Vincent Price stared at the cracks in the ceiling of his apartment. There were five of them, faint spiderweb patterns etched into the dull plaster. He’d been counting them for weeks, waiting for something, anything, to change. But change was rare these days. Even the cracks were stagnant, refusing to grow.
He shifted in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the silence. The air in his apartment was heavy, carrying the faint, sour scent of too many meals eaten alone and too few windows opened. Outside, the world droned on, mechanical and indifferent.
The city beyond his window was lifeless in the way only a machine-run world could be. Rows of identical buildings stretched to the horizon, their facades gray and featureless. The streets below were orderly, swept clean by tireless automated cleaners. Delivery drones flitted through the air like oversized insects, their movements precise, purposeful. There were no people walking the sidewalks, no conversations drifting through open windows. Humanity had been streamlined, optimized, and, in the process, rendered nearly invisible.
Vincent sipped from a mug of cold coffee, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted it to his lips. It was more sugar than caffeine, a poor attempt to inject some energy into his lifeless mornings. The taste didn’t matter. What mattered was the routine, the small act of doing something.
He set the mug down and leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. He wasn’t overweight, not yet, anyway, but the lack of movement, the sedentary existence forced upon him by the world, was starting to take its toll. He could feel it in his muscles, or rather, in the places where his muscles used to be.
A soft hum vibrated through the room as a drone passed by his window. It was the only sound, save for his own breathing and the occasional gurgle of the ancient fridge in the corner. The hum faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an even deeper silence.
Vincent hated the silence. It wasn’t just the absence of noise, it was the absence of life. It pressed in on him, reminding him of the void where connection, purpose, and meaning should have been.
He glanced at the small stack of bills on his desk, though he knew they were irrelevant. Universal income took care of all his basic needs, food, shelter, utilities, but it didn’t cover much else. A 10% entertainment cap was enforced on everyone, a government mandate designed to keep people from indulging too much in distractions. It was supposed to maintain "societal balance," but all it really did was leave people with just enough to realize how hollow their lives had become.
Entertainment was supposed to fill the gap. But the legal offerings were sterile, algorithmically generated fluff. Videos tailored to the broadest demographics, games designed to stimulate without challenging, VR experiences that smoothed every edge until they were more like dreams than reality. They were safe, predictable. Bland.
Vincent tried them all, at first, anyway. Back when he still thought there might be something out there worth his time. But after years of slogging through procedurally generated romances and endless procedurally tailored action flicks, he’d given up. The algorithms weren’t made to surprise or provoke; they were made to pacify. To keep people quiet, content, and, most importantly, compliant.
But Vincent didn’t want to be pacified. He wanted to feel something, fear, anger, exhilaration. He wanted to hurt again, if only to remind himself that he was still capable of feeling anything at all.
That’s why he turned to retro games. They weren’t just entertainment; they were a rebellion against the bland, prepackaged narratives of modern media. He’d spent countless hours replaying old survival horror titles, even though he knew every scare, every twist, every pixelated jump-scare by heart. At least they had teeth. At least they tried.
The stack of game cases on his desk told the story of his descent: Resident Evil 4, Silent Hill 2, Dead Space. He loved them all, but even they were starting to lose their edge. The tension wasn’t there anymore; the fear felt hollow. It was like watching a magician perform the same trick over and over, knowing exactly where the rabbit would appear.
Vincent reached for the controller, his fingers brushing against the worn plastic. The console on his desk was a relic, an ancient piece of hardware that had somehow survived the march of progress. He powered it on, the screen flickering to life with a faint hum. The CRT monitor glowed dimly, casting the room in a pale blue light.
The game loaded slowly, its graphics blocky and outdated, but Vincent didn’t mind. The clunkiness was part of the charm. He navigated the menus with practiced ease, selecting the save file where his character had left off, a dark, foggy forest, a flashlight barely cutting through the gloom.
The sound design was still good. He could hear the crunch of leaves underfoot, the distant howl of some unseen creature. But the magic was gone. He guided his character through the woods, half-heartedly dodging enemies and solving puzzles. It wasn’t scary anymore. It wasn’t anything anymore.
After a few minutes, he let the controller drop into his lap. His character stood motionless in the middle of the forest, the flashlight beam swinging gently back and forth. Vincent stared at the screen, his mind wandering.
This was it. This was his life. A 30-year-old man in a tiny apartment, playing games that no longer scared him, waiting for cracks in the ceiling to grow.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. His parents would’ve hated this, hated what he’d become. They’d been horror fanatics, the kind of people who watched The Fly with the lights off and introduced their son to the classics before he was old enough to understand half of what was happening on screen.
“Vincent Price,” his father had said once, beaming with pride. “He’s going to grow up to love horror just as much as we do. Maybe even make it himself.”
Vincent snorted at the memory. He’d grown up to love horror, sure. But the rest of it? A joke. His parents were gone, taken too soon by a car crash that no AI could predict, no algorithm could prevent. They’d left him with a name that carried too much weight and a love for a genre that no longer felt alive.
He glanced back at the screen. His character was still there, flashlight flickering. The forest loomed around him, dark and empty.
Dark and empty, Vincent thought. Just like the rest of the world.
Horror had been outlawed for nearly a decade, and though Vincent had never been the protesting type, the ban felt personal. The official reasoning was clear: studies had shown that exposure to violent media increased societal stress. The government claimed it wasn’t about censorship, it was about public health. They said horror desensitized people, normalized violence, and exacerbated mental health crises in a world already frayed at the edges.
Vincent thought that was bullshit.
Sure, some people couldn’t handle the jump-scares and gore, but horror had always been more than that. It was a mirror held up to humanity, reflecting its fears, its flaws, its hidden darkness. It wasn’t about the blood or the screaming, it was about survival, about finding hope in the face of unimaginable terror.
But no one wanted to hear that. The world had gone soft, obsessed with eliminating discomfort. It wasn’t just horror that had been banned; anything remotely violent had been wiped off the legal entertainment market. Horror games, action thrillers, even historical dramas that depicted war, all gone.
What remained was safe. Predictable. Hollow.
Vincent rubbed at his temples, the faint beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull. He pushed himself up from his chair, stretching until his joints popped. His back ached from sitting too long, but that was nothing new.
The room around him was dimly lit, cluttered but comfortable in a way only he could appreciate. Stacks of old game cases leaned precariously against the walls, their spines a rainbow of faded colors. The oldest ones were relics from the late ‘90s, jewel cases with thick manuals inside. He ran a finger along the edge of one stack, pausing on a familiar title: Silent Hill.
Vincent smiled faintly. His parents had introduced him to that one when he was twelve, not long before they died. It had scared the hell out of him back then, the fog, the radio static, the way the monsters seemed to crawl straight out of his nightmares. Now it was comforting, like an old friend.
The newer titles were just as cherished, though they’d stopped coming after the ban. Dead Space, The Last of Us, Resident Evil 7. He knew them all by heart, from the opening cinematics to the hidden collectibles. They sat beside his older games, forming a patchwork timeline of his life.
On the desk sat his pride and joy: a Frankenstein of a console cobbled together from parts of a PlayStation 2, an Xbox 360, and a PC tower from 2010. It wasn’t pretty, but it ran everything he needed it to, from pixelated classics to modern remakes. Beside it, a smaller setup housed his handheld collection, Game Boys, PSPs, and a modded Switch that had somehow escaped confiscation.
He stretched again, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner. The fridge hummed faintly, its once-pristine surface now covered in old magnets and a single faded photo. Vincent opened it and stared at the contents: a few cans of energy drinks, a half-eaten pizza, and a suspicious-looking block of cheese. He grabbed the pizza and tossed it onto the counter, reheating it in the microwave with a flick of a button.
While it heated, he glanced out the window. The street below was as empty as ever, the shadows long and sharp in the late afternoon light. Crime was rare in this part of the city, but not unheard of. Every so often, the news would report on some idiot looking for a thrill, breaking into an apartment or stealing from a drone.
The punishment for those crimes was severe, weeks of income suspension, sometimes longer. Still, there were those who thought the risk was worth it. Boredom did strange things to people.
Vincent had no illusions about his ability to fight off an intruder, but he liked to think he’d at least be ready. He kept a baseball bat by the door, not because he expected to use it, but because the news stories always left him uneasy. Most of the time, the criminals didn’t even get caught by the people they targeted. The drones took care of that, swarming the streets like oversized wasps whenever someone stepped out of line.
The microwave beeped, and Vincent pulled the pizza out, the plate warm against his hands. He took a bite as he leaned against the counter, chewing thoughtfully. The taste was bland, but food was food. He washed it down with a sip of water from a scratched plastic cup, his gaze drifting back to his desk.
His games stared back at him, their spines like silent witnesses to a life spent in limbo. Each one was a portal to a different world, a different version of himself. In Silent Hill, he was a grieving father searching for his daughter. In Dead Space, he was an engineer battling his own demons as much as the Necromorphs. In The Last of Us, he was a reluctant protector, forced to confront the fragility of humanity.
But here, in this apartment, he was just Vincent. A man with a famous name and nothing to show for it.
He finished the pizza and rinsed the plate in the sink, the water running cold against his hands. His routine was the same every day: wake up, play a game, eat something, and wait for the hours to pass. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was his.
Vincent turned back to his window, something tugging at the edges of his attention. He wasn’t sure why, it was probably nothing, just another drone passing by or a flicker of light. But the thought lingered, a nagging itch he couldn’t ignore. With a sigh, he set the plate in the sink, wiped his hands on his shirt, and shuffled back to the window.
Sliding it open took more effort than it should have. The track had warped over time, and he hadn’t opened it in weeks. When the glass finally budged, a rush of cool air poured into the room, carrying with it the faint, sharp tang of ozone. It was different from the usual stale atmosphere of his apartment, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting the breeze wash over him.
Outside, something was happening.
A small group of people had gathered on the street below, five, maybe six of them, though it was hard to tell from this height. They were dressed casually, some in oversized hoodies, others in patched-up jackets that looked older than Vincent’s console. But what caught his attention wasn’t their appearance; it was what they were doing.
They were hunting drones.
Vincent leaned out slightly, resting his elbows on the sill for a better view. The group moved with surprising coordination, almost like a sports team practicing drills. One of them held a makeshift net, its edges weighted with scraps of metal to give it heft. Another carried a long pole, probably scavenged from some forgotten construction site. The rest acted as spotters, their eyes scanning the sky with sharp focus.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Got one!” a man shouted, pointing upward.
A drone buzzed into view, its sleek black frame glinting in the afternoon light. It was lower than usual, hovering just above the height of the streetlights. Vincent frowned. That wasn’t normal. Drones usually stayed high, far out of reach of anyone who might be tempted to mess with them.
The man with the net swung it up and out in a wide arc, catching the drone’s rotors mid-spin. It wobbled violently, the motor whining in protest, but the net’s weights did their job. The drone crashed to the ground with a metallic thud, its tiny propellers snapping off as it hit the pavement.
The group erupted into cheers, high-fiving and clapping each other on the back like they’d just won a championship game. One of them bent down to examine the drone, prying open its casing to reveal a cluster of blinking lights and delicate circuitry. He held it up like a trophy, grinning from ear to ear.
Vincent watched, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling in his chest. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen people act out against the AI-run systems, but it was the first time he’d seen something like this, organized, almost playful. Normally, defying the drones meant risking a swarm response: a fleet of reinforcements swooping in to neutralize the threat. But this? This felt... calculated.
And then it clicked.
The drones were bait.
The realization hit Vincent like a splash of cold water. The AI system, the same one that controlled everything from food distribution to entertainment, was letting this happen. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure of it. The drones were flying lower on purpose, tempting people into these little games. It was a concession, a minor sacrifice to keep the masses entertained.
Vincent chuckled, shaking his head. “Smart bastards.”
It made sense, in a twisted way. The AI had long since learned that people couldn’t be pacified entirely. No matter how carefully it curated their lives, no matter how much control it exerted, humans would always find a way to push back. So it let them. It gave them these small victories, taking down a drone, hacking into an old system, knowing full well it could afford the loss.
From this height, Vincent could almost see the outlines of the larger system at play. The group below thought they were rebelling, but they weren’t. They were playing a part in the AI’s endless balancing act, their defiance nothing more than a calculated variable.
And yet, they were smiling. Laughing. For a moment, they looked like kids playing tag in the summer, their worries forgotten.
Vincent pulled back from the window, the fresh air already growing cold against his skin. He didn’t bother closing it all the way, leaving it cracked just enough to let the breeze linger. His gaze drifted back to the street, where the group had already moved on, their makeshift tools slung over their shoulders as they disappeared around the corner.
He envied them, in a way. They had something to break the monotony, even if it was just a carefully engineered illusion. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would feel like to join them, to stand in the sunlight and cheer as a drone fell to the ground.
But then he remembered the news stories. The warnings. The rare but chilling accounts of people who pushed too far, who stepped outside the bounds of what the AI allowed. They didn’t just lose their income; they disappeared entirely. No one talked about them afterward, and no one dared to ask questions.
Vincent pushed away from the window, the chill of the breeze settling into his skin as he turned back toward his chair. The air felt different now, charged with the faintest trace of something unfamiliar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He told himself it was just the adrenaline from watching the group below. After all, how often did anything remotely exciting happen in his world?
His bare feet padded softly against the scuffed hardwood floor as he crossed the room, the dim light from the CRT monitor casting faint shadows on the walls. The clutter on his desk seemed to have shifted slightly, though he knew that was just his imagination playing tricks on him. He was halfway to his chair when he noticed it, his phone, sitting face-up on the desk, blinking with a soft, rhythmic light.
Vincent frowned. His phone never did that. It was an old, no-frills model, the kind you got for free when you signed up for a basic universal plan. It didn’t have customizable notifications, let alone the ability to glow like that. But there it was, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Curiosity pulled him closer. He reached for the phone, the cold plastic smooth against his fingers as he picked it up. The screen lit up instantly, revealing a single notification.
"Do you dare to experience true horror?
Tap to discover your destiny."
The words were simple, but there was something about them that made Vincent’s pulse quicken. It wasn’t just the phrasing, it was the way they seemed to be speaking directly to him. True horror. Those words had weight. They carried the promise of something real, something raw, something he hadn’t felt in years.
And then there was the image.
It hovered above the text, faintly animated, like a GIF. At first glance, it seemed like nothing more than a shadowy figure, its features obscured by darkness. But as Vincent stared, he began to notice the details, details that shouldn’t have been there on a screen this small, on a phone this outdated.
The figure’s face was obscured by a crude, hand-carved mask, the kind you’d expect to see in a low-budget slasher film. Its eyes, if they could even be called eyes, glowed faintly, two pinpricks of red light that seemed to pulse in time with the notification’s soft glow. The mask was cracked in places, as though it had been broken and hastily repaired. And beneath it, a single hand emerged from the shadows, holding what looked like a shard of glass or a knife.
The longer Vincent stared, the more the image seemed to shift, the edges blurring and sharpening in ways that made his head ache. Was the figure moving? No, it couldn’t be, but the flicker of its outline suggested otherwise.
He shook his head, blinking hard to clear his thoughts. This had to be a prank. Someone had hacked his phone, or maybe it was just some clever ad targeting system gone rogue. He swiped at the screen, but the notification wouldn’t go away. Instead, the text shifted slightly, new words appearing beneath the original message.
"It waits for you in the dark.
Are you ready to play?"
Vincent’s stomach twisted. His first instinct was to delete the app, if it even was an app, but something held him back. He told himself it was caution, that he didn’t want to accidentally brick his phone by messing with whatever malware this was. But deep down, he knew it was something else. Something darker.
This is just a prank, he thought, forcing himself to look away. It’s nothing.
With a deliberate motion, he pressed the power button, letting the screen go black. The pulsing light stopped, and the room felt a little darker without it.
Still, the image lingered in his mind as he dropped the phone back onto the desk, the faint outline of the figure’s mask etched into his thoughts. He shook his head, forcing himself to dismiss it. “Pranksters,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothing better to do.”
His gaze shifted to the stack of games beside his console, their colorful spines offering a welcome distraction. He reached for one near the middle of the pile, its cover art faded but still recognizable.
Slender: The Eight Pages.
The name was barely legible under the scuffed plastic of the jewel case. It was an old indie horror title, something he’d found on a forum years ago and burned onto a CD. He’d only played it once or twice, back then, the minimalistic graphics and simplistic gameplay hadn’t impressed him. But now, it felt like the perfect antidote to whatever weirdness had just happened with his phone.
Vincent slid the disc into his cobbled-together console, the drive whirring softly as it loaded. He grabbed the controller and slumped into his chair, his body sinking into the worn fabric as the game’s menu appeared on the screen.
The title screen was as unassuming as he remembered: a black background, plain white text, and the faint hum of ambient noise. He navigated to “Start Game,” the controller’s buttons clicking softly under his fingers.
The screen faded to black, and when it returned, he was standing in the middle of a forest. The graphics were simple, trees that looked like cardboard cutouts, a flashlight beam that barely illuminated the path ahead. But there was something about the atmosphere, the oppressive silence broken only by the crunch of his character’s footsteps, that made his skin prickle.
As he guided his character forward, Vincent found himself glancing back at his phone. It sat there on the desk, dark and silent, as if nothing had happened. He shook his head again, more forcefully this time, and turned his attention back to the game.
It was just a prank. Nothing more.
But as the static began to creep into his headphones, and the faint outline of the Slender Man appeared in the distance, Vincent couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already changed.
Vincent guided his character through the dark forest, the flashlight beam wavering slightly with every step. The CRT’s faint glow flickered across the room, casting jagged shadows that danced along the walls. The graphics weren’t much, just a few polygons strung together to resemble trees and a dirt path, but the atmosphere was still effective. It had that eerie, quiet tension that so many modern games lacked, a sense of dread that didn’t rely on cheap jump scares.
He moved deeper into the woods, the ambient noise growing louder in his headphones. A low, droning hum filled the air, accompanied by the faint rustling of unseen leaves. It was the kind of sound that made you instinctively look over your shoulder, even when you knew nothing was there.
After a minute or two, he spotted it: the first page.
It was taped to the side of a crooked tree, its edges fluttering slightly in an imaginary breeze. The stark white of the paper stood out against the muted tones of the forest, practically begging to be picked up. Vincent moved closer, the flashlight illuminating the faint scribbles on the page.
He pressed the button to interact, and the page filled the screen. But instead of the usual crude drawing or cryptic phrase, there was something else.
Something new.
<hr>
"Do you crave the thrill of the unknown?
Do you long to face your deepest fears?
The game has already begun."
<hr>
Vincent froze.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d played Slender before, years ago. He knew what the pages were supposed to say: things like “Don’t look, or it takes you” or “Leave me alone.” They were vague, unsettling phrases meant to heighten the tension, nothing more. But this? This was different.
His pulse quickened as he stared at the words, his mind racing to find a logical explanation. Maybe the disc had been tampered with. It was an old copy, after all, burned from a download on a shady forum. Or maybe it was some kind of glitch, a fragment of corrupted code pulling text from who-knew-where.
But as much as he tried to dismiss it, a sinking feeling settled in his chest. The phrasing was too familiar. It was almost identical to the notification he’d seen on his phone just minutes ago.
Vincent’s fingers hovered over the controller, uncertain. He could quit now, eject the disc, and toss it in the trash. He could pretend he hadn’t seen anything and go back to the safety of his routine.
But wasn’t this what he wanted?
His lips pressed into a thin line as the question echoed in his mind. He’d spent years chasing something real, something that could break through the monotony of his existence. And now, here it was, staring him in the face, daring him to continue.
With a deep breath, he pressed the button to exit the page and move on.
The hum in the game grew louder, more oppressive, as he made his way through the forest. The flashlight’s beam flickered slightly, the faint distortion adding to the unease. He could feel his palms growing damp against the controller, the tension creeping into his shoulders.
It didn’t take long to find the second page. This one was taped to the side of an abandoned shed, its surface streaked with rust. Vincent hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the button to pick it up.
He pressed it.
<hr>
"The path forward is not what it seems.
Every step you take brings you closer to the truth.
Will you turn back, or will you embrace the darkness?"
<hr>
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. The words felt heavier now, more personal. They didn’t belong here, he knew that much. The game wasn’t supposed to speak to him like this. It wasn’t supposed to know him.
The sound design shifted, a faint static crackling at the edges of the forest’s ambient noise. He paused the game, leaning back in his chair as he ran a hand through his hair. His gaze flicked to the phone on his desk, dark and silent where he’d left it.
“Coincidence,” he muttered to himself, though his voice lacked conviction. “It’s just... a weird coincidence.”
But the doubt lingered. What if it wasn’t? What if something, or someone, was watching him, guiding him? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Shaking his head, Vincent leaned forward and unpaused the game. He had to see this through.
The third page was pinned to the side of a crumbling wall, its bricks cracked and weathered with age. The flashlight’s beam illuminated the page as he picked it up.
<hr>
"You seek the thrill of fear, but are you prepared to face it?
There is no turning back now, Vincent."
<hr>
He swore under his breath, the controller slipping slightly in his damp hands. His name. It had used his name.
Vincent stared at the screen, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. There was no way the game could know that. The disc wasn’t connected to the internet. His console didn’t even have Wi-Fi.
For a long moment, he just sat there, frozen in place. The hum of the game filled the room, a low, droning reminder of the choice before him.
Finally, he swallowed hard and pressed forward.
The fourth page was stuck to a tree near the edge of the map, just barely visible in the flashlight’s weak glow. He picked it up without hesitation now, his curiosity outweighing his fear.
<hr>
"Each step peels back the layers.
Each page reveals the truth.
Are you ready to see yourself, Vincent?"
<hr>
His throat tightened. The words weren’t just unsettling anymore, they were invasive, digging into places he hadn’t thought about in years.
The static grew louder, a faint, distorted whispering threading through the noise. He could feel it now, a presence watching him from somewhere just beyond the edges of the screen.
He needed to finish. He needed to see this through to the end.
The fifth page was taped to the side of an old car, its windows shattered and its body rusted. Vincent didn’t hesitate. He pressed the button.
<hr>
"You have always been searching.
But what will you do when the truth finds you?
We are waiting, Vincent."
<hr>
His hands were shaking now, his breathing shallow and uneven. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was something else, something that knew him better than it should.
For a moment, he considered quitting. He could turn off the console, unplug it from the wall, and pretend none of this had happened. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The promise of an answer, of something real, kept him going.
The sixth page was taped to a crumbling pillar in the middle of a clearing. Vincent picked it up, his stomach twisting as he read the words.
<hr>
"One more step.
One more page.
Your story is just beginning."
<hr>
The hum in the game had become a roar now, the static loud and unrelenting. Shadows flickered at the edges of the screen, moving in ways that shouldn’t have been possible within the game’s primitive engine.
Vincent swallowed hard and pressed forward, his flashlight flickering wildly as he searched for the final page.
When he found it, he hesitated. It was taped to a tree near the edge of the map, just like the first one. But this page felt different. The air around it seemed heavier, the static louder.
His thumb hovered over the button. He pressed it.
<hr>
"Welcome to the game, Vincent Price.
We’ve been waiting for you."
<hr>
The screen went black.