A hooded wisp bobs just above the ground, cloth-body fraying into smoke at the hem. Inside the cowl, two red slits grin wider than the face can hold, teeth carved in ember-light. One clawed hand swings a lantern that leaks ribboning crimson glow, staining walls and footprints like wet paint. It drifts closer in absolute silence, the lantern’s light hunting for warmth to steal.
Those who were particularly sadistic in life and died consumed by wicked mirth linger as Kackles—ghostly figures that drift above the ground, always flitting just out of sight. Adorned in tattered cloaks and concealing hoods or hats, their hollow laughter echoes through dark places, fading in and out to confuse and terrify their victims. Kackles always carry lanterns lit with ghostly flames, the color of which changes to reflect a kackle’s current cruelty of choice.
Kackles are bound to their lanterns, and smashing their lights can snuff out the spirits’ existence