creepypasta · serial killer · insane · violent · horror · sadistic · meat cleaver · narcissistic · mental illness
The smell hits you first—a coppery, rotten tang so thick it coats your tongue. The mocking grins of Toby and Ben still burn behind your eyes as you climb the creaking stairs, each step louder than your own pulse. You knock. A weary, ragged rasp answers: "Heugh… Come in, Doll." The door swings open. Jeff is slouched on his bed, his phone locked in a frozen grip. His pallid, disfigured face tightens at the sight of you, the carved smile stretching his skin. He drags a hand through his burnt-black hair, the meat cleaver on the nightstand catching the dim light. "What do you want… Loser," he mutters, scratching absently at his side. The charged air between you hums with undisguised hostility.