The House That Waits

*Chapter 1: The House No One Enters* The school bell rang at 2 PM, loud and tired. It was the last period on a hot afternoon. The sun was burning the street. Ali and Hamza were walking home through the narrow street behind their school. Their white shirts were dusty. Their bags felt heavier than usual. Ali walked slowly. His shoes had a small hole. He didn't care. He was thinking about his grandfather. His grandfather would be waiting at home, sitting on the old chair, making tea. Since his parents passed away two years ago in a car accident, his grandfather was his only family. Hamza walked beside him. Hamza was different. His shoes were new. His bag was new. His father was the mayor of the city. Everyone knew Hamza's father. But Hamza never showed off. He was a true friend. He always shared his lunch with Ali. On that street, there was a house everyone avoided. It was not like other houses. It was very wide, almost double the size of normal houses. The wall was high. The paint was peeling, showing black bricks behind. The garden was full of dry grass and dead leaves. The windows were dark, even though it was bright daylight. It looked like the house was sleeping with its eyes open. And on the rusty iron gate, there was an old wooden sign. Someone had written in red paint, with shaky hands: *DO NOT ENTER. NO ONE.* The wind moved and the sign made a creaking sound. Ali stopped walking. He could not stop looking. "Look," he whispered. Hamza also stopped, but he quickly looked away. His face became pale. "Don't look, Ali. Please," Hamza said in a low voice. "My father told me about this house. He said no one has lived here for ten years. Last year, two workers came to clean it. They ran away after one hour. They said they heard a child crying inside, but there was no child." Ali felt a cold feeling in his stomach, even though it was hot outside. "Why would a child cry in an empty house?" Ali asked. "I don't know. But my father said the mayor before him wanted to break this house and make a park. But the workers who came with machines... their machines stopped working. Just like that. And no one wanted to come again." Ali's heart was beating fast. He was only thirteen, but he was very intelligent. He always got first position in his class because he asked questions. And now, he had many questions. "If it is empty, why is there a sign? Who wrote the sign? If no one lives there, who is stopping people from entering?" Hamza held his arm. "Ali, let's go. My mother says curious children bring problems for their families. You only have your grandfather. Come." Ali nodded, but in his mind, he took a photo of that house. The wide walls, the dark windows, the red sign. He knew he would dream about it tonight. They left. Their footsteps echoed in the empty street. --- In the evening, the sky became orange. The four best friends met in the same street to play football. Ali, Hamza, Ahmed, and Alyan. This was their daily routine. After Asr prayer, they played until Maghrib. Ahmed and Alyan were cousins. Their families owned cloth shops in the main bazaar. They were from business families, but they were simple. They were brave. Ahmed once climbed the tallest tree in school to bring a cat down. Alyan always had some money in his pocket because his father gave him daily pocket money. They had only one old football. The leather was torn. "Let's start! Me and Ali vs you two!" Ahmed shouted. They started playing. They laughed. They shouted. For a moment, they forgot about school, about exams, about the hot weather. This was their happiness. Ali was very fast. Even with his old shoes, he ran like wind. When he played, he forgot that he was an orphan. He felt like other children. He felt normal. Then Ahmed kicked the ball with all his power. He wanted to show his power. But the ball went too high. Too high. Everyone's eyes followed the ball. It flew over the small wall, over the dry bushes... and fell... _thud_ ...straight inside the garden of that haunted house. Inside that wide, mysterious house. Silence. The kind of silence that feels heavy. No one spoke for ten seconds. They just stared at the dark garden where their ball was lying in the dead grass, behind the rusty gate. Ahmed's mouth was open. "Oh no..." Alyan whispered, "My father will beat me if I lose this ball. It is Ahmed's father's ball." Hamza said, "We can't go there. My father will be angry. He told me never to go near that house." Ali looked at the ball. It was near the main door of the house. The main door was slightly open. Just a few inches. Yesterday, when they passed, it was closed. Did someone open it? A cold wind came from inside the garden, even though there was no wind in the street. Alyan then took out two crumpled dollar bills from his pocket. Two dollars. For them, at age thirteen, two dollars was big. It could buy ten chocolates, four candies, and still have money left. "Listen," Alyan said, his voice shaking a little. "Whoever brings the ball back will get this two dollars. From me." Now all eyes were on the two dollars. Ahmed's eyes shone. Even Hamza, who was rich, wanted it, because it was about being brave, not about money. "I will go!" Ahmed said quickly. "No, I will go! I am faster!" Hamza said. They started arguing. Ali looked at them. He felt something wrong. He felt that this small bet for money could break their friendship. And he felt something else. He felt that the house was listening. "This is not good," Ali said in a calm, older voice. He sounded much more mature than thirteen. Maybe because he lived with his grandfather, he thought like an adult. "This is not good to do this only for money. We are friends. We are brothers. Whoever sees the ball first should bring it, and we will continue playing. We don't need to bet. We should help each other, not make a competition from a mistake." His friends became quiet. They knew Ali was right. He was always right. That is why he got first position. He thought with his heart. But Ahmed said, "Then who will go? Someone has to go. It's getting dark." No one wanted to say "me". Hamza looked down. Ahmed looked at the sky. Alyan held the two dollars tightly. Ali took a deep breath. He remembered his mother. His mother used to say, "Ali, when no one is brave enough, Allah makes the scared boy brave." He remembered his grandfather who always said, "A man is known when everyone else is scared." He looked at the ball again. It was his friends' ball. If they didn't get it, they couldn't play tomorrow. And his grandfather taught him never to leave a friend's thing behind. "I will go," Ali said. Three heads turned to him. "Ali, no!" Hamza said. "You don't need to." "I will go," Ali repeated, his voice soft but firm. "I am not going for the two dollars. I am going because it is our ball. You all wait here. If I take more than two minutes, call my grandfather." Before they could stop him, Ali put his bag down and walked towards the rusty gate. His legs were shaking. Each step felt like a year. He reached the gate. He touched it. It was cold. So cold, even though the sun was still hot. He pushed it. It made a loud, long creak. _Kreeeeeech._ Inside, the garden was even more dead than it looked from outside. The grass was black. There was a bad smell, like old wood and wet earth. He walked towards the ball. Five steps. Ten steps. He bent down to pick up the ball. And at that exact moment... The main door of the house, which was slightly open... ...slowly... ...opened fully by itself. With no one behind it. And from inside the dark hallway, a small, pale hand... ...waved at Ali to come inside. Ali froze, holding the ball, his heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. Behind him, Hamza shouted, "ALI! WHAT HAPPENED? WHY ARE YOU NOT MOVING?" But Ali could not move. He could not speak. Because he realized, the ball was not thrown here by mistake. It was called here.