THE BOY WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
992 Words
The ceiling was blank, empty, meaningless, but with a nothingness that was so enticing to his little eyes, until the sound of the door cranking open snapped his attention away. His tiny heart hammered rigidly against his ribs. He knew danger when he heard it.
So he ran.
His legs, short and unsteady, carried him as fast as they could up the stairs. He stumbled on the last step, palms slapping the hardwood as he caught himself. No time to cry. No time to think, he was sure there was trouble. He scrambled up the last few steps, threw open his parents’ bedroom door and froze, his soul left him at that instant.
Their bodies were sprawled up on the floor, limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Their eyes wide, lifeless, staring at nothing. Two bullet holes, perfectly centered on their foreheads. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and thick.
His breath hitched. His mind, sharp beyond his years, reeled.
Move. Now.
Logic screamed at him to flee as the approaching thumping sound of footsteps grew louder and louder, but his feet were rooted to the spot, pressing so hard into the wooden fĺoor, he might have left imprints.
He was only two years old.
And yet, he understood perfectly the cold still hands of death.
***--***
A Child Unlike Any Other, those were the exact words that described him.
From the moment he was born, Matthew McConaughey was different.
He began to see minutes after birth, rejected his cradle at two months old, crawling out every time his parents turned their backs. He didn’t babble like other infants he, observed, Silently, calculating, his dark eyes tracking every movement in the room, planning his next line of action, whether it was to eat, when to sleep, when to giggle and when not to, everything calculated in his tiny little brain.
By four months, he could walk, he revealed it to his parents at six months old. By a year, he spoke in full sentences.
His parents had been proud at first, especially his mom who was the oblivious party, 'a genius' she would whisper, a prodigy. Any time out with her friends, he was the topic of discussion.
But then the questions started, only his father was unphased by them.
The docto, a bald man with a scalp so shiny it reflected the fluorescent lights, had stared at Matthew with disgust like he was a specimen, the receipt of a failed experiment.
"Are you... certain... this boy is yours?" the doctor asked.
Matthew’s father stiffened. "What are you implying?"
The doctor hesitated. "His brain development… it’s not human. Not fully. The density of his mini-columns—it’s something we only see in other races. Vampires. Werewolves."
A cold silence filled the room.
Matthew, barely three months old, sat on the examination table, watching. Listening, he intentionally handled his toy to look distracted.
His father laughed, but the sound was tight. "He’s human. You ran every test. Even took him out under a full moon, no reaction. He’s just ... brilliant... Like me."
The doctor didn’t look convinced.
Neither did the others.
There were Prophecies, both the originals and their lookalikes.
Whispers followed Matthew wherever he went.
The elders of the Lunar Clan, the ancient vampires who had lived for centuries, watched him with narrowed eyes. They spoke of prophecies. Of a time called the Dark Ages, when two beings of unimaginable power would unite and bring ruin to the world.
One of those beings was said to come from the lost tribe of Harkma.
And Matthew?
He fit the description *too* well.
"Young one," an elder had once hissed, leaning down so close Matthew could smell the decay on his breath, "you should not exist. I know what you are."
Matthew didn’t flinch. He just stared back.
That night, his parents received their first death threat.
---
Then a night that brought a significant change into the boy wonder's life.
Winter air slithered through the house, extinguishing the last embers in the fireplace.
Matthew sat alone in the living room, legs dangling off the couch. Most two-year-olds would be asleep at 2am.
Not him.
Then, the sound.
The door.
He didn’t hesitate. He ran.
But it was, just as it were, too late.
His parents were already gone.
The growing sound of footsteps that rhythmically followed his heartbeats came to a halt. Something was behind him.
A hand wrapped around his torso, lifting him off the ground. Matthew thrashed, but the grip was iron.
"Hey, boy."
The voice was deep. Calm.
Matthew twisted to see a man—tall, impossibly so, with hair like dark cocoa and eyes black as the midnight.
"You shouldn’t be here," the man murmured. "You’re too young to see death."
Matthew’s breath came in short gasps. Tears burned his eyes, but his voice was steady. "They didn’t deserve it. Someone... shot... them."
The man’s brows lifted. "What’s your name, kid?"
"Matthew McConaughey. I turned two last week."
A pause. Then, a slow smile. "Stanley Garrett. And you, Matthew, don’t sound two at all."
Stanley carried him toward the door. "You’re coming with me. This place isn’t safe anymore."
Matthew didn’t argue.
But as they stepped outside, he glanced back one last time.
And there it was, in the shadows of his parents’ room—stood a figure.
Dark. Smiling.
Nothing but teeth visible in the gloom.
Then it was gone.
A shiver tore through Matthew.
Because somehow, deep in his too-smart, too-old mind…
He knew.
This wasn’t over.
Stanley’s safe house was warm. Quiet.
But Matthew didn’t sleep, he couldn't
He sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the night in his head. The gunshots. The blood. The thing in the shadows.
And one terrible truth:
'They’ll come for me next'.
Because Matthew wasn’t just a child.
He was something more.
And the world wasn’t ready for him, even he would have to learn the truth about himself
- Writer
