Scene 1: “Graduation or Transformation?”
I never thought I’d live to see graduation day.
Mostly because at least six ancient scrolls predicted I wouldn’t.
Also because vampires, werewolves, and personal growth are all aggressively anti-survival in their own special ways.
But here I was.
Standing on the scorched grass of Blood River High’s football field-slash-consecrated summoning circle, wearing a graduation robe that may or may not have been enchanted by three witches and a Pinterest board, squinting into the foggy mid-morning sun while a lich handed out diplomas with brittle fingers and the occasional puff of ectoplasm.
“TODD HAWKINS,” the Principal croaked, voice echoing across the magically reinforced speakers.
I stepped forward. My gown caught a breeze. My left shoe levitated. My tattoo hummed.
Standard Tuesday.
The crowd of parents, vampires, and rogue spirits let out an awkward cheer.
Jessie howled. Rachel clapped with just enough sarcasm to qualify as affection.
Principal Grudge—now fully out of the crypt, skin pale as printer paper and wearing a mortarboard stapled to his bony scalp—looked me dead in the eye and rasped:
“Some of you will go to college. Some of you will rule cursed kingdoms. Todd… you’ll be fine.”
Then he handed me three things:
- A diploma made of recycled spell parchment
- A glowing scroll tied with a hair from a unicorn (probably synthetic)
- A vial labeled “Liquid Potential,” which shimmered like a promise and smelled like caffeinated destiny
I held them like they might explode. Which, to be fair, they still might.
“Thanks?” I said.
The diploma burst into glitter.
The scroll screamed briefly. The vial burped.
And suddenly—I was glowing again.
Great.
Rachel leaned over from her seat and muttered, “Every time you get handed something ceremonial, it either combusts or curses a square mile.”
“Tradition,” I whispered.
Jessie threw me a thumbs-up and mouthed: YOU’RE SPARKLING, BRO.
I stared at the crowd, eyes leaking soft prophecy glow, diploma fragments floating around me like the opening scene of a Netflix Original I never asked to star in.
My robe flared in the wind.
The sky cracked open just a little.
I whispered to myself:
“Do I get student loans with this transformation?”
—
TODD’S FINAL CEREMONIAL TALLY:
– Robe: haunted ?
– Diploma: technically exploded ?
– Scroll: possibly cursed ?
– Potion: almost drank it, stopped just in time ?
– Prophecy glow: pulsing tastefully ?
– Public humiliation: standard ?
—
We posed for pictures next.
Rachel stood like a gothic statue, holding her diploma in one hand and a ceremonial dagger in the other, eyeliner even sharper than usual.
Jessie, shirtless under his robe (because of course), held up both arms and growled at the sky like he’d just won “Best Upper Body in a Supernatural Disaster.”
Mrs. Grimsbane the librarian photobombed everyone by appearing behind them in bursts of raven feathers and whispering, “You’re all still cursed.”
Jessie licked his diploma.
Rachel stabbed hers into a patch of crabgrass.
I just held mine, smiled awkwardly, and wondered if I’d ever be normal again.
Spoiler: No.
But in that moment?
With glitter in the air, enchantments humming, my heart beating like a song only weird kids hear in their sleep?
I felt... okay.
Maybe even proud.
—
After the ceremony, Principal Grudge floated away toward his crypt with a wave and a final announcement:
“Remember, Class of Bite Me—never drink potions you can’t pronounce.”
The crowd applauded. Someone released doves. They turned into bats mid-flight. Classic.
I looked around one last time.
At the school. The stage. The friends.
My cursed diploma still smoking faintly in my hand.
And I thought:
I did it.
I survived supernatural puberty.
I kissed (and got dumped by) a vampire.
I howled at the moon with my best friend.
I accidentally joined a prophecy cult.
And still?
I graduated.
Magic degree in one hand, social trauma in the other.
—
TODD’S FINAL THOUGHTS ON EDUCATION:
– Learned to fight monsters ?
– Learned to love them ?
– Still bad at Algebra ?
– But I passed. Somehow ?
– And maybe that’s the real magic ?
—
I walked off the field.
Everything behind me faded into light and mist and flash photography.
Rachel was already making fun of my tassel angle.
Jessie was growling at someone for touching his tail.
And I?
I was headed straight into whatever comes next.
Hopefully something with less glitter in my lungs.
But honestly?
I wouldn’t bet on it.
Scene 2: “Todd Gets a Cloak. No Explanation.”
Let’s establish something upfront:
I did not ask for the cloak.
No one asks for The Cloak.
It just… happens to you.
Like puberty. Or emotionally inappropriate dreams about your vampire English teacher.
So when the ceremony ended and everyone scattered for sugar-soaked cupcakes and post-apocalyptic hugs, I was still glowing faintly and clutching my cracked diploma like it was a passport to a dimension I wasn’t emotionally stable enough for.
And then — he appeared.
A figure in a dark hooded robe, standing by the edge of the bleachers like a cosplayer too cool for the Ren Faire.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t gesture. He just… drifted.
Rachel spotted him and muttered, “That’s either a cultist or a dramatic Amazon delivery.”
Jessie was too busy sniffing a tray of cupcakes to notice the doom unfolding behind me.
The hooded figure stepped closer.
Everyone else kept celebrating like nothing weird was happening.
Except me.
I was frozen in the sacred tradition of Todd Receiving Something He Is Wildly Unqualified For.
He stopped directly in front of me.
Held out a garment.
Folded. Black velvet. Lined in deep red. Embroidered with shimmering runes that probably said something like “Property of Whoever Screws This Up Next.”
He handed it to me silently.
Then vanished.
Just — poof. Cloak transfer complete. Emotionally scarring silence activated.
—
I stared at the cloak.
It was stupidly soft. It hummed. It smelled like pine, regret, and distant thunder.
Jessie trotted over, frosting on his chin. “Sick cloak, dude.”
Rachel joined, eyeing the embroidery. “I swear one of those runes just rolled its eyes.”
There was a tag on the inside:
“PROPERTY OF THE ONE WHO FUMBLES THE APOCALYPSE”
Dry clean only. Do not expose to full moonlight or unsolicited destiny.
I turned it over in my hands like it might whisper my true name or burst into song.
Instead, it twitched.
Jessie gasped. “Put it on!”
Rachel: “You’re going to trip and die.”
Me: “...yes.”
But also?
Yes.
Because this was the end of something.
And the beginning of something else.
And if you’re going to face it like a Todd, you face it in velvet.
So I threw it over my shoulders.
The cloak swirled. The wind howled. My tattoo flared.
And I immediately tripped over the hem.
—
I face-planted into the dirt like a majestic idiot.
The cloak billowed, caught a spark from my still-active aura, and—because of course—burst into flame.
“AAGH!” I screamed, rolling across the grass like a cursed potato.
Rachel sprayed me with enchanted water from her emergency flask.
Jessie tried to stomp the fire out with bare feet and howled in pain.
I flailed. I sizzled.
The cloak shriveled into ash, released a cloud of glitter shaped like disappointed ancestors, and whispered something in Latin that might’ve translated to “he wasn’t ready.”
—
I sat up, smoking slightly.
Rachel handed me a juice box. “You good?”
“No.”
Jessie sat cross-legged beside me. “Still the coolest cloak I’ve ever seen.”
“I killed it in under thirty seconds.”
“Yeah,” Rachel smirked. “But you wore it with confidence.”
And that?
Felt like a compliment.
—
TODD’S MAGICAL CLOAK EXPERIENCE:
– Received: mysteriously ?
– Worn: dramatically ?
– Set ablaze: immediately ?
– Survived: somehow ?
– Confidence level: still shimmering ?
—
We sat together on the grass for a while.
Just three disaster teens, one burnt cloak, and a sky that hadn’t exploded in at least twenty minutes.
“You know,” I said slowly, “if I fumble the apocalypse... at least I’ll do it stylishly.”
Jessie grinned. “With no shirt on.”
Rachel raised her water flask. “To flaming dignity.”
And for the first time that day, I laughed without feeling like something was about to collapse or transform or confess romantic feelings with fangs.
Just… laughed.
The cloak was dead.
But I wasn’t.
Not even close.
Scene 3: “Jessie and Rachel? Plot Twist.”
There’s something uniquely cursed about walking into your own afterparty and realizing everyone has hotter chemistry than you.
The gym smelled like victory sweat, vanilla candles, and vampire-grade body spray. The banners read CLASS OF BITE ME in glitter-bleeding gothic script, and DJ NeckSnap was back behind the booth spinning undead synthwave like prom round two was now a sponsored nightclub by the Underworld Tourism Board.
I arrived late—thanks to The Cloak Incident (RIP) and a brief encounter with a sentient vending machine outside the parking lot that tried to sell me a haunted banana.
But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what I saw as I stepped into the gym.
There, beneath the shimmering disco skull chandelier, surrounded by floating candles and enchanted fog?
Jessie and Rachel.
Slow dancing.
Together.
Not like middle school leave-room-for-Cthulhu slow dancing.
Like adult tension movie soundtrack slow dancing.
Rachel’s hand clutched a ceremonial stake like it was a corsage of death. Jessie, shirtless (because of course), had one arm around her waist and one hand in her hair like he was auditioning for Werewolves of Soap Opera County.
Their eyes locked. Their movements? Too in sync.
I stopped walking. Just... stood there.
Watching.
Blinking.
Trying to process the absolute emotional betrayal ballet unfolding before me.
—
TODD’S INTERNAL PANIC LOG:
– Are they slow dancing? ?
– Is that romantic tension? ?
– Is Rachel... smiling?! ?
– Is Jessie nuzzling?! ?
– Is this my villain origin story? …maybe ?
—
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Jessie spotted me.
Grinned.
Tilted his head like a golden retriever who could bench-press a pickup truck and said, “Hey, Todd. Rachel and I were just... catching up.”
Rachel didn’t even blink. “Emotionally. And possibly romantically.”
I stared.
Words failed me.
Somewhere behind me, the punch bowl fizzed.
“I—” I said.
Jessie twirled her.
TWIRLED.
I wheezed.
Jessie finally said, “Turns out I like someone who can kill me and mean it.”
Rachel added, dry as ever, “He makes a great heat pack.”
Then—because my dignity hadn’t bled enough—Jessie reached out and pulled me into a hug sandwich.
Rachel didn’t resist.
It was a warm, tense, stake-adjacent group hug that smelled like danger, pine, and betrayal.
“You okay, buddy?” Jessie asked.
“Define ‘okay,’” I muttered from between pecs and passive-aggression.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You’ve been projecting prophecy juice all week and monologuing about fate in sparkly outerwear. You’re not allowed to judge us.”
“She has a point,” Jessie said, chin on my head now. “Also, you’re glowing again.”
“I hate it here,” I said.
But I didn’t move.
Because… maybe I didn’t hate it here.
Not really.
Because I’d spent so long spiraling about who I was supposed to kiss, who I was supposed to be, whether my halfblood destiny came with dental—
And meanwhile, these two had been doing their own weird push-pull snark-flirt combat-dance this whole time.
I pulled back and said, deadpan:
“I ship it. Hard.”
Jessie laughed.
Rachel smirked. “You’re not the worst.”
Then Jessie licked me.
Like—just straight-up licked my cheek like a happy werewolf who just got validated.
“Stop licking your friends,” Rachel said, swatting him with her stake.
“You’re both the worst,” I muttered.
But my heart was warm. My pulse steady. And the strange ache that had lived in my chest for months?
Gone.
—
TODD’S SHOCKED BUT SUPPORTIVE SHIP UPDATE:
– Jessie + Rachel: official ?
– Me: emotionally tangled by proxy ?
– Hugged: unwillingly ?
– Licked: unfortunately ?
– Still glowing: whyyyyy ?
—
We danced for a while after that.
Me with Zara the ghoul, who dipped me halfway through a song and said “You’re bendier than expected.”
Jessie and Rachel kept slow dancing, whispering in each other’s ears and probably plotting sexy crimes.
The gym shimmered with magic and hormones.
My heart beat, not with jealousy… but relief.
Because yeah, love sucks.
But sometimes?
So do we.
And that’s kind of beautiful.
Scene 4: “Stacy’s Mom Starts a Vampire Influencer Channel”
It began—as all things in my life do—with poor decisions and an internet connection.
Specifically, a YouTube autoplay spiral that started with “how to remove enchanted glitter from scalp” and ended with a thumbnail that should’ve come with a holy water trigger warning:
SIP HAPPENS with Veronica Evernight
“Let’s Talk Blood Pairings, Night Cream, and Seducing with a Side of Existential Dread!”
I blinked.
I refreshed.
I blinked again.
It was real.
Mrs. Evernight.
In full silk robe, reclining against a throne of gothic pillows, candlelight softly flickering across her cheekbones so sharp they had clearly been sculpted in the underworld.
Her eyes glowed red. Her lipstick was called “Crimson Regret.” The video title?
“Episode 3: AB Negative? More Like AB-SOLUTELY SINFUL ”
I hovered over the play button.
I knew I shouldn’t.
I clicked anyway.
—
The video opened with slow synth music and what sounded like Gregorian chanting—but sexy.
Mrs. Evernight leaned into the camera and pouted. “Hello, my little biters. Veronica here, back with another soul-thirsty episode of Sip Happens.”
The background featured enchanted floating wine glasses, a velvet chaise, and a taxidermied bat wearing false lashes.
“I’ve had a lot of requests,” she continued, swirling a goblet of suspiciously thick liquid, “for a beginner’s guide to pairing blood types with your nightly vintage. Remember: never serve A+ with merlot. It screams insecurity.”
I screamed into a pillow.
She sipped delicately, then added, “And for those of you trying to seduce a halfblood prophecy boy, remember—lighting is everything.”
She snapped.
The lighting shifted.
A spotlight highlighted her collarbone.
I shrieked.
—
TODD’S PANIC TIMESTAMP LOG:
0:13 — She mentions blood pairings ?
1:46 — She references me. Probably ?
2:03 — Mentions “a boy with soulful eyes and inconsistent magical output” ?
2:31 — Camera zooms slowly, emotionally ?
3:00 — “HelloGhoul” sponsorship ad rolls ?
3:45 — I forget how to breathe ?
—
The HelloGhoul ad was the worst part.
It starred her reclining in a coffin-shaped bathtub while whispering, “Exfoliate like someone’s watching. Because someone always is.”
She tossed a loofah made of ethically sourced phoenix feathers at the camera.
I choked on my tongue.
Back in the main video, she sighed dramatically.
“Now, for skincare,” she said. “Undead doesn’t mean unmoisturized.”
She leaned close to the lens and purred:
“I recommend a blend of crushed moonstone, regret, and SPF 666. And never forget: a light touch can seduce... or stake.”
I hit pause.
Stared into the void of my soul.
Then whispered, “She’s unstoppable.”
—
By the time I recovered, the comments had 48,000 likes and included:
- “My aura’s never looked hotter”
- “Blood River MILF supremacy confirmed.”
- “Can she adopt me and ruin my life??”
I scrolled down further.
She had 2 million subscribers.
And a pinned comment that read:
“To my darling Todd: your potential is glowing. So is your aura. And that neck vein? Still my favorite.”
—
I blacked out.
For like a full minute.
Woke up face-down in a pile of garlic-flavored trail mix and raw shame.
Then I did the unthinkable.
I subscribed.
Unsubscribed.
Resubscribed.
Muted the notifications.
Because no matter how cursed she was, Veronica Evernight knew her brand. And unfortunately?
I was still part of it.
—
TODD’S VAMPIRE INFLUENCER BREAKDOWN:
– Discovered: unfortunately ?
– Watched: against better judgment ?
– Aroused: accidentally ?
– Traumatized: permanently ?
– Subscribed: emotionally ?
—
The next morning, I tried to pretend nothing happened.
I sat across from Rachel at the diner. She ordered black coffee and holy water.
Jessie stole my toast.
I stirred my cereal with the haunted spoon from Scene 6 and muttered, “Don’t ask me how my night went.”
Rachel pulled out her phone and showed me a screencap.
It was from the latest episode.
Caption:
“Blood pressure and pleasure—why not both?”
Rachel just said, “She’s thriving.”
Jessie howled softly.
I buried my face in my bowl and whispered:
“I am never emotionally recovering from this.”
Scene 5: “Todd Starts Dating a Ghoul With Boundaries”
Let me just say: I wasn’t looking for love.
I was looking for a book titled Hexes for Him: Curses That Say "I’m Healing."
But what I found?
Was Zara.
And Zara was a ghoul.
But not the cartoonish, grave-dirt kind.
No, she was the kind of ghoul who worked at the Blood River Necro-Library, wore skeletal-themed cardigans, carried peppermint breath mints in her clutch, and had boundaries.
Real ones.
With rules. And laminated diagrams. And a sign near her desk that read:
“Consent is sexy. So are cryptid encyclopedias.”
I knew the second she handed me a late fee waiver and said, “Don’t lose this—unless you’re planning on losing me, too,”
that I was in real, actual trouble.
Not prophecy trouble.
Emotional compatibility trouble.
—
We started talking in the nonfiction aisle.
She recommended Undead Dating for the Newly Risen and How to Talk to Your Bloodline Without Crying.
I made a joke about my aura being “very 2007 Twilight but make it unstable,” and she snorted in this perfect way that made one of her earrings (tiny bone-shaped charms) rattle softly.
“So... what are you?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Complicated,” I replied. “Halfblood. Cursed. Lightly radioactive. Emotionally in recovery.”
She nodded. “Perfect. I don’t date anyone who isn’t a walking disaster. Keeps things interesting.”
I may have blushed. Or combusted a little. Hard to tell these days.
—
ZARA, QUICK STATS:
– Ghoul, but glows like confidence ?
– Hair like graveyard silk ?
– Eyeliner: lethal ?
– Laugh: somewhere between a banshee and a breakup text ?
– Baggage: labeled, sorted, and in matching emotional luggage ?
– Crush on me: possibly ?
—
She asked me to coffee.
At Café Post-Mortem, which served cursed cold brews and offered aura readings with every scone.
We sat in the corner, surrounded by people writing memoirs with quills that whispered insults.
Zara stirred her drink with a spoon shaped like a femur and said, “Look, I like you. But if you ghost me, I will hex you into a lawn chair.”
I blinked. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird. I glow in the dark and my ex is a vampire MILF with a YouTube channel.”
Zara raised her cup. “To chaos. And clear expectations.”
We clinked mugs.
It was electric.
—
TODD’S FIRST DATE SCORECARD:
– Flirting: awkward but charming ?
– Boundaries: established ?
– Minor magical accident: only one (coffee briefly levitated) ?
– Vibes: immaculate ?
– Ghosting risk: hex-level low ?
—
By the time we left, I was smiling in that way that made my tattoo flicker like it was trying to text someone.
She kissed my cheek.
Then said, “Next time, you pick the place. But if it involves vampire yoga or another prom... I walk.”
I nodded solemnly. “No more prom. I swear.”
She grinned. “Good. Because I like you just as you are. Not as a prophecy.”
I watched her disappear into the mist, heels clicking, bag of bones bouncing at her side like the world’s cutest necro-purse.
And for the first time since this ridiculous saga started?
I felt stable.
Still cursed.
Still glowing.
But... wanted.
And that?
Was almost better than prophecy.
Scene 6: “Everyone Lives, No One Learns”
A lot can happen in a week.
People heal.
Vampires regenerate.
Ghouls flirt.
The municipal spell barrier gets repaired.
Mostly.
But despite the prophecies, prom chaos, and emotionally questionable slow dances—almost no one changed.
And honestly?
Thank. Every. Chaotic. Deity.
Because Blood River runs on supernatural entropy and undercooked life lessons.
—
Take Stacy, for instance.
Still in Romania. Still spiritually awakening.
Still sending me postcards like:
“Accidentally joined a blood yoga cult. It’s mostly stretching and philosophical dread. Miss your eyebrows.”
– Stacy
Kale the vegan zombie got deported back to Oregon after customs found unlicensed kombucha in his suitcase.
Her last photo showed her wearing a velvet cape and hovering three inches above the floor.
She looked happy.
(And, somehow, more goth than before.)
—
Jessie?
Still shirtless.
Still howling at socially acceptable volumes.
Now working part-time at Sniff & Rescue, Blood River’s new werewolf matchmaking agency where every bio includes meat preferences and moon phase compatibility.
He’s their most requested “scent ambassador.”
He says it’s fulfilling.
Also, he smells like cedarwood and bad decisions.
—
Rachel?
Still sharpening things.
Still terrifying.
Now legally certified as a freelance supernatural bounty hunter, officially operating under the business name “Slay What Again?”
She keeps her stake collection alphabetized. She calls it “emotional control.”
Still won’t admit she cried watching Jessie’s love ballad. But we all know.
She and Jessie still have “tension.” Sometimes also bruises. No one asks. Everyone ships it.
—
Mrs. Evernight?
Now has 3.4 million subscribers.
Her latest video:
“How to Host a Dinner Party Without Slaying the Mood (or the Guests)”
Zara and I watched it together while she hexed the autoplay.
It turned our popcorn into cursed butterflies.
We both agreed it was her best skincare tutorial yet.
And then pretended we didn’t notice the wink at the camera when Mrs. Evernight said, “And to that special someone watching—I’ll always love a neck that glows.”
I choked on a butterfly.
Zara whispered, “You’re mine now, sparkle boy.”
I swooned. Again.
—
As for me?
I still can’t levitate consistently.
Sometimes my shoelaces tie themselves.
Sometimes my backpack floats.
Once, my juice box exploded and whispered secrets in Latin.
But I’ve accepted it.
I’m the magical equivalent of a loading screen: full of potential, frequently lagging.
I still carry a backup stake.
Still wear emotional armor disguised as sarcasm.
Still ask myself, “Am I ready for the next curse?”
Usually while brushing my teeth with the bone-handled toothbrush Mrs. Evernight left behind.
Yes, I kept it.
No, we don’t talk about that.
—
TODD’S POST-GRADUATION TRUTHBOMB:
– I didn’t fix anything ?
– I didn’t transform into a god-being ?
– I didn’t learn a powerful lesson about love ?
– But I have friends. A ghoul girlfriend. A prophecy tattoo that only glows when I’m nervous. ?
– And that? Feels like enough ?
—
Weird is the new normal in Blood River.
Our vending machines might hiss.
Our PTA might vote on eternal damnation.
Our librarian might still curse you for dog-earing pages.
But this is home.
And no one’s learning the “lesson” because in a town this haunted, the real rule is:
Adapt. Survive. Sparkle anyway.
And that?
I can do.
Even if I trip while doing it.
Scene 7: “Blood River High: Class of ‘Bite Me”
I don’t know what I expected when I opened the yearbook.
Photos? Sure.
Blood smudges? Obviously.
Possibly a hex that made me relive prom in reverse? Honestly, I was prepared.
But I wasn’t ready for the thing to growl.
Softly. Like a territorial housecat.
Still, I cracked it open.
The cover was blood-red suede with embossed silver lettering that read:
BLOOD RIVER HIGH – CLASS OF ‘BITE ME’
“We came. We slayed. We forgot our math homework.”
And below it, stamped in shimmering cursive:
“Do not read aloud after midnight unless supervised by an adult warlock.”
Naturally, I opened it at 12:03 a.m.
Naturally, I was alone.
Because I make choices.
And because I hadn’t cried in a full three days, and this book was gunning for me.
—
The first page blinked.
Literally blinked.
And then whispered, “Remember us as we were: deeply hormonal and partially cursed.”
Which, yeah. Checks out.
—
HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE YEARBOOK:
Senior Superlatives:
– Most Likely to Accidentally Summon a Demon: Todd Hawkins (me, naturally)
– Sharpest Eyeliner: Rachel Blackwood (her lashes could slice a soul)
– Best Snarl: Jessie Lupin (even in his sleep)
– Most Likely to Haunt a Podcast: Mrs. Grimsbane (currently trending on SpecterTalk)
– Best Death Glare: Tie between Rachel and Mrs. Evernight
– Most Emotionally Unavailable Yet Weirdly Dateable: Stacy Evernight
?? Club Photos:
– Cryptid Rights Society: Half the members weren’t visible on camera. One photobombed by blinking sideways.
– Vampire Book Club: Every copy of Twilight has teeth marks. One vampire is mid-swoon.
– Werewolf Wrestling League: Jessie is shirtless. Again. Rachel’s holding a foam stake. Kevin (human) is unconscious in the corner.
Faculty Favorites:
– Principal Grudge’s farewell quote: “I’m undead and underpaid. Goodbye, you beautiful disasters.”
– Coach Fangley’s advice: “Winners lift. Legends float.” (no one knows what it means)
– Mrs. Evernight’s senior quote: “Time is meaningless. Moisturize.”
—
Somewhere around page 87, the margins started glowing.
A rune pulsed. A whisper muttered, “Blood of the honored, rise and smile.”
And then a minor demon crawled out of the spine.
He was three inches tall, smelled like licorice and betrayal, and immediately tried to rearrange my hair.
“Uhh,” I said.
He squeaked, “Just finishing the layout. Keep flipping.”
I shrugged. Let him work.
Honestly? Could’ve been worse.
—
Then I hit the Senior Photos.
My photo? Mid-glow. Eyes wide. Clearly mid-panic.
Rachel’s? Half smile, stake in hand, captioned: “Come at me.”
Jessie’s? Shirtless, again. Someone drew hearts around him.
He absolutely drew them himself.
Zara’s? Holding a library card and making direct eye contact like she could see into your soul and was… judging the late fees.
Even Stacy had one—surprisingly classy, full Victorian energy, holding a raven and looking like she had just ended a centuries-long engagement.
—
The final page?
The group photo.
It almost didn’t happen.
Someone summoned a wind elemental. Jessie sneezed and knocked over the lighting rig. Rachel accidentally stabbed the photographer (he was fine—already undead).
But eventually?
We got it.
The picture shows us all:
– Me, glowing slightly.
– Rachel with a smirk and a silver stake tucked behind her ear.
– Jessie flexing but also mid-howl.
– Zara next to me, one eyebrow raised.
– Stacy in the background, semi-transparent.
– Coach Fangley photobombing with vampire jazz hands.
A banner behind us reads:
BLOOD RIVER HIGH – WE SURVIVED. MOSTLY.
And beneath that, in small silver script:
“Love sucks. So do we.”
—
I closed the book. The demon gave me a thumbs up and vanished in a puff of glitter.
I sat back. Smiled.
My life was still a mess.
My town was still haunted.
My magic was still unreliable.
But I had people.
And pictures.
And enough weird memories to fill five lifetimes.
That?
That was worth every glitter-scarred, stake-adjacent, halfblooded second.
Scene 8: “Roll Credits With Synth-Pop and Fangs”
There are moments that change you.
Like when you accidentally activate a blood curse during prom.
Or get dumped by three different supernatural beings in a single week.
Or discover your teacher moonlights as a vampire influencer with a skincare sponsorship.
But then—there are the moments that define you.
And tonight?
Was mine.
—
The rooftop of Blood River High pulsed with magic and bass.
Someone (probably a necromancer with a side hustle) had transformed the entire school into an undead rave called “Last Bite: The After After Party.”
There were glowing runes spinning across the sky.
Glitter rained from summoned clouds.
Zombies and witches slow danced in enchanted fog.
And DJ NeckSnap stood atop the cafeteria freezer spinning vinyls made of bone and bad decisions.
He dropped the beat.
The lights exploded.
And the full moon lit me up like I was the final girl in a horror movie—but make it synth-pop.
—
MY FINAL LOOK, FOR THE RECORD:
– Black shirt, torn just enough to hint at “vampire victim or emotionally available?” ?
– Eyeliner (applied by Rachel under threat of death): glowing red ?
– Tattoo pulsing to the beat like it finally accepted me ?
– Hair: wild but functional ?
– Confidence: 86% genuine, 14% cursed glitter aura ?
—
Rachel arrived first.
Dressed like a stake-wielding gothic icon with combat boots blessed by something vengeful and ancient.
She handed me a drink with something swirling inside. “Don’t ask. Just vibe.”
Jessie showed up shirtless. Again.
His fur shimmered under the moon. He had backup dancers. Werewolves. In coordinated leather pants.
He pointed at me across the crowd and yelled,
“YOU READY TO BE MAIN CHARACTER TONIGHT, TODD?!”
I yelled back,
“I’VE BEEN TRAUMA-PREPARED FOR THIS SINCE FRESHMAN YEAR!”
And then the beat dropped.
Hard.
—
It was chaos.
Glorious, synth-drenched, undead chaos.
Ghosts did synchronized backflips.
Rachel battled a vampire in the middle of the dance floor to the rhythm of “Toxic (Blood Moon Remix)”.
Jessie howled on beat while breakdancing.
Someone tossed glitter that might’ve been holy water.
My juice started levitating. I danced anyway.
Then Zara appeared—ghoul goddess in a cropped black hoodie with HEX ME LATER written in cursive across the back.
She grabbed my hand.
Pulled me in.
We danced like prophecy kids with zero coping skills.
We twirled. We dipped. We laughed when her skeletal charm bracelet got caught in my hair.
At one point, someone exploded. Consensually.
It was that kind of night.
—
Then DJ NeckSnap dimmed the lights. Held a finger to his lips. Whispered into the mic:
“This one’s for the misfits. The undead. The emotionally volatile. And that glowing halfblood over there who accidentally summoned a succubus in Algebra II.”
Spotlight. On me.
Everyone turned.
I swallowed.
Then—stepped forward.
Pulled out my phone.
And played the one song that had defined this whole flaming, fang-filled nightmare of a year.
“Total Eclipse of the Heart (Undead Synth Remix).”
The crowd erupted.
We all danced.
Ghosts phased through walls.
Vampires lip-synced with glowing fangs.
Rachel stabbed a beat into the air and twirled in slow motion. Jessie howled harmonies.
Zara kissed my cheek and said, “This is so dumb. I love it.”
I laughed.
Closed my eyes.
Felt everything I’d become—the fear, the weirdness, the power.
And whispered:
“High school’s weird.
But so am I.”
—
Freeze frame.
I’m glowing.
Jessie’s mid-air.
Rachel’s spinning with a blessed blade and perfect eyeliner.
Zara’s laughing. The moon’s full. The bass is vibrating prophecy through my veins.
Behind us, the words shimmer across the sky in neon cursive:
LOVE SUCKS.
SO DO WE.
Roll credits.
Fangs sparkle.
Synths scream.
One final glitter explosion—courtesy of NeckSnap.
Epilogue: After the Bite
Blood River didn’t calm down after graduation.
It just… learned to vibe with the chaos.
The ley lines pulsed softer. The moon glowed warmer.
And the vending machines only tried to curse people twice a week, which was basically progress.
The school rebuilt the gym again (third time this semester).
The PTA finally passed a “No Open Flames During Detention” policy.
And someone spray-painted DON’T DATE THE PROPHECY across the school sign in glitter-sealed rune ink.
(Pretty sure it was Rachel. She denies nothing.)
—
Jessie started a werewolf meditation podcast.
It’s called “Howl It Out”.
Mostly breathing exercises and the occasional shirtless scream into the void.
He’s shockingly popular in Sweden.
—
Rachel kept bounty hunting.
She’s now on a vampire fashion blog’s “Top 10 Most Dateable People Who Might Kill You” list.
She printed it. Framed it. Smirks whenever you bring it up.
—
Zara and I are… great.
We go on weird dates.
She reads banned books aloud while hexing customers who dog-ear pages.
I glow randomly, recite ancient scrolls in my sleep, and levitate small snacks.
We hold hands like it’s a spell.
Sometimes we kiss.
Sometimes we spar.
Sometimes she licks her finger and touches my tattoo just to hear it sizzle.
It’s love. Or something weirder.
—
As for me?
I’m still Todd.
Still figuring it out.
Still halfblooded, still glowy, still the proud owner of one melted cloak, a prophecy tattoo, and more exes than a cursed Ouija board.
But I have people now.
A pack.
A stake-slinging almost-sister.
A girlfriend with boundaries and bone jewelry.
A town full of undead gossip and magically haunted cafeteria lasagna.
And honestly?
That’s enough.
Because I don’t need to be the Chosen One.
I just need to be the one who chose to stay weird—and made it work.
—
On nights when the moon is full and the glitter in my pillowcase hums with leftover chaos, I lie back, smile, and whisper:
“Love sucks.
So do we.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Then I fall asleep glowing.
And dream of a world just like this one—
But maybe with less prom.
Maybe.
THE END
?????