He reached the small bungalow he shared with his stepfather, Jolof.
Lufe stayed with Jolof, his stepfather, while his two younger sisters, Merry and Jess stayed with their mother. Their family was fractured, sometimes together, sometimes apart. His mother's marriage to Jolof was complicated, no one understood it. They never get a proper divorce as if they knew they could never let go.
Lufe and his siblings often found themselves in the middle of their turbulent relationship.
Most of the times, Lufe stuck with his stepfather rather than his biological mother.
Jolof's faded pickup truck was parked diagonally across the driveway, its tailgate down and a scattering of cardboard boxes arranged haphazardly behind it. Jolof, a man of great physique with a height of 1.9 meters. He himself stood in the bed of the truck, hoisting a battered wooden crate over his sturdy shoulder.
Lufe's feet halted on the top step of the porch. He lingered there, studying the unfolding scene. Jolof glanced up, between his trimmed beard, he offered a grin that did not reach his eyes.
"There you are, Lufe!" he called, voice brimming with false cheer. "Perfect timing."
Lufe kept his expression neutral, though alarm snaked through his veins.
"What's going on here?" he asked.
Jolof hopped down from the truck bed, setting the crate on the planks with a heavy thud.
"We're moving," he announced, though his tone carried the weight of someone delivering dire news, not exciting news.
Lufe's brow furrowed.
"Moving?" His voice rose on the last syllable, a mixture of disbelief and unease.
"Yes." Jolof's grin falters. "To the Hoss House."
Lufe's breath snagged. He studied Jolof's face—harried, drawn. He tried to find a clue to soften the blow. Found none.
"The Hoss House?" he echoed.
Who had never heard about the infamous Hoss House on the 23rd Street? A derelict mansion that loomed at the far end of the old quarter, its once-stately façade now marred by weathered stone and shattered windowpanes. Locals called it The Ghost House. Rumors swirled of apparitions aloft in the upper floors, of muffled wails carried on midnight winds and of ghosts that roam the street at night. Of course, those were all rumours.
The mansion used to be a parish. It was closed down due to a horrifying incident—a priest murdered some parishioners and hid their bodies in one room. He got caught and committed suicide before any investigation.
"You're joking." Lufe added, shaking his head in disbelief.
Jolof's lips curved in a grim smirk.
"I don't joke about this, boy. The owners—relatives of a friend—offered me a position as caretaker. They need someone on-site to oversee the renovations." He paused, scanning Lufe's face. "We need the money, Lufe. We have no choice."
"What if... ," Lufe uttered, "What if something happens to us in that building?"
There was silence for some seconds before Lufe continued, "What if we get killed, possessed or something? Are you ready to risk our lives for money?"
Jolof walked beside him. "There's nothing to harm us, trust me."
"I don't want to go to that house," he whispered. "I've heard the stories—of cries echoing in the night, of lights flickering in empty windows."
He placed a calloused hand on Lufe's shoulder. "Rumors, boy. Superstitions. There's a story behind every old building. Let's not dwell on spooky tales when we have to reset our lives."
There's a silence as Lufe gave it a thought.
"Besides, if we see something superstitious, I promise to leave the house immediately." Jolof added.
Soon after, Lufe turned around to face Jolof.
"Fine," he said. His voice was heavy, resigned. "I'll pack."
He retreated into the house, stepping across a threshold that seemed to hum with unseen currents. The interior smelled of must and pine cleaner—a tension between abandonment and forced occupancy. He recognized the foyer: chipped tiles forming a mosaic beneath his boots, the tall mirror paneled with tarnished silver to his left, and the narrow hallway leading to his room.
He set his satchel on the bed, the fabric crease yielding to the bag's familiar curve. The room's single window looked out to a small backyard where rose bushes had grown wild, their petals long fallen to the earth. The wall behind the bed held a mosaic of movie posters: Lanterns over the Lotus with its gold-flecked dragons curling through crimson clouds; Empress of the Moon Palace, featuring a lone warrior princess astride a snow-white stag; and Celestial Symphony, a sweeping saga of star-bound travelers guided by the music of distant constellations.
His gaze fell on his bookshelf—the books were the first items he was going to pack. Most of the books were novels, especially fantasy and wuxia and xiaxia novels. Although, he could read thousands of novels on his phone, physical books helped him minimise the time he spent on phone—which in fact, would have been tremendous.
His bookshelf spanned the entire length of the east wall, bowed under the weight of leather-bound tomes and slim paperbacks.
The spines bore titles in English, Mandarin, Japanese and Korean: Journey Through Thousand Galaxies, Song of the Jade Phoenix, Heavenly God Warrior, Lotus and Snow.
He fingered each volume with reverence, as though touching old friends. They were more than just sources of entertainment; they had been his refuge from a life in which he felt perpetually adrift. Each novel recounted tales of valiant heroes traversing mist-shrouded mountains, of court intrigues in golden palaces, of sorceresses summoning dragons beneath moonlit temples. He had read them countless times, learning the poetry of their prose by heart, savoring the intricate calligraphy of translated scripts.
He knelt before the shelf and began removing books one by one.
In less than thirty minutes, emptiness had invaded the room. Lufe gave the room one last—thoughtful glance and left.
"Let's move" Jolof said, getting into the truck.
When the two were finally seated in the front seats Jolof started the engine and the journey commenced.