Demon Hunterz

Chapter 1: The boy who cried ghost

I've always been a fan of horror since as long as I can remember. I lived for the thrills of movies that prey upon the worst in mankind. Where the unknown becomes known. Where the monsters that lay under our bed crawl to life and reach out with their claws. Where shadows and nightmares come to life. I loved the sensation of fear and how the more chills I get, the more I feel the rush of trying to keep it all together.

Of ocurse I know what you might be thinking. Some of you might be groaning at how 'edgy' I sound. A few might even chuckle. Others might say "throw him in a loony bin and throw away the key!". I then heard them all from those at school and from my own sister who has this reputation of saying whatever comes to her mind. Just as speaking the truth is her forte, so is my taste with horror. 

 Anything that involves the supernatural doing what they do best. Scaring the living daylights outta people. Dismembering and slaughtering anything that dare had the guts to oppose them. Turning into werewolves. Normal, everyday joes turning into bloodthirsty vampires overnight who feast on the flesh of the living.  An army of undead, rotten corspes rising from the graves 

I would waste countless Saturdays watching scary movies from daylight to the wee hours of the night. Soaking it all in with a wide-eyed expression and snacks ready at arms-length. Whatever was on that big screen in the living room, if it involved horror, I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

I was never really a fan of seeing the world through peachy, rose-filtered eyes. I thrived to talk about dark subjects. Diving my nose into things that would make most people cringe. Topics like death, serial killers, the occult, horoscopes, ghosts, and anything out of the ordinary is my forte. I even have a ton of books that cover most of what I liked. But to find someone as interested as me is rare nowadays.

Most people would call me weird for liking stuff like that. I simply shrug at them. I can't help that I like guts being spilled on the big screen. The unexpected jump scares. Or to hear those bloodcurdling screams of women being stabbed to death. It's all just entertainment anyways. Not like it's the real deal or anything.

Because I know the real deal. Up close and personal. And let me tell you that nothing those producers dish out can even come close to it. Not in a million years.

Because I can see ghosts.

Ghosts. Spirits. Phantoms. Afterimages. They go by many names. Most have been show as either wispy, almost smoky figures. Who are shown terrorizing the unassuming. Breaking things and wrecking havoc on the saps unfortunate enough to enter their domains.

I on the other hand, am even more unlucky. For I have shared my entire childhood with them. Walking among them. Talking to them. Seeing them on a near day-to-day basis. Men and women from all walks of life. Even children and infants. Hovering around aimlessly. Lost in a world only known to them.

First they came in my dreams. As trails of smoke with barely recognizable human features. Their heads warped and twisted with the faces of the dead. Eyes nothing more than black, bottomless pits. Their mouths twisted into a wide oval. Wailing in silence. Engulfed in the darkness around them.

They would call my name over and over. In a tone barely above a whisper. Yet creepy enough to send chills. Until one day, I decided to hell with constantly waking up bawling my eyes out, and called them out. But every time I confronted them...they simply vanished.