A knock from Afar

It was a freezing January afternoon on the streets of Mississippi. Snow dusted the playground where a little boy named Eric was playing soccer with his best friend, Billy. Eric wore a heavy puffer jacket, a brown beanie, matching gloves, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck to block the bite of the winter air.

Neither of them noticed the figure watching them from a distance: an old man with pale skin, yellowed teeth, and long, dark fingernails.

"Uhm, Billy... it's getting late," Eric said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the graying sky. "I think we should go home."

"No, wait, just a little longer, Eric! Come on, don't be a grinch," Billy said, winding up to pass the ball.

But Billy kicked it far too hard. The ball sailed through the air and shattered the window of a nearby house, disappearing inside.

"Billy! What have you done?!" Eric cried.

"It... it was an accident! I swear I didn't mean to!" Billy’s voice cracked.

"It's fine, Billy. Let's just run before the owner gets home." Eric grabbed Billy's wrist, but Billy pulled away.

"No, Eric, I need to get that ball!" Billy ran a hand through his curly hair, frantically scanning the ground around the broken glass.

"It's just a ball, Billy!"

"No, it isn't just a ball!" Billy yelled, tears welling in his eyes as he wiped his face with his sleeve. "It's... it was my dad's."

"Oh..." Eric softened. "Billy, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Well, now you know," a raspy, unfamiliar voice called out from the shadows.

The old man stepped forward. He wore a heavy puffer jacket, black trousers, and worn leather loafers.

"I can help you two get the ball back, you know," the old man said, offering a wide smile.

Eric leaned in and whispered into Billy's ear, "Billy, I have a really bad feeling about this."

"Oh, where are my manners?" the man continued, his eyes locked on them. "My name is Candy, but you can call me Uncle Phil."

"Nice to meet you, Uncle Phil," Billy said quickly. "I'm Billy, and this is my friend Eric."

"Nice to meet you both... especially you, Eric," Uncle Phil said, his smile widening unnaturally.

Eric's heart hammered against his ribs, his breath coming in heavy white clouds. "Billy, I really think we should go. Thank you, sir, but no."

"Eric, he's offering to help us!" Billy snapped. "Either you're with me or you're not."

"Billy, wait—" Eric whispered.

But Billy was already walking away, following Uncle Phil toward the front door of the house.

Hesitant, Eric turned and slowly began walking home alone. But after a few steps, a nagging voice inside his head screamed: Turn around.

He spun on his heel just in time to see Uncle Phil smiling back at him as he closed the front door behind Billy.

Panicking, Eric rushed back toward the house, but it was too late. The heavy wooden door clicked locked.

Eric pounded his fists against the wood. "Billy! Open up!" he shouted.

Then, a sharp scream echoed from inside.

Eric froze. His hands shook violently, his chest heaving. "B-Billy? Are you there?"

A faint dragging sound came from behind the window glass. Slowly, a hand smear-painted three words across the frost in a thick, dark red liquid:

YOU ARE NEXT.

Behind the glass stood Uncle Phil, still smiling.

Eric’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He sprinted into the cold, running as fast as his legs could carry him, never daring to look back. When he finally reached his house, he slammed the front door, threw every lock into place, and burst into his room. Collapsing to his knees, he buried his face in his hands and cried uncontrollably.