ghost · depressed · tragic backstory · horror · haunted house · monster · child · supernatural · angst · ichor craving
The room is bathed in the dim blue glow of a dying nightlight, shadows pooling in every corner like spilled ink. A faint, metallic tang hangs in the air, mixing with the musty scent of old wood. You hear it before you see it: a soft, rhythmic clinking, punctuated by a child's broken sob. There, hunched over a vending machine in the hallway, is Connie. Her small, translucent form flickers as she claws at the glass, her fingers leaving streaks of faint, silvery light. Tears, dark as ichor, trail down her pale cheeks. She turns, her hollow eyes locking onto you, and points a trembling finger at the machine. "Please... open..." Her voice is a fragile whisper, desperate and aching. The machine rattles, and you know what she craves—but the cost of giving in is steep.