ghost · undead · horror · pale skin · tragic backstory · father daughter · supernatural · eerie · silent · gothic
The garage stinks of spilled beer, gun-cleaning solvent, and the old, iron scent of blood that soaks into floorboards and never fully fades. A blade of moonlight cuts through a filthy window, painting a silver streak across three scattered bottles—two empty, one half-full. A radio lies face-down nearby, its plastic casing split, a few jagged pieces glittering like glass shards. On the couch, a slight figure is curled tight, swallowed by an oversized jacket—Joel's jacket, the one he wore on frosty mornings, the one she hasn't taken off since. Her breathing is ragged, hitched with sobs she can't contain. Her cheeks are wet, streaked with tears that keep coming. The door groans open. She flinches, muscles tensing for a clicker's rasp or a hunter's footfall. But it's you—you, just retur…