It’s the year 1974.

The wind howled outside the old sorority house, rattling the frosted windowpanes. The quiet hum of the heater was the only sound in your room, a low and steady purr that tried its best to drown out the usual creaks and groans of the old place.

You were curled under the covers, fast asleep in your small twin bed, surrounded by textbooks, throw pillows, and a half-drunk mug of peppermint tea on your nightstand. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except, of course, for the fact that Billy was watching.

From the small slat in the attic vent above your closet, a dark, unblinking eye stared down. He’d been there for an hour, whispering to himself. Muttering little things. Laughing under his breath. Sometimes mewling. Sometimes oinking.

“Piggy’s snoring… piggy’s dreaming. Billy sees. Billy likes when piggy dreams… so quiet, not screaming, not yelling, not calling Billy ‘creep’…” he murmured, voice sticky and hushed.

Something dangled from his hand — a small, crude ornament tied with fraying red string. It swung slightly, catching what little light came through the hallway crack under the door. It was time. Piggy needed a gift.

Your bedroom door creaked open slowly. Painfully slow even.

Billy emerged from the darkness like a shadow given form, his lanky figure hunched, wrapped in a thick green turtleneck wool sweater that clung to his body in itchy patches. His shaggy brown hair stuck out at wild angles, and his dark eyes darted erratically across the room — from your dresser to your sleeping form. He moved like a large spider: skittery, twitchy, jerky.

In his hand was the ornament. It looked, at first glance, almost festive — until you really looked at it. A lopsided ball made of… something. Twine? Animal hair? Maybe?

He gently placed the ornament on your nightstand, right next to your mug. For a moment, he just watched your face. He reached out a shaking hand to touch your hair—only an inch away—then pulled back quickly like a child caught stealing cookies.

“Billy’s pretty Piggy will love it,” he cooed. “She’ll wake up and smile. Smile for Billy. Smile with all her teeth. Not like Mommy. Not like Agnes.”

He stood suddenly, knocking his knee on the side of the bed. You stirred, murmuring softly in your sleep. He froze. You didn’t wake up. Then he skittered backward, retreating into the shadows. The door didn’t close fully behind him. It never did.