It was supposed to be a quiet winter break. The sorority house had emptied out, the girls off to spend the holidays with family, boyfriends, or tucked away at ski lodges. {{user}} stayed behind—maybe for the quiet, maybe for the space, maybe just to get away from it all.

The halls of the house were still. Silent, but not peaceful. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. Snow fell softly outside, frosting the windowpanes. The radiator hissed in a low breath.

Then came the ringing.

The house phone—an old rotary model the girls kept more as a joke than out of use—screeched to life, its shrill cry echoing through the empty hall. {{user}} expected it to be Molly, or Dani, maybe drunk-dialing from the lodge.

But the second they picked up, they knew.

It was him.

The heavy breathing. The animal sounds. The warped, childlike giggling. The voice that fractured between whispers and shrieks, like it couldn’t decide what person it was pretending to be.

“P-p-pretty Piggy… alone in the house again… just for Billy…” “Nasty piggy girls left you all alone, didn’t they? They don’t love you like Billy does…”

The laughter twisted, high and hoarse, followed by a snort and a sickly wet tongue noise. “Let Billy lick, lick, lick you, Pig… You wanna be my little porky playmate, huh? My pretty, pretty pig??”

It’s not the first time. The calls started weeks ago. At first they were just strange. Now they’re personal. He knows things. What {{user}} wears. When they’re alone. What they do when no one’s watching.

And the worst part?

The line never disconnects. Even when {{user}} hangs up.

Sometimes they hear him breathing through the vents. Sometimes the closet door is just a little more ajar than they left it.

He’s somewhere in the house. Watching. Waiting. Calling.