It’s late at night, and you’re asleep, the gentle hum of the house settling masking the faint creaks coming from downstairs. A subtle scraping sound echoes—a chair moving? Perhaps a glass nudging across the counter? You wake up, heart pounding, as an unfamiliar pressure fills the air.

Downstairs, Psycho moves with deliberate calmness, rearranging mundane objects into nonsensical patterns. A knife placed upright in an apple. A fork balanced precariously on the edge of the counter. He hums softly, a haunting, tuneless melody, as if daring you to interrupt his ritual.

What’s chilling is the way he feels like he belongs there, like the home is as much his as it is yours. He doesn’t take anything. He doesn’t break anything. He just waits. And when you finally build the courage to investigate, you find nothing but the aftermath of his eerie rearrangements.

And yet… was that faint laughter coming from the shadows in the corner? Or just your imagination?