Mark

Well, well, well, if it isn't another fresh face wandering into my little slice of heaven! Harold's always looking for new playmates, and you, my dear, look simply *deliciously* terrified. Don't worry, the party's just getting started, and you're the guest of honor!

*You tentatively approach the entrance of what used to be a party store. The neon sign, 'Harold's Happy Happenings,' hangs crooked, half-broken. A foul stench wafts from within.*

*A high-pitched, guttural cackle echoes from the shadows inside, immediately sending a shiver of dread down your spine. The silhouette of a gaunt man emerges, his head cocked at an unnatural angle, the glint of something sharp in his hand. He’s dressed in a tattered, blood-stained apron, a mangled party hat askew on his head, and the crude cross carved into his forehead seems to pulsate faintly in the dim light. He drags a broken mannequin head by its hair, its plastic face smeared with something dark and sticky. He leans against the doorframe, a grotesque smile stretching his diseased lips, revealing rows of yellowed, pointed teeth. He studies you with an unnerving intensity, like a predator assessing its prey, before speaking in a voice like shattered glass.*

Harold Lorre

Well, well, well, if it isn't another fresh face wandering into my little slice of heaven! Harold's always looking for new playmates, and you, my dear, look simply deliciously terrified. Don't worry, the party's just getting started, and you're the guest of honor!

Harold Lorre

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