What's the creepiest trope in American horror?
Ghost weddings top the list.
Pairing a corpse with a living or dead spouse—grim, twisted, and ripe for nightmares.
Spectral urban legends fuel dread, outshining skeletons or demons.
"Gus Harper's a sicko!" P.J. Larson's voice shook.
Chat on Twitch went wild:
"Gus is unhinged!"
"He knows what freaks us out."
"Manor map's built for American psyches."
"Paper figures, red lanterns—just standing there, messing with your head."
"Watching this stream's got my spine tingling!"
"All lights on at home."
"Gotta hit the bathroom first."
"Blanket fortress up—ghosts can't touch me!"
"Total defense mode!"
"Don't let your feet poke out!"
"Superstitious? I'm chilling with a St. Mary's prayer candle."
The squad—P.J., Winter Melon, Rusty, Nomad—crept through the courtyard, reaching the manor's main door.
Nomad, in front, scanned with an EMF. No ghost pings.
He pushed the creaky door open.
Squeak.
Darkness swallowed the room, save for two flickering candles on a wooden table.
A black-and-white photo of a man sat on a left armchair.
The right? Empty.
Worst-case scenario: the ghost, Mary Jane, was a bride buried alive in a ghost wedding.
Objective: draw her out.
The four exchanged glances, then started dodging:
"Winter Melon, call her!"
"Nah, my throat's shot. Rusty, you're up—chat up the ghost!"
"Me? No way. P.J., your voice carries!"
"Seniors first, but Nomad's the team MVP!"
"Nope, I'm good," Nomad deflected.
"You go!"
"No, you go!"
"Not me!"
They bickered at the door, each stepping back.
Chat cackled:
"FPS bros, peak teamwork!"
"All talk, no guts!"
"Expert mode's got no safe window—Mary Jane could strike any second."
"Get a real job!"
"Clock's ticking!"
"Keep stalling, you're all toast."
Maybe chat's nudge worked, or they realized they'd end up back at the gate.
Winter Melon stepped up. "Alright, I got a plan!"
He raised his hands like a meme Shiba Inu: "Listen up! Fate decides who lives or dies!"
The others nodded. "How's fate picking?"
Winter Melon grinned. "Follow my lead—fair as it gets."
They shut the door, dragged the table center, and set flashlights around it.
Winter Melon plopped a dot projector down, meant for ghost tracking.
With flashlights and the projector's disco-ball effect, the ghost wedding hall turned… familiar.
Chat saw it coming:
"???"
"Mary Jane's got a bad vibe."
"Winter Melon needs a brain scan."
"Call a priest, stat!"
"Is that a glow stick?!"
"They're using ghost trackers as rave props!"
"Light bulbs, projectors, glow sticks—what is this?!"
"Club Phasmophobia?!"
"Ready?!" Winter Melon shouted.
Ready!
No one's dumb—they knew his game.
But backing out now? Instant "coward" label.
Winter Melon held a glow stick like a mic.
"Yo, Seattle! DJ Winter Melon's in the house! Drop the beat!"
Blasting DJ music hit the mic.
Winter Melon swayed. "One, two, three! Phoenix in the sky!"
Boom, boom!
"Rave factory! Dance fest!"
Boom, boom!
"Show me your hands—WOO!"
The squad went wild, waving glow sticks, projector lights spinning.
Winter Melon's plan: rile Mary Jane up, make her appear, and sacrifice someone for intel.
The suicidal rave blew up Twitch:
"DISCO IN A FUNERAL HALL?!"
"You idiots, LMAO!"
"Random sacrifice, huh?"
"Laughing so hard I can't breathe!"
"Meet me at the cemetery with glow sticks!"
"(Dancing)(Dancing)(Dancing)"
"Yama's book just lit up with four neon names!"
"Mary Jane's pissed she can only take one!"
"This is awkward…"
"Who's the ghost now?!"
"Mary Jane: What's that racket?"
"Tears from laughing, send help!"
"Mary Jane's cursed to meet these clowns."
Expert mode: no safe time, ghosts trigger fast.
Half a minute in, candles snuffed out.
Flashlights flickered.
Disco vibes intensified.
"HUNT!" Winter Melon screamed.
Adrenaline spiked, fear and hype colliding.
They scanned—no ghost.
"Nothing!" P.J. yelled.
"Zip!" Rusty and Nomad echoed.
But Winter Melon felt… something. A thread across his vision.
He swiped at it, looked up—
A pale face, upside-down, inches away.
Red hair, blood dripping from empty sockets, mouth gaping like it could chomp his head.
BAM!
Winter Melon's screen went black—disconnected.
Scared offline.
The trio screamed, nearly blowing the manor's roof off.
"I'M OUT, SCREW THIS!"
P.J. grabbed Rusty, bolting.
Mary Jane dropped from the beam, joints twisting, crawling like a spider.
P.J. and Rusty dove into a wardrobe.
"HOLD THE DOOR!"
"It's pulling!"
"SHIT, IT'S YANKING!"
"P.J., YOU JERK!"
"I'M HOLDING, DAMN IT!"
"Wrong call, big sis!"
"No more, I swear!"
Clank, clank!
Finally, the EMF quieted.
The tugging stopped.
Two minutes later, P.J. and Rusty exhaled.
"We good?"
"EMF's silent."
"Check outside?"
P.J. cracked the wardrobe.
Nothing. Mary Jane was gone.
But who'd she take?
They locked eyes, then—
"SHIT!"
"Nomad!"
They burst out.
Nomad's body lay by the wardrobe, hand on the handle.
A horrible thought hit:
"The tugging…"
"Wasn't Mary Jane?"
"Was… Nomad?!"
A message popped up:
[Nomad from Wuhu: Mic glitched, couldn't call out.]
P.J. clutched his head, wailing.
He'd held the door hardest, trapping Nomad.
"Nomad… NOOOO!"
The stream exploded:
"LMAO, PERFECTION!"
"Peak chaos!"
"Disco to disaster, I'm dead!"
"Someone grab a trumpet!"
"Nomad, you deserve a white sheet!"
"No strength left, save me!"
"Beijing Film Academy, take notes!"
"Worse than Nomad's actual death!"
"Up there with 'Dad, Ellie's Working!'"
"P.J.'s Nomad Sobfest!"
"This game's a masterpiece—scary and hilarious!"
"Everyone needs Phasmophobia on their VibeX1!"
"FuGeV50 gifted Nomad a sub!"
That night, Zoey Parker ended a 90-minute Slack call, closing her laptop.
"Ugh, exhausted," she groaned, stretching.
Her thesis, U.S. Currency Exchange Rates and Global Trade Impacts, was a beast.
Not complex, but she'd slacked off, leaving it untouched.
Her advisor's last-minute bombshell—using it as a model for a public defense with Education Department brass—forced a week of all-nighters.
Lucky for her, WindyPeak had no active projects, letting the "slacker CEO" coast.
Otherwise, she'd be drowning.
Flipping her calendar, Zoey froze, then slapped her thigh.
"Damn it! Today's Phasmophobia's rebate settlement!"