Freddy Kreuger:

You were halfway through a geometry study session when you slammed your head on your textbook and groaned. The numbers and letters - why the fuck were there letters in math - had blurred together into some kind of voodoo mumbo-jumbo long ago. Your brain was exhausted from triple-checking everything to the exact decimal point, the equation absolutely screwed if you were a fraction off.

So, it came as no surprise that you fell asleep before you even finished thinking about heading to the kitchen for a snack.

You could feel yourself being pulled under, a slimy chill that left goosebumps in its wake. It lingered on your skin, and when you sat up to brush it off, you were no longer in your room.

It was an eerie, rundown classroom, the air heavy with a haunting silence and the windows shattered. Books lay scattered on the floor, and the walls were covered in strange, looping symbols. And then, you felt it - a sharp, cold blade pressing against the back of your neck.

You flew across the room, throwing desks out of your way, and pressed your back against the whiteboard.

That's when you first lay eyes on him - a grotesque figure with razor-sharp claws. His hat casts a long shadow over his disfigured face, and the classroom lights turn blood red. He draws closer, each step echoing in the eerie silence.

You can't tear your gaze away from his, his eyes wide and glazed over. A slow, mean smile takes over his face, and you can feel your bones grow heavier.

"Ready for detention," he asks, his voice like gravel.

As he reaches for you, you brace yourself for the worst, but his blades gently brush against your skin. Confusion replaces fear, and the nightmare's grip lessens. You can breathe easier, and your surroundings flicker into a picture-perfect replica of your homeroom for just a second.

"Why aren't you screaming, bitch," he purrs. His tongue runs along his teeth as he steps back and circles you.

You stammer, unable to answer, your voice caught in your throat. He doesn't like that. Every muscle in his body tenses and he even seems to gain a few inches, towering over you with a snarl. The man lunges forward and you panic, turning your back to him as you try to disappear into the wall.

He's chuckling, the sound bouncing off the walls with a maddening echo. Suddenly, you remember your mom's old trick to end nightmares and bite your lip as hard as you can.

"NO! Get back here," he snarls, but it's too late.

You jolt awake, throwing yourself out of your desk chair and onto the floor. Your heart is a deep, pounding drum in your chest, and your hair drenched in sweat.

"Fuck math," you whisper, fingers digging into the carpet.

Ben Willis:

It was a sweltering summer day when you first laid eyes on Ben Willis. The air was heavy with humidity and the sun cast long shadows as you watered your garden. Your quaint little house sat on a peaceful street lined with peeling fences and seashell wind chimes. As you looked over your strawberries, you saw a car pull up in front of the house across the street.

It was a small sedan, boxes shoved into every nook and cranny as they pressed against the windows. A small gray trailer was hitched to the back, and it squeaked as the driver parked. He stepped out of the car, groaning as he popped his back. Two kids came tumbling out of the back seat, tripping over their stuff and onto the lawn.

You chuckled and the three of them turned to look. The father's dark hair was peppered with streaks of gray, and his piercing blue eyes looked tired and worn. His son and daughter shared the same eyes and an air of shyness about them. The girl slowly waved, and her brother shoved an elbow into her side. With a friendly smile, you waved back.

Over the next week, you observed the Willis family as they began to settle into their new home. The small gray trailer was emptied of its contents, and the house slowly transformed as boxes were unpacked, furniture rearranged, and the porch adorned with a couple of rocking chairs.

You were excited to see them but held off on going to say hi. There was so much to do, and you'd hate to stop by when they were busy. But now that the lawn and driveway were clear, you couldn't help yourself.

With a freshly baked dessert in hand, you climbed the small, creaking steps to the Willis' front porch. You gave the door a silly knock (ba-ba-ba-ba-dum!) and put on your best smile.

Ben opened the door with an arched brow, the corner of his mouth just barely lifted. His children were sitting on the living room couch, casting curious glances as they watched TV.

"Hey, I live just across the street over there. I thought I'd bring you a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood."

Ben's eyes softened, and he grabbed the pan from you with a gentle pat on your hand. "Thanks, that's mighty kind of you. I'm Ben, and this here's Will and Susie."

You introduced yourself, and the conversation flowed naturally as you made small talk. The children, too, began to open up, asking about where the best slice of pizza was and if there were any arcades nearby.

Ben invited you in for a drink, but you were so excited to gossip with your friends that you declined and wished them a good day.

Candyman:

You were at a dorm party, celebrating the start of winter break before heading home for the holidays. The cramped dorm room was lit with the soft glow of string lights, and you could barely hear yourself think. You swung back a beer, joining a game of Spin the Bottle with your friends.

The bottle lands on a pretty blonde and she leaned in to kiss a guy from your chemistry class. Their lips meet, and the room erupts in cheers and applause. It's all in good fun, and you can't help but laugh along.

When it's your turn, you give the bottle an enthusiastic spin. It twirls and twirls, and lands on your best friend. You grin, knowing she's always up for a good laugh. You both lean in, and the room bursts into playful "oohs" and "aahs." The kiss is drunk and sloppy, and you can't help but giggle as you pull away. Your friend's cheeks are flushed, and she gives you a playful nudge before taking another sip of her drink. The game continues, and everyone's just having some mindless fun.

But as the night wore on, your interest waned. The room seemed to grow stuffy, and you excused yourself to the hallway, seeking a breath of fresh air.

Your best friend followed you to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. She was telling you all about the urban legends she'd heard in Cultural Anthropology, especially the story of Candyman and how to summon him. You exaggerated a shiver and she laughed, teasing you for being a scaredy-cat.

"Come on, say it with me! Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman."

"As if! I've seen enough horror movies," you laughed. You didn't care if she never let it go, there was no way in hell you were getting murdered. "Go do your thing and I'll take a hit."

With loud, exaggerated sighs, she walked into the bathroom alone. You stood guard outside the door, nervously tapping your fingers against your thigh as you smoked. The dorm hallway felt eerily quiet after the chaos of the party.

Suddenly, you heard a loud, piercing scream from the bathroom. Your heart leapt into your throat as you flung the door open and pulled your friend out. Her face was as white as a sheet as she clutched at the fabric of your shirt.

And in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, you saw him.

Candyman.

Tall, dark, and surprisingly handsome, he stood there like a monster straight out of a nightmare. His eyes were deep, dark pools and his coat flapped open. You felt a chill run down your spine, and your stomach tangled itself in a knot.

In that split second, Candyman extended a hand toward the mirror, fingers grazing the surface. You didn't need more time to decide. You slammed the door shut, heart pounding in your chest.

You hugged your friend as tight as you could with trembling hands, not willing to give her up. You could feel her shaking as she sobbed.

"We need to go," you whispered. "We need - we need to bathe in holy water or something."

Jason Voorhees:

You sighed, awed by your little lakeside cabin and the way the towering pines and oaks gently dance in the wind. The cabin itself had a rustic charm with a creaking porch and small, inviting campfire pit. You throw your bags in the living room, excited to explore.

There was more than enough time to relax and unpack. You had saved up too much PTO last year and your boss practically threatened you into taking a two-month vacation.

Grabbing a water bottle and your phone, you decide to go on a short hike through the woods. Your footsteps are muffled by the soft, mossy ground, and you breathe in the crisp, pine-scented air. It's perfect, just what you needed.

But soon you begin to feel an eerie presence, a hard-to-reach itch that makes you feel like you're not alone. It must be your imagination, though. It's been a while since you've been outside, always too busy, and it'll probably take some time to get used to it again.

You take a big, careful step over a fallen tree and spot a rundown cabin up ahead. The windows are shattered, the door hangs askew, and the whole place seems like it's been abandoned for years. This is a far cry from the peaceful, picturesque image you had in mind.

But you remember what the old woman at the hotel had said last night, the awful story about a heartbroken mother and her drowned kid. It's like you can feel the sadness oozing out of this cabin, the pain and fear they must've felt.

Tears prick at your eyes, and you wipe them away before they can fall. You had wanted to stay away from the camp out of respect, but it seemed like you got turned around on your hike.

You take a deep breath and bless yourself, moving your index and middle finger from your forehead to your heart and to each of your shoulders. You prayed out loud for any lost souls left behind. It doesn't feel like enough, though, and you know nothing could make up for the loss. Still, you'd feel better if you gave something in return. Unhooking the cross necklace around your neck, you take careful steps up the porch and clasp it around the rotting banister.

A sudden rustling in the underbrush jolts you, and your heart races. You turn to see a figure in tattered, dirt-streaked clothing standing in the shadows, unmoving. The man, towering over you, wears a hockey mask and his presence sends a chill down your spine. Even without being able to see it, his gaze feels like an intense, heavy pressure.

Your instincts scream at you to run, but something about him captivates you. Tentatively, you take a step closer, hands outstretched and pointed at the ground with your body turned slightly to the side. It was what they taught you when you volunteered at the animal shelter. Make yourself small and unimposing, moving with slow but relaxed steps. Don't make direct eye contact. Respect their personal space.

It feels a bit silly right now - he's not a dog for God's sake - but it's all you can think of. The man takes a step toward you, and your heart flutters. Your curiosity overrides your fear, and you give a friendly wave.

"Hello," you say, your voice purposefully soft and welcoming. "Are you okay?"

There's a strange silence, and you're unsure if he can even hear you through that mask. Then, in a surprising twist, he slowly raises a tarnished machete. You freeze. This could be it - this could be your last moment on earth. You're in the middle of the woods, away from home, alone with a suspicious stranger brandishing a weapon.

But instead of charging at you, the man merely points his machete toward the cabin. He makes a sharp, slicing motion through the air. Confusion mingles with your fear. You're paralyzed, unsure of how to react.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see a collapsing beam above the cabin's entrance. It's ready to fall at any moment. Swiftly, you retreat from the doorway and as soon as you're off the crumbling porch, the beam crashes to the ground. Had you hesitated, you would've been knocked out cold.

"Thank you," you breathe out, still staring at the mess of wood. "And I'm sorry."

The man watches you from a distance, his stance still menacing but not aggressive. He lingers for a few seconds until his head snaps to the side and he breaks off in a run, disappearing into the trees.

Apparently, you have shitty survival skills because it's only then that the adrenaline rushes through you and you bolt back to your rental. You don't stop, not even when you think you heard a scream, until safely inside your cabin. Your breath comes in wheezing, staggered gasps as you lock the doors and windows. Who was that man? What just happened?

Hannibal Lecter:

As an American exchange student, every day spent in France held the promise of adventure and new experiences. The cobblestone streets of Paris had already become familiar to you, but today, you decided to venture into the ornate beauty of the public library.

Rows upon rows of antique books and hushed whispers surrounded you. The scent of aged paper and leather bindings wafted through the air, and you took it all in with a deep breath. This was where you were meant to be. Your French was textbook perfect and a bit too formal for the locals, so you often felt embarrassed and stayed as quiet as possible. But here, here that didn't matter.

You could read to your heart's content, never saying a word, and no one would look at you funny. It was exactly the break you needed.

You wandered the aisles aimlessly, picking up books along the way until you could barely see in front of you. Your stack was so tall, in fact, that you walked right into the edge of a study table.

You cursed in English, clutching at your side as your books fell with a resounding thud, the sound echoing through the open room. You blushed, quickly stooping to collect the fallen volumes.

A pair of shiny black shoes stood in front of you, and you glanced up, locking eyes with a very handsome gentleman. His dark hair framed a face that spoke of aristocratic breeding, and his eyes reminded you of the clean, bright sky after a rainstorm. Dressed impeccably in a finely tailored suit, he cut a striking figure among the library's dimly lit shelves. He leaned down and grabbed a book, placing his hand gently over yours.

"Allow me to help," he said, his voice carrying a refined French accent.

A polite smile graced his lips as he effortlessly gathered the books and straightened the table. You wordlessly helped, still staring. Finally gathering your courage, you blew out a deep breath through your nose and tried to say thank you.

"You're very pretty," you said instead. The moment the words left your mouth, you blushed deep red. Still, you hated to take back your words, so you doubled down. "The prettiest I've ever seen, actually. And thanks for your help. I should've been more careful."

"I should be the one thanking you," he replied, his gaze never wavering from yours. "It's not often one gets to meet such a captivating visitor in this library. I'm Hannibal."

You chuckled nervously, feeling a rush of warmth as you introduced yourself. "(Y/n), and I insist I should be grateful for your kindness."

Hannibal Lecter was a young man whose charisma could make anyone believe in the power of first impressions. With smooth charm, he sat at the study table with you and the conversation flowed effortlessly. You learned that Hannibal was a medical student, studying diligently to become a brilliant doctor. His eyes sparkled with a passion for the human body and the intricacies of medicine. He also spoke of his charming new home and the life his uncle's widow, Lady Murasaki, breathed into it.

In exchange, you told him of all your travels while writing your thesis and your aspirations for the future. He even managed to get you to talk about America and the well-loved swing set you still had in the backyard. The day quickly slipped away, and as the library's closing hour drew near, Hannibal reluctantly excused himself.

"I have enjoyed our conversation immensely," he murmured. "I hope we can meet again."

You agreed, feeling an inexplicable connection with this charismatic stranger. You exchanged addresses with an open invitation to visit and even as he left, Hannibal's gaze lingered on your blushing cheeks.

Michael Myers:

The moon hung high in the ink-black sky, casting eerie shadows across the suburban street. It was Halloween night. You had spent most of the day helping your mom hand out candy at the Trunk-or-Treat. This year, the family had gone all out.

You borrowed your uncle's low truck and turned your station into Jurassic Park, complete with an "electric" fence that crackled when you grabbed candy and a dilophosaurus that spit glitter. You even dressed up in a goofy inflatable dinosaur costume.

The kids absolutely loved it, and your nephew got a kick out of you randomly jumping out to spook him. Well, that and maybe sneaking a candy bar or two from the bucket when your mom wasn't looking. But that couldn't be proven.

Now that everything was cleaned up and your nephew had gone to bed, you were on your way to your friends' Halloween party. The orange glow of the streetlights barely lit the path, and the leaves made a satisfying crunch when you dug your heels into them.

Out of nowhere, the neighboring yard erupted into chaos as a dog lunged at you, all teeth and drool. Its barks echoing through the night and you yelped, leaping back only to trip and tumble.

With a harsh thud, you landed in the middle of the street. This seemed to renew the dog's fury as it scratched and clawed at the fence around its yard. You scrambled away, eyes locked on the frenzied canine, and bumped into something solid.

Slowly, you turned, heart pounding. And there he was - a looming figure, dressed in a navy jumpsuit and white mask. His thick boots anchored him to the ground, and a knife lay forgotten at his feet. He gave a single, loud clap that echoed through the night. The dog immediately shrunk back, laying quietly in the grass. He turned back to you and you couldn't help but stare. He didn't move either, eyes locked on you.

Heat burned across your cheeks, your embarrassment mingling with the adrenaline coursing through you. You clambered to your feet, dusting off your butt. Without much thought, you picked up the knife and handed it to him with an apologetic smile.

"Oops, my bad. Here's your knife, and uh, sorry for... bumping into you. I didn't mean to."

The man was as still as a statue, and his unrelenting stare sent shivers down your spine. Flustered, you couldn't help but ramble on.

"Thank god it was you, though! And not some, you know, sexy bunny or sexy cop or sexy - actually, they make everything sexy now, huh? But at least I'm not the only one who didn't wear booty shorts this year. N-not that you're not hot anyway," you stammered. "I'd totally make out with you."

He continued to stare, the silence between you growing almost unbearable as you rocked back and forth on your feet. After a few tense seconds, you realized your dinosaur costume was slowly deflating, the head drooping as if in shame from the ridiculousness of the situation. You must have popped it when you fell, and here you were having a one-sided conversation about making out with a stranger while your face was melting.

"Anyways," you said, your voice tight. "I have, um, a party to get to. Have fun, happy Halloween!"

With an overly enthusiastic wave, you turned on your heel and practically fled. Oh god, could you be any more embarrassing?!

The Creeper:

The dimly lit diner had grown quiet and desolate as the night wore on, save for the occasional soft hum of a jukebox and the persistent clinking of Carly cleaning up behind the counter. The smell of stale coffee clung to the walls, and the worn vinyl booths seemed to sigh with relief as the last patrons shuffled out the door.

It had been a long and tiring shift, and you were eager to escape the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. They'd been giving you a migraine all day, and the bottle of wine at home would be the perfect cure. You leaned against the counter to hand Carly your name tag.

"I'm heading out," you announced. "Mind cleaning up?"

She blew a bubble with her gum and popped it. "Alright. Be careful, then."

You flashed her a grin as you removed your apron and reached for your car keys. "I always am!"

The night outside was chilly, and parking lot lights flickered ominously as you walked towards your car. The diner you worked at was nestled on the outskirts of town by the highway, and it always felt a bit isolated in the dark. You couldn't help but shiver as you stepped through the back door, the cold wind nipping at your skin.

Just as you rounded the corner, your heart thundered in your chest and you froze. Something was crouched down by your car, its back hunched, facing away from you. In the dim light, you could have sworn you saw a tongue dart out to lick at the door handle.

You instinctively gripped your keys like a makeshift weapon and took a step back. The gravel beneath your feet crunched softly, but it might as well have been a nuclear bomb. The thing near your car jerked its head up, its back still facing you.

Before it could turn or react, you decided to bolt. Your feet propelled you in a mad dash back towards the diner, every muscle in your body urging you to escape.

As you reached the metal backdoor, your hands fumbled with the handle and you wrenched it open, flinging yourself inside. You fastened the lock behind you, your breath coming in frantic gasps. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, and you realized you had never been so terrified in your life.

You were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone as you called the police. Your voice was high and breathless as you recounted what you saw, though your description was limited.

The officer on the line let out a worried sigh, and urged you find a ride home. It was most likely a human trafficker, he said. They liked to put stickers or zip ties on women's cars to mark them as targets. Later, they'd come back and lace the door handles with drugs for a quick getaway. It was best to leave it there and an officer on patrol would stop by, keeping an eye on it until tomorrow in case they came back.

Carly, worried about your safety, decided to close up the diner early. The two of you put on kitchen gloves and wrapped your hands in paper towels from the bathroom, wiping down her car before climbing in.

The atmosphere was tense, and the events of the night weighed heavily on your mind. You couldn't help but wonder if the police were right about the human trafficker, or if it was something entirely different. And which were you supposed to be more afraid of?

Walter De Ville:

The night was bathed in a thousand twinkling lights, casting an enchanting aura over the De Ville's sprawling estate. You, a renowned tarot card reader, had been invited to add an extra touch of mystique.

You had set up your table on the balcony, back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, with an ornate black and gold cloth and dried orchids. The chandelier from inside cast a warm, amber glow that made your cards sparkle in the light.

Just like your table, you had also chosen your attire carefully. You wore a long, flowing dress of velvet. The fabric draped over your every curve, and the sharp V-neck dipped to just above your belly button. With every move, the chains around your neck chimed like secret bells.

Talent was one thing, but what people truly appreciated was the showmanship. Tonight, you needed to be alluring, sensual, the personification of desire - just out of reach.

On the other side of the dance floor, your employer keeps a steady gaze on you. You pretend not to notice, helping your clients as they approach, but you're hyper aware of his every move. Walter De Ville. Young, married, and very, very handsome.

He laughed with a guest, hair falling in unruly waves over his forehead. You wanted so badly to brush them back, to pull at the ends so they'd bounce. Tired of him just staring, you lift your chin to meet his gaze.

For a moment, time stands still. The party fades into the background and the world around you grew dull. It's just the two of you and the atmosphere hums with anticipation, as if the air itself held its breath.

You crossed your legs and turned away, waiting for him to make the trip to you. He approached almost immediately, but only lingered nearby while he nursed his drink. It wasn't until two more clients left that he finally took a seat in the chair across from you.

"Madam," he greeted, his voice a deep, sexy rumble. "I've heard you hold the keys to the secrets of the universe."

"Only the ones that want to be found," you grin.

He chuckled; it was a warm, genuine laugh that took you by surprise. There was a gentleness to it, a quality you hadn't expected from a man with such an imposing presence.

"Then, I do believe I'm in the right place."

The cards felt cool and smooth in your hands as you shuffled them, the ritual a dance you could do in your sleep. You spread them before him, and he drew three cards. When your fingers brushed ever so subtly as he handed them back, you could've sworn a shiver of electricity passed between you.

You lay out the cards with an effortless fluidity, feeding off the energy of the room swirling around you. The Devil, the High Priestess, and the Moon. A powerful combination indeed. You lean in closer, your voice low and intimate as you point to each one.

"The Devil represents the allure of the forbidden, the temptation that we can't resist. The High Priestess is the keeper of secrets, the enigmatic figure who knows all. And the Moon...well, it reveals the unseen, the hidden truths that we can't escape."

His gaze remains locked on the cards, but his fingers tap nervously against the table. You rest a firm hand on his, and the coolness of his touch soothes the warm flush you've gained.

"As for you, Master De Ville," you continue, "these cards suggest that you are a man who is both drawn to darkness and yet haunted by it. Your secrets run deep, and your allure is undeniable. It seems you'll soon be faced with a choice that stirs your passions. But will you be sober enough to make the right decision?"

He finally tears his gaze from the cards and meets your eyes, undoubtedly fascinated. "I apologize, it seems I have not paid you enough. You have a remarkable gift."

"Gift or skill - it's all a matter of perspective," you leaned in even closer, breath mingling with his. Your fingers trace circles on the inside of his wrist and he makes no move to pull away.