34 Westwood Haven.
In front of me stood a cozy house, with an old car parked out front and the number 34 visible on the door. The front door creaked as I stepped inside. The quiet hum of the house felt heavier , like it had been holding its breath all day, waiting for me. My shoes left faint marks on the polished floor, marks I knew would disappear soon enough.
Mom was in the kitchen, humming softly while rinsing dishes, and Dad slouched in his armchair, reading some old newspaper he never seemed to finish.
"Hey, champ," Dad said, looking up. His voice had that familiar warmth, soft and calm, the kind that made the house feel like a small bubble of safety, even if the outside world was loud and unforgiving.
"Hey," I muttered, shrugging off my backpack.
Mom turned, wiping her hands on a towel. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," she said. Her voice was gentle, but there was that slight strain I noticed more often lately — tension in her shoulders, a small wince when she straightened her back.
I smiled faintly. "Okay."
I moved into the living room, trying to look normal. Smiling, even laughing a little when Dad joked about something trivial in the paper. Putting on that mask was easy. It was what they deserved. My parents, tired as they were, didn't need me to carry the world in my chest. They deserved at least the illusion that their son was happy.
But inside, I couldn't ignore it. Not really. Dad's hair had grown whiter over the past few years. The skin under his eyes sagged, and the lines on his forehead were deeper than I remembered. Mom's back never looked straight. Even sitting down, she adjusted, flexed, stretched like a tight wire trying to hold itself together. Years of sacrifices were etched into them: the jobs they held, the hours they spent keeping everything running, the bills that never stopped piling up.
I could see it all, and it was exhausting to watch. But I loved them more for it. Every wrinkle, every tense movement, every quiet sigh — it was part of the story they'd lived to give me a better life. I loved them enough that it hurt. I would give them my entire lifespan if I could. Not in words, not in gestures, but just hand it over so they could rest. So they could feel young again, free of debt, free of schedules, free of every small chain the world had wrapped around them.
I thought about the neighbor, Mr. Connors, eighty this year. Happy, at least in everyone else's eyes. He'd spent his life working, saving, planning, buying things his son and grandson would eventually inherit or touch. Almost all of it, though, went to doctors, medicines, and small comforts that didn't matter in the end. His son, building his own career, barely visited. His grandson, buried in college, barely noticed. And Mr. Connors? He sat in his house, alone, old and aching. The money in his hands was meaningless. He couldn't even blame his son because he had done the same to his father. I imagined the cold weight of that truth and wanted to cling to my parents even tighter. I loved them that much.
Dinner smelled like roasted chicken and potatoes. Mom had made enough for four people, even though there were only three of us. I sat down at the table, tray balanced carefully in front of me, and tried to eat normally. Dad asked how my day went. I gave the usual one-word answers: "Fine," "Okay," "Nothing much." I saw him nod.
Inside, my thoughts wandered over their lives. All those years spent studying, working, saving, bending themselves to the world. All the money poured into my schooling, loans, taxes, groceries — everything that kept our lives going. All the tiny moments of quiet joy — a card game on a rainy afternoon, a rare movie night — were precious because they were rare. I wanted them to have more moments like that. More than that, I wanted them to rest. I would give my sleep, my time, my entire lifespan if it meant they could feel free.
Dad and Mom talked and laughed quietly, sharing stories from their day. I smiled, and for a heartbeat, it felt like everything was okay. But I knew the weight they carried. I always had. And even as I smiled, I thought of every tired night, every aching shoulder, every dollar that had gone into keeping this house running.
After dinner, I moved to my room, brushing past the hallway. My backpack thudded softly against the floor as I dropped it. The screen of my computer glowed faintly in the corner, waiting. I sat down, fingers hovering over the keyboard before diving into my games. The world outside my room dissolved as soon as I logged in. Maps, missions, challenges, enemies — it all consumed me. The hum of the fan, the clack of keys, the faint music from the game — all I needed.
Hours passed. I didn't keep track. My eyes burned slightly, my back ached, but it didn't matter. In the game, I was efficient, lethal, perfect. Every decision mattered. Every action counted. The chaos of the real world — I could leave all that behind. I felt free.
When I finally noticed the clock, it was midnight. I left the computer and went to my closet to change into clothes for the next day — saves time in the morning, though I'd be too lazy to wake up early anyway.
Finally, I collapsed onto my bed and let the realm of dreams take me.
"Beep-beep."
I woke with a start. My alarm clock always went off fifteen minutes before school time. I left my bed slowly, moving to the bathroom. Cold water splashed on my face, trying to shake off the numbness that had settled over me. My reflection looked the same — pale, slightly disheveled, awake.
I grabbed my bag from where I'd thrown it the night before and ran to the kitchen. Mom had prepared eggs for me, which I stuffed into my mouth as quickly as possible, already preparing to dash out the door.
"Remember," Mom said suddenly, "your dad and I have to go somewhere this evening. We'll leave the key under the pot outside."
"Alright, Mom," I said, nodding, taking mental note. I ran off without looking back.
"This kid," Mom murmured with a sigh, watching me leave.
...
I arrived at Westwood High on time. It was a old brown building and with a huge garden in front
I'd heard it was founded in 1899, had served as a hospital during WW2, and reopened in 1955 as a school. Initially for kids with special needs, it became a high school later. Kids often joked about ghosts here, saying students went missing. I knew that was bullshit. If ghosts were real, why would they only target kids , not teachers?
Classes started. Hours blurred as usual. By the time lunch came, my body signaled I needed to pee. I rushed into a restroom and relieved myself quickly.
There find myself a corner stall and went into it and relieved myself there .
I was about to leave when a loud scream came from outside. I froze. Was this a school shooting? Was this school about to become the scene of some FPS game? or someone just slip or was about to be murdered?
I immediately decided to go outside and see for myself as curiosity overwhelmed me
The handle of the stall door felt cold beneath my fingers. I paused, staring at it. Had it always been this cold?
I gripped the handle fully and pushed the door open. My eyes widened. A subtle, undeniable shock ran through me. I froze. The handle was still cold. My breath caught.
I wasn't in the restroom anymore. The floor looked the same, but everything else had changed. In front of me stretched restroom hall extending in three directions, lined with stalls , it was unreal .
Part of me wanted to panic. But instead of fear, a strange excitement stirred inside. I didn't know what this place was. I didn't know how I got here. But somehow, my mind was already calculating possibilities, analyzing what this could mean.
I stayed frozen, staring at the uncanny hall. And could already feel my heart beating too much fast
Unlike before I was wide awake now , suddenly I heard sound of someone running , i hurriedly looked towards the direction where the sound was coming from , there in a distance was a boy running towards me .
I was no fool , I knew it was a stupid idea to go to a unknown boy just because you want someone's company , supernatural stuff is already going on , what if he is a skinwalker or something
" Heyy , wait there "
The boy screamed loud and his voice began to echo throughout the hall and he began to run faster
" idiot " , i cursed and began running in opposite direction from where he was coming
Screaming loudly in this hall could attract a monster or something and this idiot was practically giving a invitation to being like that .
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