You see yourself. And behind you, in the reflection, a shape. Low to the ground. Hair spilling over the floorboards.
There’s no body text. Just a single image attachment: a photograph. Grainy, like it was taken with a flip phone in 2004. It shows the inside of a basement rec room. Wood-paneled walls. A shag carpet the color of dried blood. And in the center of the frame, a thing. atk scary hairy
Attack. Scary. Hairy.
The caption, burned into the bottom of the photo in white digital font, reads: “He doesn’t want the light. He wants the dark you keep in your chest.” You see yourself
It’s under you now. Pressed flat. Hair threading up between your bare toes like black moss. You can feel it breathing—a slow, wet rhythm that syncs to the pulse in your throat. Hair spilling over the floorboards