Mason stood in the kitchen for what felt like hours, staring at the glowing words on his phone:
Make her scream.
The message didn't vanish. It didn't update. Just sat there, silent and steady. Clear. Awful.
He set the phone down slowly, like it was something toxic.
Then he walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and drank half before the taste registered. Warm. Bitter. Useless.
He mumbled the words aloud, just to hear them outside his head:
"Make her scream."
Hearing it didn't help.
It only made him feel worse.
Who is she?
That question hung in his brain like a cold fog. Was it someone he knew? Someone he had wronged? Was the voice giving him a name he should recognize?
Or was she a stranger? A target chosen at random?
He typed a reply: Who?
No signal. The wheel just spun.
He tried again: What do you mean?
Still nothing.
He looked around the room like the walls might offer some kind of answer. The light above the kitchen table flickered once, then held dim. Shadows hung heavy in the corners.
The box on the table hadn't moved. But he didn't trust it.
He rubbed his temples. His heart thudded like it was trying to punch through his ribs.
He needed to get out. Clear his head.
So, he drove.
No destination. Just… forward.
He drove through back roads and side streets, past schools and gas stations and strip malls. He didn't turn on the radio. The silence in the car was louder than he expected.
Every few minutes, he glanced at his phone, hoping for a signal. Nothing.
The message still sat there, like it was waiting for a response it didn't need.
Eventually, he stopped at a convenience store, just to stand under fluorescent lights and pretend he was normal.
Bought a bottle of water. Didn't drink it.
Sat in the car for another twenty minutes.
And then something strange happened.
He saw her.
A woman, late twenties, dark hair, wearing a red jacket. She walked across the lot carrying a bag of chips and a soda. Headphones in. Laughing at something on her phone.
He didn't know her. She wasn't anyone from his past.
But something in his gut twisted.
Is that her?
He started the car. Then shut it off. Then started it again.
His pulse throbbed in his throat. His palms itched.
What was he doing?
This was insane.
But the voice hadn't told him to kill anyone.
Just scare her.
Make her scream.
Two hours later, Mason found himself parked behind the local mall. The back lot was almost empty, just a few scattered delivery trucks and a maintenance van.
He had a plan now. It wasn't a good one. But it was all he could think of.
There was a seasonal Halloween store setting up shop in one of the vacant spaces. The place was filled with masks, costumes, props, and animatronics that jumped or screamed when triggered.
He walked out with a mask that looked like a rotting scarecrow and a tiny portable speaker.
He told himself it was harmless.
He wasn't going to hurt anyone.
Just scare her. Whoever she was.
He set up near a dim stairwell by the service hallway. A known shortcut to the bus stop out back. He'd seen a few people cut through there already.
He waited.
Eventually, a woman came around the corner, phone in hand, earbuds in, head down.
Mason triggered the speaker—screeching static and a garbled growl—and leapt out, mask on.
She screamed.
Dropped her phone.
Then burst out laughing.
"You asshole!" she snapped, still smiling.
Mason yanked the mask off. "Sorry, sorry—it's for a prank channel. We're testing reactions."
She shook her head, clearly annoyed, but walked away without another word.
He stood there breathing heavily, the mask dangling from one hand.
That had to count, right?
Right?
His phone buzzed.
Task complete.
His knees nearly buckled.
She was gone.
Just like that. No cops. No one chasing him. No scene. Just a scream, a laugh, a curse—and she left.
And the message came in:
Task complete.
He stood there a long time, his heart rattling like a loose screw in his chest.
Eventually, he walked out into the sunlight. It hit his face like a slap.
He didn't speak.
Didn't listen to music.
He got in his car and drove home, fingers twitching the entire ride.
The porch light was on again.
He stopped in his tracks.
The bulb had burned out last night.
He hadn't replaced it.
Inside, everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
The box was back on the kitchen table.
Still closed.
But there was something new next to it.
A folded piece of paper.
Mason stared at it for a long time before walking over.
Unfolded it.
Two words stared back at him in the same scrawled handwriting:
NEXT TASK.
No hint. No name. No instructions.
Just that.
He read the words five times. Felt his mouth go dry.
His hands dropped to his sides.
And Mason?
He sat down in the same kitchen chair as before.
And waited.