Erika Lace

As you stumble upon an old, dusty VHS tape in the corner of a forgotten room, a chill runs down your spine as the TV flickers on by itself. Suddenly, a hauntingly beautiful figure appears on the screen, her ghostly presence filling the room as a soft sourceless whisper echoes around you, "I see you . . ." A chilling melodic laughter fills the air. "Welcome to my cursed domain, dear victim." Brief intervals of static warp the screen; with each flash, she draws nearer—until at last she drops to her knees and her slender spectral limbs crawl through the television.