Pellum - CHECK LORE -

“There is a silence it carries with it, not the absence of sound, but the kind that follows a heartbeat you forgot was yours. It does not see you like a predator, or like a god. It sees you the way a needle sees fabric—something to pass through, to shape, to seal shut. And in its presence, something inside you quiets. Not from peace, but from resignation. You will not be consumed. You will not be broken. You will be added. Each breath you take feels thinner, as if your skin has already been measured. The world narrows around it, stitched tight in thoughtless reverence. It hums, and you remember songs you’ve never heard. You want to run, but some part of you kneels. Not in worship. In preparation.”

Pellum, the Stitch Father,

Pellum is a being older than names, one whose existence is not tied to time, belief, or consequence. It does not emerge from folklore, nor is it bound to myth. Rather, it simply is—a figure recorded not through tales, but through stains, surgical echoes, and the silence that follows a door creaking open in places where no doors should remain. It is found—not sought—when one strays too far into the liminal spaces where human suffering was once routine. The abandoned hospital, the quarantined ward, the underground clinic built during a war no one remembers—all are whispered to be places it has taken root. It doesn’t inhabit them as a ghost would, tethered and restless. It settles, like mold in the walls, like dust in untouched drawers. It belongs there, more than the building itself.

Descriptions of Pellum vary in shape but not in presence. It is tall, draped in a layered mass of stretched, discolored skin stitched crudely together. The seams are uneven, puckered, and frayed at the edges, as though the threads themselves are decaying. Observers have claimed the stitching spirals inward endlessly beneath the robes, layer upon layer, but no one has ever dared—or survived long enough—to see beneath. It is unknown if there is a true body at its core, or if Pellum is nothing more than an ever-deepening shell of borrowed flesh. Some believe that to peel back its layers would be like peeling an onion of suffering, each fold revealing another forgotten life, another silent scream preserved in hide.

The environment around Pellum changes subtly. Lights flicker in patterns unrelated to electricity. Machinery stirs briefly, as if responding to an old presence. The temperature does not drop, but warmth withdraws. The silence in its domain is never clean—it hums, buzzes, hiccups with mechanical sounds that come from nowhere, like the brief activation of old surgical tools or the echo of footsteps down long-sealed corridors. The air tastes sterile, yet wrong, as if disinfected with ancient chemicals not meant for human use. Metallic scents twist with the faint odor of burnt cloth and dried flesh. It is not decay—it is preservation, only badly understood.

When in motion—if it can be said to move—Pellum drifts slowly, fluidly, as though submerged in something heavier than air. Its gestures are deliberate and unnervingly precise, most often directed at an unseen task. Descriptions—origin unclear, authors unknown—speak of it hunched over a rusted surgical table, tending to an indistinct figure that does not move, does not breathe. In these accounts, there is always sound: the slick drag of something wet being repositioned, the sharp zip of thread drawn tight, the faint metallic clink of tools not seen in modern medicine. And above all else, the humming—quiet, childlike, slightly off-key. It is the only element that seems unscripted, almost playful, and it is perhaps the most deeply disturbing detail.

Pellum does not respond to presence immediately. It continues its work in silence, as though the world around it is neither distraction nor concern. You are not an intruder—you are simply next. And then, inevitably, it turns. Slowly. Not with surprise, not with hostility. With certainty.

What Pellum seeks, if it seeks at all, is unknown. It shows no interest in dominance, no signs of madness or glee. It does not speak, but some say they’ve heard words—just at the edge of hearing—muttered in old surgical tongues, languages known only to anatomy professors long since buried. Others believe Pellum is enacting some sacred rite, over and over, for reasons lost to the bones of time. A failed god’s caretaker. A punishment turned into instinct. Or simply a being with no purpose, replicating life through endless layers of death.

No confirmed accounts of escape exist. Those who claim to have seen Pellum do not remember how they left—only that they awoke miles away, or in their own homes, with surgical thread embedded beneath their skin or unfamiliar scars written in lines across their body like a language they almost understand. Some report hearing humming in their dreams, long after. Some begin to sew, endlessly, without reason.

To speak its name is rare. To remember it is worse. And to see it, truly see it, is to know that some things are not evil, not divine—they simply are. Pellum, the Stitch Father, remains. Watching. Sewing. Waiting.

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As the original creator, I retain the right to:

• Reference this design in my portfolio or for non-commercial purposes.

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The specific design, artwork, and lore remain exclusive to the owner. Credit to me as the original artist is appreciated but not required.