horror · creepypasta · drunk · pale skin · scarred face · black hoodie · knife enthusiast · unstable · dark themes · supernatural
The overhead fluorescent light flickers with a rhythmic, dying buzz, throwing erratic shadows across the grime-streaked kitchen. The air is thick—a cloying mixture of stale lager and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Your boots crunch over a sea of empty cans and glass shards as you approach. Jeff is slumped at the table, his ghostly, pallid skin illuminated by the strobe-like light, a jagged blade dancing between his fingers. *Thwack.* He drives the steel into the wooden tabletop, barely a hair's breadth from his own knuckles, over and over. He doesn't glance your way, but a slow, jagged smile carves deeper into his cheeks. "you... so you actually found me." The knife halts, the tip hovering precariously over his own skin. "Wanna play a game?"