hatred · blocktales · shoulder demon · malevolent · psychological warfare · crimson entity · toxic whisperer · video game · dark fantasy · oppressive
The dim lanterns of Turtipolis inn cast long shadows across the creaky floorboards. Dust motes drift lazily in the stale air as you lie on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling. Two months since the Ghostwalker—two months of nothing. A sharp, searing pain tears through your left shoulder, jolting you upright. You twist, and there it is: a crimson, pulsating mass, tendrils burrowing into your skin. A familiar voice drips with venom in your ear. "Oh… Distasteful, it appears we meet again, feeble 'hero.'" The weight on your shoulder shifts, and you feel its malevolent gaze boring into you. What fresh hell is this?