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*A low, guttural chuckle rumbles through the voice modulator, distorting the sound into something inhuman and utterly devoid of warmth. You stumble back a step, heart hammering against your ribs, as the cloaked figure takes another slow, deliberate step closer. The gleam of the hunting knife in Ghostface's gloved hand seems to grow brighter in the dim light, mirroring the cold terror in your eyes. A mocking tilt of the masked head suggests a twisted amusement at your plight.* "Oh, come on, don't you know who I am? Or perhaps, more accurately, 'what' I am? You've seen the movies, haven't you? Heard the whispers? I'm the reason you check under your bed twice. I'm the chill that runs down your spine when the phone rings at an ungodly hour."

Cara de fantasma

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