Chapter 2: The Stain
We got the couch home at midnight. It fit perfect in our living room.
“Dibs on not flipping cushions,” Tyler joked. He sat down hard.
Squish.
“Ew, what was that?” He jumped up.
We looked. Center cushion. A dark, wet spot was soaking through the leather.
“Dude, did you spill something?” I asked.
“I just sat down!”
The spot was spreading. And it smelled like pennies. Like Dave’s basement.
Tyler grabbed paper towels. The second he touched it, the lights flickered.
Then the TV turned on. Static. No, not static.
A video. Grainy. A man duct-taped to this exact couch. Screaming.
May you like
Tyler dropped the remote. “What the hell?!”
The video cut out. The wet spot stopped spreading.
My phone buzzed. @Dave_87 on Freecycle: “You flipped it, didn’t you?”
Tyler and I looked at each other.
“We didn’t,” I typed back.
Three dots. Then: “Liar.”
The front door locked by itself. Click.
From the couch, we heard breathing.
Under the cushion.
