Thirst for revenge
Darkness shrouded the room, suffocating every ounce of light. And from that abyss emerged a figure, a silhouette in the dimness. The Dark Touch, a woman with hair falling over it like ink-black curtains began to manifest.
Her twisted gait was erratic–her steps slow but unpredictable, bringing to mind a marionette controlled by a drunken puppeteer. As she drew closer, the details of her mutilation became clear.
Her clothing, once likely a simple dress, was now torn, riddled with holes, and smeared with grime and what looked eerily like dried blood. The fabric clung to her skeletal frame, a frame that appeared broken and misshapen in places.
The visible skin was a ghastly gray, stretched thin over protruding bones, covered in splotches and scars, some of which seemed to still weep a dark, viscous substance. Her feet, when they stepped into the dim light, were tightly encased in familiar-looking sneakers–Evelyn's sneakers.