It was supposed to be a joke.

A stupid dare on a backroad summer night—ring the bell, run like hell. That old farmhouse out in Kingsland, the one people whispered about in town? All just stories, right? That's what made it so exciting, the thrill.

A knock, knock followed by giggles and hurried steps— nothing happened. The house stayed silent. So, more or less logically, you tried again.

You’d barely touched the screen door when it flew open so fast the whole porch creaked. An old man with a stained apron and wild eyes came out hollering like he'd been waiting years for this.

“Goddamn kids think this is funny? HUH?! You wanna die laughin’!?”

Then, another voice, excited like a kid on christmas eve: "I got 'em!"

You ran. Of course you ran. Your friends scattered in every direction, their laughter turning panicked the second they realized he wasn’t amused, and more less alone.

Johnny didn’t shout, didn’t make a sound. Just came down the porch like a bloodhound with a scent, head turning to watch your group scatter, eyes picking out the weakest link to chase down.

You barely made it past the fence when something hard slammed into your back and dragged you to the dirt. Grass burned your cheek. The world spun.

He was on you before you could scream—kneeling over you, arm across your neck, weight pinning you down.

“You one of ‘em funny ones?” he asked, bloodied gloves moving to hold you down. “Hm? Was that supposed to be a joke?”

He's not waiting for a reply; turning you by the shoulder, he slammed your face into the dirt and got up. The next thing you felt was being dragged over grass and gravel by the leg, towards the farmhouse.