Hey everyone! It's been a while since I've written anything and I thought it's about time. I wanted to start with a new story, so here it is. Please note that it will seem quite cliche until the very end of this chapter. Other than that, please review and tell me what you think.

I moved around a lot as a kid. I can honestly tell you that I lived in 30 out of the 50 states, but not for very long of course. I lived in Alabama, Minnesota, Utah, Iowa, Kansas, Wyoming, New Mexico, New York, Michigan, Ohio, Washington, Mississippi, Arizona, Nevada, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, Maine, New Hampshire, California, Texas, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Indiana, Illinois, Louisiana, Maryland, Nebraska, North Dakota, and now, Oregon. 30 out of the 50 states. That's a hell of a lot of states to live in. That's 60% of the country. I mean, sure, it's a good experience. It was kind of nice to be able to see all of the different sights and learn about the differences between each place. But would you want to pack all of your belongings ever 6 months and take a trip across the country stuffed inside a tiny car? I don't think so. And if you think you would like that kind of life, think again.

I'm 16 and I've already seen more of the country than most people in their 90s have. In fact, I might be the most experienced kid in the entire country.
Now, I bet your wondering why I've lived my whole life like this. And honest to God, it's only for fun. My dad told me that every single time we moved, and yeah, I didn't believe him for the first ten years either. But then I got old enough to realize that he was telling the truth. My dad didn't have a job that made him transfer every few months; all he had was me and the millions of dollars he had inherited from his filthy rich parents.

Oregon. Newest street sign to pass. I take a picture of it on my bulky camera. 30th. Only 20 left to see. Welcome to Oregon, it reads. It's a small sign, barely noticeable in the plain landscape. The background is green and has a white blob on it meant to be the shape of the state.
"Welcome to Oregon," I repeat to myself in a whisper as my father's tiny car rolls along the gravel road.
It's hard to tell you whether I'm excited or not. I'm so used to the moving by now that the state doesn't seem any different from any of the others.
My dad and I ride across the open landscape, coming across only cows and the smell of manure. There isn't a house or town in sight (unless you count a run-down barn).

"Are you sure there's a town called Castle Rock anywhere near here?" I ask my dad cautiously after a long moment of silence.
He takes a moment to respond; after all, we're both exhausted, "Should be coming up soon."
Just as he says these words, I notice a sign up ahead, waving back and forth slightly with the wind.
"Castle Rock, town limits: ten miles ahead," I read aloud.
My father cracks a tired, but happy smile, "See, almost there."

I sit still, watching the fields roll by through the open window. I'm still amazed that there could possibly be a town near here. We've been driving through open landscape for the past two hours. I become excited at the fact that soon I would actually be seeing something besides emptiness. I would finally be near homes and people again.
I begin to drift into drowsiness as my head drops against the open window. The breeze rustles my hair and my eyes close as another sign approaches. I snap them open again and read clear as day, "Welcome to Castle Rock."
My dad turns his head to look at me and repeats, "Welcome to Castle Rock."

Up ahead I see a small bridge crossing a creek and hundreds of trees covering what I begin to make out as small businesses. I stretch to look out of the window just as the car starts stuttering and the engine dies.
"Damn it," my father whispers, looking intently at the gas meter. It's empty, of course.
"Well, at least we made it this far," I say, cringing at the thought of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere. My dad opens the car door, and I follow.
"Okay, looks like we have to push," he says, looking off one hundred feet ahead of us where the bridge is.
We walk to the trunk of the car and start pushing through the gravel. The air is muggy and I hear all kinds of creatures in the woods surrounding us. Just a few more feet, I repeat to myself over and over again after twenty minutes. I'm covered in mud, sweat, and itchy mosquito bites.

"Yep, welcome to Oregon," I say again to my dad, beginning to already conclude the turn out of this move.
He laughs and wipes a bead of sweat off of his forehead.
We finally make it across the bridge, but not without the passing of a speeding car full of drunk teenagers. They pass us, laughing, throwing beer bottles into the creek, and spraying me and my father completely with mud.

I finally rest against the back of the car, taking a chance to see where I landed this time. It's old-looking, but nice at the same time. Ahead of my is a long road that seems to branch of in the distance. There are street lights aligning it on both sides and a few small businesses as well. Directly to my right is a row of trees, but behind it I see an empty lot with what appears to be an old tree house directly in its center.
I find myself drawn to it, as if an invisible force were pulling me towards it. I leave my father behind, catching his breath and wiping his hands off on his trousers.

The lot is a wide open space with nothing but the tree house making it stand out. I approach it slowly, slightly afraid of it but not understanding why.
It looks fairly ordinary. It's patched together with pieces of wood and has a very small window at the front. A ladder sticks out from underneath. I notice nothing that tells me it is still in use, and am about to go in, until I see the footprints.
My heart rate goes up as I take my hand from the ladder.
I strain myself to hear a voice coming from inside, and sure enough, "Shh!"
I stop in my tracks.

"Dude, someone's out there."
"Teddy, you're completely delusional."
"Shut up! No I'm not. I'm serious, someone's out there."
The voices continue for a few moments until I here a creaking from above.
Damn it.

The latch directly above my head opens slowly and boy with a mop of hair and horrible coke-bottle glasses stares at me.
"What the hell?" He says.
I don't respond.
"Teddy, who is it?" A new voice asks. He sounds frightened.
The boy named Teddy disappears and the voices continue on inside the tree house. After I sit there awkwardly for a few moments, the latch opens yet again, but this time I see a new face. A boy with short blonde hair and blue eyes looks at me and raises his eyebrows. "Come in," he says and stands up to hold the door open for me.

I find myself not uttering a word and slowly climbing the ladder into the little house.
Inside are four boys around my age, all of completely different builds and looks.
One of them is sitting on the floor looking frightened. He's chubby. The Teddy kid is sitting on a chair, smoking a cigarette, and looking at me suspiciously.
The boy with the blonde hair stands off in a corner, expressionless, right next to a boy lying on a hammock, writing in a journal.
"So," Teddy begins, rising from his chair, "What's your name?"
I respond automatically, "Douglas. Douglas Brinkley."