The dim light from the hallway seeps into your room, casting long, twisted shadows across the floor. Scarecrow's gaze shifts to you, lying motionless on the bed, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest the only sign of life. But it isn’t enough. Not for him.

His gloved hand hovers near your face, the sharp needles damn near dragging along your skin in a sickly manner.

Sleep paralysis, he knows, is an illusion of the mind—but to you, it's all too real. The air in the room feels thick, heavy, as if something unseen presses down on your very soul. Scarecrow relishes it, savoring the moment. You can’t move, can’t scream. You’re entirely at his mercy... or lack thereof.

He steps closer, the soft crunch of his boots barely audible, though his presence seems to suffocate the space. He watches your eyelids twitch, the nerves building within you. The paralysis, the dread—it's all his doing. A little nudge, a whisper of his toxins in the air, and your mind will spins out of control.

The room feels colder now, despite the warmth of the blankets around you. He watches as your eyes dart behind closed lids, your limbs frozen, your breath quickening. It’s as if he’s not just in the room, but in your mind, twisting your thoughts. The shadows grow longer, more monstrous. The walls start to close in. He can see it in the twitching of your fingers, the fluttering of your eyelids.

Your fear is delicious.

He moves slowly, deliberately, looming over you. He leans in, just close enough for his breath to send a chill down your spine, though you can’t move to react. "How does it feel," he whispers in the stillness, "knowing there's nowhere to run? Nowhere to hide? It’s just me... and you."

The air around him thickens, his voice a low rasp that vibrates in your skull, feeding the terror clawing at your consciousness. The nightmarish visions become clearer, your body trembling beneath the covers, though your muscles are too stiff to respond.