The Artifact

2 - The Beginning

My name is Samuel, but my friends call me Sam. I’m just a normal 17 year old boy. Or at least I was, until I had found this oddly shaped artefact in my family’s basement. This is where my story begins.

“Samuel! Get your arse down here, ya little shit!”

That’s my father. He’s not much when it comes to intellect, but he can sure as hell hold his own in this twisted world. He’s the only family I have left. My mother died when I was 7, and since then my father has been trying to raise me as best he can. If I may say so myself, I don’t think he did too bad a job.

“Coming,” I replied, “What did I do wrong?” I asked as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Nothing, I just need you to clean out our basement, why did you do something wrong?” questioned my father in a suspicious tone.

“No, not as far as I know, it’s just you usually call me down like that if I’ve done something wrong.”

“Alright kiddo, get to work and I’ll give ya some money when you’re done, okay?”

“There’s something in it for me? Haha! Alright, I’ll get right to it then.”

As I open the door to the basement, I’m greeted with a plume of dust, and then the black void of nothingness that leads towards the basement. It smelt putrid. Like someone had left an egg down there for years. As quick as a flash, I saw something dash across my field of view out of the corner of my eye. I thought nothing of it and brushed it aside as my mind playing tricks on me. Slowly descending into what felt like the depths of hell.

I started digging through the boxes when it hit me. Quite literally hit me. It was an artefact. At the time I thought nothing of why it hit me, but instead stared into it. It’s metal surface rippling. It made no sense, but I felt attached to the object. I decided to inquire with my father about it.

“Dad!” I yelled, “What’s this thing? Is it worth anything?”

 “What thing? Come up ‘ere ya miscreant, I can’t see it if you’re in the basement!” he replied, the sound of his voice echoing through our basement. A grunt accompanied it, but I brushed it off as him getting up.

“Alright, hold on.”

As I rounded the top of the stairs, I saw my father just standing there. Then I noticed it. There was blood flowing down his arm and accumulating into a puddle at his feet and slowly spreading out with the grouting of the tiles.

“Run.” He muttered with his remaining strength, “They’ve come for you…”