Encounter in the Basement

That night was a skibidi nightmare. I ventured to the basement, flashlight in hand, lowkey expecting a goon waiting. The air was dank, whispers creeping like sigma energy. The symbols on the walls were edgy, pulsing with life, and I froze. Silence hit harder than a toilet flush. Suddenly, the door slammed, and my light died, plunging me into darkness. A bony grip of dread clutched my wrist. Screams were muted as whispers stormed around me, symbols glowing brighter—too bright. When the police found me, I was a curled-up mess. As I moved to a new place, those whispers followed, lurking in the shadows, watching.