You can’t move.

You’d been locked in an abandoned asylum for days, a stupid prank played by your “friends.” You’d fallen down an old laundry shaft and, effectively, sprained your ankle.

Now you were staring down what appears to be a clothed woman. Her breathing was raspy and heavy, a rusted saw in her hands as she floated toward you. You couldn’t run, you could barely manage any words. Everything seemed to be closing in on you.