To Kill A Place

To Kill a Place

Adam stopped in the street, staring at the house with mixed emotions. He couldn’t recall how many times he had decided to come here only to fail. A hundred? More? He didn’t know, but he was certain this would be the last time, no matter what the outcome. Perhaps the reason for his past failures was what his friend had told him earlier that day: "You go in with safety nets, like a child riding a bike with training wheels, just in case you fall."

So, the obvious solution, in his mind, was to strip himself of all safeguards before leaving his apartment, to throw himself fully into the experience and face whatever awaited him, whatever it was. That’s why he came alone, without a phone or any means of help if things spiraled out of control. He didn’t even bring his sedatives.

He stepped toward the garden. The air was eerily silent as if the house had swallowed all sound and locked it inside. He walked, studying the house—no different from any other, except in his own mind. Crossing the garden along the path to the door, he reached for the knob. His breath quickened as if he were in a marathon. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead despite the cold wind wrapping around him.

"You’re running late. When will you flee this time, Adam?"

"No. Not like before. I won’t run again."

He said it as if speaking to the house itself, ignoring the alarm-bell pounding of his heart. He had to finish this. It was the only way to escape the laughter of his colleagues and the nightmares that haunted him even in his waking hours.

He wasn’t exaggerating when he believed this place was the root of all his problems: his crippling shyness, which left him isolated and rejected; his flinching at the slightest whisper or sudden sound; the cautious, hushed way he spoke, as if someone were monitoring his every word; his submissive walk; his repeated emotional detachment in relationships. Everything. He wasn’t exaggerating—because all of it had started here, specifically in the pitch-black, tomb-silent basement of this house.

The door swung wide open, just as it had before. But this time, he didn’t run. He stood there, staring into the darkness that spilled from inside, swallowing his entire field of vision.

"Aren’t you coming in, Adam?"

He responded as he had in the few times he’d dared to answer before: "I’m coming in. And this time, I’ll kill you myself."

He said it in a sharp tone, as if trying to force himself to believe it—and by 'killing,' he meant the place itself, symbolically perhaps, in his mind. He ignored the furniture he’d memorized from previous attempts, moving past the antique chairs and the table, tuning out the echoing tick of a clock dominating the hollow silence. He turned right, hands skimming the dry wall as if bracing himself, walking down a hallway that seemed endless.

"This is as far as you made it last time. Remember?"

Adam erupted angrily, snapping: “Yes, I remember.”

His fury surged as he kicked the door—the one that seemed to mock him. It slammed against the adjacent wall with a resonant thud, then creaked in a discordant, grating whine.

He stood at the top of the stairs, which appeared to float over an ocean of darkness. He tried to shake the memories that had taken root the first time he’d laid eyes on this place.

He descended, thinking of the hours he’d have to spend down here alone, battling the memories that would inevitably ambush him, tightening the suffocating grip of this place. If he passed out, who would save him? No one even knew he was here today.

"Hmm. Passing out. Right. Why didn’t you bring your sedatives, Adam?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took deep breaths, sighing repeatedly, trying to mimic the numbing effect of his pills. But with each inhale, the musty, damp stench clawed at his lungs. Once he reached the basement floor, he pulled out the flashlight he’d brought. Before he could turn it on and begin the plan he’d rehearsed in his mind, a choked whimper broke through—a child’s sobbing, unending.

"Who’s here?" he stammered, his mind already mapping escape routes—this voice was real, not like the ones that lived in his head.

Moments later, he caught only a fragmented plea: "Please… let me go to my mom," followed by sharp, violent gasps that echoed through the cramped space. Adam’s hands trembled as he tightened his grip on the flashlight, struggling to turn it on with the other. When the light flickered to life, he aimed it toward the source of the cries—and saw a child, wrists bound to an old metal pipe jutting from the wall. The boy sat on a mattress, the source of the stifling rot in the air.

The child flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as Adam approached cautiously, touching him to confirm he was real—not another hallucination, like the ones his psychiatrist had warned were worsening.

"You’re real," Adam whispered in horror, pinching the boy’s arm lightly to be sure. The child jerked away with a desperate, broken scream.

"Please, let me go to my mom!" The boy thrashed, uselessly yanking at the pipe.

All of Adam’s preparations evaporated. This was no longer just about enduring an hour in the basement—this was a real crisis. His mind snapped back into focus. He had to move fast.

"Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be okay." He rushed toward the knots in the coarse rope. A memory flashed—this same rope, binding pain to his mind just as it now bound the boy to the pipe. His fingers fumbled with the rough fibers, working to loosen the knots as he reassured the child.

"Quick, he’ll be back soon," the boy said, voice trembling with frantic hope, now certain this man wasn’t his kidnapper—he was here to save him.

The knots came undone. Adam grabbed the boy, checking for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

The boy shook his head. Adam lifted him, ready to carry him up—but then a faint click sounded from above, followed by the slow, heavy drag of footsteps. Someone was coming.

"Still feeling brave, Adam? Or will you abandon the boy?"

"I won’t," Adam hissed.

He flicked off the flashlight and pulled the child into the shadows behind the stairs, weighing his options. He had to keep the boy out of the confrontation. This wasn’t a psychological game anymore—this was real, and the child’s life was in his hands. He set the boy down, whispering, "Stay hidden. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound."

But the boy clutched at him, pleading in a whisper, "Please don’t leave me. He’s been doing horrible things to me since yesterday. I just want to go back to my mom, please."

Adam wiped the boy’s tears—the ones that hadn’t stopped since they’d met—ignoring his own welling up. He cupped the child’s face gently. "You’re brave. We’ll get out of here, okay?"

The boy gave a weak, broken nod. Adam repeated the encouragement, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead—and for the first time, he felt the boy truly calm.

"Don’t you remember the small basement window, Adam?"

"Yes—the window!" He turned, the memory crashing back. He led the boy to it, feeling along the edges before shoving it open. "Go!"

The boy hesitated, but Adam carefully pushed him through.

The boy was now outside - both the basement and the entire house - but he turned back after crawling out, as if waiting for Adam to follow. Understanding this, Adam urged him impatiently: "Go! Run! Find a cop, any adult—get help. I’ll catch up, don't worry."

"But he’ll… do the terrible things to you, like he did to me."

The boy’s pitying words hung in the air.

"Hahahaha. He’ll do the terrible things to you, Adam. Remember?"

"Shut up!" The boy jolted upright. Realizing he'd accidentally terrified him, Adam repeated his request: "Not you—don't be afraid. Nothing horrible will happen to either of us. Just do as I say and run. At the curb in front of the candy shop, you'll find a policeman. Go—now!"

For a few seconds, Adam was tempted to climb out after him.

"Go on, run. You’ve done what you came for, Adam. Maybe we’ll meet another time, hm?"

"No. Today I'll kill you or you'll kill me. No more running." Adam spoke through searing breath that scorched his chest, finally accepting the hour of confrontation had come.

He rose, guiding himself along the wall toward the pipe. Taking the rope, he moved cautiously toward the stairwell's entrance.

He wouldn’t escape through the window—he’d fight.

The fight would be better upstairs. Maybe he’d find something to use as a weapon besides the rope. Maybe someone would hear the commotion and come to help before it was too late.

Adam climbed slowly, eyes straining to make out the figure in the dark. When he finally saw the silhouette, he lunged, slamming his full weight into the man, the rope clenched in both hands, ready to strangle.

The two bodies locked in combat. The man’s odor unearthed something buried deep in Adam’s memory.

Suddenly, the man—now processing Adam’s sudden presence—kicked hard. They rolled, the man twisting atop Adam, hands seizing his throat, his full weight pressing down. And in that suffocating darkness, Adam remembered: the labored, mournful breaths; the clammy hands that once clung to every part of his body leaving behind a pain that had been gnawing at his mind ever since.

The man growled like a wrestler high on adrenaline. Adam’s fingers brushed against something—a liquor bottle knocked loose in the struggle. He grabbed it and swung, smashing it against the man’s skull.

The man howled, clutching his head as he staggered up, reaching blindly for anything to defend himself.

But Adam was already on him, looping the rope around his neck and pulling.

The air filled with the scent of old blood and sweat, thick enough to choke on. Adam trembled, his senses narrowing to one purpose: Kill him.

The man elbowed him in the ribs and broke free, stumbling toward the guns on the wall. His fingers barely grazed the rack when a coarse rope snared his throat, yanking him backward with brutal force. Airless gasps choked him as the noose bit deep.

Gasping, the man clawed at his throat, thrashing against Adam’s iron grip. His muscles slackened against Adam's unrelenting grip. His breaths grew ragged as he clawed at the noose, fingers slipping on the coarse fibers - until Adam's furious words pierced the darkness: “How could you do this to a child, you bastard?”

The phrase echoed, muffled as if rising from ocean depths, warping in the man's drowning consciousness until it became: “How could you do this to me?”

The words grew fainter and fainter, until the gasping breaths ceased entirely. The desperate hands clawing at the noose fell limp, while the hands that held it only tightened their grip.

Adam exhaled hot, ragged breaths, his mouth filled with a dry, metallic sting—until, exhausted, he finally released the lifeless body. It dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, and Adam collapsed beside it, slumping against the wall.

"You’ve outdone yourself this time. I’m impressed, Adam."

"How could you do this to me?" Adam whispered in response, his voice breaking like a child’s.

"The rope was clever. Made it quick, didn’t it, Adam?"

Adam kept repeating the question again and again, his voice growing flatter - now uttering it with choked despair:

“How could you do this to me?”

He kept repeating it without end, staring at the hulking dead body beside him, until his exhausted mind dissolved into static, severing all connection to his senses.

The old servant walked in as he did every morning, following the homeowner's instructions.

Humming along with the birdsong in the air, his eyes traced the lush green surroundings—until they caught something out of place, an aberration disrupting the scene.

He approached the basement window from the outside and found it open, an overturned picture frame lying on the ground in front of it.

Bending down in surprise, he picked it up—and saw that it was a photo of the house’s owner as a child. A photo of Adam.

It looked as though someone had thrown it from the window.

Clutching it, he turned toward the door, turning the strange sight over in his mind, unable to make sense of it.

He opened the door—and let out a horrified gasp at what he saw.

There, slumped against the wall, sat the homeowner himself—Adam—unconscious, the room in disarray around him. In his hands was a rope, tightly coiled around another framed picture as if strangling it. Squinting, the old servant realized it was a photo of Adam’s father.

He rushed to Adam, shaking him, but got no response. In a panic, he called for help, clapping his hands together in confusion, unable to understand what had happened—or why everything had been torn from the walls and scattered.

He searched the entire house but found nothing stolen. Everything was as it should be—except for these strange, unsettling details gnawing at his mind:

The living room looked as if a violent struggle had taken place.

Adam’s body lay as though he had slipped into another world.

The child’s photo, discarded outside, as if it had tried to escape.

And the picture of the dead father, bound by the rope—as if hanged.

The days that followed carried a flavor Adam had never known before. A newfound vitality coursed through his spirit, even as his weary body required a brief stay in the psychiatric ward—per the police report filed after that morning’s discovery.

Yet the sedation was unnecessary now. The memories that had once slithered through his exhausted mind first faded to a whisper, then vanished entirely. For the first time, he felt he had the ability, desire, emotions, and plans—just like any other human.

The word "future" echoed in his thoughts as naturally as breath. Barriers between him and the world dissolved, and gradually, his life began to flourish in all the areas he’d once failed at entirely.

He even threw a party in the house—his first—defeating the terror that had once ruled him. He invited everyone he knew. Their greetings were familiar yet weighted differently; their sharp glances softened when faced with this transformed man. Congratulatory words for his recovery tangled with unspoken awe for something they sensed but couldn’t name.

The old fear of speech was gone. His words flowed effortlessly, playful and light. "I used to beg you to say a word," a friend teased. "Now I can’t shut you up."

Adam didn’t burn the house. He didn’t sell it either. He’d imagined doing both once he succeeded. But he couldn’t. He felt bound to it forever.

So, he moved in. After years of emptiness, the house now filled with his life—friends, parties, every joy he’d once denied himself.

Time passed there with unburdened ease. For the first time, Adam tasted peace. True peace. He could finally tell himself, with quiet certainty: He’d won. He’d killed the place that had killed him as a child.

The nightmares that had haunted his sleep for decades never came. In defiance, he surrounded himself with their remnants—trophies of survival.

His own childhood photo, identical to the "boy" he’d saved days prior.

An old picture of his father, dead ten years now—a youthful portrait, free of the wrinkles he’d seen (and felt) during the attack. It didn’t spark the challenge he’d expected, but it was better than nothing.

The rope—the one he’d been bound with as a child, the one he’d used to strangle the man after the boy fled.

The stained mattress from the basement, the witness to all those "horrible things" (his child-self’s phrasing).

None of it stirred fear anymore.

The question "Why?"—his nightly ritual, hurled at his father, the police, God, fate—finally released him. Why had this been done to him? Why had rescue taken so long? It didn’t matter. Not now. He was free.

As he lay in bed, his breathing remained steady. No tightness in his chest. Just calm. He closed his eyes, surrendering to deep, warm sleep.

A smile touched his lips as the edges of a dream took shape—the boy, grinning, playing, hand outstretched in invitation.

Surrendering completely, he let himself dissolve into the vision, though he didn’t know what game they were playing.

The End