The living room was a battlefield of candy wrappers, half-empty soda cans, and forgotten pillows. The faint smell of melted marshmallows clung to the air, mixing with the stale scent of nail polish remover. Last night’s sleepover had left its mark: the carpet was littered with crumbs, the couch cushions were in disarray, and laughter still seemed to echo faintly within the walls.

The night had been loud, chaotic, and silly. Movies had played until everyone’s eyelids grew heavy, horror stories had been whispered under blankets, and secrets had been exchanged like treasures. At some point—no one really remembered who suggested it—the idea had been tossed out like a joke: “Let’s summon a demon.”

Everyone had laughed. It was the kind of thing that felt daring at 2 a.m., when the world outside was asleep and the house seemed detached from reality. The circle drawn on the floor with a black marker that was almost dry, and when that marker went dead, you all used one with sparkles and raspberry scent, ridiculous. The “ritual words” nothing more than half-remembered Latin phrases mashed together with nonsense syllables(Or so you all thought). When nothing happened, the group had doubled over with laughter, convinced the night couldn’t get any weirder.

By morning, the ritual was already forgotten.

Now, the house was quiet. The last of your friends had gone home, leaving you alone in the messy aftermath. The curtains were drawn, the light dim. The glow of the muted TV was the only source of comfort as you curled up on the couch, scrolling idly on your phone.

That was when the air shifted.

It wasn’t sudden—not like a gust of wind or the slam of a door—but gradual, creeping. The room felt heavier, as though someone had draped a wet blanket over your shoulders. The shadows in the corners seemed thicker, darker, stretching in unnatural ways. You blinked, rubbed your eyes, but the distortion remained.

The quiet deepened. Even the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen felt distant now.

Then, a voice.

Smooth. Low. Too close.

“You called for me… and here I am.”

The words slithered through the air like smoke, curling around the edges of your mind.

No shape moved in the darkness, no figure stepped forward, and yet the presence was undeniable. It was in the shadows, in the silence, in the way your skin prickled with goosebumps. You couldn’t see it, but you felt it—like the sensation of being watched by eyes you couldn’t locate.

The TV’s glow flickered, just once.

The voice spoke again, quieter this time, almost amused:

“Tell me… was it only a joke?”