All he wants is to be able to go home again. He can't, not the way that he left. Even though it was a matter of survival for him, it doesn't mean that the decision was ever easy to make. He had known that if he wanted to live to see his next birthday that he had to get out of that place.
He wondered about the other children who had lived there. Some of them had been his friends. Some of them had been so damaged by the hauntings and the paranormal experiments that the people who'd owned the place had run that they would never function in society or, for that matter, with other human beings again.
It hadn't always been like that. When he had first gone to live at the home, it had been owned by different people. They had been nice. They'd taught him to make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and read to him from books with bright, cartoon illustrations. Then, the new people came. They were creepy and their books were not meant for the children who lived in the home. There were no more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, just strange noises in the night and shadows glimpsed from the corner of his eyes. With the new people came a strange, crawling sense of unease, a prickling at the back of his neck that raised the hairs there. He had been jumpy and uneasy throughout his stay with them.
Then, the vague noises and barely glimpsed figures became more defined and impossible to ignore. There were bruises in the night and injuries that were impossible to explain. The terror seized him constantly. There were bad things in that home now, bad things that wanted only pain and destruction and fed on the horrible things that were done to the children in that place.
The first people who had owned the home were the ones that he wanted to go back to. He wanted to know if they would still be as warm and gentle as they had been when they had welcomed him to live with them. He was desperate to know if their goodwill and compassion would be enough to erase the cold darkness that seemed to taint him to his very soul.