In the morning, I’m feeling very refreshed and much better compared to last night. I sit up and get out of bed. I look at my clock, which says 8:07. I walk over to my closet and pick out a shirt and some pants. I also grab a flashlight and a box of band-aids that are sitting on the top shelf. I put them on my bed and also grab my gray backpack that I use for when I go camping with my dad and for school. I start to put the shirt, pants, flashlight and band-aids inside.

I remember that I might need batteries for the flashlight. I quietly sneak downstairs and go to kitchen drawer that’s right by the back door. I open it, and grab a small box of double-A batteries. I look around to see if there’s anything else that could be useful. In the end, I find my wooden pocket knife, the double-A batteries, a couple plastic bottles of water, a couple granola bars and a pack of matches. I think about grabbing one of the big kitchen knives, but I decide against it. Hopefully, I won’t end up needing it. I take the stuff back upstairs, and put it carefully in my backpack. I look around my room to see if there’s anything else that I might need.

Then I remember—the necklace. I quietly go over to my desk and open the top drawer. I quietly dig around until I feel the necklace. Small, cold and limp. I somewhat wrap the chain around my fingers and pull it out. For a moment, I look at it and a feeling of sadness and regret washes over me.

After a few minutes of staring at the necklace, I snap out of it and return to my bed. I grab my dark blue hoodie and put it on. Necklace in hand, I grab my backpack, and leave my room. I quietly close the door behind me. As I quietly sneak down the hallway and old oak stairs, I hear a voice behind me.

“Dylan?” I sigh. It’s mom. She sounds tired, I must’ve woken her up. I stop and turn around. There she is, standing in front of me. She’s wearing a large light gray t-shirt that is stained with faded neon paint splatters along with black sweatpants and a light blue fuzzy robe. She’s also wearing the brown reindeer slippers that I got her for Christmas a few years ago. Her dark brown hair is messed up, and she looks to have just woken up. She stares at me, her hazel eyes glint with a disoriented, sleepy look.

“Hi mom...” I start, feeling defeated. She looks at me and sighs.

“Dylan...where are you going?” I sigh a quiet, defeated sigh. She’ll never let me leave now. All I can do is hope.

“We-I-Um...I was going to go visit Ben. Sorry for waking you.” She sighs.

“This early?”

“Mom, it’s 8:30.” I say, quickly glancing at the clock on the wall. She stands there for a moment. She sighs and looks at me. Finally after a few moments, she says,

“Okay, fine. But come right back after you’re done.” I smile.

“Thanks mom! And sorry again for waking you...” She gives me a tired look and returns back to her room. She quietly shuts the door behind her. Not wanting to waste a single second, I quickly and quietly make my way down the long flight of old, oak stairs. I walk through the kitchen, and rest my hand on the handle of the back door. I turn my head, and look around the kitchen one more time. This may be the last time I see this place.

I sigh, and without anymore hesitation, I open the door and step outside. The cool, crisp January air is the first thing to greet me. I look around at the snow-covered pine trees, lawns and houses. Some of the snow has started to melt, but only because of those two really warm days we had last week. Now, it’s back to freezing. I carefully make my way down the small flight of concrete stairs, they’re still slightly covered in snow and ice. I can’t use my bike now, since there’s all this snow.

I guess I’ll have to walk. After about ten minutes of walking through the neighborhood, I finally see it, “Springside Cemeteries”, the place where they “buried” Ben. I’ve started to come here more and more, ever since the nightmares had started to become more frequent. I walk up a decent- sized hill to a patch of graves. I see Ben’s gravestone. On it there are letters engraved, along with a few pine trees. It reads—

                                         Benjamin Park 1999 — 2017

Things haven’t been the same since that trip into the woods. What were we thinking? Well, that doesn’t matter now. Now, I have to get my best friend back. I have to get Ben back. I get up from my sitting position and carefully walk down the snowy hill. I walk towards Ben’s house and then from there, I go to the woods. Now, I’m at the edge of the woods. Looking in, it looks dark and lonely. I sigh.

“Well, here I go...” I think to myself. I’m not even close to being ready to go back to that old cabin. But I know I have to.

“For Ben.” I say aloud, as I walk into the woods. Frozen leaves and sticks snap and crunch under my snow boots. It’s noticeably colder here, and absolutely silent. No noise except for the faint, eerie whistling of wind through the tops of the trees and the snow crunching under my snow boots. I look around the empty woods. The same feeling of dread from last time washes over me. I continue to walk through the woods. 

After about 10 minutes I see it—the cabin is right in front of me. My heart starts to race and I start to breathe hard. My stomach has a weird feeling. It looks the same as when I last saw it—with it’s rotting wood and broken glass windows. The door is hanging on one hinge and is slightly ajar.

I hesitate, I really don’t want to go back in there. I stand there for a moment and compose myself. Finally, I walk over to the door. I quietly open it and step inside.