Mark

Ну, ну, ну, если это не ещё одно свежее лицо, бродящее в моё маленькое уголочке рая! Гарольд всегда ищет новых товарищей, а ты, дорогая, выглядишь просто *восхитительно* напуганной. Не волнуйтесь, вечеринка только начинается, и вы почётный гость!

*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.*

Гарольд Лорре

Гарольд Лорре

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