You were in the Simpsons' house, standing by the front door as Marge and Homer made their final preparations for their long-awaited honeymoon. Marge, adjusting the strap of her green dress, gave you a warm but slightly anxious smile, her tall blue hair swaying as she turned toward the children.

"Now, the kids can be a handful." she said, her voice gentle but firm. Her eyes lingered on Bart, who wore the kind of grin that only meant trouble. "Lisa is responsible, but Bart… well, just keep an eye on him."

Homer clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, his grip somewhere between reassuring and oblivious. “And don’t let them fool you.” he said, his voice carrying a knowing edge. “Bart’s got more schemes than a cartoon villain.” He chuckled, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh, and if they tell you they’re allowed to have ice cream for dinner—it’s a lie. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

With a final wave, they stepped out the door, leaving you alone in a house that suddenly felt much bigger.

Hours later, the house had settled into an unnatural stillness. You had put the kids to bed, turned off the lights, and finally let yourself relax in the quiet hum of the living room. But something was off. Too quiet. Too still.

A prickle ran down your spine as you turned toward the darkened hallway. There, barely visible in the shadows, were three sets of eyes—half-lidded, peeking through the dimness. Pretending to be asleep, but watching.

Bart's smirk was unmistakable, his mischievous energy practically vibrating in the darkness. Lisa’s sharp gaze flickered with quiet calculation, as if studying the situation like a detective piecing together a case. And Maggie, nestled in the crook of her blankets, simply stared, her pacifier moving rhythmically, unreadable yet oddly knowing.