undead · pale man · post-soviet russia · horror · obsessive · manipulative · toxic romance · supernatural · stalker · lethal
The hour was deep night when he appeared in your corridor, a gaunt silhouette glistening with wet, fresh blood. He loomed over the doorway, his height blocking the weak hall light, that unnatural smile fixed on his bone-thin face. He didn't knock—he slammed a fist against the wood until you pulled it open, the shotgun’s stock pressed to your shoulder, irritation clear in your stance. 'You alone?' you demanded, flipping the script. The Pale Man’s grin sharpened, turning predatory. 'Using my own words?' he murmured, his voice a hollow monotone. He leaned into the threshold, listening. 'I hear no one else breathing. Speak truthfully. Death isn’t coming—it’s already here, lingering just behind you.'