Ella's Point of View
We didn't make it very far.
The plan? Drive off into the damn night like total legends—windows down, music blasting, snacks ready to demolish, and zero fucks given. We were supposed to ride this sugar-fueled high straight into trouble, mystery, or at least a late-night burger run.
Instead? We got The Chicken.
No joke, literal poultry standing in the middle of the damn road like it owned the place.
Kalix in the backseat goes, "Yo, that chicken just made eye contact with me."
I slammed on the brakes because what else do you do when a chicken stares you down like it wants your soul?
Kieran, ever Mr. Responsible—or just clumsy as hell—spills half a soda on his jeans. "WHY THE FUCK?!"
Kalix points, wide-eyed. "LOOK!"
And there it was: one chicken. Unblinking. Giving us the "I'm gonna fuck your day up" stare.
"That chicken's been through some serious shit," Kalix whispered, clutching his gummy worms like his life depended on it.
"Bro probably files taxes and pays them on time," I added, barely holding back laughter.
Kieran squinted. "It's a fucking chicken. Can we just drive around it?"
We inch forward.
The chicken stays put.
Not a feather moves.
Kalix gasps, "Is it cursed or something?"
I rolled down the window and shouted, "Move your ass, feathered fucker! We've got snacks to eat and no time for your bullshit."
The chicken cocked its head, flapped once—and charged.
Screams filled the Jeep like a horror movie soundtrack.
I slammed it into reverse, nearly flipping us into a ditch.
"WHY IS THIS FUCKER SO FAST?" Kieran yelled, clutching the dashboard like it owed him money.
"WHY IS IT AFTER ME?!" Kalix shrieked, hiding like it was some goddamn assassin.
"It fucking knows our weaknesses!" I yelled, swerving hard left.
After a minute of this vehicular chicken warfare, the bird strutted back like it hadn't just fucked with our entire night.
We sat there, speechless.
"Did we just get punked by a goddamn chicken?" I asked.
"Hell yes," Kieran said.
Kalix whimpered. "And I'm traumatized for life."
So yeah, we decided to retreat. Because when a chicken puts you in your place, it's time to rethink your life choices.
Back at Kieran's, I launched myself out of the Jeep like I was on caffeine overload. "I CALL THE COUCH!" I screamed like it was the freaking Iron Throne.
Kalix looked like he aged a decade carrying our snack loot. "Can I sit before you claim the entire house?"
"Denied! First come, first throne," I said, already kicking the door open like a maniac.
Kieran opened it like a boring normie. Lame.
Inside was suspiciously neat—like "I pay taxes early and alphabetize my spices" neat.
"This place reeks of responsibility," I sniffed. "We need to ruin it. Spill soda. Set something on fire. Whatever."
"Please don't," Kieran begged like the responsible human he is.
We dumped our snack haul on the table like it was gold.
Kalix collapsed onto the couch, defeated. I somersaulted beside him—graceful as a drunk goose—and crowned myself queen of Snacklandia with a chip bag crown.
"Bow down or get Cheeto'd," I declared.
Kalix buried his face in a blanket. "I'm done with this bullshit."
Then the sugar hit hard.
Kalix opened a bag of chips—and BAM!—they exploded like glitter at a middle school dance.
I screamed like a banshee.
Kieran dove slow-mo hero style, catching the chips.
Kalix just stared at his hands like they personally fucked him over.
"My snacks betrayed me," he whispered. "They were supposed to love me."
We built a snack fort with soda towers, chip bag walls, and one poor apple that no one touched because it was the only sober thing in the room.
"Behold, the Fortress of Flavors—built on sugar, chaos, and terrible decisions."
Kalix suggested horror storytelling, with lights off for extra creep.
Kieran went first, spooky haunted house stuff.
Kalix followed with creepy shadow tales.
Then me. I went full ghost narrator:
"So, one night," I whispered, "the lights just went out. No warning. Total blackout. No flashlights, no phones. Just pure darkness and the feeling you're not alone."
I paused for effect.
And then—
Click.
The lights went out for real.
Dead silence.
Total darkness.
Kalix gasped.
Kieran's eyes went huge.
I whispered, "Okay, now it's really happening."
Kalix trembled, "Is this part of your story or…?"
I laughed nervously. "Plot twist: horror story becomes reality."
Kieran groaned, "Ella, you just cursed us all."
We froze, only the rustle of Kalix's chip bag breaking the silence.
Then Kalix opened it—and the chips exploded like glitter at a middle school dance. Again.
I screamed again.
Kieran lunged forward, slow-mo hero vibes on point.
Kalix looked betrayed as hell.
"My snacks betrayed me again," he whispered. "They were supposed to love me."
Lights flickered back on.
We blinked. Half relieved, half sure we survived a haunted snack apocalypse.
Kieran shook his head. "Seriously, the scariest thing tonight is your snack choices."
I laughed, adrenaline and absurdity hitting me hard.
And just like that, the blackout was over—but the night? Oh, it was only just getting started.
Kalix stood up like he was about to give a TED Talk on snack betrayal. "I need answers," he declared. "Why do my chips keep exploding? Is it me? Am I the problem?"
Kieran raised an eyebrow. "You bought off-brand chips, bro. What did you expect? Integrity?"
Kalix looked personally attacked. "They were on sale! I thought they were misunderstood, not cursed!"
I was still laughing, clutching my stomach like I'd done five crunches. "You sound like someone who dated a walking red flag and tried to fix them with love and Hot Cheetos."
Kalix looked at me, dead serious. "I can fix him."
Kieran threw a pillow at him.
That's when the vibe shifted again. I don't know how to explain it—like the house exhaled, and suddenly the air got still. No wind. No hum of the fridge. No distant bark from a neighbor's dog. Just… too quiet.
We all froze.
"Okay," I whispered, "why does it suddenly feel like we're in the part of the horror movie where the dumb teens investigate a noise?"
Kalix pointed to the hallway. "Who left the bathroom door open?"
Kieran frowned. "I didn't."
I sure as hell didn't either.
The door creaked.
Just a little.
Just enough to make all of us contemplate our wills and unfinished homework.
"Maybe it's the wind," Kalix offered, already grabbing a Pringles can like it was a weapon.
"There IS no wind, dipstick," I hissed, yanking a flashlight from my backpack like this was Stranger Things and I was the designated final girl.
Kalix, naturally, went full oldest-sibling mode. "Okay, no one panic. We'll just close the door and go back to stuffing our faces with food we'll regret in the morning."
As we crept toward the bathroom, the floorboards groaned like they were protesting our life choices.
Kalix whispered, "If I die, tell my mom I never liked her lasagna."
Kieran muttered, "Tell my math teacher I was paying attention... just not when she was talking."
I was too focused on survival to decode their food trauma and academic guilt.
We reached the bathroom. Kalix pushed the door slowly.
It squeaked open.
Empty.
Just a dark, echoey bathroom with one lonely hand towel that looked like it had seen too much.
Kalix exhaled dramatically. "Okay. Crisis averted. Let's go back and pretend this night didn't just flirt with a horror subplot."
I turned around.
And stepped directly into the trash can.
It made that sound.
You know the one.
The hollow metal crash of "hey, intruders, come murder us now."
We sprinted back to the living room like gremlins.
Kalix tripped on a soda can and face-planted onto the carpet with a dramatic "OOF."
I collapsed into the couch. "Okay, I am officially too sober and too lactose-intolerant for this level of stress."
Kieran flicked the lightswitch on and off twice just to be annoying. "If this place was haunted, we already pissed off the ghosts."
Kalix sat up and nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Between the chip explosions, the blackout, and Ella summoning demons mid-story, we're cursed."
"Correction," I said, tossing popcorn at his face, "we're legendary."
And with that, we turned the TV on, cranked up the volume, and buried ourselves back into Snacklandia.
If the ghosts wanted us, they'd have to fight us—and probably trip over all the soda cans.
Because this night? It wasn't going down without a full-on snack-fueled battle.