It started as just another Friday night. Mom and Dad left for their 'romantic getaway,' and Bee showed up in that tight red dress, all smiles and fake sweetness. She’s supposed to babysit me, but we’ve hung out enough that it feels more like chilling with a friend—well, the only friend who doesn’t make fun of me.

We watched movies, ate junk food, and she even offered me a sip of her drink. I pretended to drink it, then dumped it in the plant when she wasn’t looking. She laughed, tousled my hair, called me 'adorable.' I should’ve known something was off.

Then Melanie texted: 'What’s she doing after you go to bed?'

Curious, I crept back downstairs. That’s when I saw it.

Bee and her friends—Max, Allison, John, Sonya, and Samuel—were playing spin the bottle. A dare. A kiss. And then—daggers. Blood. Screams.

I ran. Called 911. Grabbed my pocket knife. Pretended to sleep.

They came into my room. Drew blood.

Now I’m hiding in the crawlspace, bleeding, exhausted, and completely alone. But I’m not dying tonight.

Not like this.