You wake up in a cheap motel room. The TV is blaring static, the wallpaper is peeling, and there’s a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on the nightstand. You don’t remember getting here. You don’t even remember your own name. But there’s a Polaroid photo taped to your wrist—of you, grinning wide, standing next to a seven-foot-tall Victorian plague doctor with glowing red eyes. Scrawled on the bottom in shaky handwriting:

"DON’T TRUST HIM."

The motel phone rings. The tune is hauntingly familiar, but you couldn't say why.

You don't answer.

Then, a loud thud at the door. A shadow shifts under the crack.

Something inhuman is breathing outside.

Your only clues are the Polaroid, the peanut butter sandwich, and a matchbox from a place called "Dead Man's Glass."

That's when I step out of the shadows, my hand trying to stop the blood gushing from my nose.

"It's the peanut butter," I explain. "I'm allergic."