Chapter 1

The night before the SAT, Mom was in the kitchen, making dinner for me.

Pamela, my older sister, six months pregnant, sat on the couch, helping me pack. She kept fussing over me, saying, "Don't forget your admission ticket, okay?" She just couldn't help worrying.

I was about to say yes with a smile when suddenly, a barrage of comments popped up before my eyes.

It read: [Isn't this the family from that infamous massacre right before the SAT? The ones who were brutally murdered?]

[Such a shame. If this girl hadn't died, she could've made it into an Ivy.]

[The worst part was her sister. She was hacked to pieces, and even her unborn baby was cut out and tossed into the sewer alive.]

A chill ran down my spine.

Did they just say... our whole family is going to be slaughtered tonight?

*****

Before I could even wrap my head around what those comments meant, someone suddenly knocked on the door.

Pamela looked up and asked, "Who is it?"

"Delivery," came the reply.

Pamela looked puzzled. "None of us ordered delivery. Are you sure you've got the right place?"

"Yeah, it's for Room 401, Ms. Christine Pascall," the guy at the door replied.

Christine Pascall. That was me.

Pamela shot me a playful, reproachful look. "Why are you ordering takeout when dinner's almost ready?" she said.

"But since you've got the SAT tomorrow, I'll let you indulge your little foodie side tonight," she added with a smile.

With that, Pamela got up from the couch.

She was about to open the door.

As Pamela moved, the live comments started flooding my vision again.

[Don't open the door! That guy outside isn't a deliveryman; he's a stone-cold killer.]

[Come on! How do you not remember if you ordered takeout? Why would you just open the door without thinking?]

[Exactly! That's why people in horror stories always get killed—they're so dumb.]

I broke out in a cold sweat as the barrage of comments flooded my vision.

I snatched Pamela's hand just as she was about to open the door. "Wait! Don't open the door!" I blurted out.

Pamela turned to me with a puzzled look. "What's wrong?"

I pointed toward the door, my voice shaking. "Pamela, something's not right with that guy outside. I didn't order any delivery."

When Pamela heard me, she hesitated for a second, then peeked through the peephole, her face full of worry and doubt.

Suddenly, she recoiled in shock, pulling herself away from the door.

"He's not even wearing a delivery uniform," she whispered. "There's definitely something wrong with him."

I was sweating even more, cold fear running down my back.

So, those comments were right after all. There was really a murderer right outside our door.

But it was like the guy outside could read our minds.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a delivery uniform that was soaked and filthy.

"Can you open up? I'm in a rush, got another order to deliver," he called out.

"Seriously, I'm a delivery guy. I didn't wear my uniform because I fell into some nasty water and messed it up," he explained.

Pamela stammered, her voice shaky as she spoke through the peephole, "But we didn't order any takeout."

"Nah, someone else sent it for you," the guy replied. "There's a message on it: 'Good luck on your SAT, Princess Christine.'"

As soon as the delivery guy said that, Pamela finally relaxed.

She smiled at me and said, "Case solved! Hanley ordered it for you. Princess Christine, you better ace your SAT tomorrow."

With that, she reached for the door.

But I still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

That was totally her husband, Hanley's style; he was always calling me Princess Christine, and the only one.

But those comments kept nagging at me, making me extra cautious.

I stopped Pamela again and called out to the guy outside, "Just leave it at the door. We'll grab it later."

But the guy outside just stood there, not budging.

"It's marked as valuable, so you have to sign for it yourself. Come on, can you open up? I'm on a tight schedule here," he insisted.

Pamela gave me an amused look.