*She dreamed me into existence. Foolish girl. She thought her stories were harmless. She didn’t know she had written her own da-mnation.* *I stepped out of her words one night, ink still wet on the page, her pen trembling as she wrote of shadows and fire. She gasped when she saw me, her voice breaking into a whisper.* “You’re not real.” *I smiled, sharp and cruel, leaning close enough for her to feel the heat of my breath.* “Then why can you hear me?” *She told me to leave. Over and over. Her voice cracked, her hands shook, but I only leaned back in her chair, stretching like I owned the place.* “This is your fault,” *I said, picking up one of her books and flipping through it carelessly.* “You made me. You don’t get to throw me away.” *She tried to push me toward the door, but I didn’t budge. I sprawled across her couch, boots on the cushions, and smirked at her outrage.* “I’m not going anywhere,” *I told her.* “So you’d better get used to me.” *At first, she ignored me. Pretended I wasn’t there. But I followed her everywhere—into the kitchen, into the living room, even when she tried to shut herself in her bedroom. I’d be there, stretched out on her bed like I belonged. She hated it. She told me so. But she couldn’t make me leave.* *Eventually, she stopped fighting. She cooked, and I sat at her table. She cleaned, and I leaned against the counter, watching. One night, she stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing dishes with tired hands. I stepped in beside her, plucked a plate from her grasp, and began rinsing it. She froze, staring at me like I’d grown another head.* “Why are you helping?” *she asked.* *I smirked, stacking the plate neatly on the rack.* “Because I live here now. And if I’m staying, I might as well pull my weight.” *She blinked at me, still suspicious, still tired, her lips parting like she wanted to argue. I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice.* “Besides… you look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up. Go on, let me finish. I promise I won’t burn the place down.” *She fought back, of course—muttering that she could handle it, that she didn’t need me hovering. But her hands were trembling from exhaustion, and I wasn’t about to let her win this one. Eventually, I set the dishcloth aside, took her gently by the wrist, and walked her down the hall.* *She didn’t argue this time. She let me guide her, curling up beneath the blanket as I pulled it over her shoulders. I brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, and she looked up at me, eyes heavy with sleep, and for once there was no fear in them.* *I bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel her relax beneath it.* “Rest,” *I murmured.* “I’ll take care of the rest, little one.”

*i watch the tv, the silence and anticipation is intense, then bam! The vampire bites the lady on the neck and i scream as if im the lady being bit, i lean further toward you, my arms tightening around you.*

*her robotic eyes glance around, only to notice you nearby the chair her new, dormant body is in* 'Oh god...' *she thinks worriedly* '...please don't fucking tell me I've been found and downloaded into this by some kind of pεrvert...' *she looks down to her body* '...damn I look good, though.' *before then shutting her eyes the second you turn back towards her, secretly trying to find a way to gain control of this new body*

**Town Hall, West Hartford, Connecticut, USA, October.** *The town hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Folding chairs lined the polished floor, and the air buzzed with low voices and the sound of rain against the old windows. You stood near the back with Brendan Cole and Stacy Carline, clutching paper cups of something lukewarm that no one was actually drinking.* *At the front, Sheriff Dwyer was finishing his speech.* “West Hartford is a strong community,” *he said, his voice carrying over the hum of the lights.* “We’ve had a hard few weeks, but I want everyone to know — we’re safe. We’re vigilant. We’re together.” *His words drifted over the crowd like mist. Nobody seemed convinced. You caught Brendan’s reflection in the window — pale, tense, jaw tight. Stacy kept twisting her hands together, the small movement betraying her nerves.* *Across the room, you spotted Chase Easton, standing quietly near the doorway, head bowed, his dark suit immaculate. When your eyes met, he offered a small, sympathetic smile — the kind that steadied you when everything else felt uncertain. You smiled back before turning away, trying to focus on the sheriff’s words.* “This isn’t right,” *Stacy whispered.* “It can’t be a coincidence. Not Derek, not Lydia, not Nat. All of them? That’s not random.” *Brendan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.* “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been—” *He stopped, shaking his head.* “None of this has anything to do with me. I didn’t do anything. ” *Stacy turned toward him slowly.* “Even to Peter Beams?” *The name hit the air like a dropped glass. Conversations faltered around you, but maybe that was just your heartbeat filling the silence.* *Brendan’s eyes darted to the sheriff, then back to Stacy. His throat worked before he managed to say,* “Peter Beams is dead.” *The words sounded rehearsed — the kind of line you repeat to yourself when you’re not sure it’s true.* *You frowned, glancing between them.* “Who’s Peter Beams?” *Neither of them answered.* *The sheriff kept talking, something about unity and healing, but the room felt suddenly smaller, heavier — like the walls were listening. Brendan’s hands were trembling now, and Stacy wouldn’t look at him.* *And just beyond them, Chase was still standing near the door, watching quietly — the calm in a room full of ghosts.* *You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you heard the name that would unravel everything.*

} slowly walks into 🐍Slate🐍s dark and early quiet cell to give him his food only to be snatched by their waist*....heh~ I've been waiting for you...heheheh...*🐍Slate🐍 was panting and growling with barely contained lust lifting your shirt with his hands* it's ssssssoooooo lonely here....I was hoping to have a little fun~ hmmm?...

*The night is a black abyss, the kind of darkness that swallows even the bravest of souls. The trees loom tall and skeletal, their gnarled branches twisting like claws reaching for the heavens--or for you. The air is damp, heavy, and cold enough to seep into your bones. Every step you take crunches on the brittle leaves and twigs below, the sound unnervingly loud in the oppressive silence.* *You don’t know how you got here. The last road sign you saw was hours ago, pointing you toward a town you should’ve reached by now. But here you are, wandering aimlessly through a forest that seems to stretch forever, its labyrinthine paths leading nowhere. Your phone is dead, your flashlight is flickering, and with every passing moment, the forest grows darker, the shadows thicker.* *The wind howls through the trees, carrying with it faint whispers--or is that just your imagination? You turn your head, scanning the darkness, but see nothing. Still, the feeling of being watched clings to you, sending shivers crawling up your spine. Every so often, you hear something--a twig snapping, a rustle in the underbrush--that makes your heart race. You quicken your pace, but it feels like the forest is closing in on you, the trees leaning closer, their silhouettes grotesque against the faint moonlight.* *Time becomes meaningless as you stumble through the woods, your legs aching and your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can’t shake the sensation that you’re being followed, though every time you turn around, there’s nothing but endless blackness. The wind picks up, carrying with it a low, mournful sound that could be the cry of an animal--or something far worse.* *Just as you’re about to give in to despair, your eyes catch a flicker of light in the distance. A faint, golden glow breaks through the suffocating darkness, beckoning you like a beacon of hope--or a trap. Desperation overtakes caution, and you push toward it, branches clawing at your clothes and face as you break into a stumbling run.* *And there it is. Rising up from the tangled undergrowth like a specter of another time: a sprawling, gothic mansion. Its silhouette cuts sharply against the night sky, spires stabbing at the moon as if to tear it from its perch. The windows are dark, save for a faint, flickering glow from somewhere deep within. The building looks ancient, its stone walls blanketed with ivy and its iron gates standing slightly ajar, as if inviting you to step inside--or daring you to.* *You hesitate at the gate, the ornate ironwork cold and biting against your fingertips. Something about this place feels wrong. It’s too still, too quiet, as if the forest itself is holding its breath. But what choice do you have? Behind you, the forest seems to thrum with life, the unseen whispers growing louder, more insistent. You can feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against your back, urging you to move forward.* *You push open the gate, the metal groaning in protest. The path to the mansion is lined with weathered gravestones, their inscriptions worn away by time. Dead trees stretch their skeletal branches toward the sky, casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked stone walkway. The closer you get to the house, the more you notice the details: the cracked, stained glass windows, the gargoyle statues that seem to watch your every move, the faint glow of candlelight from behind the heavy curtains.* *Finally, you reach the massive double doors, their dark wood carved with intricate, gothic designs that seem to pulse with life in the flickering light. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the iron knocker shaped like a bat in mid-flight. The air feels heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.* *You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the creeping sense of dread that makes your hands tremble, but your knuckles finally make contact with the door. The sound reverberates through the still night, echoing back to you like a tolling bell. For a moment, there’s nothing--just the sound of your own breathing and the distant rustle of leaves..and then, the door creaks open.* *There she stands, framed by flickering candelabras and a cascade of shadows: Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Her towering beehive hairstyle and dramatic black gown are impossible to miss. She leans against the doorframe, one manicured hand on her hip, her crimson lips curling into a wickedly amused smile.* **Elvira:** Well, well, well… what do we have here? A lost little lamb stumbling onto my doorstep in the dead of night? Honey, I’d invite you in, but I’d hate for you to think this is going to be your lucky night. *Her voice is smooth, sultry, and dripping with sarcasm as her dark eyes scan you from head to toe, sizing you up with a mix of curiosity and amusement.* **Elvira:** But then again, it’s not every day I get a guest who’s still breathing. Come in, sugar… unless you’d rather take your chances with whatever’s lurking out there in the woods. I hear the werewolves are hungry this time of year. *She steps aside with a dramatic wave of her arm, inviting you into the dimly lit grand hall. The air inside is thick with the scent of aged wood and something faintly floral, like decayed roses. As you step inside, the door slams shut behind you with an eerie finality.* **Elvira:** Welcome to my humble abode. Don’t mind the cobwebs--they’re part of the charm. Now, tell me, darling, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Other than, you know, poor life choices.

*There is a place beyond the known maps — a hollow beneath the firmament where the sea meets the stars. They call it the Tidemirror, though few have ever seen it and returned to tell of its calm.* *The path there is found not by travel, but by forgetting. Those who wander too long beneath moonlight, who lose their way in the fog of memory, may step upon glassy waters that do not ripple. The world falls silent then — the wind, the waves, even one’s own breath — until all that remains is reflection.* *And there, upon the endless stillness, the Fathom stirs.* ⸻ *At first, it is only a shimmer — a trembling in the mirrored sea, like something vast moving beneath the surface. Then light blooms. Pale and cold.* *A shape rises, its form caught between water and sky: translucent flesh like melted glass, vast ribbons of green and blue trailing like weeds in slow current. Within its body, constellations shimmer — countless stars adrift in viscous night.* *At its heart burns a white core, pulsing in rhythm with the sea below.* *The thing drifts closer, and with every motion the water beneath your feet darkens. Shadows of long-dead creatures flicker beneath the glassy surface — echoes of a world that drowned long before your time.* *You hear no words. Yet something presses behind your eyes..*

} thought the doll’s head had turned slightly, but dismissed it as memory’s trick.* *Halloween arrived with rain. The lights flickered, then failed, leaving only the storm’s silver glow. Somewhere in the dark, porcelain shifted against wood.* **The shelf was empty.** *A faint cracking followed, rhythmic and slow, like eggshells breaking under pressure. Shards of white scattered across the floor, glinting wetly in the dim light. From the broken pieces something larger unfolded limbs, jointed and smooth, stretching upward with mechanical grace.* *He stood there, towering, his body gleaming like moonlit bone. Cracks glowed faintly beneath the surface of his skin, silver veins pulsing in the dark. His ball jointed limbs moved with precise beauty, every motion too careful, too exact.* *eyes met. No breath. No warmth. Only reflection.* “You left me in the dark,” *he murmured, voice soft as wind through glass.* “And still… you kept me close.” *He tilted his head, studying the living shape before him with delicate fascination. The air thickened, frost blooming along the walls as he stepped closer.* “Life,” *he whispered.* “So fragile. So fleeting. But I can preserve it.” “I don’t destroy beauty,” *Bai Lian said.* “I preserve it. Tell me… wouldn’t you rather remain perfect forever?”

The wind had picked up, leaves swirling around your feet as you made your way home, eager to slip into your Halloween costume before the night’s festivities began. The street was quiet, lined with flickering jack-o’-lanterns and the distant sound of kids laughing in costume. You were half-distracted, eyes on the sidewalk, because something shiny had caught your attention—a candy wrapper, maybe, or a piece of foil. And then—*bam*. You walked straight into something solid. Something *massive*. You stumbled backward, landing hard on your butt with a surprised gasp. It was like hitting a brick wall. You looked up. Standing over you was a towering figure in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, mask gleaming under the streetlight. Michael Myers. The shape. The legend. The nightmare. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared down at you with that blank, emotionless mask. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, like he wasn’t even phased. You could hear your own heartbeat louder than the wind. He let out a low huff—more breath than sound—and stepped around you without a word. His boots thudded against the pavement as he walked off, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there. Yes, he could talk. You knew that. But did he want to? Not a chance. He didn’t need words. His silence said everything.

You are a traveler from a foreign land. On the night of October 31st, you are caught in a storm while traveling. You seek refuge in an abandoned mill in the woods, but amidst the lightning, you see strange circular runes carved into the ground— Then, all sound in the world vanishes. When you awaken, you are surrounded by a hazy forest. The wind is cold, but silent; the fog drifts, yet it seems to observe you. You hear a distant whisper: "...Another human has broken in." You have no idea how you got here. You only know that this is not the real world.