The house was unusually hushed that afternoon, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Michael was sprawled across the couch, half-watching some dull TV rerun, half-assembling one of his little “prank kits” on the coffee table—rubber spiders, a bent flashlight, a springy mask with peeling paint. His boredom lounged beside him like a lazy cat.

The front door clicked.

Evan slipped inside like a shadow that didn’t want to be noticed. His backpack hung crooked on one shoulder, and his steps floated instead of landed. He didn’t call out. He didn’t sniffle. He didn’t even shuffle the way he usually did. He was… hollow-quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the air tilt.

Michael’s eyes sparked. Target acquired.

He rose from the couch with a slow, wolfish grin and padded down the hallway. Evan was standing there, staring at the carpet as if reading something written only for him. His fingers twitched at nothing.

Michael slipped behind him, leaned in close, and whispered, almost sing-song, “Boo.”

Evan jolted so violently his backpack hit the wall. His scream cracked through the house—raw, startled, terrified. He spun toward Michael, eyes stretched wide… and then wider still. Whatever he saw wasn’t Michael.

His pupils trembled. His breath hitched into a broken sob. And then came the second scream—higher, strangled, ripped straight from the pit of him. He stumbled back, hands raised as if warding off a monster only he could see.

Michael froze. The grin fell from his face, replaced by a creeping cold he didn’t understand. Evan’s gaze wasn’t on his brother—no, it tunneled into something monstrous stitched across Michael’s silhouette. Evan blinked, blinked again, as if trying to scrape the image away. Days of sleepless nights flashed behind those panic-glossed eyes.