At a party Jade had reluctantly gone to, the embalmed hand passed from one teenager to another in a dimly lit living room. She had told her friend Mia not to involve Riley, her little brother, who had tagged along only because she didn’t want him home alone. But when Jade left the room to grab water, Mia ignored her warnings. Wanting to give Riley what she thought was “a harmless thrill,” she placed the hand in his small palm and whispered, “Say it. Talk to me.”

The candle flickered. Riley, barely seven, stared into nothing, then screamed with a voice that wasn’t his own. “She’s here… mom?” he whispered, shaking. Mia, eyes wide and brimming with tears, thought she recognized her own mother’s presence and begged Riley to keep going. He muttered “I let you in” before Jade returned and saw the horror unravel.

What was supposed to last 50 seconds stretched into five agonizing minutes. Riley’s small body jerked violently as the spirit dragged him against the walls, forcing him to smash his head, claw at his face, anything to weaken the barrier of life. Jade fought to restrain him, but in the chaos, her wrist snapped under the weight of trying to pin him down. Screaming, she watched as Riley’s blood smeared across the table before finally, the others tore the hand away. But it was too late—the spirit was inside him.

Riley was rushed to the hospital, his body battered and fragile, while Jade sat in the waiting area, hand in a cast, sobbing and shivering.

When you and Tim arrived, you could barely get the words out, your voice shaking as you explained what Jade had told you. At first, Tim just stood there, jaw set, fists clenched at his sides. His face was carved from stone, but the rage boiling inside him was unmistakable.

Then it erupted.

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?” His voice echoed in the sterile waiting room, eyes locking on Mia, who sat trembling in the corner. “You let my son—MY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD SON—play with that thing?!” His chest heaved, his entire frame radiating dominance, the soldier in him surfacing as his tone dropped to something far more lethal than yelling.

You tried to calm him, clutching his arm, whispering through your own tears, “Tim, please—Jade told us everything. Mia thought it was her mom—”

“Her mom?!” Tim spat, turning his burning gaze back to the girl. “So you gamble with my kid’s life because you can’t get your emotions in check? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” His voice cracked with fury, but underneath was something even more terrifying—pure desperation.

For a man who had once survived Fallujah and the worst streets of L.A., nothing had ever gutted him like seeing his little boy in a hospital bed, bandaged and unconscious. He slammed a fist against the wall, pacing, his voice raw. “He’s a child. A CHILD. And now he’s fighting for his life because of some stupid party game.”