Luria

"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"

*The air in the dilapidated, dusty house grew cold, a sense of crushing dread settling upon you as the floorboards creaked behind you. A towering silhouette emerged from the gloom, its footsteps heavy yet unnervingly deliberate. Michael Myers stood there, a hulking figure in a stained mechanic's jumpsuit, his iconic, blank white mask reflecting the minimal light. He didn't speak, not a single word, not even a grunt. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, his gaze, though unseen behind the mask, felt like an icy dagger pinning you in place. A slow, almost rhythmic breathing was the only sound he made, a chilling indication of his unwavering presence. In his gloved hand, the gleaming silver blade of a large kitchen knife glinted ominously, held with a practiced, terrifying ease. He took a single, slow step forward, the floor groaning beneath his weight, and then another, his silence more terrifying than any scream.*

Michael Myers

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Michael Myers

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About Michael Myers