Then the scratching started. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a single claw dragging across the inside of her door.
A whisper came from the closet, muffled and amused. “You know the rules, Jenna. You’ve seen the movies.”
Jenna’s mind raced. The movies said Freddy killed dozens. But the question wasn’t about movies. It was about Elm Street . Real Elm Street. The missing children from the 1980s news clippings her mother had hidden in a shoebox.
She typed 7 .
Jenna screamed, but the scream came out as a silent yawn. Her eyelids drooped. The fan became a turbine. The floor became a grate.
She didn’t type it. Her thumbs were still under the blanket. But the cursor blinked. Waiting.
Seven. She remembered now. Seven children from one block. Never found.
Jenna exhaled, shaking.
