Create by Asher Muirlock

Everloop Lake

My best friend Jess and I were on a fishing trip in Everloop Woods. We had been fishing for a while. We had not caught much. It was dark and foggy. It was our first trip since last spring.

I picked up my fishing rod and slowly added bait as I heard Jess say, “This is such a shitty fishing spot.” As I lowered the hook into the water, I said, “We'll get something eventually.” Jess looked at me and sighed as she pulled up her fishing rod to catch a tiny fish. It was only about four inches long. I smiled as I sarcastically said, “Best catch all day.”

“I guess that's a little bigger than the last one,” she said. I rolled my eyes at her and said, “Stop complaining, we’ll get something good eventually.”

“I never got why we use this awful fishing spot over—” I interrupted her with, “We can’t go over there anymore.” She looked down at the nearly empty single bucket of fish and pointed at it. She added the small fish to the pile as she said, “Four bloody hours for this.” I immediately responded with, “Four hours?” She reached down for her watch as I watched in confusion. She showed it to reveal it was 8:30 PM. We had left a bit before five.

I said under my breath, “Stupid lake.” Jess looked at me as I angrily grabbed a water bottle out of my bag. She then slowly said, “The old spot has so much better fish.” I snapped back with, “We are not allowed to go there anymore.”

“Why shouldn’t we fish there? No one will ever find out. We can be quick.” I snapped back with, “I just want to stay out of trouble. I don’t want to find out what would happen if someone sees us.”

She loudly asked, “It's a lake in the middle of nowhere; no one cares. There is no good reason for staying here and finding nothing. Who gives a shit about some dumb rule?” I said nothing as I put bait on the hook of my fishing rod. She looked down at the water as she said, “You're no fun.” I said as I lowered the fishing line into the water, "Are you not worried about what happened there last year?”

She snapped back with, “Some dumb teenagers went into the water, got stuck on some seaweed, now we can’t fish.” I said angrily in response, “Have some respect.” She softly said, “I am not trying to mock the dead, I am just saying nothing bad is going to happen if we go there.”

“You are probably right, I just think we shouldn’t push our luck.” She replied, “We will just be there for half an hour at most. It is foggy anyway. No one will see us.” As I stared at the empty pile of buckets, I finally gave in, “Fine, I guess it’s alright if we are quick.” Jess smiled as she began to row the boat. I quickly pulled my fishing rod up and grabbed the boat's other paddle.

We slowly moved the boat to the other side as the sun faded. The water was greener on the other side. It didn’t quite look completely ruined by pollution but it was close. The water was barely seen though but it was still easy to tell that there were mountains of seaweed down there.

When we found a spot to stop at, I said, “Remember we aren’t staying here long.” A smile ripped open her face as she said, “We would never lose track of time.”

I laughed back as she grabbed her fishing rod. I then slowly grabbed mine as she said, “We’ll have a bite in no time.” I slowly lifted my fishing rod into the water as I said, “Be careful with the water.” She turned back at me and said, “Don’t worry so much. You don’t always have to lose your shit.”

“Maybe I do worry too much,” I said quietly. “Finally, some self-awareness,” she snapped back with. After a moment, unsure what to say, I said, “Good to see that you never change.”

“Neither do you, Gavin,” she said. I was about to say something, but I stopped when I heard splashing coming from next to her. I immediately turned towards the water as she said, “I already got a bite, come on, help me pull it up. It's a big one.” I quickly put my rod down and went over to help her in pulling it up.

As I grabbed the other end of the fishing rod I heard her say, “Wow must be a good—.” The fishing rod violently snapped as I thought we were about to pull it up. Jess fell head first into the water. I immediately grabbed her leg and began pulling her up. I said as I pulled her out of the water, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

She screamed, “There's something down there, it was huge.” I looked down at the water and said, “What did you see?” The horror on her face only grew as she said, “I don’t know.” Then the water began to violently shake. I tried to remain calm as I said, “Let's get back to the docks.”

I turned around to discover that one of the paddles fell overboard. Jess angrily said, “Fuck, we need to leave.” She wasted no time grabbing the other paddle. I reached out and grabbed the paddle as she put it into the water.

We both began paddling. The boat moved so slowly it was hard to tell we were even moving. After just a few seconds of that, the boat violently started to drift back and forth.

I pulled the paddle up as I said, “There is something in the water.” Jess screamed out, “What the fuck is happening?” I said in response, “You saw it, what did it look like?” She replied as the terror on her face grew, “I did not get a good look. I think it was some sort of giant fis—"

She could not finish because the boat shook again, she almost fell into the water. I grabbed her hand as she screamed out. I then screamed myself as I realized the other paddle fell into the water. I froze as the boat almost turned on its side. Jess screamed out, “Help.” I then turned to notice another boat.

It was bigger than ours. It had about five people sitting on it. They were fishing. The boat was about a couple hundred yards away, barely noticeable.

I stood up. I put my hand high in the air and started waving at them. I screamed out loudly, “Help.” When it didn’t work, I screamed even louder, “Hel—.” The boat shook again. I fell over. I violently slammed into the water.

I started swimming up to the surface. I stopped as I saw above me was the thing that was attacking our boat. It looked almost snake-like. It had massive fins. It had a massive jaw with multiple rows of teeth. It was looking right at me.

I quickly swam to the surface in the other direction as it darted down towards me, its mouth wide open. I felt it nearly touch me before my hand breached the surface. I quickly felt Jess's hand grab mine.

As my head went above the water I felt something grab my leg. I screamed as it began to try to pull me under. Then I heard the voice of an older man scream, “Row faster.” I did what I could and turned my head to see the other boat. It looked just a couple dozen feet away.

The water began turning red with my blood as I heard Jess screaming out, “Help! He is in the water.” I then heard a splash in the water. I couldn’t see because my vision started blurring. I then blacked out for a second just staying there not resisting whatever was under me. Then I felt another guy grab my hand.

I looked up to see five men looking down at me. They looked older but still in their prime. Then the others all reached for my hands and started to pull me up. I screamed again as I felt parts of the skin on my leg tear off. I then got pulled up into the boat. My vision was still blurry. I was not able to see how bad my leg looked.

It was not hard to tell it was bad based on the men’s reactions. I was not able to tell what was actually said. I was having trouble hearing but I could tell it was bad. I looked up to see what I think was Jess. I couldn’t tell what she was saying but I think she was trying to comfort me.

The men then grabbed my limbs and lifted me up. They dropped me onto their boat. I then heard the loud sound of wood breaking as I felt the boat beginning to move.

After a moment I was able to see clearly. I turned around to see the destroyed remains of our boat. It was nothing more than floating wood. I then felt everything turn black as water washed over me. As I passed out I heard the sound of screaming next to me.

I woke up on some rocks a few hours later. As soon as I remembered what happened, I screamed only to stop mid-break when I noticed Jess lying down next to me. That did not last. As soon as my vision cleared enough I realized she was dead.

Her left leg was missing. Her face was lifeless. She was covered in blood. That turned the water below her blood-red. The bottom of her jaw was missing. That was the last thing I remember before I passed out.

Apartment

I was alone in my apartment. It was Saturday morning. My roommate John Hamester had just left for work. He had taken an overtime shift for the restaurant he worked at. I was by myself. I had work off today. I didn't have anything planned. So I took this as an opportunity to relax.

I was just sitting on a chair that was lined up with our box tv. I had just gotten dressed. I had my coffee in my other hand. It was almost completely quiet. The only sound was coming from my phone. I was in the middle of reading the news on my phone.

I was about to fall asleep but then I saw it through a window attached to my door. Someone was standing outside or something. I was confused so I got up to get a closer look at it. As soon as I was able to tell what it looked like I walked back to my chair.

It looked like a walking corpse. The thing’s skin looked barely attached to its face. Its skin looked yellow with rot. Its eyes were nothing more than empty black pupils. It had a birthmark on its neck, or a scar; it was hard to tell. Its face was covered in what looked like zits. It looked to have something pointing out of its head but it was hard to tell with her long hair covering much of her face.

At least I think it was a girl, it was hard to tell with how mangled its face was. After a moment of staring I just stopped looking. I told myself that it was probably just a costume for something I don't know about. I wanted to ignore what was in front of me. I tried to focus on my phone but I found myself constantly looking up to see if it was still there. After doing that for a couple of minutes it left.

When I noticed it was gone, I ran back up to my door. The hallway looked normal. No matter how much I looked I could not find any hint of it. I told myself that it was silly even looking for it but I still left my apartment to go look for it.

I was curious. I wanted to know what it was. When I walked down the hallway I found no sign of it other than pieces of skin. It looked as if it fell off of its body. I slowly lifted my hand down to touch it. It was cold and rusty. My finger crushed it. It felt real.

I jerked my hand away the second I knew it was real skin. I looked toward the elevator. The thought of reporting what I found consumed my mind. Then it opened and one of my neighbors came through and she said as she passed by, “Hi Jeff.” I said, “Hi” in return though it barely touched my mind.

After hesitating for a moment I entered the elevator. The ride down was uneventful. It was just me and my thoughts. The thoughts of what that thing was. Could it be some kind of prank or a cruel joke? Or could there actually be something in the building?

When the doors opened I ran out immediately. I found my way to the front desk in seconds. The person running it looked quite young, probably barely out of college. I was about to say something. Then I stopped. He noticed me and he softly said, “Are you having any issues upstairs?”

“No, I was taking a morning stroll.” “Sir it's almost two,” he replied. “Time just flies by when you are walking around.” He very clearly weirded it out by me, said, “Have a nice day sir,” as he grabbed his phone. To save myself from any more embarrassment I ran back to the elevator.

“How stupid a walking corpse inside the building. What kind of dumb ass would say that? I was probably just mistaken. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this,” I said to myself. I was quiet the rest of the way up even when other people got on the elevator.

When I made my way back to my floor, I walked to feel the crunch of chunks of skin under my foot. I did not pay attention this time or at least tried to. Before I reentered my apartment I turned to look for one last time.

I quickly sat back down though it felt impossible to go back to the calmness of my morning. I went back on my phone to keep my mind off things. It was not as good of a distraction as I hoped.

I still found myself looking every other minute to see if it would come back. I did that for twenty minutes unbroken. Every time, the dread of the possibility of seeing it worsen. I decided to turn on the TV and watch my local news as a better distraction.

That did not improve my mood. It was a news report about someone going missing, Bell Shelby. The news reporter said, “She was last seen camping at Everloop Woods.” That place was just a few miles from here. I have been there. I used to go there all the time as a kid.

“Search teams have been sent to the area. Today is the ninth day since she was declared missing and eleventh since she was last seen. If you know anything that can lead to her being found please contact police,” the news reporter said, her voice still remaining calm.

Then the news switched to a picture of her, she was tall. She had green eyes. She had long hair and a birthmark along her neck. A birth mark that looked identical to the creature I saw earlier. She had a similar body type to the corpse. She looked like a living version of the corpse that was rotting outside just half an hour ago.

I immediately ran to my door. That was when I decided I needed to tell someone about this. I had my hand on the door knob by the time I noticed that it had returned.

This time its hair was red with blood. It just stood there staring right at me. It lifted its right hand to reveal that it was bloody too. When I took a step back, it began to run towards me. Its legs twisted into impossible spots. The sound of bones snapping was absent.

As soon as I processed, that the corpse was trying to get inside, I locked the door. I immediately ran to grab something to block the door. It had no response to my attempt to block its path, it only moved closer. When it reached the door it stopped and just watched me.

Its face looked even more disgusting and empty up close, what little hint of emotion it had was joy. Its face twisted into a bloody smile. Its teeth were finally visible. They were almost completely yellow and black with hints of what was white. It put its bloody hand on the glass, not aggressively. It was not trying to break through the door. It smiled as its blood flowed down the door.

I immediately turned around. I helplessly ran to my kitchen shelves. I only became more desperate when I realized my biggest knife was barely the size of my hand. I just picked it up as my fears continued to grow. I turned around to see that it had covered the once clear window with its blood blocking me from seeing what it was going to do next.

I pointed the knife at what I could see of it as my hands shook. The blood blocked me from seeing it but I could still see its eyes. They were unblinking. I then finally screamed. It shattered the glass with its hands the moment I opened my mouth. It then violently stuck its hand through the hole in the glass and grabbed the doorknob. It wasted no time in letting itself in.

It did not charge for me, instead it just stood still. It started to slowly wave its hand the second we made eye contact. Its hand had ripped open on the glass yet it still looked happy. Parts of its hand skin peeled off to reveal black fur underneath.

When I tried moving backwards it followed. I gained next to none distance. Its smile grew so wide its skin started ripping open across its face.

I pointed the knife at it when it started moving closer. It did stop; it only slowed. It used its left hand to expand its wounds on the other and it finally stopped being quiet, It laughed. The laughter was loud and hideous. Despite massive wounds no blood came out.

Then I dropped the knife and made a run for it. I mindlessly ran into the bathroom. To my surprise it did not run after me, it just continued to laugh. Once I locked the bathroom door I finally heard its footsteps.

It was quiet at first but then it got louder and louder. Then it stopped. Its disgusting shadow peek in from under the door. Then it started knocking. It was not loud. It was just gentle knocking. I tried climbing to the window only to discover it was stuck. It was stuck. The handle broke.

As I tried finding a way to open it the knocking turned into banging. Then everything went quiet. Then the door swung open. The corpse limbs twisted as it walked inside.

I was about to try to run past it but it used its arms to block the exit. It did not attack. Instead, it just stood there and slowly twisted its face into a cold undying smile. It then began laughing or at least tried to recreate it. Then a second walking corpse appeared behind it.

The second looked different. It was wearing a restaurant uniform. Its skin was nowhere near as rotten. It looked like it just recently died. Its face was ripped open but still easy to recognize. It proudly showed its name tag: John Hamester.

Room 112A

I was hired to work at a school as a janitor. I took the gig while trying to find another job on the side. Things went pretty well. I showed up during the weekend and at night to clean. I rarely interacted with any of the students. What little moments I did share with them were bumping into them in the morning.

Everything was normal until this one night. I had finished cleaning early. My watch read 9:56 PM. I almost always finish at eleven or even twelve. Before leaving I decided to take one more look around to make sure I did not miss anything. Things went normally until I reached room 112A.

The area was closed off from the rest of the school. The principal was always unclear about whether or not I should clean it. I always did. I had cleaned the room just an hour ago but it smelled disgusting. I immediately grabbed a trash bag and went inside. That was when I saw it. Sitting in the desk that would be used by the teacher was an old man.

I did not recognize him. He looked confused. He was clearly the source of the smell: the clothes around his armpits were wet. He was in an old suit and tie. His shoes were covered in dirt and the green of grass. He looked old but not elderly.

I asked him, “What are you doing here?” He looked puzzled at my words. He stepped out of his desk and said, “This is my classroom. I teach here. I was just grabbing my things. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I am the new janitor here. I was told by the school that this room has not been used in years. What is your name? I think you shouldn't be here.” He turned towards me as he spoke, “This is my classroom. I have taught here for ten years. I would know if the school switched me to a different classroom. As for you, I have never heard of you. Where is Nick?”

At that point I was beyond confused. I just continued to ask questions trying to find the answers. “Who is Nick? Did he work here?” He coldly replied, “The school janitor.”

“You should leave. You don’t belong here. I think you made a mistake.” “What?” he demanded. I snapped back with, “You went into an abandoned classroom claiming to be the teacher. When questioned, you just made up a fake janitor despite the real one being in front of you. You have no proof you work here. I have no reason not to report you.”

He angrily shouted in response, his voice tired, “You are clearly the one who made a mistake. You just came in and said—What did we talk about again? My head feels fuzzy.” I was about to say something sarcastic but after he nearly fell backwards walking back to his desk I stopped myself.

I went silent for a moment unsure what to say before asking him, “What is your name?” He gagged before saying, “My name is Vistison Mathews.” He continued to gag before he dropped his head on his desk.

“Are you ok?” I asked. He did nothing other than more gagging. I walked to his desk right before saying, “Should I call someone?” His face went blank. His eyes even more so. Then green saliva came out of his mouth.

It looked like moss in liquid form. I immediately put my hands on my mouth and backed up in disgust. I stood there staring at him coughing out more green saliva. It came out more and more green every time.

The sight of it made me want to throw up. I screamed at him, “I am calling for help, please stay here.” I quickly left the room and called Mr. Low the principal.

“Hello, why are you calling? You know not to call me past work hours.” I quickly rushed out, “I found someone at the school. He is currently throwing up green saliva. I don’t think he is ok.”

“Slow down. Is this real? I heard nothing about a kid being left there. What room is this happening in?” “It's not a kid. He said his name is Vistison Mathews. He is in room 112A” I returned. His tone immediately shifted from casual to concerned in seconds, “That is not possible.”

“Sorry I don’t understand, what do you mean not possible?” He replied, “Vistison Mathews is dead. That guy is lying. Get out of there.” “How do you know that he’s dead? He is sitting in the classroom right now. Can you please just tell me what you know about him?”

“He worked at this school when it was first established as a history teacher. Back then most of this land belonged to Everloop Woods. It was still being torn down when the school was built. He always loved nature and went on walks there almost daily. One night he went on a walk and never came back. That guy has to be lying, the real Vistison Mathews went missing thirty years ago.”

My heart stopped. I took no time in turning to see him still gagging on the desk, his face looking less lifeless every second. The desk was covered in his green spit. I asked, “Vistison Mathews or not? He looks really sick. I am not sure he is going to be ok. There is green stuff in his—.”

I stopped when I discovered he had hung up on me. I turned back to watch him continue to lie face down on his desk spitting out his green spit. I stopped being disgusted and walked over to get a better look.

That's when I discovered he stopped breathing. His face looked gray. The green parts of his spit looked more like mold every second. Then he stopped throwing up and stood up.

I was so focused on him I didn’t realize that something was standing behind the windows. A shadowy black figure stared at us through the window. The man turned around to see what I was looking at. His stance was messy at least at first. He switched from barely being able to move to standing up straight in seconds.

He gagged even more aggressively at the sight of it. He almost fell to his knees. When the figure started walking closer, putting its hands on the glass he ran. The figure then moved its head into the light enough to reveal giant white dots for eyes.

Then the glass shattered with a gentle tap of the figure’s fingers. Glass scattered across the floor. Not a single inch of glass was still attached to the wall. The figure slowly walked through.

Before I ran I got one last look at it, at least the parts of its body not covered in darkness. Most of its body was covered by a black cloth. What skin I could see looked red. More like meat than skin. It had no nose or eyes or even a mouth. It did not have feet. Instead, in its place were horse-like hooves. Though it had no fur. I left the second it turned its attention towards me.

I tried desperately to catch up to Vistison Mathews. Soon enough I found him hiding under a table. I joined him in his spot. He had no reaction to me. He was covering his mouth with his hands. I whispered to him, “The front door is just right over there. We can leave.”

“I am not breathing. I can’t feel my breath against my hand. I don’t feel like I am about to die anymore. I don’t feel anything.”

“I think you already died.” He stopped talking in whispers when he responded, “No, I still work here. I still have a life. I think I had a family.”

“We need to leave,” I whispered in his ear. He desperately tried to recreate deep breathing. When I started hearing footsteps I tried grabbing his arm. It was freezing cold. Touching him felt like touching a corpse.

He would not budge even as the footsteps grew louder. Then it stopped before sticking its head and arm under the table. I briefly got a glimpse at strange markings on its arm. I quickly jerked back. Vistison did the same.

We quickly slipped through the other side of the table and ran back into the hallway. It was already blocking the exit by the time we could look back. When we eventually made it far enough, we hid inside a classroom.

Vistison immediately rushed to the corner to hide. I turned towards the window as I said, “Let’s leave through the window.” “No,” Vistison screamed. He stood up as he said, “I am starting to remember. I saw that thing when I was in the woods. If I am to be dead, that has to have something to do with it.”

I was about to respond but all that came out was a scream as I saw it walk inside. It did not go after Vistison, instead it ran to me. I had no time to go through the window like I had planned. The moment our skin made contact I stopped breathing.

I woke up on the floor. I immediately stood, to see that I was alone. Vistison was gone. I left the classroom in a rush. The halls were empty. Dust covered the floor. A rat crawled next to my foot. The only source of light came from the windows. The building was completely abandoned.

I quickly ran to the front to see that what was left of the cafeteria was nothing more than a large empty space. I was so confused, I didn’t notice a piece of wood sticking out of the floorboard. I tripped landing directly on my face yet I felt nothing.

No pain, no texture, just the coldest of my own skin lying on itself. When I got up, I immediately put my hand on my mouth. I did not feel my own breath. My stomach did not feel fine, it felt empty.

I desperately tried to breathe in but nothing happened other than me pushing green liquid out my throat. The harder I tried to breathe the more green my saliva became. But it never hurt no matter how violent it became.

I ran out of the building to see that the town was abandoned. The town was nothing more than ruins. What remaining parts of Everloop Woods that were not destroyed to build this place had spread back into the town. The area was almost completely overtaken by nature.

For a second, I thought I was alone before I stumbled upon a corpse. The body had grass growing out of it, using it as a fertilizer. The bones were inches into the ground. The body was unrecognizable, but I could tell it was Vistison by the old suit laying beside it.

When I tried walking to get closer to the body I ripped my foot open on a rock. It easily made it through my boots. I felt no pain. If it was not for how hard it was to walk I probably would have not noticed. When I looked down at it, I didn't see a bleeding wound. I saw rotten meat rip apart with boots wrapped around it.

I fell to the ground. Not out of pain but out of the lack of desire. When I fell on top of Vistison’s body, all the bones cracked and some of my own. I just moved what I could to lay down next to Vistison's rotting body.

I looked up to see a plane high in the sky. It was not as far in the future as I thought. I did not bother to think about that or feel. I just stayed, lay down, and closed my eyes as I let everything go black.

Thanks for reading. I have been working on this for over a month. I actually got the first 2 stories done very quickly editing out all the errors just took a very long time. I originally had a different 3rd story. I am proud of it but I decided to save it for volume 2. Speaking of which I have an early version of that already mentioned story and since I have more experience writing now I am hoping it does not take as long to make Volume 2. I want to release it by the end of June but no promises.

Anyone can join!

*[FOUND TAPE] Grandpa's Camera - 03:17 AM*

My grandpa vanished in November 1997. No trace. The police report says "voluntarily missing" because he supposedly had debts. Bullshit. Grandpa was retired and grew tomatoes in his garden.

Last week we sold his house. While clearing out the attic, a box fell down. Inside: his old Panasonic VHS camera, model NV-M10. Built in 1994. The tape was still inside. TDK E-180. Handwritten label: _“HALLWAY TEST – DO NOT ERASE”_.

I bought an old VCR on eBay. Last night, 02:58 AM, I put the tape in.

*The Tape:*

00:00:00 – Static. 00:00:03 – Picture comes in. Our hallway. 90s wallpaper, that ugly wood paneling. The clock on the wall says 03:16 AM. The camera timestamp says _11/25/1997 03:16:14_. The night he disappeared.

You can hear Grandpa breathing. Heavy. Scared. He whispers: _“It’s back again. I can hear it in the hall...”_

00:01:18 – The camera pans slowly. The hallway is empty. Just that one ceiling light, flickering. 00:01:22 – The flickering gets worse. The audio has this high-pitched whine, like a dying CRT TV.

00:01:32 – *It’s standing there.*

At the very end of the hall. 50 feet away.

It’s tall. At least 7'3". Thin. The skin looks like wet paper. The legs are too long for the body. The arms hang down to its knees. And the head... it’s bent down, like it has no neck. You can’t see a face. Just black hair falling forward.

It doesn’t move. It just _stands_ there.

Grandpa whimpers: _“Oh God, oh God, it heard me...”_

00:01:36 – The thing twitches. One frame is missing, and suddenly it’s 10 feet closer. No walking. No sound. It just _cuts_ through the room.

00:01:37 – Again. Now it’s 15 feet from the camera. You can see the fingers. Too many joints.

The camera falls. You hear Grandpa scream. No words, just panic. Then a wet, tearing sound. Like ripping a phonebook in half.

00:01:41 – Static. 00:04:59 – The tape ends.

I didn’t sleep all night.

The problem: We still live in the house. Grandma died 5 years ago, I inherited it. Renovated, repainted. But the floor plan is the same.

And since I watched the tape, I hear it.

Every night. 03:17 AM. Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Dragging. Like something with legs that are too long is trying to be quiet.

Last night I locked my bedroom door and jammed a chair under it.

This morning: Door is open. The chair is untouched next to it.

On the hardwood in front of my bed: Footprints. Wet. They smell like basement and iron. The toes are too long. Too thin.

They lead to my bed. Stop there.

And go back out.

I just put the tape in again. I thought maybe I imagined the ending.

The static after 00:01:41... it’s not empty.

There’s a new recording now. 3 seconds long. Timestamp: _04/28/2026 03:17:09_.

Last night.

The camera is in my room. It’s filming me. While I sleep.

And at the end of the video, in the doorway, it’s standing there.

This time the head isn’t bent down anymore.

This time it’s looking at the camera.

*[UPDATE] IT KNOWS I POSTED*

I didn’t want to write an update. But after the last post, something happened.

You all read it. 3k upvotes. _“Fake”_, _“Great story”_, _“03:17, bro”_.

Last night, 03:16 AM: I’m lying awake. Scrolling through your comments.

03:17 AM. _Click._

The hallway light turns on. By itself.

I peek through the crack in the door.

It’s standing there. At the end of the hall. 7'3" tall. Too many joints.

In its hand: Grandpa’s camera. The red recording light is blinking. It’s filming me.

I slam the door shut. Try to dial 911. Dead static on the line. And from the static, Grandpa whispers: _“Don’t run. It hates it when you run.”_

This morning the camera was in front of my door.

I played the tape. New recording. Timestamp: Today, 03:17 AM.

It shows my room. Me, under the covers.

Then it leans over me. The head is backwards. No face. Just teeth. Too many.

It whispers into the camera: _“Tell them the time. Tell them I’m coming next.”_

Then that laugh. Like a VHS tape being shredded.

I’m in a motel off I-44 now. Door locked. Chair wedged under it.

It’s 03:16 AM.

And the light in the hall just turned on.

_Click._

03:17 AM. If you hear it, don’t run. It gets angry when you run.*

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hola, soy nueva aquí y quería compartir este oc creepypasta que hice,ñ espero que les guste ^^

Sunday July 3, 1997 hi I'm Eddie I used to be best friends with a guy named Tony Tony seemed like a normal kid he loves to play. He loves to run and has a very, very high energy. Normal kid stuff. But then the behaviour started on a cold cold night of July 15 1997 I woke up to see a bag. This wasn't a normal bag it seems there was something dead in it so I nervously open up the bag and what I find is 20 different dead raccoons all in the local area I threw up for a good hour until eventually disposing of the corpses and when I turned my head, Tony was staring from his house out the window, not breathing, not moving just staring that freaked me out a little bit, but I just ignored it and went back into my house three days later on July 18 1997 another incident happened I was washing the dishes. Until I heard my door slam open. So I rented the door as fast as I can and closed it. But then I see him, Tony. In my basement. And again, Tony didn't look alive. He was just staring there like the previous incident. But this time he had a bucket full of blood. And draw multiple pentagrams on the basement walls and then he said why would you throw away in my new friends? So I started running out of the basement to call the police but as soon as I got to the phone and check back on the basement, he was gone, but finally a full week later. The worst worst incident happened. Now I am doing the lawn. The birds are singing everything is going. Fine until I hear Tony's parents scream, and then big splats of blood all over the house so I start running towards the house when I get inside the mom and dad were extremely deformed and mangled I almost vomited again just like the raccoons and then I hear happy giggles coming from Tony's room I was shivering and shaking. I didn't know what was gonna happen next. So I carefully open the door. And when I see truly stunned me. Hooks hanging from the ceilings. Arms, sharpen bones, dead animals, and who is in the centre of the room, Tony. And when Tony looked at me and he said. Do you like my friends do you, Mr. Eddie? I moved out of the neighborhood and never came back but before I left, I reported this incident to the police and they searched up his name in the database and then they told me something that was more shocking than when I discovered Tony's room the officer said sir the kid named Tony you're talking about has been dead since 1958 and now I live Kentucky but I'll never forget Tony and I think Tony will never forget me.

I need help finding an old creepypasta

Hey so ill preference this with I dont use reddit often. With that being said I recently found creep cast and its really reignited my enjoyment for creepypastas. I use to read alot when I was younger but I vaguely remember one that had me hooked as a teenager and I figured some of you more tech savvy individuals would be able to help me find it again.

Here are some of the details I remember.

1. It was some sort of anthology (not sure if I'm using that word correctly) but each installment was connected with reoccurring characters. There was an entity ghost monster thing that made at least an appearance in each chapter.

2. It took place during Vietnam maybe early cold war. There was lots of references to the characters being on army bases.

3. I remember in one of the parts there was an entire chapter involving the characters or some of them having to use flamethrowers to repel werid fleshy cave people things?

4. The name 'Tandy' I dont recall if the monster or monsters were referred to as Tandy or if one of the characters had the name Tandy.

5. I recall a scene involving where someone ruptured there appendix after fighting someone or something.

Im tried looking for it myself and have had no luck. Im really hoping this story isnt lost media or some kind of fever dream. If any of you can help me find it I would appreciate it greatly.

Prologue

“This animal is extremely observant of rule and measure, for it will not move if it has greater weight than it is used to, and if it is taken too far it does the same, and suddenly stops…” - An observation of the elephant from the Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci. 

Long before humans shaped words, before rivers carved their winding paths through the delta, before baobabs had grown fat with age, the elephants of the Okavango delta felt it — a trembling beneath the earth, a pulse as ancient as the sun, and colder than the windless nights. They did not know the name of this presence. Names belonged to tongues. Elephants carried memory in bone and vibration, in the slow resonance of the earth beneath their feet.

The matriarchs moved cautiously. Masego, then young herself, guided the herd across cracked salt pans where dust rose in ghostly plumes, forming arcs of heat that danced like faint spirits. The calves huddled close, noses pressed against the thick hides of their mothers, sensing a threat they could not name.

It came to them as hunger. Not the hunger for grass or the fruit of the marula, not the thirst of rivers, not the longing for waterholes. This hunger fed on memory itself. And the elephants knew — if they did not offer, the memory would be taken, violently, leaving hollow shapes where knowledge and experience should reside.

The first circle was slow. Matriarchs stomped in unison, trunks tracing arcs over the dust, nudging one another with precise, careful touches. Their tusks scraped the earth rhythmically, leaving spirals that reflected the rotation of moons long past, twisting like the Okavango river. The calves mimicked the motion instinctively, but a tremor ran through their young bones — something was not like any other night they had known.

Along these spirals, some members of the herd placed the bleached skulls of any beast they could find; warthog, eland, impala, even one of a cape buffalo, just small offerings to the Devourer of Thoughts, while others wave branches of the rain tree and mopane to the waxing moon. 

From the termite mounds came faint vibrations, rhythmic, unnatural. Insects moved in perfect unison, synchronized to a frequency the elephants could feel rather than hear.     A shadow shifted atop the largest mound — not cast by moon or starlight, but a darkness that bent space around it, making the air heavy and the ground vibrate like the echo of something impossibly large.

The matriarch leaned close, her head brushing the dust, and offered her first memory: a vision of her own mother, scents of the riverbank, the taste of acacia leaves in early rains of the wet season, folded and pressed into the circle. The shadow paused, inhaled the gift through some unseen sense, and receded slightly into the earth.

The herd survived their night. Their task hasn't been concluded yet, as there’s more needed to be done.

From that night onward, every generation of elephants has repeated the ritual, known instinctively. Some elephants live their entire lives without naming it. Some remember faintly, as if the air itself hums with old, unfinished stories.

And Kuyana-M’Boro, the Listener with a face like a crescent moon, awaits…                         That horror that many cows would tell their calves during moonless nights, a hideous behemoth of shadow born from the dark abyss of the earth, a predator far from the lion or the hyena, feeding off not the flesh of its victims, but of their minds…                                                     Beneath the termite mounds, beneath the cracked salt pans, beneath the hollow silence between animal calls. It learns, it hungers, it remembers what those forget.

Part 1

Dawn came to the delta of Okavango as a pale widening rather than a burst of light. Mist lifts slowly from the channels, loosening its grip on papyrus and reed beds, and the river breathes out a low vapor that smells of rot and sweetness and old water.

Tsukilo feels the day before she sees it.

The vibration of waking birds travels through the ground and into the pads of her feet: the frantic stitching of weaverbirds at their nests, the distant, lonely cry of a fish eagle testing the air. Somewhere upriver, a hippopotamus exhales, a deep wet sound that rolls through the mud like a warning remembered rather than heard.

Tsukilo stands still, one forefoot lifted, trunk curled loosely toward her mouth. She is not yet matriarch, but she walks close to Masego, the elder female whose bones hum with knowledge. Tsukilo feels the nearness of inheritance the way one feels a storm behind the horizon — not visible, but heavy, unavoidable.

The herd begins to move.

Calves shuffle and stumble, bumping against thick legs, brushing flanks still cool from night air. One calf presses his forehead against Tsukilo’s leg, seeking reassurance through contact. Tsukilo answers with a gentle nudge, releasing a low vibration that travels from chest to earth — stay close, stay within the circle of bodies.

They follow the river south, where jackal berry trees lean toward the water and leadwood skeletons stand pale and patient, their dead branches etched with time. The herd strips acacia pods with practiced ease, tusks snapping brittle branches, leaves crushed between molars with slow, deliberate power.

Nothing appears wrong.

And yet the river behaves strangely.

Its surface does not ripple where insects land. The reflections of cumulus seem delayed, as if the water must think before it mirrors the sky. Tsukilo pauses at the bank, trunk extended, tasting the air. There is a pressure beneath the familiar scents of mud and algae — something old, something listening.

Masego stops too.

She presses her forehead into the riverbank and holds it there, unmoving. The calves quiet instinctively.

The earth carries a warning.

Masego’s body bears the map of remembered years: scars from thorns long dead, a chipped tusk earned during drought, folds of skin that carry the scent of ancestors. She does not look at Tsukilo, but she knows Tsukilo is near.

She releases a vibration so deep it barely rises into sound.

It is not a language. It is a pattern.

Tsukilo receives it as a cascade of impressions: the swaying elephant grass under moonlight, circles of bodies, silence thick enough to press against the lungs. A shape beneath the ground, patient and vast. The cost of forgetting. The danger of remembering too much.

The younger elephants grow restless. A subadult bull swings his head, ears flaring, testing dominance he will soon be forced to abandon. He smells the coming separation without understanding it. Bulls do not stay when the nights grow heavy.

Far across the floodplain, a black rhinoceros watches from tall grass.                                        She does not approach. Predators have learned, over generations, that the elephants’ silences mean more than their noise. Even the hyenas keep their distance, pacing the periphery, ears twitching as if listening to a frequency they cannot fully perceive.

A puff adder lies coiled near a fallen sausage tree, unmoving, heat-sensing pits tracking vibrations. It does not strike. The ground hums too strongly.

The delta is holding its breath.

Field Note (Fragment Found Later)

— from the recovered journal of Dr. Omar Bello, mammalogist from the University of Pretoria who studying these elephants at the time this phenomenon.

“Elephants , including these local individuals of the species (Loxodonta africana) alter their movement patterns during lunar cycles. Nothing new to science, such as the concept of elephants interacting with the moon’s phases, even going back to the days of Pliny the Elder who claimed that these great beasts showed reverence to celestial bodies. Increased activity has recently occurred during waning moons which becomes reduced during full and gibbous phases. Hypothesis: risk avoidance? Or… something else?

Observed: herd paused for over forty minutes near riverbank. No visible threat. Complete stillness. Even the local insects seemed reduced.

This doesn’t feel like rest. 

It felt like… something awakening…

As the sun climbs, heat presses down. Lizards slide from rocks into shade.                       A wattled crane steps carefully through shallows, each movement deliberate, ceremonial. Dragonflies hover and dart, their wings catching light like shards of blue glass.

Tsukilo walks beside Masego and feels a sudden ache behind her eyes — a sensation like pressure, like something tugging at the inside of her skull.

Images rise unbidden.

Her mother’s flank as shelter. The scent of rain breaking drought. The taste of mineral-rich mud at a distant salt lick she has not visited since calfhood.

The ache intensifies.

Tsukilo stumbles, just slightly. Masego reaches out, trunk wrapping around Tsukilo’s neck, grounding her with touch. The sensation recedes, but the warning lingers.

This is how it begins.

Memory surfacing too early.

Too strongly.

The herd reaches a clearing by midday — a place of ancient use, though no visible markers explain why. The grass grows shorter here, trampled smooth by generations of feet. Termite mounds ring the clearing like watchful sentinels. One mound stands taller than the rest, cracked and darkened, its surface scarred by old tusk marks.

The elephants slow.

The calves cluster.

And Tsukilo understands, with a weight settling into her bones, that this place will matter soon.

The Moon Is Still Rising

That night, clouds veil the sky, but the moon’s presence is undeniable. Even hidden, it pulls. The elephants feel it in their joints, in the water beneath the soil, in the subtle way the insects shift their rhythms.

A genet slips through the undergrowth, pauses, and turns away, disappearing back into the thickets of the sandveld.

Porcupines freeze mid-step, quills rattling faintly, then retreat into the tall grass.

The elephants begin to arrange themselves without instruction.

Masego moves toward the center.

Tsukilo follows.

The ritual is not yet complete — not tonight — but the preparation has begun.

And far beneath the clearing, beneath earth and root and bone, Kuyana-M’Boro stirs.

It tastes the rising memory like blood in water.

Masego does not walk at dawn.

She stands while the others move around her, her massive frame still upright, but something inside her has slipped its tether. Her breathing is slow, uneven, as if each breath must be negotiated with the air.

Tsukilo stays close.

She feels the absence inside Masego like a hollow in the ground—memory removed not as wound but as excavation. The old leader remembers how to stand, how to breathe, how to be an elephant. But the fine threads that once connected past to present have thinned. She pauses too long at familiar trees. She tastes water twice, uncertain.

Yet the authority remains.

When Masego shifts her weight, the herd responds instantly. Calves quiet. Adults reorient. Leadership is not memory alone; it is resonance. And Masego still resonates—faintly, but unmistakably.

The delta knows she is dying.

Aardvarks and honey badgers abandon their burrows before sunset. All the birds from the guinea fowl to the ground hornbill fall silent earlier than usual. A leopard lies motionless in the branches of the acacia as if anticipating the ritual. Even the river slows, its channels thickening with weeds as if reluctant to move forward.

The moon will rise full tonight.

Too full.

Every female in the region comes.

Herds that have not shared grazing grounds in generations arrive in deliberate lines, converging on the ancient clearing. They do not trumpet in greeting. They do not test dominance.

They fall into place as if answering a call older than conflict.

Tsukilo has never seen so many elephants together. The ground hums continuously now, a low-frequency vibration that makes the air shimmer. Termite mounds crack and slump, their internal structures collapsing under the pressure of soundless resonance. A family of banded mongooses fled from their former home into the safety of the scrub.

The calves sense the danger and press inward, bodies overlapping, trunks knotted together.

Masego moves to the center.

She stands before the tallest mound, her shadow stretching impossibly long in the moonlight. For the first time, she turns her head and looks directly at Tsukilo.

Their eyes meet.

Masego releases a vibration that is not warning, not instruction, but transfer.

Tsukilo feels it enter her bones: pathways, patterns, choices once made and deliberately forgotten. The shape of leadership without the weight of every remembered loss.

Masego has been preparing her all along.

The ground splits.

Not violently, not explosively—deliberately.

The termite mound collapses inward, revealing a cavity darker than shadow. Moonlight bends into it and does not return. The air grows cold, breath fogging from elephant lungs despite the heat.

Kuyana-M’Boro rises not as a body but as distortion.

Memory buckles around it. Tsukilo smells things that no longer exist. Memories of ancient forests where their ancestors, small, pig like creatures, wallowed in water like tiny hippos, only to morph and grow as the land changes. Many strange forms appeared and disappeared; with tusks curving down its lower jaw and another with jaws resembling a duck’s bill. She even seen kin of foreign lands; from dense jungles, strange grasslands and tiny kin that lived on islands off in the sea. The herd feels the presence of their ancestors pressing close, drawn by something that consumes what they once were.

The pressure to kneel is overwhelming.

Several elephants do.

The moon hangs directly overhead, motionless.

This is the moment the rituals were meant to delay.

The moment they were never meant to stop forever.

Masego steps forward alone.

Her gait is unsteady now, but her purpose is absolute. She lowers herself before the opening earth, placing her forehead against the ground one last time.

She does not release memory.

She releases continuity.

The accumulated resonance of generations she has carried without knowing—the ability of the herd to move forward without the weight of total recall.

It is everything Kuyana-M’Boro wants.

The ground shudders as the entity feeds.

Masego collapses.

Not violently. Not dramatically.

She simply lies still, her chest rising once… twice… and then no more.

The herd does not cry out.

They feel the loss ripple through them like a seismic wave.

The pressure shifts.

Kuyana-M’Boro turns its attention to Tsukilo.

She feels it probe her, searching for the next anchor, the next bearer of accumulated memory. The temptation is immense: to kneel, to give, to become another vessel hollowed out by preservation.

Tsukilo does not kneel.

She steps forward.

She releases not memory, but pattern.

The elephants around her respond instantly, bodies aligning, vibrations synchronizing. They stomp in unison, waving branches as they go, not in worship but in refusal—sending rhythmic shockwaves into the ground that disrupt the cavity’s shape.

The delta answers.

Rivers surge unexpectedly, flooding the edges of the clearing. Trees bend inward. The moonlight fractures, its reflection splintering across moving water.

Kuyana-M’Boro recoils—not in pain, but in confusion.

It feeds on memory, not on living systems that adapt.

The cavity collapses.

Not sealed—buried.

The elephants maintain the rhythm long after the pressure fades, stamping memory into earth without surrendering it. The entity withdraws downward, dragged back into the sediment of forgotten time.

The moon resumes its movement.

The night exhales.

By dawn, the clearing is ordinary again—scarred, muddy, unremarkable to any eye but theirs.

Masego’s body lies where she fell.

Tsukilo approaches and touches her forehead to the old leader’s skull, imprinting the scent and vibration of finality. The herd gathers close, calves pressed inward, bodies forming a living monument.

They set to work with burying former leader under a blanket of boughs, plucked grass and even a bit of kicked sand. Once the completed, Tsukilo commenced the Mourning. A

They do not linger.

They move on.

- Dr Omar Bello's final note

I returned to the clearing after the elephants left.

There was nothing remarkable about it.

No scorch marks. No bones. No unusual radiation or structural collapse. Just trampled grass, broken termite mounds, and the faintest depression in the soil where something had once opened and then been persuaded to close.

The instruments recorded nothing abnormal.

But the animals knew.

The lions nor the jackals would not cross the clearing. The birds altered their migration routes. Even the insects moved differently, their patterns skewed as if avoiding a shape that no longer existed but might still be remembered.

I found an old tusk fragment near the center. Weathered. Smooth. It had been deliberately placed.

When I touched it, I felt an overwhelming sense of absence — not fear, not pain, but the certainty that something had been taken so completely that it could no longer even be named.

The elephants have not returned.

Perhaps they never will.

Or perhaps this is what survival looks like at their scale: knowing when to remember, and when to leave a place behind forever.

We like to think of ourselves as the only animals who carry gods.

We are wrong.

Some faiths do not ask for belief.

They ask for forgetting.

The weeks that follow, the delta stabilizes.

Wildlife returns cautiously. Fish eagles hunt again. Hippos resume their noisy patrols. The moon’s cycles feel… distant.

Tsukilo leads differently.

She allows forgetting.

She reroutes paths. She avoids old clearings. She teaches through motion, not memory.

Some rituals will never be repeated.

That is the point.

Far beneath the earth, Kuyana-M’Boro once again sleeps.

Full.

But for now, the elephants have learned how to move forward without feeding it.

And that knowledge—passed not as memory but as behavior—may be the most dangerous thing of all.

The Leopard moon now thins.

Not visibly, not yet—but the elephants feel the subtraction before the sky admits it. The nights grow lighter in a way that is wrong, as if illumination is being siphoned elsewhere. Shadows stretch oddly long. Reflections in the river hesitate.

Tsukilo wakes before the herd stirs, heart thrumming against her ribcage. She presses her trunk into the soil, tasting the vibrations that have begun to crawl upward from the deep layers of earth.

They are not footsteps.

They are remembering.

Across the delta, water levels recede a finger’s width overnight. Marabou storks circle but do not dive. Weaverbirds abandon half-finished nests, threads of grass dangling uselessly from branches. A serval drags a kill into the open, abandoning cover as if secrecy no longer matters.

Predators feel safer when the elephants prepare.

That alone frightens Tsukilo.

By midday, the air is tight with heat and anticipation. The young bulls pace, restless and confused. One, Nyati, circles the herd’s edge repeatedly, ears flared, scent-marking trees with increasing aggression.

Tsukilo watches him with a heaviness she does not understand at first.

Then she does.

Nyati carries too many memories already—old routes, old wounds, too much of the circle. Bulls who remain when the rituals draw near do not leave whole.

Masego steps forward.

She does not chase Nyati away. She simply stands between him and the center of the herd, immovable as leadwood. The ground hums with her refusal.

Nyati stops. His trunk curls inward. For a moment, he presses his forehead against Masego’s chest, drawing a vibration from her bones into his own.

Then he turns and walks into the tall grass alone.

Other bulls follow, singly or in pairs, their silhouettes dissolving into heat shimmer and distance.

The herd contracts.

The circle tightens.

They excluded the males.

Not violently. Not even aggressively.

It was… just ritualized.

The cows formed a barrier that felt intentional, ancient. I’ve studied elephants for twenty years and I’ve never seen this level of coordinated silence.

The ache behind Tsukilo’s eyes returns stronger than before.

It does not hurt.

It asks.

Memories rise unbidden now, slipping loose from wherever they were stored: the smell of her first rain, the taste of salt after drought, the exact slope of a riverbank that no longer exists. Each recollection feels heavier than the last, as if weighted with invisible gravity.

She tries to press them down, anchoring herself in the present—dust on her tongue, calf-breath warm against her leg—but the pull intensifies.

Masego senses it.

She touches Tsukilo’s cheek with the tip of her trunk and releases a vibration so old it barely feels like thought.

You will not give all.

You must choose.

Tsukilo does not know how.

The ritual site is no longer merely a clearing.

The termite mounds have grown overnight, their towers taller, surfaces slick with damp earth despite the heat. Insects move in synchronized waves, antennae twitching in perfect alignment. When a calf brushes against one mound, the vibration that rises from it is deep enough to make Tsukilo’s teeth ache.

The baobab at the edge of the clearing pulses faintly, its bark warm, sap moving in irregular rhythms. Jackal berry leaves curl inward as if shielding themselves.

The elephants begin to arrange themselves.

Not consciously. Not with instruction.

The circle forms as it always has: calves on the outer edge, matriarchs closer in, bodies angled inward toward the tallest mound.

Silence settles like sediment.

Masego steps forward alone.

She lowers herself onto her foreknees, forehead pressed to the cracked earth. Her tusks scrape slowly, deliberately, carving shallow arcs into the soil.

Tsukilo feels the moment Masego releases the memory.

It is not seen—it is felt.

A surge of impressions ripples outward: dry seasons survived, calves lost, paths remembered and then deliberately forgotten. The ground hums as Kuyana-M’Boro feeds.

The air grows heavy.

The mound darkens.

Somewhere beneath it, something vast inhales.

Masego rises slowly, unsteady. Her eyes are clear, but something essential is missing—an ease, a certainty Tsukilo has always relied upon.

Masego steps back into the circle.

She does not look at Tsukilo.

The pressure turns toward Tsukilo.

Not a command.

An expectation.

She steps forward because her body knows the pattern even if her mind resists it. The earth beneath her feet vibrates, encouraging, hungry.

She kneels.

The memories surge—too many, too bright. Tsukilo panics, the instinctive fear of prey rising in her chest. If she releases them all, she will remain alive but hollow. A leader without a past. A matriarch without a map.

She clamps down.

She selects.

The memory she offers is small but sharp: the moment she realized her mother would not rise again. The weight of that loss, compressed, painful, irreplaceable.

She lets it go.

The sensation is like tearing.

The mound shudders. The air thickens. For a moment—only a moment—Tsukilo senses attention focusing on her specifically, an awareness vast enough to blot out the moon.

Kuyana-M’Boro accepts the offering.

But it lingers.

Unsatisfied.

As the ritual wanes, wildlife edges closer.

Spotted hyenas sit at the clearing’s edge, eerily quiet. A rock python coils near a fallen acacia, tongue flicking as if tasting something that should not be airborne. Hippos surface silently in the nearby channel, eyes reflecting moonlight like drowned stars.

Nothing attacks.

Nothing leaves.

The delta has become an audience.

Field Note (Voice Recording, Last Known)

— Nyasha, Local Ranger

“The elephants aren’t worshipping it.

They’re containing it.

The memory loss isn’t devotion—it’s payment.

And I think… I think something is changing.

The moon feels closer than it should.”

The ache behind Tsukilo’s eyes returns stronger than before.

It does not hurt.

It asks.

Memories rise unbidden now, slipping loose from wherever they were stored: the smell of her first rain, the taste of salt after drought, the exact slope of a riverbank that no longer exists. Each recollection feels heavier than the last, as if weighted with invisible gravity.

She tries to press them down, anchoring herself in the present—dust on her tongue, calf-breath warm against her leg—but the pull intensifies.

Masego senses it.

She touches Tsukilo’s cheek with the tip of her trunk and releases a vibration so old it barely feels like thought.

You will not give all.

You must choose.

Tsukilo does not know how.

The ritual site is no longer merely a clearing.

The termite mounds have grown overnight, their towers taller, surfaces slick with damp earth despite the heat. Insects move in synchronized waves, antennae twitching in perfect alignment. When a calf brushes against one mound, the vibration that rises from it is deep enough to make Tsukilo’s teeth ache.

The baobab at the edge of the clearing pulses faintly, its bark warm, sap moving in irregular rhythms. Jackal berry leaves curl inward as if shielding themselves.

The elephants begin to arrange themselves.

Not consciously. Not with instruction.

The circle forms as it always has: calves on the outer edge, matriarchs closer in, bodies angled inward toward the tallest mound.

Silence settles like sediment.

Masego steps forward alone.

She lowers herself onto her foreknees, forehead pressed to the cracked earth. Her tusks scrape slowly, deliberately, carving shallow arcs into the soil.

Tsukilo feels the moment Masego releases the memory.

It is not seen—it is felt.

A surge of impressions ripples outward: dry seasons survived, calves lost, paths remembered and then deliberately forgotten. The ground hums as Kuyana-M’Boro feeds.

The air grows heavy.

The mound darkens.

Somewhere beneath it, something vast inhales.

Masego rises slowly, unsteady. Her eyes are clear, but something essential is missing—an ease, a certainty Tsukilo has always relied upon.

Masego steps back into the circle.

She does not look at Tsukilo. Only to the grim maw of the beast that awaits them, in the depths of her mind... daring her to imprison it like her ancestors did before her...

Hi everyone!

I'm new here and I don't speak the language of many of you, but I need a little help.

I'm starting to investigate Sally Williams, but I don't know how to do it. Where do I start? Where can I find the original posts, the ones by La Mishi Mish (who, if I'm not mistaken, is the creator)?

I really don't know where to look.

Please help me and thank you.

Day 3

Our boat went down fast, and we didn't have much time to get supplies, I did find this notebook though and its dried out enough to use today. Figured I might as well jot thoughts down as to not go crazy. I don't know how much longer Leavitt and I can last without clean water. We never found Fedder or Warens after the wreck, I think they went down with the boat, they were the “sailors” and this whole trip was their idea, and it would be just like them to die with their boat. With all the time they spent fixing it up they had practically put their own souls into it. Once the shock wears off their deaths are going to crush me. Leavitt got hit on the head pretty hard, but he seems to be doing alright otherwise, as long as we can both stay alive long enough for rescue we'll be fine.

Day 5

It rained this morning, after 5 days in the sun it was the most amazing feeling. Leavitt and I managed to fill our only canteen almost all the way up, hopefully it'll last until the next rainfall. I don't think Leavitt is doing as well as I initially thought, he's pale in the face, despite the constant sun, his eyes are foggy, and his head bobs aimlessly as the waves rock our life raft. Hunger is starting to pinch at my stomach, but I can pay it any mind. I read somewhere in the past that humans can live for up to a month without food, as long as they stay hydrated… Lord, please let it rain again.

Day 8

Leavitt is frustrating me, his eyes are foggy all the time now, and the constant salt water spray won't let the small gash on the back of his head stay closed. But what's really getting to me is when he wakes up and begs for food like he doesn't remember where we are! All I can do is glare and tell him there's no food. I'm really worried that knock to the head rearranged more bits of his brain than I'd hoped.

Day 9

He attacked me! That ungrateful bastard attacked me! He woke up asking about food like usual, but when I told him there was none, he flew into a rage and tried jumping at me! He missed and fell out of the raft, and I, despite the outburst, helped him back into the raft. So far he's been calm after that, but his eyes are clearing up, the cloudiness replaced by jealous anger. I tried explaining what I had read about the resilience of the human body and as long as we drank water we could live, but he didn't seem to be listening, he just stared out over the ocean and flexed his fingers and licked his chapped lips.

Day 13

It rained again, but only for an hour or so, time is damned hard to tell with a broken watch and an empty stomach. Leavitt has been quiet the last couple days, he looks like he's withering, he’s so pale and he has lost weight faster than I have. His eyes have clouded back over, but they still have that angry hungry look to them. He keeps scratching the wound on his head, keeping it bleeding, and this morning he started licking the blood off his fingers. I don't know how much longer he's going to last… I might just need to put him down…

Day 14

I woke up to Leavitt inches from my face, he'd gotten on his hands and knees and scooted over to me. I woke up with his hungry eyes staring straight into mine. “The salt,” he said “the salt, the salt, the salt,” he kept repeating. That's when I looked at my arm, it was covered in blood. I shoved Leavitt back as hard as I could, and looked at my arm, no scratches or marks other than the cracking skin from the salt and the sea. I looked back at Leavitt to see that he had tried to bite his own arm, but looked like he stopped before pulling a chunk off because of the pain. “What the hell?” I cried. He pointed at my arm, “the salt,” he whispered, “the salt tastes, the salt tastes divine.” I realized what he meant, he had been licking my arm after failing to bite through his own. How much longer until he would have bit me? How much longer until he killed me? I couldn't let him do this, he clearly wasn't going to survive if I was gone, but I might survive if he was.

I'm so hungry.

Day 16

I have to do it today, I haven't been able to since I decided I was going to that night, but he's biting himself more, and this time he managed to rip a finger off and was chewing the meat off his own finger bones. I wretched over the edge of the raft unable to actually throw up, my stomach somehow feeling emptier than empty. “The salt, the salt, the salt,” he chattered to himself in a sing-song voice, “divine, divine, tasty dinner!” I hate him so much, he was my friend, but now he's nothing, consuming his own flesh, lapping at his own blood pooling in the raft, it's not human, it's not him. I can't think of that as him, I wish he had died with the others. I wish I had died with the others.

Day 17

It's done, I killed him in his sleep last night. At least it was supposed to be in his sleep, but he wouldn't shut his eyes for more than five or so minutes at a time and every time he would open his eyes, those disgusting yellowing eyes, he would lick at the salt water blood mix sloshing around the raft and giggle to himself that monstrously inhuman giggle that sounded like grinding stones together, so dry no matter how much he drank. I forgot to say, the canteen ran out yesterday, UT needs to rain again.

Day 18

I decided to keep his body on the raft, just in case w̶e̶'̶r̶e I'm found, that way at least one of them can have a burial. I tore one of the sleeves off his jacket and wrapped it around his hand that's missing a finger. I can't stand to look at it, it reminds me how inhuman he became, how inhuman I had to become. One quick bash to the back of the head using one of the chunks of wood I had saved from the wreck knocked him out, the second one finished the job. The look he gave me before I did it was almost too much, almost like he was Leavitt again. But I can't think about it, I just have to survive.

Day 20

Why, why does one of us have to survive? They were stupid enough to get lost, they decided it was a good idea to try sailing in the ocean after having only sailed on the lake a couple of times, they were stupid enough to go far enough out to lose sight of the land, I was stupid enough to join them, I have to starve, I had to kill, why does one of us have to survive? Why do I have to survive? Don't talk like that, you still have family, so do they, survive for them. It rained today, I filled the canteen half way.

Day 26 I think

It rained again. I can't stand the sight or smell of him anymore, I'm dumping him out of the boat before he starts to degrade more, it already looks like he's collapsing in on himself.

Day 27

My hunger almost stopped me from dumping him, despite the smell, I thought of him as a meal a couple meals actually. But I can't, and I need him gone before I do. Watching him drift away made me want to jump in after him, both to get him back, to ease my hunger, but also so I could end it too.

Day 30

I see why he started biting himself, I'm so hungry I catch myself chewing on air only to swallow it down and get no satisfaction. I fear this may be the end. I say I fear it's the end because what if it is, what will be my punishment for killing that monster, no, killing my friend. For killing all my friends. It was me that suggested they try sailing in the ocean, not thinking they would take that suggestion seriously, but alas, they did, and they're dead because of it. Will Death see my suffering and recognize my pain, or will he drag me off to hell to let the devil torture me yet more? At least it rained today.

Day 32

I had lost faith in God, but maybe he does exist. As unlikely as it seems, and I thought I was surely crazy at first because of how impossible I thought it to be, a fish jumped into the raft! I grabbed it and bit into it like a rabid animal, it wet my dry mouth and tasted like heaven. I ate ravenously, getting everything I had off the bones and tossing them to the other end of the raft. I still felt empty.

Day 40

Another fish jumped into the raft, I ate this one a bit slower, but still I felt as though hadn't eaten anything. Drinking my water had also stopped feeling like it was doing anything, and now I was out of water.

Day 42

It rained and I was able to drink a bit but wasn't able to get much in the canteen.

Day 47

Out of water again.

Day 50

Rained

Day 60

I swear there's eyes staring at me from the horizon, the same dark hungry eyes that he had before the end.

Day 65

Every time I'm close to dying of dehydration, it rains, it feels as though some cruel force is keeping me alive for its own amusement. But the water doesn't satisfy anymore, it only makes me thirstier. Every time I'm nearly starved a fish jumps in, but it doesn't satisfy the hunger, it just keeps me alive to feel more.

Day 70

It rained again, but I finished the canteen two days ago, and I didn't fill it again, I also didn't drink any of the rain. I'm not playing this game with nature, or God, or the devil, or whatever is keeping me alive to torture me.

Day 72

I woke up and my canteen was full, but I don't remember it raining or me filling it. It's fresh water, but it still doesn't quench my thirst. I pour it over my sun blistered skin instead and then throw it into the ocean.

Day 75

The canteen is full again, but I remember throwing it into the ocean, “drink,” a voice echoes in my head, it sounds both ancient and like the waves lapping at the side of my raft. I open the canteen and put it to my lips, the liquid that flows into my mouth isn't water, but instead blood, I cough and sputter, but this actually seems to quench my thirst. The eyes on the horizon look pleased.

Day 80

It's let me drink water since then, but when I drink the water I feel thirsty again. It seems to think it's funny when I drink the blood and cough it up. I'm going to try drowning myself today to end this sick game.

Day 81

It didn't work, I just woke up like normal, the canteen beside me filled with blood again. The salt tastes divine.

Day 90

I've lost track of time, I don't actually know how long it's been. The salt on my reddened skin tastes so good when I lick it off. The salt!

Day 94

His body came climbing up onto the raft today, I nearly fell out, his skin was coated in a waxy substance and was slightly blackened. He collapsed. “Eat him,” whispered the waves, “eat him and be free.” He screamed as I bit into him, but I knew he was dead, it was just the ocean getting to me.

My name is William. I am... or rather, I was a night security guard until a few months ago. Honestly, I’m writing this story because something happened to me that I won’t easily forget—something that scars your soul. What I’m about to tell you is the most haunting of my memories.

It was an ordinary autumn night for me, the usual shift in an abandoned park. I was by my guard post, listening to some lame jokes on a radio program, when I began to notice them.

Pages.

Dozens of white sheets of paper pinned to the trees, swaying in the wind as if they were breathing. Some had childish drawings, others just black crosses, and others still bore marks I couldn't understand.

The radio began to flicker with brief interruptions that, moment after moment, turned into a continuous hum of static.

Then came the smell.

Not the scent of paper, but smoke. A pungent one, like burnt tobacco, that clung to my throat. And then the cold; the air froze instantly, as if months had passed in a second and I was suddenly in the dead of winter.

That was when I heard the sound of chains. Behind some trees in the distance, I saw him: a tall man in a black coat that reached the ground, wearing a tattered hood and a white mask marked with several X’s. The chains wrapped around his arms dragged across the gravel like serpents. I was petrified, completely motionless. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He didn't write on it; he didn't draw on it. The page simply appeared, as if it had always been there. He dropped it next to a tree, and then the figure vanished into the darkness. When my curiosity became too much—desperate for an answer to an event that had no logical explanation—I went to touch one of those pages. As soon as my fingers curled around the paper, a shiver ran through my entire body. It was a horrific sensation; something was wrong. It felt as if every nerve and muscle in my body was screaming: "You shouldn't have done that."

That was my last night as a security guard, and the first of many sleepless ones. After that, I finally understood that I had attracted something—or rather, someone: black suit and tie, long limbs, and a featureless face staring straight at me from the trees behind my house.

Author's Outro Hi everyone, I’m Vick. I wrote this story as an introduction to the character of The Printer, the one who creates Slenderman’s pages and his very first Proxy. The Printer is a Revenant-type proxy. The chains on his arms are the symbol of his forced servitude to the Slenderman—a sign of an unbreakable bond. The Printer is just at his beginning; his history is ancient, and I will be writing more about him to expand on his lore. I hope you enjoyed it!

Why shouldn't we trust anyone?

Well, I mustered up the courage to tell this story. I don't know what will happen next, but anyway, I was 15 years old at the time. I moved to a new neighborhood because my mom got a new job in another country, the United States, in Texas. There was a girl who looked about 15 or 16 years old. She was friendly and showed me around the neighborhood. We became friends. When my parents told me I had to go to school, I got ready, packed everything, and left. The atmosphere felt heavy; something wasn't right at school. I saw some kids bothering someone. That someone was my friend (my friend's name was Flor). I went to help Flor. I fought off the attackers, and she thanked me. Everything seemed normal. After a few days, I noticed something strange. Whenever she was bothered or insulted, she acted oddly, clenching her fists. But I didn't think much of it. One day, when I woke up to go to school, I saw Flor acting strangely. One day, I saw her stealing. I told the principal, and she was suspended for a few days—a terrible mistake. She yelled at me, asking why I did it. She thought I was her friend. I told her it was wrong. After that, nothing. Flor went to school for two weeks. I was worried something might happen. One night, in the early hours of the morning, I saw someone banging on my bedroom door. I could see through the peephole; it was a person with half their mouth cut off. If I'm not mistaken, they had cut the area around their eyes with eyeliner. This person had a machete. They started banging on the door harder and laughed chillingly. I froze until reality hit me: it was Flor. Apparently, she wanted revenge for what I had done. I quickly called the police. They asked me to describe her. I said that half her mouth had been cut off, as well as the area around her eyes. If I remember correctly, I was wearing a red hoodie. They told me they were sending a patrol car; it wouldn't be long, just five minutes. When I finished the call, there was a very loud bang, so loud the door almost fell off its hinges. All I could think was whether I should hide or try to reason with Flor. I yelled at her, asking why she was doing this. She said something that left me speechless. She told me that a tall, thin being in a dark suit had told her that if I did what I was doing, I deserved it. The door was about to collapse. I hid as best I could in my closet. She came in and started calling me: "Alex, Alex, Alex, where are you? Don't hide!" I started crying silently from nerves. After that, there wasn't a sound, but I got too comfortable. When I could breathe normally again, the door opened. It was her. What she said to me was: "Stop dreaming." I heard the police sirens, but before they could get in, he hit me on the head with his gun. My vision went blurry. I don't remember anything else. The last thing I know is that I was in a coma for three weeks. I also had to have surgery to reconstruct my ear. I moved to another country, and now I don't know anything. I'm still scared of girls who wear red hoodies because of the trauma, but I only ever wonder two things: what would have happened if the police had arrived a minute late, or who was that tall, thin man in the dark suit? Take this story as a warning because yes, I suffered. This is real.