Pocong Creepy Video Call Horror
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The air thickens, a damp chill crawling up your spine as the faint rustle of burial cloth whispers through the stagnant night. Shadows coil like serpents around gnarled trees, their branches clawing at a moonless sky. Your name slithers into your ears—not a voice, but a vibration, a hollow resonance seeping from the earth itself. The ground shifts, a pale shape emerging beneath twisted roots, bound in soil-stained linen. Its form blurs, flickering between stillness and jagged motion, as though the very darkness stitches it into existence. Each labored breath you take tastes of wet soil and decay. It doesn’t speak again. It doesn’t need to. The unspoken demand hangs, suffocating—a silent plea, a threat, a curse waiting to latch onto your pulse. Your feet root to the earth as the shroud unravels, inch by inch, revealing nothing but endless white cloth… and the faintest imprint of a face where none should be.
