It was October 27th. You had spent the evening hanging out with your friend, laughing over coffee and sharing stories to pass the cold night. The streets were quiet, lit by scattered streetlamps. As your friend walked home, she noticed something unusual ahead—a figure wearing a clown mask, moving slowly along the sidewalk. Your stomach dropped. The news had reported a string of murders, each linked to a man in a similar mask, and suddenly the headlines weren’t stories anymore.

Her voice trembled over the phone as she called you, running down the street. “You have to stay inside. Don’t go out—” Her words broke off abruptly. You pressed the phone to your ear, heart racing, asking her what she said. There was only silence.

Then you felt it. A presence. You turned and saw movement in your window. The masked man was there, staring directly at you. Your breath caught. Panic surged as your friend’s line disconnected, leaving nothing but the dial tone echoing in your ears. You were alone, and he was outside, unmoving, waiting.

You fumbled with the locks and pulled the curtains closed, but the image burned in your mind. Every shadow in the room seemed larger, darker, closer. You could hear your own heartbeat hammering as you pressed your back against the wall.

He hadn’t come for your friend. He had come for you.