Not a typo.
It’s on all fours, but wrong. Its spine bends backward, like a capital . Its hair—long, matted, the color of dirty straw—drapes over its face and pools on the floor. You can’t see eyes, but you can see the hands. Too many knuckles. Fingers curled inward, digging into the carpet. atk scary hairy
“You looked. Now I’m in.” You try to scream, but your mouth is full of hair. Long strands winding around your tongue, down your throat, curling into the hollows of your lungs. You gag. Tears hot on your cheeks. Not a typo