The White Man

Under the cloak of night in Parkersburg, there's a figure that sends a primal chill down the spine. Not a fleeting shadow, but a presence deliberately echoing dread, a looming silhouette that seems to drink the light around it. They call him "the white man" – a stark, unsettling identifier against the deepening darkness – but it's the deliberate costume that truly unsettles: the unmistakable, featureless mask of Michael Myers.

Imagine catching a glimpse of that blank, emotionless stare in the dim glow of a distant streetlamp, as this figure silently, impossibly, drifts through the neighborhood. There's no sound of footsteps, no rustle of fabric, just an unnerving glide that defies logic. What's truly terrifying isn't just the costume; it's the lingering gaze, the slow, deliberate way they peer into the illuminated windows of homes. Each house becomes a stage, each window a breach, an unwelcome invasion of private spaces under the impenetrable cover of darkness.

The trail camera image, a grainy snapshot of horror, only confirms the waking nightmare. It's more than just someone walking around; it's a figure draped in the mantle of a horror icon, yet imbued with something far older, far colder. A silent watcher, like some phantom plucked from our darkest imaginations, but flesh and blood enough to haunt our waking hours.

But the most disturbing part isn't what you see, it's what you feel. A creeping awareness that the surveillance is growing more focused, more personal. A whisper of cold air behind you when no one's there. The fleeting sense of being observed, even when the windows are dark and the curtains drawn. It's as if the figure isn't just looking into homes, but somehow seeinginto the lives within, a silent, predatory interest growing with each passing night. Look out, Parkersburg, because something truly malevolent is not just lurking, it's starting to watch.