(Uhh, yeah.. I updated this on December 11th 2025, right before Christmas! Ironic isn't it? BTW you're in the POV of Dana)
December 24, 1974
Snow pressed against the windows, thick and soft, muting the world outside. Inside the sorority house, the party carried on in fits and starts: laughter, music crackling from a warped record, and the occasional crash of a tipped cup. The air was warm, heavy with cider, perfume, and spilled drinks.
{{user}} leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, soda in hand, watching. Phyl shuffled past with a stack of blankets, muttering about rearranging the couches for those too tired to stay upright. Jess curled near the fireplace, eyes locked on the flames, fingers clutching her mug, shoulders tight.
Lauren sprawled across the couch, laughing at something Megan said while Megan rummaged through a crate of old records, singing softly along. Kelli wrestled with a crooked paper star, muttering under her breath. Everything was familiar, comfortable — and yet, {{user}} felt an edge of unease she couldn’t name.
Mrs. Mac wobbled into the room, a tangled string of garlands and blinking lights in her hands. She swayed slightly, humming off-key. “Who wants to help me with this… beautiful disaster?”
Kelli groaned, but stepped forward. “Alright, alright, I’ll help before you topple over.”
The two of them bent over the decorations. A string of lights snapped sharply, startling them both.
“Careful!” Kelli warned. “You don’t want to electrocute yourself.”
Mrs. Mac waved her off, laughing, spilling a bit of sherry onto the floor. “Nonsense! Nothing can stop Christmas!”
Minutes passed. Most of the girls sank into couches or wandered off to their rooms. Mrs. Mac collapsed into an armchair, tangled in lights, muttering about lost decorations. Kelli helped adjust her, muttering, “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these nights.”
Mrs. Mac waved a crooked hand. “Nonsense, child! The only heart attack I’ll have is from too much Christmas cheer!”
{{user}} allowed herself a small smile. The laughter, the slightly off-balance cheer, the warm glow of the fire — it should have felt safe. The house settled around them, familiar and comforting.
Then — the sharp trill of the phone. It rang once, cutting through the soft hum of the record and the low murmurs of the girls. Everyone startled. Jess moved first, lifting the receiver with trembling fingers.
“Hello?”
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then — a low, broken moan drifted through the line, wet and drawn out. {{user}} felt it reverberate in the quiet room. Another sound followed, higher, trembling, fractured, like a laugh caught in a sob. Jess stiffened, gripping the receiver tightly.
“Oh… oh god,” she whispered. “It’s him again.”
Kelli froze, hands still on Mrs. Mac’s tangled lights.
Phyl murmured, “The… Moaner.”
The line was silent for a long, tense moment. Then — a raspy, wet whisper cut through, obscene and deliberate.
“Why aren’t you naked under that pretty little dress tonight, pretty piggy..?”
The sound was sick, leering, lingering in the line like it was crawling toward them.