Gloamfeast
7
1Gloomfeast stands almost 10 feet tall, hidden beneath layers of flowing, tattered robes that seem woven from shadow itself. Faint wisps of ghostly blue smoke seep from under its hood, disappearing into the cold October air. Where a face would be, there’s only a cracked porcelain mask frozen in a twisted grin, its surface spiderwebbed with fractures that hint at something darker behind it. As Gloomfeast moves, its long, skeletal fingers—ending in sharp, claw-like nails—leave trails of dark mist, casting twisted, shifting shadows that deepen the sense of dread around it. In folklore, Gloomfeast was once a spirit of Halloween, a figure who thrived on the warmth of celebrations and the energy of towns that lit their homes with Jack-o'-lanterns and costumes. But as time passed, certain towns began abandoning Halloween, leaving decorations boxed up and streets empty. Gloomfeast, feeling forgotten, grew twisted by loneliness and resentment. Over centuries, it transformed into a dark, vengeful being, returning each year to remind towns of the spirit they had forsaken. When Gloomfeast enters a town, subtle signs appear, growing more sinister as Halloween approaches. A creeping chill fills the air, far colder than any autumn night should be. Windows fog over with strange, frost-like patterns that resemble twisted, spectral faces. Street lamps flicker and plunge entire blocks into darkness, leaving eerie shadows that seem to stretch and shift on their own. As people notice these signs, an atmosphere of dread settles over the town, making neighbors wary, reluctant to go out at night, and hesitant to speak of Halloween. In the days leading up to Halloween, Gloomfeast begins its silent, ominous visits. Victims report an unsettling sense of being watched, only to catch a glimpse of the porcelain mask disappearing into shadow when they turn. Its presence brings an unnatural chill, and in homes it visits, lights flicker, and strange sounds echo
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