every neighborhood has its quirks. some are charming, like the sound of church bells or the smell of fresh bread from the local bakery. others are less so. but this neighborhood’s defining feature was a boy.
nobody remembered when he arrived, and nobody remembered who his parents were. he simply existed, like a stray dog or a broken streetlamp. everyone called him “the boy,” though some whispered other names. and while children were often forgiven for their mischief, he was not. because his mischief was never innocent.
on monday morning, mrs. callahan woke up to find her vegetable garden destroyed. tomato vines torn from the soil, green peppers smashed under muddy footprints. she screamed loud enough for the whole block to hear, but she already knew who the culprit was. the boy was perched on her fence, swinging his legs and eating an apple he’d stolen from her tree.
“why?” she demanded, her voice cracking.
the boy shrugged and smiled, the kind of smile that made her stomach twist. “because i was bored,” he said, then hopped off the fence and disappeared down the street.
by wednesday, it was the old librarian’s turn. the boy had taken to loitering around the library, never reading, just watching. that morning, mr. higgins opened the front door to find every single book in the children’s section piled in a wet heap on the front steps. pages stuck together with what smelled like soda.
“you little devil!” he shouted into the empty street.
but the boy was never caught. not truly.
a dangerous game
the boy’s cruelty escalated as his boredom grew. small, harmless pranks turned into calculated attacks. he didn’t just annoy people; he studied them. learned their routines, their weaknesses.
one sunny afternoon, emily miller, an eight-year-old with a shy smile, was playing with her new puppy, max, in the park. the boy appeared out of nowhere, his shadow stretching over emily like a storm cloud.
“cute dog,” he said, crouching down to max’s level.
emily hesitated. everyone in town knew about him, but she didn’t want to be rude. “thank you,” she said quietly.
without warning, the boy grabbed max by the collar and yanked him into his arms. emily screamed and tried to grab her puppy, but the boy was too fast. he sprinted toward the old creek at the edge of the park.
“come get him!” he shouted over his shoulder, laughing.
emily ran after him, tears streaming down her face. by the time she reached the creek, max was standing in the shallow water, shivering, but unharmed. the boy, however, was gone. left behind was a single note, scratched onto the bark of a tree with a knife:
“you’re too slow.”
a breaking point
the final straw came on halloween night. the streets were alive with laughter and costumes, the air thick with the smell of pumpkins and cheap candy. but amidst the revelry, the boy was planning his masterpiece.
he targeted the wilkins family. they had decorated their front yard with glowing jack-o’-lanterns and fake cobwebs, and their teenage son, liam, was handing out candy.
the boy waited until the busiest moment of the night. then he struck.
first, he unplugged the extension cord powering the lights, plunging the yard into darkness. then he set off a string of firecrackers, sending kids and parents scattering in panic. when the chaos subsided, liam discovered the boy’s true act of vandalism: every pumpkin smashed to pieces, the insides smeared across the front door.
but the worst part was the message he’d left on the door, written in dripping pumpkin guts:
“trick.”
by morning, the town had had enough. people whispered about what should be done. some wanted to call the police, but others knew the boy would just disappear again. there were darker suggestions too, though nobody dared speak them aloud.
and then, one day, the boy was gone.
fucking boy
the boy’s disappearance wasn’t marked by any dramatic event. no sirens, no shouting, no angry mobs. he simply vanished.
at first, the neighborhood was relieved. parents let their children play outside again. the librarian finally stopped locking the book carts at night. people began to repair what the boy had broken, both physically and mentally. but there was something unsettling about his absence.
he had been like a thorn—painful, but familiar. and now that he was gone, the neighborhood felt… exposed. vulnerable. as if the boy had taken more than just their peace of mind with him.
it started with little things.
a garden hose left running overnight, flooding the wilkins’ yard. liam swore he’d turned it off. a week later, the library’s doors were found open at dawn, every book in perfect order, but the air inside reeked of something rotten.
and then there was the incident at the miller house.
emily woke up one morning to find max barking frantically at the back door. when she opened it, she found her puppy’s favorite toy—a battered tennis ball—sitting on the doormat. except it wasn’t their ball. this one had the same knife-carved message scratched into it:
“you’re too slow.”
emily’s mother dismissed it as a prank, but emily knew better.
“he’s back,” she whispered.
the fear spreads
word of the boy’s supposed return spread quickly. no one had seen him, but the signs were undeniable. broken windows. strange symbols carved into fence posts. an eerie sense of being watched.
mrs. callahan swore she saw him standing under a streetlamp late one night, just staring at her window. when she blinked, he was gone, but the next morning, her garden was trashed again—this time with a single word scrawled into the dirt:
“bored.”
the town grew paranoid. children were kept indoors after sunset. locks were double-checked. even the bravest adults avoided walking alone at night. but the boy didn’t need the darkness to strike. he was smarter than that.
one sunny afternoon, the wilkins family returned home from church to find their house completely empty. furniture, appliances, even the pictures on the walls—all gone. the front door was wide open, and the word “trick” was spray-painted across the living room wall.
but when the police arrived, there were no signs of forced entry. no fingerprints. nothing.
the breaking point
by now, the town was unraveling. people whispered about curses, demons, even government experiments gone wrong. but the truth was simpler—and more terrifying.
the boy wasn’t gone. he had never left. he was simply watching, waiting. learning their fears and feeding on them.
and then came the fire.
it happened at the community center, where the town held its monthly meetings. that night, the discussion was predictable: what to do about the boy. tempers flared, accusations flew. some blamed the parents for raising him, others blamed the town for ignoring the warning signs.
and then, mid-argument, the lights went out.
for a moment, there was silence. then the smell of smoke. by the time people realized what was happening, the entire building was engulfed in flames.
no one was seriously injured, but when the fire was extinguished, investigators found something chilling in the ashes:
a single, unscorched piece of paper. on it, in childish handwriting, were the words:
“now i’m having fun.”
the town had reached its limit. they stopped whispering and started planning. it wasn’t about justice anymore; it was about survival.
they would catch him. they would end this.
but the boy wasn’t afraid of them. he had seen what fear could do, how it could twist people into something worse than him. and he was ready to prove it.
the plan was simple: lure him out, corner him, and end it. the town’s strongest men—farmers, factory workers, and a few who had never done more than swing a hammer—gathered under the cover of night. their faces were grim, their hands clutching flashlights, bats, and lengths of rope.
they baited him with what they thought he couldn’t resist: chaos. they left the old school building unlocked, its windows wide open. inside, they scattered objects he loved to destroy—glass bottles, books, even an old rocking chair from the church basement. they lit a single lantern in the middle of the room, casting long, flickering shadows.
and then they waited.
for hours, the town held its breath. but just as some began to doubt the boy would show, the first sound came. a soft creak, like footsteps on wood.
then a laugh.
it wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. a sharp, jagged sound that sent shivers down their spines. the men tensed, their grips tightening on their weapons.
the laugh came again, closer this time.
“come on out, boy,” called mr. wilkins, his voice steady but his eyes scanning the darkness. “we’re not playing anymore.”
the silence that followed was deafening. then, from somewhere in the shadows, the boy’s voice echoed:
“neither am i.”
the lantern suddenly flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. panic rippled through the group as their flashlights danced wildly, searching for the source of the voice.
but the boy was faster. a bottle shattered near the door, then another. footsteps thudded across the wooden floor, impossibly quick, impossibly light. someone shouted, “he’s over there!” but by the time the beam of a flashlight swept across the room, he was gone again.
and then the screaming started.
it began with mr. higgins, the librarian. he fell to the ground clutching his leg, blood pooling beneath his hand. something sharp had sliced through his calf.
the others tried to regroup, but the boy moved like a shadow, striking and vanishing before anyone could react. glass rained down as bottles exploded against walls. the rocking chair toppled over, its loud crash echoing like a gunshot.
“he’s playing with us!” someone shouted.
“no,” came the boy’s voice from somewhere above them. “i’m teaching you.”
the final act
when the chaos subsided, the men realized they were alone. the boy was gone. but so were their weapons, their flashlights, and their courage.
outside, the town was eerily quiet. the men stumbled into the street, shaken and bleeding, only to find their neighbors waiting for them. mothers clutched their children, their faces pale. fathers stood with clenched fists, demanding answers.
and then the church bell rang.
it was the middle of the night, and no one had touched the bell rope. yet the sound was unmistakable—slow, deliberate, and mocking.
when the townspeople turned toward the bell tower, they saw him.
the boy stood on the roof, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit sky. in one hand, he held a lantern. in the other, a knife.
“now you know how it feels,” he called out, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. “now you know what it’s like to be afraid.”
before anyone could move, the boy dropped the lantern. it smashed against the roof, flames erupting instantly. the fire spread quickly, devouring the dry wood of the bell tower.
but the boy didn’t run. he stood there, watching the flames grow higher, his face lit by the inferno.
and then he was gone.
the fire destroyed the bell tower and part of the church, but the boy was never found. some claimed they saw him slip into the woods before the flames consumed the building. others whispered that he’d been swallowed by the fire, taking his wickedness with him.
but the town was never the same.
children no longer played in the streets. doors were locked even during the day. and though the boy’s face faded from their memories, his laughter remained.
late at night, when the wind howled through the trees, some swore they could still hear it—sharp, jagged, and full of malice.
and every now and then, someone would find a note. carved into a tree trunk, scrawled on a fogged-up window, or scratched into the dirt outside their home.
“bored again.”
