“Dude, put that away,” Marcus mumbled, punching his pillow. “You’re gonna summon a demon or something.”

“Check this out,” he whispered, turning the phone toward the others. “Remember this ugly bastard?”

Jeff the Killer.

From the closet, a sound. Not a creak. Not a whisper. A soft, wet squelch , like something pulling its lips apart after a long silence.

Leo wanted to scream, but his throat had closed. He wanted to run, but his legs had turned to ice.

Not a metaphor. The screen fractured into gray-and-white noise, the audio dissolving into a harsh, rhythmic screech. The four boys froze.