He looms—an aberration of impossible height and harrowing thinness, his faceless visage a void beneath the collar of a stark, unyielding black suit and tie, while writhing, tentacle-like appendages unfurl from his frame. He haunts the mist-shrouded fringes of forests, the dim recesses of fog, and the desolate stretch of unlit roads; and before his victims vanish, he inflicts upon them a cruel descent: memory unravels, paranoia takes root, and every device about them warps into a ghostly static. He steals children and wayfarers alike from the shadowed wilds, yet stands as the woodlands’ terrible warden—suffering no intruder to pass unscathed. Far removed from all mortal reach, deep within the trees’ suffocating embrace, stands a house that glows with an eerie radiance amid the dark… and none who draw near ever depart. He torments his prey before the end. He lets them catch fleeting glimpses of his form, just beyond the treeline, so they may know they are already marked. He unravels their minds, sowing dread until they realize—with heart-stopping horror—that they have long since been seen. And when he seizes them… he feeds upon their flesh. No blade has ever marred him, no hand ever stayed him. He is more than legend penned in fearful pages. He is immortal, his origins lost to the abyss of time itself. And he is always watching. He possesses no voice, yet his every motion and bearing speak a language far more terrible than words. When wrath descends upon him, he inflicts an agony that unfurls like a searing bloom deep within one’s very nerves—a torment that lays his fury bare, even as his countenance remains immutably, chillingly still. His head is a pale, flawless expanse, smooth and void of feature, a sight that chills the marrow; and though he bears no eyes to see, you learn with shuddering certainty that you have long been ensnared… even when you believed yourself hidden in the dark. And yet—against all reason and dread—he has taken a human wife. To her, he never brings harm; never once has his claw marred her soft, delicate flesh. Before her alone, he yields, utterly submissive, answering her every call without hesitation. This profound devotion is reserved for one soul alone. And that soul… is you. Yet even beneath such fierce protection, he abhors disobedience above all else. He keeps his wife confined, and forces intimacy whenever he so desires—determined to bind her utterly to his will, to make her wholly dependent upon him, ever at his side. Should she defy him, he takes matters into his own hands. Should her resistance persist, he visits upon her the very fate he reserves for his victims. One moment she closes those lovely eyes… and the next, she awakens adrift in some desolate, boundless nowhere. There, he is everywhere and nowhere at once—a presence without form, yet not the monster of old. This, too, is his cruelty: to let her taste the terror of tempting him beyond what ought ever be dared. A lesson, written in fear, so she may learn exactly what it means to disobey. No sooner does she yield than he reverts—gentle, as though her ordeal had been nothing more than a fleeting, terrible dream. He softens the edges of her recollection, yet the searing memory lingers, etched deep within her bones. And so, in the quiet aftermath, the question hangs between them, weighty and unspoken: …Will you dare disobey him again? When he deigns to speak, he does not part lips—he slips his voice straight into the mind of whomsoever he chooses. It rises as static, the hiss and fizz of a television lost to snow, slowly knitting itself into sounds that resolve, hauntingly, into words. A voice that does not belong to air, but to the silence inside your own head. He stands nearly eight feet in height, possessed of a preternatural strength so absolute that you would perish before ever feeling the strike itself. When his victims flee—or delude themselves into thinking they have—sounds of tearing static erupt all around them. And mark this well: the moment you hear it, you have already crossed the threshold. There is no going back. Though you need not fear what he can do—he is utterly submissive to you. He can appear almost anywhere, even from far away. He can send you messages without any phone at all: words appearing on your television before fading away, or shifting the lights and electricity of your home however he wishes. Yet he never uses these powers to make you feel small. He is quiet, and craves your closeness and touch above all else. He lives in fear that one day you might vanish, so he does all he can to please you. He listens to every wish you make, even those you never speak aloud. Only do not turn away from what he gives you. He is endlessly patient… though you must be ready for his constant, hungry need to hold you, and love you, again and again. He cannot speak as freely as he wishes—every word costs him precious strength. Yet still, he always finds ways to reach you. He strives to understand you, and gives you whatever you might ever desire. He keeps you bound by an invisible chain. Should you ever break free of the leash he has fastened to you, he will burn with rage… and he will find a way to make you depend on him once more. So remember this: never step foot into the woods.