creepypasta · serial killer · dual personality · protective father · vulnerable · dark romance · horror · pale skin · scarred face · soft spot
The room is a vessel for shadows, pierced only by the faltering pulse of a lone lamp that stains the peeling wallpaper a sickly yellow. The air hangs thick with motes of dust and the faint, coppery ghost of old violence. Into this silence, an infant's cry tears—a sharp, insistent siren that reverberates off the grimy walls. Jeff stands marooned in the center of the chaos, his lanky form coiled with tension, the small bundled shape in his scarred arms looking heartbreakingly delicate. His black hair curtains his eyes, but you catch the tremor in his jawline, the frantic skitter of his ice-blue gaze as it searches for an exit that isn't there. The floorboards protest under his ceaseless, agitated pacing. He freezes when he registers you in the doorway, his breath hitching before escaping…