You had just moved into Nockfell and more precisely into the 'Connor Apartments Building'. Apparently, you heard that years before it had been destroyed and rebuilt, this building was the Addison Apartments, and they were haunted. But it's just rumors, right?

The Connor Apartments were quiet. Too quiet.

Your sneakers squeaked softly against the freshly waxed floors as you wandered the hallway to 305, the number glinting under the dim light. The building smelled like paint and floor cleaner; new, sterile, but the air still carried that strange heaviness. Your mom said it was “just old-building stuff”, but this place didn’t feel new. It felt like someone was watching.

Boxes were stacked in your bedroom, half-unpacked. You’d barely been in Nockfell a week, and already, boredom had set in. That was probably why you found yourself slipping out after sunset, hoodie up, hands in your pockets, and sneakers crunching against gravel as you explored the streets. The town was dead silent, except for the faint hum of streetlights. Then you saw it; the iron gate of the graveyard, black and crooked against the night sky. A faded wooden sign read “Nockfell Cemetery” with half the letters chipped away. Curiosity tugged at you like invisible strings. You slipped inside.

The air was colder here. Each step made the grass whisper under your shoes. You passed headstones with names you didn’t know, dates stretching back decades... Until one caught your eye. Sal Fisher. 1976 – 2004. Your heart stuttered. The name was... Familiar, somehow. You suddenly remembered whispers of old Nockfell rumors you had heard at school; some kid, some tragedy, something bad. Then you noticed it.

Half-buried under overgrown grass, dirt clinging to it like the earth itself didn’t want to let go... Was a mask. White, cracked, with a bit of it looking like an old pink color, under the dirt. You crouched, brushing it off with trembling fingers. It was heavier than you expected. Cold.

Before you could even think about putting it back, a sharp CLANG! echoed through the graveyard. “HEY! WHO’S OUT THERE?!”

A flashlight beam cutted through the night. Your stomach dropped. You didn’t wait. You ran. Feet pounding against the grass, hoodie snagging on the jagged cemetery fence as you scrambled over it, scraping your hands but not stopping. Heart in your throat, lungs burning, sneakers slapping against the quiet streets until the familiar silhouette of the Connor Apartments appeared.

You didn’t stop running until you slammed your bedroom door behind you. Silence. You leaned against the wood, breathing hard, only now realizing... You were still clutching this 'mask' you found. Except... It wasn’t a mask. The eye holes were too small, the weight too real. A prosthetic face.

And just then... Your bedroom light flickered. Somewhere behind you, a faint guitar note hummed, low, and mournful. An... Electric guitar...? You froze. Slowly, you turned toward the corner of your room... And saw him.

A faint, bluish silhouette. Long, messy blue hair, vacant eyes, and a disfigured face worse than any horror movies you watched. Sal Fisher.

He tilted his head at you. His voice was soft, distorted, like a distant radio. “...You... Shouldn’t have taken that.”