Chapter 8: The Gathering Storm

It was late morning, closer to eleven, when Lucas stepped out of the bathroom. His hair clung to his forehead, damp from the shower, and a fresh set of clothes hung loosely on his frame. In one hand, he clutched a plastic bag, tightly knotted at the top. A faint tremor danced in his fingers, but he shook it off, pushing forward as he headed toward the stairs.

The mansion was eerily quiet, the stillness pressing in on him. But as he descended the staircase, the faint hum of activity from the kitchen caught his attention. Ms. Thomson shouldn't be here this late, should she?

He rounded the corner, spotting her bustling around the kitchen. She was placing a plate on the counter—cake, from the looks of it—while humming softly to herself. For a brief moment, Lucas froze. The bag suddenly felt heavier in his hand, its contents like a secret whispering to him.

Ms. Thomson glanced up, her face brightening with a smile. "Oh, Lucas! Didn't think you were still in the house," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Lucas blinked, momentarily thrown off before he quickly regained his composure, offering a faint smile. "Yeah, I was... busy upstairs." His eyes flicked to the cake.

"Oh, this?" Ms. Thomson caught his gaze and laughed. "Mrs. Morton's request. But I made extra. Want a slice?"

For a moment, the bag in Lucas's hand didn't exist. The pull of the forest, the lingering memory of last night's thrill—it all faded away as his focus zeroed in on the cake. He hadn't even realized he'd taken a step closer until she slid the plate across the counter.

"Here you go, sweetheart," she said with a chuckle, clearly amused by the boy's sudden enthusiasm.

"Thanks." Lucas's voice was softer than usual as he grabbed the plate. He started toward the stairs but stopped, glancing back at Ms. Thomson. She had already turned her attention back to her task, humming again as if he weren't even there.

The bag brushed against his leg as he ascended the staircase, and the warmth he'd briefly felt from the cake dissolved into the familiar weight of the bag. Back in his room, Lucas shut the door behind him and placed the plate on his desk.

He dropped the bag by the foot of his bed, staring at it for a long moment. His fingers twitched, involuntarily curling into a fist. For now, the cake would distract him, but the whispers of the forest, the tug of his darker urges—they hadn't left him. They were merely waiting, growing stronger with every passing second.

Lucas sat on the edge of his bed, picking at the cake. Each bite tasted sweet, almost too sweet, as though it were mocking him. His mind wandered back to the woods, to the fresh air, the scent of the trees, the thrill of what he'd done.

As the clock ticked toward nightfall, his hand twitched again.

---

A knock at his door made him stiffen.

"Lucas?"

He opened it to find Violet Morton standing there, her arms crossed, lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her posture was stiff, the air between them charged with an unspoken tension.

"We need to talk," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her tone was clipped, like she was reading lines from a script she didn't care about.

Lucas frowned but said nothing. He moved to his bed and sat down, watching her pace with guarded eyes.

"You've been distant lately," she remarked, glancing around the room, her gaze flitting from corner to corner as though searching for something she could hold against him. "Everyone's noticed. It's not helping... anything."

Lucas tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Did you rehearse that, or are you just naturally bad at pretending to care?"

Violet faltered for a split second, but quickly masked it with a tight smile. "I'm just saying, if you keep this up, you'll find yourself... alone."

Her words landed harder than she intended, but Lucas didn't let it show. He leaned back, eyes cold. "I think I'll survive."

She sighed, clearly frustrated, but it only fueled her resolve. "Fine. Be that way. But don't think for a second that everyone else is as patient as I am."

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught on something—something out of place. The bag.

Her gaze snapped to it, suspicion clouding her features.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice laced with caution as she took a step toward the bed.

Lucas's heart skipped. He knew what was inside. He couldn't let her near it. Without thinking, he rose quickly, grabbing the bag before she could get too close.

"Yeah, it's mine," he said, his voice sharp and too defensive. His grip tightened on the bag, almost as if shielding it from her.

Violet paused, raising an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by his sudden rudeness. She studied him for a moment, the smile fading from her face. "Well," she said, coolly, "there's no need to be so defensive. It's just a bag."

Lucas's gaze hardened. "I don't like people touching my things," he muttered, the tremor creeping back into his fingers.

Violet's expression shifted, her smile replaced by something sharper—an acknowledgment of the distance between them.

"You know," she said with a sigh, "that behavior isn't going to help you. Not here."

With that, she turned on her heel, her words lingering in the air as the door clicked shut behind her.

Lucas didn't move for a moment. His gaze lingered on the door, his breath slow and steady.

____

As night fell, the mansion grew quiet, its silence broken only by the occasional creak of the old house settling. Lucas lay still in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the pull of the forest gnawing at him. He couldn't resist it any longer. The call of the trees, the thrill of the hunt—it was all too much to ignore.

Lucas slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound. He moved toward the window, the moonlight illuminating the cool expanse of trees beyond. He could feel the weight of the forest pulling at him, a siren's call he had long learned to obey.

He opened the window, letting the crisp night air wash over him. The faint rustle of the leaves sounded distant, like the forest itself was calling to him. Without hesitation, Lucas climbed out of the window, his feet finding the trellis with practiced ease. He descended swiftly, landing lightly on the ground. The mansion behind him seemed to vanish into the night as he moved toward the woods.

The cool earth pressed beneath his boots as he walked deeper into the forest. A feeling of unease crept through the air, the forest dense and alive with dark energy. Yet, to Lucas, it felt like home—a place where he could be free, detached, and unstoppable.

In his gloved hand, Lucas held a flashlight, its beam cutting through the thick darkness. The shadows twisted around him, but it didn't matter. He knew these woods well—how to move through them, how to find what he wanted. As he stepped carefully over roots and under low-hanging branches, his mind remained sharp, focused. The whispers in his mind urged him on, but it wasn't just the whispers that guided him. He had marked his path—small, deliberate scratches on trees, faintly visible to his trained eye.

The deer wouldn't be far. He knew where to look.

When he reached the clearing, the sight of the lifeless body of the deer sent a thrill through him. The moon hung low, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The pale light reflected off the animal's still form, making the clearing feel more like a stage, as if everything was set just for him.

He approached with the flashlight . The deer's body lay as still in death.A small, satisfied smile curled on Lucas's lips. It was perfect.

Without hesitation, he reached down, his gloved hands feeling the soft, damp hide. His knife, hidden in the folds of his hoodie, slid easily into his grip. He flicked the blade open, the sharp edge gleaming in the moonlight.

Lucas took a deep breath, his heart thumping as he positioned the knife at the deer's flank. He could almost taste the anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he cut through the skin, the blade slicing cleanly, leaving a thin trail of crimson. The meat was warm under his touch, slick with blood, but he felt nothing. Only satisfaction. This was what he wanted.

The flesh parted easily, and he worked his way deeper, the sound of the knife cutting through the skin harsh in the quiet of the forest. His breath grew steady as he carefully worked to expose the bone beneath. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

After a few moments of wrestling with the carcass, Lucas found it—a thick, sturdy bone, large enough to fit into the jar he had brought. It was lodged deep inside, stubborn, refusing to give way. But Lucas didn't mind the challenge. With a grunt of effort, he twisted and pulled, finally dislodging the bone with a sharp snap. A jolt of satisfaction ran through him as he held it in his hand, the bone cool and heavy, the weight of it fitting perfectly into the jar.

He wiped his gloved hands on the grass and carefully placed the bone into the jar, sealing it tight with a soft click. The hunt was over. He had what he came for.

With the jar in hand, Lucas surveyed the scene one last time. The deer lay there, still and forgotten, its blood staining the ground. He didn't care. It was the thrill of the chase that mattered.

As he moved through the trees, he discarded the bag, hiding it beneath the leaves, just as he had done before. His markings were still there, faint and subtle, a silent trail only he could follow.

As Lucas emerged from the forest, the cool night air felt like a welcome relief from the thick, oppressive shadows of the woods. The thrill of the hunt still buzzed under his skin, but the moment he set his eyes on the mansion, he felt that familiar weight of reality settle back in. The back entrance came into view, and there, standing perfectly framed in the doorway, was Mr. Morton. His suit looked freshly pressed, like he'd just gotten home from work. Perfect timing, Lucas thought sarcastically, his pulse quickening at the unexpected encounter.

Lucas's mind raced as he instinctively hid the jar behind his back, the cold glass pressing against his skin. His fingers tightened around it, even though the action was unnecessary now. His gloves were long gone, discarded back in the forest along with the remains of his hunt. He wore only a black hoodie now, the darkness of the fabric blending seamlessly with the night.

Mr. Morton's eyes locked onto Lucas, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Out late, aren't we?" he asked, his tone tinged with something close to annoyance. "What were you doing in the woods?"

Lucas remained still, his heart thudding in his chest, but his face gave nothing away. He could feel the weight of the jar pressing against his side, the evidence of his twisted find, but he masked it with an almost casual shrug. "Just taking a walk," he said, his voice cool but slightly defensive, trying to play it off as nothing.

Mr. Morton didn't look convinced. His eyes narrowed as they flicked toward the hand Lucas had carefully placed behind his back. "A walk?" His voice was skeptical now, his gaze never leaving Lucas. "At this hour in the woods? And what's that you're hiding?"

Lucas tensed. The sharpness of Mr. Morton's question made his insides coil, but he fought to keep his composure. He stood ungurarded—unlike the last time they'd met—but something in the older man's presence made Lucas feel an unsettling itch under his skin. He tried to cover it with a forced nonchalance. "It's nothing," he said, his tone colder this time, a faint edge of irritation creeping in. "Just leave me alone."

Mr. Morton's expression darkened, and the air between them thickened. "Don't take that tone with me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I asked you a question."

Lucas's grip tightened around the jar, but he didn't move. His eyes met Mr. Morton's with a challenge in them, a quiet defiance. He had no intention of letting the man see what he was hiding.

Lucas's frustration boiled over. "I don't have to explain myself to you!"

Mr. Morton's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "You're pushing your luck, Lucas. I'm giving you one chance to cooperate. Show me what you've got there."

The tension thickened between them, each word sharp as a blade. Lucas's defiance clashed with Mr. Morton's unflinching resolve. As Lucas glared, his anger surged. "Why do you always have to interfere? Can't you just mind your own business?"

Mr. Morton's lips thinned, but his gaze lingered a moment too long on Lucas. It wasn't quite a stare—it was as if he were trying to understand something he couldn't quite place. "I will not tolerate such behavior. You will come to my study in a few minutes so we can discuss your actions and attitude."

Lucas felt a flush of heat creep up his neck, a combination of humiliation and rage. He wanted to argue further, but the weight of Mr. Morton's authority kept him rooted. "Fine," he bit out, the word like acid in his throat. "I'll be there."

Mr. Morton gave him a final, cool glance before heading back inside. Lucas stood motionless for a moment, staring after him. His mind was already working, his thoughts jagged, shifting. The jar hidden at his side felt heavier than it had before.

With a grimace, Lucas made his way upstairs, the knot in his stomach growing tighter with every step. Once inside his room, he yanked the jar from his pocket, hiding it under a pile of clothes in the drawer. The brief thrill from his earlier experiment still buzzed at the edges of his mind, but now, it was overshadowed by the looming confrontation with Mr. Morton.

He paced, irritation swirling in him like a storm, the darkness stirring just beneath his thoughts. You don't have to do this, it whispered. They don't matter.

"Shut up," Lucas muttered aloud, shoving the words back down. The silence that followed was deafening.

He didn't need anyone, least of all Mr. Morton, prying into his thoughts, his actions. Still, the idea of the man's scrutiny lingered like a shadow. Lucas ran his hand through his hair, the voices in his head growing louder, but he clamped down on them. He had no time for them now.

You are stronger than all of them, the darkness purred.

Lucas shot a quick glance at the jar hidden in his drawer. He wasn't afraid. Not of Mr. Morton. Not of anyone.

With a deep breath, he made his way down the hall. He wasn't running from this. He would face it head-on.

He knocked at the door of Mr. Morton's study. The sound echoed through the hallway with ominous finality.

"Come in," Mr. Morton's voice came from inside, cool and controlled.

Lucas opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. The scent of old wood and books filled his nose. Mr. Morton stood behind his desk, impeccably dressed in his suit, an air of quiet authority surrounding him. It struck Lucas how at ease he seemed, a stark contrast to the tension crackling in the air.

"Have a seat," Mr. Morton said, his tone neutral but carrying a subtle insistence. His gaze held on Lucas a beat longer than necessary, his eyes not just questioning, but... measuring.

Lucas sat down as he forced himself to appear relaxed, but his chest tightened with unease.

"So," Mr. Morton began, leaning forward slightly, his voice smooth but with an underlying edge, "I want to understand what you were doing out there tonight."

Lucas's pulse quickened. He gripped the edge of the chair, his mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn't give anything away. "I already told you. I was just... exploring."

Mr. Morton's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his lips pressing together in a way that almost suggested amusement. "Exploring, hmm? And what did you find?" His voice lingered on the last word.

Lucas shifted in his seat, the room suddenly too small. He could feel Mr. Morton's gaze on him, a weight that dug into his skin. "I found some things. It doesn't concern you."

Mr. Morton's expression tightened, but he didn't look away. "On the contrary, it does concern me. I'm responsible for you, after all."

Something in Mr. Morton's eyes flickered with something lustful almost to Lucas,but he tried to convince himself that was impossible.However his gaze still made his skin prickle. It wasn't just concern—there was something more. A strange intensity.

"I want to make sure you're safe," Mr. Morton continued, his voice lowering, becoming softer. "Sometimes, people get lost in their own darkness. It's important to have someone to talk to."

Lucas's throat tightened. The words felt too close, too personal. "I don't need a babysitter," he shot back, his voice harder than he intended.

Mr. Morton's eyes softened, but there was a shift in his expression, something Lucas couldn't quite decipher. "I'm not here to be a babysitter, Lucas. I'm here to help you understand yourself. To guide you." His gaze lingered, unsettlingly gentle. "I'm here to be your father."

Lucas recoiled, the word 'father' echoing in his mind, a jagged knife of discomfort. The way Mr. Morton looked at him made him feel exposed, like he was a specimen under a microscope.

"I don't need your guidance," Lucas said quickly, trying to mask the unease creeping up his spine. His voice came out sharper than he meant. "I'm fine on my own."

For a moment, Mr. Morton's gaze didn't waver, his eyes unblinking, as if measuring every fiber of Lucas's being. "You know, Lucas," he said, voice softer now, almost coaxing, "sometimes it's easier to let someone else help you find your way. Especially when you're struggling with things that are difficult to express."

Lucas wanted to leave. The room felt like it was closing in, the air too thick. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to face whatever strange game Mr. Morton was playing.

"Is that all?" Lucas asked, his voice colder now, more dismissive. "Can I go now?"

Mr. Morton hesitated, his eyes dark with something Lucas couldn't identify. "For now, yes. But I want you to think about what we've discussed. Consider what you might be hiding from yourself."

Lucas stood abruptly, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere. "I'll think about it," he muttered, his voice stiff. "Good night."

As he turned to leave, Mr. Morton's voice followed him, soft but firm. "Good night, Lucas. And remember, I'm always here if you need someone to talk to."

The door clicked shut behind Lucas, and he walked quickly back to his room, his heart hammering in his chest.

Back in his room, Lucas retrieved the jar from its hiding place, his mind spinning. The strange, unsettling encounter had left him rattled in ways he couldn't quite explain.

Lucas sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers curling around the jar. The darkness buzzed at the edges of his consciousness, but he refused to let it overwhelm him. He could keep control. He could play the game, and he would do it on his terms.

With a decisive breath, he tucked the jar back in its hiding place.