CHAPTER 3***
The tension broke with a sudden, collective burst of nervous laughter. "Screw this," Harper muttered, waving a hand dismissively at the dark woods. "The wind is playing tricks, and we're all too drunk for a film set."
One by one, they retreated from the tree line, the heavy atmosphere of the forest peeling away as they stepped back onto the porch. They were convinced it was a prank—Mark's sarcasm or Leo's love for a jump scare. They piled back into the warmth of the house, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind them, locking the darkness outside.
Elias was the last one in. He lingered on the threshold, the weight of the old digital camera heavy in his palm. The others had already scattered toward the living room, the sounds of a deck of cards being shuffled and the clink of fresh drinks signaling a return to normalcy.
Elias lifted the camera, his finger hovering over the playback button. He told himself he was just checking the focus, but his heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He squinted at the small, grainy LCD screen, scrolling back to the last few seconds of the "remake."
The footage was shaky, blurred by the mist. He saw Rhodes and Sarah huddled together, and then he saw himself—the "killer"—reaching for the mask. But as he panned the camera slightly to the left in the recording, a shape emerged from the shadow of a thick pine. It was a tall, draped figure in a trench coat, wearing a mask that looked identical to the one Elias was currently holding. The figure wasn't moving; it was simply standing there, tilted slightly to the side, watching them.
Elias froze. He felt a drop of cold sweat slide down his temple. He looked up from the screen, staring out into the black void of the yard, expecting to see those porcelain eyes reflecting his flashlight.
Nothing. Just the wind in the trees.
"I'm being paranoid," he whispered to the empty porch. "It's a ghost image. Digital lag. Or just a tree trunk in the dark."
He shook his head, tucked the camera under his arm, and stepped inside, bolting the door behind him. When he walked into the living room, the scene was jarringly domestic. The fire had been stoked back to life, and the group was gathered around the coffee table.
"About time, Spielberg!" Mark called out, not looking up from his hand of cards. "Sit down. We're playing 'President,' and you're currently the loser by default."
Ren was laughing at something Harper had said, and Sarah was leaning against Rhodes, the terror from ten minutes ago seemingly evaporated in the glow of the firelight. Elias stood at the edge of the rug, the camera still gripped in his hand. They looked so safe. They looked so certain that they were alone in the house.
He opened his mouth to tell them about the figure on the screen, but then he looked at the mask sitting innocently on the side table. It looked like a toy again. He didn't want to be the one to ruin the night—not again.
"Deal me in," Elias said, forced a smile, and set the camera down on the mantle, lens facing the room.
As he sat down, he didn't notice that the "Record" light on the camera was still blinking a steady, rhythmic red. Or that, in the reflection of the dark window behind the sofa, a ninth shadow was standing perfectly still in the hallway.
***
The fire had collapsed into a skeletal pile of grey ash, leaving the living room in a suffocating, ink-black silence. Elias blinked his eyes open, his head throbbing with the dull ache of a fading high. The air in the house had turned unnaturally cold, the kind of chill that didn't just sit on the skin but seemed to seep into the bone.
He sat up, squinting through the gloom. On the far end of the sectional, Julian was a motionless heap, his breathing heavy and rhythmic. Mark was curled on the rug, a throw pillow over his face like a shroud, and Leo remained slumped in the armchair, his chin tucked into his chest.
That was it. Just the four of them.
"Hey," Elias whispered, his voice sounding thin and brittle in the vast room. He reached out, nudging Julian's leg with his foot. "Julian. Wake up."
Julian groaned, his eyelids fluttering. "Wha—? Elias? Go to sleep, man."
"Where are the others?" Elias asked, his heart beginning a slow, heavy thrum against his ribs. "Sarah? Ren? Where's Rhodes and Harper?"
Mark pulled the pillow an inch off his face, his voice thick and annoyed. "Probably went to bed, man. It's four in the morning. Stop being a hall monitor."
"I haven't seen them," Leo added from the shadows of the armchair, not even bothering to open his eyes. "They probably got tired of the ghost stories and found actual mattresses. Just... shut up and sleep."
Within seconds, the three of them had drifted back into a heavy, alcohol-induced slumber, leaving Elias standing alone in the center of the room. He looked at the mantle where he had left the digital camera. It was gone. He looked at the side table where the porcelain mask had been sitting. The spot was empty, save for a small, damp ring of moisture on the wood.
"Very funny, guys," Elias whispered to the empty air, his hands beginning to shake. "Rhodes? Sarah? This isn't a good prank."
He stepped out of the living room and into the long, vaulted hallway. The floorboards felt like sheets of ice beneath his socks. He headed toward the kitchen first, his shadow stretching out long and distorted in front of him like a dark twin.
"Ren?"
The kitchen was a tomb. A single glass of water sat on the counter, the ice long melted, a ring of condensation forming around its base. Everything was exactly as they had left it, yet the house felt hollow, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
As Elias turned to check the dining hall, his flashlight beam swept across the floor. He froze. A trail of damp, dark smudges—like wet footsteps or melted snow—emerged from the shadows of the basement door and led straight toward the back of the house.
He followed the trail, his breath hitching in his throat. It led to the heavy oak back door. Elias reached out, his fingers brushing the iron bolt. It was already slid back. The door wasn't just unlocked; it was standing a hair's breadth ajar, vibrating softly in the wind.
He pushed it open, expecting to see his friends hiding in the bushes, ready to jump out and laugh. Instead, the porch was empty. But there, sitting perfectly centered on the top step, was the digital camera. Its red recording light was blinking—a steady, rhythmic heartbeat in the dark.
Elias picked it up, his thumb hovering over the playback. As he stared at the screen, he realized the camera wasn't pointing at the woods. It was pointed directly back into the house, through the very door he was standing in.