You feel it in the air, solid, like a knife in the gut—you know you’re not crazy, but your mother says it might just be the dust.

It’s not.

It’s too still, and your candle is barely lit as you creep down the halls of the mansion. The floor is cold underneath your feet. When the crickets stop singing, run.

Something’s in your house, and he’s not messing around.

“Boo.” His voice is low, eery, a wisp of a breath near your ear.

And just like that, your candle is out.