The Rules of Survival

“They hired me as a babysitter in the Collins Mansion… but no one told me the rules were

meant to keep me alive.” I started my first night watching their daughter,

Emily—eight years old, quiet, polite… almost too polite.

The parents handed me a list of rules. Seven of them. All handwritten. All stained like

they’d been copied over and over. Rule one: Emily must be locked in her room by 8 p.m.

sharp. After 8, no matter what she says… don’t open the door.

Because whatever calls your name after 8 isn’t her. At 8:30, the scratching started.

Low growls, like something dragging its nails across wood. Rule two said to