Eden here! I am going to rewrite this series, as I have been workshopping it for a while now. This is what it will be based off of, which is what I wrote in class. Take this with no grains of salt, as a lot will be changed in the future. - Writteb on October 18th, 2024.

I take a deep breath, taking the keys out of the ignition. It’s my first day at Blue River High School for Boys as the new Magic teacher. I’ve got three types of classes: The History of Magic, Magic Basics for Juniors, and Magic Training for Seniors. My son gets out of the passenger seat of the truck, and we go inside the school, looking around.  

The school colours are navy blue and light grey, accompanied by dark grey and white, which is obvious when looking at the tile floors. I go to my classroom and set my stuff down at my desk.  

“Where are you supposed to be first hour?” I ask my son, Greyson.  

He stares down at the schedule I printed out for him, “Uh, Art with Mr. Thorn.”  

“That’s right next door,” I say. “Let me come with you. I want to meet the teacher.”  

He groans, rolling his eyes as he leaves the room. I follow behind him and enter the room, which can only be described as utter chaos. There are flowers growing in pots along the wall, bottles of paint on his desk, and wooden crates filled with who knows what doesn’t even begin to describe the amount of clutter around the room.  

The man at the desk perks up at seeing us, “Hello there! I’m Mr. Morce. Mr. Thorn will be out quite a lot after the events of last year. I’m not sure what happened, so ask the principal.” 

“I’ll be sure to ask him,” I say. “Well, I gotta go. See you later.”  

I leave the room, thinking about the dark feeling of death that I had sensed. Whatever happened was severe, and I could feel it during my first few classes. Finally came my seniors-only class, Magic Training.  

The bell rings and I look around the room before I start, looking at all of the students for attendance. I stand up from my desk and take a deep breath, “Welcome to Magic Training. As juniors, you took Basic Magic, which is a precursor to this class. Being here means that all of you have proven yourselves.”  

“At the end of the year, you’ll take an exam to prove that you are worthy of your certificate. After that, we will go on a field trip to the Magic Emporium for a presentation, where you and seniors from other schools will receive said certificates,” I explain. “We’re going to start the year talking about ghosts, and how they’re detected, formed, and dealt with. Then, I’ll go into our magical abilities and how to control them, how to apply them to things like bows or swords, and finally, the exam I just talked about.” 

I continue to blabber on about things we’ll go over, the rules, and then hand out a paper that has to be signed by the student as well as a parent or guardian before classes can start. I stop last at Greyson to sign his and make him sign it so I can just take it now. I bring it with me to the front of the classroom and hold it up, “Please come back tomorrow with these signed! You can't take this class without it!”  

I sit down at my desk and the bell rings a couple of minutes later. My homeroom flies by and I drive Greyson home. I leave the car in the garage, and we head inside. Greyson instantly dashed to his bedroom, but I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. That feeling of depression and death lingered in that classroom, and it was so strong it felt like I was going to either throw up or pass out. 

I leave the kitchen and sit on the couch, and watch tv for the rest of the day, then get up to go to bed at 10:30. I take my shirt off and lay down, looking at the tattoos on my arms. They go from my wrists up my forearm. There’s also one around my neck that's typically hidden by a shirt collar, and one at my around my ankles going down my feet and halfway up my calf.  

They’re magic tattoos. Ones that let me use a special suit that was required for one of my previous jobs. My powers come from a hereditary genetic defect that allows me to copy other people’s abilities and share those abilities with other people of the same power. It’s called Power Replication, but people with the defect are called Mimics.  

I copy powers through being near people (Which takes a long time, seeing as it’s learning from the aura the power gives off), touching people, or absorption of an attack. I’ve been around Greyson long enough that I’ve copied his powers without ever touching him or getting attacked by him.  

Aspen curls up on my pillow right next to my head and promptly goes to sleep. I was about to go to sleep as well when Greyson knocks on my door. I tell him he can come in, and his face goes red when he sees me. Out of embarrassment, he pulls his hood up and pulls on the strings, letting the whole hood close in front of him.  

I guess I forgot that I’m laying here in black jeans with an arm on my forehead, staring off into space. I laugh, sitting up, “What do you want, kiddo?”  

“I was just wondering if I could have some ice cream before I went to bed,” he mutters. 

“Oh, of course. I’ll get us both some.”  

I get out of bed, much to Aspen’s dismay. I stride over to the door, not even bothering to put my shirt back on. I go to the kitchen as Grey follows behind me, his hood still scrunched up.  

“Are you really going to walk around without a shirt on, dad?”  

“I mean, we’re both dudes, aren't we? I know it’s an odd thing to do, but it's not like your mom is here to complain.”  

“Dad, I’m transgender and I wear a binder! It's kind of disappointing that the first real male chest I’ve ever seen was my dad's!” He cries.  

He tugs on the strings further and huddles up to the side of the fridge. I just laugh again as he groans, opening the freezer door and getting out some mint and vanilla ice cream.  

“Kid, I do this all the time, why are you only complaining now?”  

“Because I don't want to come home with friends only to see you shirtless on the couch watching The Little Mermaid!”  Grey complains.  

“That only happened once,” I point out.  

“And what are the chances it’ll happen again?”  

“Well, that kind of incident can be easily avoided by you telling me there’s going to be people over.”  

He just groans as I serve some ice cream for both of us. We eat it on the couch while watching a movie. Afterward, we go to bed.  

The art teacher didn't come back till Wednesday, a week and a half later. All of the teachers were in the teacher's lounge, surrounding a rather petite guy with black hair and clothes. I set the cake I brought in on the counter and walk up to the group of teachers standing around making a commotion.  

“You promised you’d be here on the first day! Where were you?!” Mr. Ivers says loudly. 

“You definitely weren't sick, that’s for sure,” Mr. Averill mutters. 

“If you stopped crowding him and let him talk, he might tell you,” I point out.  

They all stop and look at him.  

“I was actually sick this time,” he says.  

Mr. Underwood raises an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe, Julyan. You were gone for a whole week. You only do that when you're having a low moment.” 

“I was!” Julyan shouts.  

“Okay,” Mr. Averill says, “If you were, then what was wrong?”  

His face goes red, and he looks at his feet, muttering something that seemed to make Mr. Torres' eyes go wide. 

“Say that again, Jules.”  Mr. Rounds says, “Louder this time.”  

I only just now notice that the principal, Mr. Joiner, had walked in.  

“You’re going to have to tell them, Mr. Thorn,” he says. 

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, “Well, turns out my mood swings are about to get worse because… I’m pregnant.”  

They all seemed rather surprised. But me? I’m more confused about how a male teacher can be pregnant.  

“W-Wait… how?” I ask. 

“He’s transgender,” Mr. Joiner says, “You of all people should know that this school accepts trans people in the school, Mr. Hall.”  

“Sorry. I guess I forgot.” 

“Is it Red’s Child?” Mr. Coleman asks. 

“Y-Yeah. It is. I didn't even know till after school got out,” he lets out an uncomfortable laugh, “I thought it was just a stomach bug, but I decided to take a test after it persisted. And now, here I am two months pregnant with my dead husband's child.”  

A shiver runs down my spine at the mention of a dead husband. So, he’s the one associated with that revolting feeling every time I go into the art room. Everyone gets eerily silent until Mr. Joiner clears his throat.  

“Well, I should be going now. As should all of you. Class starts soon.”  

We all disperse, and I grab a slice of cake and a fork before heading to class. I sit down in my seat and open one of my books to double-check a spell I need to cast. Throughout the week, the feeling from the lingering feeling of dread coming from the art room has gotten stronger, and it’s starting to get attracted like a magnet to this room.                       

If I don't cast the spell I found almost two weeks ago, I might actually throw up. Someone has died here, and it’s left a mark on this school.  

I take out one of the books I found, and flip to the page that has what I need. I stand up and turn around, looking at the chalkboard, which is the perfect place to cast the spell. Before I draw it, I take my phone out to record it, so I could possibly show it in class.  

I lean the phone against something on my desk and start recording.  

“Okay, this is Vincent Hall. It is currently August 27th, 2040. I’m just recording an example of what casting a spell looks like. This is a simple but very useful spell for those who are sensitive to Dread Auras, which are typically left behind when someone dies. I’m casting it because there’s a really strong one drifting from the room behind me. This spell acts like a strong magnet and pulls the Dread Aura in toward it and absorbs it. This is a constant spell, which means it will work until it's removed or the Aura is no longer being generated.”  

I pick up my book and a piece of chalk and draw the symbol on the board. I take the phone and bring it closer to the back of the room so the camera has a better view of the whole classroom.  

“Okay,  I’m moving the camera because sometimes, the ghost will show up briefly when I cast it. Even though ghosts can't be accurately caught on camera, I can use this video as evidence if I need to help the ghost. For you guys watching the video, you’ll see the mist, which is how the aura shows up to the naked eye, part on the floor where it is standing.  

Aspen flies over to me, and I put my arm up for him to perch on.  

  “Spell time, buddy.”  

I go to the front of the room and Aspen takes off, soaring around the room. The tattoos on my wrists glow and I let my regular clothes morph into a simple tank top and pants, which is one of the suit types stored by the tattoos. Watching the tattoos grow from black to a beautiful rainbow, I watch them spread up my arms.  

I let balls of light illuminate from my hands and watch the Dread become visible. Aspen's feathers turn to fire, and I raise my hands in front of me, letting the balls of light float off my hands and combine.  

“Aspen, mediate!” I command. “This is where my familiar steps in. My powers tend to get chaotic, and what he’s doing right now is absorbing most of the magic.” 

The bright ball of light turns down a bit, and once it's to an acceptable level, I throw my hands forward, sending it toward the chalkboard. The symbol lights up, absorbing the ball and it very slowly starts drawing in mist.  

An out-of-place red glow grows behind me and I turn to see a blurry, undefined figure missing part of its right arm. There was a bright, silvery glow on its ring finger.  

I inch forward slowly, not saying a word.  

It takes off the glow by pressing its hand against its leg and shimmying it off, reaching its hand out to hand it to me. I take it from them, and it instantly stops, turning out to be a plain metallic ring.  

“Thank you,” I whisper.  

With my words, it disappears as if the image were blown away by a gust of wind. I clutch the ring in my hand and use telekinesis to make my phone fly over to me.  

“I can't show this to anyone,” I mutter to myself, turning off the video. 

I pocket my phone and let my clothes go to normal. I have the urge to teleport directly to the principal's office, but I fight it, feeling that the principal isn't the person to go to for this. The Art teacher said his husband died. My guess is that his husband is the man I'm replacing, and the ghost was the previous teacher, who must have died in the art room. That’s why the aura is so strong in there.  I need to talk to Mr. Thorn when I can, which would be after lunch before the sixth hour.