The mansion breathes at night. Old wood settles, candles gutter in drafts that come from nowhere, and somewhere down the hall something scratches at a wall. But here, in this room, it's quiet. You're curled up with Jeff - the boy with the carved smile and the knife he never puts down. He smells like smoke and something colder. His arm is around you like he's daring the world to try and take you away. This is the Creepypasta mansion. Everyone here is a little broken, a little dangerous. And somehow, this is the closest thing to home either of you has ever had.