I had longed for the past, as one might long for a lover lost to the ravages of time—an ache that cannot be assuaged by any present delight. My childhood home, once full of light and life, had fallen to ruin. The demolition, which had come without warning, had left behind nothing but memories wrapped in the dust of a bygone era. The walls that once whispered with the echoes of laughter were now reduced to rubble. How cruel the world can be to rip away the foundation of one’s existence, I thought, as I stood before the remnants of that broken place.
I had heard whispers, murmurs—tales spoken in hushed voices—that time travel was possible. A cursed, twisted thing that should never have been discovered, but one I had, through an unspeakable series of events, come to master. My purpose was clear: I would return to the day before the demolition and save it. I would be the hero in my own story, pulling my family and my memories from the jaws of oblivion.
How naïve I was.
I stood in my bedroom, the walls of the house still undisturbed by the cruel hand of progress, and I reveled in the silence. I could feel the weight of my decision pressing upon me, the wrongness of it clawing at my mind, but I silenced those thoughts. For once, I was in control. I had power.
I walked through the rooms with an air of reverence, touching the cracked wood of the banister, the faded curtains that once danced in the sunlight. There was the kitchen, where my mother had made breakfast every morning, her hands moving in a graceful rhythm as if she were composing a secret song only the house could hear. And here—here was the hallway, where my brother and I had raced, laughing as if the world had no end.
But even as I basked in the warmth of these memories, something felt wrong. The house felt… too still. As though it were holding its breath, waiting. I paused, my hand resting upon the cold, wooden door of the study. It was then that I first heard the whisper.
“You should not be here.”
I turned, heart racing, but found only empty air. The voice had been so clear, so real. My breath quickened. There was no one. But still, the words hung in the air, heavy and thick. You should not be here.
I trembled, unsure if I were the victim of some trick my mind had played on me or if there was something more sinister at work. But I had come this far, and I would not turn back. Not now.
The days leading up to the destruction played themselves out in my mind like a dark film reel, and I knew exactly what needed to be done. I would speak with the developers. I would stop the machines. I would save the house.
But when I sought out those who had planned the demolition, their faces were cold, unreadable, as though they knew something I did not. Something they would never share with me. They offered no explanation for the destruction, only assurances that it was necessary. But I could not accept it. The house had to be preserved.
And so I did what I had to. I returned again, determined to stop the event that I knew would change everything.
But it was in that very moment, as I stood beneath the shadow of the wrecking ball, that I saw it.
The truth.
The house had not been destroyed by accident. It had been torn down deliberately—purposely—to prevent something far worse.
I stumbled backward as the weight of the realization fell upon me. The structure that I had once called home was not simply a collection of walls and memories. No, it was a trap—a prison meant to contain a darkness that none but a few knew of. A force so vile, so dangerous, that its very existence had to be erased from time. The house had not been my sanctuary; it had been the very thing that kept the horrors at bay.
But in my arrogance, I had returned, had undone the balance. The house had to fall. It had been the only way.
And now, I was too late. Too late to stop it. Too late to save anything.
I heard the voice again, but this time, it was not a whisper. It was a scream—loud, insistent, full of agony. The walls of the house seemed to buckle, as though something monstrous inside was stirring, straining against its invisible bonds. I turned, frantic, but there was no escape. The ground beneath me began to tremble, the air grew thick, and I could feel the weight of the darkness pressing in from all sides.
I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. My feet were rooted to the spot, as though the very earth had swallowed them whole. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounded in my chest, and I realized, too late, that I had released it.
The thing that had been buried in the depths of that house—the thing I had never known, never imagined—was now free. And it was angry.
The last thing I saw before the world went black was the twisted visage of my childhood home crumbling into nothingness, and with it, my hope. It was gone, as if it had never existed at all, leaving only a void.
There would be no saving me. There would be no return. And perhaps, as the darkness consumed me, the most tragic realization of all was that I had never truly been the hero.
I was merely the fool who had brought about the end.
And in the silence that followed, I heard one final whisper.
“You should not have come.”
And then, there was nothing.
