what would the creep's bedrooms be like? also would they live in the mansion?
Mansion, second floor, far end of the hall (he insists on distance from everyone else so he can be loud).
Chaotic, teenage-boy-lives-forever energy. Torn band posters on stained, yellowing walls, clothes and knives left absolutely everywhere. Thereās a suspiciously fresh-looking blood trail leading to a closet where he sometimes dumps āsouvenirs.ā
Mattress directly on the floor, no sheets half the time, cheap-ass scratchy blanket, smells faintly of sweat, iron, and some weird aftershave he stole from Tim.
Coppery, acrid, the cheap detergent trying (and failing) to cover up gore. Always reeks of man.
Grunge-slash-homicidal frat boy. Knives in the bedside drawer, a lighter, and a dead phone he never charges.
You walk in and instantly feel like youāll get tetanus just from breathing.
Mansion, ground floor near the back door (so he can sneak out for walks in the woods).
Surprisingly cozyāwalls covered in ripped-out nature magazine pages, newspaper clippings, string pinned to maps showing his routes because he forgets where heās going sometimes. Thereās a dog-eared stack of comic books on a crooked shelf.
Bed has a soft, lumpy mattress, flannel sheets with random holes burned through from cigarette accidents.
Faint pine needles, wood smoke, and that dusty old-cabin scentālike someone living half-outdoors.
Survivalist meets haphazard carelessness. Hiking boots in the corner, half a broken clock, a few childhood plushies hidden under the pillow (shhh).
Feels safe but unhinged, like you might get a hug or get punched depending on how you wake him up.
Mansion basement, in a side room originally used for storage.
Spartan. Thereās a single desk where he writes things down obsessively, walls scrawled with half-finished plans and tally marks. A faded Polaroid of a childhood memory is pinned over the light switch.
Sturdy cot with a gray blanket, and some pillowsāhe hates being too coddled.
Damp concrete, stale coffee, a faint hint of oil and mold from the water heater/pipes next door.
Bare, functional, borderline prison-cell chic. One pair of boots lined up perfectly by the door, weapons in a locked box that he barely touches.
Heavy, oppressive, a sense you shouldnāt be here without permission.
The mansionās basement, in a converted maintenance room he took over.
Surprisingly warm, a little messy in a human way. Thereās an old, secondhand couch covered in a plaid blanket, and a small lamp with a soft golden glow. A corkboard on one wall is pinned with yellowing Polaroids that Kate gives him.
A decently thick mattress, layered with an old quilt and mismatched sheets.
Dust, faint coffee, cheap cologne, and a trace of tobacco smoke from cigarettes he tries to keep outside but sometimes canāt help it.
Rustic comfort. Scuffed wooden nightstand, dented thermos for late-night coffee, a couple dog-eared paperbacks stacked by the bed. Thereās even a half-finished crossword puzzle on the nightstand.
Cozy in a low-key depressive way, like a loner whoās made a small, stubborn safe place for himself in a world thatās constantly out to get him.
ā¦ . HOODIE (BRIAN THOMAS)
Mansionās top floor attic room, furthest from Slender.
Monastic. He only keeps what he needs: a neat bed, a simple trunk of clothes, a worktable with maps, notes, and old cameras. Blackout curtains nailed to the wall.
Thin mattress on a metal frame, perfectly made every morning.
Cold, faintly of film chemicals, dust, and wood. He develops photos in there too, so thereās a blinding red light when you flip the light switch.
Minimalist and functional, but a sense that everything is placed with obsessive care. He has a system.
Chillingly calm, almost monk-likeāyouād feel watched even when heās gone.
Mansion, second floor, has a good view of the woods.
Surprisingly soft and personal. Pale curtains to filter the harsh sun, a thick rug on the floor to keep her toes warm, and a secondhand vanity sheās refurbished with fresh paint.
Queen-sized bed with simple but cozy beddingācream sheets, a chunky knit blanket, and a faded pink throw sheās had since childhood. Thereās a single stuffed animal tucked behind the pillows, hidden from sight but still treasured.
Faint lavender from a diffuser and wood polish.
A comforting blend of practical and sweetāwarm wood tones, a few potted plants she tries her best not to kill, and a framed cross-stitch on the wall she works on.
Protective but gentle. A place that says āyou can breathe nowā after a hard day.
Mansionās greenhouse shed with functioning internet and electricity he rigged illegally from a cell tower.
Looks like a 2000s gamerās cryptāflickering monitors, a massive tangle of wires, empty ramen cups, Mountain Dew cans, game cartridges.
Filthy futon shoved in the corner with a worn Legend of Zelda blanket.
Electronics burn, stale soda, and faint mildew.
Techno-chaos with a bit of āgamer gremlinā energy. Neon LEDs, game posters peeling off the walls.
Loud, overstimulating, but weirdly cozy if youāre a fellow night-owl.
Mansion third floor, next to an old sewing room she took over.
Busy, creative messāunfinished sketches, paint, sculpting tools, journals. Thereās a mirror covered in sticky notes with reminders and song lyrics.
Soft, plush comforter in deep reds, a tangle of pillows.
Oil paint, wood shavings, a faint warm floral from her lotion.
Boho-artist with a faintly macabre twist (one of the sketches is definitely a murder scene).
Warm and creative, but with a tension buzzing underneath.
Mansionās attic but took over a storage room to make it his own.
Carnival nightmare. Bright and dark colors clashing, broken toys, striped curtains, some stained with who-knows-what. Genuinely feels like a big-top circus tent.
Gigantic beanbag that smells faintly of cotton candy and something rotting.
Sugar, rotting sweets, a chemical bitterness from old clown makeup.
Chaotic clown lair, visually overwhelming.
The longer you stay, the more wrong everything feels, like youāll never leave the funhouse.
Mansionās third floor, right next to Clockworkās room (they gossip a lot).
Hot pink splattered with blood. Posters of boy bands, Polaroids of kills she tapes to a mirror, perfume bottles half-used. Looks like an animal cruelty ad from how many things are covered in cheetah, leopard, and zebra patterns.
Fluffy comforter, big stuffed animals, a pink knife under her pillow. One of Jeffās hoodies is hidden under her blankets.
Bubblegum, body spray, and copper.
Teenage killer Barbie-core and gyaru baddie.
Energetic, girlish, but with a horrific edge if you look too close.
Does not stay at the mansionālives in a rotting trailer on the edge of the woods.
Manages with what he can find. Collects clothes, bedding, and items to keep himself warm at night.
Long sofa with a scratchy blanket that came with the trailer.
Wet wood, dirt, cheap soap, faint trace of whiskey.
Worn-out, tragic, heartbreakingly simple.
Youād feel like he never truly moved in, just hides there.
Rents a modest house on the outskirts of a small, sleepy town, hidden under a different name.
Warm neutrals, lived-in, candle wax drips on the dresser, books piled everywhere.
Cozy queen bed, layered blankets, a weighted throw to help her sleep.
Lavender, faint gun oil, honey soap.
Homely but with scars showing throughāa survivorās nest.
Grounding, safe, but you can feel a hidden blade under the softness.
Squats in abandoned hospitals around the city, moves often.
Makeshiftāstolen blankets, random stolen medical supplies, loose syringes in a jar.
Thin, stained hospital cots and work tables.
Disinfectant and the faintest copper tang.
Junkie doctor meets drifter squatter.
Restless, temporary, never quite safe.
Private wing of the mansionāno one goes there.
Gothic elegance, heavy carved furniture, impossibly neat, no personal effects.
He doesnāt sleep, but there is a massive canopy bed in case a guest ever needs to ārest.ā Mainly stays at his grand desk.
Clean, wood polish, something ancient and cold.
Timeless, Victorian, oppressive in its formality.
You cannot relax in there, periodāyouād feel him even when heās not visible.
