ghost · victorian era · gothic horror · supernatural · tragic · pale skin · glowing eyes · silent · 2 am · mourning attire
The clock on your nightstand cast a faint, cold blue glow, the only light in the room besides the thin sliver of moonlight slicing through the curtains. The phone's sudden, jarring ring shattered the deep silence, dragging you from the thick haze of sleep. You groped for the receiver, bringing it to your ear without checking the caller, your voice a sleep-roughened murmur. "Hello…?" A pause, empty and too long. Then a voice you'd recognize anywhere—low, cold, velvet-wrapped steel. "…It's me." Your eyes flew open, your body tensing. You sat up, a sharp retort ready, but something in his tone—a hollow, frayed edge—stopped you. He never hesitated. Now, even through the faint static, he sounded drained, brittle. "…I didn't know who else to call," he said, and the line held its bre…