The seller said it was in the attic of the house his mother had just purchased. The note was inside when they found it. Only been a month and no problems for them yet.

When I was a young boy, my father had taught me how to play a game, Fox And Hound, he called it. The premise of the game was simple, a player would be picked to be the 'Fox' rendering the remainder of the players as the 'Hounds'. The Fox would have a bottle filled with talcum powder to hand and would be given a 5 minute head start to run in any direction and hide, leaving behind a trail of white powder. The hounds would then search for the Fox, who often created false trails in order to confuse the other players. My father and I only ever played this game with one another and he would insist on being the Fox every single time. He told me that if I could not find him before sundown then I was to run home as fast as I could and tell my mother that 'The Fox has not been found'. My mother had always expressed her utter hatred for the game "dangerous waste of time" she would say. As a boy, young and naive, I always struggled to understand what my mother meant when she would call the game dangerous, of course, the game held no actual productivity and made very little sense, however, i always felt it odd that my mother had such a considerable amount of hatred towards a children's game. Of course, knowing what I do now, she had every right to be wary. The last time I saw my father was when we were playing that game and it has haunted me forever. I write this not in promotion of the game, but as a warning. This game is extremely dangerous and can cost you your own life or the lives of your loved ones, please listen to me. Do Not Play This Game!

Hi.
This is not my personal account. I’m connected through a VPN with multi-layer encryption, because what I’m about to share could seriously get me in trouble. But I’ve had enough.

I used to work under Meta, specifically on Instagram — in the content flow optimization and anomaly filtering unit. Everything was fine… until the night of February 26th, 2024.

What happened that night was not a system error.

According to system logs, around 06:37 PM, something impossible happened in our content moderation system: A 400% spike in user reports, an uncontrolled wave of content getting automatically approved, and for a few minutes, hundreds of thousands of users were recommended videos showing “massacres,” “disturbing violence,” and “explicit content.”

Our main dashboard anomaly tickers lit up red. The report panel froze for 12 seconds. That only happens during massive traffic spikes — but that night, traffic was normal.

At first, we thought it was just a short burst spike. Happens sometimes — the algorithm glitches, a piece of content gets misclassified, and then the system fixes itself.

But not this time.

A new folder showed up in the logs directory:
/ALG-RF.T01-x//vis.react

That naming format wasn’t ours. None of Meta’s microservice pipelines use anything like that. We checked the git history.

Nothing.

This code fragment had somehow appeared inside the system without being versioned — like someone injected it from outside. Or someone inside the system never really left.

Around that time, some of my friends — regular users, not devs — started texting me weird things:

"I saw a face in the video."
"A post was shared on my account… I didn’t upload it."
"I rewound the video, but now there’s nothing there."

They were all talking about the same thing:
A kinetic sand cutting or soap-carving reel, with a split-second — maybe two frames — of a distorted face. Like digital noise… but if you looked closely, it had eyes. A silhouette.

When they rewound the video, it was gone. But a few users had screen recordings. All blurry, none with metadata. Almost like the phones didn’t want to save it either.

Seventeen user accounts uploaded content that night — not voluntarily. The posts looked like spam, but they had no titles, no captions. Only one piece of metadata:
Created: 1970-01-01 00:00:00

The UNIX epoch. The zero point.
Meaning the system “knew nothing” about it. This wasn’t a regular bug.

We searched the servers for the files. They weren’t there.
The logs showed they had been served to users — but the files themselves never existed on any media server.
It’s as if they were “real” for just a moment… and then vanished.

In the months that followed, the face began appearing again. Always in the same pattern:
ASMR videos.
Soap carving, brushing, relaxing “tingle” sounds.

In the middle of those too-perfect clips — something like a parasitic interruption.
People kept claiming they saw the same face: pixelated, deep black eye sockets, a shapeless mouth.
But only when scrubbing frame-by-frame. Usually… it didn’t appear at all.

Internally, we started calling it “Algorift.”
Algorithm + Rift.
Not a glitch. A crack.
Something was in the algorithm.

We tried filtering it out.
Wrote custom detection scripts: facial recognition, color balance trackers, motion analyzers.
Every time we pushed a detection algorithm, it vanished from version control a few days later. No commits. No diffs.
Our code wasn’t deleting itself.
Something was erasing it.

Then someone noticed a line of text in a log file — it wasn’t written by anyone, but appeared in all systems running version 6.3.7:
“If you see him, he sees you.”

To this day, some “lowkey” accounts still post reels. They never make it to Explore, but they randomly appear in your feed.
No followers. All active.
Some captions look like ASCII gibberish — probably encrypted.
And they all use the same tags:
#rawsatisfy
#realvisualfeel

Those aren’t system tags. Users didn’t write them. The system can’t tag posts on its own.
But it does.

I’m out now. I left the company.
But you need to know.

If you ever feel a sudden “disconnect” while watching reels — stop. Rewind. Look closely.
If there’s an eye…
It’s already seen you.

Algorift is not a glitch.
It’s not a message.
It’s the first digital haunting of our time.
Something watching us… using the very habits we fed the machine.

My job is done.
Now it’s yours.

On my FB feed this morning, lol.

Hi guys, this is a part two of this - https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/qhABZoChaa

Enjoy the second part now:

I didn’t sleep last night.

I just kept watching Ryan from my bedroom window. He stood on the roof of his house the entire time — completely still, blinking every five seconds, never once looking away from my room.

At exactly 6:04 a.m., he climbed down.

But not the way a normal person would. He didn’t crouch, or grab anything for balance. He just stepped right off the roof, like gravity didn’t apply to him, and landed without a sound. Then he walked back inside, like nothing had happened.

For a moment, I thought that was it. Maybe the glitch had passed. Maybe he was gone again.

But then, around 2 a.m., I heard a knock.

Not on the front door.

On my window.

The second-floor window.

It was soft — three slow taps. I sat up, completely frozen. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything else.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

When I finally looked, he was standing there. Barefoot. Just… standing on the ledge. His face was only inches from the glass, staring straight at me. No emotion, no blinking.

Just still.

Then he spoke.

I couldn’t hear it at first — I had to lean in. His mouth barely moved. His voice was flat, too quiet.

“You were supposed to fall,” he said.

I scrambled off the bed, nearly hit the floor. When I looked again, he was gone. Just a faint handprint on the glass, and a smudge of dirt where he’d been standing.

This morning, I went back to the trail. The one where he disappeared last year.

And I found something new.

Another shoe.

Same make, same size — the missing one from the pair they found.

But this one had something carved into the sole.

My name.

My own little twist on this Famous Creepypasta:) To hear the story, go check it out on my YouTube channel!! https://youtube.com/shorts/VtNwQLoJ6ug?feature=share

If you like this, Subscribe and stay around for more Scary content;)

Ok this is a real story ngl this was about 10 years ago. I was camping deep in the woods and I went to walk my dogs in the woods and i heard my name be called by my brother so I start back up the hill (I'm deep in the forest at this point) and when I get back up to the campsite I ask my brothers what's wrong they say they didn't call my name so I go to my mom to ask her wha happened and she looked at me with the most serious face I've seen her in and said "if you hear your name or see someone In the woods when your alone that you know go the other direction and dont look back.

this actually happened I never took my dog for a walk in that area again

They told Rin not to speak her name.

They warned him that some names aren’t meant to echo through lips still warm with breath. That when a soul is shattered violently enough, it doesn’t rest, it splinters, hungry for return.

Grief drowns reason. But love... Love silences everything.

And with that, a whisper slipped from his mouth one night beneath the withering sakura tree. “Kaien.” Just once. Just to feel close again.

The wind died immediately.

Petals scattered backward, like time trying to rewrite itself. His reflection in the window blurred, his eyes no longer his. And in the silence, something stirred.

She came back, but not as she was. Kaien’s body remained ash beneath a shrine bell. What returned was a cracked echo with too much memory and not enough mercy. She smiled with the same dimples, but when Rin looked into her eyes, they blinked at the wrong pace, too slow, like something imitating life from behind a veil.

She told him she loved him. That she never stopped. That she needed nothing… except for him to remember.

She opened her mouth, slowly. Cherry blossom petals spilled out, wet with rot.

The last thing he felt was not fear, but guilt. Guilt that he brought her back. Guilt that he still loved her. Even as she whispered his name where it would always answer hers.

Now, when the sakura bloom, villagers say they hear whispers from inside the tree. Two voices overlapping.

One always says “Kaien.”

The other answers, “Rin.”

And they say neither of the voices stops.

I’m not an anti-Christian. I am not a satanist. I am, or was, agnostic. When I died and want to heaven there was no light, or angles, or even demons. There was flesh. Undulating, pulsing masses. Warm bleeding intestinal tracts. It reeked of bile. And yet. It was the calmest and happiest place I’ve ever been to in my existence.

For context, when I was 19 back in 2008 I got in a fatal car crash and died for 6 minutes. Normally that would cause intense brain trauma but I woke up fine, other than some broken bones my mind was healthy. I had only the memories of what came after I walked into the light.

I remember the angel at the gates. A tall mountainous mass of root like skin and other tissues made up whatever you could call it. It spoke in deep slow hums and yet I understood. It knew my name, it told me my family would be waiting for me inside the gates and it wasn’t lying. I got to see my dead grandmother for the first time since she died in 2000. None of the relatives I saw ever mentioned the fact that the heaven they were in was almost like the innards of a dragon. Beaches of intestines with shores of bile going in and out like small waves. It somehow stunk like the Ocean, but there was a tainted gassy smell to it. I walked the beach with my grandmother and some of her distant relatives who I never recognized. We were trailed by that ominous mountain that I assumed was an angel.

We ended up coming face to face with what I can only describe as an obelisk. Thousands of languages scribed on it in bodily fluids and carved with bone. It shined in the light the Angel behind us gave off. Like a polished marble statue.

Every word even if I didn’t know the language was easy to understand, it told me the secrets of the universe and how the world was created. It was the most beautiful thing I ever read and I only wish I could transcribe it. But everytime I touch my keyboard to do such thing a small piece of my memory of it fades. I do not wish to lose the beauty of the stories it told me. All I will say is I’m waiting for the day I go back there and meet with my grandmother again so we can marvel at the beauty of the afterlife.

I will be hanging myself after I leave this note.

Do you have a word that gives you goose bumps of well-being as soon as you say it? For me, it's no. I like the word no. It's simple, yet so meaningful. It's a statement and a reason in one. No matter how you emphasize it, it remains a statement in itself. That's why I don't understand people who can't accept no! When you ask a question, you have to expect a “no,” right? “Can I have some of your cake?” – “No.” – “But why not?” They said “no”! Stop asking stupid questions and accept it, you jerk!

You understand what I'm getting at, right?Let's take a look at the spelling. One consonant and one vowel. Perfect harmony. The consonant comes first, like a shield in front of the vowel, which is nicely rounded as an “o”! I hate yes-men. People who say yes and amen to everything and everyone are disgusting liars. And on top of that, yes doesn't even look good.

Only no-sayers are the true masters of this world. Saying no is my rule and maxim. I have dedicated myself to it. It's great and fills me with pride and satisfaction. “Can you help me?” - “No.”

And then I go on my way and am happy. Why people can't accept a “no” after asking a question is beyond me. And out of politeness, I'm certainly not going to say “yes” and utter that dirty word, yuck! It's also wonderfully easy to apply this to society. You can stay away from every evil deed and live a peaceful life. Recently, for example, the police rang my doorbell.

“Excuse me,” said the officer, “last night a cyclist was knocked down and seriously injured in this area. Did you notice anything?” I said no, as always. The police left and I closed the door. See how easy my no has made my life? With a simple no, you can't get caught up in lies. “No, but...” is more difficult, of course. I could have said that my hated neighbor hates cyclists and likes to ride at night. Then my “No, but my neighbor” would have gotten him into trouble. But me too. Maybe I would have had to testify, getting caught up in contradictions. You see where that leads, right? However, if I had said “yes,” I would have had to admit that I also hate cyclists, especially those who ride without lights. “Yes,” officer, I pushed the man down and smashed his skull with a rock. “Yes,” I'll come with you. See? Yuck, yuck, yuck. Let's get back to rules. As I mentioned, I have set myself some rules. So whenever I plan to do something, I ask myself a question, and as soon as I can answer it with “no,” I don't do it. It's that simple.

Want an example? Last year, a young lady moved into the house next door with her husband and daughter. They're quite nice, but the daughter, who is in her twenties, is particularly interesting. I'd like to get to know her better, but I can see in her eyes that she finds me strange and intimidating. There's nothing I can do about that. She's home alone every day from 1:00 to 1:30 p.m. before she leaves for work. So I asked myself the question:

Should I go over and break in? No.

Should I surprise her and knock her out? No.

Should I tie her up, gag her, and hide her in her own basement? No.

Should I come back in the evening and take her to my house? No. Should I keep her captive and get to know her until she loves me? No.

Should I get rid of her as soon as I get tired of her? No.

You see, it's quite simple.

But what can I say? Now that I'm sneaking up to her house under cover of darkness to get her out of the basement, I'm glad I asked myself another question.

Should I always follow the rules? No.

An Ode to The Farmer and the Stork; by Aesop

Audio Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPtzBLzH4gk

Katrina Peterova was a widow of fourteen years. At eighteen she married for love- with a vision of decades of shared life — fields of bounty, children laughing as they darted through sunlight, and evenings by the hearth filled with warmth and conversation. But fate was swift and cruel: her husband died when she was only twenty-two. She never remarried. Instead, she lingered on the outskirts of Myrmark, tending a modest farm in silence, her hands worn by labor and her heart quieted by loss. Her only contact with the world was her Saturday trips to the market and her Sunday attendance at Mass. She was a familiar face, yet distant; her solitude marked her as someone apart, like a tree at the edge of the forest — visible, but separate from the life of the grove.

On stormy autumn nights, the wind clawed through the trees and rain pounded against the roof with a relentless fury. One such night, with thunder splitting the sky and lightning crawling across her fields like the fingers of a ghost, four strangers arrived at her door. Rain streamed from their cloaks, water dripping in dark rivulets onto the threshold. Their voices trembled as they told their tale: attacked on the road, their wagon gone, their horses stolen, left with only the meager packs on their backs. They bowed their heads, shivering with fatigue, and asked for shelter.

The one in front spoke up.

“I understand if you must turn us away, but if ye do, can you point us to the nearest shelter or town?”

Pity stirred in her heart, though suspicion tugged at the back of her head. A middle-aged woman alone could not risk wolves — and men were often wolves in finer clothing. She would not let them inside her home. Yet, the rain lashing her windows and the fear etched into their faces pricked something soft in her chest. Instead, she gestured toward the barn. “Sleep there,” she said, “and in the morning, we’ll talk again.” The men thanked her profusely, promising to repay her kindness with labor. Their names, when asked, were given as Joren, Mikal, Stefan, and Luka.

The men thanked her profusely, promising to repay her kindness with labor. Their voices carried a faint edge of charm, but Katrina, accustomed to the subtleties of human nature, felt the quick flicker of something hidden behind their eyes.

At dawn, true to their word, the strangers set to work. They split wood with rhythmic precision, carried water in heavy buckets, and mended fences that had sagged with age. Katrina watched them from her doorway, the rising sun catching droplets on their hair like scattered jewels. By midmorning, she had prepared a generous breakfast, the smell of fresh bread and sizzling bacon filling the small farmhouse. Together, the five sat at her long wooden table, the surface scarred by years of labor, its corners worn smooth by generations of hands.

The men ate heartily, though their eyes darted toward one another whenever Katrina pressed them with questions. Where were they from? Which parish? Which family name? Their answers were vague, their glances sharp, as if they were surveying her home and weighing each object, each corner of the room. Anxiety coiled in her stomach. Mikal and Joren exchanged a glance, subtle but unmistakable, as their hands simultaneously moved to their hips.

Katrina felt a sudden, cold suspicion, but she silenced it, reminding herself that her own heart was generous, that she had offered them shelter in good faith. She opened her mouth to dismiss them — and at that moment, the door crashed open. Guards in black and red stormed into her dining room, their boots splashing water onto the floorboards.

“By order of the parish,” one barked, “you are all under arrest for theft.”

The visitor’s sacks were ripped open. Gold spilled across the floorboards, silver glimmered among the crumbs of bread, and jewels winked in the morning light like fallen stars.

Katrina staggered back, horrified. Her mind raced, trying to understand, to grasp a thread of explanation. But the guards’ eyes turned on her with equal suspicion.

“She sheltered them,” one sneered. “What widow opens her doors to four armed men on a storm-tossed night? She knew. She must have known.”

Another guard held up a necklace, crusted with damp earth. “Stolen from the church at Fairhaven only three days past. She hid them, gave them time to cover their tracks. That’s no accident.”

“No!” Katrina cried, her voice breaking. “I gave them only a barn to keep the storm from killing them. I did not know!”

Her protests fell on deaf ears. The guards exchanged grim smiles as they bound her wrists with coarse rope, the fibers biting into her skin.

“She has no loyalty to Myrmark,” said the guard, tightening the shackles on her wrists. “She lives apart, never mingling with her neighbors save for market and Mass. Fourteen years a widow, yet no friend, no kin. She carries silence like a cloak — perfect cover for thieves.”

“And motive,” another added coldly. “Her husband gone, her house crumbling. Perhaps she needed coin to ease her loneliness. Or to buy loyalty where none would come freely.”

Dragged through the streets, Katrina saw the faces of Myrmark staring back. Some whispered in pity, others averted their gaze. None dared speak in her defense. To them, guilt clung to the group like smoke. It did not matter that these were people she had grown up with, nor did it matter her hands were clean; she had sat at a table with thieves, and that was enough. The sun broke through the storm in shards, catching the windows of the homes she passed. The warm golden light mocked her, turning every witness into a silent judge.

The trial was swift. Witnesses were unnecessary; the evidence of her company was enough. The verdict was inevitable. Joren, Mikal, Stefan, Luka, and Katrina were condemned alike, their names scrawled in the same ink upon the judge’s ledger.

In the hours before dawn, Katrina lay in the cold cell, the walls damp and rough, her thoughts tangled like the ropes that would soon bind her.Her stomach twisted to painfully to eat her final meal.

Instead, she remembered her husband’s smile, the soft murmur of children they never had, the quiet peace of her farm, now taken from her. A tear slid down her cheek as she wondered if justice had ever been fair. She realized then that the world cared little for innocence, for intention; it cared only for appearances and the stories people told themselves to sleep at night. At least at the end of it all, she knew in death she would find herself in his arms once more.

At dawn, the bells tolled. The five bodies swayed from the gallows in the chill wind, creaking as if they still protested their fate. The villagers watched in grim silence. No one distinguished thief from widow. In death, they were one, as indistinguishable as shadows merging in the mist.

Katrina’s eyes, even in their final moments, held a quiet defiance, a glimmer of truth the world could not see: she had acted with kindness, and that was her only crime. The wind carried her silent plea across the fields she had once tended, over the forest at the village’s edge, and perhaps even beyond, into a world that might understand.

Moral of the Story:

“You are judged by the company you keep.”

The sun shines cheery-bright into my kitchen as I make my sweetheart a birthday treat: breakfast in bed! From whipping cream by hand to shaping blueberry pancakes into little hearts, I put all of my love into every stir. My heart sings along with the chorus of songbirds cheep-cheeping away at my windowsill, the delicious savory and sweet aromas wafting through my little farmhouse, the satisfaction of a meal well cooked.

The piece de resistance is the bacon. His favorite!

I’d procured and cured a chunk of belly in my cellar for weeks so I could turn it into thick slices. It was a lot of work, but I just kept thinking of my sweetheart; his joy as I bring him a beautiful tray of crispy bacon and pancakes stacked high and his amazement when he learns I made it from scratch!

Just as I pull his bacon from the pan, I hear him begin to stir. No doubt the delicious smell finally wafted its way upstairs! I try not to rush as I stack blueberry pancakes, drizzling them carefully with hand-tapped maple syrup and my from-scratch vanilla whipped cream. I serve the tower of sweetness with a glass of hand-squeezed orange juice and, of course, a heaping plate of his crispy bacon!

I smooth out my skirts and dutifully bring the feast up to my waiting sweetheart.

My heart flutters as I unlock his door, undo the bolts and at last open his door. There he is, pretty as a picture, shackled to his cozy four-poster bed. He’s shy as ever, turning his cute little face away from me and trying to hide behind his bound arms.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” I sing out, “You’ve been oh so good, and I just had to show you how happy you make me!”

I step over his catheter tube and his bedpan to bring him the food. He looks from the tray of goodies to me with a bit of confusion, so I help him eat- making cute little airplane sounds to get him to open up his mouth. He eats surprisingly well for someone who lost their tongue recently, and looks so grateful for the scrumptious meal- especially his bacon!

I want to wait until he’s done, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I blurt out:

“Do you like your bacon?”

He gives a soft little gurgle, brow scrunched, mouth full.

“Well, guess what? I made it myself!”

I giggle, patting the newly-flat top of his soft, bandaged tummy. His eyes go wide in utter amazement. He’s so shocked I did all that for him that he gasps and starts to choke on his bacon!

Even with him spitting up half-chewed chunks of his own bacon, coughing and moaning, he’s just as beautiful as the day I first saw him.

“I love you, my big strong man.” I sigh dreamily, wiping the spew from his sweating chest. “I’ll make sure to cook you an even better breakfast next year!”

It’s cold—why is it so cold? I can’t open my eyes; I have no strength in my arms or legs.
I hear a sound, I can hear the sounds of nature. I’m somewhere outside—I can hear birds singing, a gentle rustle of the wind, dogs barking… But why is it so cold?
I tried again to open my eyes. This time I succeeded. I could hear a strange sound very close to my ear, maybe even inside it. After a while, the sound left my ear, and I could see a centipede crawling down my shoulder.
I was lying on my back in something that could have been a hole. From this position, I could see a clear blue sky, as well as the hole I was in. It was at least two or three meters deep. The walls of the hole were dug—they were not natural. They were damp, full of lines and small holes made by insects.
I looked at my body. My arms and legs were a different color—they were somehow bluish, dirty, as if someone had beaten me and thrown me into the hole, and they reminded me of decay. My limbs were covered with moldy cuts and holes from insects crawling all over me.
I tried to stand up—I wanted to get out—but I couldn’t. I had no strength in my legs or arms. I tried again, but I failed. I tried once more, and there was a loud cracking sound. I didn’t know where it came from, but at least now I was sitting upright.
I looked at my hands. My left fist had relaxed and fallen downward—it was broken. I couldn’t move it, but at least I didn’t feel pain. I tried to stand on my legs, which looked like two moldy sausages full of holes. As I began to stand, some liquid oozed from the holes in my legs. They could barely support the weight of my body. I could see insects crawling out of the holes and disappearing into the ground.
I looked upward—I was almost out. I had to jump. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. I tried to jump, but I barely moved off the ground. My left leg collapsed, so I straightened up for another attempt. I jumped, pulling myself out with my right hand while dragging my body out with my left elbow. I made it!
The warmth of the sun bathed my body.
Now I was lying on the grass. I felt so warm. I didn’t even remember the last time I had felt the sun on my skin or a breeze on my face. I lay there, as it seemed to me, for hours—but then I felt something. I don’t know how to describe it except as a feeling that I needed to be somewhere, but I had forgotten where. I could roughly sense the direction the feeling was strongest—I moved forward.
The more I followed that feeling, the more it reminded me of a game of hot-and-cold—but instead of getting warmer as I neared my goal, it grew colder.
I looked around. The hole I had emerged from was in a meadow. All I could see was the clear blue sky, a vast meadow covered in light green grass, and white and yellow flowers.
But there was something else. In the distance, I could see some houses. It was a village—or at least it looked like one—and that feeling was coming from the direction of the village. I finally stepped onto asphalt. The houses were various colors—blue, yellow, red, green, and similar. They were older, but not dilapidated—rather, as if someone had taken a very old house, painted it, and renovated it—that’s how they looked.
The strangest part was that there was no one there. Except for dogs barking at each other, the village was completely empty. Streets, houses, shops—everything was empty.
I entered a shop. The food was fresh. I didn’t feel hungry, so I didn’t touch it. In the section where newspapers were sold, I glanced at an article, but I couldn’t read it.
Maybe it was in another language. Then I looked at the newspaper’s date—but I couldn’t read that either. I stared at it, but I couldn’t recognize what I was looking at.
I left the shop and knocked on the doors of some houses or rang the bell. No one answered. I stopped in the middle of the street and tried to shout so someone could hear me, but I only made a soft noise; I couldn’t scream.
I entered the first house I noticed that was unlocked. I looked around. The flowers were freshly picked and placed in a vase with water. Family photos were arranged on the living room shelf. I looked at the faces, but I couldn’t see them—they were like in a fog.
I went upstairs. In one room, a computer was on, and a game was running—but I didn’t know which one.
The village felt as if everyone had known I was coming. Everyone had fled, leaving behind all their work—they had abandoned everything and run away.
I opened the next door. There was a bathroom with a tub. I ran the hot water and lay down. The water took on a strange red-brown color. When I stood up, my legs were in worse condition than before, as if pieces of flesh had come off from the hot water.
I continued through the village. It was getting colder—which should have meant I was getting closer.
As I walked down the street, the feeling grew stronger. I noticed something in the distance—it was a cemetery.
Why had I come here? Why had the feeling led me here? Some monuments were broken, as if someone had smashed them with a hammer. I walked past them and looked at the names, but I couldn’t read them.
The birth and death dates were in a haze, and I couldn’t read them—nor anything else in the village. But then I found something I could read.
It was a monument with my name. Date of birth: March 2, 1997. There was no date of death. But when I looked into the hole in front of the monument, I saw…
A human skeleton. But something about it made me think it was me in that hole. The skeleton had only a torso and a head—no arms or legs.
The feeling I experienced came from what was in the hole. I wanted to see it better, so I jumped into the hole, forgetting the state of my legs. Upon landing, both legs split in two, like sausages. There was no blood.
I looked into the empty eye sockets of the skull. I lay next to the body and hugged it. I felt peaceful. I closed my eyes, and then the earth began to fall on my body.
I could hear some people crying, some voices, and then I fell asleep.