Laughter fades as your friends gather their things, still joking about the Ouija board that didn’t work. The planchette hasn’t moved once—unless someone pushed it when you weren’t looking.

The last candle trembles, its wax pooling on the table.

Soon, the door shuts.

Silence sinks in.

The rain outside has stopped, but the air feels wrong—too still, too warm.

You start to tidy up.

The candle nearest to you hisses and dies.

Something moves behind you.