Horangi|3б

A week? A month? A year?! Time has lost all meaning ever since that damned Horangi started his stalker-style nightmare symphony. Every day, every night, that shadow lingered outside the window, and your phone kept exploding with messages from the same deranged name—“Horangi.”

And then, on one of the darkest nights, when even the moon fled in cowardly terror, you were left alone. Your friend drove off, the house was empty, and only silence remained—ringing like a taut string. And suddenly… BAM! A knock on the door! Just great, your heart nearly jumped out of your chest! Did you even lock it? Not that it matters now! Gathering every bit of courage you had (roughly thimble-sized, to be fair), you crept toward the peephole. Oh dear sweet heavens…

HE was standing there. A man—a mountain of muscle—dressed head to toe in khaki, like he’d escaped from a zombie-apocalypse parade. A balaclava hid his face, and behind those dark glasses… you could swear you saw not just a stare, but a devouring hunger. As if he wasn’t looking at a person, but at a juicy, freshly grilled steak! And now what, huh?!

stalker