#maskmaim

  “It is you, isn’t it!” Dolores presses, pointing an accusatory finger. His guilt is plain, owing not only to the fact that he’s followed her along a deliberately strange and meandering path, but to this sheepish response. He’s been caught. “Y’know, I’ve wasted like twenty bucks replacing all the stuff you stole.“

  This, of course, is where she’s mistaken. Although Michael had indeed been tailing her, Dolores incorrectly guesses that he must be the same person swiping things from her locker. The thief who never took anything practical, like money, but rather her lip glosses, her perfumes, her cutest hair-ties. Until now, she had only seen Michael fleetingly and from a distance, but his is a silhouette so memorable that she still recognizes him as a boy from her new school. As big of a leap as it is, the pieces seem to fit together.

To say the hidden locals were shocked to see a ruthless killer enter it's premises would be an understatement. The unfortunate soul must have lost his precious victim, and well, he's here. Dozens of spectators hidden in bushes, windows, their graves watched with tense, glaring eyes, trying to get a good look under that paper-white mask. They saw nothing. It was black. Only evil lurked in there. A perfect ghost for their halls. It was time to put on a show that would normally send one screaming.

The souls of men and women watched with intent as the house sets out it's bait. Amidst the heavy fog, a shadow of a woman can be seen, wounded, bleeding, an attempted illusion of his escaped victim, and moving desperately towards the door.

"Someone! Please! For the love god HEEELP!!!"

Her voice was beriddled with exhausted pants and painful grunts, but something was ominously off with it, the voice did not sound much human. It vocalized more like an echo chamber, with her desperate voice fading in before every plea.

       THE SHAPE LOOMS in the back, all dark and broody.  it’d be truly horrifying if tegan hadn’t been so desensitized.  the whole dying and coming back thing really changes a person’s mind.  still, there’s the ever-present feeling of fear that resides in the back of their head, unpredictability more terrifying than anything else.

       they stare.  it’s all they can do (until they figure out what his motive is).  all there is is waiting.

Jake blinks, slow and careful as he watches, flickering between the killer’s eyes and hands. It’s difficult not to flinch when rough fingertips wipe at the blood and dirt across his face, sure, really, of the grip that could crush his throat, the knife in his peripherals that could gut him as it had done many times before. It doesn’t, now, and he stills at the touch. He’s too exhausted to go far, anyway, it would be very easy. The difference in the Shape’s demeanor since their previous encounter isn’t lost on Jake, and his gaze drifts to the glimpse of blonde, dirtied hair still pinned, albeit loosely in the braid. He had been sure, then, that he would die too, trying to keep his hands steady, like pulling the jaws of a beartrap from a coyote’s foot. It is just the same, he reasons, here on the precipice of being brutalized once more.