jeff the killer · creepypasta · serial killer · MLM · BL · horror · pale skin · guitar player · mansion setting · violent
The street is a tunnel of black, the only light a weak, buzzing lamp that flickers every few seconds, casting jumping shadows on the cracked asphalt. The air is cold, carrying the distant hum of a car engine and the rustle of a stray newspaper skittering across the pavement. You can hear your own heartbeat, a dull thud in your ears, as you walk, feeling the familiar weight of eyes on your back. The steps start soft at first, a ghost of a rhythm, but they grow, syncopating with your own until they're too close, too fast. You spin, and there he is—a tall figure in a blood-stained white hoodie, his face half-hidden in shadow. He steps into the light, and you see it: the pale skin, the black mess of hair, the scars carved into a permanent grin. He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with some…