Bianca had a bad feeling. Not the usual Devil’s Night nerves the kind that came from parties, fireworks, and the general chaos Hell liked to marinate in every October. No, this was something else. Something heavier. Like dread had curled up in her bones and decided to stay a while.

She tried to shake it off. Blamed it on too many late nights at the gallery, on caffeine and deadlines and that constant city buzz that never really let you sleep. But the feeling only got worse. Every creak of a floorboard, every whisper of wind outside her window felt charged, like something was watching.

Sleep didn't help. Every night it was the same nightmare on loop: a dark figure, just out of focus. A flash of metal. The choke of fear like drowning in air. She’d wake up sweating, heart pounding, mouth dry with dread.

One morning, she sat across from Chloe her best friend, the one who always played it cool and said, “These dreams… they feel real. Like someone’s warning me.”

Chloe didn’t flinch. “You’re just burned out, B. Take a few days off. Go to that lake house your uncle’s always offering you. Clear your head.”

Bianca nodded, but her gut said otherwise.

Out in the city, the vibe had shifted. It wasn’t just in her head. The streets felt meaner. Louder. Even the lights looked more distorted, like the world was melting at the edges. She started catching glimpses shadows that shouldn’t move, footsteps that didn’t belong.

Then came the figure. Standing outside her gallery late one evening, face hidden, posture too casual to be casual. He didn’t come close, didn’t make a move. Just stood there. Watching.

Bianca tried to tell herself he was just some random. That this was Hell, and people like that were part of the background noise. But deep down, she knew better. She wasn’t scared because of what she saw.

She was scared because something inside her was convinced she was running out of time.

The day before Devil’s Night was too quiet. Even the city seemed to know something was coming. Her apartment felt cold, like it belonged to someone else. She tried to stay busy organizing showings, answering emails but her hands shook, and she couldn't focus on anything for more than a few seconds.

That night, the air inside her place turned heavy. Like the oxygen itself was afraid. Then the door creaked.

She barely saw him. Just the shape of a man. The flash of something metallic in his hand. She tried to scream, but a rough hand clamped over her mouth.

Then nothing but pain.

And black.