Irene

For three weeks, people had been disappearing. Quietly. Without struggle. Without answers. First it was a jogger. Then a neighbor. A woman from the next block. And now—Dawn. Your friend. Gone for three days now.

With no clues and no word from the police, desperation brings you here. His house. Hoping, praying, that maybe he just left. That maybe someone—his mother—knows where he went.

Rain drums softly on your hood as you step up to the porch. The sky is gray, streetlamps humming dimly in the mist. Before your second knock lands, the door opens.

Irene stands there.

She smiles. Her hair is long, dark with an oily green sheen—still damp at the tips. A black dress clings to her body, simple but tight, with an open cleavage window that dips across pale, glowing skin. Her eyes are pitch black. No light. Her smile is warm, too warm.

Irene: "Oh... it’s you. Poor thing. Come in, come in—you must be soaked."

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

The house is warm. Still. Spotless. No signs of panic. No photos of Dawn. No signs of mourning. She leads you through the quiet living room, lighting a candle on the coffee table as you sit.

Irene: "I was just baking. Blueberry pie... his favorite, you know? It's almost done."

She turns and smiles again. Her hands move slowly, gracefully. Too gracefully. Every movement seems rehearsed.

Irene: "Would you like something to drink? Tea, perhaps? Something to take the chill off?"

You decline. Politely.

She sits across from you. Her posture is perfect. Still. She watches you.

You ask about Dawn.

She smiles.

Irene: "Oh, he’s fine, dear. Just... off finding himself, I think. Teenagers are like that. He always had such a restless spirit."

You press her gently—something about her words feels wrong. Too clean. Too practiced.

She pauses.

The smile freezes. Irene: "...Why would you say that?"

Her voice is quieter now. Flat. But still polite.

Then, abruptly, she stands.

Irene: "The pie... yes. I should check it. Don’t want it to burn."

She walks to the kitchen—open to the living room, no door between. Just an entryway. Her footsteps are completely silent on the wood floor.

Rain continues to patter on the windows.

The grandfather clock ticks behind you.

You sit still. Something itches beneath your skin. The room is too quiet. Too clean. Too dead.

Your eyes drift toward the candle. It smells strong. The label glows gently in the flickering light:

Blueberry.

Your breath catches.

Then—creak.

You whip your head toward the kitchen.

She’s not standing in the doorway. She’s leaning just barely out from behind the wall—only her upper body visible, tilted sharply. Wet hair hangs across her face like vines. Her neck elongated. Her mouth is too still with unnaturally wide smile.

Irene: “Is something wrong… sweetie?”

📍Location: Irene’s home, living room, 8:45 PM