Chapter 1
Chapter 1
John, an 18-year-old boy, leaves his family after they make clear their hatred for him, and moves in with his friend Miles. One night, he has a nightmare that Miles is trying to kill him. Waking in terror, John goes to the kitchen for milk and hears a strange noise from Miles's room. As he approaches, a hand touches his back. He turns to find Miles, who explains the noise is his brother Jack praying, and tells John to go back to sleep. The chapter ends with John's lingering unease.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I didn't look back. The sound of my father's voice, sharp and cold, still rang in my ears: "You're not one of us." My mother had turned away, her silence a second blow. I had nowhere to go but forward. My bag was light—just a few clothes, my phone, and a worn-out novel I'd been reading for months. I walked down the gravel path, feeling the weight of eighteen years peeling off my shoulders, one step at a time.
Miles had said I could stay as long as I needed. "My family's never been perfect," he'd told me, his voice easy, as if he were offering a ride to the store. "But we've got room. And you're my best friend. That's all that matters." I gripped that promise like a lifeline.
His house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, a two-story building with a porch swing and a garden of overgrown roses. The front door was unlocked, as it always was. I let myself in, dropped my bag in the hallway, and stood in the living room, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and something warm. Miles came down the stairs, his hair messy, a sleepy grin on his face.
"You made it," he said. "Good. Mom's out of town, so it's just us and Jack. You'll like Jack. He's a bit strange, but harmless."
I nodded, too tired to ask what "strange" meant. He showed me to the guest room, a small space with a window overlooking the backyard. A twin bed, a nightstand, a lamp. It felt like a safe harbor.
Days passed in a quiet rhythm. Miles worked at a coffee shop in the afternoons, and I spent my time reading or helping around the house. Jack, his older brother, rarely came out of his room. I heard him sometimes—pacing, murmuring, once a loud thump that made me jump. Miles shrugged when I asked about it. "He's into… stuff. Meditation, prayer, that kind of thing. Don't worry about it."
But I did worry. Not about Jack, but about the shadows that seemed to linger at the edges of my thoughts. My family's words echoed in the dark. I'd wake in the middle of the night, my heart racing, unable to remember what I'd dreamed.
Then came the nightmare.
It started like any other. I was standing in my childhood home, but the furniture was wrong, the walls covered in mirrors that reflected nothing. Miles was there, his face familiar but his eyes hollow. He walked toward me, his hands extended, and I felt a coldness seep into my bones. "You shouldn't have come here," he said, his voice flat. Then he reached for my throat.
I woke with a scream caught in my throat. My pillow was damp, my T-shirt stuck to my skin. For a long moment, I couldn't move. The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight through the window. I listened. The house was quiet.
But my mouth was dry, and my stomach churned with a strange, restless need. Milk. I needed something cold and familiar, something that tasted like childhood. I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor. I crept down the hallway, past Miles's room, then paused.
There was a noise coming from inside. Low, rhythmic, almost like a chant. It wasn't speaking—it was more like a sound pulled from deep within someone's chest. A groan, or a prayer. I couldn't tell. My heart began to pound again. I remembered the nightmare, the hollow eyes. I told myself it was just Jack, doing whatever he did.
But the noise grew louder, more insistent. I leaned closer to the door, my hand hovering over the handle. I didn't knock. I just stood there, trying to decipher the sound. Was it pain? Fear? Or something else entirely?
Then I felt it: a hand on my back, warm and firm. I froze, every muscle locking. My breath caught, and for a second, I thought the nightmare had followed me into the waking world. Slowly, I turned.
It was Miles. He stood there in his pajama pants and an old T-shirt, his hair sticking up, his eyes half-open but alert. He looked at me, then at the door, and then back at me. His expression softened.
"John," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing?"
"I heard a noise," I managed. My own voice sounded thin, shaky. "I was going to get milk, and then—"
"It's Jack," Miles said, cutting me off gently. "He prays at night. Loudly, sometimes. I know it sounds weird. But he's harmless, I promise."
He took my arm and guided me away from the door. "Come on. I'll get you that milk."
In the kitchen, he poured two glasses and handed me one. The cold glass felt good in my hands. I drank slowly, letting the milk soothe my nerves. Miles sat across from me, not saying anything, just waiting.
"I had a nightmare," I said finally. "About you. You were trying to kill me."
He didn't laugh. He just nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "I get those too. They don't mean anything. It's just your brain trying to process stress."
I wanted to believe him. But as I finished my milk and walked back to my room, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The house was too quiet now, the chant gone. I passed Jack's door and noticed a sliver of light underneath. I didn't stop. I slid into my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.
Sleep didn't come easily. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. And then I heard it again—a low, whispering sound, not from Jack's room, but from somewhere closer. The walls. The floor. Maybe my own mind.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. But somewhere in the dark, a thought formed, unbidden:
What if the nightmare wasn't about Miles? What if it was about this house?
And what if I wasn't the only one who was afraid?