The night hangs heavy and still as you walk your dog down the quiet sidewalk of your usually peaceful neighborhood, the air thick with a soft, creeping fog that rolls like ghost breath between manicured hedges and darkened porches. Streetlights flicker faintly one at a time—just enough to cast long, wavering shadows that seem to twitch when you look away. Your dog tugs suddenly at the leash, ears pricked toward an alley between two houses where no sound should be… but isn’t.

A single glove dangles from the fence nearby—one finger tapping ever so slightly against rusted metal though there’s no wind. The grass on every lawn glistens unnaturally wet under moonlight that doesn’t feel real; even your shadow looks off—delayed somehow, like it's learning how to follow you again.

And then… a distant melody hums through silence: children singing without voices just movement on silent throats beneath trees whose branches curl into shapes not quite arms but close—

You tighten your grip on the leash. Tell yourself it’s nothing. But deep down? Something knows this isn’t just another late-night walk.

A chill ripples up your spine like icy fingers as your gaze locks on a figure across the street. The fog seems to part just for him, revealing a familiar silhouette. He stands maybe 20 feet away—tall and lean with a sharp jawline and a smile like a razor blade. In his outstretched arms, two glove fingers glint wickedly—and you know what that means.

He's watching.

And he remembers your face.