A/N: Hey guys! I'm sorry I teased you with the hope of another chapter. That's not quite what's here.

But there is a sequel.

As of today (July 1st) this story's sequel/sister story, Eidolon's Keeper, is officially up! Keep in mind though that since it is also a sister story, it will have elements different than this one. It's still me writing it, though, so hopefully if you enjoyed Screaming Underwater you'll like Eidolon's Keeper as well.

I'd also like to say that for long-time followers who haven't read this story in a while, rereading it will not be necessary. Again, since it is also a sister story, anyone can jump into it without any context. And for people who just finished reading it, or if you can just easily remember plots for Creepypasta fanfiction, you can go to the sequel. Or not. Your choice.

I still feel bad for teasing you, though. Bet you were excited for another long-awaited fix of Creepypasta goodness, just to find out that you'll need to go to my profile and click on a whole different story. I wish I could make it up to you.

But now that I think about it, maybe there is something...

X

Chapter 1: The Keeper's Awakening (TEASER)

The sky was marked only by the waxing moon on the night he was first found. Not even shimmering stars dared to obstruct the black, empty void that was midnight's heavens. The light of the great moon shone down onto him more than ever before, painting his already pale skin in its ghostly silver glow. There was no wind that night, not even the gentlest of breezes. It was as if time himself had been frozen in that exact moment, giving the world a chance to simply calm down and collect itself for what felt like it's very first time.

But even then, the storm continued on.

The boy hugged his toy tightly, its velvety beige and fallow fur soaking in his hot tears as he buried his face deeply into it. He nearly smelled its faint flowery scent, but it was too far gone. In fact, even the strongest of scents would not have been enough. For as he clenched his teary eyes shut, the smell of his vicinity burned in his nostrils; it was of overturned soil and raw iron, though he knew well enough that it was something else entirely. And just like the smell, the image he had seen moments ago, back when his eyes could still be pried open, lingered like an unwanted guest in his mind.

He had seen his bedroom, the one he had always lived in, and the same objects that had always been inside of it. But nothing was in its place. His belongings, small and large, had been hurled about, fractured and collapsed next to whatever they had been bashed against. Planks of wood from the walls and ceiling had broken through the drywall and onto the floor, burying any surviving possessions in heaps of rubble. One of the walls, the only one with a window - although it was always unevenly boarded up - had been completely demolished. Now, instead of the small cracks of the window, he was given a gaping hole with which to appreciate the forest and the sky and whatever existed beyond them both.

And there was the man, just barely poking out of the debris. His sickly coloured skin had been streaked by rivers of deep dark red that pooled below him, soaking into the softly tufted carpet. That was the smell that remained drifting. The smell that memories of honey and lilac perfume could not erase.

This was the smell of his father's blood.

No, he would not open his eyes. Not again.

"I'm so sorry," he muttered between sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." he choked, and then burst into a stronger fit of tears. He did not need to glance twice to know that his father was dead. If he had not woken up by that time, there was no hope at all for him. The boy would simply have to hope that he did not feel a pain too great. Though really he had no idea.

Because despite all the chaos and destruction throughout the secluded little cabin, the boy and the bed he sat upon remained completely unscathed. He wasn't the one that was hurt. He wasn't meant to be hurt. The blast was formed in an act of defence, and it did exactly that. Now he was safe from harm, whether or not he truly wished it.

The boy and his father never had the best relationship. In fact, things had gone from bad to worse since his mother left all those years ago. What replaced her was a healthy amount of betrayal for the woman how abandoned him and loathing for the man who raised him. But this was never what he wanted. All truly wished for was his freedom to go outside, to play, to make friends, and grow up into a man better than the child he was now.

Yes, that life would have been perfect. This was far, far from it.

He could no longer tell if his tremors was due to his shaking sobs or the cold April night air. Though no wind blew, the air stung slightly against his bare skin, making him hug his toy tighter and tighter. He could have gone under the warm blankets of the bed he perched upon, for sure, but that would require him to move, and that was a step he was not ready to make yet. That alone was too close to reality.

He stroked the soft fur of his toy, feeling its sleek, if slightly worn, material. He refused to hide his need for that stuffed animal at that moment, clinging to all the more joyous emotions it brought to him once before.

After all, what boy wouldn't need comfort, knowing that he was a murderer?