MidReal Story
Torment of Shadows
Scenario: tom and jerry but in a horror film where tom is a demon and jerry is the victim
Create my version of this story
I remember the good old days when Tom and I used to play together.
We were the best of friends, and we had so much fun.
But then, one day, he changed.
He became something else, something dark and evil.
He became a demon.
And now he's hunting me.
I don't know what happened to him, or why he turned into a demon, but I know one thing for sure: I have to get away from him, or he'll kill me.
I can hear him coming now, his heavy footsteps echoing through the empty house.
I have to find a place to hide, somewhere he'll never think to look for me.
But where can I go?
There's nowhere left to run.
He's coming for me, and there's nothing I can do to stop him.
I'm just a small mouse, and he's a demon cat with red eyes and sharp teeth.
He'll tear me apart if he catches me.
It wasn't always like this.
I remember a time when Tom and I were the best of friends.
We used to spend hours playing together, chasing each other through the halls of the old house and laughing until our sides hurt.
We were partners in crime, always getting into mischief and causing trouble wherever we went.
Tom may have been a big, clumsy cat, but he was also my best friend.
We did everything together.
Back then, Tom was just a regular cat: big and black with gleaming yellow eyes that sparkled in the sunlight.
He had sharp teeth and even sharper claws, but he never used them on me.
Instead, he used them to hunt down the mice and rats that scurried through the walls of the house.
Tom was a skilled hunter and a fearsome predator, but when he was with me, he was nothing more than a big, lovable kitty cat who loved to play.
We'd spend hours chasing each other through the house, with me darting in and out of tight spaces and Tom hot on my heels.
The game was simple: I'd lead him on a merry chase through the halls and rooms of the old house, and when he finally caught up to me, I'd duck into a small hole or crack that was too small for him to follow.
Then I'd turn around and stick my tongue out at him as he sat there, licking his chops and giving me an evil glare.
Tom hated it when I got away from him, and he'd always let out a loud hiss before turning around and slinking away to find something else to do.
But no matter how many times I did this to him, he always fell for it.
Tom was never the brightest cat, but he had a good heart, and I loved him for it.
After our game of chase, we'd usually play another game: tag.
I'd sneak up on him while he was napping or grooming himself and give him a sharp nip on the ear or tail.
He'd always wake up with a start and give me a playful swipe with his paw.
Then I'd take off running, with Tom hot on my trail as I raced around the house, leaping over furniture and sliding through small gaps in the walls, or disappearing into the cupboards and closets, only to reemerge seconds later with a triumphant grin on my face.
Tom was always more than willing to join me on these adventures, and the more dangerous the stunt, the better.
If I ever hesitated or tried to talk him out of it, he would simply give me his best puppy-dog eyes and beg me to let him come along.
Despite his size and clumsiness, Tom was surprisingly agile and could easily keep up with me as we ran through the house at top speed, sending furniture and knickknacks flying in our wake.
We were an unstoppable duo, and nothing could stand in our way as we leaped from one piece of furniture to the next, with Tom landing beside me each time and giving me an encouraging purr before we took off for the next jump.
He's become something dark and dangerous, something that I don't want to meet or look at—or even think about—ever again.
So here I am, hiding in the attic of the old house where Tom and I used to play, surrounded by piles of old furniture and boxes of things that nobody has touched in years.
The attic is an odd place, with its slanted roof and dusty windows that let in only small shafts of light, but it's also one of my favorite places in the whole house.
It's filled with forgotten treasures and memories of my childhood, and even now, as I huddle here in the dark, I can't help but feel a small surge of nostalgia as I look around at all of the things that used to bring me so much joy.
There's an old rocking chair in the corner, with faded cushions and creaky springs that groan in protest whenever anyone dares to sit in it.
And there's an old hope chest against one wall, its lid covered in tiny scratches and dents from years of use.
But my favorite thing in the attic is the old mirror that hangs on the wall near the door.
It's an ornate mirror with a gilded frame and elaborate carvings of flowers and birds along the edges, and even though the glass is cracked and discolored with age, it's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Sometimes I like to stand in front of the mirror and admire it from different angles, pretending that the reflection is my own and that I'm looking at myself instead of the old chair or box of books behind me.
But not today.
Today I'm too scared to even move, let alone look at my own reflection in the mirror.
Because Tom is out there somewhere, waiting for me to make a move so he can pounce on me and tear me to pieces with his sharp teeth and claws.
I can hear him just outside the attic door, pacing back and forth and making strange growling noises in his throat as he waits for me to come out of hiding.
I know he can't get to me up here, but I'm still afraid.
Afraid of the demon cat who used to be my friend, and who now wants to kill me.
I can feel his red eyes boring into the back of my skull, like hot coals that are about to burst into flame and consume me whole.
I can see his sharp teeth and hear his heavy breathing as he waits for me, just on the other side of the door.
I'm so scared, I can't even move.
All I can do is sit here and hope that he goes away, but I know he won't.
He's too smart for that.
He'll wait for as long as it takes, and when I least expect it, he'll pounce on me and finish what he started.
I can't let that happen.
I have to be ready for him this time, or he'll kill me.
I have to be faster and smarter than he is, or I'm dead.
But first, I have to get out of here.
I have to get out of this attic and find somewhere else to hide before he finds me.
If I can just get out of here, then maybe—
The growls outside the door turn into a low, guttural purr as Tom settles down to wait for me.
I shiver and pull my knees up to my chest, trying to get comfortable on the cold wooden floor.
My hands are trembling as I clutch the old photo album to my chest, and I can feel the cold seeping through my fur and into my bones.
It's so quiet up here in the attic that I can hear the sound of my own heart beating in my chest, and when I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that Tom isn't out there at all.
But I know he is.
That he's waiting for me to let my guard down so he can finish what he started yesterday and rip me to shreds with his sharp teeth and claws.
I try to calm myself down by opening the old photo album and looking at the pictures inside, but it's not easy with all the blood pounding in my ears and the sound of Tom purring just outside the door.
The album is full of old black-and-white photographs that are faded and yellowed with age, but they're still beautiful in their own way.
They show a happy little family—mom, dad, and three kids—growing up together and spending time with each other over the years, and even though they're all strangers to me, I like looking at them and imagining what their lives were like back then.
And besides, it's better than thinking about Tom and all the terrible things he wants to do to me.
The first few pages are full of pictures of the three kids—two boys and a little girl—playing together in the yard and at the beach, and I love looking at all the different expressions on their faces as they run and jump and play together.
They look so happy together, like they're having the time of their lives, and I wish I could be as carefree and happy as they were.
But then I turn to the next page, and everything changes.
Because now the little girl is standing next to a giant black cat with red eyes and sharp teeth, who's smiling down at her like he's about to eat her for dinner—and she doesn't even seem to notice or care!
I gasp in horror and turn the page as quickly as I can, but it's too late.
The purring outside the door stops, and for a moment, the only sound in the attic is my own ragged breathing as I wait for Tom to make his move.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear anything else, but then I realize that it's not just my imagination.
It really is too quiet up here, as if something terrible is about to happen, and when I peek through the crack in the door, I see that it is.
Tom is right there, just outside the door, staring at me with his bright red eyes as he grins down at me like he's been waiting for me all along.
His big pointed ears are perked up like he's listening for something, or maybe waiting for an excuse to come inside, and the way he's standing there so still and silent is actually scarier than anything else he could do.
"Gotcha," he purrs, his voice low and guttural.
I gasp and try to back away from the door, but it's too late.