ON his way home, Mr. Finch came upon a familiar bicycle parked on the side of the road. It belonged to his son, he suspected. He pulled over to the side of the road and parked his car to see whether it was indeed his son and why he had parked it there, he confirmed it was his son's bicycle when he approached it.
He looked for Harold and couldn't find him. He took a glance around, expecting to see his son. He didn't notice the little shop - convenience store for a long time. He entered the place as soon as he became aware of it. When he walked in, he noticed an elderly guy, whom he estimated to be forty-five years old. He approached it with the intention of speaking with it.
"Good day, sir!" Mr. Finch said.
"Oh, good day, hijo," the elderly guy responded, "What can I do for you?" He appears to be a kind elderly stranger. And besides, he is selling things and services. Having a decent strategy will help you to attract valued customers.
"Ah, I just have a question . . . if you've seen or spotted a fifteen-year-old guy with gray hair."
"Mm . . . I don't think I've ever seen a youngster like that though. Prior to that, the youngsters that ran had just dark hair."
"Where did they come from? What is their reason for running?" Mr. Finch asked, intrigued.
"I'm not sure why, but it appears . . . they're really terrified. They came from the side of this wall. It's just outside, on the side of my establishment," the old guy explained.
"I appreciate it very lot. I apologize for the inconvenience," he said to the elderly gentleman.
Mr. Finch emerged from the store and proceeded in the direction indicated by the old guy. He went right and then right again from inside the business. He was taken aback when he saw the unconscious youngster on the ground. It's his son, Harold. He approached him right away and tried to wake him up. Thankfully, Harold awoke with anguish in every area of his body.
"D-Dad?" His vision was somewhat vague. "Is that you?" he added.
"W-Who are you?" Mr. Finch's demeanor and attitude altered abruptly. Harold was perplexed since his father had just woke him up.
"D-Dad . . . It's me, Harold—your son!" Harold murmured, still sitting on the ground, in a terrified tone.
"You're not my son. You are not my son anymore. You are a demon! Demon!" Mr. Finch's terrified voice while crawling backwards as it was still confronting him.
"Dad!" He yelled as loud as he could.
"You're a demon. Get away from me, evil!" he said non-stop.
Harold sobbed as he pleaded with his father to return to him. He awoke and confronted his father once more. Everything is all a dream. When he saw his father with a worried expression on his face, it was as if cold water had been dumped on him. He hugged his father tightly right away, and his father hugged him back.
"What happened? Who did this to you?" Mr. Finch said as they stepped into their car. Harold remained speechless and far-sighted.
"Harold!" He also had no idea that he had fallen asleep on the way home and that his father had woken him up twice. "We're home." When he awoke, he was greeted by his father's face.
Mrs. Finch greeted them with considerable worry as his father carried him inside the house.
Mrs. Finch, holding the child's face, wondered aloud, "What happened to you, baby?"
Mr. Finch stated, "He hasn't spoken since earlier."
"Can you tell me what happened to him? Why is he so adamant about not talking?" Mrs. Finch's eyes were drawn to her husband.
"I found him at the side of the convenience store," Mr. Finch said, "Unconscious and with bleeding face," and got out a thermos and basin. When he returned to the living room, he was carrying a basin that was smoking from the heat and had a cloth hanging on its side.
"You have to clean him up first." Mrs. Finch said, "I'll simply make our dinner." Mr. Finch simply nodded and got to work cleaning up their son.
The supper on the table is ready after Mr. Finch has cleaned his son. They ate right away, all three of them. They continued to try to ask Harold questions while eating their dinner, just in case he would talk. Harold was simply taken aback by his meal.
"Baby, can you tell mommy who did this to you?" As it neared, Mrs. Finch gently uttered something that seemed nearly whispered in the ear. Harold remained silent.
Mr. Finch answered calmly, "Tell me, son, who hurt you, and I'll talk to them."
They are very quiet after they asked Harold, hoping he'll respond, but still, he didn't answer. But when he suddenly spoke unexpectedly. Mr. Finch was shocked, and he threw away the spoon he was holding incidentally.
"H-He's hurt . . . ting m-me." He seemed to be possessed by something they can't describe. They are anxious and panicked, to the point where they are unsure what they can do for their son.
"Who hurt you, son?" Mr. Finch boldly asked.
"Harold—" He then lost consciousness.
He was instantly scooped up by his father and sent to his room. Covered with a blanket and dressed in pajamas.
"You should have a look at him first, Hon. I'll just walk down and put away on the sink everything we ate before coming back here," Mr. Finch said to his wife. Mrs. Finch simply nodded and walked away from her husband.
Mr. Finch pondered what his son had said as he cleared the dish. He and his wife inquire as to who assaulted him, and they are taken aback when he says his own name. But he just shrugged it off. There are lot of things they wanted to know, but unfortunately, Harold is not yet in a good state to give answer.
When only two of them were left in the room. Mrs. Finch put her hand on her son's face and whispered, "Don't do it too hard or his body won't be able to manage it . . . Harold." Prior to actually smiling and looked at his face again.