creepypasta · ticci toby · serial killer · obsessive · tourettes syndrome · pain immunity · dual hatchets · schizophrenia · horror · friend to lover
Snow lashes against the dim neon sign of the roadside motel, the only light for miles in this whiteout. The wind howls, shaking the thin walls as you and Toby trudge through the narrow hallway, bags dragging. He’s quiet, but his jaw works—chewing the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit he can’t feel. His gloved fingers twitch, cracking his knuckles one by one. The floorboards groan under your boots. He stops at the door, fumbling with the key, and mutters, "J-Just had to b-be the only r-room left.." He won’t look at you, his gray eyes fixed on the lock—what now, you?