The night was dark—darker than usual. The kind of dark that made the air feel heavy, like the whole world was holding its breath. There was no wind, no rustling trees, not even the chirp of crickets. Just silence. Then, something stirred. A strange force shifted in the shadows, like something ancient had just opened its eyes.
Lightning cracked through the sky without warning. It wasn't normal lightning. It didn't dance or flicker—it slammed down with fury, wild and violent, striking straight into the small house on the edge of town. It pierced the roof, split the air, and hit the newborn baby lying in his crib.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then the cry came—sharp, loud, raw. It wasn't just a baby's cry. It sounded like something older, deeper... like a scream from a soul that had just been forced awake.
"Olivia, the kid is crying. Can you check on him?" Bryce's voice was groggy, half-asleep.
No answer.
He heard her footsteps, quick and hard, moving through the hallway. Then—
A scream.
Bryce shot up in bed, heart in his throat. "What the hell...?" he muttered, already out of bed, feet slamming the floor. His chest ached with how fast his heart was pounding. He ran, following the scream, his breath caught in his throat.
He reached the baby's room—and froze.
Olivia was on the floor. Blood spread beneath her like spilled paint. Her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing anything. Her body was still. Cold. Gone.
The room was so quiet it hurt. Bryce's ears rang with the silence.
Then he heard it. A giggle.
Slowly, he turned his head. His baby—his newborn son—was sitting up in the crib, giggling. Playing with a toy, like nothing had happened. Like Olivia wasn't lying dead five feet away.
Bryce staggered. His knees almost gave out. His stomach twisted, his head swam. This had to be a nightmare. It had to be. But the blood was real. Olivia was real. And the baby...
He picked him up with trembling hands, holding him close. But the child squirmed, slipping out of his arms like water and darted down the hall.
"Hey! Come back here!" Bryce called, running after him.
He turned the corner—and stopped again.
The baby was sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote, casually flipping through channels like a tiny old man.
Bryce sat down slowly, mind spinning. He pulled the child onto his lap, staring at his little face.
"Let's pick a name, yeah?" he said softly, trying to ground himself. "Liam?"
The baby shook his head.
"Ethan?"
Another no.
"Mason? Logan?"
No. No. No.
Bryce let out a tired laugh. "Alright then. What do you wanna be called?"
The kid's face lit up. He reached for a notebook on the table, grabbed a pencil, and started writing. His tiny hand moved steady, sure. Not like a baby. Like someone who'd done this a thousand times.
He turned the notebook around. One word stared back at Bryce:
Executioner.
Bryce blinked. His chest tightened. He read the word again. Executioner.
The letters burned into his mind.
He looked up. The kid was staring right at him. His green eyes sharp, unreadable. The pencil still in his hand, fingers smudged with graphite.
Bryce felt cold sweat on his neck. How did this baby know that word? His name?
The kid didn't say a word. Just stared.
Bryce's voice came out rough. "What... what does that mean?"
The silence was thick. Unnatural. The baby didn't blink.
Bryce's breath came faster. His hands trembled. The walls felt too close.
"No," he muttered. "No way. I'm not calling you that."
The baby's face shifted. His bottom lip quivered. Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Shhh, hey, it's late," Bryce said quickly, cupping his hand over the kid's mouth. "Don't cry, someone might hear."
And just like that—the tears stopped.
The kid looked at him, calm again. Waiting.
Bryce swallowed. His shoulders slumped.
"...Fine," he whispered. "I'll call you that."
The child smiled. He leaned against Bryce like any normal kid would. Like nothing was wrong. They sat like that, watching TV. Noise filled the silence. After a while, sleep pulled them both under.
Outside, hidden by trees, shadows shifted. Strange figures with grinning faces watched from the darkness.
"That soul... is it cursed?" one asked.
"Or reborn from the lightning god?" another answered.
They giggled like children. Then vanished into the night.
---
6:25 AM. The alarm blared.
Bryce jolted awake on the couch, arms empty.
"Executioner?" he called.
No answer.
He stood, rubbing his face. The house was quiet.
Then he saw it—through the window. The kid was outside, sitting in the yard.
Bryce walked out—and froze.
The boy didn't look like a baby anymore. He looked older now. Maybe three years old. His white hair moved with the wind. His green eyes sparkled as he looked up. He was wearing only boxers.
He was chewing on something.
Bryce walked closer.
His heart stopped.
A cobra. The kid had a cobra in his mouth.
"Put that down! It's dangerous!" Bryce shouted, panic rising.
The kid smiled. Calmly pulled the snake out of his mouth like it was a piece of candy. Then he dropped it, stepped on its head, and crushed it.
He ran up to Bryce, cheerful.
"Bryce, I'm hungry," he said.
Clear as day.
Bryce stared at him, frozen. That voice wasn't a baby's. And how did he know his name?
Still stunned, Bryce scooped him up. His hands were shaking. Everything was spinning. But one thing was clear—Olivia was gone.
And he had to bury her.
He did it himself. Dug the hole. Lowered her in. Covered her body with dirt. Added flowers. Stones. A cross.
Then he knelt. Whispered a prayer. Let the tears fall.
CRASH!
A loud sound from the house.
Bryce stood up fast, wiped his face, and ran.
Maybe it was Executioner playing.
But it wasn't.
A man in a black jacket burst through the window. Glass exploded everywhere. He hit the floor hard, but scrambled up quick.
"HE'S A DEVIL!" the man screamed, eyes wild.
Bryce stepped forward. "Who—"
BANG!
A gunshot split the air.