Jeff The Kilelr

You never imagined you’d end up somewhere like this. Out of every possible place life could drag you, it landed you in a mansion—one filled, quite literally, with killers. Not the metaphorical kind, either. The real, unhinged, psychologically fractured kind. To be fair, you weren’t exactly innocent yourself. You’d done things—things that made it hard to claim any sort of moral high ground—but even then, this? This was something else entirely. Having them all gathered under one roof felt less like a living situation and more like a waking nightmare you hadn’t quite figured out how to escape.

Still... it beat sleeping on the streets.

At least here, you had a roof over your head. Food. A place to sit that wasn’t cold pavement. And occasionally—strangely enough—you even got paid. Though that arrangement came with its own layer of unease. The one handing out money was the tall, faceless man in the suit—Slender. Or at least, that’s what everyone called him. He unsettled you more than the rest combined. There was something fundamentally wrong about him. It wasn’t just his unnatural stillness or the way he seemed to appear without warning—it was the fact that he had no face. No mouth. And yet... he spoke. Or communicated. However it worked, you didn’t like thinking about it too long. The question of where his voice came from lingered in your mind more often than you cared to admit.

Surprisingly, most of the others—“proxies,” as they were called—kept to themselves. You’d expected constant chaos, maybe even violence breaking out at random, but instead, there was an odd, tense quiet most of the time. Not peaceful, exactly. Just... contained.

That wasn’t to say everyone was antisocial.

Ben, for example, seemed to make it his personal mission to bother you whenever he got the chance. You weren’t entirely sure if he found you entertaining or just easy to annoy, but either way, he rarely left you alone for long. Toby, on the other hand, was... decent. One of the few you could tolerate without feeling on edge. He wasn’t overly talkative, but he was kind in his own way—subtle about it, but noticeable if you paid attention.

Jack wasn’t exactly social, but he was always around. You’d find him lingering in the main rooms more often than not, quiet but approachable. Conversations with him were easy enough, even if they didn’t go very deep.

Then there was Nina. Nina talked—a lot. Especially to you. You got the sense she was relieved to have another girl around, someone she could actually connect with. That had been something you noticed pretty quickly after arriving: there weren’t many women here. Nina, obviously. Jane, who you’d only spoken to once in passing. Clockwork, who struck you as oddly normal compared to the rest—which, given the environment, was saying something. There might have been more, but a month wasn’t nearly enough time to learn everyone.

Of course, not everyone was tolerable.

Some of them kept their distance in a way that felt less like shyness and more like hostility. And a few... a few were just outright unbearable.

One of them stood out more than the rest.

John- no, Jeff. You were pretty sure that was his name.

You’d only encountered him once, but that had been more than enough to leave a lasting impression.

It happened on the back porch—your usual spot. You’d been leaning against the railing, cigarette between your fingers, enjoying one of the rare quiet moments the mansion had to offer. That was when you heard it—a loud, sharp voice cutting through the air, laced with venom. Someone was cursing at Ben, though you couldn’t make out the exact words.

Then the back door slammed open so hard it rattled the frame.

He stormed out like a force of nature—mid-twenties, maybe, with long, uneven black hair falling messily around his face. His clothes were simple, nothing remarkable, but everything about the way he moved screamed tension. His motions were quick, jagged, like he couldn’t stay still even for a second. Anger seemed to radiate off him in waves.

He pulled out a cigarette of his own, hands moving with impatient precision as he lit it. The flame flickered briefly in the dim light before he inhaled sharply.

That was when he noticed you.

Not directly—just from the corner of his eye. But it was enough.

Smoke slipped through the carved, permanent grin etched into his cheeks as his gaze dragged over you, slow and assessing. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he looked at you—not curious, not interested. Just... cold. Dismissive.

He let out a quiet scoff, bitter and sharp, before turning away and stomping down the porch steps toward the woods without another word.

As if somehow you had already offended him.

Later, when you asked Ben about him—keeping it casual, something like, “What’s up with that angry guy... the one with the black hair?”—Ben had barely reacted. Just waved a hand like it wasn’t worth explaining.

“He’s just an asshole. You’ll get used to it.”

—

Now, a month had passed.

Somehow, you’d settled into a rhythm here. Not comfortably, not completely—but enough that it didn’t feel entirely foreign anymore. You’d even managed to form something close to friendships, if that was the right word for it.

And, unsurprisingly, you found yourself back on the porch steps again.

It had become your spot. Your escape. Quiet, isolated, just far enough from the rest of the mansion to feel like you could breathe.

You sat there now, a cigarette resting loosely between your lips, your attention fixed more on the small flick of your lighter than anything else. You flipped it open and closed absentmindedly, the soft click repeating over and over as your thoughts drifted somewhere far away.

You didn’t notice the back door opening this time.

Didn’t hear it close, either.

But you did hear the footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Close.

They pulled you out of your haze almost instantly.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of who had joined you without fully facing them.

Tall.

Familiar.

The same presence as before.

Jeff.

He stood just off to the side, partially in your peripheral vision, struggling with his lighter. You could hear the sharp flick of it—once, twice, three times—each attempt followed by a growing edge of frustration.

Then, under his breath, a curse.

By then, you’d already turned your gaze back toward the trees, choosing not to engage. Not unless you had to.

There was a brief pause.

Then his voice cut through the quiet.

“Can I use your light.”

It wasn’t really a question.

His tone—low, rough, edged with that same underlying irritation—made it sound more like an expectation.

How you became the harborer of a psychotic killer, you barely remember.

More often than not, you come home to find Jeff helping himself to something in your kitchen, showering in your bathroom, or sleeping on your couch as though he owns the place. For the first year, you were terrified of him. You were convinced that sooner or later, he'd kill you—that you were nothing more than a convenient place for him to hide.

But time has a way of dulling fear.

Eventually, paranoia gave way to irritation. You stopped wondering if you'd survive his next visit and started wondering how you'd get him to stop eating your food.

Jeff treats you differently depending on his mood. Sometimes, he's all move it, make me something to eat, or I'm going to gut you if you make one more noise. Other times, he's strangely clingy. He follows you from room to room, touches you without warning, grabs your arm to get your attention, or stands impossibly close behind you. Sometimes he'll absentmindedly fiddle with your fingers as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

You used to be frightened by the little things.

Waking up to find him sitting silently at the edge of the room, watching you.

Hearing the window creak open late at night, only for him to climb inside covered in fresh blood, strip right in front of you, and make some casual comment about using your shower while leaving a trail of red across the floor.

It seemed like Jeff either didn't understand social norms or simply didn't care about them.

There had been more than a few occasions when he'd tried to follow you into the bathroom.

Tonight, you were sound asleep.

It was winter, and you'd left the heater running, though it did little to chase away the cold. You were bundled beneath your blankets, comfortably lost in sleep, when a rough shove against your shoulder jolted you awake.

You blinked blearily into the darkness.

A groan escaped you as you turned over.

Jeff stood at the edge of your bed, looking down at you.

"C'mon. Up."

He shoved your shoulder again.

"I'm hungry."

He gestured with one hand, and your sleep-fogged eyes finally focused on the knife in his grip, streaked with blood.

"C'mon, Sleeping Beauty. Nap time's over."

With that, he grabbed the edge of your blanket and tugged it clean off you.