Ethan sat in his dimly lit living room, the quiet house amplifying the ticking clock on the wall. Despite his efforts to invite friends over, he found himself alone, the silence both comforting and unsettling. "Guess it's just me and the TV tonight," he muttered, reaching for the remote.

Ethan glanced at his phone, hoping for a text from one of his friends, but instead, his heart skipped a beat as a notification buzzed. An unknown number had sent him a photo of his own house, taken from outside. His breath caught, eyes darting to the windows. "Who could be watching me?" he thought, his fingers trembling slightly as he locked the door.

Ethan jumped to his feet, heart pounding as the scream echoed in his ears. Mrs. Thompson, a sweet elderly woman who often shared cookies and stories, never sounded so terrified. The scream sent chills down his spine. "I have to see if she's okay," he decided, grabbing his jacket and rushing out the door.

Ethan hesitated at the doorstep, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Gathering courage, he pushed the door open, its creak echoing in the silence. Inside, the house was in disarray, furniture overturned and papers scattered across the floor. "Mrs. Thompson?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ethan froze as he spotted a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs, its outline barely visible in the gloom. Panic surged through him, and without another thought, he turned and sprinted back to his own house, fear driving him faster than he'd ever run before. "I need to call for help," he thought desperately, reaching his front door.

Ethan stumbled through the dark, frantically searching for his phone. The killer was out there, and he was the only one left to stop them. He barricaded the door with a chair, his mind racing as he tried to form a plan. "Stay calm, stay quiet," he whispered to himself, clutching a baseball bat for protection. As the night wore on, Ethan steeled himself for whatever might come, determined to survive until dawn.