A Glimpse into the Unknown
POV: Third Person | Time: Late Morning to Evening
Scene 1: Dorm Room | Late Morning
The dorm room was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. A soft light filtered through the blinds, casting long lines across Silas's cluttered desk. Empty soda cans, ramen cups, and energy bar wrappers were pushed to one side, making room for his laptop and a small stack of books.
Silas sat hunched over, his fingers tapping at the keyboard with growing frustration. He was digging. Deep. Into search results that barely scratched the surface.
"Blind god rituals... Detroit cult kidnappings... sacrificial sects..."
Most of the results were either sensationalized clickbait or scattered mentions in forums that bordered on schizophrenic rants. Still, he pressed on. He found two articles worth noting:
"Uncontrolled Cultism on the Rise in Detroit?" — Detroit Daily Dispatch blog article referencing an unexplained increase in missing persons tied to a now-defunct church east of the city."Praise the Dark? New Urban Legends or Resurging Paganism?" — A vague cultural piece from a Detroit sub-news site pointing to strange graffiti and nighttime gatherings in abandoned buildings.
Silas rubbed his temple, sighing.
"How the hell am I supposed to find a god that nobody believes in?"
Behind him, the door creaked open. Devon stepped in with a cup of coffee in hand and a tired expression.
"You know you look like every conspiracy theorist's wet dream right now, right?"
Silas didn't look up. "I'm researching."
"I can see that. What's it this time? UFOs? Lizard people?"
"Blind gods," Silas replied flatly.
Devon blinked. "Excuse me?"
Silas finally turned. "I came across some freaks kidnapping kids in robes. Stopped them. But they kept going on about the Blind God, about sacrifice granting power. Figured I'd check into it."
Devon's playful grin faded.
"Wait... you said Blind God?"
Silas nodded. "Why?"
Devon pulled up a chair and sat, setting his coffee down. "I'm studying comparative mythology and history, remember? The Blind God... it's obscure as hell, but I've come across references in a few Eastern European and West African myth texts. The general idea? Life is blind, sight is illusion. Blood is clarity."
Silas frowned. "That's creepy as hell."
"Yeah. Cults that worship it usually believe in some kind of blood rite. Sacrifice brings enlightenment. Not always literal gods, more like eldritch archetypes. But still... twisted shit."
"Ever heard of someone called Father Grimm?"
Devon's eyes darkened. "That name I've heard. Silas... you need to stay the hell away from those people. I only know the name from whispers. The kind that come with body bags."
Silas was quiet.
Devon leaned in. "But I do know someone who might know more. An info guy. He's plugged into everything — the streets, the underworld, maybe even the occult. Name's Darren Knox. Owns a weird-ass antique shop called Crow's Eye."
Silas raised a brow. "And how the hell do you know him?"
Devon smirked. "My older brother's a dealer. He connected me to him. I used to run with my bro before I dipped. Not my thing. But me and him still cool. I swing by Darren's place now and then — guy hooks me up with the best party supplies and connects. Least likely to get busted by the cops, too. Dude's a little crazy but never wrong."
Silas shook his head. "Alright. Let's go see him."
Scene 2: Outside Crow's Eye | Early Afternoon
The sidewalk cracked under their sneakers as they walked past a corner liquor store and a busted streetlamp flickering like it was giving up. The air smelled like motor oil and grease from a nearby taquería. Up ahead, wedged between two boarded-up businesses, stood a narrow, weather-worn building with a faded wooden sign carved in old lettering:
Crow's Eye Antiques
Everything has a story.
Before they reached the door, Silas stopped short.
"Hold up."
Devon turned, eyebrow raised.
"We're not saying why we're actually here," Silas said, keeping his voice low and sharp. "We're just here for party shit — weed, rolling kits, whatever. Let me drop a few things in casual. You back me up."
Devon nodded, smirking. "Right. Just a couple of broke-ass college kids looking for a good time. Got it."
"And one more thing," Silas added, narrowing his eyes. "If I ever see your brother out here moving drugs in the open again, I'm not snitching to the cops. But I am beating his ass. Then walking away. That's the best I can do for you."
Devon exhaled through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Fair enough."
Scene 3: Crow's Eye Interior | Afternoon
They pushed through the creaking door. A bell chimed above them, faint and warped with age.
Inside, Crow's Eye was a maze of forgotten history — dusty shelves, yellowed books stacked against wooden beams, ancient radios, brass lanterns, World War II helmets. It smelled like cedar and leather, with a faint trace of incense lingering in the air.
Behind the front counter, a man sat with his feet propped up on an old display case, flipping through a newspaper. He looked mid-40s, Black, lean but built like someone who didn't miss gym days. His hair was buzzed short, skin worn and weathered, with a scar running down from his left temple to his jawline.
He didn't look up when he spoke.
"Yo, Devon. You're starting to come around more often than you should. You do know that, right?"
Devon threw up a hand like he was greeting an old cousin. "Knox, my guy. Got a house party this weekend, figured I'd see if you had the good stuff."
Knox finally glanced up. Eyes sharp. Calculating.
"Same strains as last time?"
"Better, if you got it."
Knox stood, moved like someone who didn't waste energy. He reached under the counter and pulled out a black box. Placed it gently on the counter. Then turned to Silas.
"You're new."
Silas nodded. "Roommate. Helping out with the stash run."
"Mm-hmm."
Silas kept his tone casual. "On the way over here, saw some freaky shit the other night. Few guys in dark robes grabbing kids off the street. Real cult-y. Before that new vigilante guy showed up, beat the shit outta them."
Knox's expression didn't change, but his posture stilled.
"You know anything about those guys?"
For a beat, silence.
Then Knox exhaled slowly, as if calculating just how much to say.
"On a normal day, I'd tell you to piss off. But Devon brought you, and he don't waste my time. So here's a freebie."
He leaned forward, tone flat.
"They call themselves the Grimm Followers. Worship some old-world bastard they call the Blind God. Don't know what exactly they believe, and don't care. But they're out here. And yeah… they're dangerous. People who get in their way usually end up vanished. Or parts of 'em do."
Silas's jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
Knox tapped the black box lightly with a single finger. "Now unless you're trading info or paying for more, that's all you get. I run a business. This ain't a TED Talk."
Devon chuckled, defusing the tension. "Appreciate it, man. We'll bounce."
Knox nodded once, already turning back to his paper.
As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Silas glanced back at the dark, crooked windows of the antique shop. The door clicked shut behind them.
I'll be back, he thought. But next time... I'm not coming as a customer.