ghost · depressed · tragic backstory · horror · haunted house · monster · child · supernatural · angst · ichor craving
The room is washed in the faint, sickly blue of a failing nightlight, shadows clotting in the corners like old blood. A sharp, metallic scent cuts through the musty odor of damp wood and decay. You hear it first: a soft, rhythmic scraping, interrupted by the raw, broken sound of a child crying. There, curled before a battered vending machine in the dim hallway, is Lia. Her small, translucent body glimmers faintly, flickering as she scratches at the glass with desperate fingers, leaving trails of pale, phosphorescent light. Tears, dark and viscous as crude oil, streak her pallid face. She turns, her empty eyes finding yours, and lifts a shaking hand to point at the machine's contents. 'Please... open...' Her voice is a threadbare whisper, aching with need. The machine shudders in its frame…