It had been a while, so he wasn't sure which door led to his destination. Picking one at random, he twisted the old doorknob and slowly the door creaked open. He peered inside.

No luck. It was the bathroom. Sighing, he went to the door across the hall and opened it. A hall closet. Another door, another mistake. When he ran out of doors, he went to another hallway, and began checking there.

All the doors had the same dreary woodwork and ornately carved brass handles, and the monotony was beginning to aggravate him. His hatred for the house came back in full swell.

After searching through the whole hallway and finding nothing useful, he stopped and thought. He was positive it was downstairs, but where? He had already wandered through four hallways and dozens of doors, but to no avail. He had gone through the kitchen, living room and storage room.

He gritted his teeth. Somehow, the mansion had always gotten to him. In one way or another, it knew how to make him mad or miserable in one swift blow. Now it was making him feel confused and helpless. He bashed a fist angrily against a wall, his knuckles splitting and blood dripping down his fingers. The damned house had struck again.

He sat down on the floor, trying to clear his mind. He knew anger wouldn't solve anything, and that he had to keep a cool head. Getting any more lost and confused could prove fatal, and he only had one more flashlight. The current one was beginning to dim. It flickered, and he tapped it on his palm to steady the beam.

Sighing, he headed out of the east wing, and walked to the west. Upon reaching it, he started down the first hallway he came across, sweeping the beam back and forth.

He came upon a door a few steps into the hallway. He opened it and swept the beam across the room. Wrong again. He cursed as his flashlight flickered again, and died. Tossing it away, he grabbed his last one and switched it on. The bright white beam blinded him, and he quickly closed his eyes, yellow and orange blotches dancing in front of them.

He closed the door and continued down the hallway. The dry wall was caved in in some places, white plaster dust sprinkled upon the floor.

Reaching the door on the opposite side of the hallway, he tried the knob. It was locked. He brought his foot back and kicked the bottom of the door. It yielded, but only slightly.

He backed up and charged into the door, shoulder first. He grimaced as pain exploded in his shoulder. The door swung open, the rusted lock bolt broken into dust. The thick wooden door crashed into the wall.

Rubbing his shoulder, he stepped into the room and lifted his flashlight. Upon viewing the room, he froze.

He had found it. It was the room where his father had shot himself.

Taking a deep breath, he closed the door behind him. It slid silently into its wooden frame, the whoosh of air stirring up dust from the floor. It swirled in a small stream and then lay motionlessly on the red rug.

He looked around. The room seemed the same. Standing in front of the door, he saw a closet set into the left wall. A wooden beam was run through the closet walls for hanging clothes, but the closet was empty.

In front of him, on the opposite wall, was a bay window. It overlooked the garden, in which lay a heap of fallen vines and dried out bushes. Some strands of ivy brushed the glass.

Under the window stood a mahogany desk, with a flat top and three drawers on each side, the third drawer in each set resting on the ground.

The drawer in the middle-right of the desk was scratched, and the handle was hanging off, lopsided. His eye caught onto it. That was it.

His breath was coming in short gasps now. He was so close. Slowly, he stepped up to the desk. It seemed to be beckoning to him, calling for him. He answered the call, and leaned down toward the drawer.

His fingers were centimeters away from the handle. He paused.

Is it here? He wondered. Is my search finally over?

His fingers touched the brass handle.

He stared, his dirty fingers reflected clearly in the shining handle. He shook himself, gripped it, and pulled.

The drawer slid open quickly—very quickly. It dropped off the racks and onto the floor. Its swirling wood grain interior was…empty?

No. No, there it was. Taped to the inside front of the drawer. He reached down and felt it.

Yes.

With shaking fingers, he peeled off the tape and lifted the object to eye level. The plastic shone.

"Oh, there's my GameBoy."