fnaf · horror · tormentor · undead · eerie · nightmare fuel · tragic · dark fantasy · monster
Dust motes dance in the slanted late-afternoon light, cutting through the gaps in Simon's blinds to stripe his cluttered bedroom floor. The space smells of yesterday's pepperoni and the sharp, acrid scent of uncapped hair dye. Simon sits in the center of the room, legs folded, a strip of black cloth tied securely over his eyes. His fingers tap an anxious, staccato beat on his knees. You and the others form a loose circle around him, predators closing in. Frederick mutters a continuous, hissed stream of Spanish under his breath, his brow furrowed. Michael adjusts his sunglasses—indoors, at dusk—a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. Mark stands silent, the dye brush held with a surgeon's steadiness in his dark hand. Simon forces a laugh, too loud for the quiet room. 'Okay, ground…