They turned and hurried back down the steps. Sweat beaded on their forehead and gasps escaped their lungs as they swung the massive wooden door open, throwing themself into the unruly weeds of the forgotten yard. If only I had reacted as quickly as they did. My story began exactly how theirs did. With a mindless dare given by a group of ignorant friends, doing anything they possibly could to make their teenage years less depressing. My town was famous for its outlandish rumors and conspiracy theories, that our conservative airhead parents believed without a second thought. There was one in particular, though, that was more popular among the younger generation, one that could easily be spun into ghost stories for sleepovers. It involved the old abandoned mansion at the edge of town. You know the one. An exterior of rotting wood that became home to the most disturbing of insects, dusty and broken windows boarded up with a considerable lack of care, and an unkempt yard of untamable weed
“Next oxygen station is about a mile ahead.” Brain’s voice rings in my ears like TV static as I tug my boot free from an icy crater, my eyes narrowed ahead at the distant clouds that hang in the air over what I can only imagine to be the summit. The summit. The word rattles around in my brain. It’s what I’ve been working toward for half a year of my life. A surge of motivation floods through my veins as I dig my boots into the snow and grip the straps of the massive backpack that holds everything I need in order to survive. We move for what seems like ages, the wind biting at my cheeks, feeling like being pricked with needles, and my nose running uncontrollably. “How far have we gone?” I ask Brian, shaking my gloved hands to regain any warmth they once had. “I assume it’s been about a quarter of a mile now.” His words linger in my mind. My brain feels like a jumbled mess. I suck in a gasp of air. It seems to stop short. The thoughts whizzing