Recently, I bought a house back in my hometown, even though it has been a decade since I last visited. The main reason was simply to take a break from the busy city life I had buried myself in. Every day felt monotonous. I tried changing my perspective toward this boring life I lived, reminding myself to be thankful for waking up, blessed with a stable job and a roof to keep me warm and dry. Otherwise, I felt I was slowly falling into a void.
I tried not to think about my past because I saw it as a bad omen. Even after ten years, the streets still avoided eye contact with me. People walked with their heads down, quick and clipped, as if warmth was something expensive they couldn’t spare. The air carried that same dull heaviness I used to hate, quiet, but not in a peaceful way. More like a warning no one bothered to voice out loud.They all lived selfishly, including my parents. Even when they passed away, tears wouldn’t fall out of my eyes. Losing them felt like releasing a shackle bound to my ankle. Only then could I move far, far away.
Now I came back for the sole reason of escaping another life I had built for myself. It felt like returning to square one.
Unsurprisingly, my hometown remained exactly the same. The same gloominess, the same rusty smell, the same deserted streets. The houses looked dilapidated, the silence absolute, and not a single warmth of life greeted me.
The eeriness almost slapped me out of my foolish, impulsive behaviour. But since I had already bought the house, I knew there was no turning back.
I quit my job the day the ownership was confirmed, stopped paying rent, and even booked renovations. But I cancelled everything last minute when I remembered something unsettling about the house I bought.
When I told my coworkers, they assumed it was my childhood home and that I wanted to reminisce. But I had no attachment to memories or family. Instead, I bought a house that belonged to my best friend… who died back in high school.
For the longest time, he never once appeared in my mind throughout adulthood. Even his face was foggy. Yet his charm left an impression that outlasted everything else. His soul was so pure and bright, and yet… something must have gone wrong. His death happened around the same time my parents passed away, so I never properly grieved for him. Life simply pushed me into the working world, leaving no space for mourning.
Maybe now it was too late to do anything, but I sought closure.
Standing before a moulded door with vines crawling across it, I grabbed the handle with both hands and pushed. After an unsettling slam, I finally saw the inside of the abandoned house.
The walls faded into a murky gradient, the kind that made it hard to tell where the hallway ended and the dark began. It felt as though the house was swallowing its own edges. The floorboards creaked as if they might collapse beneath me, and some friendly little neighbours crawled across the floor or hid in corners at my arrival. The air was stiff and musty; I waved a hand and covered my nose from the dust. “I’m home,” I murmured, though the word didn’t quite reach the house. It felt swallowed before it even touched the air.
The furniture was exactly as it had been back in my high school days, as though the entire interior was frozen in time but wrapped in a deteriorating shell. The old bulky TV from the 20s was a throwback to when technology was still new. A vintage phonograph sat on a wooden table covered in cobwebs. That reminded me of how his father used to be an avid listener of the past.
Turning into the kitchen, the floor stuck to my soles like gum. As I rubbed off the unknown residue, I paused, stunned by the rusty knife hanging on the wall and the pot left on the gas stove. Something about it told me not to look inside the pot. Quickly, I ran upstairs and checked the bedrooms. Most doors were wide open; one glance revealed the three inner walls of each room. Decorations still hung where they used to, and family photos sat crooked at the edges of dressing tables. The bedding was stained from years of leakage, and the balcony door was jammed. I reached for the window latch but stopped halfway.
The whole room felt coated in a film of someone else’s life. I didn’t want my skin touching any of it. I sighed, knowing the situation was dire, but somehow, beneath the unease, a strange satisfaction settled in me. As if witnessing the house in this state, untouched and rotting, was something I wasn’t supposed to see.
Back then, I wasn’t close to his family. Their behaviour was somewhat dysfunctional, though I had no right to judge. I usually went straight to his room and stayed there until I returned home. Thinking back, I never once ate a meal with his parents. Maybe it wasn’t surprising that they ran away without packing after the incident. Their family was always better off; perhaps they could afford to abandon everything and start anew.
Walking toward the room at the end of the hallway, I found it tightly closed—as if untouched even when the original occupants were still here. Reaching for the dull golden doorknob, I recited silently:
‘Sorry to intrude.’
The scene had replayed in my mind ever since I stepped into the house. His room, the room I was most familiar with, had been sealed away after his untimely death. And when the door swung open, sunlight poured in and revealed every corner. His table, closet, and bed remained untouched for years, yet they were in the best condition out of all the rooms.
Even if I tried to ignore it, not a speck of dust lingered, almost as if someone had recently cleaned it. But the window and door were clearly shut the whole time. Despite the warm glow of sunlight, a chill crept down my spine. I looked back into the hallway, a distant past, contradicting the room I stood in, which felt strangely tied to my own timeline.
After touching a few things, I decided I would try staying a night in his room, considering this family home had finally fallen under my name. I walked to the nearest supermarket and bought as many essentials as I needed to survive a night that might be haunted.
At the cashier, I noticed wrinkled hands and white hair reflecting the fluorescent light. When I looked up, I recognised the old woman, my former next-door neighbour. She smiled and said, “Ah… you. Why did you come back?”
It wasn’t “How are you?” or “How have you been?” but immediately why I returned. My brows furrowed, but I kept calm. “I bought a house here recently. And you? How have you been, Mrs Yamada?”
“Same as usual,” she replied, eyes flicking away. “A house, you say? The only one put on sale recently was the Shiramasa place.”
“Yes. I’ll be living there from today onward.”
Her face stiffened.
“Are you serious? You left this town, and when you finally return, you choose that cursed house? Are you out of your mind?”
“W-what about the house?” I tried to sound rational. “I checked the condition. It’s just… abandoned.”
She scoffed and waved a hand dismissively.
“You should know best. Weren’t you closest to that boy who took his own life in that house? Everyone avoids it like the plague now. People have seen a shadowy figure lingering there. We even protested to the town council to demolish it, since the boy’s parents vanished into thin air! That area is shady, even your old house too. But since you’re still alive and I’m next door, I suppose you turned out fine,” She laughed, loud and unrestrained.
She bagged my items quickly and reached out her hand.
“Money, young man. I don’t accept those phone payments you use outside.”
I placed the crusty notes in her palm and left. I knew I’d overpaid, but I couldn’t bear to hear another word about anyone I once knew. Her words stirred something unpleasant in me, something metallic and bitter that clung to the back of my tongue.
By sunset, I had cleaned what I could. I replaced the light bulb, laid a bedsheet over the mattress, and prepared the room. Only his room had functioning electricity; the rest of the house remained dark.
Lying down, my eyelids already heavy, I reached out to turn off the light.
Silence settled instantly. Thick, complete, and almost too familiar.
