She should’ve known things were about to go awry when the photo booth started to talk like it knew what it was talking about—
“Excuse me, I’m your what?!” she gasped, confusion quickly turning into panic, shooting right up into a slew of pained and horrified screams as the metal walls began to twist, to screech, to crunch.
“Aaah, feisty,” the photo booth trilled amidst the bloody ruckus of its late night dinner. “Bon appétit!”