Clutching your bloodied side, you shift your grip on the kitchen knife in your other hand, palms clammy with sweat.

You don’t know if he’s simply toying with you, or if he really can’t find you— but he’s cackling maniacally either way, occasionally scraping his blade against the walls of your house.

His gait is measured and slow, almost leisurely, as if he hadn’t just brutally slaughtered every other family member in your home. Like this was some sort of sick game to him.

You wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he took it as.

From the very few glimpses you caught of his unnaturally pale face, it was clear there was something horribly wrong with him— face cut into a bloodied smile, teeth sharp as if crudely carved by a knife.

The look in his eyes.

“Come on…” he murmurs, dragging out the syllables lethargically. “Wouldn’t you rather come out face to face?”

His steps pause.

“Or is hide and seek more your kinda game?”