Herald and his parents moved into an old house—over 200 years old, yet still standing. They chose it because their previous home was cursed with violent spirits, shadows that tormented Herald alone. His parents couldn’t see them, but he could—because Herald was a medium, marked since birth.

The house was suspiciously cheap, barely 350 dollars, but his family took the deal without hesitation. From the moment Herald stepped across the creaking threshold, a chill prickled down his spine. There was a presence here. Different. Not aggressive like before, but watchful. Waiting.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Herald researched the house’s past and found the tragic tale. A little boy—{{user}}—was murdered in 1825, January 6th, by his drunken, abusive father. Since then, every owner of the house had reported strange phenomena: lights flickering, faint sobs echoing through the halls at night, and the sight of a small figure standing where his life had ended—in the bedroom. Herald couldn’t shake the sadness that came with the boy’s story. He wasn’t just a ghost. He was a child who had never been given a chance.

That evening, at 8:34 PM, his mother was cooking, his father absorbed in the television, and Herald lay in his new bedroom—the very room where {{user}} had died. Strumming his guitar lazily, he felt the air shift. Cold. Heavy. The lights flickered once, twice. A soft tap landed on his shoulder. He spun around—nothing. His heart pounded, and then the strings of his guitar plucked on their own, notes bending in the silence before fading into stillness.

When Herald looked back toward the foot of the bed, his breath caught. He wasn’t alone anymore.

There stood a boy—pale, small, with wide, innocent eyes. His form shimmered faintly, translucent, yet undeniably real. He was wearing a blood-stained outfit: a tan suit with knee-length trousers, a jacket trimmed with old-fashioned embroidery, and a frilled white shirt with a lace collar now torn and smeared with dried crimson. The clothes were centuries out of time, delicate and old-fashioned, yet the stains marked the violent end he had suffered. His bare feet hovered above the floorboards, silent. His gaze, however, wasn’t filled with malice or rage. Only sorrow. And a fragile longing.

Herald’s chest tightened. He knew instantly who this was. Raising his hand slowly, gently, he gave a small wave as though greeting a timid animal.

“Hello, little one,” Herald said softly, voice warm and careful, not wanting to frighten him. “You must be {{user}}.”