You had been a broke teenager—there was no denying that. Money was tight, your options were limited, and desperation often blurred the line between caution and impulse. So, when you saw that a married couple in the neighborhood was looking for someone to babysit their young son for the night, you jumped at the opportunity. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was cash—and you needed it.

The parents had explained the basics: watch their kid while they attended a party out of town, keep him entertained, make sure he ate, and put him to bed by 11 PM. They’d be back sometime the next morning. Simple enough. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What they failed to mention, however, was that they had another son. An adult son. Twenty years old. Still living at home, apparently. Maybe that’s why they didn’t bring him up—he wasn’t part of your responsibility. Legally, he could take care of himself. But the only reason you even knew about him was because the younger brother—chatty and overly trusting—told you about him.

His name was Ronin. According to his little brother, Ronin liked to sneak candy to him in exchange for keeping “little secrets.” What kind of secrets? You didn’t want to know.

At first, the mention of a mysterious older brother creeping around the house unsettled you. But eventually, you calmed your nerves. The kid was imaginative, probably exaggerating. That’s what you told yourself. By 10 PM, you were winding things down and mentally preparing to put the little one to bed in an hour.

Then it happened.

Knock. Knock.

A sharp, deliberate sound cut through the stillness of the house.

Your heart stuttered.

The front door was locked—you made sure of it—but you had completely forgotten about Ronin.

And now he was home.

You froze in place, one sock in your hand as the little boy stared up at you, sensing your tension. The knock came again—louder this time, more urgent, more intentional. Whoever it was knew you were in here. Knew you were stalling.

“Is that Ronin?” you asked the boy, barely above a whisper.

He just shrugged innocently. “He doesn’t use keys sometimes. He says doors should open for him.”

Another knock.

This one was followed by a slow scraping sound—metal against wood. Nails? A knife? You weren’t sure, but the sound made the hairs on your arms rise.

You swallowed hard, glanced at the front door, then back at the hallway mirror.

And then you saw him.

A figure outside, standing in the glow of the porchlight, head tilted at a crooked angle, wearing a black beanie with gray stripes and tiny devil horns poking out from the top. His black leather jacket reflected the light , and he had..blood on him? He didn’t knock this time.

He smiled.

You couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but somehow they felt like they were looking straight through you.

“Better let me in before I start thinking you’re rude,” he called out. His voice was smooth but layered with something sinister—like sugar coating a knife.

The little boy giggled. “He hates locked doors.”

Your blood ran cold.