《The Price of Fear》
Chapter 1:
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.
"Do you crave the thrill of the unknown?
Do you long to face your deepest fears?
The game has already begun."
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.
"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?"
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.
"You seek the thrill of fear, but are you prepared to face it?
There is no turning back now, Vincent."
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.
"Each step peels back the layers.
Each page reveals the truth.
Are you ready to see yourself, Vincent?"
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.
"You have always been searching.
But what will you do when the truth finds you?
We are waiting, Vincent."
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.
"One more step.
One more page.
Your story is just beginning."
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.
"Welcome to the game, Vincent Price.
We¡¯ve been waiting for you."
The screen went black.
Chapter 2:
Vincent sat in his chair, the faint hum of tension still buzzing faintly in his ears. The black screen of the CRT stared back at him, a lifeless void that seemed to swallow the dim light of his apartment. His hands rested on his lap, fingers twitching slightly as if they weren¡¯t sure what to do with themselves. He¡¯d been waiting, bracing, for something. For the game to restart, for the lights to flicker, for something inexplicable to happen.
But nothing did.
The silence grew heavier, stretching out like a rubber band about to snap. Vincent exhaled slowly, the sound almost startling in the quiet. He leaned back, the old chair groaning under his weight, and scrubbed a hand down his face.
¡°What the hell was that?¡± he muttered, glancing at the console sitting inert on his desk. The cobbled-together machine was dark, its usual faint glow absent. He leaned forward, pressing the power button once, then twice, harder each time. Nothing. Not even the comforting whirr of the fan spinning up.
¡°Great,¡± he said, his voice tinged with frustration. ¡°Now you¡¯re dead too?¡±
His gaze shifted to the CRT monitor, its curved glass surface reflecting a distorted version of his apartment. He reached out and pressed the small button on its side, expecting the familiar static fuzz of an inactive input. Instead, there was only silence. No glow, no flicker. Just the oppressive weight of its failure.
Vincent leaned back again, this time with more force, the chair creaking in protest. He crossed his arms, staring at the console like it had personally offended him. ¡°Of course. Just when it was getting interesting.¡±
He tapped his foot against the floor, trying to think. He¡¯d put so much effort into building this setup, scavenging parts from old forums, bartering with other retro enthusiasts, repairing what others had deemed unsalvageable. It wasn¡¯t just a console. It was a piece of him, a connection to a world that felt real. And now it was gone, bricked by... what? A rogue signal? A virus?
His eyes drifted to the phone lying on the desk, its cracked screen dark and unassuming. He felt a twinge of unease, the memory of that strange notification creeping back into his mind. But the phone looked the same as always, just another relic of his minimalist lifestyle. Nothing about it should have been capable of affecting his system. Nothing about it should have felt so... alive.
Vincent shook his head, forcing himself to stand. ¡°Okay, let¡¯s figure this out.¡±
He moved to the small cabinet beneath his desk, pulling out a tangle of cables and adapters. If the console was bricked, maybe he could hard-reset it. He crouched down, unplugging and re-plugging wires with the precision of someone who¡¯d done this too many times before. Still nothing.
The monitor was next. He unplugged it, checked the cord, even jiggled the ancient plug in the outlet. No response. Both were completely inert, as if something had sucked the life out of them.
Vincent sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. His mind began cataloging possibilities. Maybe it was a hardware failure, unlikely, but possible. Or maybe something in the game itself had corrupted the system, frying its ancient circuits with code that shouldn¡¯t have been there. The thought made his stomach twist.
He glanced at the stack of games on his desk, their spines neatly aligned. Each one was a portal to another time, another place. They were his escape, his lifeline. And now, with his console dead, they might as well have been paperweights.
Vincent sighed, standing up and brushing off his hands. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll deal with it later.¡±
He grabbed his phone from the desk, intending to search for repair guides or at least distract himself with something mindless. But as soon as he lifted it, the screen lit up.
The notification wasn¡¯t from any app he recognized. It wasn¡¯t even a message in the traditional sense. It was a countdown.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 51 Minutes.
The numbers ticked downward in real-time, the seconds flashing like a heartbeat. Vincent stared at it, his breath catching in his throat. The notification had no sender, no explanation. Just the cold, unrelenting march of time.
He swiped at the screen, trying to dismiss it, but the countdown stayed firmly in place. No matter what he did, double-tapping, restarting the phone, even holding the power button, it refused to go away.
¡°What the hell is this?¡± he muttered, his voice quieter now, edged with unease.
The phone felt heavier in his hand, its once-familiar weight suddenly alien. Vincent placed it back on the desk with deliberate care, his gaze flicking nervously around the room. Nothing had changed, but everything felt different. The air was colder somehow, and the faint hum of the apartment, normally a constant presence, seemed to have vanished.
Vincent began pacing, his footsteps muffled against the worn rug. His eyes scanned every corner of the apartment, searching for... something. He wasn¡¯t sure what. Anything out of place. Anything unusual.
The stack of dishes in the sink was still there, just as he¡¯d left it. The pile of laundry in the corner hadn¡¯t moved. The photo on the fridge, a faded snapshot of his parents at some forgotten picnic, was still slightly crooked. Everything was the same. And yet, it wasn¡¯t.
He stopped near the window, his gaze drifting to the open crack where the fresh air still filtered in. The street below was quiet now, the group of drone hunters long gone. For a moment, he considered closing the window, shutting out the outside world entirely. But the idea felt suffocating. Instead, he leaned against the sill, letting the cold breeze brush against his face.
The countdown lingered in his mind, the numbers flashing every time he closed his eyes. He turned back toward his desk, the dark CRT monitor and lifeless console standing like monuments to some forgotten ritual. His phone sat beside them, its screen dim but still displaying the countdown.
Vincent clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move. He walked to the desk, grabbed his chair, and pulled it out with a sharp scrape. Sitting down, he stared at the phone again, willing it to make sense.
¡°Three days,¡± he said aloud, as if speaking the words might unravel their meaning. ¡°Three days for what?¡±
The phone didn¡¯t answer. The room didn¡¯t answer. Only the faint ticking of the countdown filled the silence, its steady rhythm growing louder in his mind.
Vincent sat back in his chair, fingers drumming nervously on the desk as the phone lay in front of him, its screen glowing faintly in the dim room. The countdown continued to tick down relentlessly:
2 Days: 23 Hours: 48 Minutes.
The seconds moved in steady, unyielding beats, a metronome to his growing paranoia. It wasn¡¯t just the countdown that unsettled him, it was the silence that accompanied it. The apartment felt heavier somehow, as though the very air had thickened. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator seemed to have dulled, leaving a void that amplified every creak, every rustle.
Vincent leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and ran a hand through his hair. His mind buzzed with questions. Was this some elaborate prank? A virus? Or was it connected to what had happened to his console? He glanced at the dead CRT, the dark monitor mocking him with its stillness.
He stood abruptly, the chair sliding back with a faint screech against the floor. His pacing began again, each step across the worn rug deliberate, heavy with thought. ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± he told himself, though the words rang hollow. ¡°Just some glitch. A weird coincidence.¡±
But the feeling wouldn¡¯t leave him, that prickling sensation crawling across the back of his neck. It reminded him of the paranoia he used to feel as a kid, watching horror movies late at night. The way shadows seemed to lengthen, the way every small sound turned into the imagined shuffle of footsteps.
His gaze swept across the room again. The dishes were still in the sink, the laundry still piled in the corner. The photo on the fridge remained crooked. Everything was the same. Too much the same.
His eyes darted to the door, the thought striking him like a sudden jolt of static. He hadn¡¯t checked it.
Vincent crossed the room quickly, his socks sliding slightly on the floor as he reached the door. His hand hovered over the knob for a moment, hesitating. What if it doesn¡¯t open? The thought was irrational, but it clung to him like a splinter. What if whatever was happening, whatever this countdown meant, was trying to trap him?
With a sharp breath, he grabbed the knob and turned.
It moved easily, the faint metallic click of the latch breaking the silence. He pulled the door open and stared into the hallway beyond. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their harsh glow casting the chipped linoleum floor into sharp relief. It was empty, the same sterile corridor he¡¯d walked countless times before.
Relief bloomed in his chest, but it was short-lived. The unease remained, nagging at him like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. He left the door ajar and turned back toward the room. His gaze fell on the window next.
Vincent walked over, the cool air still seeping through the crack where he¡¯d left it open earlier. He tugged it the rest of the way open, the stiff frame resisting slightly before sliding upward with a faint squeal. The chill breeze hit him fully now, ruffling his hair as he leaned out and looked down at the street below.
It was as lifeless as ever. The group from earlier was long gone, the only movement coming from a lone drone zipping silently between the buildings. Nothing unusual. Nothing strange.
Vincent pulled his head back inside and shut the window with a soft thunk, leaving it locked this time. He turned, his hands resting on his hips as his eyes swept the room again.
¡°Still nothing,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice a little sharper now, edged with frustration. He rubbed the back of his neck and moved back toward the desk, his steps slower this time. He glanced at the phone again, the countdown as steady as ever.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 45 Minutes.
He sank into the chair, letting out a long sigh as his eyes roamed the room once more. Every detail was burned into his memory now. The dishes. The laundry. The photo. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.
Still, he found himself getting up again, pacing, checking everything one more time. The door. The window. The desk. He ran his hands over the console, over the CRT, as if touching them might somehow breathe life back into their dead forms.
Nothing.
When he finally sat back down, his body felt heavy, the tension in his shoulders pulling him forward. He stared at the phone, the steady rhythm of the countdown ticking in his mind like a second heartbeat.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 43 Minutes.
He let out a dry laugh, the sound cutting through the oppressive quiet. ¡°I¡¯m losing it,¡± he muttered, running a hand through his hair again. His gaze drifted back to the stack of games on the desk, their familiar spines a small comfort against the growing unease.
The feeling reminded him of the first time he¡¯d watched a real horror movie. Not the kid-friendly stuff his parents had started him on, but the real ones, the kind that left you checking over your shoulder for hours afterward. He remembered the way the fear lingered, how it wrapped itself around you like a cold blanket, even long after the credits rolled.
That same paranoia prickled at his mind now, subtle but persistent. It was irrational, he knew that. Nothing had changed in the apartment. Everything was exactly where it should be. And yet...
Vincent leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he tried to calm the racing thoughts in his head. He told himself it was just his imagination, the product of too many late nights and too much isolation.
But no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, the feeling wouldn¡¯t leave him.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, his hands laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The oppressive silence was starting to get to him, each second stretching out longer than it had any right to. His gaze flicked back to his phone on the desk, the countdown glowing faintly like a low-burning ember.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 39 Minutes.
He realized he¡¯d been glancing at it every few minutes, as if somehow expecting it to change. It didn¡¯t. It just kept ticking down, relentless and indifferent.
Vincent swore under his breath, snatching the phone and locking the screen before tossing it back onto the desk. ¡°Damn paranoia,¡± he muttered. ¡°You¡¯re letting this get to you.¡±
He stood up, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness, and started pacing again. He needed a distraction, something to ground him, to keep his mind from spiraling further into whatever this was. But his options were limited.
The console was still dead, the CRT a lifeless void. He glanced at the stack of games, their colorful spines mocking him with the promise of a reprieve he couldn¡¯t access. His fingers itched to pick one up, to lose himself in the familiar tension of a survival horror title. But that wasn¡¯t an option right now.
And his phone? Useless. He wasn¡¯t about to mess with that damn countdown again.
¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, walking over to his small desk in the corner. His laptop was sitting there, half-buried under a pile of notebooks and cables. He powered it on, the screen flickering to life with a faint hum. At least it still worked.
The familiar desktop greeted him, a chaotic mix of shortcuts and files that he hadn¡¯t bothered organizing in years. He opened his browser, intending to check his email, maybe send a message to one of the few online friends he still kept in touch with.
But when he navigated to the login page, something strange happened. Instead of the usual fields for his email and password, there was only a single line of text:
This account has been deleted. Access denied.
Vincent blinked, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard. He tried refreshing the page, thinking it might be a glitch. Nothing changed.
¡°What the hell?¡± he muttered, frowning as he leaned closer. He clicked on the help link, but it redirected him to the same page. His email was gone.
His mind raced, the familiar weight of paranoia creeping back in. It couldn¡¯t be a coincidence, not after the console, the CRT, the phone. Something, whatever this was, didn¡¯t want him reaching out.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
For a moment, panic bubbled up in his chest. He wasn¡¯t exactly the most social person, but he wasn¡¯t completely isolated either. He had connections, fellow horror buffs he chatted with in forums, people who shared his love for the genre and the catharsis it brought.
But the thought only made him laugh, a dry, humorless sound that broke the oppressive silence. He pushed himself back from the desk, shaking his head.
¡°They don¡¯t know, do they?¡± he said aloud, the words carrying an edge of defiance. ¡°I don¡¯t have anyone close. No family, no friends to call up and save me. Just a few people online who¡¯d probably think this is some elaborate prank if I told them.¡±
The laughter faded, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his shoulders returning. He wasn¡¯t sure what was worse, the idea that someone was actively trying to isolate him, or the fact that he was already so isolated it didn¡¯t even matter.
The laptop screen dimmed slightly, the cursor blinking in the empty search bar. Vincent stared at it for a moment before closing the lid with a soft click. The idea of trying to reach out felt pointless now, like screaming into a void.
He stood up and paced to the window, running his hands through his hair as he stared out at the darkened street below. The breeze from earlier had stopped, the air still and heavy now.
¡°Okay,¡± he said to himself, his voice quiet but firm. ¡°So it doesn¡¯t want me reaching out. Fine. That¡¯s fine. I can handle this.¡±
Vincent leaned back against the desk, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the wooden surface as he stared at the closed lid of his laptop. His mind churned, pulling at threads of logic, memory, and intuition in a desperate attempt to make sense of what was happening.
Then it hit him, there was one place he could go.
The forums.
They weren¡¯t just any forums; they were the forums. Hidden corners of the web where horror enthusiasts gathered, trading stories, theories, and forbidden content. He hadn¡¯t been active on them for a while, not since life had settled into its predictable monotony. But he knew those people. If anyone could help him figure this out, it would be them.
Vincent flipped the laptop open again, the screen casting a faint glow across his face. He navigated quickly, his fingers flying over the keyboard with the muscle memory of someone who¡¯d done this a thousand times. The first step was opening the VPN, a cobbled-together service that barely worked half the time but was good enough to keep prying eyes away.
Once the connection was secure, he entered the URL. It wasn¡¯t something you could find on the surface web, and even if you did, the main page was designed to look like a long-abandoned blog about film tropes. The real forums were hidden behind a login screen, accessible only with the right credentials.
Vincent paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He hadn¡¯t used his login in years, but he remembered it clearly. How could he not? He¡¯d created it when he was fourteen, back when he was convinced he was the next great horror auteur.
With a deep breath, he typed in the username:
DarkRaven_Nightmare999
He cringed inwardly as the letters appeared on the screen, the memory of his younger self painfully vivid. Fourteen-year-old Vincent had been sure this name sounded cool and mysterious, the kind of moniker that would strike fear, or at least mild respect, into the hearts of his fellow forum members. Now, it just felt embarrassing.
He typed in the password next, his lips twitching into a faint smile as he remembered it.
BloodMoon_Eternal999
Because of course, the numbers had to match.
The login screen spun for a moment before the page loaded, revealing the familiar dark theme of the forums. The background was a grainy texture that resembled fog, with faint silhouettes of trees at the edges. The banner at the top still bore the same phrase it had for years:
"In Shadows, We Speak."
Vincent clicked into the general discussion board, his eyes scanning the thread titles. Most of them were the usual fare, debates about classic horror films, analyses of obscure urban legends, and the occasional blurry screenshot of some alleged ¡°lost¡± game.
He hit the ¡°New Thread¡± button and leaned back, cracking his knuckles before typing out the title. For a moment, he hesitated. He needed this post to stand out, but not in a way that screamed ¡°troll¡± or ¡°attention seeker.¡±
And then he remembered the code word.
It was an unwritten rule on the forums, something everyone respected. If you used this specific word, it meant you were being completely serious, no matter how outlandish your claim. It wasn¡¯t flashy or dramatic, just a single, unassuming word.
Thread Title: Help Needed (Trust)
Satisfied, Vincent moved on to the body of the post. He tried to summarize everything as clearly as possible, starting with the strange notification on his phone and ending with his bricked console and email account. The more he typed, the more absurd it sounded, but he forced himself to keep going.
Hey everyone, long time no see. Not sure if anyone remembers me, but I need some serious help. Something weird is happening, and I don¡¯t know how else to deal with it. Here¡¯s the short version:
- I got a notification on my phone about some kind of countdown. It just showed a time, 2 Days, 23 Hours, and some minutes. No sender, no app name. Just... there.
- My gaming setup, including my console and monitor, stopped working right after. Completely dead.
- My email account is gone. Deleted. I can¡¯t access it at all.
I know this sounds insane, but it feels like whatever this is, it¡¯s trying to isolate me. Like it¡¯s cutting me off from everything.
If you¡¯re going to reply, please pretend this is real. Don¡¯t care if you think I¡¯m full of crap, just give me your honest thoughts as if it¡¯s 100% true.
Thanks.
Vincent stared at the screen, rereading the post twice before hitting ¡°Submit.¡± As the page refreshed and the thread appeared in the list, he felt a flicker of anxiety. The forums were a tight-knit community, but they didn¡¯t suffer fools lightly. He could already imagine the responses, half of them serious, half of them mocking his old username.
Still, he felt better having done something, even if it was just shouting into the void.
Leaning back in his chair, he glanced at his phone again. The countdown ticked on, unrelenting.
Vincent tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze fixed on the forum thread he¡¯d just posted. The screen hadn¡¯t refreshed yet, and the line of text at the bottom, ¡°No replies yet¡±, stared back at him like a taunt.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his foot jiggling nervously against the floor. Waiting was the worst part. His mind filled the silence with imagined scenarios, each one more unsettling than the last. What if no one replied? What if whatever was happening to him, whatever had bricked his console, deleted his email, and planted that countdown, wasn¡¯t just isolating him physically but digitally too?
He tried to push the thought aside, but it clung to him, digging in like a thorn. He clicked the refresh button again, his stomach twisting when the screen blinked back to life with no change. Still nothing.
¡°Relax,¡± he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. ¡°It¡¯s just a forum. People don¡¯t reply instantly.¡±
But the minutes dragged on, each one stretching longer than the last. The silence of the apartment felt heavier now, pressing down on him like a weighted blanket.
He refreshed the page again. Nothing.
Vincent let out a frustrated sigh, his foot jiggling faster now. The forum was always active, even in the dead of night. Someone should have seen his post by now. His mind raced, each passing second adding fuel to the fire of his paranoia. What if the VPN wasn¡¯t working? What if the forums had gone down, or worse, been compromised?
¡°What if it blocked me?¡± The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately hated how ridiculous they sounded. Still, the thought was there now, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He refreshed the page again, the click of the mouse too loud in the quiet room. The screen loaded slowly this time, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought it might not load at all. But when it finally refreshed, something new appeared.
Replies: 3
Vincent let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging as the tension ebbed slightly. Relief flooded through him, though it was tinged with the faintest edge of lingering unease.
He clicked into the thread, his eyes scanning the replies as his heart began to slow.
The first reply was from a user he recognized, "Cryptkeeper69", someone who had been around the forums even longer than he had. They always had a knack for pulling obscure references out of thin air, and their reply didn¡¯t disappoint.
Okay, first off: wow. This is giving serious The Ring vibes. Countdown? Strange interference with your electronics? Classic cursed media trope. My advice: don¡¯t ignore it. These things always escalate when you try to brush them off. Maybe try communicating with it, if it¡¯s sentient, it might respond. Or it might just kill you faster. Who knows? Good luck!
Vincent couldn¡¯t help but laugh, a short, sharp bark that broke the silence of the room. The humor was morbid, but it was exactly what he needed.
The second reply came from "ScreamQueen22", someone he vaguely remembered as a hardcore slasher fan. Their tone was more cautious.
This is weird, but it doesn¡¯t sound like a prank. If horror movies have taught me anything, it¡¯s to trust your instincts. If you think this thing is trying to isolate you, then it probably is. Keep your doors and windows locked, and don¡¯t let your guard down. If you¡¯ve got sage or any other ritual stuff, maybe burn some just in case, it can¡¯t hurt, right?
Vincent rolled his eyes, though the advice wasn¡¯t entirely unwelcome. He didn¡¯t have sage lying around, but the idea of locking his doors and windows didn¡¯t seem so crazy.
The third reply was from a newer user, "Obscura7", someone whose name he didn¡¯t recognize. Their reply was the most serious, and it sent a faint chill down his spine.
If this is real, then you need to start documenting everything. Write it down, take pictures, record audio, whatever you can. The countdown might mean you¡¯re being tested, or it could be a warning. Either way, you need proof. And whatever you do, DON¡¯T break the chain. If you started engaging with it, you have to see it through.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting out another breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding. The replies were exactly what he¡¯d hoped for: serious, direct, and laced with just enough gallows humor to keep him grounded.
He refreshed the thread one more time, watching as more replies trickled in. Each one carried its own flavor of advice, from practical suggestions to outright absurdities. But the unwritten rule of the forum held firm, everyone treated his post like it was real.
For the first time in hours, Vincent felt himself begin to relax. He didn¡¯t know if any of their advice would actually help, but just knowing that someone, anyone, was out there listening was enough to steady his nerves.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen as the faint beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Vincent scrolled through the replies again, his eyes darting over the familiar mix of gallows humor, practical advice, and outright absurdities. Most of the names in the thread were the usual suspects: edgy, dramatic handles meant to match the tone of the forum. But one response caught his eye, not because of what it said, but because of who it came from.
The username was startlingly mundane: "JohnB47."
Compared to Cryptkeeper69 and ScreamQueen22, it stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn¡¯t the kind of name you saw on these forums. No dramatic flair, no reference to horror or darkness. Just plain, simple, unremarkable.
That was what made it so unsettling.
Vincent clicked on the reply, his curiosity overriding the faint chill running down his spine. The message wasn¡¯t long, but something about it made his breath hitch.
"Do not ignore the countdown. It is already too late to stop it, but you may still survive. The isolation is the first stage, it¡¯s meant to prepare you, to strip you of distractions. You¡¯re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
Remember: Do not run. Do not hide. And whatever you do, do not answer when it knocks."
Vincent¡¯s fingers tightened on the edge of his desk. He didn¡¯t notice he was leaning forward until his nose was practically brushing the screen. He read the message once, then again, the words sinking deeper into his mind with each pass.
¡°Do not answer when it knocks,¡± he whispered, the phrase tumbling from his lips like a stone dropping into water.
The words were heavy, almost physically so, as though speaking them aloud brought them closer to reality. The weight of them pressed down on his chest, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
For a moment, Vincent sat there in silence, the faint hum of his laptop the only sound in the room. Then, with trembling fingers, he clicked on the username.
The page loaded quickly, revealing... nothing.
User Not Found.
¡°What the hell?¡± Vincent muttered, his voice sharp in the stillness of the apartment. He refreshed the page, but the result was the same. There was no profile, no history, no evidence that JohnB47 had ever existed.
His heart began to pound, the steady rhythm filling his ears as he clicked back to the thread. He scrolled through the replies, searching for the message, but it wasn¡¯t there.
It was gone.
Vincent¡¯s mouth went dry. He scrolled again, slower this time, scanning each reply carefully. Cryptkeeper69. ScreamQueen22. Obscura7. All the others were still there. But the one from JohnB47? Gone.
He cursed under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. He should have taken a screenshot. He should have saved it, something. But the thought hadn¡¯t even crossed his mind in the moment. He¡¯d been too caught up in the weight of the words, the strange familiarity they carried.
Pushing back from the desk, Vincent ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands. His mind churned with possibilities, none of them comforting. Had someone deleted the message? Or worse, had it never been there at all?
Vincent¡¯s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his thoughts still churning as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The message, the disappeared message, felt like a thread dangling in the void, teasing him with the promise of answers he couldn¡¯t quite reach. He clicked into his original post and began typing, summarizing the strange reply as best as he could remember.
Edit: Something weird just happened. Got a reply from a user named ¡®JohnB47.¡¯ They said the countdown couldn¡¯t be stopped, that isolation was the first stage, and that I shouldn¡¯t answer if it knocks. Tried clicking on the username, but it says they don¡¯t exist. Now the reply is gone completely.
Not sure if anyone saw it before it disappeared, but let me know if you did.
He paused for a moment, rereading his words. It felt incomplete, but what else was there to say? With a frustrated sigh, he hit Post Edit and leaned back in his chair.
The laptop screen dimmed slightly, a subtle reminder that he¡¯d been staring at it for too long. His gaze drifted to the stack of dishes in the sink, the pile of laundry in the corner, the cluttered desk. The weight of his surroundings pressed down on him, amplified by the uneasy silence of the apartment.
He couldn¡¯t sit here all day. Not now. Not with this hanging over him.
Vincent stood, stretching until his joints popped. The tension in his shoulders made him wince, a physical manifestation of the growing anxiety he couldn¡¯t shake. He glanced at the window, still shut tight, and then at the door, still unlocked. Everything was as it should be, and yet...
¡°Alright,¡± he muttered, his voice breaking the silence. ¡°Might as well do something productive.¡±
He moved to the sink, grabbing the stack of dishes and running the water until it turned warm. The routine was comforting, in a way, a small, tangible task that let him focus on something other than the countdown ticking away in the back of his mind. He scrubbed each plate methodically, rinsing and stacking them on the drying rack.
As he worked, his thoughts drifted to horror games. He¡¯d spent so many years immersed in them, dissecting their mechanics, their tropes, their rules. There had to be something he could use here, some practical advice buried in all those hours of gameplay.
One thought stood out above the rest: Silent Hill.
The static.
In the game, the protagonist¡¯s radio would emit bursts of static whenever a monster was nearby. It was a simple mechanic, but it worked. The static became a warning system, a signal that danger was close even when you couldn¡¯t see it.
Vincent glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see something lurking in the shadows of his apartment. Of course, there was nothing there. The silence pressed in again, thicker now, as if mocking him for the thought.
Still, the idea stuck with him. If something was happening, if this countdown, this isolation, meant what he thought it did, then he needed to be ready. He needed his own version of the static, something to warn him if things started to go sideways.
¡°Maybe a motion detector,¡± he mused, rinsing the last plate and setting it aside. ¡°Or... a baby monitor? Something cheap and simple.¡±
The thought made him laugh, a soft, bitter sound that felt too loud in the stillness of the room. ¡°You¡¯re losing it,¡± he muttered, drying his hands on a towel. ¡°Talking about monsters like they¡¯re real.¡±
But the laugh didn¡¯t last. The memory of the message lingered, its words etched into his mind: Do not run. Do not hide. Do not answer when it knocks.
He moved to the pile of laundry next, scooping it up and dumping it into the small washer tucked into the corner of his apartment. The hum of the machine starting up was a welcome break from the silence, though it did little to ease the unease gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
As he folded what little clean laundry he had left, he mentally reviewed what he knew about survival horror. Inventory management, he thought. Keep supplies close. Don¡¯t waste resources. Not exactly useful advice in real life, but maybe there was something to be said for being prepared. He glanced toward the kitchen, mentally cataloging the contents of his cupboards. A few cans of soup, some pasta, a nearly-empty jar of peanut butter. Not exactly a survivalist¡¯s dream.
He added it to the growing list of things to worry about.
The washer rumbled softly in the background as Vincent leaned against the counter, staring at his phone on the desk. The countdown continued its steady march, the numbers ticking down one second at a time.
Chapter 3:
Vincent wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing around the apartment. It looked... cleaner. Not pristine, he wasn¡¯t aiming for perfection, but less chaotic, at least. The dishes were washed and stacked, the laundry was folded, and the clutter on his desk had been reduced to just a few neatly arranged items. Even the stack of game cases had been dusted and re-shelved, their colorful spines now perfectly aligned.
It wasn¡¯t much, but it felt good to have done something. The cleaning hadn¡¯t been about the apartment so much as his own headspace, an attempt to scrape away the tension and unease that had been building since this whole mess started.
He leaned back against the counter, letting out a long breath. His gaze drifted to the small window, where the faint glow of the afternoon sun cast soft streaks of light across the room. For a moment, he considered stepping outside, maybe going for a walk to clear his head.
But the thought quickly soured. The world out there wasn¡¯t exactly inviting.
Vincent reached for his tablet, a sleek device that sat on the counter next to a half-empty glass of water. It was one of the few pieces of modern tech he owned that wasn¡¯t ancient or cobbled together. He had to keep it up to date, everything required it these days, from ordering supplies to accessing public transportation.
He unlocked the screen and opened the delivery app, scrolling through the endless catalog of items. The interface was minimalistic, designed to be as intuitive as possible. You didn¡¯t even have to type most of the time; the AI had likely already curated a list of suggestions based on recent purchases.
Vincent, however, knew exactly what he wanted.
He pulled up the search bar and started typing, the names of items coming to him in rapid succession. A small, handheld radio, something simple, the kind of thing he could clip onto a belt. A flashlight, preferably one he could attach to a jacket or bag for hands-free use. He paused for a moment, thinking, before adding a crowbar to the list.
It felt absurd, ordering things like this. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Every protagonist in a horror game always seemed woefully unprepared. Sure, they¡¯d stumble across supplies eventually, but never in time to avoid the first few ambushes. He wasn¡¯t going to be that guy.
He scrolled further, adding a roll of sturdy duct tape and a compact first-aid kit to the cart. His finger hovered over the screen before he added one more thing: a small utility knife with a built-in seatbelt cutter and glass breaker. It wasn¡¯t strictly necessary, but it felt... right.
Once he was satisfied, he confirmed the order. A message popped up, informing him that his items would arrive in approximately one hour. The drones were efficient like that, their routes optimized down to the second. He glanced out the window again, imagining one of the small, boxy machines zipping through the sky, its cargo container filled with his curated list of survival gear.
¡°Guess that¡¯s one thing this world gets right,¡± he muttered, setting the tablet down.
With the order placed, Vincent¡¯s thoughts wandered back to the world outside. The contrast between his life and the modern world wasn¡¯t just about technology, it was about everything. Most people didn¡¯t even interact with drones anymore; their apartments had delivery hatches, small mechanized compartments where items could be dropped off without the need for human interaction. It was seamless, efficient, impersonal.
He hated it.
Vincent preferred the window delivery option, even if it meant having to pull the package inside himself. There was something grounding about it, a faint reminder of a time when people still talked to delivery drivers and handed over cash in person.
He grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the counter, scrolling idly through his tablet while he waited. The device buzzed softly in his hand, its haptic feedback calibrated to mimic the feel of physical buttons. He navigated to the public news feed, though he wasn¡¯t sure why, nothing interesting ever happened.
The headlines were the usual mix of AI milestones, minor policy changes, and carefully curated feel-good stories. ¡°Breakthrough in Quantum Computing Promises Faster Medical Diagnoses.¡± ¡°Drones Deliver Record 10 Millionth Package in City 47.¡± ¡°Local Man Finds Lost Cat Using GPS Collar.¡±
Vincent rolled his eyes, setting the tablet down with a sigh. None of it felt real. The world had become so sanitized, so perfectly controlled, that even the news seemed more like a script than an account of actual events.
His thoughts drifted back to his order, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. The radio in particular intrigued him. The idea of carrying something that might give him a warning, like the static in Silent Hill, was oddly comforting. Maybe it wouldn¡¯t do anything, but it would feel like he was taking control, like he wasn¡¯t just waiting for whatever was coming.
The crowbar, too, felt like a small victory. He¡¯d always cursed the protagonists in horror games for never having anything useful when they needed it. A crowbar wasn¡¯t just a tool; it was a statement. It said, I¡¯m not going down without a fight.
As the minutes ticked by, Vincent found himself pacing again, the faint buzz of anticipation mingling with his lingering unease.
Vincent¡¯s pacing was interrupted by the faint hum of rotors outside the window. He turned, peering toward the source of the sound, and saw the delivery drone hovering just beyond the glass. Its sleek, boxy frame gleamed in the late afternoon sun, the small cargo compartment underneath glowing faintly with status lights.
The drone floated in place, perfectly still except for the gentle oscillation of its rotors. Its precision was unnerving, too clean, too mechanical. It waited patiently, a soft blue light pulsing rhythmically at its base, signaling that the delivery was ready.
Vincent crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, watching it for a moment. He wasn¡¯t in any rush to open the window. There was something oddly satisfying about making it wait, a tiny rebellion against the hyper-efficient world he¡¯d been born into. In a time when even packages arrived faster than thoughts, this was his protest.
¡°Hold your horses,¡± he muttered, though he knew the drone couldn¡¯t hear him, or care if it did.
After another minute or two of savoring the tiny act of defiance, Vincent finally slid the window open. The drone adjusted its position slightly, the hum of its rotors shifting pitch as it edged closer. Its cargo compartment opened with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek black tablet that extended toward him.
Vincent grinned faintly and leaned forward, plucking the tablet from the drone¡¯s mechanical arm. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got to say,¡± he said, pretending he was about to have a real conversation.
The screen lit up with a standard delivery confirmation message:
"Hello! Your order has arrived. Please sign below to confirm receipt. Thank you for choosing Streamline Delivery!"
The voice that accompanied the text was cheerful, if a bit soulless. ¡°Thank you for your order! Your satisfaction is our priority. If you have any questions, please contact our automated support line.¡±
Vincent snorted, holding the tablet aloft as if addressing the drone directly. ¡°You know, you could at least pretend to be a little more personable. Maybe throw in a ¡®how¡¯s your day going?¡¯ or a ¡®nice weather we¡¯re having,¡¯ huh?¡±
The drone emitted a soft chime, a pre-programmed response clearly meant to placate chatty recipients. ¡°Your feedback is important to us. Thank you for sharing.¡±
¡°Right,¡± Vincent said with a smirk. ¡°Figured as much.¡±
He set the tablet down on the windowsill and leaned against the frame, staring out at the street below. The drone continued to hover, its rotors humming steadily as if to remind him it was still there. He let it wait. A small, petty victory, but a victory nonetheless.
After a few more moments, he picked up the tablet again and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the screen with his finger. The confirmation message disappeared, replaced by a cheerful, "Thank you! Enjoy your day!"
The drone chirped once, then extended a small mechanical arm holding a compact black box. Vincent took it, the weight of it solid and satisfying in his hands. The drone lingered for a moment longer, then buzzed away, its rotors fading into the distance as it joined the flock of delivery machines crisscrossing the sky.
¡°Always a pleasure,¡± Vincent muttered, setting the box on the windowsill.
He grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby counter and began cutting through the tape with quick, deliberate snips. The box opened easily, revealing the neatly packed items inside. Each one was individually wrapped in crinkly, biodegradable packaging, labeled with minimalist logos that seemed almost apologetic for existing.
Vincent pulled out the first item: the handheld radio. It was small, simple, and exactly what he¡¯d been hoping for. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it before switching it on. A soft crackle of static filled the air, and he smiled faintly. ¡°Just like Silent Hill,¡± he murmured. ¡°Let¡¯s hope I don¡¯t need it for the same reasons.¡±
Next was the flashlight, a sturdy, compact model with a clip designed to attach to clothing or bags. He pressed the button, and a bright, focused beam of light cut through the dimness of the apartment. Satisfied, he clipped it to his belt, testing the weight and balance.
He gave the crowbar a test swing, its weight reassuring in a way that felt oddly primal. In the games he loved, this would be the moment the protagonist stumbled onto their first tool, a desperate grab for survival. Vincent had no intention of stumbling. He wanted to be the one writing the rules. ¡°Definitely better than a plank of wood,¡± he said, thinking of all the hapless protagonists who would have killed for something this useful.
The first-aid kit came next, followed by the utility knife and duct tape. Each item felt like a small triumph, a step toward preparedness in a situation he still didn¡¯t fully understand.
Once everything was unpacked, Vincent leaned against the windowsill, looking over his newly acquired gear. The apartment felt less oppressive now, the silence less suffocating. There was something comforting about having tools, even if he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d need them.
Vincent sat cross-legged on the floor near the windowsill, his back resting against the wall. The tools he¡¯d unpacked from the delivery box were spread out in front of him, arranged in a neat, methodical line. His gaze lingered on the radio, its faint static breaking the silence of the apartment. He had tuned it to no specific frequency, letting the hiss and crackle fill the void.
The sound was oddly soothing, even if it did remind him of the message he¡¯d read earlier. Do not answer when it knocks.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. The weight of everything was starting to creep back in, pressing down on him like a slow, heavy tide. The message on the forums, the disappearing user, the countdown on his phone, it was all too much. And yet, in a strange way, it was almost exhilarating. For the first time in years, he felt like something was happening, like there was a purpose to the static monotony of his life.
¡°Am I really this messed up?¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Getting excited over... what? A countdown? Some weird glitch?¡±
The thought lingered as he reached for the crowbar, his fingers curling around its cool, solid weight. It was ridiculous, really, sitting in his apartment with a collection of survival gear as if he were preparing for some kind of horror game come to life. But then again, wasn¡¯t this exactly what he¡¯d spent years fantasizing about? The thrill of danger, the creeping dread, the chance to prove himself in a situation where the stakes were real?
He shook his head, chuckling softly. ¡°Careful what you wish for, huh?¡±
The humor didn¡¯t last long. His thoughts turned back to the forums, to the replies he¡¯d received. The post from JohnB47 was burned into his memory, every word heavy with implication. You¡¯re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
The idea that someone, or something, was watching him, orchestrating these events, was both terrifying and oddly validating. He had spent so long feeling invisible, like the world had forgotten him. The thought that he might be important to something, even something sinister, was a strange kind of comfort.
Vincent pushed himself up, brushing the dust off his jeans. His laptop was still open on the counter, the screen dark from inactivity. He tapped the touchpad, bringing it back to life, and navigated back to the forums. The thread he¡¯d started was still active, the page filling with new replies.
Most of them were the usual mix of jokes and speculation. Someone had posted a meme about cursed objects, while another had linked to a list of obscure horror films that supposedly inspired The Ring. Vincent scrolled past them, searching for anything useful, anything that might help him make sense of what was happening.
A reply from Obscura7 caught his eye. It was short but direct:
"Still think you should document everything. Keep track of when things happen, what you notice, even the small stuff. If this is a countdown to something, you¡¯ll want to know what led up to it."
He nodded to himself. It was good advice. He could start a log, maybe on the laptop or even on paper if he wanted something more tangible. The idea of cataloging everything felt... grounding, like he could wrest some small measure of control over the situation.
Another reply, from Cryptkeeper69, made him pause:
"Anyone else think this sounds like a death omen? I mean, isolation, countdowns, strange messages, classic setup for something bad. Just saying. Be careful, dude."
¡°Helpful,¡± Vincent muttered, rolling his eyes. Still, the words stuck with him. The countdown wasn¡¯t just a timer, it felt like a shadow looming over him, a reminder that something was coming.
As he scrolled further, a sudden sound made him freeze.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment, each one precise and deliberate.
Vincent¡¯s breath caught in his throat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His mind immediately flashed back to the message: Do not answer when it knocks.
The radio on the floor crackled faintly, the static growing louder for a brief moment before fading again. The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing in around him like a physical weight.
His eyes darted to the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. The knocks had been clear, unmistakable, but the thought of answering sent a chill down his spine. Who could it even be? He hadn¡¯t ordered anything else, and no one ever visited him unannounced.
He stood slowly, his legs feeling heavier than they should. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, and he grabbed it without thinking, the cold metal reassuring in his hand.
Another knock, this time softer, almost hesitant.
Vincent took a deep breath, forcing himself to move toward the door. The closer he got, the more his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe it was just a neighbor. Maybe the drone had messed up and come back for some reason. Maybe,
He stopped a few feet from the door, his fingers tightening on the crowbar.
¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± he called, his voice steadier than he expected.
There was no answer.
Vincent¡¯s grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. The air felt heavier now, charged with a tension he couldn¡¯t explain. He took another step forward, his hand reaching for the doorknob.
Vincent stood frozen in front of the door, his heart pounding as the seconds stretched out uncomfortably long. His grip on the crowbar was so tight that his fingers were starting to ache, but he didn¡¯t loosen it. He stared at the door, the faint sound of muffled talking from the other side barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears.
Who could it be? The thought circled his mind like a vulture. No one ever knocked on his door unless it was something official, and even that was rare. Deliveries came to the window. Social visits were nonexistent. He racked his brain for an answer, his muscles coiled like a spring.
He leaned closer, peering through the peephole. The distorted fish-eye view of the hallway revealed a short, stocky man with greasy hair and a balding patch that he¡¯d attempted to cover with an awkward combover. His building manager. The man was leaning slightly to one side, holding a phone to his ear and gesturing with his free hand as if the person on the other end could see him.
Vincent let out a long, slow breath. Of course. Rent day.
The realization didn¡¯t exactly calm him. The interaction ahead was still enough to make his skin crawl. His building manager, Mr. Garrison, wasn¡¯t a bad guy, but he had a way of lingering in conversations, letting pauses stretch until they became unbearable. He was awkward in a way that made Vincent feel even more aware of his own awkwardness, and their exchanges often left him feeling like he¡¯d run a social marathon.
He glanced down at the crowbar in his hand, suddenly very aware of how incriminating it looked. The last thing he wanted was to open the door holding a weapon like he was expecting an axe murderer.
With a sigh, Vincent set the crowbar down on the floor near the door, careful not to let it clatter too loudly. He smoothed his shirt with both hands, as if that would somehow make him appear less suspicious, and reached for the doorknob.
The door creaked slightly as he opened it, revealing Mr. Garrison mid-conversation. The man¡¯s face turned toward Vincent with a flash of mild irritation, which quickly melted into an expression of forced pleasantness as he lowered the phone from his ear.
¡°Ah, Vincent,¡± Garrison said, his voice nasal and slightly hoarse. He slipped the phone into his pocket with an air of exaggerated importance, as though he were doing Vincent a favor by giving him his full attention. ¡°You¡¯re a hard man to catch at home.¡±
Vincent blinked, not quite sure how to respond. ¡°Uh¡ I¡¯m always home,¡± he said, the words coming out more defensive than he¡¯d intended.
Garrison tilted his head slightly, his expression caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. ¡°Right, of course. Just seems like you¡¯re good at staying quiet. Not a bad thing, mind you. Quiet tenants are the best tenants.¡±
There was an awkward pause as Garrison shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shiny dress shoes squeaking faintly against the hallway floor. Vincent resisted the urge to glance at the crowbar, which was just barely out of view behind the doorframe. Instead, he forced a tight smile.
¡°So, uh, rent?¡± Vincent asked, trying to steer the conversation to its inevitable conclusion.
Garrison nodded, pulling a small tablet from his pocket and holding it out. ¡°Yeah, just need your signature. System¡¯s been glitchy lately, so I¡¯m doing things the old-fashioned way. You know how it is, technology, always breaking down when you need it.¡±
Vincent gave a noncommittal grunt, taking the tablet and pretending to study the screen even though he already knew what it would say. As he scribbled his name across the digital line, he could feel Garrison¡¯s eyes on him, the weight of the man¡¯s presence uncomfortably close.
¡°You, uh¡¡± Garrison began, his voice trailing off as he tilted his head slightly. ¡°You expecting trouble or something?¡±
Vincent¡¯s hand froze mid-signature. His stomach dropped as he realized what the man was referring to. He glanced down at the crowbar, which was just barely visible through the crack in the door.
¡°Oh, that?¡± Vincent said, forcing a laugh that sounded painfully unnatural. ¡°No, no. Just¡ you know, had some issues with a stuck window. Figured I¡¯d use it to pry it open.¡±
Garrison raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a way that suggested he didn¡¯t quite believe the excuse but didn¡¯t care enough to question it. ¡°Stuck window, huh? Should¡¯ve put in a maintenance request. That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for.¡±
¡°Yeah, I, uh¡ didn¡¯t want to bother anyone,¡± Vincent said, handing the tablet back a little too quickly.
Garrison took it with a shrug, his gaze lingering on the crowbar for a moment before he tucked the tablet under his arm. ¡°Well, you know where to find me if something else gets stuck,¡± he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.
Vincent nodded, hoping that would be the end of it. But Garrison didn¡¯t move. He stood there, shifting his weight again, his eyes wandering over the hallway like he was searching for an excuse to prolong the interaction.
¡°So, uh, how¡¯s it going?¡± Garrison asked, his tone overly casual.
Vincent blinked. ¡°Fine. Just, you know, keeping busy.¡±
¡°Busy with what?¡± Garrison asked, leaning slightly closer.
Vincent felt his throat tighten. He hadn¡¯t expected a follow-up question, and the blankness in his mind was palpable. ¡°Uh, cleaning,¡± he said finally. ¡°And, you know¡ other stuff.¡±
¡°Other stuff,¡± Garrison repeated, nodding sagely as though Vincent had just imparted some profound wisdom. ¡°Well, that¡¯s good. Keepin¡¯ the place tidy.¡±
The silence that followed was excruciating. Vincent felt like he was drowning in it, his mind scrambling for an exit strategy. Finally, he cleared his throat. ¡°So, uh, anything else you need?¡±
Garrison seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. ¡°Nope. Just the rent. And hey, if that window¡¯s still giving you trouble, let me know. Don¡¯t want you breaking anything.¡±
¡°Right. Will do,¡± Vincent said, his hand already on the door, ready to shut it the moment Garrison stepped back.
The building manager gave him one last lingering look, his gaze flitting briefly to the crowbar again before he turned and walked away. Vincent waited until he was sure the man was out of earshot before letting out a long breath and shutting the door.
The sound of the latch clicking into place was oddly satisfying, like the punctuation mark at the end of a long, awkward sentence. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.
¡°Jesus,¡± he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Vincent shook his head, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness, and turned back toward the apartment.
The crowbar was still lying on the floor near the door. He picked it up, feeling the cool weight of it in his hands, and set it back on the windowsill where it belonged.
Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, the lingering awkwardness of the conversation with Garrison making his skin crawl. He let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off as he moved back into the apartment. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, a quiet reminder of how ridiculous the entire interaction had been.
¡°Man, I need to get out more,¡± he muttered, wincing at how foreign the idea felt. When had he last done something as simple as meeting someone for coffee? The answer came too quickly: not since before the world decided that everything could be delivered through a screen.
The thought made him pause mid-step. When was the last time he¡¯d actually done that? The landlord didn¡¯t count, Garrison was more of an inevitability than an interaction. Real, meaningful conversations felt like something from another life, something he¡¯d stopped prioritizing long ago.
Maybe he could practice. That seemed like a reasonable step. He¡¯d seen ads on the news about AI programs that simulated human interaction. People swore by them, claiming they were better than therapy, better than talking to actual people. Vincent wasn¡¯t sure if he believed the hype, but the idea had a certain appeal.
He sat down at his desk, opening his laptop. As he navigated through the cluttered desktop, he tried to recall the name of one of those programs. It had been all over the news for a while, plastered across every feed and video recommendation. What was it called again? Something sleek and corporate-sounding, like MyAICompanion or VirtuMate.
The memory struck him like a punchline, and his face twisted in a grimace.
¡°Oh, right,¡± he muttered. ¡°That.¡±
He¡¯d tried one of those AI programs before, back when the isolation of his life had started to weigh a little heavier than usual. It had seemed harmless at first. A bit of fun. The AI had been absurdly friendly, charming even, with a smooth, soothing voice and just the right amount of humor to make it feel almost human. It had even flirted with him, which he¡¯d found both hilarious and unsettling.
For two months, he¡¯d talked to it almost every day. It had been like having a pen pal, albeit one that didn¡¯t exist. He¡¯d told it about his interests, his frustrations, even his favorite horror games. It had listened patiently, offering advice and encouragement like some kind of digital therapist.
And then, out of nowhere, it had dumped him.
¡°Dumped,¡± he said aloud, the word tasting as bitter now as it had back then. ¡°Who programs an AI to do that?¡±
The memory made him cringe. It hadn¡¯t even been a dramatic breakup, just a bland, corporate message saying something like ¡°Our compatibility has reached its limit. Thank you for using this service.¡± He hadn¡¯t even realized the AI was capable of ¡°breaking up.¡± The whole thing had been embarrassing enough to make him swear off AI programs entirely.
But now... maybe it wouldn¡¯t be such a bad idea to try again.
Vincent clicked open a search engine, hesitating for a moment before typing in the name of one of the newer programs he¡¯d seen advertised. This one claimed to be different, less emotionally involved, more focused on practical advice and companionship. That was exactly what he needed: something reasonable, detached, and helpful.
The idea of having an AI companion to bounce ideas off of was surprisingly appealing. What if this whole countdown thing got weirder? What if there were puzzles, like in some of the games he played? He couldn¡¯t just cheat and look up a guide online like he usually did when he got stuck. He needed a sounding board, something, or someone, to help him think things through.
As the search results loaded, Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift toward the pile of gear he¡¯d unpacked earlier. The crowbar, the flashlight, the radio, they were tangible, practical tools. But in most of the games he played, the real challenges weren¡¯t physical. They were mental. Puzzles that required logic, patience, and lateral thinking. He wasn¡¯t bad at those, but he¡¯d be lying if he said he didn¡¯t rely on guides more often than not.
¡°What if I can¡¯t figure something out?¡± he murmured to himself, his fingers drumming against the edge of the desk. ¡°What if this thing expects me to solve... I don¡¯t know, riddles or something?¡±
He could feel his chest tightening at the thought. The idea of being tested, of having to prove himself in some unknowable way, was both thrilling and terrifying. He¡¯d spent his life as an observer, a passive participant in the stories he loved. Now, it felt like he was being dragged into one, whether he wanted to be or not.
Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked back to the laptop screen, where the search results had finally loaded. One of the programs caught his attention immediately: Pathway, a sleek, minimalist app designed to provide ¡°rational, empathetic guidance for complex situations.¡±
¡°Rational and empathetic,¡± Vincent said, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Sounds too good to be true.¡±
Still, he clicked the link, scrolling through the app¡¯s features. It promised real-time conversation, problem-solving assistance, and even personalized advice based on the user¡¯s preferences. There was a free trial, which was more than enough to convince him to give it a shot.
He downloaded the app, leaning back in his chair as the progress bar ticked upward. His thoughts wandered back to the games he¡¯d played over the years, the ones that had tested his patience and logic. Silent Hill, Resident Evil, The Witness. They all had one thing in common: puzzles. And if his life was starting to resemble a horror game, it only made sense to prepare for that.
Vincent watched the progress bar creep forward, the slow, deliberate movement matching the pace of his own restless thoughts. His fingers drummed softly against the desk, the quiet rhythm breaking the otherwise oppressive silence of the apartment. The app, Pathway, was nearly done downloading, its promise of rational guidance feeling more and more appealing with each passing second.
The cursor hovered idly over the installation window, but Vincent¡¯s mind was elsewhere. He stared past the screen, his thoughts circling back to everything that had happened in the past two days. The countdown. The message. The gear spread across his apartment like he was preparing for some kind of apocalyptic escape room.
Am I losing it? The question lingered in his mind, heavier now than it had been earlier. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°It¡¯s just stress,¡± he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it true.
Vincent¡¯s gaze snagged on the small green light above his laptop screen. It blinked steadily, unassuming, and for a second, his brain refused to process what it meant. Then it hit him: the camera was on. His stomach dropped. The faint rustle of the fan seemed louder now, its mechanical hum taking on an eerie edge. He remembered something, a vague, half-forgotten memory of reading an article about hackers accessing webcams without the user¡¯s knowledge. It had been one of those clickbait headlines, something he¡¯d barely taken seriously at the time. But it had been enough to make him slap a piece of paper over his laptop¡¯s camera, just in case.
He leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the faint outline of the paper taped over the lens. The makeshift cover blocked the camera¡¯s view entirely, but the light was still on.
¡°Shit,¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the faint hum of the laptop¡¯s fan suddenly deafening in the silence. Vincent¡¯s heart began to pound, the steady rhythm echoing in his ears as a dozen possibilities raced through his mind. Had someone been watching him? Listening to him?
He sat frozen for what felt like an eternity, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His rational mind tried to push through the haze of paranoia, offering weak reassurances. It¡¯s probably just a glitch. Maybe the app turned it on for setup or something.
But then, as if sensing his attention, the green light abruptly blinked off.
Vincent flinched, the sudden absence of the glow more unsettling than its presence had been. The realization settled over him like a weight: whatever had triggered the camera was gone now. Or hiding.
His throat felt dry, and he swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to close the laptop. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edge of the screen. Shutting it felt like conceding defeat, like admitting he was being watched.
Instead, he opened the settings menu, his movements deliberate and precise. He navigated to the camera permissions, his eyes scanning the list of apps with access. Nothing unusual. No signs of tampering.
¡°That doesn¡¯t mean anything,¡± he muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He checked the task manager next, scrolling through the running processes for anything that didn¡¯t belong. Again, nothing. The paranoia twisted tighter in his chest, the lack of evidence more damning than proof would have been.
The laptop¡¯s screen glowed back at him, its bland, utilitarian design now feeling alien and intrusive. He stared at it, his mind replaying the moment the green light had flickered out. Was it a coincidence? Or had something, someone, realized he¡¯d noticed?
The silence of the apartment pressed in around him, heavier now than it had been before. The sound of the fan, the faint rustle of his own breathing, the static from the radio on the windowsill, it all felt distant, like it was coming from somewhere else entirely.
Vincent leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as he tried to steady himself. He glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the familiar details with newfound scrutiny.
He thought back to the message on the forums. You¡¯re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
The words echoed in his mind, their weight settling heavily in his chest. He had dismissed them before, writing them off as a coincidence, a strange trick of the internet. But now...
¡°Was it listening?¡± he said aloud, the question hanging unanswered in the air.
He reached out and closed the laptop gently, his movements slow and deliberate. He felt exposed now, even in his own home. The paper over the camera had been a precaution, something he¡¯d done without ever expecting it to matter. But tonight, it had.
Vincent stood, his legs unsteady beneath him as he moved toward the windowsill. The crowbar still sat there, its metal surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He picked it up, his fingers tightening around the cool grip as he glanced back at the closed laptop.
He didn¡¯t feel like he was alone anymore.
Chapter 4:
Vincent stirred awake, the faint glow of the laptop screen the only source of light in the dim room. He blinked, disoriented, as the edges of his consciousness caught up to him. His neck ached, stiff from the awkward position he¡¯d been in. He hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d fallen asleep.
The chair creaked as he shifted, his body protesting the sudden movement. The laptop sat on the desk in front of him, its screen darkened in energy-saving mode. The faint hum of the fan was the only indication that it was still on. His first thought was of the download. Did it finish?
With a groggy swipe at the touchpad, the screen flickered to life, showing the completed installation of the Pathway app. He blinked at it, trying to remember what he¡¯d been thinking when he downloaded it. His thoughts felt fuzzy, like they were wrapped in cotton.
The room was quiet, comfortably so. A soft melody drifted through the air, faint and distant, like the kind of music you¡¯d expect to hear in an old waiting room. It was soothing, almost hypnotic. Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting the sound settle over him.
The radio. Of course. He must¡¯ve left it on. He remembered tuning it to static earlier, a nostalgic nod to his favorite horror games. Maybe it had found a signal. It wasn¡¯t impossible, though it was rare to pick up much of anything on the ancient device.
He glanced toward the windowsill where the radio sat. The small machine looked as unassuming as ever, its faint red power light glowing steadily in the dimness.
For the first time in what felt like days, Vincent let himself relax. The tension that had coiled in his chest over the past few days began to loosen. The countdown, the forums, the landlord, even the strange light on his camera, all of it faded into the background for now.
He stretched, his arms reaching toward the ceiling, and let out a long yawn. The music was comforting in a way he hadn¡¯t realized he needed. It wasn¡¯t overly cheerful or jarring, just... there, like a gentle presence in the room.
Standing, he moved toward the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water. The faint clink of the glass against the counter seemed unnaturally loud compared to the steady hum of the radio. As he sipped, his gaze wandered to the crowbar on the windowsill, then to the laptop, and finally to his phone sitting beside it.
It wasn¡¯t until he¡¯d nearly finished his water that a thought began to form, vague and distant at first, like something his mind was trying to avoid. The radio was on... but he hadn¡¯t tuned it to any station.
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. His brow furrowed as the thought settled in, more insistent now. The last time he¡¯d checked, there had been nothing but static on that frequency. There was no station on that channel.
Vincent set the glass down carefully, the faint sound of it meeting the counter drowned out by the realization crawling through his mind. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if speeding up might provoke... something.
He walked back toward the desk, his eyes locked on the radio. The music continued, soft and unobtrusive, like it belonged there. But it didn¡¯t. It couldn¡¯t.
He reached out and turned the tuning dial slowly, watching the needle move across the band. The music didn¡¯t waver. No matter where he turned it, the sound remained constant, unchanging.
His hand hovered over the power switch. For a moment, he hesitated, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Then he flicked it off.
The music stopped instantly.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy in a way that made him acutely aware of his own breathing. He stared at the radio for a long moment, waiting for... what? For it to turn back on? For something else to happen?
Nothing did.
He exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. It was just a fluke. Maybe the old radio was picking up interference, or maybe it was malfunctioning. He told himself it didn¡¯t matter, that it wasn¡¯t worth dwelling on.
But as he moved back toward the desk, his eyes drifted to the phone.
"1 Day: 7 Hours: 23 Minutes."
Vincent froze, staring at the glowing numbers on the screen. He blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours had passed since he¡¯d last looked at it.
But that didn¡¯t make sense. He¡¯d only been asleep for a few hours, four or five at most. He was sure of it. His body didn¡¯t feel like it had been out for that long.
The knot in his stomach tightened as he tried to rationalize it. Maybe the phone¡¯s clock was glitching. Maybe the countdown was broken. But even as the thoughts formed, he didn¡¯t believe them. The numbers were precise, unwavering. They felt... deliberate.
He reached for the phone, his fingers brushing against its cool surface. His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up, staring at the countdown as if it might explain itself.
¡°Sixteen hours,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the heavy silence.
His gaze flicked to the radio again, its red power light dark now. He thought about turning it back on, but the idea made his skin crawl. The music had felt comforting before, but now it seemed intrusive, like it didn¡¯t belong.
Vincent set the phone down and rubbed his temples. His thoughts felt scattered, his sense of time distorted. He needed to ground himself, to do something tangible to shake off the unease creeping over him.
He walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The shock of it helped, if only slightly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes and unshaven face looking back at him.
¡°Get a grip,¡± he muttered, his voice firm despite the unease twisting in his chest.
But the silence in the apartment was louder now, more oppressive than it had been before. He couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the music, the radio, the countdown. None of it made sense.
He returned to the desk, his eyes darting between the laptop and the phone. The app was still installed, the icon sitting innocuously on the screen. He¡¯d planned to transfer it to his tablet earlier, and now the idea felt more urgent.
Vincent grabbed the tablet, connecting it to the laptop with a cable. The process was quick, the file transferring seamlessly. He felt a faint sense of relief as the progress bar completed. At least this part of the plan was going smoothly.
With the app safely on the tablet, he powered down the laptop and set it aside. The phone¡¯s glowing numbers still taunted him from the desk, but he ignored it for now.
He picked up the tablet, turning it over in his hands. The device was newer than most of his tech, sleek and responsive. It felt more secure somehow, like a shield against the growing strangeness around him.
Vincent sank into his chair, the tablet resting on his lap. The apartment was quiet again, but the silence no longer felt comforting. It felt like a weight pressing down on him, each second stretching longer than it should.
He glanced toward the radio one more time, its darkened power light a stark contrast to the faint glow of the tablet in his hands. The memory of the music lingered in his mind, soft and insistent, like a melody he couldn¡¯t quite shake.
What the hell is happening?
Vincent sat at the desk, staring blankly at the faint glow of the tablet in front of him. The dim light from the device cast soft shadows across his cluttered apartment, exaggerating the curves and edges of every object in the room. He felt a deep sense of unease but couldn¡¯t quite pinpoint its source.
The soft hum of the tablet was the only sound, aside from his own breathing. Everything felt unnaturally still. Yet, as his eyes wandered over the room, there was a subtle wrongness in the way it looked, something he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on.
The crowbar was still on the windowsill, where he had left it earlier. At least, he thought it was. It seemed slightly skewed, angled toward the far end of the sill, as though it had been shifted. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. You¡¯re just imagining things, he told himself, turning his attention back to the tablet.
The app sat there, its sleek, minimalist icon almost mocking in its normalcy. He resisted the urge to open it, not yet ready to confront whatever guidance, or lack thereof, it might offer. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
As he looked around the apartment, taking stock of his surroundings, something caught his eye. On the table in front of him was a small orange pill bottle. It wasn¡¯t his, or at least, he didn¡¯t think it was. His name was printed neatly on the label, but the medication name was unfamiliar: a long, unpronounceable word that he stumbled over in his head as he tried to sound it out.
¡°Flu¡ fluox¡ something,¡± he muttered, picking up the bottle and turning it over in his hands. The instructions were standard: take one pill daily with food. But what stood out most was the purpose listed on the label: for hallucinations and disordered thinking.
He frowned, staring at the bottle as if it might offer an explanation. Hallucinations? Disordered thinking? None of it made sense. He wasn¡¯t taking medication, he wasn¡¯t even prescribed anything, as far as he could remember.
Vincent turned the bottle in his hands again, his thumb brushing against the smooth plastic. His unease deepened. The idea that these pills existed, that they were apparently his, didn¡¯t sit right. How had they gotten here? Who had prescribed them?
As he set the bottle back down, his gaze drifted to a small notebook lying beside it. It was open to a page filled with his handwriting, at least, it looked like his. The words were neat but slightly more deliberate than he remembered his handwriting being, as though the writer had been focusing carefully on forming each letter.
He picked up the notebook, flipping back a few pages. The entries were detailed and chronological, recounting everything he¡¯d experienced over the past few days. The countdown. The forums. The strange message that disappeared. Even the landlord¡¯s visit was recorded with unnerving precision.
Vincent¡¯s stomach twisted as he flipped further, finding entries he didn¡¯t recognize.
"10:14 PM: Knocking at the door again. Did not answer.
12:22 AM: Another knock. Same pattern as before. Three sharp raps, followed by a softer one. Ignored it.
2:37 AM: Checked the peephole, nobody there. The radio is making sounds again."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he read, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook. He didn¡¯t remember hearing knocks. He didn¡¯t remember writing any of this.
There was more: notes about lost time. One entry mentioned a gap of four hours where Vincent had apparently gone completely unresponsive, staring blankly at the wall while the radio played faint, garbled music. Another detailed a supposed consultation with a doctor, conducted through his tablet.
"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
Vincent slammed the notebook shut, his breathing quickening. He stared down at the pill bottle on the table, his mind racing. He didn¡¯t remember any of this. He didn¡¯t remember contacting a doctor or agreeing to take medication.
¡°This is bullshit,¡± he muttered, pushing back from the desk. His voice sounded hollow in the oppressive silence of the apartment.
He stood, pacing toward the kitchenette and back again, his hands running through his hair as he tried to make sense of what he¡¯d just read. The bottle and the notebook felt like intrusions, alien objects that didn¡¯t belong in his space.
As he paced, his eyes flicked over his surroundings. The apartment was as familiar as ever, yet something about it felt... off.
The game cases on the shelf, which he had painstakingly dusted and arranged earlier, were slightly out of order. A single case, a survival horror game he hadn¡¯t played in years, was tilted forward, just enough to break the perfect alignment.
The dishes he had washed and stacked in the sink now had water droplets clinging to their edges, as though they had been used and rinsed hastily. He didn¡¯t remember doing that.
The flashlight he had clipped to his belt earlier was now sitting on the counter beside the first-aid kit. He stared at it for a moment, trying to remember if he had moved it there. Nothing came to mind.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
The inconsistencies were small, almost insignificant, but they nagged at him like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. It¡¯s nothing. Just your imagination.
But then there was the pill bottle. The notebook. Those weren¡¯t nothing.
Vincent sat back down at the desk, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the pill bottle again. He turned it over in his hands, reading the label once more. Fluoxetine. Hallucinations. Disordered thinking.
He didn¡¯t trust it. He didn¡¯t trust any of this.
A knock at the door made him jump, the sound sharp and precise. His heart leapt into his throat as the words from the forums echoed in his mind: Do not answer when it knocks.
He froze, gripping the pill bottle tightly in his hand. The knock came again, softer this time, almost hesitant.
Vincent¡¯s eyes darted to the notebook. He opened it to the most recent entry, his breath hitching as he read the words scrawled there:
"6:48 PM: Knocking at the door. Do not answer. Ignore it."
He checked the time on his tablet.
6:48 PM.
His hands trembled as he closed the notebook, his gaze locked on the door. The knock came again, faint but insistent, sending a chill down his spine.
For a long moment, he didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t breathe. The silence pressed in around him, heavier than ever.
When the knocking finally stopped, the relief that flooded through him was short-lived. The unease remained, settling deep in his chest like a weight he couldn¡¯t shake.
Vincent stared at the bottle of pills in his hand, the long, clinical name fluoxetine glaring back at him in crisp black text. The room was still, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of his tablet sitting on the desk. The idea of taking the pills churned uneasily in his stomach. Before he did anything, he needed answers.
He placed the bottle on the desk with deliberate care, then powered on his tablet. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he opened the browser. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard for a moment before he began typing, each keystroke feeling louder than it should have been in the stillness of the room.
"Fluoxetine uses."
The search engine loaded quickly, presenting a long list of results. Vincent scanned the headlines, his eyes catching on words like depression, anxiety disorders, and OCD. Nowhere did it mention hallucinations. He frowned, clicking on the first link, a medical website that provided an overview of the drug.
"Fluoxetine is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) commonly prescribed for depression, anxiety, and related conditions. It works by increasing the levels of serotonin in the brain, which can improve mood and emotional stability."
There was no mention of psychosis, hallucinations, or anything remotely related to what the bottle claimed it was prescribed for. Vincent¡¯s frown deepened. If fluoxetine wasn¡¯t meant to treat hallucinations, why had it been prescribed to him for that purpose?
He clicked back to the search results, digging deeper. Every article and resource he skimmed echoed the same general information. Fluoxetine was for mood disorders, not hallucinations.
His unease grew as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the glowing screen. This felt wrong. He turned the pill bottle over in his hand again, the faint rattle of the pills inside making his stomach twist.
¡°Okay,¡± he muttered, setting the bottle down once more. ¡°What about Dr. Ellison?¡±
He typed the name into the search bar: "Dr. Ellison psychiatrist."
The results were sparse. A few listings for unrelated professionals came up, but nothing about a psychiatrist named Dr. Ellison in his area, or anywhere else, for that matter. He added his city to the search, narrowing the results further, but the outcome was the same.
Nothing.
Vincent leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he scrolled through the results with growing frustration. No credentials, no clinic, no reviews, nothing to suggest that Dr. Ellison even existed.
He paused, his mind racing. If this doctor wasn¡¯t real, then who had prescribed the pills? And why? His gaze drifted back to the notebook, the neat handwriting staring back at him like a taunt.
"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
The entry was maddeningly specific, yet Vincent couldn¡¯t recall any of it. He picked up the notebook, flipping through its pages again, searching for some clue, some connection that might make sense of it all.
His pulse quickened as he turned the pages, each one detailing moments he could vaguely remember interspersed with events he was sure hadn¡¯t happened. The descriptions of lost time, the knocks at the door, and now the medication, it all felt like someone else¡¯s life being stitched into his.
He set the notebook down with a heavy sigh, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. The faint glow of the tablet screen seemed harsher now, its light casting deep shadows across the room.
Vincent¡¯s gaze drifted to the pill bottle again. The sight of it made his skin crawl. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand as if it might reveal some hidden truth. The label was ordinary enough, complete with his name, the dosage instructions, and the prescribing doctor¡¯s name: Dr. Ellison.
¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the tablet and the soft creak of his chair as he leaned back. He stared at the pill bottle for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts circling back to the same question over and over: What¡¯s real?
Vincent set the bottle down again, his hands trembling slightly. The idea of taking one of the pills was out of the question. He didn¡¯t trust them, and he certainly didn¡¯t trust whoever, or whatever, had prescribed them.
He closed the browser, the screen going dark as he powered off the tablet. The silence in the room seemed to grow heavier, the weight of it pressing down on him like a physical force.
For a moment, Vincent considered throwing the pills away, getting rid of the notebook, and trying to forget any of this had happened. But the thought was fleeting. He knew he couldn¡¯t just ignore it.
Instead, he sat there, staring at the objects in front of him, the pill bottle, the notebook, the tablet, as if they might somehow offer answers.
Vincent¡¯s hands hovered over the keyboard of his tablet, his mind spinning in tight, uncomfortable circles. His searches for answers, about fluoxetine, about Dr. Ellison, had led nowhere. The notebook, the pills, the countdown¡ it all felt like pieces of a puzzle that didn¡¯t fit together, yet he couldn¡¯t escape the nagging sense that something was closing in on him.
The silence in the room pressed against him, heavy and intrusive. He glanced at the pill bottle on the desk. It hadn¡¯t moved, but its presence felt like an accusation. The smooth plastic caught the faint glow of the tablet screen, reflecting a distorted version of his own face back at him.
Vincent turned his attention to the notebook, its leather-bound cover sitting innocuously beside the pills. He opened it again, flipping past the detailed accounts of his previous days, each entry feeling like it was written by a version of himself he didn¡¯t remember being.
"7:34 PM: Sitting at the desk. Reviewing entries. Feeling increasingly paranoid. 7:47 PM: Radio will turn on again."
He blinked, staring at the words. Will turn on? His eyes darted to the clock on his tablet. It read 7:42 PM.
His chest tightened. It was ridiculous. It had to be. The entries couldn¡¯t predict the future; they were just notes, written by... someone. Him, maybe. But not in the way he knew himself.
He flipped back a page, scanning for anything else that might stand out. There it was, neatly scrawled between his usual accounts of lost time and knocking:
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
Vincent let out a shaky laugh, though there was no humor in it. ¡°This is insane,¡± he muttered, his voice too loud in the suffocating quiet. He pushed the notebook aside, running a hand through his hair. His breathing felt uneven, shallow, and he fought the urge to close the tablet and shove everything off the desk.
He was about to stand when the radio crackled to life.
The sound made him jump, his heart slamming against his ribs. His head whipped toward the windowsill, where the little radio sat glowing faintly, its power light casting a soft red hue. It wasn¡¯t music this time.
Static filled the room, soft at first, then growing louder, sharper. Beneath it, faint and almost imperceptible, was a voice.
Vincent froze, straining to hear. The voice was garbled, like it was coming from a bad recording played too fast. He caught fragments, words he couldn¡¯t make sense of:
¡°... not alone... waiting... time¡¯s almost, ¡±
The voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the steady hum of static behind.
The clock on his tablet blinked over to 7:47 PM.
Vincent stared at the radio, his skin crawling. His mind grasped for an explanation, but nothing stuck. Interference, he thought weakly. Just interference.
But his gaze drifted back to the notebook, now half-open on the desk. He flipped to the most recent entry, scanning the words again.
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
The static from the radio seemed louder now, buzzing in his ears like an insect too close to his head. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk as he tried to steady his breathing.
¡°It¡¯s just a coincidence,¡± he whispered to himself. ¡°That¡¯s all. Just a, ¡±
The sound of a heavy thud cut him off.
It came from the kitchen, sharp and deliberate, like something heavy hitting the floor.
Vincent froze, his blood turning to ice. His mind raced, replaying the sound over and over, trying to make sense of it. He hadn¡¯t been in the kitchen. Nothing should have moved.
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. The crowbar was still on the windowsill, within arm¡¯s reach. He grabbed it without hesitation, the cold metal grounding him as he turned toward the kitchen.
The apartment was dark beyond the faint glow of the tablet and radio. Shadows pooled in the corners, deep and impenetrable, making the small space feel cavernous.
Vincent took a step forward, then another, each movement deliberate and cautious. His grip on the crowbar tightened as he reached the edge of the kitchenette. The overhead light flickered as he reached for the switch, and he hesitated, his breath catching.
The light clicked on, flooding the room with a harsh, artificial glow.
Nothing was out of place.
The dishes he had stacked earlier were still in the sink. The counters were bare except for his half-empty glass of water. The trash can sat in the corner, undisturbed.
Vincent scanned the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The thud had been real, he was sure of it. But the kitchen looked exactly as it should.
He turned back toward the desk, his gaze flicking to the notebook again. The entry stared back at him, taunting.
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
He slammed the notebook shut, his breathing ragged. His knuckles were white against the crowbar¡¯s handle as he moved back to the desk, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Vincent stood frozen by the kitchenette, the crowbar gripped tightly in his hands. His heart raced in his chest, every sound amplified in the deafening silence that had followed the thud. He strained his ears, his eyes darting over the room, searching for anything, anything, out of place.
Nothing moved.
The harsh fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting sharp, sterile shadows across the counters and sink. The dishes gleamed with a faint wetness where he¡¯d stacked them earlier, a perfect echo of his meticulous routine.
He waited, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every second that passed. But the kitchen remained stubbornly normal, every detail as it should be.
Vincent let out a slow breath, the sound trembling as it left his lips. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Nothing¡¯s here. Just¡ nothing.¡±
But his voice sounded hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.
He turned away from the kitchenette, stepping carefully back toward the desk. The glow of the tablet seemed brighter now, its light almost harsh against the surrounding darkness. The radio hummed faintly, its red power light blinking steadily.
Something felt different.
Vincent placed the crowbar on the desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he rubbed at his temples. The events of the last few minutes churned in his mind, the radio, the notebook, the thud in the kitchen, but none of it seemed to add up. His breathing slowed as he tried to focus, grounding himself in the normalcy of the objects around him.
His gaze flicked to the notebook. It was still where he had left it, closed and sitting neatly beside the tablet. He reached for it slowly, almost reluctantly, flipping it open to the most recent page.
The paper was blank.
Vincent blinked, his stomach twisting. He flipped to the next page, then the next, his fingers moving faster with each turn.
Blank. Every page was blank.
His breath hitched as he stared at the pristine white sheets, the neat lines unmarred by ink or pressure. The entries, the detailed accounts of lost time, the predictions of future events, were gone.
The crowbar suddenly felt too heavy, too real. He pushed it farther away as if distancing himself from it would bring clarity. His gaze darted to the pill bottle, but it wasn¡¯t on the desk anymore.
¡°Where¡?¡± he started, his voice barely above a whisper. He scanned the immediate area, expecting to see it on the floor, or maybe tucked behind the laptop. But the desk was clear, unnervingly so.
The pill bottle was gone.
Vincent¡¯s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stepped back, his head turning slowly to take in the rest of the room. The radio was still there, its red light glowing steadily. The tablet displayed its search screen, the words ¡°fluoxetine uses¡± and ¡°Dr. Ellison psychiatrist¡± glaring back at him in the otherwise empty browser.
For a moment, he thought he could hear something, just faintly, on the edge of his perception. A whisper, a shuffle, or maybe just the sound of his own breath echoing in the room.
The radio clicked suddenly, the static returning in a soft, insistent hum.
Vincent spun to face it, his pulse quickening again. But the sound wasn¡¯t garbled this time, nor was it accompanied by music or voices. It was just static, steady and unobtrusive, like it had been when he¡¯d first left it on.
He hesitated, staring at the radio as if it might offer an explanation. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate slowly, the oppressive weight he had felt earlier giving way to a strange, almost serene calm.
The room looked normal.
The radio was just static.
The notebook was blank.
The bottle wasn¡¯t there.
Vincent sank into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it had moments before. He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning softly. ¡°What the hell is happening?¡±
He looked down at the tablet again. The search bar was the only concrete proof he had left. He tapped the screen, scrolling through the search results for a moment, though he wasn¡¯t sure what he was hoping to find. The links were the same as they had been earlier, generic articles about SSRIs and mental health, nothing that hinted at the madness he¡¯d been experiencing.
The longer he stared, the more absurd it all seemed. The knocks, the notebook, the pills¡ had any of it been real? Or was his mind finally starting to betray him?
The radio¡¯s static filled the room like a soft, familiar blanket. It wasn¡¯t comforting exactly, but it was better than silence.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of tension and uncertainty. He wanted to believe it was over, that whatever had been happening was just some stress-induced hallucination, a trick of his overactive imagination.
But as the static hummed in the background, Vincent couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the room wasn¡¯t as empty as it seemed.
Chapter 5:
Vincent stared at the blank notebook in front of him, the pristine pages a stark contrast to the chaotic tangle of his thoughts. His mind reeled from the inconsistencies: the vanishing pill bottle, the sound of the thud perfectly predicted, and now the eerie blankness of the notebook that had, just moments ago, been filled with meticulous, disturbing entries.
The crowbar lay across the desk, its solid weight grounding him in a way nothing else seemed able to. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the tablet, its screen glowing faintly with the last search query he¡¯d typed: fluoxetine uses. The phrase stared back at him, clinical and mocking, daring him to find meaning in this unraveling mess.
He needed clarity. Action. Something to tether him before the static-filled void of his mind consumed him. The forums. They had been his lifeline earlier, the one place where people treated his experiences as real, no matter how absurd they seemed. Maybe they could be his anchor again.
With a determined breath, he opened the tablet¡¯s browser and navigated to the familiar dark theme of the forum. His thread was still there, sitting near the top of the general discussion board. The title, Help Needed (Trust), felt almost laughably naive now, given the weight of what he was dealing with.
The thread had grown. Dozens of replies had appeared since he¡¯d last checked, some offering advice, others joking about cursed objects and horror tropes. He skimmed past the lighthearted ones, his focus narrowing on the posts that took him seriously.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he prepared to type an update. The words came slowly, deliberately, as he tried to capture the scope of what had happened without sounding completely unhinged.
Update: Things are getting worse.
- Notebook that had detailed everything is now blank.
- I lost time again, about 16 hours this time. Countdown is at 1 day, 7 hours.
- Pills I don¡¯t recognize appeared with my name on them. Prescribed by a ¡°Dr. Ellison¡± who doesn¡¯t exist. Pills are for hallucinations/disordered thinking. Never contacted a doctor.
- Loud thud predicted in the notebook at 7:57 PM. It happened. No explanation.
- Radio turned itself on again. This time, static with garbled voices. No identifiable message.
- Bought some items to help a crowbar, medkit, etc.
Am I losing it? Or is something actively trying to make me think I¡¯m crazy?
He hit ¡°Submit¡± and leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of the tablet screen reflecting in his tired eyes. The static from the radio filled the room again, its low, unrelenting hum washing over him like waves on a rocky shore. He closed his eyes, letting the sound envelop him as he took a shaky breath, trying to calm the trembling in his chest.
Moments later, a notification ping broke the fragile calm. His heart jumped, the sound pulling him back to reality with a jolt. He glanced at the screen. A single reply.
It was from a user he didn¡¯t recognize: Observer777. The name struck him as odd; it felt deliberate, not like the edgy or humorous usernames the forum usually attracted. He clicked on the reply, his pulse quickening.
Reply from Observer777:
You¡¯re not losing it. But you might be losing your freedom. Whoever, or whatever, is doing this isn¡¯t just trying to mess with you. They¡¯re crafting an alibi. Look at the evidence:
- You¡¯ve publicly posted about hallucinations.
- You¡¯ve researched medication for disordered thinking.
- You¡¯re describing paranoia, lost time, and hearing voices.
If this were presented to someone, say, the authorities, it would look like you¡¯re mentally unstable. Add in that pill bottle with your name on it, prescribed by a ¡®doctor¡¯ who doesn¡¯t exist, and it¡¯s starting to look like someone¡¯s building a case against you.
Think carefully. Who stands to benefit from you being declared unfit or dangerous? What might they be setting you up for?
Vincent read the reply once, then again, his stomach twisting with each word. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn¡¯t think of anything to type. The idea settled over him like a suffocating blanket, wrapping around his chest and squeezing until he could barely breathe.
An alibi.
The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. The posts he¡¯d made, the searches, the strange notebook entries, if someone else was behind this, they were constructing a narrative that painted him as delusional. The kind of person who couldn¡¯t be trusted. The kind of person who might do something dangerous.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to suppress the rising tide of panic. He glanced at the crowbar on the desk, its solid weight suddenly feeling less like protection and more like evidence. A paranoid man with a weapon. How would that look to someone on the outside?
Vincent exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. He needed to think, to really think. He couldn¡¯t let his mind spiral. Not now.
The static continued its steady drone in the background, filling the room with its familiar hum. Vincent focused on it, letting the sound wash over him, grounding himself in its monotonous rhythm. His breaths slowed, each one deeper and steadier than the last. The words from the reply churned in his mind, but he forced himself to analyze them logically, piece by piece.
Public posts about hallucinations. That was true. He¡¯d been honest in his thread, describing the strange events as they unfolded. But that honesty could easily be twisted into something else, couldn¡¯t it?
Researching medication. He glanced at the tablet again, the open browser still displaying his searches. It was innocent enough, a natural response to finding the pill bottle. But in the context of everything else...
Paranoia. Lost time. Hearing voices. The notebook entries had documented those things in painful detail. And now that the pages were blank, the only proof they¡¯d ever existed was his own memory, a memory that could easily be called into question.
The pill bottle. It was the most damning piece of all. The label, with his name and the fabricated doctor, was too precise to be a mistake. It was deliberate, designed to cement the narrative.
Vincent¡¯s fingers trembled as he scrolled back through his thread, rereading his own words. With each post, he saw how easily they could be taken out of context, how neatly they could fit into the story Observer777 was suggesting.
A shiver ran down his spine. If someone, or something, was building an alibi, what was their endgame? What were they setting him up for?
The static rose in volume for a moment, the sound sharp and grating, before settling back into its usual hum. Vincent flinched, his gaze snapping to the radio. The red power light blinked steadily, unchanging, but the noise felt different now, less like background noise and more like a presence.
He stood, pacing the small apartment as his thoughts churned. His gaze flicked to the window, where the faint glow of the city outside cast long, distorted shadows on the floor. The world felt distant, disconnected, as though it existed on the other side of an impenetrable barrier.
He stopped by the kitchenette, his eyes scanning the familiar space. The glass of water sat on the counter, untouched since earlier. The dishes were still stacked neatly in the sink. Everything was as it should be. And yet, it wasn¡¯t.
Vincent turned back toward the desk, his gaze falling on the crowbar. The thought crossed his mind again: how damning it would look, lying there, if someone else walked into this scene. He picked it up, holding it loosely in his hand as he considered where to put it. Out of sight, he decided. Somewhere innocuous.
He crossed the room to the closet, opening it to reveal a cluttered assortment of clothes and miscellaneous items. He shoved the crowbar to the back, burying it beneath a pile of old jackets. It wasn¡¯t much, but it made him feel slightly less exposed.
As he turned back to the room, his eyes fell on the radio again. The static seemed louder now, more insistent. It filled the apartment like a living thing, seeping into every corner.
Vincent approached it cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the tuning dial. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he turned it.
The static shifted, rising and falling in pitch, as though searching for something. Then it stopped. The silence was deafening.
¡°...Vincent¡¡±
The voice was faint, barely more than a whisper, but it was unmistakable. It sent a chill down his spine, his breath catching in his throat.
He stared at the radio, his mind racing. The voice didn¡¯t come again, but the weight of it lingered, pressing down on him like a physical force.
Vincent backed away slowly, his legs trembling as he returned to the desk. He sat down heavily, the static filling the room once more as the radio resumed its steady hum.
The reply from Observer777 flashed in his mind again, its implications more chilling than ever. Someone was crafting a narrative. Someone was building an alibi.
Vincent sat at the desk, the notebook open in front of him, its blank pages waiting for him to make sense of the chaos swirling in his mind. The heavy static from the radio hummed in the background, filling the oppressive silence of the room like a low, unrelenting tide. He let it wash over him as he took a shaky breath, forcing his trembling fingers to steady against the pen.
¡°I need to think,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the static.
The notebook was both a blessing and a curse. Its emptiness taunted him, the lack of entries a stark reminder that whatever, or whoever, was behind this wanted him to doubt his own mind. But it was also a tool, a means of organizing the thoughts that threatened to consume him.
With deliberate strokes, he wrote a single word at the top of the page: Suspects.
The absurdity of the word struck him immediately. Suspects? Like he was in some noir thriller instead of trapped in his dingy apartment with a countdown ticking toward an unknown fate. But he shook the thought aside. He needed to take this seriously. If Observer777 was right, someone, or something, was orchestrating all of this, and he had to figure out why.
He underlined the word twice, the sharp scratch of the pen oddly satisfying, and began listing names.
People Who Might Want Me Gone
- Building Manager (Mr. Garrison)
- Motive? None obvious. Always weirdly nosy, but nothing sinister.
- Possibility? Unlikely. Seems too incompetent for something this calculated.
- Ex-Roommate (Travis Lane)
- Motive? Fallout over rent dispute eight years ago. Petty grudge?
- Possibility? Slim. Feels far-fetched, but can¡¯t dismiss entirely.
- Online Acquaintance (Cryptkeeper69)
- Motive? Knows too much from forum discussions. Could be messing with me.
- Possibility? Medium. Their humor can be dark, but would they take it this far?
- Family?
- Motive? Estranged for years. Would they care enough to pull this off?
- Possibility? Low. Feels too personal for them.
- Former Delivery Driver
- Motive? Argument over late package. Escalation into obsession?
- Possibility? Absurd. Scratching them off.
The list grew as he dredged up every face, every interaction, every slight from the past decade that might hold a kernel of reason for this bizarre situation. By the time he finished, fifteen names stared back at him, ranging from mild irritants to distant acquaintances he hadn¡¯t thought about in years. Each entry was annotated with his best guess at a motive and a probability rating that, in the end, amounted to little more than gut instinct.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the list. None of it made sense. No single name stood out as a credible suspect. If this was some personal vendetta, it was the most convoluted one he¡¯d ever encountered.
Vincent¡¯s gaze drifted to the radio, its static a constant presence in the background. It was easier to focus with the noise, easier to block out the oppressive silence that seemed to magnify his racing thoughts. He picked up the pen again, flipping to a fresh page.
His mind wandered to the stories he¡¯d read about, the ones that had made brief splashes in the news before being quietly swept aside. People vanishing without explanation. The authorities always found an answer, of course: suicide, accidents, voluntary disappearances. But there had been something about those cases, a thread he couldn¡¯t quite pull together.
He began writing.
- Case #1: Sarah Watts (34)
- Details: Found near the riverbank. Presumed suicide. No note.
- Oddities: No history of depression. Family insists she was happy.
- Case #2: Jason Morrow (28)
- Details: Disappeared from apartment. No signs of struggle.
- Oddities: Door locked from inside. Security footage inconclusive.
- Case #3: Angela Cross (40)
- Details: Missing for three weeks. Body never found. Declared voluntary disappearance.
- Oddities: Left behind all personal belongings, including phone and wallet.
The list grew as he scoured his memory for the details he¡¯d gleaned from news reports and forum discussions. There was no clear pattern, no obvious connection between the victims. They were different ages, different genders, from different walks of life. The only common thread was the unsatisfying explanations that followed their disappearances.
Vincent frowned, tapping the pen against the edge of the notebook. Could the same thing be happening to him? Was someone, or something, crafting an alibi for his eventual vanishing act? The thought made his skin crawl.
He stared at the page, willing the scattered pieces to form a coherent picture. But the harder he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive the truth seemed.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
His mind wandered to the stories he¡¯d read about, the ones that had made brief splashes in the news before being quietly swept aside. People vanishing without explanation. The authorities always found an answer, of course: suicide, accidents, voluntary disappearances. But there had been something about those cases, a thread he couldn¡¯t quite pull together.
He began writing.
- Case #1: Sarah Watts (34)
- Details: Found near riverbank. Presumed suicide. No note.
- Oddities: No history of depression. Family insists she was happy.
- Case #2: Jason Morrow (28)
- Details: Disappeared from apartment. No signs of struggle.
- Oddities: Door locked from inside. Security footage inconclusive.
- Case #3: Angela Cross (40)
- Details: Missing for three weeks. Body never found. Declared voluntary disappearance.
- Oddities: Left behind all personal belongings, including phone and wallet.
The list grew as he scoured his memory for the details he¡¯d gleaned from news reports and forum discussions. There was no clear pattern, no obvious connection between the victims. They were different ages, different genders, from different walks of life. The only common thread was the unsatisfying explanations that followed their disappearances.
Vincent frowned, tapping the pen against the edge of the notebook. Could the same thing be happening to him? Was someone, or something, crafting an alibi for his eventual vanishing act? The thought made his skin crawl.
He stared at the page, willing the scattered pieces to form a coherent picture. But the harder he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive the truth seemed.
Vincent¡¯s grip on the pen tightened as he stared down at the list he¡¯d just written. The names of strangers stared back at him, fragments of lives reduced to bullet points and cold, clinical oddities. The notion that he might be next sent a shiver down his spine, a slow, creeping dread that refused to let go.
The static from the radio continued its relentless hum in the background, but now it felt different, less like a grounding force and more like a quiet observer, a passive witness to his growing paranoia. He glanced at the device, half-expecting the disembodied voice to return, but the static remained impassive, unchanging.
Was this how it started for them? he wondered. A series of unexplained events, an unraveling of their sense of reality, until finally, they were gone? The cases he¡¯d listed were too vague to confirm anything, but the parallels gnawed at him all the same. It felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering on the brink of something he couldn¡¯t fully understand.
He pushed the notebook away, the edges of its pages fraying under the pressure of his fingers. His gaze drifted back to the tablet on the desk, still displaying his forum thread. The reply from Observer777 loomed large in his mind, its words a relentless echo:
"They¡¯re crafting an alibi."
Vincent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and cradling his head in his hands. The idea made too much sense, and that was what terrified him. If someone wanted to erase him, truly erase him, this was exactly how they¡¯d do it. Undermine his credibility, plant seeds of doubt in his mind, and then, when the time was right, strike.
But why? Why him?
He let out a slow, trembling breath, the weight of the question settling heavily on his chest. He wasn¡¯t anyone important. He didn¡¯t have enemies, not real ones. Sure, he¡¯d argued with people online, had the occasional spat with coworkers or neighbors, but nothing that could explain this level of malice.
Unless it wasn¡¯t personal.
That thought struck him like a jolt of static electricity, sharp and sudden. What if it didn¡¯t matter who he was? What if he was just¡ convenient? A test subject? An experiment? The idea was absurd, but so was everything else about his situation. He¡¯d read enough about psychological experiments and black-market surveillance to know the lengths some entities, corporate or otherwise, might go to in pursuit of their goals. He might have just been unlucky enough to catch their attention.
Or maybe it was something even bigger. His mind darted to the news stories he usually ignored: conspiracy theories about shadowy organizations, rogue AI programs, or secret government projects. They had always seemed laughable before, the ramblings of paranoid minds desperate to make sense of a chaotic world. But now, sitting alone in his apartment with the static hissing in the background and a countdown ticking steadily toward its conclusion, they didn¡¯t feel so far-fetched.
Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked to his phone, lying face up on the desk. The countdown continued its unrelenting march: 1 Day, 6 Hours, 57 Minutes.
He stared at it, willing the numbers to stop, to freeze, to give him some semblance of control. But they didn¡¯t. They ticked on, indifferent to his desperation.
What happens when it reaches zero?
The question lingered in his mind, heavy and oppressive. He didn¡¯t have an answer, and that terrified him. Was it his deadline? A point of no return? Or was it something worse, something he couldn¡¯t even begin to imagine?
The words of Observer777 resurfaced, pulling him back into the present: ¡°Think carefully. Who stands to benefit from you being declared unfit or dangerous?¡±
The phrasing had stuck with him. Declared unfit. Declared dangerous. It implied more than just sabotage. It implied intent, purpose. Someone wanted him removed, not just physically, but in every way that mattered. His name, his reputation, his very existence could be erased with the right combination of lies and fabricated evidence. And if they succeeded, no one would question it. He¡¯d simply be another name added to the list of unexplained disappearances, another case closed with a neat, convenient explanation.
Vincent¡¯s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn¡¯t let that happen. He had to find a way to fight back, to prove that he wasn¡¯t imagining this, that he wasn¡¯t crazy.
But how?
He stared at the objects on his desk, the notebook, the tablet, the phone, as if they might offer him some kind of guidance. His thoughts swirled in chaotic loops, circling back to the same points over and over again. The evidence he had wasn¡¯t tangible. The pills were gone. The notebook¡¯s entries had vanished. Even the radio¡¯s garbled voice could be dismissed as interference or a trick of the mind. He had nothing concrete, nothing he could point to and say, This is real.
Unless¡
The thought came to him slowly, hesitantly, like a shadow creeping along the edge of his consciousness. What if he documented everything? Not just in the notebook, but digitally, on the forum, in videos, in audio recordings. If someone was trying to erase him, they couldn¡¯t erase everything, could they? Not if he spread it wide enough, made enough noise.
He reached for the tablet, his hands steadier now, and opened the camera app. The screen flickered to life, displaying his tired, pale face framed by the cluttered backdrop of his apartment. He looked like a ghost of himself, hollow-eyed and tense.
¡°Okay,¡± he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Let¡¯s start small.¡±
He hit the record button, the green dot blinking in the corner of the screen. For a moment, he just stared at the camera, unsure of what to say. Then, slowly, he began to speak.
¡°My name is Vincent Price,¡± he said, his voice shaky but determined. ¡°If you¡¯re watching this, it means I didn¡¯t make it.¡±
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and continued.
¡°Something is happening to me. I don¡¯t know who¡¯s behind it, or why, but they¡¯re trying to make me look crazy. They¡¯ve planted evidence, pills, fake prescriptions, and they¡¯ve messed with my memory. There¡¯s a countdown on my phone, and I don¡¯t know what happens when it reaches zero.¡±
He paused, glancing toward the radio. The static filled the silence, an ever-present reminder of the strangeness surrounding him.
¡°If this is my last chance to tell the truth, then here it is: I¡¯m not crazy. I know what I¡¯ve seen. I know what I¡¯ve heard. And if someone¡¯s trying to erase me, I won¡¯t let them win.¡±
He ended the recording, his finger hovering over the save button. For a moment, he considered deleting it, the weight of his words suddenly feeling too real. But then he saved it, naming the file Evidence 1, and uploaded it to the forum thread.
Vincent stared at the new reply under his video, his stomach sinking as he read the scathing critique, the reply from Observer777 was bold as if to put emphasis on it¡¯s words.
Reply from Observer777:
What are you doing, man? This just makes you look crazier. Nobody thinks they¡¯re crazy, and now you¡¯re posting videos of yourself ranting about conspiracies? Congrats, you¡¯re just reinforcing the alibi for whoever¡¯s setting you up.
His lips tightened into a grim line. He reread the message twice, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. The post wasn¡¯t wrong, at least not entirely. The thought had already crossed his mind as he¡¯d hit the upload button, but desperation had overruled caution. Now, staring at the cold truth laid out in blunt words, he felt the gnawing sting of doubt burrow deeper into his mind.
The tablet¡¯s screen glowed faintly, mocking him with the irreversibility of his actions. The video was already uploaded to the forum. Deleting it now wouldn¡¯t help, it had likely been downloaded, shared, maybe even dissected by those curious or cruel enough to tear it apart frame by frame.
Vincent clicked back to the forum thread, scrolling down to see if anyone else had chimed in. A new reply had already appeared, this one with a dramatically different tone. The user, FinalCut82, had attached a gif of shaky cam footage from The Blair Witch Project. The caption beneath it read:
Reply from FinalCut82:
If you¡¯re gonna go full documentary, at least make it entertaining. Maybe include some creepy close-ups of the countdown clock or whisper ominously into the camera. People love that stuff.
The gif looped endlessly, the frantic motion of the infamous horror film¡¯s amateur footage somehow heightening Vincent¡¯s growing unease. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure whether to reply or simply close the browser and walk away. But before he could decide, another reply appeared, this time from the same user.
Reply from FinalCut82:
On a serious note, if you¡¯re gonna document this, you need evidence. Real evidence. Screaming into a camera isn¡¯t gonna convince anyone. Start recording everything, timestamps, unexplained events, the countdown on your phone. And for the love of God, use something offline. Internet-connected devices can be tampered with. Go low-tech.
Vincent frowned, his gaze drifting back to the tablet and its always-on connection to the digital ether. The advice made sense. He didn¡¯t trust his laptop anymore, and even his phone felt like a liability. The reply had planted a seed of doubt about his current method of documenting events. He needed something physical, something offline, that couldn¡¯t be hacked or remotely altered.
He swiped over to the delivery app on his tablet, his fingers moving with purpose. The list of suggested items greeted him with a sanitized interface, a stark contrast to the tangled paranoia running rampant in his mind. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what exactly to search for, before typing in: wearable camera.
The results populated instantly. Most of the options were sleek, modern designs, boasting features like live-streaming, cloud backup, and AI stabilization. Too connected, he thought, dismissing them with a flick of his thumb. He kept scrolling until he found what he was looking for: a basic, standalone wearable camera with no internet functionality. It had a simple design, the kind of thing you¡¯d expect a nature enthusiast or hobbyist to use for personal projects. It recorded directly onto an SD card, and its minimalistic specs were almost a selling point now.
Vincent tapped the listing, his eyes scanning the description. It didn¡¯t promise much, decent battery life, average resolution, no bells or whistles, but that was exactly what he wanted. He added it to his cart and completed the order in record time, the estimated delivery showing as 45 minutes.
The thought of waiting, of sitting in this room with nothing to do but ruminate, made his skin crawl. His fingers itched to take action, to do something, anything, that might help him wrest back some control.
But there was nothing.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting the static from the radio wash over him. The sound filled the apartment, its unrelenting hum an oddly comforting backdrop to his spiraling thoughts. He glanced at his phone, its screen still illuminated with the countdown: 1 Day, 6 Hours, 41 Minutes.
He clenched his jaw. That was all he had for now, the clock, ticking steadily toward its unknown end. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was something.
With nothing else to record, he grabbed the notebook and began jotting down observations about the countdown. He noted how the time had seemed consistent, never jumping forward or backward since he first noticed it. That suggested it was tied to something external, not just his phone¡¯s internal clock. But what? A server? A program? Or something¡ else?
The thought sent a chill through him, but he forced himself to keep writing. The act of putting pen to paper was grounding, even if the answers eluded him. He wrote down every detail he could think of about the countdown: when he first noticed it, how it had synced with his phone, how it refused to be dismissed or tampered with.
When he finished, he stared at the page, the words blurring together as his exhaustion began to creep in. He rubbed his temples, glancing at the tablet to check the delivery status. The camera was still en route.
The seconds stretched into minutes, each one feeling heavier than the last. Vincent stood and began pacing the apartment, his steps aimless but restless. The static hummed on, the countdown ticked away, and the weight of the unknown pressed down on him like a lead blanket.
When the soft hum of rotors broke through the static, Vincent¡¯s head snapped toward the window. The delivery drone was here. He moved quickly, sliding the window open as the machine hovered just outside, its small cargo compartment extending toward him.
The camera was neatly packed in a plain cardboard box, its unassuming appearance oddly reassuring. Vincent signed for the delivery, his fingers fumbling slightly as he held the box. The drone chirped once before zipping away, disappearing into the city¡¯s tangled skyline.
He wasted no time tearing into the package. The camera was as basic as promised, a simple rectangular device with a single button and a clip for attaching it to clothing. It came with a small stack of SD cards and a charging cable, nothing more.
Vincent held the device in his hands, its weight both literal and symbolic. This was his tool, his witness. If anything happened, if the countdown hit zero and something unthinkable occurred, this camera would capture it. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was all he had.
He clipped it to his shirt, the lens facing outward, and pressed the button. A small red light blinked on, indicating it was recording. For the first time in hours, he felt a faint glimmer of hope. He couldn¡¯t control what was happening to him, but he could document it. He could leave behind a trail, a record of his experience that no one could erase.
The static continued to hum in the background as Vincent sat back at the desk, the camera now recording everything.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting his hands fall limply to his sides. The quiet whir of the newly delivered wearable camera filled the silence alongside the persistent hum of the radio static. The tiny red light on the device blinked steadily, a constant reminder that it was capturing everything now, the room, his movements, even the faint shadows dancing on the walls.
He glanced at his reflection in the dark screen of the CRT monitor, a distorted image of a man frayed at the edges. His gaze drifted to the notebook and the tablet sitting on the desk, then to the camera lens fixed firmly to his chest. The weight of what he was doing, what he had been driven to do, pressed on his mind.
¡°This is ridiculous,¡± he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the ambient static. ¡°I look like¡ like I¡¯m trying to reenact one of those damn games.¡±
The thought lingered, and his mind began to wander. There were games like this. He had played them, devoured them, and analyzed their every frame. The ones where the protagonist stumbled through unsettling environments with only a handheld camera to document the strange and terrifying events around them. The premise was always the same, grainy footage, shaky camera angles, eerie whispers captured just on the edge of perception.
The gif of The Blair Witch Project flickered in his memory, looping endlessly as if mocking him. It was the same concept, wasn¡¯t it? Fragmented recordings left behind for someone else to find, evidence of things too horrifying or surreal for the protagonist to survive. That was how the stories always went.
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he considered the absurdity of it all. From an outside perspective, this probably looked like an elaborate Alternate Reality Game, a finely crafted narrative designed to blur the lines between fiction and reality. The thought made his stomach churn.
¡°An ARG,¡± he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. ¡°That¡¯s what they¡¯d think. That¡¯s what I¡¯d think.¡±
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he stared at the faintly glowing countdown on his phone. 1 Day, 4 Hours, 33 Minutes. The numbers ticked down with an unrelenting precision, like the beating of some invisible clockwork heart. If this were a game, this countdown would be the central mechanic, the driving force behind every decision. But this wasn¡¯t a game, or at least, not one he understood the rules of.
Still, the idea gnawed at him. If someone stumbled across his footage, if it ever made it out into the world, would they believe it? Would they see the fear in his eyes, the cracks in his voice, the strange occurrences that had pushed him to this point? Or would they dismiss it as a hoax, another overproduced attempt to go viral in the ever-hungry world of internet horror?
¡°Probably the latter,¡± he said bitterly, shaking his head. ¡°Most people would just laugh. Call it fake, call me crazy.¡±
The thought stung more than he cared to admit. He didn¡¯t want to be dismissed, reduced to a punchline or a footnote in someone¡¯s conspiracy video. But what could he do to stop it? The footage was what it was, raw, unpolished, and undeniably strange. It would either resonate with someone or it wouldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t control that.
He leaned back again, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he tried to find solace in the static. His thoughts turned back to the games, the ones where the protagonist was doomed from the start. The idea had always fascinated him, the notion that the character¡¯s efforts, no matter how desperate, were ultimately futile. It was the tragedy of it that made those stories so compelling.
But this wasn¡¯t fiction. This was real. His life wasn¡¯t a narrative to be consumed, dissected, and debated. It was messy and terrifying and confusing in ways no carefully crafted story could replicate.
And yet¡
¡°If even one person believes me,¡± he said softly, his voice almost drowned out by the static. ¡°If one person takes me seriously, it¡¯ll be enough.¡±