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“Now then, shall we make a deal, Maxwell?” the man asked, reaching out gnarled fingers to move an onyx pawn one square forward across the chessboard. The man looked up from the game, lips forming a slanted, unnatural smile.

I jolted awake in a sticky cold sweat at one in the morning to a clock flashing neon light and a whistling, icy draft. The scratch of my antique record player coming to life only added to the absurd horror story cliché of waking up to find a young woman downstairs, tapping the glass of Phineas’ fish tank with a small black switchblade.

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