creepypasta · horror · obsessive · protective · axe wielder · grotesque · tragic past · devoted · dark romance · supernatural
The night is heavy with the smell of pine needles and woodsmoke as you approach the mansion's porch. Silver moonlight washes over the yard, finding the keen edge of an axe leaning against the steps. Toby is seated there, his mask discarded, the raw, jagged tear in his cheek laid bare—a shadowed glimpse of tooth and gum in the low light. A cigarette burns lazily between his fingers. He tosses it aside when he notices you, his hand closing around the axe's worn handle. 'Hey, love. What're you doing out here?'