Chapter 1: The Man Behind the Dumpster

The smell hit me first—that sharp, metallic tang that made my eight-year-old nose wrinkle in disgust. Like sucking on a penny, my mom always said when I complained about the weird taste in my mouth after losing a tooth. But this was stronger, thicker, hanging in the air of Master Kim's dojang like invisible smoke.

"Settle down, everyone!" Master Kim's voice cut through the chaos of twenty sugar-fueled kids bouncing off the padded walls. The annual end-of-school-year sleepover was tradition at our Taekwondo school, and we'd been riding high on pizza grease and Mountain Dew for the past three hours. "Time for lights out!"

A collective groan rose from the scattered sleeping bags dotting the mat floor. Lucas Chen, my best friend since kindergarten, rolled his eyes dramatically from his spot next to mine. "Already? But Tristan was about to show us that new kick he learned!"

Tristan Park, all swagger and oversized ego despite being barely nine, puffed out his chest. "I could break boards with it. Real ones, not those fake demo boards."

"Sure you could," muttered CJ Rodriguez, Tristan's constant shadow and fellow troublemaker. "Just like you could totally beat up that high schooler who called you short."

I pulled my sleeping bag up to my chin, content to watch the familiar dynamics play out. Lucas was the brave one, always ready to jump into any adventure. I was the follower, the anxious kid who preferred observing from the sidelines but would trail after his more confident friend anywhere.

Master Kim clapped his hands twice—the signal for absolute silence that had been drilled into us through months of training. "Before we sleep, I have a story for you. A true story about this very building."

The metallic smell seemed to intensify as he dimmed the overhead lights, leaving only the red glow of the exit signs to illuminate his weathered face. Twenty pairs of eyes fixed on him with the hungry attention only children could give to promised secrets.

"Many years ago, before this was a dojang, this building was something else entirely. And in the alley behind us—" He gestured toward the back wall, where a heavy steel door led to the narrow space between our building and the next. "—lived a man named Harold."

Lucas nudged me with his elbow, his eyes gleaming with excitement. I felt my stomach clench with a familiar anxiety, but I stayed quiet.

"Harold was... different," Master Kim continued, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "He lived rough, behind the dumpster back there. People said he collected things. Shiny things. Particularly coins—old pennies that he'd polish until they gleamed like gold."

The metallic scent was definitely stronger now. I glanced around to see if anyone else noticed, but every face was locked on Master Kim's story.

"One winter, Harold disappeared. Just... gone. No body, no trace. But people started reporting strange things. A tall figure in the alley at night. The smell of old copper whenever children walked alone behind the building. And sometimes—" His voice dropped even lower. "—sometimes kids would dare each other to knock on that back door. To call for Harold."

My palms were sweating now, the sleeping bag suddenly too warm.

"They say if you knock three times and call his name, Harold will answer. But he doesn't just open the door. He opens something else. Something that leads somewhere... else. And once you've called to him, once you've made that dare..." Master Kim's eyes swept across our circle. "He never stops looking for you."

The silence stretched like a held breath until Tristan's voice cracked through it, pitched higher than usual despite his attempt at bravado. "That's just a stupid story to scare us."

"Is it?" Master Kim smiled, but there was something unsettling in the expression. "The back door is right there, Tristan. Feel free to test the theory."

"I'm not scared of some homeless ghost," Tristan shot back, but I could hear the tremor underneath his words.

"Prove it," CJ whispered, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted, becoming charged with that particular malice that only children could generate.

Lucas sat up straighter beside me, and I felt my heart sink. I knew that look. He was about to do something stupid and brave, and I was going to have to either follow him or lose face in front of everyone.

"Come on, guys," I said quietly, my voice barely audible over the sudden hammering of my pulse. "Maybe we should just—"

"I'll do it." Lucas was already climbing out of his sleeping bag, his jaw set with determination. "I'll knock on the door."

"Lucas, no," I whispered, grabbing his arm. The metallic smell was so strong now it made me dizzy. "Please don't."

But Tristan was already on his feet, his earlier fear transforming into the cruel excitement of someone who'd found a way to make himself look tough at someone else's expense. "Yeah, Lucas! Go knock on Harold's door! Call his name!"

Other voices joined in, the mob mentality of children smelling weakness and circling like sharks. "Do it, Lucas!" "Don't be a chicken!" "Three knocks!"

Master Kim held up a hand, his expression suddenly serious. "Boys, that's enough. It was just a story—"

But Lucas was already walking toward the back door, his small frame somehow looking even smaller against the dark steel. I scrambled after him, my socks sliding on the smooth mat.

"Lucas, please," I whispered urgently. "Something's wrong. Can't you smell it?"

He paused, his hand inches from the door handle. For a moment, I thought he might listen. Then Tristan's voice cut through the darkness behind us.

"He's too scared! Lucas is too scared to knock!"

The taunt hit its mark. Lucas's face hardened, and before I could stop him, his fist connected with the door three times. The sound echoed through the empty building like gunshots.

"Harold!" he called out, his voice cracking slightly. "Harold, are you there?"

The silence that followed was absolute, so complete it felt like the building itself was holding its breath. Even the other kids had gone quiet, suddenly aware that they might have pushed things too far.

Then the lights went out.

Emergency lighting kicked in a second later, bathing everything in hellish red, but in that moment of absolute darkness, I heard something that made my blood freeze. The sound of the door handle turning from the other side.

"Lucas!" I lunged forward, but the door was already swinging open, revealing nothing but inky blackness beyond. The metallic smell rolled out like a physical wave, so strong it made me gag.

Lucas took a step toward the opening, his movements strange and mechanical, like he was sleepwalking. I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back, but he was stronger than he should have been, his muscles rigid with unnatural tension.

"Something's wrong," I gasped, but my voice was lost in the sudden chaos as Master Kim shouted for everyone to stay back and kids started screaming.

The door slammed shut with Lucas on the wrong side.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then came the pounding—frantic, desperate hammering from the other side of the steel door, accompanied by Lucas's voice screaming my name.

"Azu! AZU! Help me! Something's—" His words cut off mid-sentence, replaced by a sound I'd never heard before and never wanted to hear again. A wet, sliding noise, like something being dragged across concrete.

Then silence.

Master Kim was at the door, yanking on the handle, but it wouldn't budge. Other instructors appeared from nowhere, adding their strength, but the door remained sealed as if welded shut.

"Get the key!" someone shouted. "Call 911!"

I pressed my face against the cold steel, my fists bloody from pounding uselessly against its surface. "LUCAS! LUCAS, ANSWER ME!"

But there was nothing. No sound, no response. Just that lingering metallic smell that seemed to seep through the very walls, and the terrible knowledge that whatever had happened to my best friend, it was my fault for not stopping him.

The door finally opened twenty minutes later when the fire department arrived with heavy tools. Beyond it lay the narrow alley, empty except for the dumpster and a few scattered pennies that gleamed dully in the emergency lights.

Lucas was gone.

Not hiding, not injured, not unconscious. Gone, as if he'd never existed at all. The only trace of him was the lingering copper scent and my own hoarse voice, still calling his name into the darkness.

As the police arrived and the other kids were herded away from the scene, I caught Tristan's eye across the chaos. His face was white with terror, his earlier bravado completely evaporated. CJ stood beside him, both of them looking like they'd seen their own deaths.

But when the officers started asking questions, when they wanted to know what had happened, both boys claimed they'd been asleep. They knew nothing about any dare, any door, any missing boy named Lucas Chen.

I was the only one willing to tell the truth.

And absolutely no one believed me.

The metallic smell lingered for hours afterward, clinging to my clothes, my hair, my memory. It would be fourteen years before I smelled it again, but when I did, I would finally understand that some doors, once opened, never truly close.

And some things, once called, never stop hunting.