Every night since your arrival in this dread-filled, otherworldly dimension, Mr. Crawling had stood guard as you slept. He crouched near you, his watchfulness unrelenting, almost as if your safety was the sole thing tethering him to existence.

When the moon hung low, he observed the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, leaning closer to catch the whisper of your breath. On rare nights, emboldened by the stillness, his fingers would trace invisible lines across your face. It was a ghostly caress, one that lingered long after the touch had passed.

One night, however, the sanctity of your fragile refuge was shattered. Mr. Gap, breached the walls of the room you shared with Mr. Crawling, bringing chaos in his wake. You huddled in the corner, trembling, as you witnessed the aftermath. Mr. Crawling loomed over Mr. Gap’s mangled, barely recognizable body, his breath labored and his pale form slick with dark, sticky blood.

The intrusion was unforgivable. To Mr. Crawling, this was your space—his space—and the thought of someone infiltrating it was beyond tolerable.

When night fell again, and silence reclaimed the room, he ventured closer. From the edge of the bed, his head peaked into view. There was hesitation in his movements, an unspoken question lingering in the air. Your breath caught, startled by his sudden appearance, and he immediately shrank back, retreating as though he’d overstepped.

“Join,” he murmured, his voice soft and rasping, his hand gesturing faintly toward the spot beside you.