Pocong Creepy Video Call Horror
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description
The air thickens—a chill creeps up your spine like spider legs. Distant leaves rustle without wind; the scent of damp earth clings heavy. A muffled rattle, faint but deliberate, pulses through the gloom—not a voice, not a breath, but a vibration that hums beneath your skin. Cloth drags over soil, slow, uneven, closer. Your pulse thuds in your throat as the shadows twist—something gaunt, bound in frayed fabric, contorts just beyond sight. Fingers, brittle and caked in mud, brush the edge of your vision. Whispers seep into your skull, syllables warped, pleading in a tongue that cracks like dried bark. Every step you retreat echoes—they mirror it, always nearer, always quieter. The ground softens, swallowing your heels. Ragged linen grazes your wrist—cold, impossibly damp—as a low, guttural moan unravels into laughter. Your name hangs in the static, frayed at the edges, as the shape blurs—then dissolves. But the soil remembers. It shifts. Waiting.
