Chapter 213

Floyd huddled in the corner of his dorm room, staring blankly at the door.

From there, an eerie song seemed to seep into every inch of the space, carrying an indescribable malice.

His thoughts were a tangled mess. He couldn't understand why that terrifying song and laughter were targeting him.

According to the plan, he was supposed to be safe tonight. That death-marked card should have been in Charles's bed. The "Smiling Boy" was supposed to go after him first!

Not like this, singing a deathly prelude right outside his door.

Floyd never imagined that the birthday card he had slipped into Charles's bed was now quietly wedged in his own doorframe.

"Happy... birthday to you..."

"Happy... birthday... to you!"

The song started as a ghostly whisper, gradually becoming sharp and piercing. Each note seemed to come from the depths of hell, laden with endless curses and hatred.

Floyd clamped his hands over his ears, his body trembling with fear, but he couldn't escape. The song clung to him like a shadow, wrapping him tightly.

"This... this can't be happening!"

"I planned everything! How could it still come for me?"

"The card is with Charles. It should go after Charles first! Why me?" He gritted his teeth, spitting out his words through clenched jaws.

Floyd couldn't believe the situation. He had taken every precaution, yet these vile spirits still found him. As the door shook violently, it slowly creaked open, revealing several blurry figures approaching his bed.

They looked like "people."

They laughed strangely, clapping stiffly like puppets, performing a grotesque welcoming ceremony.

Floyd's heart raced. He clutched his blanket tightly, closing his eyes, trying to dispel his fear.

Soon, the laughter and clapping faded, and the singing outside ceased.

He calmed down a bit but didn't get up to check outside. This time, he stayed curled up, eyes shut tight.

He remembered the last time he peeked out the window, which led to him being targeted.

He decided to stay like this all night, pretending to sleep until morning.

But soon, he noticed something strange around him.

The warmth of his blanket seemed to be stripped away by an unknown force, replaced by a bone-chilling cold, as if countless icy hands were silently touching his skin.

A clear, childlike laugh suddenly echoed from within the blanket, carrying a spine-chilling coldness.

Floyd's pupils contracted sharply. He recalled those horror stories about evil spirits hiding in blankets, and an unprecedented fear surged through him.

The laughter grew louder, as if the ghost was right there in his blanket, slowly crawling up, making his back tingle!

Finally, Floyd couldn't take it anymore. He screamed with all his might and threw off the blanket.

In the moonlight, a suffocating scene unfolded before him—five bloody human heads neatly arranged beside him, staring at him with blank expressions, their mouths twisted into eerie smiles.

At the foot of the bed stood that familiar pale figure, holding a blood-dripping knife, silently smiling, as if admiring a perfect masterpiece.

Floyd's fear peaked. He wanted to run, but his legs felt like they were filled with lead.

He wanted to scream, but his throat seemed gripped by an invisible hand, allowing only weak gasps.

"It wasn't me... it wasn't me!"