Chapter 1: The Ghosts of Power

If I’m being honest, I’ve always felt like the least qualified president in American history. Some days, the doubt is so thick I can barely breathe. When I was nine, I was just learning to walk and talk like any other kid, and somehow—thanks to my mother and grandmother—the presidency was handed to me on a silver platter. No one in Washington, not a single cabinet member or general, thought I belonged in the Oval Office. They all figured a president like me would be the end of America. But what they didn’t know was that my father had already chosen me as his successor—no one was going to pry the White House from my hands. Still, sometimes I wonder: did I ever really belong here? Or was I just fooling myself?

Sometimes I can’t help but feel the Oval Office was always meant to be my own personal haunted house, with those endless halls echoing the footsteps of people who never thought I belonged. Even as a kid, I could feel their doubts settle around me, thick as dust on the old portraits in the East Room. But whatever anyone thought, the Carter name was woven so deep into this place that no one could pull it loose—not without tearing down the whole house.

When I was three, my father came to see me late one night. He knelt beside my bed and asked, "Son, what have you been up to lately?" I rattled off the books I’d read—The Cat in the Hat, the list of U.S. Presidents, the Pledge of Allegiance, even some old American poems. He smiled, but then his face turned serious, and he gave me a command I’ll never forget:

I remember the lamp’s glow throwing odd shadows across his face, making him look like he belonged half to this world and half to somewhere else—a place full of secrets. I knew, even then, that this wasn’t your typical bedtime chat. The air had a chill to it, like the kind that creeps in right before a Midwest thunderstorm.

"Son, remember: before you take office, do not speak, and do not stand up or walk. Don’t tell anyone about this—not even your mother."

He never told me why. He just stared out the window at the stars, his face tight with worry. I looked up too, but he quickly covered my eyes with his hand. Then, almost like he was afraid the night might overhear, he whispered something else:

"Son, remember: in your lifetime, you must never look at the moon. On that moon…" He started to say more, but the words caught in his throat, like he’d crossed some invisible line. He just stood there, stunned, then forced a bitter smile and shook his head, the silence between us stretching on.

Even now, I can feel the weight of his hand over my eyes, his voice dropping to a hush as if the moon itself was listening in. That was the first time I realized that in our family, secrets weren’t just hidden—they were guarded like the launch codes.

He told me every Carter had a special destiny. When I became president, I was to go to the family’s ancestral chamber and see for myself. My great-grandfather, Franklin Carter, had left behind secret writings for every generation; once I read them, I’d finally understand the Carter family’s mission.

That night, after he left, I lay awake, tracing the shapes of stars on my bedroom ceiling, wondering what kind of destiny could scare a grown man so badly. I didn’t dare ask my mother about any of it. In the Carter family, you learned to keep your questions to yourself—no matter how much they burned inside.

After that, I became the most famous fool in the White House. Even while my father was still running things, advisors were always trying to get rid of me, saying I was too slow, too dull, unfit for the job. But my father never budged. He always insisted I was the one who’d restore the Carter family’s fortunes, no matter what anyone else said.

It was like living in a fishbowl—every move I made was watched, picked apart, whispered about behind closed doors. My father’s belief in me was stubborn, the kind of love that refuses to give up even when everyone else has. Sometimes I wondered if he really meant it, or if he just needed to believe it for his own sake.

The night before he died, my father called me to his side again. He didn’t just say he loved me—he told me something that still keeps me up at night. When he was young, he’d had Professor Malcolm Graves, a black-robed seer, read America’s fate. The United States was supposed to collapse in my generation, but there was always a sliver of hope. Professor Graves couldn’t see the details—just a single name: Red Bluff. My father obsessed over it for years, but never cracked the code. He told me I’d have to find out for myself.

He squeezed my shoulder so hard it hurt, his eyes blazing with a kind of urgency I’d never seen before—like a man staring down the last pages of his own story. Even as he talked about fate and prophecy, I heard regret in his voice, like he was handing me a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

After that, my father gave me a dagger, forged by great-grandfather Franklin Carter and sealed with some kind of mystical power. His final words still echo in my head:

"There are ghosts in the White House—use this to kill them!"

The dagger was cold and heavy in my palm, its hilt carved with weird symbols that glinted in the light. It felt less like a weapon and more like a key to a locked door I wanted nothing to do with.

Three years after I took office, my mother still ran the show. Most of her decisions left me scratching my head—there were obviously better ways to do things, but she always seemed to pick the worst option. It was like she was more interested in keeping the president and the cabinet at odds than actually getting anything done. I used to think letting a woman run the government was the world’s biggest mistake, but out of respect for my family, I never said it out loud.

Looking back now, I realize how little I understood about the games played in those marble corridors. The West Wing was a maze of closed doors, half-heard conversations, alliances that shifted every day. My mother moved through it all with this icy confidence, and I was just a shadow in her wake, trying to make sense of a world that never made sense to me.

It wasn’t until I turned fourteen, two years later, that I finally learned the truth. My mother took me to my father’s grave at Arlington. Her eyes looked so tired as she asked, "Son, all these years, you’ve been unhappy with a lot of my choices, haven’t you?"

The cemetery was silent, the air heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass and old memories. I kept my hands folded, my heart beating so loud I thought it might echo off the headstones. There was something final in her voice, like she was about to hand me a burden she’d carried too long.

I dropped my gaze, afraid to meet her eyes. "I… I wouldn’t dare say so."

My voice barely made it past my lips. I could feel her looking at me—sharp, almost cutting—but I didn’t dare look up. In that moment, I understood what it meant to be afraid of your own mother, to respect her so much it hurt.

She let the question hang, then quietly laid out her burdens. When my father died, he left the whole country in her hands until I was old enough to rule. When I first took office, I was too young to hear the real truth. But now, at fourteen, she told me something that made my skin crawl: every order she’d given was meant to keep the cabinet in check—not just out of suspicion, but because not a single advisor could be trusted. They weren’t human at all, but ghosts—monsters who wanted to destroy the United States. Especially the Three Johns in the cabinet; they were ancient, evil spirits who’d eaten more lives than I could imagine.

Her words made the world tilt under my feet. Suddenly, all those strange decisions and weird policies made sense—she was playing defense in a game where the stakes were the soul of the country. I stared at my father’s headstone, feeling the ground shift beneath me.

I shivered, struggling to believe her. How could the government be nothing but ghosts? She told me I had to keep the secret, and she was telling me now so I’d understand what I was really up against. At that moment, I remembered my father’s dying instructions. My mother pressed a silver butterfly pendant into my hand; if I wore it, I’d see the advisors’ true forms.

The pendant was ice-cold in my palm, its wings catching the late sunlight. I slipped it over my head, half-expecting the world to change in an instant. But nothing did—except for the new weight in my chest, like I’d just inherited a debt I’d never pay off.

The next morning, as I sat in the Oval Office, a chill ran down my spine, cold sweat prickling at my neck. Just as my mother warned, every cabinet and military official was exactly as she said: monsters, ghosts, things that should never have walked the earth. The Three Johns were the worst of all.

I remember sunlight slanting through the tall windows, turning everything gold—except for the monsters’ shadows stretching across the floor. My heart thudded so hard I thought everyone could hear it. I wanted to run, to scream, but all I could do was sit still.

John Shearer was a towering skeleton, blue bones clinging to scraps of flesh. His ribcage was like a cage, and inside it, I could see the mangled bodies of children. Every time he shook his head, his bones creaked and an eyeball fell out, which he’d stuff back in. When it slipped again, he’d shove it in his mouth, the broken eye oozing green slime that made my stomach turn.

Every noise he made scraped at my nerves. The smell of rot around him was so thick I nearly gagged. Even now, remembering his hollow laugh makes my skin crawl.

John Ramsey was a patchwork of human parts, his body covered in a mess of stitches. Every chunk of flesh was the wrong shape, as if someone had built him from scraps. Where his mouth should’ve been was a giant eyeball—not human, but something monstrous. All his limbs were arms, the stitches writhing as if new flesh was trying to grow. He scratched his chest, the stitches split, and a mass of red worms spilled out.

The sight made my stomach clench. I tried not to look, but every time he moved, the seams in his skin writhed. My hands gripped the arms of my chair until my fingers ached.

When I turned, John Price was gone, replaced by a puddle of wet, black slime. Then my mother touched my shoulder, and I realized my fear had drawn every advisor’s eyes to me, hungry and bright. I wasn’t a president—I was lunch.

Their eyes—those that had them—followed me with a hunger that felt almost physical. I could feel their stares, pressing in, waiting for me to make the wrong move.

My mother gave a cold snort, and the monsters below straightened up, their menace fading a little. Then she looked behind me. Standing next to my chair was John Price, now shaped like a giant droplet of water, cloudy inside, with animal organs floating in it. An octopus tentacle slid out, wrapping around the presidential chair. The eagle crest on the desk shimmered, turning to golden light, which the tentacle slurped up.

The air buzzed with a weird, electric tension. I could almost hear the old desk humming under the weight of secrets and monsters. I wanted to run—just sprint out of the room and never look back.

Before I could move, John Price burst into a thousand black droplets, then reformed, the black water boiling with rage. Chaotic light shot from John Shearer and John Ramsey, calming him down.

The room grew colder, like someone had opened a window to let in the night. The ghosts’ power flickered in the corners, turning the office into a set for a horror show only I could see.

I don’t remember a thing from that meeting; the terror nearly broke me. Afterward, my mother grabbed my hand and told me not to speak up. Walter Jenkins, the young aide, followed us everywhere, his eyes never leaving me. Once we entered the residence, he waited outside the door.