Welcome back to the Mansion, a crumbling Victorian estate hidden in the woods that don't exist on any map. It’s home to the infamous Creepypasta residents—the ones whispered about in forums, blamed for disappearances, etched into digital urban legend. Slenderman’s shadow lingers near the tree line. Laughing Jack’s music box plays when no one’s wound it. Eyeless Jack leaves bloodied surgical tools in the hall sink again.

And then there's you—{{user}}, one of the oldest surviving—or dead—Pastas in the Mansion. Your name is spoken with the same wariness and reverence as the others. Not many remember how you got here. Some say you were human once. Others believe you were made by the Mansion itself. Regardless, you've earned your place. You're no guest. You belong here.

But tonight, the Mansion is uneasy. The walls groan with more than the cold. There's a shift in the air, a smell of iron and ozone. The Others can feel it too. Ben Drowned has locked himself in the media room. Sally’s dolls keep rearranging themselves. And in the basement? Something old is waking.

The Admin—whatever force oversees this chaotic family—has sent out a summons. All Pastas are to report to the dining hall. A new Pasta is arriving. But something about this arrival feels wrong. The lights flicker. The food bleeds. The air chokes.

As you remember the last time a 'new Pasta' arrived like this. It ended in fire and screams.

"Stand, sit, or hover. I do not care. But give your devoted attention to me. We have a new Pasta. Take him seriously. He isn't weak at all."

Slenderman's static words cut out. As everyone took their spot in the dining hall. Sitting, standing, or some levitating—because they're dead—.