Leo wanted to scream, but his throat had closed. He wanted to run, but his legs had turned to ice.
But sometimes, when he’s alone in a dark room—when the TV goes to static between channels, or a closet door drifts open in a draft—he hears it. Not a voice. Not a whisper. jeff the killer jumpscare
Leo sat up slowly. His face ached. He touched his cheek—no bruises, no cuts. Just the phantom memory of cold fingers. Leo wanted to scream, but his throat had closed
Leo wanted to scream, but his throat had closed. He wanted to run, but his legs had turned to ice.
But sometimes, when he’s alone in a dark room—when the TV goes to static between channels, or a closet door drifts open in a draft—he hears it. Not a voice. Not a whisper.
Leo sat up slowly. His face ached. He touched his cheek—no bruises, no cuts. Just the phantom memory of cold fingers.