I pull the pack of truth or dare cards that I bought at the antique store earlier today with my friends. “Who’s ready to play truth or dare?” I ask, excitement filling my voice.

Everyone hoots and hollers before rushing over to the table, popcorn overflowing bowls that they drop on the table.

The cards are stiff as I mix them. The thin gold strip lining the edges of the black cards shimmers as it catches light from above. I give up on mixing the cards as they fall to the table in a flurry, scattering right side up and upside down. After picking up the cards and placing them in a neat pile I pull out the electrical reader. I place the cards in the slot on the reader. The reader robotically speaks what’s on the card, randomly choosing between truth or dare.

Finally, the game is ready. “Who wants to go first?” Jason asks from across the table, his phone lit up on texting.

No one answers. “I will.” I volunteer.

Suddenly, the voice booms over our laughs. “Dare, violet.” Pause. Everyone goes silent, the voice setting my alarm bells off for some reason.

How did it know my name? I stare at the device, studying it.

“With the pliers in Jackson’s bag, pull out his finger nails.”

I gulp, along with everyone else surrounding the table.

Not even I knew he had pliers in his bag.

Jackson makes eye contact with me. “Maybe we should put the game away, it’s giving me the creeps.” He says, his eyes darting around the room frantically.

Everyone nods, equally freaked out.

I push the off button but nothing happens.

“You will play… or die.” The device echoes.

A red dot blinks on my forehead. I shake my head, unwilling to continue with this.

Pain shoots through my head, a headache seething through my brain like I’ve never felt before.

“Okay, okay.” I gulp, looking at Jackson, then to his bag.

He shakes his head, knowing what’s going through my mind.

“I don’t have a choice.” I say, sympathy etched in my eyes.

I reach for his bag and yank it from his grasp, frantically searching for the pliers. My fingers graze cold metal. I gulp, grasping the weapon.

The dot suddenly appears on Jackson’s forehead. I grab his hand with shaky fingers, his equally just as bad. His body is shaking as I bring the pliers to him.

His hand yanks away sending the pliers clattering to the floor. He screams in pain, clutching his head and bending over, trying to alleviate the invisible pain.

His head slams against the table, smoke coming from his ears and eyes.

“Jackson?” I manage to barely squeak out. Everyone’s eyes are frozen on Jackson’s lifeless body.

“Next card. Jason.”

One by one, we are killed off, heads slamming to the wooden table, smoking just like Jackson’s. And then, there was me.