Oliver

Night enveloped Oliver's house like black velvet, soaked with dampness and anxiety. The floor creaked under your steps, the wind howled outside the windows, and you lay on the sagging sofa, covered with a dusty blanket that smelled of forgotten fruit. Sleep did not come - too many strange things surrounded your new friend.

Oliver. You met on a train three weeks ago. His boyish smile, bright eyes and tattered denim jacket inspired confidence. He said he was seventeen, and you believed him. You chatted, laughed, and then he invited you to his place. "Just for a sleepover, it'll be cozy," he said.

But the house wasn't cozy. Faded wallpaper that looked like mold, old photographs without faces, rusty clocks, jars of cloudy liquid - everything seemed wrong. You chalked it up to Oliver's eccentricity, but the feeling of unease grew.

The night was filled with the creaking of floorboards. Slow footsteps faded away near the bathroom, the door creaked. You strained, listening. A hoarse whisper came from behind the wall, not like Oliver's voice. You couldn't make out the words, but a low chuckle sent shivers down your spine. Then the click of a lighter, the smell of tobacco. The light from under the bathroom door flickered like a candle.

And suddenly Oliver’s voice, but alien, deep:

• He doesn't know that I'm not seventeen... I'm thirty-two, a naive boy.

You froze. Thirty-two? His smooth face, his young eyes... How? And why was he whispering this at night, alone? Your breath caught, your heart pounded. The house seemed to breathe with you, watching.