Chapter 3: Shadows in the Daylight

"All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way;"

Isaiah 53:6 (KJV)

Paul sat huddled on his thin mattress, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the cracked ceiling of his tiny, suffocating room. The air felt stale, heavy with the scent of unwashed clothes and the faint trace of damp creeping in from the walls. The curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the space in shadows, but it was better this way. He didn't want to see the outside world—not yet.

He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself back there, lost in that endless, shifting dark. The way the shadows moved, twisting like living nightmares—it made his skin crawl. He hadn't told anyone. Who would believe him?

The sharp buzz of his phone shattered the silence. Paul flinched, his pulse spiking as he fumbled for it, nearly knocking it off the floor. The screen glowed in the dimness.

Dad.

He swallowed hard and pressed the call button. "Hello?"

"Paul!" His father's voice came through, rough but warm, stretching across the miles between them. He always tried to sound cheerful, even when Paul knew he was exhausted. "How's my boy doing?"

"I'm... I'm okay, Dad," Paul answered, forcing steadiness into his voice.

"You sound tired. Studying too hard?" His dad chuckled, but there was a tinge of worry beneath it. "Anyway, just calling to let you know I sent the money. Should be there by now. Make sure you get enough to eat, alright?"

Paul's throat tightened. He could picture him now—sitting in that cramped breakroom down in Davao, probably on his second shift, stretching every peso just to keep sending money his way. Guilt gnawed at Paul's insides.

"Yeah... thanks, Dad."

A pause. Then his father cleared his throat. "Miss your mom today. You know... it's been a while."

Paul didn't answer. The lump in his throat made it impossible.

His dad exhaled softly. "Take care of yourself, son. Don't let the city get to you."

"I will, Dad. Love you."

"Love you too. Call me if you need anything."

The line went dead, but Paul didn't move right away. He just sat there, gripping the phone like a lifeline, willing himself to push past the weight pressing on his chest.

It was Saturday. His dad always sent money on Saturdays. And that meant groceries.

He forced himself up, legs stiff, head pounding. The cracked mirror above the sink caught his reflection—pale skin, sunken eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like a ghost of himself.

Paul grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone into his pocket, and stepped outside.

The air outside was cold, damp, carrying the smell of rain-soaked pavement and exhaust fumes. The sky hung low and gray, casting everything in a dull, lifeless hue.

He made his way down the uneven sidewalk to the corner where the tricycles lined up, their metal frames slick with moisture. A driver—gruff-looking, cigarette clinging to his lips—glared at him through the haze of smoke curling from his mouth.

"Where to?" the man grunted.

Paul hesitated. "Just the store on Third."

The driver didn't respond—just jerked his head toward the sidecar. Paul climbed in, the seat damp against his jeans. The tricycle's engine sputtered to life, coughing up a low growl as they lurched forward.

The ride was tense. The driver muttered under his breath, hands gripping the handlebars tighter than necessary. He took the turns too sharply, swerved around potholes with aggressive jerks. The whole time, Paul kept his head down, gripping his knees, trying to ignore the way the city felt off—as if something unseen lurked beneath the surface, just waiting to reach out and pull him under.

When they reached the corner store, Paul scrambled out, digging for the fare in his pocket. He held out the coins, but the driver snatched them roughly, his glare sharp.

"Lazy kids with no respect," the man muttered before revving the engine and speeding off, leaving a splash of dirty water in his wake.

Paul stood there, watching the tricycle disappear down the street, his stomach twisting. He hadn't done anything. Hadn't said anything. But the city—the people—felt different lately. Meaner.

Like something unseen was whispering in their ears.

Paul swallowed down his nerves and stepped into the store, where the familiar hum of old fans and the flickering fluorescent lights greeted him. The air inside was thick with the scent of stale bread and cheap detergent, but something else hung in the atmosphere—something heavy, tense, like the entire place was holding its breath.

At the counter, a confrontation was already brewing.

Shaundrey—a broad-shouldered man with a permanent scowl—was leaning over the counter, his fist slamming down hard enough to rattle the register.

"What do you mean it's not here?" he bellowed, voice raw with frustration. "I sent the order in last week!"

The young cashier flinched, her hands gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "S-sir, I told you... we didn't get any shipment yesterday." Her voice was small, trembling.

Shaundrey let out a curse, kicking over a basket of snacks. A pack of crackers skidded across the tile floor, landing at Paul's feet. He barely noticed—his eyes were locked on the scene in front of him, heart hammering.

Shaundrey turned to storm out, but his glare landed on Paul, who had just picked up a bag of rice.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped, his voice dripping with hostility.

Paul quickly dropped his gaze. "Sorry," he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Shaundrey scoffed, shoving past him as he stormed out the door, grumbling about "useless idiots everywhere."

Paul let out a slow breath, relieved the man's anger wasn't directed at him any longer. But as the door swung shut behind Shaundrey, something flickered at the edge of Paul's vision.

A shadow. Not a normal one.

It slipped out the door after Shaundrey, stretching unnaturally along the sidewalk, dragging long, clawed fingers against the pavement as it followed him.

Paul's stomach twisted with fear.

He knew what that meant.

The memory of the alley—the blood, the impossible claw marks, the creeping darkness—flashed through his mind. He had seen those shadows move before. He knew what they could do.

His breath hitched. He needed to go. Now.

Paul grabbed his change from the cashier, shoved the money into his pocket, and bolted from the store. He didn't look back. Didn't dare see if the shadows had noticed him.

He just ran.

Ran until his lungs burned and his legs ached, until the sound of his own pounding footsteps drowned out the whispers in the wind. When he finally reached his apartment, he collapsed against the door, breathless, heart racing, trying to force away the terror clawing at his mind.

The sun should have been up by now, but its light barely pierced the thick, swirling clouds. Everything was trapped in an unnatural dimness, a gray twilight that stretched into the daylight hours.

The city felt wrong.

People moved through the streets, but their footsteps were hurried, their shoulders hunched as if expecting something to strike from the darkness. The once-bustling market was eerily subdued—vendors spoke in hushed tones, their eyes flicking toward the alleyways. Even the stray dogs, usually noisy and territorial, now slunk against the walls, tails tucked, ears pinned back, sensing something far worse than hunger lurking nearby.

And the shadows...

They were different.

They pooled thick in every alleyway, viscous and slow-moving, curling like ink bleeding into the cracks of the pavement. They gathered beneath cars, stretched up walls, coiled under stairwells—watching. Waiting.

The streetlamps flickered, their weak light barely pushing back the creeping blackness. When the bulbs sputtered out completely, the darkness fell like a suffocating wave, and the air turned sharp and cold. People walked faster past those spots, eyes forward, refusing to look too long.

No one lingered where the shadows were too thick.

At the intersection near the old bus depot, a group of young men were arguing—loud voices, sharp words, fists clenched. But even as their tempers flared, there was something in the way they moved, something nervous. Their gazes flickered toward the darkness pooling beneath the stairs.

One of them cursed, pointing toward the shadows. "That just moved, man. I swear to God, it moved."

No one checked.

They scattered instead, their fight forgotten.

Shaundrey pushed open the creaky metal gate of the abandoned lot, his four friends trailing behind him, each carrying plastic bags filled with cheap beer. Their laughter was loud, forced, an attempt to drown out the unease that had settled over the city like a thick fog.

"Damn city's gettin' weird," one of them muttered, shooting a glance over his shoulder. "Feels like night ain't supposed to come yet."

No one disagreed.

Shaundrey said nothing, just popped open a bottle, and took a long, slow drink. But deep down, he felt it too. The same tension, the same wrongness that had been creeping in for weeks.

He just didn't care.

Or at least, he pretended not to.

He turned away from the streets, from the heavy clouds and dying light, from the creeping sense of dread that seemed to be pressing in on the city from all sides.

And he didn't see the shadows—not the ones moving normally.

He didn't see the ones that shifted when no one was watching.

Didn't notice the long, clawed fingers stretching out from the darkness behind him.

Not until it was too late.

Shaundrey scoffed. "Quit your whining. We're here to drink, not talk about the freakin' weather."

They moved deeper into the alley, where the pavement cracked like old bones beneath their feet. The air was thick—too still, like the city itself was holding its breath. Trash crunched under their shoes, plastic wrappers whispering as they stirred in the breeze.

Ahead, the lone streetlamp flickered weakly, its glow failing to cut through the thickening dark.

Then it died.

"What the hell?" one of the guys muttered, taking a swig from his bottle.

Another lamp sputtered, then winked out. Then another. Like dominoes, each struggling for life before darkness swallowed them whole.

One of Shaundrey's friends chuckled, forcing bravado. "Man, this place is cursed. Can't even keep the lights on."

Shaundrey barked a laugh, pushing down the unease crawling up his spine. "Nah, just some power line crap. Let's keep mov—"

The sound of tearing flesh cut him off.

A wet, gurgling noise.

Shaundrey spun just in time to see Rick stagger backward, eyes wide with something between confusion and agony. His hands clutched his stomach—no, what was left of it—as blood poured between his fingers. His mouth moved soundlessly, trying to form words that would never come.

Behind him, something shifted.

Something massive, its shape-shifting like liquid night, coiled in the shadows. Clawed fingers glinted in the dim light. Before Rick could make a sound, those claws plunged through his chest, twisting—pulling—until his body folded backward, a lifeless marionette with severed strings.

The others froze.

Then the shadow moved again—an ink-black blur—and Marco was yanked upward. His throat gurgled, his feet kicked uselessly, then—snap. His head twisted at an unnatural angle before his body dropped to the concrete with a sickening thud.

Shaundrey's breath caught in his throat. His pulse roared in his ears.

"Run!" he bellowed.

They bolted.

Feet pounded against the pavement, slipping over trash and shattered glass. Breath came in short, ragged gasps, burning their lungs.

The shadows moved faster.

A claw lashed out, slicing through Shaundrey's side. He hissed in pain, warm blood seeping through his shirt, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

A scream tore through the alley—Jared's.

Shaundrey risked a glance back just in time to see his friend lifted off the ground, a razor-sharp claw slicing down his spine. His body split open like a butcher's carcass, blood spraying the walls.

Luis didn't even get a chance to scream.

A shadowy beast—its form shifting like living smoke—pounced. Jagged claws caught Luis's legs, yanking him down. His fingers clawed at the pavement, his mouth forming silent pleas. Then he was gone, dragged into the black.

Shaundrey kept running.

Ahead, a building loomed in the distance, its outline barely visible through the gloom. A church. The sign read: Great Commission Missionary Baptist Church.

The light from its doorway burned steady and bright—unlike the flickering streetlamps, this light did not die.

Shaundrey's instincts screamed at him. Run. Get to the light.

His legs burned. His side throbbed. His breath hitched.

But he ran.

As he stumbled across the threshold, the shadows recoiled. They shrank back like wounded animals, curling away from the church's glow.

Shaundrey collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping onto the stone steps.

Silence.

No more screams. No more tearing flesh. Just the quiet hum of the city and the faint pattern of rain beginning to fall.

Slowly, Shaundrey turned.

Beyond the light's edge, the darkness pulsed, alive and watching.

Then—eyes.

Dozens of them.

Glowing red, blinking in unison, set deep within the writhing shadows.

They whispered. Low, hungry murmurs, scraping at the edges of his sanity. Clawed hands stretched forward, stopping just shy of the light.

Waiting.

A door creaked open behind him.

Pastor Joseph stepped out, his hand gripping the frame. Behind him, Mariz—his heavily pregnant wife—peered out, her expression lined with worry.

"Hey! Are you alright, son?" Pastor Joseph's deep voice was steady, and calm, despite the alarm in his eyes.

Shaundrey tried to speak, but only a hoarse croak escaped. He coughed, tasting iron, and forced the words out. "Th-they... they're dead... My friends... they're all dead..."

Mariz stepped forward, one hand protectively on her belly. "Joseph, he's hurt! Look at his side!"

The pastor knelt beside him, careful not to startle him. "Easy, son. You're safe here. What happened?"

Shaundrey's eyes darted to the alley. The shadows still loomed, restless, pacing just outside the light.

"They... they came out of the dark..." His voice was barely a whisper. "Claws... they tore them apart..."

Pastor Joseph exchanged a worried glance with Mariz.

She was already dialing emergency services. "Please hurry," she said. "He's badly hurt... There might be more injured."

The pastor turned back to Shaundrey, his gaze steady. "Who did this to your friends?"

Shaundrey swallowed hard. His hands trembled. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

"N-not people... shadows... monsters..." His voice cracked. "They killed them all..."

Pastor Joseph tensed, his jaw tightening. Slowly, he glanced toward the night, toward the writhing, restless dark beyond the church's glow.

A deep breath.

Then, softly:

"You're safe now."

But even as he said it, his eyes remained fixed on the shadows.

Because he knew—

This was only the beginning.

By the time the ambulance and police arrived, Shaundrey was wrapped in a blanket, shaking violently and unresponsive. His eyes were wide, staring at nothing, his lips moving in soundless murmurs. The paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher while officers strung yellow crime scene tape around the area.

Floodlights flickered to life, casting harsh beams over the church's steps and the alley beyond. But even with the artificial glow, the darkness past the tape felt… wrong.

Detective Greg Morales arrived moments later, pushing through the small crowd gathering outside the perimeter. His partner, Harriette Velasquez, followed close behind, her hand resting near her holstered firearm. Greg exchanged a quick nod with a uniformed officer.

"What do we got?" Greg asked, scanning the scene with sharp eyes.

The officer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guy over there—" he nodded toward Shaundrey, still trembling under the blanket, "—says his friends were attacked. Claims they're dead somewhere down that alley." The officer shifted uncomfortably. "But he's talking crazy. Says shadows killed them."

Greg frowned. "Shadows?"

A voice cut in. "Detective."

Greg turned to see Pastor Joseph approaching cautiously, his face lined with worry. "He's telling the truth."

Harriette crossed her arms. "Truth? You mean about the shadows?"

Joseph hesitated, his gaze flickering to the alley entrance. Even with the floodlights, the darkness there seemed thicker—deeper. Hungrier.

"I don't know what it was," the pastor admitted. "But there was… something out there. I could feel it. Something evil."

Harriette exchanged a glance with Greg.

Greg exhaled sharply. "We'll check it out. Stay inside with your wife."

Pastor Joseph gave a reluctant nod, ushering Mariz back into the church. As the door shut behind them, Greg pulled a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on.

"Let's go."

The alley swallowed them.

Their flashlights cut narrow beams through the gloom, bouncing off rusted dumpsters and shattered glass. A faint whispering sound drifted through the air, low and guttural, curling at the edges of their hearing.

"Wind," Harriette muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Greg wasn't convinced.

The further they moved in, the colder the air became. Not the kind of chill from a late-night breeze—this was wrong. It pressed against their skin, seeped into their bones.

Then Greg saw it.

Blood. A smeared trail leading toward a dark corner of the alley.

His stomach tightened as his flashlight followed the path. Then—

A body.

Or what was left of one.

One of Shaundrey's friends lay sprawled against the concrete, his torso ripped open as if something had burrowed through him. Entrails spilled onto the pavement, still glistening under the light. Deep, jagged gashes carved through muscle and bone, and his face—his face—was frozen in wide-eyed terror.

Harriette turned away, swallowing hard. "Jesus Christ…"

Greg forced himself to step closer, inspecting the wounds. No blade had done this. No animal, either. The cuts were too deep, too precise, yet messy—as if something had torn through flesh just to watch it rip.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

Then, at the very edge of his vision, something moved.

He snapped his flashlight toward it—

Nothing.

Just a stretch of brick wall and a slumped trash can.

But the shadows there… rippled.

Like they were breathing.

Coiled. Waiting.

Greg's grip on his flashlight tightened. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.

Then he felt it.

A presence. Watching. Studying. Hungry.

The temperature dropped sharply, his breath puffing white in the air.

The whispering sound returned, curling around them like fingers on the back of the neck.

Greg exhaled, slow and measured, masking the tension flooding his veins.

"Harriette," he murmured, never taking his eyes off the darkness.

She heard the shift in his tone. Her hand instinctively went to her gun.

"What?" she whispered.

Greg's jaw clenched.

"We're not alone."

Greg turned to Harriette, his voice low and firm. "Call for backup. Now."

As she reached for her radio, a chilling hiss slithered through the alley, cutting through the distant wail of sirens and city noise.

Then—

Flicker.

All at once, the lights faltered.

The floodlights. Their flashlights. Even the glow from the church windows behind them.

The darkness pulsed, stretching like a living thing, reaching, curling.

Greg's pulse spiked. He tightened his grip on his gun, forcing himself to swallow the ice forming in his gut. "What the hell are we dealing with?"

The alley felt wrong like the air had been sucked out, leaving only the stench of blood and something worse—something foul and ancient. The grotesque remains of Shaundrey's friends lay sprawled at his feet, their bodies reduced to unrecognizable husks.

Harriette took a shaky breath behind him. "Dispatch, this is Officer Velasquez. We need immediate assistance at—"

Click.

A lighter flared somewhere ahead.

Greg turned sharply, his flashlight cutting through the thick shadows.

There—just around the corner—stood Officer Miller, leaning casually against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Miller!" Greg barked. "Get your ass over here. This isn't break time."

Miller took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the gloom. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, flicking ash onto the cracked pavement. "Just needed a smoke to—"

His words strangled into silence.

The shadows at his feet moved.

Greg's breath hitched.

At first, it was subtle—the way ink spreads through water. Then—

It lunged.

A black tendril snapped up, wrapping around Miller's ankle. His cigarette fell from his lips, still burning as it hit the pavement.

"Miller—move!" Greg shouted, already raising his gun.

Too late.

The shadow twisted upward, coiling around Miller's throat like living tar. His eyes bulged. His fingers clawed at the darkness, but it was like trying to grasp smoke.

The black mass poured into his mouth, his nostrils—his eyes—choking him from the inside.

Muffled, wet gurgles were all that escaped his throat before his jaw snapped open—wider than humanly possible.

The darkness pulled.

Miller's body jerked violently, then—

CRACK.

His spine folded backward at an unnatural angle.

His limbs spasmed—then snapped like brittle twigs.

Blood sprayed across the brick wall, splattering Greg's boots.

Harriette gasped, stumbling back, her breath coming in ragged bursts. "Jesus Christ—"

Miller's mangled body crumpled to the ground, a lifeless heap of ruined flesh.

The shadow slithered back into the pavement, retreating into the cracks as if satisfied.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Even the city felt distant—like the alley had become something separate from reality.

Harriette's voice trembled. "Greg... what the hell was that?"

Greg didn't answer. Couldn't. His mind raced, trying to put together something logical—anything that could explain what he'd just witnessed.

The radio in Harriette's hand crackled. But neither of them moved to respond.

The air pressed against them, suffocating, thick with the scent of iron and decay.

Greg forced his shaking fingers to pull out his phone. He didn't think. Just dialed.

The line rang once.

Then—

A voice. Gruff. Impatient. "Yeah?"

Greg's throat felt raw. "It's Morales," he said, his voice hoarse. "We've got a problem. You need to see this. It's... not human."

A long pause.

Then—

"Who is this?"

Greg clenched his jaw. "Detective Greg Morales. We've got dead officers. It's worse than we thought. I'm requesting immediate lockdown procedures. Now."

A slow exhale on the other end.

Then, finally: "Understood."

Greg hung up.

Harriette was still staring at Miller's broken body, barely breathing. "Who... was that?" she whispered.

Greg slid the phone back into his pocket, his fingers still trembling. He forced himself to meet her eyes.

"The Mayor."

Her breath hitched.

He nodded grimly. "He needs to see this himself."

He glanced back at the alley, where the shadows seemed to watch.

Whatever this was—

It was spreading.

And they weren't prepared for it.