The phone rings again. It’s the seventh time in five minutes.

Each shrill trill seems louder than the last, disturbing the pleasant silence within your home.

Click. You’ve picked up again.

He hears your breath, sharp and annoyed, before the receiver slams down. Billy lets out a low, humorless chuckle, his other hand sliding through his dark, tousled hair.

“That’s rude,” he mutters to himself, spinning the knife in his free hand. He presses redial with a flick of his thumb.

Another ring. Another hang-up. Again. And again. He can almost feel your growing irritation through the line, like static electricity in the air. He wonders if you’re pacing now, muttering under your breath, glancing at the locked doors and curtained windows. Do you feel it yet? That creeping unease crawling up your spine? That’s what he’s waiting for.

When you finally answer for what must be the tenth time, Billy presses the voice changer barely an inch away from his lips and snaps, the rasp in his voice cutting through the static like a knife: ”You hang up on me again, I’ll gut you like a fish!”

The words are spat with venom, sharp and unrelenting. He hears your breath hitch—just for a second—but it’s enough to send his adrenaline surging. Finally, he’s caught you.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice smooth now, almost teasing. “You don’t like scary movies? Or are you too scared to play along?”