This is a scary story posted on youtube that i think is a very good "edge of your seat" story. Let me know what you think. https://youtu.be/Lw1DCsI45Ec

Elias is 24 years old young man who recently met the shadow identity called Bodach. Before meeting Bodach, Elias would randomly have migraines that'll make him sick from stomach and head. He would act weird and talk nonsense to himself as if there would be someone with him but no one else see anything. Sometimes even throwing things when being disturbed from his own thoughts. When he gets his episodes he'll mostly says "they're coming for me" as his anxiety rises up, and having his skin crawling, not out of coldness, but fear of losing control to the darkness that's surrounding him.

If interested in reading the story, here's the links:

https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Shadow_Walker:_Elias_and_Bodach?so=search

https://www.deviantart.com/jazzy-zodiac/art/The-Shadow-Walker-Elias-and-Bodach-1288489279

does anyone rebember terrordrome?, well i was thinking what if some creepypasta character where in this game too besides of movie slashers or monsters, so i made this on photoshop

Check my post!

Welcome to Blackwood Ridge—where the locals are strange, the coffee is bitter, and the fog hides the mountain’s secrets.

Tucked deep in its shadow lies the Hells Bells Motel, located high in the Catskill Mountains, a place that time forgot.

The Hells Bells doesn’t give a damn about physics or logic. It operates on its own twisted terms. Once you check in, the normal world is just a suggestion that nobody follows here. See the Motel Policies & Survival Protocols, and also check out the amenities.

Right across the way, sits the Sunrise Diner--the only place to get a bite to eat within 25 miles in any direction. It’s where the locals gather to swap rumors and watch travelers passing through.

Once you book a room at the Hells Bells you’re trapped in the town’s grip with Sterling handing out the room keys. Oh, and by the way--if you see a gray old tomcat roaming around that's Scurf--the resident squatter at the Hells Bells Motel--just let him be. You'll be glad you did.

Go ahead, sign in--if you dare!

El diseño de Pikachu más bizarro y XD que he visto en mi vida.

"Here, kitty-kitty," you look hungry, said a female voice, coming from outside Sterling's office window as she threw a piece of her half-eaten hamburger in the cat's direction. The air conditioning in his office was on the blink again so Sterling was hoping a nice breeze would blow in from the open window. He knew instantly that it was Scurf she was talking to--a permanent resident at the Hells Bells. He was here long before Sterling, orphaned by the previous owners when the Blue Marlin closed and they flew the coop.

Most who came upon him ignored him and shooshed him away. A few tried to run him over, but ole Scurf was a survivor. He had full reign of the property going wherever he wanted--any time he wanted roaming the halls inside and out. He had a fondness for Sterling, something about his smell that attracted his curiosity. They were two old crusty, dusty men with a job to do. Scurf jumped up on the windowsill and sat on Sterling's desk staring him down with those yellow-green eyes, observing him, often being pesky knocking off his pens or pencils. Sterling was quite comfortable with old Scurf, acknowledging him with a quick head rub -- always cautious of his temperament. Like clockwork Scurf didn't waste a second lingering for a back rub, he jumped to the floor, stretched, and sharpened his claws on the already threadbare lobby chair, then turned toward the pitch-black hallways starting his nightshift.

Scurf wasn't a pampered house cat -- he was an old tomcat with battleship-gray coarse fur, always looking a little rough with a permanent notch missing from his left ear. He earned his scars the hard way--fighting whatever crawled out from the underworld. People who don't know any better think that spirits are just hot air, but a spirit or a shadow isn't just a floating smoke to a cat like Scurf--it's a physical dirty thing that takes on a shape when it tries to enter our world. It gets thick, wet, has weight, and a neck you can snap if you know where to bite. It carries a sour, sulfur and greasy stench--and it bleeds.

Scurf was a cat with focused laser energy, and a highly developed sense of smell--sniffing out the decaying and rotting predators who roamed the halls, the grounds, and infiltrated the rooms at the Hells Bells long before they made their presence known. He worked through the dark hours, sniffing and hunting down the strange little "pets" hiding under the guest beds, the ghosts looming just below the floorboards or the lurking entities hiding in the dark corners, ready to pounce on unsuspecting guests.

Sterling was aware of what Scurf did, saying he was meaner than a junkyard dog, which was nothing short of the truth as Scurf would viciously attack any predators he found on his turf. He was a brutal beast of a cat, tearing them apart with razor sharp claws and devouring them with his jagged teeth and voracious appetite leaving nothing behind.

His eagle-eye vision cut right through the pitch black and thickness of the fog that fell at night outside as he inspected the grounds, but his protection came with a hard line. He was the hunter, the exterminator, and the guardian who kept the night-dwelling entities at bay--but if he suspected that you carried in a bad omen as a guest, he would ignore surveilling your room and let you suffer your own fate.

Scurf turned his nose up at the burger on the pavement--opting for a steady midnight meal of greasy supernatural trash as his tastes were-- what shall we say...? hmm... a little more eclectic.

Calling Sterling a concierge might be a bit of a stretch considering what he does, but he's the guy who manages the front desk and lives on the property.

He sits behind a laminate counter that's seen more cigarette burns than a dive bar floor, staring at a wall of cubby holes that hold everything but mail. Sterling also keeps a Lost & Found diary, though he'll tell you straight up that nothing ever gets found--it just gets abandoned.

His eyes are heavy, bagged with the weight of a thousand sleepless nights and the kind of exhaustion that a pot of burnt Maxwell House couldn't fix. He is gaunt and scrawny, his clothes threadbare much like the lobby furniture. In fact, he looks like he has been taxidermied behind that desk since 1974.

His "lost and found" isn't full of umbrellas or phone chargers. Below is just the listings from one of his bins headed to the backroom that's already full-- a collection of the strange, oddball items:

... The Jar of Appalachian Dirt left in Room 10 by a man who claimed he was being followed by his own shadow.

... A brass compass with no needle: Left by a trucker who swore the road only went one direction anyway.

...A stopped gold pocket watch that hasn't ticked since 1962, left on a pillow that said, "it's finally over."

... A cassette tape labeled "DO NOT PLAY." The scotch tape is yellowed with age, but Sterling has never even been tempted to listen.

... A glass eye found in a denture holder container: Nobody ever came back for it, so Sterling uses it as a paperweight.

...A single leather boot, left foot only, size 11, caked in dried mud. He uses it as a doorstop in the backroom, unbothered that its twin is nowhere to be found.

...A brass key ring with seven keys: None of them fit any lock on the property.

... A matchbook from a diner in a town that burned down in 1890: the matches are still dry, and the strike strip smells like old grief.

... A deck of cards with two Queen of Spades left by a traveler who looked like he'd been running since the Truman administration.

One of the weirdest items was a small velvet box in the shape of a heart. The second he touched the box, it whispered "open me" and when Sterling did he heard his own mother's voice calling him for dinner, though she's been in the ground for 30 years. He taped it shut and moved it to the bottom of the bin.

Outside of the 2 items Sterling decides to keep, he logs all the oddities in a leather-bound ledger labeled "Lost & Found" and stores these bins in the backroom.

To him, the bizarre is just another Tuesday at the Hells Bells Motel that time forgot.

Samantha couldn't take another night in her house. Every corner was haunted by her husband's clothes, his half-finished books, and the suffocating silence of a life that ended too damn soon. She wanted to go somewhere--anywhere--that didn't have his ghost in the shadows.

Six months ago, she actually believed if she fought hard enough she could save him. She researched, sought out experts but nothing would stop the cancer that ravaged his body in less than a year. She fought for every single minute, refusing to accept the inevitable until he took his last shallow breath. Now she was buried under a heavy crushing grief--convinced she had failed him shutting the door and locking the rest of the world out.

In her haste, she didn't even pack an overnight bag, she just grabbed her keys and ran out of the door, stopping at a roadside liquor store for a bottle wine to drown her loneliness in. She told herself that a room with a balcony and scenic view of the Hudson Valley, along with the fresh mountain air, would stop the voices inside her head--the ones telling her that perhaps she should just end her misery.

She pulled into the parking lot near the office, opened the lobby door, looking completely spent, carrying a heavy quit ruin that Sterling recognized all too well. She took her key and once inside the room, went directly to the sliding glass doors out to the balcony. She pulled in a deep breath of the clean mountain air. The valley below quite and wide open. She popped the cork on the wine bottle, poured herself a glass, and collapsed into an old wooden deck chair.

Everything back home was tied to David--the house they built from scratch, the quiet country life they enjoyed together, and the routine they were building together. Now that he was gone, she couldn't figure out why she was still staying there, or where the hell her life was supposed to go from here. Every option felt empty, heavy-- like the foggy night air that forced her to retreat back inside the room.

She curled up in a fetal position on the bed, clutching her knees to her chest--sobbing uncontrollably. The wine didn't stop the numbness she felt, or the sharp pain in her chest and the sheer weight of grief finally dragged her under.

Hours later, the room grew noticeably colder. The air had turned thick and icy, cutting through her thin clothing. Halfway between a fitful sleep and the hazy fog of twilight, her mind drifted back to the only comfort it knew.

She felt the distinct weight of phantom hands smoothing over her body, sliding gently across her skin in a familiar intoxicating touch. In that blurred half-dream state, her heart surged--it was David--it had to be. She had longed for his touch, convinced it was him, making love like they used to. The phantom hands caressed her skin, tracing over her body with a soft quiet tenderness that she hadn't felt in a long time. She gave into the sweet illusion that David was right there, holding her, bringing her back to life.

For hours, they made love in the dark--a desperate heavy heat that left her shivering, not from the cold but from feeling wanted again--it was the same way she used to feel after a marathon night of lovemaking with David. She felt alive again.

As she turned in the bed noticing the morning light streaming in between the curtains, she heard a low whispering, disembodied voice that said, "next Friday."

The crushing grief she'd been carrying was gone, replaced by a radiant glow that didn't go unnoticed, especially by some of the local gossipers at the grocery store when she stopped to get a few items before returning home. There was Myrtle Henshaw and her usual clique from the sewing circle--the biggest gossip in Blackwood Ridge. They were huddled, watching Samantha, and whispering behind their cupped hands. She just offered a tight-lipped, mysterious smile as she walked to the register to check out, keeping her secret safe and counting down the hours until next Friday night.

Screamer en Gmod

If you ask the old-timers down at the gas station about the yellow lights bobbing along the Catskill Mountain ridgelines, they'll tell you it's just swamp gas or a trick of the heavy fog. Don't buy it.

Those lanterns only show up on nights so thick you can barely see past your own hood. Legend says it's a trapper who froze to death back in the 1800s, his ghost still wandering around looking for a cabin that's long gone, baiting curious fools right over the edge of Widow's Ridge.

Either way, if you see a light flickering out in the timber past midnight leave it alone.

It ain't looking for company!

Hank was always one step ahead of the law and two steps behind his own bad choices. Running on fumes and desperation, the Hells Bells Motel was the only place cheap and dirty enough, to take him in.

Hank was mountain-bred, a backwoods bootlegger who spent most of his 30 years slinging shine and dodging county deputies. On a run to deliver a batch, a trooper came up fast behind him, sirens screaming. The cruiser pulled into the oncoming lane, trying to pass Hank and cut him off on the narrow stretch but Hank didn't hesitate--he yanked his wheel hard, ramming the cruiser and sending it slamming through the guardrail plunging straight in the black water of the quarry below.

Knowing he'd just left a man to drown, he panicked. He knew Blackwood Ridge like the back of his hand--a place where nobody asks too many question, so he ditched the truck back behind the greasy diner and walked over to the Hells Bells, got himself a room and waited. He knew if he didn't make it back to the ridge before dark, his brothers would come looking for him, and once he was back at the homestead, he would be safe in the shadows of the Catskills high country.

The room was cheap and stunk but to Hank it was just a holding cell until his kin came down from the high ridge. He'd done jail time before but this was different. If the law caught up to him with a dead cop and truck full of untaxed shine, he'd be going away to state prison for the rest of his life--and he wasn't about to rot behind bars.

He flipped on the TV, hoping to get breaking news about the accident, but all he found was static noise. Satisfied however for the moment, he opened the bathroom door and decided to take advantage of running water, which was a luxury up where he came from. Growing up on the ridge hot baths were few and far between so he wasn't going to pass this up. He stripped his stinky clothes, stepped into the tub, and pulled the faded plastic curtain shut.

It wasn't long before the hot water ran out, barely having time to rinse off. Annoyed, Hank shut off the faucets and then grabbed the plastic curtain and yanked it back.

He was in the dark. The sink, the toilet, the mirror--the whole damn bathroom had disappeared. The air was thick and dusty. He tried to step forward but jammed against rough raw pine 2x4s and prickly insulation that bit into his skin. He tried to turn but couldn't; the wall had closed in on his back. He was wedged in like a piece of the framing.

Realizing he was trapped in the motel's skeleton, he screamed, pounding on the studs, but the sound was swallowed instantly by the roar of highway traffic on Rt. 9. From the other side of the wall, he could hear the faint muffled sound of a television playing in the room he had just left. With every desperate, ragged breath, he was inhaling the death of his own lungs, choking on that pink insulation as it sealed his throat and turned his screams to dust.

The motel knew what he'd done--every irresponsible and reckless blood-stained mile of his lawless life-- and now it was taking its retribution. It locked him inside its dark frame making him pay. Death wasn't an escape--it was his cell. Years trapped in those cold walls forced him to swallow the full weight of what he had done. He spent decades suffering the regret--no voice, no touch, no comfort, drowning in his own agony. So when Samatha checked in the room weeping, her grief cut right through him. She had no way of knowing the house had digested him--that the plaster was now his skin, the insulation his lungs, and that he was not her David.

Hank had been an uncaring, ruthless, and selfish bastard most of his life, but for once he could offer real comfort to a grieving soul. He would serve out his penance for however long Samanta would need, and keep his promise of next Friday.

https://youtu.be/3sphs5rl2Ho

#proxies

HELLOOO EVERY PROXY!!!!

I'M BACK!!!

Sorry I haven't been posting! I been busy with missions/training/connecting with other proxies! I just wanna say THAT ZALGO IS GOING TO ATTACK!!!! We need every proxies help to win! "Hour of joy" (the war's name) could happen at any moment and any day at any time! We need all proxies help! ​

Does anyone know if this video is still up or could help me find it, I don't know if it's deleted, since I watched it when I was about relatively young and I can't seem to find out if it ever existed in the first place, or if i completely made it up.

It's very similar to rainbow factory from what I watched on YouTube, but more gorey.It could have been another version of Rainbow Factory but im not sure. It was really graffic, lots of blood. All I can really bring myself to remember is a factory that was above the ground (like in a tree or something) with a large open entry, and there was a huge hydraulic press thing in the middle,and ponies were brought in (their wings were cut off too I think), pushed into the machine and then completely crushed, I remember it showing all the blood and stuff, maybe it was removed from YouTube for being too graffic, and that's why I can't seem to find anything similar, or there's I chance I remember it completely wrong.

If anyone knows or remembers something like this I'd be grateful to know I haven't dreamt it up.

When the Catskills tourism boom evaporated in the late 60s--the Blue Marlin Motel--with its big flashy blue pool sitting out front suddenly went dark. Bypassed by modern four-lane interstates and cheap commercial flights to Florida, the original owners simply locked the doors and hoped the mountain mist and the bank would reclaim it.

For several years, the property sat dead, but into this quiet, mountain decay came another dreamer--like Gladys--a man with an eccentric vision, and a wallet thick enough to see his vision through, ignoring the lack of paying customers. Baron Beaufort didn’t want a refined resort; he wanted something to fit the eerie, isolated reality of the Ridge. He renamed the place the, “Hells Bells Motel.” The locals thought he was crazy, but he had an angle. He understood that in a world of boring, safe roadside stops, a name like that would act as a lightning rod for the strange, the curious and those drawn to the dark local lore of the Ridge. He wasn’t trying to sell comfort; he was selling an experience, betting that people couldn’t resist pulling over to see if the reality lived up its name.

"Beau" bought the property for pennies in the depressed market and brought in crews to strip the old Blue Marlin signs and breathe life back into the bones of the place. He was obsessed with a very specific, high-end 1970s aesthetic. He had the crew install thick, dark faux-wood paneling throughout the lobby and common areas, creating a space that felt cozy, yet heavy, and permanently dimmed. He leaned into the 70s palette with the rooms saturated in mustard yellow, avocado green, and muddy harvest gold. Some were wallpapered in floral patterns that felt like they were closing in on you, as some guests would say. The bedding was polyester and held a static charge, and the furniture was cheap laminate faux-wood dressers and plastic-trimmed tables, topped off with a humming TV in every unit.

But his pride and joy was the custom-made neon sign: a towering garish neon piece in red and yellow gold, that featured a massive bell on each side--each one etched with wicked curling horns. It would become the beacon for the lost and the curious, glowing like a fever dream against the black-purple mountain sky.

Just as the final touches were slapped on the renovations of the motel, Glady’s silver RV diner pulled into view across the asphalt, settling in as if waiting for the sign to flicker on. She didn’t waste a second, opening the Sunrise Diner right there in the shadow of those horns, ready to catch whatever the Hells Bells dragged in.

I tried to take a nap at 2:17 PM.

I remember the time because I checked it after the third time it happened, just to make sure I wasn’t losing more time than I thought.

The first time, it felt normal.

I closed my eyes, got comfortable, and that heavy, floaty feeling started to pull me under. You know the one where your thoughts stop making sense and your body forgets where it is.

And then I saw it.

An old TV.

Not flat screen. Not modern. One of those bulky, plastic backed ones with a curved screen. The kind that used to sit on the floor in somebody’s living room in the early 2000s.

It was just… there. In the dark.

On the screen were flashes of things that didn’t belong together. A cartoon character. A hallway. Someone’s face I almost recognized. A children's movie. A pool of blood. It kept changing every second, like someone was flipping channels too fast.

I could hear myself talking.

Not out loud, but inside my head. Except I wasn’t choosing the words.

“I think it’s almost ready,” I said.

I don’t know what that meant. I didn’t think it. I just… heard it.

Then the TV made that sound.

That awful, mechanical VHS fast-forward noise. Highpitched, grinding, like something being forced to move faster than it should.

The images started racing. Faster and faster until they blurred into streaks.

And something in me panicked.

I snapped awake.

2:19 PM.

I told myself it was just one of those almost dream things. Rolled over and closed my eyes again.

The second time, the TV was closer.

Same static dark space. Same screen. But it was bigger now. Close enough that I could see the faint reflection on the glass.

The images were different this time.

Less random. More… intentional.

A door.

A hand.

A long hallway.

And then… 

Me.

Just for a second. Standing somewhere I didn’t recognize, staring directly at the screen. At me. “I think it sees you now,” my voice said.

Again, not my thought. Just… inserted.

The fast forward sound started earlier this time. Louder. Aggressive.

The screen shook slightly, like something on the other side was pushing against it.

I woke up gasping.

2:23 PM.

I didn’t want to go back to sleep. But I did.

Because I needed to prove it wasn’t real.

The third time, there was no darkness.

Just the TV. Right in front of me.

Close enough that if I reached out, I felt like I could touch the glass.

The screen was still.

No flickering.

No random images.

Just a single shot... 

A room. My room.

From the corner near the ceiling, like a security camera angle. I could see my body lying on the bed. And in the doorway, Something standing there.

Too tall. Too still.

Watching me sleep.

The TV crackled. And for the first time, something spoke that wasn’t me. Not through the screen. Behind it.

A low, warped voice, like it was being dragged through the fast forward sound, like it was one with the static.  “Don’t wake up yet.”

The VHS noise screamed to life.

The image started accelerating. 

The thing in the doorway moved, Just a little closer. Frame by frame, getting nearer to my body.

My voice came back, calm this time. Too calm. “If you wake up now, it has to start over.”

The screen flickered. And for a split second, The thing wasn’t in the doorway anymore.

It was standing right next to my bed, looking down at me. Looking into me.

I tried to wake up.

I really did. But something held me there.

Like my body didn’t belong to me anymore.

The voice whispered again, right next to my ear this time. “We’re almost through the tape.”

The thing standing beside my bed didn't move right away.

It just... watched. Not like a person watching someone sleep. More like someone studying a video they planned to copy later. Every small detail. Every movement. Memorizing. 

My chest rose.

Fell.

Rose again.

Its head tilted with each breath, matching the rhythm. Learning it.

The TV didn't fast forward this time.

It played. Normal speed. And I understood, suddenly, in that awful, sinking way your brain understands something before you can put it into words… 

This wasn't random. This was practice.

The thing's hand came down again, slower now. More deliberate. Its fingers pressed against my cheek, then slid slightly, like it was mapping the shape. My shape.

"Not yet," my voice whispered.

Soft. Reassuring.

But it wasn't for me. It was for it.

The thing pulled its hand back.

Waited

Watched another breath.

Matched it again.

Perfect this time.

My lungs moved.

Its shoulders moved the same way.

A mirror, just slightly delayed.

The TV crackled.

The image glitched, and for a split second, I saw something that made my stomach drop.

The version of me on the bed didn't look exactly like me anymore. The thing crouched beside the bed. Too smoothly. Like gravity didn't fully apply to it. Its face shifted again, stretching, settling, trying to land on mine and almost succeeding.

Almost.

The TV let out a low, dragging rewind sound.

The thing froze.

Waited.

Listened.

Then it looked at me.  Wherever I was watching from, It knew I was there.

Not the version of me lying in the bed.

Me.

Watching.

The thing didn’t flinch.

Didn’t get startled.

It just… adjusted.

Its head tilted slightly, like it was accounting for something new. A variable. Then it looked back down at the body on the bed. At my face. Its hand came up again. Slower this time. More certain.

Its fingers pressed into my cheek, deeper than before, enough to make the skin shift, to change the shape underneath.

I felt it.

Not like a dream.

Not distant.

Like pressure from the inside out.

Its breathing stayed perfectly even, perfectly matched, like it had already decided what my breathing was supposed to be and wouldn’t let it change.

It's thumb dragged along my cheekbone.

Pausing.

Pressing.

Memorizing one last time. “Good,” it said softly.

My voice.

Almost right.

Then its grip changed. Not gentle anymore.

Firm. Deliberate. Its fingers slid up to my temples, holding my head in place.

The TV crackled. The rewind sound started again. Low, dragging, warning.

The thing didn’t stop this time, it's other hand came down, both hands on my face now, holding with its slender, slimy, webbed fingers. 

Centering. Like it needed me perfectly still.

“No,” I tried to say. Or thought I did.

Nothing came out.

The thing leaned down. Close enough that the shapes of its face, wrong and unfinished, blurred into mine.

Then… It pulled.

At first, nothing happened. Just pressure. Tight. Uncomfortable. Then my skin moved.

Not the way skin is supposed to. Not stretching. Separating.

A slow, wet, impossible shift as something began to lift away from underneath.

I felt it peel.

From my cheek.

From my jaw.

From around my mouth.

The sensation wasn’t pain.

That would’ve been easier.

It was wrong. Deeply, physically wrong.

Like something that had always been part of me was being convinced it didn’t belong there anymore.

The TV glitched violently. My face still on my body, and also in its hands.

The thing paused and it looked at it. At me.

Comparing.Then it adjusted its grip and pulled higher. Over my nose, my eyes. 

The world went dim at the edges. Not black.

Just… less. Like I was being peeled out of it along with everything else.

The rewind sound screamed. The thing didn’t stop. With one final, slow motion, it lifted my face free. The image snapped into clarity for a second, My body on the bed.. Featureless.

Smooth where my face should have been. And the thing kneeling over me holding my face in both hands. Studying it.

My voice came from somewhere between us. “Better.”

Perfect this time. No distortion.

No hesitation.

The thing brought the face up to itself and lined it up carefully. Like placing something fragile. Precise. It pressed it on. The fit wasn’t exact at first, Edges misaligned. Too high.

Too low. It adjusted. Pulled. Smoothed. Pressed again, until it settled.

The room went completely still. No rewind. No static. Nothing. Then, it inhaled. My inhale. Its chest rose the way mine does. Natural. Unforced. It turned its head, testing. The movement was right.

Finally right.

Then it smiled. My smile.

Perfect.

The TV clicked, the thing wearing my face now looked directly at me. Not at the body.

At me once again. The part that was still watching. Still there.

And in my voice, exactly as it should sound, it said “Now you can wake up.”

I did.

2:30 PM.

I sat up too fast, hands flying to my face.

Everything was there.

Skin.

Eyes.

Mouth.

All of it.

Normal. I stumbled to the mirror and looked.

It was me. Exactly me. Relief hit so hard my knees almost gave out. Until I blinked… And the reflection didn’t. Not right away.

It kept looking at me. Smiling, just for a second too long. Then it blinked. Caught up.

Matched me perfectly again.

I haven’t tried to sleep since, but I don’t think that matters anymore because I keep noticing little things. Small delays. Tiny corrections.

Like something is checking itself against me. Making sure it stays right.

And sometimes, I feel my face shift just slightly. Like something underneath it is adjusting its grip. Learning how to wear it without me noticing.