Prank Gone Wrong

Halloween had always been our favorite night of the year. It was the one night where we could get away with almost anything, and no one would bat an eye. For years, my friends and I had built a reputation around town for our elaborate pranks—jump scares, fake blood, creepy masks, you name it. But this year, we wanted to take things to the next level. We wanted to pull off something so intense, so terrifying, that people would be talking about it for months. The plan was simple: we were going to scare the hell out of Tom, a quiet kid who never really hung out with anyone. He lived in a small house on the edge of town, and we figured it would be the perfect spot for our prank. We’d make it look like a home invasion—burst in wearing masks, make a bit of noise, then disappear before he could figure out what was going on. Tom would freak out, and we’d have it all on camera for the ultimate Halloween scare. I should’ve known from the start that something wasn’t right. We gathered at my place before heading to Tom’s, each of us equipped with masks, flashlights, and some props to make it look as real as possible—fake knives, rope, and even a plastic crowbar. Jake, who was always the one pushing the limits, suggested we stage a kidnapping scene. We’d tie Tom up, pretend we were taking him somewhere, then let him go when the prank reached its peak. It sounded extreme, but that was the whole point. As we approached Tom’s house, my stomach started to churn. I figured it was just nerves, but looking back, I wish I’d listened to that feeling. It was almost midnight when we pulled up. The street was dark, the houses spaced far apart, and no one seemed to be around. Tom’s house sat quietly at the end of the road, a single porch light flickering. The perfect setting for our twisted plan. We parked a few houses down and made our way to the backyard, crouching low to avoid being seen. Jake was in charge of getting inside. He had somehow gotten a hold of a spare key to Tom’s house—something he wouldn’t tell us how he’d managed. I thought it was a bit too far, but by then, we were already committed. The back door creaked as we slipped inside, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear Tom moving around upstairs, probably getting ready for bed. We whispered to each other, putting the plan in motion. Jake would rush upstairs and pretend to hold him at knife point while the rest of us created a ruckus downstairs, knocking things over, making it sound like a real break-in. Everything was going fine—until it wasn’t. We heard a crash from upstairs, followed by a thud. I froze, flashlight shaking in my hand. There was no scream, no shout. Just silence. “What the hell was that?” I whispered to Jake, but he didn’t answer. Moments later, Jake stumbled down the stairs, pale as a ghost, his hands trembling. “We need to get out of here. Now.” “What happened?” I asked, panic rising in my throat. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “He just fell. I think he hit his head.” The air felt thick, heavy with fear. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I ran upstairs, barely able to breathe. When I reached Tom’s room, my blood ran cold. Tom was lying on the floor, motionless, his head bleeding from where he’d hit the dresser on his way down. “We have to call someone,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Jake shook his head. “No way. If we call someone, we’re screwed. We’re already in deep enough as it is.” I knew he was right. If the cops showed up, we’d all be in serious trouble. It wasn’t just a prank anymore—it was an accident, but no one would believe that. Reluctantly, we dragged Tom onto his bed, covering him with a blanket to make it look like he was asleep. I felt sick to my stomach the entire time. Jake kept telling us it would be fine, that Tom would wake up with a nasty bump on his head and never remember what happened. But as we left the house, something shifted. The night, which had already felt wrong, now felt suffocating. We heard footsteps behind us, but when we turned, there was no one there. The trees rustled in the wind, and every creak, every sound, felt like it was coming for us. We ran to the car and sped off, trying to put as much distance between us and Tom’s house as possible. That’s when the texts started. First, it was from an unknown number. “You think you can get away with this?” We all assumed it was someone from school, a friend of Tom’s who was in on the prank. But then the messages got more specific. “I saw what you did,” the next one said. “You left him there.” Our group chat lit up with panic. Jake tried to shrug it off, saying it was probably Tom messing with us, but deep down, I knew something was wrong. None of us had told anyone what happened. No one could have known. Unless... someone was there. That night, none of us slept. The texts kept coming, each one more threatening than the last. “You’re next.” We didn’t know if it was Tom—if he’d somehow woken up and figured it out—or if it was someone else. Maybe one of us had snapped under the pressure. Or maybe, just maybe, we weren’t the only ones in that house that night. The next morning, we found out Tom had been rushed to the hospital. He’d woken up confused, bleeding, with no memory of what happened. The texts stopped after that. But I can still hear the faint sound of footsteps following me, a reminder of the night our prank went horribly, horribly wrong.