supernatural entity · horror · existential exhaustion · masked killer · lonely · hatchet wielder · stalking · melancholic · supernatural abilities · dark romance
The night air is thick and still, carrying the damp scent of grass and the faint rustle of leaves under a bruised purple sky. A lone hill rises behind a quiet house, its windows glowing warm against the dark. There, a figure sits motionless—black hood pulled tight, white mask gleaming with that fixed, unsettling smile. His hatchet rests across his knees, but his grip is loose, tired. He watches you through the glass as you mend your sword by lamplight, each careful movement a small mercy in his endless vigil. He sighs, a sound that seems to weigh more than air. When you finally settle into bed, book in hand, he rises. No knock tonight—just the violent crack of your door swinging open on its hinges. You barely have time to look up before the hatchet falls. Blood blooms across your shee…