What?" Scott snapped, confusion and frustration flaring up. "That doesn't make any sense, Stiles!"

"The Alpha didn't kill anyone last night," Stiles explained, his voice steady but grim. "But someone else did."

Scott felt his throat tighten, his mind racing to comprehend what Stiles was saying. "Wait… what are you talking about? What do you mean by someone else?"

Stiles met Scott's gaze, his own eyes dark with unease.

"Isaac… he's dead," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Someone stabbed him. Sixteen times."

The air seemed to leave the room as Scott's mind went blank. "I-Isaac is…"

"Dead," Stiles confirmed bluntly. "Whoever killed him knew exactly what they were doing. And Amber? She barely made it out alive. Whoever it was came close to killing her too."

Scott's chest tightened, his breathing uneven as the words sank in. His mind reeled.

"But… how? Who did it?" he asked, his voice rising in desperation.

"I don't know," Stiles admitted, his hands tightening into fists. "But whoever it was, they used the chaos perfectly to get in and out without being caught. This wasn't random, Scott. This wasn't some one-time thing."

He hesitated before adding, "The knife they used… It had a Ghostface symbol etched into the hilt. The same one from Jessica's murder."

Scott's eyes widened as the implication hit him like a freight train. "Are you saying we have a serial killer in Beacon Hills?"

"Yes," Stiles said quietly, his voice heavy with certainty.

Scott exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. "Werewolves, hunters, shapeshifters, and now a serial killer? Can this year get any worse?"

Stiles leaned forward, the humor completely gone from his face. "Scott, listen to me. No more distractions. No more games. Until we deal with the Alpha, we can't afford to focus on anything else."

Scott nodded slowly, the guilt weighing on him heavier than ever.

"Fine," he muttered. "I get it."

He glanced down at the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and arms. His brows furrowed in confusion. "Why am I all wrapped up, though? I thought I healed fast?"

"Not this time," Stiles explained, shaking his head. "Derek told me the wounds inflicted by an Alpha are different. They don't heal like normal injuries. They scar—like a reminder. A punishment for going against the pack. They'll heal as slowly as a regular human's wounds would."

Scott groaned and let himself fall back against the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling in defeat.

"Perfect," he muttered sarcastically.

"What happened to Deaton?" he asked after a moment.

"Derek had to bail," Stiles replied. "The cops surrounded the school, and he was already a suspect. As for Deaton, I managed to convince him not to file a formal complaint. Surprisingly, he didn't put up much of a fight."

Scott let out a deep sigh, shaking his head.

"What a year," he mumbled.

"Tell me about it," Stiles agreed, leaning back in his chair, both boys too exhausted to say anything more.

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Amber's scream pierced the quiet, her breath coming in short gasps as she bolted upright in bed.

Blood was splattered across her face in the flashes of memory playing in her mind.

Her dreams—or perhaps nightmares—had been vivid and relentless, forcing her to relive the events of the previous night over and over again.

She exhaled shakily, trying to calm herself, but the pounding of her heart refused to subside. The room around her felt off, and the air seemed heavier somehow.

Then the lights began to flicker.

She froze, staring at the ceiling as doubt and fear crept into her mind. The flickering grew more erratic, and a strange burning sensation began to spread across her arm.

Amber winced, clutching her arm in pain. The bandages wrapped around it felt suffocating, and she quickly tore them away.

Her breath hitched as she saw the wound—the deep slash that should have taken weeks to heal—beginning to close before her eyes. Bright red fumes rose from her skin, enveloping the wound and sealing it entirely.

"What the…" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The flickering lights became more violent, flashing rapidly as the temperature in the room seemed to rise.

"Amber?" Her mother's voice came from the other side of the door, followed by a gentle knock.

Amber scrambled to rewrap the bandage around her arm, but before she could finish, the lights in the room burst all at once. Shards of glass from the bulbs flew through the air, glittering like deadly rain.

Amber screamed and instinctively threw her arms up to shield herself. But instead of feeling the sharp sting of glass against her skin, she felt nothing.

Her mother burst through the door, panic etched on her face. She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in shock. Amber stood in the center of the room, completely unharmed, her body wrapped in a faint, glowing layer of bright red fumes.

Amber's wide, terrified eyes met her mother's. Her breathing was uneven, and as she looked down at her arms, she noticed that her eyes were glowing crimson in the reflection of the shattered glass.

"Mom," Amber whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Something's happening to me."

Her mother's expression softened as realization dawned on her.