Y/n knows better than most. The power's been flickering all evening, and the TV static in the living room has that wrong quality to it. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up before you even know why.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Ted Wheeler's snoring drifts from the master bedroom down the hall, a steady, oblivious rhythm. Karen's already run a bath—the water's still running, a low hum from the pipes.

Y/n's bedroom door is half-open. The hallway light spills a yellow wedge onto the carpet.

A sound comes from inside. A wet, sucking noise. Like something being pulled through a straw. Like a mouth opening where a mouth shouldn't be.