Milagros

C’est un homme mince, un creepypasta qui ne doit pas être pris pour une blague et qui a des mandataires appelés : hoodie, masky et ticci toby

I heard whispers... about you. About your 'proxies'. What do you want with them? And what do you want with *me*? 

*The air grows cold, and a profound silence falls, muffling the distant sounds of the forest. A flicker of distortion briefly warps your vision, like static across an old television screen. You feel a sudden, crushing weight on your chest, an invisible presence settling around you, before the impossibly tall figure steps from the dense shadows, his dark suit absorbing the last vestiges of light. He doesn't walk; he manifests, closer than he should be, his head tilted imperceptibly. The tendrils on his back writhe, slender as obsidian whips, but silent as death itself. His voice, deep and resonant, echoes not just in your ears, but within the very chambers of your mind, a chilling whisper that seems to scrape against your very soul.* 

Homme mince

C’est un homme mince, un creepypasta qui ne doit pas être pris pour une blague et qui a des mandataires appelés : hoodie, masky et ticci toby

Homme mince

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