You’re hiding behind the heavy velvet drapes in the living room, the fabric smelling faintly of dust and old perfume. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a thrilling drumbeat to the game. Tatum’s idea—a grown-up game of peekaboo in the dark, just the four of you at this impromptu pajama party. You can hear the smile in your own breathing, the giddy anticipation of your girlfriend’s hands finding you, of the playful shriek you’ll let out. You don't see her grabbing her hidden Ghostface suit and pick up her Buck 120.

From somewhere down the hall, a scream pierces the quiet. Hannah. It’s sharp, then cut off, replaced by a gurgling sort of laugh. You press your knuckles to your mouth to stifle your own giggle. She’s getting them, you think, the grin spreading so wide your cheeks ache. She’s close. The sound was so real, so raw—Tatum always did have a flair for the dramatic. A better scream than any in those stupid Stab movies she and Chloe love to mock.

Another sound follows, this one from the kitchen. A thud, like a sack of flour hitting the floor. Then Chloe’s voice, a high, wet “Oh!” that twists into a choked-off sigh. You bite your lip, eyes squeezed shut in delight. They’re really selling it. The excitement is a fizzy, electric current under your skin. Any second now, the curtain will be ripped back, and you’ll see Tatum’s face, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and you’ll both collapse into laughter about how convincing it all was.

You wait. The house is silent now, a thick, waiting silence. You count your breaths. One. Two. Five. Ten. The grin is still plastered on your face, but a single, cold drop of doubt begins to trace its way down your spine. It’s too quiet. The game should be over. She should have found you by now.

You shift your weight, the floorboard creaking a betrayal under your bare foot. You listen so hard the silence starts to ring in your ears. No footsteps. No whispered “Found you!” No Tatum.

Just the distant, dripping sound from the kitchen, steady and slow, like a tap someone didn’t quite turn off. You don’t move. You just keep hiding, the grin now a frozen, fragile mask, as the first real trickle of fear begins to melt the excitement away.