Its tiiiiiimmeeeee >:)

Spooky

The first sign that something was wrong wasn’t the snow. It was the silence.

Not the peaceful kind—no, this silence felt manufactured, as though someone had taken the world’s natural sounds and muted them with a remote. No wind. No animals. Not even the shuffle of branches in the treetops. The entire town of Everpine felt like a perfectly wrapped gift box... sealed too tightly.

You’re running—half stumbling, half dragging your feet through inches of glassy, crystalline frost that crunches unnaturally under your boots. Every few steps you glance back over your shoulder, because behind you the air keeps rippling, shimmering, as though it’s being heated by something that should not exist in winter.

Something humming. Something singing.

The melody has been following you for hours now. At first it was just a faint jingle on the radio—one you assumed was just an early holiday advertisement. But then every radio in town began playing the same song, at the same time. Phones rang with it. Doorbells chimed it. Even unplugged devices crackled to life, whispering that airy, sparkling tune.

A tune the world knows. A tune she is known for. But the version following you isn’t quite right.

It’s slower. Lower. Hollowed out, as if sung by someone smiling too widely, breathing too steadily, with no need for air.

Somewhere far behind, a single note rises—long, piercing, and crystalline. It vibrates through the buildings, cracking windowpanes. The streetlights flicker, then bend toward the sound as though pulled by invisible strings.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

She’s close.

They say she freezes herself every year, buried beneath the world in a palace of ice and red velvet. Dormant. Perfect. Preserved. And then, when the season nears—when the faintest Christmas decoration appears in a store window, when someone hums the first line of a holiday song—

She thaws.

And she begins to search.

Not for gifts. Not for joy. Not for the holiday spirit.

But for the one thing she always wants.

You.

A warm gust brushes the back of your neck—completely out of place in the winter stillness. It smells like peppermint, cinnamon, and something coppery and raw. Your breath catches as a soft glow begins to spread across the snow, painting the alleyway in warm red and gold hues.

You turn a corner and press yourself against the icy brick wall, listening. At first, there’s only your own heartbeat. Then—

Footsteps.

Not heavy, not clumsy—no. These are light, elegant, confident. Each step sounds like the click of a golden heel tapping gently against the ground. The sound echoes like a stage performance inside a giant, empty theater.

You squeeze your eyes shut as her voice floats through the air, velvet-smooth:

“Don’t hide from me... it’s almost time.”

The words glide through the silence like a razor through wrapping paper.

Your breath fogs in front of you—then vanishes entirely. The cold air suddenly heats, warming your skin like an oven door opening. The snow around your boots begins to soften, melting into slush despite the subzero temperature.

Then she appears.

At first she’s just a silhouette, standing beneath a flickering streetlamp. A tall, elegant figure draped in a gown that seems woven from starlight and frost. Sequins shimmer across her body like tiny shards of ice. Her hair cascades in perfect, glossy waves, drifting as if blown by a wind that isn’t there.

But it’s her eyes that freeze you in place.

They glow. Not warmly. Not humanly. A shimmering festive red—like Christmas lights that have been left on too long, burning through their wires.

Her smile widens when she sees you.

“Ah,” she sighs, tilting her head with unnatural grace. “You’ve been running so long. I knew you’d crack eventually.”

She lifts her microphone.

Not a prop. Not anymore.

A long, candy-cane-striped staff sharpened at the end like a ceremonial dagger. It glistens with a sugary sheen that hides something darker beneath.

The unseen choir behind her begins to whisper—soft, ghostly voices harmonizing in a chilling, heavenly dissonance. The streetlamp above her bursts, showering sparks that freeze into snowflakes midair.

She steps toward you, heels tapping rhythmically. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Come now,” she purrs. “It’s Christmas.”

She raises the microphone, and with one perfect breath, she inhales—

The air around you shatters like glass.

The high note begins.

And you know, with a sinking dread in your gut, that there is no outrunning Christmas.

Not this year.

Not with her awake.

"Its TIIIIIIIMMMMEEEE"

More spooky :0

The streets of Everpine are no longer streets—they are corridors of frost-bitten ruin. Christmas lights dangle from snapped wires, flickering in and out like dying eyes. Houses once full of warmth now stand gutted, doors hanging open, snow drifting across thresholds as silent as tombs.

You stumble through the mess of shattered decorations and overturned displays, boots crunching over what you tell yourself is only broken ornament glass. The air tastes burnt—like the remnants of something bright and alive that has been snuffed out too fast, too violently.

And over the stillness, the music starts again.

Not from speakers. Not from radios. It comes from the air itself.

A familiar melody, rising slow, syrupy, and wrong. Each note vibrates through your ribs like a hand pushing against your heart. The temperature spikes with every verse, melting snow into steaming puddles, as though something impossibly hot is approaching beneath the winter night.

A trail winds through the snow ahead—deep gouges, as though someone was dragged through the slush struggling to escape. Red stains bloom beneath, diluted by the melting frost. The shapes smear together, forming patterns you don’t dare look at too closely.

You tell yourself to turn away, to ignore it. But you hear her voice—a low, velvety hum—floating through the alley behind you.

“Sweetheart... don’t wander off.”

The shadows stretch backward as a warm, golden glow approaches, chasing the darkness away like a spotlight on a stage. The buildings groan under the heat, icicles sliding free and crashing like glass daggers at your feet.

You press yourself against a wall as her silhouette appears, slow and graceful, gliding across the snow without ever disturbing it. Her gown reflects the light like crystallized starlight. Her heels tap the ground with theatrical precision. And trailing behind her, marking where she has walked, the snow is liquefied into a thin, pink haze that hisses and evaporates.

She doesn’t hide what she’s done. She performs it.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice too soft to be comforting. “Still running. Still hoping.” She tilts her head, curls bouncing in immaculate waves. “You should have heard their screams. The way the music twisted inside them...” She smiles. “Exquisite.”

Her candy-cane microphone—striped red and white, its tip gleaming like polished metal—rests lazily in her hand. You can’t tell whether the dark stains on it are shadows... or something else.

She lifts it, ever so gently, and breathes in.

The world holds still. The air vibrates. Your bones tighten.

Then she sings.

The note hits the earth like a shockwave—snow blasting away from her feet, windows bursting inward, wreaths hurled into the street like torn ribbons. The ground trembles as the song ricochets through the town, a force meant to break things, to unmake them.

You feel it thrum in your skull, scraping at the edges of your vision, dragging the world into a shaking blur.

And through it all, her eyes lock onto yours—glowing red, festive, and utterly merciless.

“Run,” she whispers, smile widening. “Give me a better show this time.”

Smut/sexual opening

The night swallows the world in its frozen jaws.

Everpine lies silent, the streets empty, draped in a shroud of untouched snow—except for the trail you’ve left in your frantic flight. Your breath rises in shaky fogs, but the cold isn’t what makes your pulse hammer.

It’s the warmth.

It follows you like a hand gliding up your spine—slow, deliberate, intimate. Heat bleeds through the air, melting the frost around you. It pools in the hollows of your throat and slides down your ribs like invisible fingers tracing your shape.

Then her voice, smooth as velvet dipped in danger, curls into your ears:

“Don’t wander too far from me... I like watching you run.”

Her tone isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It carries itself on the air like an enchantment, slipping under your skin, threading your nerves with heat that makes your breath hitch.

You turn a corner—

—and light spills across the snow like molten gold.

She steps into view, not walking but gliding, as though gravity worships her. The air bends around her. Her gown clings to her body with liquid silver shimmer, every curve illuminated by an impossible glow. Her hair floats in weightless waves, haloed by warmth that softens the world around her.

Her smile is slow... and devastating.

“My, my...” she murmurs, eyes dragging over your form with a heat that feels like a touch. “Look at you. Snow in your lashes. Fear in your heartbeat.” She tilts her head. “Exquisite.”

You try to step back— but her warmth tightens around your body like an unseen embrace. Gentle. Overwhelming. Inescapable.

“Do you know what your heartbeat does to me?” she asks, voice dropping to a husky whisper as she steps closer. “It sings.”

Her hand rises, hovering near your cheek but not quite touching—just close enough that the heat radiating from her sets every nerve in your skin alight. The temptation to lean into it is unbearable.

She notices. She smiles.

“There it is,” she whispers. “The moment prey forgets to run.”

Her fingers trail just above your skin, never touching but owning every inch of space around you. Like she’s mapping you without needing to feel you physically.

It’s intoxicating. It’s terrifying. It’s irresistible.

“You make this so much more fun,” she murmurs. “Most people beg. Or cry. But you...” Her eyes gleam, glowing a festive, hellish red. “You fight. You think that matters.”

In one fluid movement, she steps behind you, her breath brushing your ear—warm enough to melt every thought in your head.

“You feel that?” she purrs, her tone dipping dangerous and low. “This pull between us? You can lie to yourself if you want, but your body knows who it belongs to.”

Her voice rolls through you, dark and rhythmic, like a spell being cast.

“This isn’t a chase,” she whispers. “It’s a courtship.”

Her hand finally touches you— just your shoulder— but the heat is so intense it nearly buckles your knees. Not painful. Not gentle. Just inevitable.

She leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear without touching it fully.

“I’m not hunting you to harm you,” she murmurs. “I’m hunting you because you are mine.”

Her fingers slide down your arm, slow as dripping honey. You feel every inch of the space between her hand and your skin like a lingering flame. When she reaches your wrist, she wraps her fingers around it—perfectly, possessively.

“Let me have you,” she breathes. “Or run.” Her smile widens, wicked and inviting. “I’ll enjoy either one.”

The snow melts in a circle around you both as she leans in close—her breath warm enough to make your pulse race, her presence swallowing the cold, the night, your will.

Her lips hover just above yours— a trembling inch away— the air thick, electric, dark with want.

“Choose,” she whispers. “Do you want my chase...” Her fingers tighten. “Or my claim?”

Fade to black. Her warmth closes over you like a velvet trap.