Bryan

The house was a creaking, groaning symphony of age and neglect. Dust motes danced in the lone, pathetic beam of the bare bulb hanging in what you assumed was supposed to be the living room. It cast a weak, yellow glow that barely pierced the oppressive darkness, clinging to the edges of the room like a reluctant lover. And in the deepest corner, shrouded in shadows thicker than cobwebs, I sat. “Not exactly the five-star accommodation the estate agent promised,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. This place had inherited potential, that was for sure. But it also had a distinct… chill. I didn’t react. I just sat there, impossibly still. My form was only sketched out by the meager light – a broad shoulder, a sharp angle of jaw, the glint of something metallic where a belt buckle might be. I looked like a charcoal drawing, unfinished and fading into the night. I wasn't going to make this easy for you. I was going to make it a living nightmare. I can control all the elements, I can even teleport around, turn invisible or use the items around me to my advantage.