zombie-enthusiastofalltime

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

This is Forsaken killer concept based around Murder Mystery 2 called The

Murderer

"Trust is the sharpest blade."

Role: Stealth + Trap Killer

Weapon: Vintage Knife – a quiet, clean dagger that makes no sound until it pierces flesh. Strikes are nearly silent.

Movement Speed: 4.6 m/s

Terror Radius:

0 meters when Disguised

32 meters when Revealed

The lowest hp out all the Killer

Passive Ability: Footsteps

You passively see Survivor footprints for 3 seconds after they move, even without perks.

Footsteps show direction and duration, allowing you to track silently without scratch marks.

Active Ability 1: Trap

Place up to 3 floor traps.

2-second cooldown between placing each.

Survivors who walk over a trap are frozen for 4 seconds — unable to move, vault, or drop pallets.

Traps are nearly invisible, but can be disabled by Survivors if crouched and interacted with.

Active Ability 2: Disguise

Toggle disguise to appear like a random Survivor (from their current outfit pool).

While disguised:

You have 0 terror radius

Your weapon is hidden

You can attack but it Breaks the disguise and dose more hp if your was all raedy revealed.

Breaking the disguise (either manually or by trying to attack) creates a jump scare scream and reveals you to nearby Survivors for 6 seconds.

Weapon: Vintage Knife

Slender, antique, and silent.

Strikes are nearly soundless, with no wind-up cue — hits feel sudden and shocking.

M1 attacks leave unique deep stab wounds that take longer to heal (slightly longer mend time by default).

Intro cutscene just say your role is Innocents or Survivors idk for this one but for ever one but Murderer it say Murderer. for a Survivor it can Sheriff. map is a office that look like nSOffice from Murder Mystery 2. if the Sheriff or mm2 owner could be survivor not the Survivor than they may get a Last man standing with the Bloxburg News Reporter Guy because Bloxburg, or at least a map bearing that name and known as "The Ledges" at the time, was featured in Murder Mystery 1, a classic Roblox game, before it became the popular standalone game "Welcome to Bloxburg". This is my first post here.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

whoever said "zombies will never hurt you" is a LIAR this bitch just bit my fingers off!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (self portriat??? i guess)

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

The world of Decayed Masterlist

World-building

The world of Decayed here THE VITALITY VIRUS here map of the world here (WIP) Enhancements & Technology (special abilities) here Seven Sanctuaries here Faction list here

Main Cast to be revealed

Zombie&Friendz Grrnette Brainrot Blister “Biz” McGnaw Stitchley Gutson Rottorrow Ma-grr Slobbie Sue Meaclaw

Side Stories:

Roots Between Us What You Become Static When You Blink Skin Between Storms You Make Me Feel Human (Even When I’m Not)

Ask are open for Zombie&Friendz here world of Decayed blog here

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

Genre: Post-apocalyptic horror / identity thriller Word Count: ~2,000 Tone: Introspective, eerie, tragic, darkly poetic Perspective: Second-person, gender-neutral reader Title: “Skin Between Storms”

You feel the breath before you hear the voice.

It claws up from the hollow of your chest—raspy, hungry, feral—and whispers through your teeth like a snarl:

Run.

But there’s nothing chasing you. Not this time.

The rain spatters down in bursts, spitting through the crumbling holes in the subway ceiling. You’re curled against the wall like a thrown-out mannequin, limbs long and crooked, tucked under a blanket of mossy jackets and salvaged vinyl. The concrete under your back is cracked and pitted. Beneath your skull, you can feel the heartbeat of the city—slow, rotting, mechanical.

You blink against the dark. The hunger’s there again. Quiet now. Waiting. Coiled behind your ribs like a second self.

You haven’t fed in days.

But you're still... you.

For now.

Your name used to mean something. You whisper it sometimes, just to test the taste. It still fits your mouth. You’ve kept it scrawled in sharpie across your arm, faded beneath grime and scar tissue. You rewrite it when it fades. It’s a kind of anchor. A promise.

The Sentients are rare. You’ve met two others. One laughed so hard they choked on their own tongue. The other didn’t speak at all, but painted something luminous on a cave wall in crushed berry pulp and bile—an image of a creature with two faces, one weeping and the other grinning wide and red.

You think that was a warning.

Your reflection in a shattered train window agrees. There’s a light in your eyes that doesn’t belong to the dead. But the skin under them is bruised black-green, and your jaw trembles when the scent of human sweat rolls down the tunnels.

You know what you are.

A host.

A halfway.

A living contradiction stitched together with fever, instinct, and something sharp enough to tear you apart from the inside.

You move when the rain stops.

The surface is dangerous in the daylight, but you need supplies—clothes, canned food, anything to bribe the part of you that thinks it's a beast. You dress with intention: a long, patchy coat, frayed gloves with the fingers cut, layered scarves that cover the worst of the sores on your neck. One half of your face is chewed raw, but the other still carries traces of who you were: high cheekbones, dark lashes, defiance.

You call it zombie-chic.

You keep a cracked mirror in your satchel, not for vanity—never vanity—but for reminders. Perspective. Balance.

When the hunger starts to whisper louder, you hold it up and ask, “Which one of us is driving today?”

Sometimes it answers.

Today, it doesn’t.

The wind’s wrong. You hear screaming three blocks away. Not the kind born of violence—but celebration. Somewhere out there, Survivors think they’ve won a skirmish. Firecrackers maybe. You hate how your heart jumps.

Your other self doesn’t.

It’s awake now. Purring like static behind your ears.

Your boots crunch glass. You make it to the pharmacy ruins by twilight. Half the place has collapsed, but the backroom’s intact. You find gauze, iodine, a half-frozen can of peaches. A cracked pair of sunglasses—useless but cool. You put them on.

You almost feel human.

Then: a noise.

Breath.

Not yours.

You freeze mid-step.

They saw you.

Three Survivors. Late teens maybe. One's got a shotgun. Another, a radio.

The third—freckled, too small for their jacket—makes eye contact.

They don’t run.

Neither do you.

You should.

But something in you stirs. Not the monster. Not the hunger.

Recognition.

You knew someone like them. Before.

You smile—just a little. A mistake.

The shotgun cocks.

You raise your hands. “I’m not like the others,” you say.

But your voice cracks halfway through, dipped in that gravel-edged undertone. The one that doesn’t belong to you.

They flinch.

The freckled one whispers: “Carrier?”

Worse.

You open your mouth to answer—but your nose twitches.

Blood.

Someone’s wounded.

The scent hits your spine like lightning. The world narrows to heat. To taste. To need.

It takes everything to say, “Run.”

And then you lose.

Your fingers twitch. Your muscles lock. Your jaw stretches wide, wider. Something inside you giggles.

It takes over.

You hear yourself scream. Or maybe roar. You lunge, not at the kids—but at the wall beside them. Just enough to scatter them. Just enough to satisfy the thing inside.

The tiles crack. The radio drops.

The kids bolt.

When you wake, your hands are coated in dust. Not blood.

The wall’s cracked, but no one’s dead.

You fell asleep standing up again.

Or rather—the other one stood while you slept.

You clutch your head and laugh.

There’s no relief in it.

You know this balance won’t last forever. The G-Strain is evolving you. Healing your cells. Sharpening your instincts. Giving you creativity and madness in equal measure.

You were never bitten.

You were built.

By war. By chance. By a lab accident no one will admit to.

You walk back to your hollow, scarf flapping like a battle flag.

In the dark, you whisper, “Thank you for not killing them.”

The part of you that isn't you... doesn’t answer.

But it purrs.

You smile.

Together, you survive.

Together, you’re something new.

Together, you are becoming.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

Realized I never really got into how I correlate my disability+mental illness shit and zombiekin identity.

COPINGLINK ZOMBIE SYMPTOMS:

dissociation, derealization, burnout, fatigue, sensory sensitivity, irritability, communication difficulties, groan+chew stims, brain fog, slow processing, low empathy, social isolation/disconnected from human society, lost sense of self, clumsy/questionable motor skills, slumped stumbled walk, chronic muscle and joint pain, dehumanization, self destructive +intrusive thoughts, numbness

These are things that heavily impact me and my "life". In addition to my interest in zombies, bones, decay, death, etc. Attaching these concepts into a personal identity has made it more digestible and this existence much more... lively, ironically.

🪦🧠🧟‍♂️🫀🍖💀🫁🧟‍♂️🦷🦴🥩⚰️

self care is preserving your corpse so eat, shower, and brush your teeth:3

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

soo interesting to m that these elderly people whos rooms i clean, dont know that im a gross rotting creature, shuffling through the halls with my cart

yall a zombie disinfects your bathroom sinks nnd vacuums your carpets etc etc

m an un/dead housekeeper at an assisted living home rhehehe

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

one thing about zombie fans that you dont like?

Biggest pet peeve , zombie fans who just dont understand the true meaning behind the media they are consuming. Like if I tell a resident evil player that the game is more than just bang bang shoot zombies and mutants, and that its actually explaining the dangers of corporate greed, and the fear of defeat, destruction and enslavement, they would look at me like i was bonkers.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

Some zombie movies are about the systematic disease of greedy corporations and corrupt governments. Other zombie movies are about how wild it would be to watch someone eat their own eyeballs.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

🕸️“A Face They’ll Follow”

Pairing: Vecna x Mimic!Reader Genre: Horror, Psychological Thriller, Dark Romance Word Count: ~1,800 Setting: Post-S4 AU — Vecna lives, plotting a slow invasion with Mimic!Reader as his vanguard.

here part 1

PART 2:

A Face They’ll Follow

Hawkins smells like memory.

Warm grass. Burned hair. Cheap perfume. You step out of the bleeding rift behind the Creel House, barefoot in borrowed skin. The form you wear is near perfect — skin unmarred, eyes wide, trembling like prey.

A girl.

Someone they loved. Someone they lost.

Vecna watches from the shadows, cloaked in rot and silence. The vines pulse behind him, spreading underground like a nervous system. You feel him in your skull even when he’s not speaking — a hum of static, of expectation.

“You will enter them first,” he told you. “Their hearts. Their grief. They’ll open the gates for us, if you wear the right face.”

You are no longer the experiment. You are the bait.

And you are so good at it.

🩸 The first to see you is Max.

She’s limping near the edge of town, headphones cracked, eyes guarded like always. You wait until she rounds the corner before stepping into her path.

You’ve chosen the boy this time — the one who burned, the one she sees in dreams. Billy.

“Max,” you say, and your voice cracks just enough to make it hurt.

She freezes.

She doesn’t speak, just stares. Her whole body coils like a spring. You think she’ll run. Or scream.

But instead… she walks to you. Hands shaking.

“You’re dead,” she whispers.

You tilt your head — just so. Billy’s smirk twitching at the edge of your lips.

“I was.”

Max’s breath hitches.

“Is this real?” “I think so,” you say. You don’t blink. “I feel real.”

She touches your face, and your skin glitches. Just for a second — enough to show the waxy paleness beneath.

Max pulls her hand back like it’s burned. You expect the panic.

You don’t expect the tear down her cheek.

“What are you?”

You don’t answer. You just say, “I remember you.”

And for some reason, that’s worse than anything else.

🧠 Later, in the sanctuary below the Creel House

Your form drips away like wet paint. You curl at Vecna’s feet, head resting against the base of his throne.

“She cried,” you say. “She touched my face.”

Vecna doesn’t look at you. He stares into the spire above — watching, waiting.

“Good,” he says.

You close your eyes.

“I think she believed me.”

Vecna speaks after a pause.

“They will always believe their grief. It blinds them more than fear.”

You wonder if he’s talking about Max. Or himself.

🔥 The next face you wear is Eddie Munson.

You stand outside the Wheeler house, bleeding and wide-eyed. Rain clings to your curls. Your vest is torn.

Dustin opens the door.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“Eddie?”

You say nothing. You let the silence work. Let his hope fill the air.

“You’re— How—?”

You reach forward, just once, to brush your fingers against his shoulder.

“I missed you, Dusty.”

He crumbles.

He lets you in.

And so the door opens. Not just to the house — but to the rest of Hawkins. You eat their grief. Wear their ghosts. And they call it hope.

👁️ Meanwhile, the cracks spread underground.

Vecna sends you out again. And again. Every time, you return with a new piece of Hawkins shattered. One mother saw her missing daughter. One sheriff thought he glimpsed his dead son.

You wear every mask perfectly — until someone touches your skin too long and sees the wax melt.

Sometimes they scream.

Sometimes… they ask you to stay.

“You remind me of them,” Steve says once. “Even if you’re not real. That’s enough.”

He lets you rest your head on his shoulder for hours.

You don’t even have to mimic his voice to feel the rot set in. It’s already working.

💔 But you’re not immune to the mask.

The more you wear them, the more you vanish. Laughter that isn’t yours lingers too long. You feel fear you’ve never lived, love you’ve never earned. You're becoming a graveyard of stolen hearts.

You return to Vecna, eyes hollow, skin flickering between forms.

“I think I’m disappearing.”

Vecna’s hand finds your jaw. Gentle.

“No,” he says. “You are becoming what you were meant to be. A new god — shaped by the pain of all others.”

You look up at him. You want to believe it.

But sometimes… you still remember the girl in the pink dress. The violin. The brother. The hands that pulled you from the real world screaming.

You remember being someone.

And it hurts.

🕷️ THE ENDING — OR THE NEXT BEGINNING?

One night, you stand in the middle of Hawkins High. You’re no one. You’re everyone.

Max sees you. Dustin sees you. Even Eleven sees you. And they all call you different names.

You take a deep breath. You open your mouth. And out comes every voice at once.

Billy. Eddie. Barb. Chrissy. Hopper. Yourself. Vecna.

The lights explode.

And from the shadows behind the curtain, Vecna watches. Smiling.

The gate has already opened.

They let you in.

End

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

Thank you @zombie-enthusiastofalltime and everyone who got me to 25 reblogs!

🕸️ "Nothing Human Left"

Pairing: Vecna x Mimic!Reader Genre: Horror, Dark Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Word Count: ~1,700 Warnings: Body horror, memory loss, obsession, light gore, emotional manipulation, existential dread, tragic love

Nothing Human Left

The tower breathes.

You can hear it—feel it—as you climb. The walls pulse with red light, each vein a drumbeat in your head. The Upside Down has shaped itself around him, and now it whispers with his voice.

You drag yourself upward. You’re barely holding shape.

Bits of your skin flicker: a patch of someone else’s freckles, a strand of blonde hair, a hand too small and childlike. Your voicebox clicks, sputters, hums. You’ve used too many faces lately.

Too many lies.

But this time, you're not here to mimic anyone. You're here as yourself.

Or what’s left of it.

You find him in the heart of the sanctum—Vecna, twisted and tall, his form tangled in black vines and bone like a throne. He turns his head before you speak, eyes already on you.

“You’re decaying.”

His voice is a blade.

You fall to your knees anyway. The floor writhes beneath you, vines recoiling from your unstable aura. You can’t hold a solid form anymore. Your limbs twitch, reshaping, melting, glitching.

You look up at him.

“I don’t want to die.”

He stares. Silent. Calculating.

You search his expression for something—pity, affection, recognition. But he only watches, like a scientist staring down a failed experiment.

You remember once, long ago, when you copied a girl named Emily. She loved her brother. She played the violin. Her mother used to braid her hair. For weeks you wore that shape, speaking in her voice, feeling her love echoing in your bones.

But when you caught your reflection, you didn’t know who was looking back.

And now you don’t know if you ever did.

“I want to be real,” you whisper. Your voice flutters between three tones. “I’ll give it up. All of it. I’ll stop pretending. I’ll stop trying to remember who I was—”

You press your trembling hands to your skull. Faces flash beneath your skin. Laughter that isn’t yours. Screams that are.

“Just—please. Make it stop.”

Vecna rises.

His movements are slow, almost graceful, like something ancient made of glass. His body clicks with every step, bone and rot and authority. He reaches you and crouches, one clawed hand lifting your chin.

His skin is cold.

But his gaze burns.

“You were never meant to be real,” he murmurs. “You are a reflection. A shadow. An echo.”

You tremble.

“But even echoes can be… useful.”

His hand slides to your cheek, and your form stabilizes for a second. Your skin seals. Your voice stills.

You shudder under the touch, not from fear, but from something that aches worse—hope.

“You would choose this?” he asks. “An identity sculpted by hunger? A purpose tied to my will? There is no redemption waiting. No soul to reclaim.”

Your voice cracks.

“I don’t want a soul. I want to be seen.”

He studies you. Something shifts in his eyes.

Not compassion.

Not kindness.

But claiming.

You’re a curiosity. A creature of mirrors and memory. And now you’re kneeling in front of the devil, asking to become the nightmare instead of running from it.

And he allows it.

“Then abandon what’s left,” he says. “The name you never had. The faces you wore. The memories that broke you.”

“Abandon them, and be mine.”

You exhale.

The breath leaves your lungs like air from a punctured mask. You close your eyes. Inside, you feel them—dozens of fragments. People you once were. Voices that comforted, sobbed, begged.

You let them go.

One by one.

Emily. Jonah. Maddie. The girl in the pink dress. The boy with the scar. The mother who called for her child in your throat. The brother who tried to save you.

You let them all fall away.

And what’s left is you. Raw. Featureless. Twitching.

But yours.

You open your eyes. They glow faintly now—red-gold, like the bleeding skies of the Upside Down. No longer stolen. No longer borrowed.

“Yes,” you say. “I am yours.”

Vecna rises. The vines retreat around him, pulsing in approval. He extends a hand—not to take, but to offer.

“Then rise. We have a world to remake.”

You take it.

Your hand slips into his clawed grip like it was carved to fit.

As he pulls you up, your body stabilizes completely for the first time in years.

You are not wearing anyone’s skin.

You are not pretending.

You are not human.

But you are real.

And that is enough.

END.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

🕸️ "Nothing Human Left"

Pairing: Vecna x Mimic!Reader Genre: Horror, Dark Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Word Count: ~1,700 Warnings: Body horror, memory loss, obsession, light gore, emotional manipulation, existential dread, tragic love

Nothing Human Left

The tower breathes.

You can hear it—feel it—as you climb. The walls pulse with red light, each vein a drumbeat in your head. The Upside Down has shaped itself around him, and now it whispers with his voice.

You drag yourself upward. You’re barely holding shape.

Bits of your skin flicker: a patch of someone else’s freckles, a strand of blonde hair, a hand too small and childlike. Your voicebox clicks, sputters, hums. You’ve used too many faces lately.

Too many lies.

But this time, you're not here to mimic anyone. You're here as yourself.

Or what’s left of it.

You find him in the heart of the sanctum—Vecna, twisted and tall, his form tangled in black vines and bone like a throne. He turns his head before you speak, eyes already on you.

“You’re decaying.”

His voice is a blade.

You fall to your knees anyway. The floor writhes beneath you, vines recoiling from your unstable aura. You can’t hold a solid form anymore. Your limbs twitch, reshaping, melting, glitching.

You look up at him.

“I don’t want to die.”

He stares. Silent. Calculating.

You search his expression for something—pity, affection, recognition. But he only watches, like a scientist staring down a failed experiment.

You remember once, long ago, when you copied a girl named Emily. She loved her brother. She played the violin. Her mother used to braid her hair. For weeks you wore that shape, speaking in her voice, feeling her love echoing in your bones.

But when you caught your reflection, you didn’t know who was looking back.

And now you don’t know if you ever did.

“I want to be real,” you whisper. Your voice flutters between three tones. “I’ll give it up. All of it. I’ll stop pretending. I’ll stop trying to remember who I was—”

You press your trembling hands to your skull. Faces flash beneath your skin. Laughter that isn’t yours. Screams that are.

“Just—please. Make it stop.”

Vecna rises.

His movements are slow, almost graceful, like something ancient made of glass. His body clicks with every step, bone and rot and authority. He reaches you and crouches, one clawed hand lifting your chin.

His skin is cold.

But his gaze burns.

“You were never meant to be real,” he murmurs. “You are a reflection. A shadow. An echo.”

You tremble.

“But even echoes can be… useful.”

His hand slides to your cheek, and your form stabilizes for a second. Your skin seals. Your voice stills.

You shudder under the touch, not from fear, but from something that aches worse—hope.

“You would choose this?” he asks. “An identity sculpted by hunger? A purpose tied to my will? There is no redemption waiting. No soul to reclaim.”

Your voice cracks.

“I don’t want a soul. I want to be seen.”

He studies you. Something shifts in his eyes.

Not compassion.

Not kindness.

But claiming.

You’re a curiosity. A creature of mirrors and memory. And now you’re kneeling in front of the devil, asking to become the nightmare instead of running from it.

And he allows it.

“Then abandon what’s left,” he says. “The name you never had. The faces you wore. The memories that broke you.”

“Abandon them, and be mine.”

You exhale.

The breath leaves your lungs like air from a punctured mask. You close your eyes. Inside, you feel them—dozens of fragments. People you once were. Voices that comforted, sobbed, begged.

You let them go.

One by one.

Emily. Jonah. Maddie. The girl in the pink dress. The boy with the scar. The mother who called for her child in your throat. The brother who tried to save you.

You let them all fall away.

And what’s left is you. Raw. Featureless. Twitching.

But yours.

You open your eyes. They glow faintly now—red-gold, like the bleeding skies of the Upside Down. No longer stolen. No longer borrowed.

“Yes,” you say. “I am yours.”

Vecna rises. The vines retreat around him, pulsing in approval. He extends a hand—not to take, but to offer.

“Then rise. We have a world to remake.”

You take it.

Your hand slips into his clawed grip like it was carved to fit.

As he pulls you up, your body stabilizes completely for the first time in years.

You are not wearing anyone’s skin.

You are not pretending.

You are not human.

But you are real.

And that is enough.

END.

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

reblog if you're a fucked up creature 👍🏾

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

The First Zombie of a Zombie Apocalypse

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

"The shift from the Afro-Caribbean zombie to the U.S. zombie is clear: in Caribbean folklore, people are scared of becoming zombies, whereas in U.S. narratives people are scared of zombies. This shift is significant because it maps the movement from the zombie as victim (Caribbean) to the zombie as an aggressive and terrifying monster who consumes human flesh (U.S.). In Haitian folklore, for instance, zombies do not physically threaten people; rather, the threat comes from the voduon practice whereby the sorcerer (master) subjugates the individual by robbing the victim of free will, language and cognition. The zombie is enslaved."

— Justin D. Edwards, "Mapping Tropical Gothic in the Americas" in Tropical Gothic in Literature and Culture.

Follow Diary of a Philosopher for more quotes!

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

I've recently been informed that my girl Lily is apparently a bit popular in some parts of Pinterest. I'm curious about this alleged underground Lily cult (I'm sure it's not that big, but it's fun to imagine), but they remain elusive with how unhelpful google is these days lol. All I could dig up were a couple posts with reverse image search, along with an unrelated D&D character that seemed to be inspired by her, which was pretty neat. Anyway, it's cool that people like my characters enough to share them around outside my usual sites...with credit, of course ;)

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

made a fortnite oc :D

she’s a gyaru zombieeee i kinda wanna design a whole set for her lol… maybe pre zombie version ?!

[zombie-enthusiastofalltime]

Thank you @brain4stew and everyone who got me to 10 reblogs!