Terror

Chapter Twelve

For nearly a year, an invisible barrier had sealed off the town of Simcoe from the outside world.

Now, news reports painted a picture of complete chaos beyond its edges. The media had dubbed it "The Grocery Grab." It was a surreal event where a teenage girl reportedly pulled an entire supermarket in to the barrier.

Witnesses described a seismic blast as the supermarket vanished into the barrier—shockwaves hurled bystanders across streets, shattered windows for blocks, and flattened several parked vehicles. It felt less like a miracle and more like a bomb had gone off.

Dozens were injured—minor scrapes, others clinging to life in critical care. One death had been confirmed, and the number was expected to rise.

The sheer audacity of the act—the invisible, supernatural theft—left even hardened skeptics speechless. Yet in the twisted corners of the internet, admiration bloomed. Within hours, #GroceryGrab was trending worldwide, spawning memes, theories, and instant infamy.

Cassandra. Her name—and her image—were now impossible to avoid. She dominated every social media feed, every headline, and every conspiracy forum.

Twitter was flooded with wild theories, Reddit dissected every blurry frame, and Facebook groups turned into war rooms of speculation.

Whatever she was, this marked the first glimpse the outside world had gotten of life inside Simcoe.

Heather Harp sat frozen in the corner of her husband's hospital room, eyes locked on her phone as she scrolled through endless footage of the chaos. She hadn't been at the scene, but the graphic photos and shaky smartphone clips were seared into her mind.

Ironically, both Jason and Greyson had been there watching and helping. They hadn't stopped the girl. But something in her face, in the way she moved, struck Heather disturbingly familiar.

A slow-down video on YouTube showed the moment again. The girl's gaze cut through the lend like a blade. That wasn't shock in her eyes. It was intent.

"People have speculated, but no one has come up with a solid answer," John said, sitting in a hospital bed.

Her husband, Officer John Inverson lay propped up in a hospital bed. His left arm rested in a sling, and a wide bandage stretched across his forehead. He'd been one of the first responders after the seismic incident—what they are now calling the breach.

"It's not that; it's her looks and that power," Heather explained.

How was she having a normal conversation when she should have realized her twin boys knew each other? They might even know the truth, but Heather didn't.

There was a knock on the hospital door. Roger Bolton stepped in, holding up a thick document.

"I've got something," he said. "You'll want to see this."

They moved into the hallway, settling in two empty chairs near the elevators. The hospital buzzed with quiet urgency—nurses rushed past, visitors whispered nervously, a television blared in the distance.

Roger sat back, flipping the file open slowly. "Her name's Cassandra Russell-Newman."

Heather blinked. "Newman... as in Greyson?"

He nodded. "And Russell. Scarlett's the mother."

The words felt like ice water poured down her spine. "Scarlett Russell and Greyson... had a child?"

"Born inside the barrier. According to a girl named Mallory, she's powerful. Maybe even... dangerous."

Heather looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. "Why didn't anyone know this?"