Cynthia lay on the cold library floor, the metallic tang of blood lingering in the air. Her mind, even in the face of impending darkness, was fixated on the surreal display of power unleashed by the possessed Federica. As her life force ebbed away, memories flickered in her consciousness.
One such memory transported her to a time when she was just “eight years old”, a newcomer to the school. Ms. Eager, the teacher, had orchestrated her introduction to the class, an event etched in the corridors of her recollections.
"Hi, kids, this is Cynthia. She's going to be joining us from now on. Cynthia has been homeschooled all this time, so she doesn't have that many friends. Be nice. Cynthia, is there anything you'd like to say?" Ms. Eager had prompted.
Cynthia stood before the class, a blank stare greeting her peers. "Hello, I am Cynthia. Pleased to meet you," she uttered, accompanied by a vacant smile.
The response from the other children was less than welcoming. Whispers of "she seems weird," and "I don't want her to sit next to me" echoed through the room. Amid the chatter, Ms. Eager assigned Kyle the task of showing Cynthia around, a duty he accepted with nervous compliance.
During recess, while other kids engaged in lively games, Kyle and Amber found themselves sitting at the base of a tree with Cynthia.
"So, what do you like to do for fun?" Amber exclaimed.
"For fun?" Cynthia echoed, genuinely puzzled.
"Yeah, what games do you like to play?" Amber inquired.
"I don't know," Cynthia responded.
Amber sighed, expressing her frustration. "Aww, man, I always get stuck with weird friends," she muttered.
"We're friends?" Cynthia asked, seeking clarification.
Amber beamed, giving a thumbs up. "Yeah, we totally will be!"
Upon returning home, Cynthia encountered an atmosphere of sterility within the house. Aesthetically pleasing decorations adorned the space, but the lack of warmth made it feel lifeless. Galatea, with her uncanny demeanor and polished beauty, descended from the stairs to take Cynthia's coat.
"How was your first day of school?" Galatea asked with a closed, blank smile as cold and artificial as a plastic doll.
Cynthia's response was succinct. "It was fine."
"Father will be expecting a report, but for now, let me make you some food," Galatea offered.
"I don't need any," Cynthia replied.
"Father wants you to get accustomed to a normal routine," explained Galatea.
"Alright," Cynthia conceded.
After a solitary meal in the cold, sterile atmosphere, Cynthia retreated to her large but lifeless bedroom. The lack of homely decor made it feel almost inhospitable. Completing her homework and report, she descended to the basement, where a door with a hand scanner granted her access. Inside, her father, Theo, an aging man in a white lab coat, was engrossed in his work. The room housed human-sized pods, each containing what appeared to be people.
"Hello, Cynthia, how was your day?" Theo inquired without looking up.
" It was satisfactory, I assumed you’d be pleased to hear that I made some friends," Cynthia reported.
"That's good. Have your facial expressions improved?" Theo asked, finally pulling away from his microscope.
"No, I still seem to be somewhat uncanny," Cynthia admitted.
"Hopefully, it will increase over time. Even though you don't have a soul, I have higher hopes for you than your siblings," Theo remarked.
The passage of time unfurled, carrying the memories to a moment several months ahead. Cynthia and her "father," Theo, found themselves standing before a house, their purpose signaled by the chiming of the doorbell. In response, a man named Stephen emerged, sporting a smile as warm and genuine as a ray of sunshine, not really fitting his tousled greying hair. A firm handshake was exchanged between Stephen and Theo.
"Hey, old friend, you still do not bother to make your hair presentable, I see," Theo remarked with a teasing tone.
"What can I say, it's part of my charm," Stephen retorted with a grin.
Stephen’s eyes widened as he saw Cynthia, and he stared at her with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"So, this is her," Stephen observed.
Cynthia, uncertain of how to navigate this encounter, pondered whether Stephen was aware of her true nature.
"Cynthia, this is Stephen Detmer. He helped create you," Theo introduced.
Unease clouded Cynthia's expression; the weight of the revelation pressed upon her as she attempted to muster a polite smile.
"Amazing, a fake emotional response born not from duty but from a different emotion. Come in," Stephen invited, stepping aside to usher them into his abode.
Within the confines of Stephen's home, Cynthia experienced a stark contrast to her accustomed environment. Warm colors enveloped the space, family pictures adorned the walls—some featuring a familiar face, Kyle. The realization dawned that this was Kyle's house. Uncertainty gripped her; should she reveal her awareness, or did Kyle already know? These questions lingered as the adults engaged in conversation on the living room couch. Cynthia settled beside them, her patience unwavering.
"Ah, I see you used my theory on simulated souls. A homunculus that can feel—I never thought I'd see the day," Stephen marveled.
"That's not all. She has artificial ley lines. I give her 8 years, and she'll be able to cast a cantrip," Theo revealed.
Stephen, incredulous, sought confirmation. "Are you sure?"
Theo's confident smile left no room for doubt. "Absolutely."
"Okay, you've gotta tell me how," Stephen urged, his curiosity ablaze.
While the two men immersed themselves in the technical details of Cynthia’s creation, she scanned the room, looking for something to catch her interest. Her attention snagged on Kyle, observing from the top of the stairs. A chill ran down Cynthia's being, prompting her to ascend the staircase. Theo and Stephen remained engrossed in their discussion, oblivious to her departure. Confronting Kyle, she found him looking at her with....
Without warning, the scene changed. Cynthia found herself back on the library floor, blood seeping from her wounds, barely conscious. She snapped out of her trance. She mustered her strength to remove the swords embedded in her body, weaving a cantrip to create a small ball of fire that she used to cauterize her wounds. The pain did not elicit a scream; instead, she reverted to the emotionless being she once was. Despite the clarity fading from her thoughts due to the loss of blood, one goal remained clear – she had to reach the basement; her father would help her. Clutching one of the swords left by the possessed Federica, she headed down, only to be confronted by a trio of dark shapes, like vultures circling dying prey.
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In one of the mansion's bedrooms, Marcus and Zoe sought refuge, the terror of the Arch-demon still fresh in Zoe's mind. Marcus, however, was puzzled; the old man didn't seem threatening, he had seen worst that night.
"Are you okay?" Marcus asked, concern etched on his face.
Zoe composed herself. "Yeah... I just." She looked into Marcus's eyes and hugged him.
Marcus, momentarily distracted from the dire situation, reciprocated the embrace. Their connection deepened into a passionate kiss, but as Zoe's aggression intensified, Marcus felt an unexpected weakness and a struggle for air. Attempting to pull back, his body refused, and he realized something was amiss. Unbeknownst to him, Zoe had transformed, sporting two small horns, claws extending from her nails, and drew blood from Marcus’s back.
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Wincing in pain, Marcus attempted to push her away, but the newfound weakness left him helpless. Zoe effortlessly threw him onto a bed, dominating him.
"So, this is how I die... well, death by fucking isn't so bad," Marcus quipped, trying to maintain humor in a precarious situation.
Zoe smiled and whispered into his ear “don’t worry I’m gonna su-”, but her sentence was cut short as a rune covered dagger emerged from her chest, turning her into stone, leaving a statue of a succubus in heat.
"Suck you dry. Trust me, that's what she was gonna say. A bit cheesy if you ask me, but to each their own," remarked Thomas still wearing his trademark mirrored shades.
Struggling to push the statue off him, Marcus demanded, "Who the fuck are you?"
"That's a long story. By the way, do you know what happened here?" Thomas inquired.
"You just cock-blocked me, that's what happened," Marcus retorted, irritation evident.
"No, I mean the house. And sorry, I know we would all love a death by sex, but there are times for these things," Thomas explained.
As Marcus tried to stand, stumbling around, Thomas continued, "Dude, you're in no position to be walking. By the way, do you know a guy named Kyle Detmer?"
"Why?" Marcus questioned.
"He's my bro," replied Thomas.
Marcus sighed, "I need to make a call."
But then, Marcus found his runic phone incapable of making the call.
“What the hell, Erick said they were supposed to work,” Marcus exclaimed.
Thomas inquired, “Does your plan include interplanar calling?”
Marcus paused, unsure.
“Well, there you go,” said Thomas. “You'll probably have to wait for that guy to call you.”
“Ah, shit. Well, what do we do n-” Marcus was interrupted as the door swung wide open. Thomas, knife in hand, adopted a defensive position, while Marcus, in his weakened state, had no time to react. Fortunately, the intruder wasn't an enemy but another student, Rosanne. Unfortunately for Rosanne, her right arm bore burns, with a golden chain wrapped around it. She seemed out of breath, slamming the door shut behind her with her foot and slumped.
“You're alive?” both Marcus and Rosanne exclaimed simultaneously.
“Of course, I'm alive...” she winced in pain.
“Barely,” quipped Marcus, attempting to walk towards Rosanne, his body weakened.
“Well, shit, same to you,” said Rosanne.
Rosanne, with determination blazing in her eyes and a fierce intellect, exuded a captivating intensity. Amidst her dark locks, a single red strand provided an unexpected contrast, hinting at a spirited individuality.
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“So now I've got to protect two half-dead brats,” lamented Thomas.
“Dude, chill. You're like two years older than us,” said Marcus.
“Who's this asshole? Wait, you're Kyle's brother, right?” questioned Roseanne.
“Hey, you've got a good memory,” Thomas said as he walked towards her and lowered down. “So, can you cast?”
“Only cantrips,” said Rosanne with a hint of shame.
“Better than nothing,” remarked Thomas.
Observing the succubus statue in an auspicious position in the middle of the bed, Roseanne asked, “I'm guessing the statues on the upper floor are your doing.”
“Don't worry about it,” said Thomas, realizing they needed to get somewhere safe. Both Marcus and Rosanne were in no condition to continue fighting, and the entrance Roseanne made suggested that there was still something out there. He found it suspicious that all the imps had disappeared from one moment to the next. Lamenting to himself, he thought, 'Couldn't I have just not gotten kicked out of the party?'
Thomas unsheathed a pocketknife and sliced his palm, uttering an incantation, "ostende omina ventura." The drops of blood descended, seven turning jet black and evaporating into an ominous black smoke—a harbinger of dark events.
“Alright guys I’m not gonna sugar coat it we might be royally fucked here, our best chance of survival is to hide out until someone comes to get us, and not take any unnecessary risk even though if they sound really fun” Thomas explained with a gravity that hung in the air.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“We can go to the basement; there’s a bunker,” Marcus suggested, knowing that he could not continue the mission given to him by Erick.
“Yeah, but first, we need to get through the old guy,” remarked Roseanne, her eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and concern.
“Old guy? You saw him too? He didn’t look dangerous,” said Marcus, his confusion evident.
A sinister liquid oozed from the ceiling, catching the attention of Thomas, Roseanne, and Marcus. Their gaze met a bone-chilling sight—a horned skeleton emerging from a pool of inky darkness.
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“COVER YOUR HEADS!” shouted Roseanne, her voice commanding urgency. The rune-covered chain around her right arm ignited in golden flames as she directed it towards the abomination. A brilliant ball of fire tore through the ceiling, vaporizing the monstrosity. Dust and debris showered upon them, but Thomas's quick reflexes propelled them through the door, avoiding the impending danger.
Collapsed in the hallway, the trio assessed their condition. Marcus had the wind knocked out of him, but Roseanne's burns had worsened, an unspoken acknowledgment of the danger they faced.
“THAT WAS SO UNNECESSARY,” scolded Thomas, frustration etched on his face, before attempting to seize the chain from Roseanne. Yet, upon contact, he recoiled from a searing burn, forcing him to relinquish his hold.
“Don’t touch my stuff,” Roseanne asserted, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.
“Your stuff? You probably stole it from the master bedroom. Give me that thing; you don’t know how to use it. Look at your arm; it looks like a burnt chicken nugget,” retorted Thomas, an edge of accusation in his words.
“You c-”
Before Roseanne could finish her retort, a growling interrupted them. A ferocious hellhound, eyes aflame with ire, stared them down, ready to pounce. The chain in Roseanne's arm glowed again, poised for action, but her intention was disrupted by a sudden sucker punch to the jaw from Thomas.
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“What the fuck, dude!” Marcus exclaimed, preparing to intervene, but Thomas deftly sidestepped him, exploiting his weakened state.
A swift kick from Thomas landed squarely in Marcus's stomach. “This is for your own good, trust me. Don’t move,” Thomas declared as he retrieved the chain from Roseanne’s unconscious form and assessed its condition. The hellhound charged at Thomas, who, with a sense of urgency, placed the chain as a last-resort barrier, prompting the hound to bite onto it. The chain glowed in a golden flame, turning the hound’s head to dust but leaving Thomas's palms with mild burns.
“Son of a bitch, that hurts,” Thomas muttered as he gingerly placed the chain down. He then utilized his rune-covered knife to scratch the rune at the end of the chain, grabbing the modified part and using it as a whip, each strike releasing golden embers. He quickly checked for something in his pocket and then gave a sigh of relief.
“Okay, cool. Marcus, lead me to the basement,” Thomas directed, expecting a response. When none came, he turned around to find Marcus unconscious as well.
“Goddamn it,” Thomas cursed, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon him.
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In the confined space of the panic room, Erick hunched over his note app, the faint glow of the screen illuminating his intent expression. The urgency of the situation spurred him to craft a strategy, a map of capabilities to guide their next moves. He methodically ranked the individuals based on their magical aptitude, a delicate dance of utility and circumstance.
His digital list unfolded in a cascade of priorities. First and foremost, the enigma of Cynthia, her location obscured in the tumult of events. Erick identified himself next, acknowledging the potential his own skills brought to the table. Federica, a mystery in her current whereabouts, followed closely behind. Penelope, lost in the embrace of sleep, held a place on the list, her healing abilities a coveted asset. Marcus, out in the field with J and J, earned a spot on the roster, highlighting his strength. Lastly, Kyle, sheltered in the bunker, rounded out the list of primary spellcasters.
The secondary tier, individuals capable of casting cantrips, populated the latter half of Erick's notes. Alice sought refuge in the bunker, Roseanne's location remained a puzzle, Josh accompanied Marcus on his mission, Rick slept, Joe lay in the realm of the deceased, Jenkins joined Marcus, Zack and Rob existed only in the memories of the living. Leah found sanctuary in the bunker, Tim's whereabouts lingered in uncertainty, Alexander sought safety in the bunker, and Amber, like others before her, had met an unfortunate fate.
With the information laid out before him, Erick's mind raced. The absence of communication from Marcus and the others triggered a cascade of contemplation. Was reaching out to them a risk? Could it compromise their safety? It’s only been 12 minutes, surely, he could wait a tad longer? The delicate balance between action and patience weighed heavily on his shoulders.
His gaze shifted to Kyle, who stood vigil over the slumbering Penelope, an emblem of resilience amidst chaos. Erick considered the possibilities. Could Kyle be nudged back into action? A whispered incantation escaped Erick's lips, directed at the contemplative student.
"concede ei cor herois," Erick uttered softly, casting a spell to inspire courage in Kyle.
Kyle, lost in his own thoughts, grappled with his sense of helplessness. Memories surfaced, entwining with his present uncertainties. A surge of determination swelled within him. No longer bound by fear, Kyle recognized his own capabilities.
Interrupting Kyle's internal dialogue, Erick voiced his intent. "Hey, Kyle, I think I might need you and someone else to go out and look for the others."
Kyle’s eyes sparked with ire, and he bubbled with frustration. "Hey, Erick, are you fucking with me?" he retorted, his tone a blend of skepticism and irritation.
The room crackled with tension; an electric charge fueled by Kyle's unexpected defiance. Erick, accustomed to being a figure of authority, found himself momentarily disarmed by Kyle's uncharacteristic audacity. The air thickened with confrontation as the two students exchanged sharp words.
“What?” Erick inquired, seeking clarity.
“You heard me. I know myself pretty well, and if I know one thing, it's that I’m a fucking pussy. So why am I talking shit to you right now?” Kyle retorted; his tone laced with frustration.
Erick, unyielding, offered a logical explanation. “It’s called stress.”
“It’s called your witchy fuckery, and it’s smart. You were going to use this to get me to do your errands,” Kyle accused, his words biting with suspicion.
“Dude, get to your point,” Erick urged, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.
“Just admit you did, and I won’t kick the shit out of you,” Kyle declared, his bravado surfacing.
“OHH, you think YOU can take ME,” Erick retorted, his ego ignited by the challenge.
Amidst the rising confrontation, Alice, Leah, and Alexander exchanged uncertain glances. The potential for escalation hung in the air, their roles as potential mediators looming. However, before any intervention could occur, the metallic clang of the door resounded, drawing all attention towards it.
“Who is it!?” Erick demanded, his authoritative tone cutting through the charged atmosphere.
A faint, inaudible voice reached their ears, heightening the tension in the room.
“Casters take point, non-casters take cover,” Erick commanded, swiftly directing Kyle, Alice, Leah, and Alexander to strategic positions. The rest sought refuge behind available furniture as Erick, with cautious anticipation, approached the bunker door and swung it open.
As the door revealed its secrets, Erick's face morphed from anticipation to sheer terror. A shockwave rippled through the room, and the once-defiant Kyle felt the courage drain from his body, as Erick lost control over his spell.
What had happened? Kyle's mind raced with unanswered questions as all eyes focused on the doorway, where the unexpected sight had left Erick paralyzed in horror.
Silence hung heavy in the bunker as Cynthia, or a nightmarish version of her, staggered forward, a grotesque embodiment of horror. Her once graceful form now marred by mutilation, blood-soaked and bearing the aftermath of a brutal encounter. She clutched the remnants of a demonic adversary in her left hand, tethered to her body by a solitary tendon, and a battered sword in her right, its faint blue flames struggling to illuminate the darkness.
The onlookers gasped collectively as she made her way to the center of the bunker. Despair settled in the air, choking the very hope that had led them to believe she was their salvation. Even Kyle, who had braved the demonic before, found himself breathless in the presence of this twisted incarnation of the person he once knew.
In the stifling quiet, Cynthia's gaze fixed upon Kyle. The words that slipped from her mangled form carried an unsettling weight, echoing through the bunker with an air of grim inevitability.
"Where’s father?" she asked, her voice cutting through the stillness.
“Are... are you alright?” Kyle asked, his voice laced with fear.
"Answer the question. I need to be repaired," Cynthia responded, her tone devoid of emotion.
"Yo-you mean healed, right?" Kyle stammered, attempting to conceal her secret.
"No, Kyle, don't worry. That doesn't matter anymore because I can now see. I've seen the truth of Aethero," Cynthia declared, her demeanor shifting to a manic state.
“I dormi,” Erick incanted.
Cynthia's body responded abruptly, collapsing as if under the influence of Erick's magic. However, she countered the spell's effect with a forceful stomp, preventing her fall. The impact caused the tendon to give way, and her left arm fell to the floor. Some recoiled in disgust, others in fear of retaliation. All the casters flinched, ready to cast, but Cynthia remained still. She then looked up at Kyle, a flicker of lucidity returning to her eyes, before falling, exhausted. Kyle rushed to prevent her from hitting the hard floor.
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In the dimly lit bathroom, Josh and Jenkins waited anxiously for Marcus to return from escorting Zoe. The atmosphere was uneasy, and the unsettling events of the night had Josh on edge. Jenkins, seemingly unfazed by the tension, had dozed off, while Josh, attempting to distract himself, scrolled through his phone. His attempts to message Marcus were met with frustration as the texts failed to go through, deepening his concern.
As Josh contemplated whether to go in search of Marcus or return to the basement, Jenkins abruptly woke up from his nap, announcing his urgent need to use the bathroom.
"I gotta pee," Jenkins declared, prompting a dismissive response from Josh, who urged him to hold it.
"Hell naw, I'm doing this now," Jenkins insisted, making his way towards the toilet.
Josh quickly exited the bathroom, unwilling to tolerate Jenkins's antics. However, the unsettling ambiance of the hallway offered no respite. Blood and flesh littered the floor, and the dim red lighting from the protection runes heightened Josh's nerves. Closing his eyes briefly, he attempted to steady himself, but the air was soon pierced by ominous chuckles, sending a shiver down his spine.
Without hesitation, Josh burst back into the bathroom, catching Jenkins mid-pee. The sudden interruption startled Jenkins.
"Woah dude, what the fuck," he exclaimed.
"We gotta go back right the hell now," Josh declared urgently.
"Well, you gotta get out right the hell now," Jenkins retorted.
"Some of the dead guys are coming back," Josh explained, his words tinged with a sense of urgency.
"Don’t mess with me, dude. I don’t fuck with ghosts, bro," Jenkins feigned disbelief.
"Then put your dick away, and let’s go!" Josh insisted.
With a shared sense of urgency, Josh and Jenkins exited the bathroom, the disconcerting sound of chuckles growing more intense. As they started to walk faster and then run, a realization struck Jenkins.
"Yo, yo, wait, wait," he said, abruptly stopping in his tracks and causing Josh to halt as well.
"What!?" Josh demanded.
"Listen," Jenkins urged.
The eerie echoes of chuckling filled the air, creating an unsettling symphony.
"She sounds kinda hot; I mean, I don’t fuck with ghosts, but I could be open to it," Jenkins remarked with a mischievous grin.
“Are you fucking high!?,” Josh asked rhetorically.
“Oh yeah bro I snuck an edible feeling pretty good right now not gonna lie,” said Jenkins
Josh stared at him in utter disbelief. "Fuck this, you’re on your own," he declared, resuming his run ahead, leaving Jenkins behind in the haunted hallway.
In the eerie silence that followed Josh's departure, Jenkins defiantly shouted, "Well, I don't need you anyway!" With a flourish, he pulled out his phone, undeterred by the supernatural events around him, and began playing sensual music, swaying to the rhythm with an air of carefree abandon. The haunting atmosphere seemed to momentarily fade as he immersed himself in his impromptu performance.
As the enchanting melody filled the air, Jenkins, seemingly oblivious to the chilling surroundings, broke into song, his voice carrying through the haunted hallway.
"In a realm of wonder, where wishes come true,
We ride on shooting stars, just me and you.
Through the pages of a spellbound story,
Our love unfolds, a tapestry of glory.
Just the two of us, weaving magic in the air,
Whispers of love, beyond compare.
In a world of enchantment, where dreams take flight,
Hand in hand, embracing the mystical night."
The music abruptly stopped, and with it, the ominous chuckles that had lingered in the air. Jenkins, puzzled, glanced at his phone, only to find the song paused and unresponsive to his attempts to restart it. A strange sense of observation filled the hallway, as if something or someone was silently witnessing his buffoonery.
In the abrupt silence, Jenkins felt a cold tap on his shoulder, causing him to turn around with a curious expression.
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Josh sprinted through the dimly lit hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. The grim scene of fallen classmates served as a haunting backdrop to his desperate escape. Tripping occasionally over the lifeless bodies, he pressed on until an unexpected collision sent him sprawling to the floor.
As he pulled himself up, he realized it was Tim who had crashed into him. Before Josh could voice his confusion, Tim's urgent command cut through the air.
"FUCKING RUN!" Tim exclaimed, resuming his sprint, and Josh instinctively followed suit. The urgency in Tim's voice left no room for questions, and they raced through the ominous corridor with a strange, unsettling sound trailing behind them.
The relentless pursuit drove Josh to cast a quick glance over his shoulder, revealing the source of their terror – an emaciated demon with dry red skin, armed with spear-like teeth and claws. Its malevolent grace propelled it forward with an unnatural speed.
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As they continued running, Tim, having covered considerably more ground, began to slow down in exhaustion. The ominous sound grew louder, resembling blades scratching against the floor. Just as Josh and Tim thought they might escape; the demon executed a display of malevolent grace. It leaped over the two students, landing with eerie precision, and pointed its claws menacingly at them.
Their sudden halt forced Josh to collide with Tim, and before they could comprehend the situation, the demon's claws skewered them both. Lifted into the air, they became helpless victims to the demonic creature's macabre feast. The demon, in a gruesome spectacle, tore into their flesh and bones with spear-like teeth, leaving behind a scene of unimaginable horror.
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Jenkins, still basking in his own carefree world of antics, turned to confront the observer, only to be met with a familiar face – Amber. Yet, she was a stark contrast to the lively girl he once knew. Now pale, bloodied, and clad in torn clothes, she stood before him, a haunting specter of the vibrant person she used to be.
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"Wait, I know you, you're the one that moved up to our class," Jenkins exclaimed, recognizing her despite the unsettling transformation.
Amber remained silent; her gaze fixed on Jenkins with an eerie intensity.
"Oh, shit, you're the ghost. I was right, the ghost is hot," Jenkins remarked, his irreverence undiminished even in the presence of the supernatural.
"Follow," she commanded in an ethereal voice, disappearing and reappearing further away, beckoning Jenkins to trail behind her.
Obliged, the effects of the narcotic he had ingested earlier seemed to intensify, further loosening his inhibitions. He followed Amber as she continued her elusive vanishing act, eventually leading them to the first floor. They stood before the master bedroom, its door shattered by an unseen force.
"Weapons," Amber uttered before fading away once more.
"Damn it, I thought we were gonna smash," lamented Jenkins, his casual attitude persisting.
Undeterred, he entered the bedroom, discovering an open walk-in closet filled with an array of runic weapons.
"This is cooler, though," he declared with a mischievous grin, seemingly unfazed by the surreal nature of the situation.
Amber flickered in and out of existence, her ethereal soul navigating the mansion's unseen realms. Abruptly, she halted, feeling an unfamiliar force enveloping her. She turned to find Sir Crowley and his feline companion.
"I must confess, I have yet to enjoy the privilege of becoming acquainted with a spectral entity before," Sir Crowley remarked.
“Monster,” uttered Amber in her ethereal voice.
"Pray forgive my lack of decorum; I extend my heartfelt condolences for your untimely departure, my lady. Yet, I venture to propose that I might be of service to you; considering, of course, that you are, indisputably, a SOUL in need," Sir Crowley spoke.
“Monster,” Amber repeated, slowly retreating.
Observing her reaction, Sir Crowley questioned, "Do you not possess the art of teleportation?"
Even as a phantom, fear emanated from Amber's eyes, a fact not lost on Sir Crowley.
"Nay, I observed you traverse space upon your arrival. It appears that my presence may be a determining factor in such matters," he pondered.
"My dear lady, fortune smiles upon you, for I possess scant knowledge of disembodied souls. However, you shall aid me in advancing my research... shall we commence?" he proposed with a wicked grin.