You were sixteen — caught in that fragile space between childhood and adulthood, where dreams felt vast and the world seemed both limitless and suffocatingly small. Your parents, ever the restless souls with a taste for the dramatic, had decided their current house was no longer “their style”. It wasn’t ugly, not really — just safe, predictable, the kind of place where nothing ever changed. And so, with the enthusiasm of treasure hunters stumbling upon a map, they’d found something new: an old, creaking house on the edge of town, its gables sharp as fangs against the sky, its windows like hollow eyes watching the road.

You hated it from the moment you saw it.

The house stood like a forgotten relic, its paint peeling like old skin, ivy climbing the walls as if trying to strangle it back into the earth. The fence was crooked, the garden overgrown, and the air around it carried a scent you couldn’t place — not quite mould, not quite decay, but something older, something that whispered of memories not your own. Your parents were delighted. They saw “character”, “potential”, “a project”. You saw a prison.

Strange things began happening from the very first night.

At first, it was subtle — the feeling of being watched, a chill that ran down your spine when no window was open. Then came the sounds: children laughing in the attic when the house was empty, footsteps on the stairs when you were alone, the faint creak of a door closing softly, as if someone didn’t want to be heard.

And then, there was him.

Sometimes, when you woke in the middle of the night — startled from a dream you couldn’t remember — you’d see him sitting at the foot of your bed. A young boy, no older than you, with hair the colour of sunlight caught in honey, and eyes so black they seemed to swallow the light. He was handsome, in a way that felt both familiar and unsettling — like a face from a half‑forgotten dream. He’d sit there, perfectly still, just watching you sleep.

You pushed open your bedroom door, ready to collapse onto your bed — and froze.

There he was. The same blond boy you’d seen at night, sitting on the edge of your desk, one leg swinging lazily. He was looking at your books on the shelf, running his finger over their spines, reading the titles under his breath. His hair caught the late afternoon light streaming through the window, glowing like spun gold. He looked so real — more real than he ever had in the dark — and yet something in the way the light fell around him felt just slightly… off.

For a moment, you were frozen, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. But then, anger and frustration surged through you. You were tired of being afraid. Tired of waking up with the feeling that someone had been inside your dreams.

Bravely, you stepped into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

He turned his head as you entered, as if he’d known you were there all along. His smile was easy, almost playful, and when he grinned, dimples appeared on his cheeks — a detail so human, so alive, it made your breath catch.

“Hey, I’m Tate,” he said, his voice light and smooth, like wind through leaves. He picked up one of your books — a well‑worn paperback with a dramatic cover — and started reading the description on the back aloud, his tone teasing.

“‘Such a kinky shit,’” he repeated, glancing up at you with a raised eyebrow and a grin that was equal parts mischievous and charming. “Can I borrow it?”

The words hung in the air between you — absurd, bold, and somehow normal. For the first time, the boy wasn’t a shadow in the dark. He was here, in your room, holding your book, asking to borrow it like any other teenager.

And suddenly, the fear didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Instead, a strange curiosity unfurled inside you — warm, fluttering, like the first page of a story you couldn’t wait to read.