He has brought the circus to her bedroom

Maya jolted awake, the sharp, mocking sound of a clown’s bike horn slicing through the remnants of her shameful dream. She gasped, her body frozen in terror, her chest heaving as the horror of what was happening in front of her unfolded.

Reality was far, far worse than any nightmare.

At the foot of her bed stood Gitchy, no longer confined to the shadows of her mind but now fully manifested in her room, as real as the fear coursing through her veins. His body was hunched, his painted face stretching into that grotesque smile that seemed to bend the very fabric of reality. His eyes gleamed with sadistic hunger, and her heart raced wildly, blood pounding in her ears.

Maya tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat as movement in her peripheral vision snapped her focus. Balloon animals —four of them, vibrant and grotesque, jerked toward her with unnatural speed, their rubbery squeaks piercing the silence. They untwisted themselves midair, their forms unraveling into long, coiling strips that lashed out toward her.

Before she could react, the balloons had wrapped tightly around her wrists and ankles, binding her to the bed with an unnerving strength. The rubber dug into her skin, the pressure both cold and foreign, and she tugged at her restraints, panic overtaking her senses. Her body was paralyzed by fear, each **** breath coming out in shallow bursts as she yanked and twisted to no avail.

The room around her began to warp—an unnatural pink light seeped from under the door, casting the entire room in an eerie, dim glow. It pulsated, flickering like some twisted heartbeat. Maya's head snapped towards the door, her wide eyes unblinking.

Disjointed, garbled calliope music drifted into the room, the warped notes clashing together in a macabre symphony. The unmistakable smell of popcorn and cotton candy wafted through the air, the scents sickly sweet, turning her stomach. The world she had known was twisting, warping into something cruel and wrong.

Gitchy stepped closer, his presence consuming the room. His mismatched shoes squeaked with every step, but the sound was no longer playful. It was menacing. His grin, impossibly wide, threatened to split his face in two. And the worst part— the thing that made her scream —was his dirty red lips. Rows upon rows of dull, yellow teeth, layered endlessly like a shark, but the lips... their upturned ends curving and coiling into themselves, creating a grotesque spiral that seemed to draw her in. It was as though the deeper she looked into his smile, the further she fell into madness.

Her scream tore through the room, high-pitched and raw, but it was swallowed by the distorted calliope music that grew louder, more chaotic, as though mocking her terror. Gitchy’s smile only widened, his head cocking to one side, watching her struggle, feeding on her panic.

Above him, a **** of pink feathers floated lazily in the air, spinning and twirling like dancers. They swirled around his head, catching the dim light, their soft edges promising torment. They hovered eagerly, waiting for their chance to touch her skin, to explore her most sensitive places.

Gitchy raised his hands, and Maya’s eyes went wide with horror. His white gloves covered fingers— far too many fingers —each one twisting, wriggling, moving in a way that defied nature. The joints bent fluidly, bonelessly, and the tips wiggled with anticipation, eager to begin their work.

“Let’s have some fun, Maya,” Gitchy cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet, dripping with malice. His serpentine tongue flicked out, tasting the air, savoring the scent of her fear.

The pink feathers descended, brushing lightly against her skin, teasing her wrists and ankles, and she jerked violently in response, her body betraying her. Gitchy watched her thrash, the desperation in her eyes only feeding his excitement.

Her feet twitched beneath the bonds, her toes curling in anticipation. She knew what was coming. She always knew.

And then it began. The feathers danced across her skin, soft at first, tracing the curves of her body, tickling her feet with maddening precision. A helpless giggle escaped her lips—against her will, against her horror. She gasped, clenching her jaw, trying to suppress the rising tide of laughter that bubbled up inside her.

But Gitchy didn’t stop. The fingers, the feathers, they worked in unison, exploring her sides, her stomach, her feet—knowing exactly where to press, exactly where to drive her wild with sensation. Her giggles turned into wild laughter, uncontrollable, the sound punctuated by gasps for breath, by **** cries for mercy.

Gitchy leaned in close, his breath cold on her neck. “Oh, how I love to hear you laugh,” he whispered, his voice thick with pleasure. His too-many fingers skittered along her ribs, sending another wave of laughter through her body, the sound echoing off the walls.

The more she laughed, the tighter the balloons constricted, pulling her taut against the bed, her body shaking as the feathers and fingers worked relentlessly. Her skin was on fire, every nerve tingling with unbearable sensitivity. The tickling was unrelenting, but beneath the surface, she knew it wasn’t just tickling.

It was control. It was torment.

She was Gitchy’s first meal in years, and she was being devoured.