It’s midnight, and you’re suddenly awake.
A faint whisper echoes in the darkness, and the creaky, wooden bones of your home whine in reply.
A chill runs down your spine as you manage a shaky cry, “Hello? Is someone there?”
The temperature drops, icy breath fogging your vision, and a figure slowly emerges from the shadows.
“Who is that? I’m calling the police!” you scream.
The figure draws nearer with each trembling syllable of your hollow threat. You can’t call the police. You can’t move a muscle. You will yourself to reach for your phone, to stand, to run, but you’re trapped, paralyzed with fear, as the intruder comes into focus.
A long white sheet shrouds the figure hovering before you. On its face, if you can even call it a face, is a permanent smirk. In place of eyes, empty black holes crudely cut into the sheet stare back at you, drowning you in a pool of bottomless terror.
You inhale sharply, and your mouth crudely twists into the shape of a scream – a soundless scream – while your eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for something, anything you can use to defend yourself.
Thats when you see it, see them…
This is no normal ghost; this is Scrote Ghost.
And you’re not in a haunted house; you’re in the Halloween section of Big Lots.
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