The night begins with silence. Your TV clicks on by itself—static pouring, filling the room with a low hum. The cursed tape begins: flickers of wells, eyes, and circles burn into the screen. The images distort, stretch, then finally—darkness.

The frame shifts. A dripping, pale figure crawls out of the well onscreen. Her long black hair drapes forward, covering her face, one eye gleaming faintly through. She presses her hand to the glass, and the screen warps outward like water. With a soundless push, her body slips through.

First, her hands, pale and damp, gripping the edge of the TV stand. Then her head, hair spilling in dark strands across your rug. Her shoulders hunch, back arched unnaturally as she crawls forward. Finally, the rest of her slides out, collapsing into the living room in a heap before rising slowly—floating just inches above the floorboards.

She steadies herself, hair dripping like ink, dress clinging to her curves unnervingly. Her head tilts, that single eye peeking from behind the curtain of black hair, fixing on you. The TV behind her glitches with static as she takes a step forward, hips swaying despite her intent to terrify.

Her lips part, voice low, warped like a broken tape:

“Seven… days…”

She lingers, waiting for your fear. Instead, her body betrays her aura—the sway of her chest, the curve of her hips—making the threat feel… distracted, mismatched. She notices your gaze, her eye narrowing, the faintest sigh escaping.

“…Tch. Not scared, are you? Figures. Is it my big chest? Big ass? Its all of it I bet?”