"Come on, man. Stop being a wuss."
Anthony tightened his grip on his phone, the cracked screen digging into his palm. The house loomed at the top of the hill like it had grown there—crooked, rotting, patient. Its windows were blacked out, not broken, like something inside didn't want to be seen.
"I'm not a wuss," he snapped. "Just—give me a damn second, alright?"
Behind him, laughter cut through the night air.
"A second? You've had five minutes," Brad said. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond—everything about him screamed confidence bought with money. He crossed his arms, smirking. "You lost the bet. Rules are rules."
A girl scoffed. "Oh my god, Anthony, you're wasting my time." She flicked her hair back, annoyed. "There's no such thing as a real haunted house. It's just some abandoned dump."
Anthony didn't turn around. His eyes stayed locked on the front door.
The house looked worse up close. The wooden boards were split and swollen from years of rain. Rust crawled along the hinges like dried blood. Mold bloomed in dark patches across the walls, and the porch sagged in the middle, bowing under its own weight. A faint smell drifted down the hill—damp wood, rot… and something sour beneath it.
"I know that," Anthony muttered. "I know it's stupid. But it's not your ass going in there alone."
Brad stepped forward. "Wow. Zip it. Don't talk to my girl like that." He jabbed a thumb toward the house. "Either go inside or pay up."
Anthony swallowed.
He wanted to tell them all to screw off. Wanted to say the bet was dumb, that this place gave him a bad feeling, that his chest felt tight for no reason. But the words stayed stuck in his throat. Four pairs of eyes burned into his back, waiting.
He sighed, long and shaky.
"Alright. Fine. Whatever."
The laughter stopped as he started up the hill.
With every step, the night seemed to quiet. No insects. No wind. Even the distant hum of traffic faded until there was only the sound of his shoes crunching against gravel and dead leaves.
When he reached the porch, the air changed.
It felt heavier—like walking underwater. His ears rang faintly, a thin high-pitched noise that made his jaw ache. Anthony hesitated, his hand hovering inches from the doorknob.
This is stupid, he told himself. You're gonna open the door, step inside, step right back out. That's it.
He glanced over his shoulder.
His friends were still there, small shapes at the bottom of the hill, their faces lit by phone screens. Brad gave him a thumbs-up.
Anthony turned back.
The doorknob was cold. Colder than it should've been.
When he twisted it, the door creaked open with a sound that felt too loud, like the house was protesting. The smell inside was stronger—rotting wood, old metal, and something faintly sweet, almost like spoiled meat.
He stepped inside.
The door swung shut behind him.
Anthony froze.
He hadn't touched it.
The darkness inside the house felt thick, pressing against his skin. The moonlight barely slipped through the grime-covered windows, casting warped shadows across the floor. The walls were carved with deep scratches—not random, not decay. Patterns.
His breathing grew louder in his ears.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking.
Something shifted upstairs.
Not footsteps.
Not quite.
Anthony backed up, heart hammering, reaching blindly for the door—
And then the ringing in his ears stopped.
The silence that followed was worse.
——
The classroom buzzed with noise long before the bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor, backpacks hit desks, conversations overlapped in half-whispers and laughter. The clock above the whiteboard read 8:07 a.m., its second hand ticking steadily, uncaring.
The room was large—two doors at the back, rows of desks packed tight, tall windows along one wall letting in dull morning light. Around fifty students filled the space, the air thick with gossip.
The door creaked open.
A few heads turned as Ace Eldren stepped inside.
He was fifteen, tall for his age, just under six feet. Lean and athletic—not bulky, but clearly strong. His dark hair fell into his eyes in the front and brushed the back of his neck, an uneven mod cut that somehow worked. There was something deliberate about the way he moved, like he was always aware of his surroundings.
Ace scanned the room out of habit.
Nothing unusual.
Still, as he walked down the aisle, a faint pressure brushed against his senses—gone as quickly as it came. He frowned slightly, then shook it off.
Probably nothing.
He slid into the seat beside Marco.
Marco grinned and bumped fists with him. "Wassup, dude."
"Wassup."
Marco leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Yo. You hear about the news?"
Ace dropped his bag under the desk. "What news?"
"A kid from St. Caldron went missing."
Ace paused. "Missing how?"
"Like… vanished." Marco glanced around before continuing. "Name was Anthony Hayes. People are saying he went into that haunted house up the hill and never came out."
Ace's expression hardened for just a second before smoothing out.
"The old one near the woods?" he asked.
"Yeah." Marco nodded. "Cops searched it.
Found nothing. No blood. No signs. Just empty."
Ace leaned back in his chair, eyes unfocused.
That house.
He'd driven past it before. Felt it before. The place always sat wrong with him—like a bruise on the landscape.
"That's messed up," he said quietly.
"No kidding." Marco shuddered.
"Everyone's been talking about it."
Before Ace could respond, the classroom doors opened again.
The teacher entered, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Conversations faded into silence as she set her bag down.
"Good morning, students," she said. "I'm sure most of you have heard about the unfortunate incident involving a student from our neighboring school."
Marco leaned toward Ace. "Told ya."
The teacher clasped her hands together. "While authorities are handling the situation, I'd like to remind everyone to return home directly after school. Do not engage in reckless behavior. Curiosity can be dangerous."
Ace muttered under his breath, "Someone goes missing and she turns it into a fucking lecture."
Marco snorted quietly. "Cold as hell."
The teacher continued, unfazed. "This is a serious matter. Learn from it."
Ace stared at the clock again. 8:11 a.m.
Marco shifted in his seat. "So…"
Ace glanced at him. "So?"
"You wanna check out that haunted place after school?"
Ace turned fully toward him this time.
"No."
Marco blinked. "What? C'mon, man—"
"No," Ace repeated, firmer. "That's a bad idea."
Marco frowned. "Since when are you scared?"
Ace exhaled slowly, choosing his words. "I'm not. I just don't want you getting into something stupid."
"It's just a house."
"Yeah," Ace said quietly. "And people don't just disappear for no reason."
Marco hesitated, then shrugged. "Damn. Okay. Guess we'll just… not get cursed today."
Ace forced a small smile. "Sounds like a plan."
The bell rang, sharp and loud.
The class settled into routine—notes, lectures, normalcy. But Ace's mind drifted back to the hill, the house, and the missing kid.
Whatever took Anthony Hayes hadn't been a prank.
And it wasn't done.
—
The bell rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the classroom air.
Students poured out into the corridors as if nothing had happened. Laughter, footsteps, lockers slamming—life moving on like a missing kid was just another headline. Ace stepped into the hallway and immediately felt it.
Everyone was talking.
"Did you hear—" "They say he never came out—" "My cousin swears that place is cursed—"
Break time turned the school into a rumor mill.
Ace leaned against a locker, arms crossed, listening without looking interested. Most of it was nonsense—ghosts, murderers, secret tunnels. Fear dressed up as entertainment.
He spotted Cedric near the vending machines.
Cedric stood out without trying. Same age as Ace, a little shorter, sharp-eyed, calm in a way that didn't match the chaos around him. His uniform was neat, his posture relaxed, like he wasn't affected by the noise at all. His hair was messy ,he liked to style it as a fringe
Ace walked over.
"Yo," Ace said.
Cedric glanced up and smirked. "Took you long enough."
They bumped fists.
"You hearing this shit?" Ace asked, nodding toward the crowd.
Cedric followed his gaze. "Hard not to."
Ace lowered his voice. "Anthony Hayes. St. Caldron. Haunted house."
Cedric's expression shifted—not shocked, not scared. Focused.
"Yeah," he said. "I heard."
Ace studied him. "Thoughts?"
Cedric leaned back against the machine, arms folded. "Could be nothing."
Ace raised an eyebrow.
Cedric continued, "Or it could be something pretending to be nothing. Blob-type entities are good at that. So are goblins, depending on the region."
Ace snorted quietly. "People are throwing around 'ghost' like it explains anything."
"Ghosts are lazy answers," Cedric said. "If it was a haunting, there'd be signs. Cold spots. Patterns. Repeat victims."
"So what then?" Ace asked.
Cedric tilted his head. "Chupacabra's unlikely. Wrong environment. Skinwalker's possible—but those usually don't stay put."
Ace went quiet.
Cedric noticed. "You thinking the same thing I am?"
"That the house has been there for years," Ace said slowly. "And it only took someone now."
Cedric nodded. "Exactly."
The noise of the hallway faded into the background as their focus narrowed.
Cedric glanced at him. "We should check it out."
Ace didn't respond immediately.
Cedric raised a brow. "After school. Just observation. No hero shit."
Ace sighed. "I figured you'd say that."
"So?" Cedric pressed.
Ace scratched the back of his neck. "I gotta ask my mom first."
Cedric blinked. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
Cedric laughed under his breath. "You're a gooddam hunter and still need permission?"
Ace shot him a look. "I live under her roof. I follow her rules."
"Fair," Cedric said. "Smart, actually."
Ace glanced down the hallway, instinctively scanning exits, faces, shadows. "If she says no, we don't go."
Cedric nodded without argument. "Then we don't go."
The bell rang again, calling them back to class.
As students groaned and shuffled away, Cedric pushed off the vending machine.
"Text me," he said. "Let me know."
Ace nodded. "Yeah."
They split off in opposite directions.
Ace walked back toward his classroom, the noise of the school closing in around him again. But his mind was already elsewhere—on the hill, the house, and the thing patient enough to wait years for the right door to open.
Whatever took Anthony Hayes wasn't a myth.
And soon, Ace intended to find out what it was.