u/Comfortable-Luck6786

Long ago, in ancient times, humanity consisted of only thirteen families.

Each family consisted of three people: two parents and a child.

Seven of these families had a daughter. The other six had a son.

One would think this was a good thing. It ensured that every son would get a wife and humanity could continue to multiply.

But it also meant that one girl would die alone, or one son would have to take two wives.

The first scenario seemed cruel to some, but the second seemed unfair to the rest.

And so the families argued. Arguments turned into fights, fights turned into wars, and wars turned into—

“Fucking BULLSHIT, dude! I’m telling you, this game is dogshit. Back in the day, a finesse shot inside the box was a GUARANTEED goal. That’s how REAL FOOTBALL works in the REAL WORLD! Then they added timed finishing, then they added play styles, then they added PlayStyle+. Next thing you know, fucking Mbappé can’t even score an open goal. I’m telling you, whoever makes this game doesn’t even watch football. The employees at this company… I swear to God, dude, they don’t even like sports.”

His mom is standing by his bedroom door.

“Austin, what are you doing?”

He closes his eyes and slowly rubs them.

“Hey, Mom… I’m streaming. How long have you been standing there?”

She comes closer, looking over his shoulder.

“You’re streaming to four people?”

He looks at his empty chat.

“Well… two of them are bots, and the other two are… probably bots as well. I don’t know.”

She gently places a hand on his shoulder.

“Then… who were you talking to?”

He’s too embarrassed to answer.

The truth is, none of his actual friends want to start streaming, or posting YouTube videos, or podcasts, or any of that stuff. They’re much more grounded in reality. They don’t romanticize their passions and try to turn them into careers. They see this for what it is: childish.

He’s the only one who sees a real opportunity in becoming famous. Even though it has never worked out and he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, he still holds onto that faint hope that one day, somehow, things will just magically take off for him.

“Mom, listen to me. This stuff takes time, effort, discipline, and a lot of money. This isn’t as easy as it sounds, okay?”

His mom starts rubbing his shoulders, massaging his upper back.

“I know, honey. And you know I’ll always support you, no matter what. Emotionally, mentally, financially… all of it. I just want to make sure you’re having fun and enjoying yourself, okay?”

She ruffles his hair, gives him a kiss on the top of his head, and leaves the room.

He feels guilty.

Mainly because of how confidently he pretended to know what he was doing. The reality is that he has no idea.

Every time he streams, nobody shows up. Every time he tries to promote himself, nobody responds. He feels like a ghost. Like a child sitting at a dinner table, begging someone to say something to him while the grown-ups talk about grown-up things and nobody wants to entertain a conversation with him.

Except on the internet, the grown-ups are the same age as him. The grown-up topics are video games, movies and anime.

Yet, for some reason, they exist. And he doesn’t.

That was until he received an invitation to join a group.

Even to someone as careless as him, the invitation looked shady and untrustworthy. But the thought of “good content” was enough to convince him to accept.

Descendants of the 13th Bloodline.

•

After many years of arguments, fights, more arguments, and more fights, the twelve families finally decided to marry their offspring and abandon the thirteenth family and their daughter.

The idea that one family’s son would have two women while the rest would have only one was so humiliating to the other families that it was deemed completely out of the question.

Instead, the six sons would fight.

The last one standing would get to choose the woman he wanted. Then the one before him would choose next, and so on until the final place. This way, each son would get to choose the wife he wanted. But through the process of elimination, the abandoned family and their daughter would be automatically determined.

To the daughters, this was humiliating, unfair, and terrifying.

To the sons, it was very—

“Interesting! Okay, Mr. Twana, let me check with my team real quick, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, alright? Great, talk to you later. Bye-bye.”

She slams down the desk phone, rests her forehead against the edge of her desk, and starts mumbling to herself at a volume only she can hear.

“I swear to fucking God, one fucking day I will fucking kill this fucking piece of fucking fuck-fuck-fucking… fucking… fuck.”

To her, hard work is life.

She doesn’t work hard so that she can live. She lives in order to work hard. It is the entire purpose of her existence.

To her, work that isn’t hard doesn’t even count as work. It only begins to qualify as real work once she starts losing sleep over it. Otherwise, it’s just a fun little activity to do while she’s bored.

Money means nothing to her, even though she has plenty of it. Success is just a word people use to embarrass her with flattery.

Jealousy doesn’t exist in her world.

Not because she doesn’t feel it. God knows she does. But every time she does, she’s too busy to do anything about it.

Many would jump to the conclusion that she has no children, that her eggs have all dried up. They’d blame some kind of woke propaganda convincing women that their careers are more important than having a family, leaving them old, alone, and miserable.

But she does have a family. A loving husband. Two beautiful, healthy children.

Despite living what many people would consider the dream life, she doesn’t feel fulfilled. Deep down in her soul, nothing ever felt enough.

Maybe, deep down, she wanted to be an artist. Maybe she wanted to draw, or paint, or write poetry. Maybe she wanted to be an author, a singer… or maybe she thinks THAT is woke nonsense, and all she really wanted was to impress her father, who never seemed to care much about what she did.

One thing is certain: there is a black hole inside her chest that she’s been feeding ever since she was a child, and nothing ever seems to be enough.

Then she receives an invitation to a mysterious group.

She knows she shouldn’t trust it.

But today, in particular, the black hole is hungry.

And she doesn’t have enough food for it.

So she accepts the invitation.

Descendants of the 13th Bloodline.

•

Feeling unable to accept the terrible fate they had been condemned to, the thirteenth family decided to summon a demon. BAAL. The master of both genders.

The father offered his intense emotions, mainly his never-ending supply of rage.

The mother offered her unparalleled intellect.

When intellect and emotion are joined together, they create the strongest force in the universe.

And, in addition to that, they both offered the one thing they cared about most.

Their daughter.

And so BAAL was summoned. And he gave them the gift of male and female.

They were no longer confined to the biological limitations of the human body. They didn’t need two parents to create life.

They just needed—

“1, 3, 9, 13, 666, 3959 (6371)

Mmm…”

he starts typing on his keyboard in a dark room where the only source of light is the computer monitor his face is glued to

“6,000,000, 93,000,000”

he continues to type

“42…” He chuckles. “Good number…”

He names the group:

“Descendants of the 13th Bloodline.”

And sends the invitation to two people.

-END OF STORY-

ps: thank you so much for reading! originally i wanted to write a much longer story but i decided to keep it as short as possible, if this does well i might write a part 2 but if it doesn’t then hey it iz what it izzz

The objective is to get a glass of boiling water and drink it.

The plan is not very complicated. I need to remove the blanket, get up from my La-Z-Boy, walk to the kitchen, put water in the kettle, boil it, pour it into a mug, go back to the chair, get under the covers, and start drinking.

Actually, the plan is simple now that I think about it.

The execution is what’s impossible.

How could it ever be possible to do any of that with a demon possessing my body as I type this?

Extra-spicy chicken tenders way too late at night, right before I went to bed, caused me to throw up. I couldn’t go back to bed after that because my wife would wake up and see me with an upset stomach. She’d just do all kinds of unnecessary things that I don’t want.

No, honey. I don’t want green tea. I don’t want dried lime. I don’t want myrrh. I don’t want soup. I don’t want VapoRub. I don’t want Panadol. I don’t want Nexium. I don’t want to go to the doctor. I don’t want a massage. I don’t want sympathies and “awwws” and “ooooohs” and forehead kisses.

I just want to be alone and miserable for a good twenty minutes. Then I’ll be okay.

So instead of going back to the bedroom, I sit in my La-Z-Boy in the living room.

And then it started.

In mid-August, arguably the hottest time of the year, I start shivering as if an ice storm is coming out of my chest and spreading through my organs, slamming against my skin from the inside, only to repel back inward and make the cold even worse.

My jaw is shaking so hard that I have to forcibly stop my teeth from slamming against each other. If I don’t, the force of the impact feels strong enough to literally break a couple of them.

I’m hugging myself as tightly as I can. My body is so stiff that I can’t move a single bone or finger.

My lips are so dry that it feels like one smile would cause a thousand rips of different shapes and sizes to tear across them.

My face hurts. I feel the sensation of a thousand ants eating every inch of it, except for my nose and cheekbones. Those two areas are completely numb, almost like they don’t even exist anymore.

Inside my head, I’m calm.

Well, I’m fucked.

But I’m also calm.

I’m a grown man, and this is just a fever. The strongest, most devastating fever I’ve ever had, true. But it’s just a fever at the end of the day.

That was until I started noticing the patterns.

All kinds of weird triangles, squares, and hexagons with different colors and patterns, almost like I’m having a DMT trip or some kind of fever dream.

I’m still calm. If anything, I’m actually kind of fascinated.

I don’t do drugs anymore, and something about this trippy feeling is strangely nostalgic.

Besides, it’s a good distraction from all the physical torture I’m feeling.

That was until I saw my wife in front of me, worried and nervous.

“Honey, do you want hot milk? Hot chocolate? Hot water? Hot coffee? Hot soup? Hot sex? Death? Pain? Suffering?”

Her face was starting to deform into something else.

She was getting fat. Gigantic.

Her short, slender body was increasing in size, slowly turning into a blob of melting flesh on top of melting flesh on top of more flesh.

“Do you want comfort? Do you want pain? Do you want comfort while pretending to be in pain? Or do you want the pain while convincing everyone that you’re living in comfort?”

The flesh on her face was falling apart like she was wearing a mask that was too big for her head. Her eye sockets sagged downward, revealing nothing but darkness inside them.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

All I could hear was her humming in my ear.

Soon after, about eight or nine other voices joined her, talking directly into my ear.

They weren’t screaming. They were talking completely normally.

But they were so close to my eardrums that it felt louder than any scream I’d ever heard in my life.

They weren’t talking next to my ear.

They were inside it.

“Death. Pain. Suffering. Loss. Sadness. Awful. Bad. Hate. Rage. Hu—”

I jolt awake in my La-Z-Boy.

My eyes widen.

I’m back in the physical realm.

“Honey, could you make me a glass of boiling water to warm me up?”

Oh, how nice would it be to just say that?

For my wife to hear it.

For her to simply bring me that glass of water so I could drink it.

If only my throat wasn’t wrapped in barbed wire made of ice.

If only there wasn’t a dead body lying in front of me.

And if only there wasn’t a ghostly figure of the dead girl hanging from the corner of the ceiling, looking down at me with her eyes wide open and smiling.

The dead body is a girl.

The ghost figure is the same girl, with black, gooey liquid spilling all over her face.

I blink a couple of times.

She’s still there.

I look away from the ghost on the ceiling and down at the dead body on the floor.

The dead body is looking at me.

Smiling.

The same smile as the ghost on the ceiling.

I look back up at the ghost.

Its face is inches away from mine.

It’s still in the same position on the ceiling.

Same body.

Same smile.

It has just stretched all the way down to my face.

And suddenly, before I can even recognize what just happened, it screams directly into my face.

All I see is its mouth, wide open.

The scream itself doesn’t come from it.

It comes from me.

I hear it inside my own head.

I jolt awake again.

The dead body is gone.

My wife isn’t here.

She’s in the bedroom, sleeping.

I can’t scream because my throat still doesn’t work. I can barely keep my jaw from slamming against itself until it shatters.

“This is how people die,” I think. “They’ll look at my body in the morning and think it was a heart attack or some bullshit. Nobody will know what really happened.”

I chuckle.

“Nobody will know about the chicken tenders, or the ghost lady, or the Antarctic cold in mid-August.”

Then I say it.

Not inside my head.

Out loud.

“Water.”

I take out my phone and decide to call my wife.

She answers with a sleepy voice.

“Yes?”

With a shaky, raspy, freezing, dying voice, I say:

“H-h-h-honey… I-I n-need a glas-ss of b-boiling w-water… p-please.”

She doesn’t say anything.

I wait for what feels like an eternity.

Five seconds.

“H-h-hello?”

She doesn’t hang up.

She doesn’t say anything.

Then it hits me.

A wave of fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt since the day I was born.

My wife, ever since I’ve known her seven years ago, has always turned her phone off when she goes to sleep.

“W-who is th-this?”

All I hear is giggling.

Then that same scream again.

Then the line cuts off.

I raise my head again.

It’s the same ghost figure.

But multiplied.

At least ten of them.

One is in the same spot on the ceiling.

One is in the same spot on the ground.

One is peeking through the window.

One is peeking from behind the door.

One is right next to my face, peeking from behind the La-Z-Boy.

And many others are scattered all around my living room.

Maybe I’ve gone insane.

Maybe I’m possessed.

Maybe this is just one hell of a fever dream.

Or maybe this is just a case of really bad chicken tenders.

One thing is for sure.

I’m going to get that glass of water now.

Wish me luck.

The objective is to get a glass of boiling water and drink it.

The plan is not very complicated. I need to remove the blanket, get up from my La-Z-Boy, walk to the kitchen, put water in the kettle, boil it, pour it into a mug, go back to the chair, get under the covers, and start drinking.

Actually, the plan is simple now that I think about it.

The execution is what’s impossible.

How could it ever be possible to do any of that with a demon possessing my body as I type this?

Extra-spicy chicken tenders way too late at night, right before I went to bed, caused me to throw up. I couldn’t go back to bed after that because my wife would wake up and see me with an upset stomach. She’d just do all kinds of unnecessary things that I don’t want.

No, honey. I don’t want green tea. I don’t want dried lime. I don’t want myrrh. I don’t want soup. I don’t want VapoRub. I don’t want Panadol. I don’t want Nexium. I don’t want to go to the doctor. I don’t want a massage. I don’t want sympathies and “awwws” and “ooooohs” and forehead kisses.

I just want to be alone and miserable for a good twenty minutes. Then I’ll be okay.

So instead of going back to the bedroom, I sit in my La-Z-Boy in the living room.

And then it started.

In mid-August, arguably the hottest time of the year, I start shivering as if an ice storm is coming out of my chest and spreading through my organs, slamming against my skin from the inside, only to repel back inward and make the cold even worse.

My jaw is shaking so hard that I have to forcibly stop my teeth from slamming against each other. If I don’t, the force of the impact feels strong enough to literally break a couple of them.

I’m hugging myself as tightly as I can. My body is so stiff that I can’t move a single bone or finger.

My lips are so dry that it feels like one smile would cause a thousand rips of different shapes and sizes to tear across them.

My face hurts. I feel the sensation of a thousand ants eating every inch of it, except for my nose and cheekbones. Those two areas are completely numb, almost like they don’t even exist anymore.

Inside my head, I’m calm.

Well, I’m fucked.

But I’m also calm.

I’m a grown man, and this is just a fever. The strongest, most devastating fever I’ve ever had, true. But it’s just a fever at the end of the day.

That was until I started noticing the patterns.

All kinds of weird triangles, squares, and hexagons with different colors and patterns, almost like I’m having a DMT trip or some kind of fever dream.

I’m still calm. If anything, I’m actually kind of fascinated.

I don’t do drugs anymore, and something about this trippy feeling is strangely nostalgic.

Besides, it’s a good distraction from all the physical torture I’m feeling.

That was until I saw my wife in front of me, worried and nervous.

“Honey, do you want hot milk? Hot chocolate? Hot water? Hot coffee? Hot soup? Hot sex? Death? Pain? Suffering?”

Her face was starting to deform into something else.

She was getting fat. Gigantic.

Her short, slender body was increasing in size, slowly turning into a blob of melting flesh on top of melting flesh on top of more flesh.

“Do you want comfort? Do you want pain? Do you want comfort while pretending to be in pain? Or do you want the pain while convincing everyone that you’re living in comfort?”

The flesh on her face was falling apart like she was wearing a mask that was too big for her head. Her eye sockets sagged downward, revealing nothing but darkness inside them.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

All I could hear was her humming in my ear.

Soon after, about eight or nine other voices joined her, talking directly into my ear.

They weren’t screaming. They were talking completely normally.

But they were so close to my eardrums that it felt louder than any scream I’d ever heard in my life.

They weren’t talking next to my ear.

They were inside it.

“Death. Pain. Suffering. Loss. Sadness. Awful. Bad. Hate. Rage. Hu—”

I jolt awake in my La-Z-Boy.

My eyes widen.

I’m back in the physical realm.

“Honey, could you make me a glass of boiling water to warm me up?”

Oh, how nice would it be to just say that?

For my wife to hear it.

For her to simply bring me that glass of water so I could drink it.

If only my throat wasn’t wrapped in barbed wire made of ice.

If only there wasn’t a dead body lying in front of me.

And if only there wasn’t a ghostly figure of the dead girl hanging from the corner of the ceiling, looking down at me with her eyes wide open and smiling.

The dead body is a girl.

The ghost figure is the same girl, with black, gooey liquid spilling all over her face.

I blink a couple of times.

She’s still there.

I look away from the ghost on the ceiling and down at the dead body on the floor.

The dead body is looking at me.

Smiling.

The same smile as the ghost on the ceiling.

I look back up at the ghost.

Its face is inches away from mine.

It’s still in the same position on the ceiling.

Same body.

Same smile.

It has just stretched all the way down to my face.

And suddenly, before I can even recognize what just happened, it screams directly into my face.

All I see is its mouth, wide open.

The scream itself doesn’t come from it.

It comes from me.

I hear it inside my own head.

I jolt awake again.

The dead body is gone.

My wife isn’t here.

She’s in the bedroom, sleeping.

I can’t scream because my throat still doesn’t work. I can barely keep my jaw from slamming against itself until it shatters.

“This is how people die,” I think. “They’ll look at my body in the morning and think it was a heart attack or some bullshit. Nobody will know what really happened.”

I chuckle.

“Nobody will know about the chicken tenders, or the ghost lady, or the Antarctic cold in mid-August.”

Then I say it.

Not inside my head.

Out loud.

“Water.”

I take out my phone and decide to call my wife.

She answers with a sleepy voice.

“Yes?”

With a shaky, raspy, freezing, dying voice, I say:

“H-h-h-honey… I-I n-need a glas-ss of b-boiling w-water… p-please.”

She doesn’t say anything.

I wait for what feels like an eternity.

Five seconds.

“H-h-hello?”

She doesn’t hang up.

She doesn’t say anything.

Then it hits me.

A wave of fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt since the day I was born.

My wife, ever since I’ve known her seven years ago, has always turned her phone off when she goes to sleep.

“W-who is th-this?”

All I hear is giggling.

Then that same scream again.

Then the line cuts off.

I raise my head again.

It’s the same ghost figure.

But multiplied.

At least ten of them.

One is in the same spot on the ceiling.

One is in the same spot on the ground.

One is peeking through the window.

One is peeking from behind the door.

One is right next to my face, peeking from behind the La-Z-Boy.

And many others are scattered all around my living room.

Maybe I’ve gone insane.

Maybe I’m possessed.

Maybe this is just one hell of a fever dream.

Or maybe this is just a case of really bad chicken tenders.

One thing is for sure.

I’m going to get that glass of water now.

Wish me luck.

Out of all the creepypastas I read as a kid, The Russian Sleep Experiment intrigued me the most. Not because of the picture attached to it—although it was terrifying—but because of the idea itself. I couldn’t stop wondering what would really happen if you kept someone awake long enough.

Thankfully, rich evil people exist.

And I happened to work for one of them.

And no… they’re not Russian.

They’re not American either.

Well…

Let’s just leave it there.

Apparently, the subject just dies after a while. First, you keep them awake with caffeine and amphetamines until those stop working. Then you move on to more extreme methods: electric shocks, physical… stimulation.

None of it matters.

After three days at most, the brain simply shuts down. Their eyes stay open, but the person is gone. The brain has gone to sleep.

Then comes death.

We call them the Death Waves.

The first wave is self-inflicted death.

Around the third day, the subject will do absolutely anything to fall asleep.

And yes…

I mean anything.

That wave is easy enough to survive. You strap them down and make sure they can’t move.

The second wave is body temperature.

This one’s fascinating.

The body either crashes into hypothermia and freezes to death, or swings in the opposite direction, reaching temperatures as high as 48°C, slowly cooking itself alive.

Over the years we’ve had different names for this phase.

Ebony and Ivory.

Agni and Rudra.

As Above, So Below.

Eventually, management decided to keep things professional.

Now we just call it Unstable Temperature Phase.

Then comes the heart attack.

Yep. Sorry. I know that’s disappointing, but that’s literally what happens every single time.

We almost gave it a dramatic name.

The Final Reckoning.

Instead, we just call it Heart Attack, because that’s exactly what it is. Experiment over.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even call it an experiment.

It’s just evil people doing evil things for evil reasons.

People like that exist, And I happened to work for them, And that’s all there is to it.

I prefer the word experiment because it lets me sleep at night.

I wasn’t torturing innocent people for money and the amusement of corrupt billionaires.

I was doing it for science.

That’s what I tell myself as I finish my seventeenth glass of whiskey.

I stand, nearly falling over, toss enough cash onto the bar to cover whatever I owe, and stumble toward the exit.

A hand grabs my shoulder.

“Where are you going, my friend?”

His Russian accent is so comically exaggerated it almost sounds fake, like he’s parodying one.

I turn around.

Bald head. Squinty eyes. Puffy lips. Clean-shaven.

“I’m… going home… to sleep,” I slur.

He grins.

“In Mother Russia… you don’t go to sleep.”

He leans closer.

“Sleep go to youuuuu.”

Then he bursts into laughter.

The entire bar starts laughing.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Even the bartender is laughing.

Haaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

The room starts spinning.

I’m laughing too. I don’t know why.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

⸻

Subject #116

24/7/2026 — Friday

Day 2558

After 848 days of complete silence, the subject began twitching. Heart rate increased despite continuous administration of stabilizers.

Review of the surveillance footage suggests symptoms consistent with parasomnia: sleep talking, incoherent mumbling, and involuntary abnormal movements.

The attending nurse swears on her mothers life she heard him whisper:

“Russia… Russia…” Then he smiled and returned to a stable condition.

Out of all the creepypastas I read as a kid, The Russian Sleep Experiment intrigued me the most. Not because of the picture attached to it—although it was terrifying—but because of the idea itself. I couldn’t stop wondering what would really happen if you kept someone awake long enough.

Thankfully, rich evil people exist.

And I happened to work for one of them.

And no… they’re not Russian.

They’re not American either.

Well…

Let’s just leave it there.

Apparently, the subject just dies after a while. First, you keep them awake with caffeine and amphetamines until those stop working. Then you move on to more extreme methods: electric shocks, physical… stimulation.

None of it matters.

After three days at most, the brain simply shuts down. Their eyes stay open, but the person is gone. The brain has gone to sleep.

Then comes death.

We call them the Death Waves.

The first wave is self-inflicted death.

Around the third day, the subject will do absolutely anything to fall asleep.

And yes…

I mean anything.

That wave is easy enough to survive. You strap them down and make sure they can’t move.

The second wave is body temperature.

This one’s fascinating.

The body either crashes into hypothermia and freezes to death, or swings in the opposite direction, reaching temperatures as high as 48°C, slowly cooking itself alive.

Over the years we’ve had different names for this phase.

Ebony and Ivory.

Agni and Rudra.

As Above, So Below.

Eventually, management decided to keep things professional.

Now we just call it Unstable Temperature Phase.

Then comes the heart attack.

Yep. Sorry. I know that’s disappointing, but that’s literally what happens every single time.

We almost gave it a dramatic name.

The Final Reckoning.

Instead, we just call it Heart Attack, because that’s exactly what it is. Experiment over.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even call it an experiment.

It’s just evil people doing evil things for evil reasons.

People like that exist, And I happened to work for them, And that’s all there is to it.

I prefer the word experiment because it lets me sleep at night.

I wasn’t torturing innocent people for money and the amusement of corrupt billionaires.

I was doing it for science.

That’s what I tell myself as I finish my seventeenth glass of whiskey.

I stand, nearly falling over, toss enough cash onto the bar to cover whatever I owe, and stumble toward the exit.

A hand grabs my shoulder.

“Where are you going, my friend?”

His Russian accent is so comically exaggerated it almost sounds fake, like he’s parodying one.

I turn around.

Bald head. Squinty eyes. Puffy lips. Clean-shaven.

“I’m… going home… to sleep,” I slur.

He grins.

“In Mother Russia… you don’t go to sleep.”

He leans closer.

“Sleep go to youuuuu.”

Then he bursts into laughter.

The entire bar starts laughing.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Even the bartender is laughing.

Haaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

The room starts spinning.

I’m laughing too. I don’t know why.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

⸻

Subject #116

24/7/2026 — Friday

Day 2558

After 848 days of complete silence, the subject began twitching. Heart rate increased despite continuous administration of stabilizers.

Review of the surveillance footage suggests symptoms consistent with parasomnia: sleep talking, incoherent mumbling, and involuntary abnormal movements.

The attending nurse swears on her mothers life she heard him whisper:

“Russia… Russia…” Then he smiled and returned to a stable condition.

Out of all the creepypastas I read as a kid, The Russian Sleep Experiment intrigued me the most. Not because of the picture attached to it—although it was terrifying—but because of the idea itself. I couldn’t stop wondering what would really happen if you kept someone awake long enough.

Thankfully, rich evil people exist.

And I happened to work for one of them.

And no… they’re not Russian.

They’re not American either.

Well…

Let’s just leave it there.

Apparently, the subject just dies after a while. First, you keep them awake with caffeine and amphetamines until those stop working. Then you move on to more extreme methods: electric shocks, physical… stimulation.

None of it matters.

After three days at most, the brain simply shuts down. Their eyes stay open, but the person is gone. The brain has gone to sleep.

Then comes death.

We call them the Death Waves.

The first wave is self-inflicted death.

Around the third day, the subject will do absolutely anything to fall asleep.

And yes…

I mean anything.

That wave is easy enough to survive. You strap them down and make sure they can’t move.

The second wave is body temperature.

This one’s fascinating.

The body either crashes into hypothermia and freezes to death, or swings in the opposite direction, reaching temperatures as high as 48°C, slowly cooking itself alive.

Over the years we’ve had different names for this phase.

Ebony and Ivory.

Agni and Rudra.

As Above, So Below.

Eventually, management decided to keep things professional.

Now we just call it Unstable Temperature Phase.

Then comes the heart attack.

Yep. Sorry. I know that’s disappointing, but that’s literally what happens every single time.

We almost gave it a dramatic name.

The Final Reckoning.

Instead, we just call it Heart Attack, because that’s exactly what it is. Experiment over.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even call it an experiment.

It’s just evil people doing evil things for evil reasons.

People like that exist, And I happened to work for them, And that’s all there is to it.

I prefer the word experiment because it lets me sleep at night.

I wasn’t torturing innocent people for money and the amusement of corrupt billionaires.

I was doing it for science.

That’s what I tell myself as I finish my seventeenth glass of whiskey.

I stand, nearly falling over, toss enough cash onto the bar to cover whatever I owe, and stumble toward the exit.

A hand grabs my shoulder.

“Where are you going, my friend?”

His Russian accent is so comically exaggerated it almost sounds fake, like he’s parodying one.

I turn around.

Bald head. Squinty eyes. Puffy lips. Clean-shaven.

“I’m… going home… to sleep,” I slur.

He grins.

“In Mother Russia… you don’t go to sleep.”

He leans closer.

“Sleep go to youuuuu.”

Then he bursts into laughter.

The entire bar starts laughing.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Even the bartender is laughing.

Haaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

The room starts spinning.

I’m laughing too. I don’t know why.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

⸻

Subject #116

24/7/2026 — Friday

Day 2558

After 848 days of complete silence, the subject began twitching. Heart rate increased despite continuous administration of stabilizers.

Review of the surveillance footage suggests symptoms consistent with parasomnia: sleep talking, incoherent mumbling, and involuntary abnormal movements.

The attending nurse swears on her mothers life she heard him whisper:

“Russia… Russia…” Then he smiled and returned to a stable condition.

said shrodingers cat

I’m nine years old, and it’s Eid.

There’s a specific religious reason why we celebrate this day. I’m not really going to explain that. What I am going to explain is that, on this day, cool adults give kids like me money, and we go out and buy whatever we want with it.

My cousins and I are about to lose our minds with excitement. We had just collectively received enough money to buy fifteen video games.

The three of us piled into my uncle’s car, and he drove us to the video game store. Yes, that was a real place. And yes, there was once a magical object called a video game disc that you could actually buy and own forever. Shocking, I know.

Back then, games didn’t spend three years trapped in marketing campaigns. You didn’t watch the trailer, the teaser, the gameplay reveal, the developer diary, and half the walkthrough before release.

You walked into a store, stared at the covers, and picked whatever looked cool. If you were lucky, the guy behind the counter actually knew what he was talking about whenever you asked about a game. If you weren’t, his review consisted of one word:

“Guns.”

“Soccer.”

“Adventure.”

“Scary.”

“Cars.”

To be fair, those reviews weren’t completely useless.

The second my uncle parked his 2011 Crown Victoria before he’d even turned the engine off we jumped out and sprinted toward the store. The streets were completely empty. It was early morning on a holiday, and the summer heat had already become unbearable.

Inside, we went absolutely feral.

Each of us had fifty riyals, and every game cost ten, so we each got to choose five.

My oldest cousin had great taste. He bought Driver, Digimon world, Twisted Metal, Crash Bash, and Alone in the Dark.

His younger brother got some bullshit.

He bought some game about shooting chickens, a Japanese version of Winning Eleven where he couldn’t even read the menus because it was all Japanese, then announced he was saving the rest of his money for later (He spent it on ice cream.)

I wasn’t going to waste a single riyal.

I picked up two Digimon games—Rumble Arena and Card Battle. Then Porsche Challenge, which, in hindsight, was complete bullshit. It was a racing game where the only car you were allowed to drive was a Porsche 911.

I grabbed Twisted Metal 2 because my cousin had already bought Twisted Metal 3.

Then I realized something.

I hadn’t bought a horror game.

Sure, the fact that the final boss in Digimon Card Battle always opened with the exact same five cards was terrifying.

Sure, the fact that the only customization in Porsche Challenge was changing your car’s color was a nightmare in its own right.

But that wasn’t the kind of horror I wanted.

I wanted the kind that made you check behind the bathroom door every time you walked in.

The kind that made you close every half-open door because the darkness inside convinced you someone was peeking back.

That kind of horror.

So I asked the guy behind the counter where the horror games were.

He showed me the usual lineup.

Resident Evil? Already beat it.

Silent Hill? Already beat it.

Parasite Eve? Too hard.

Fatal Frame? Meh.

Alone in the Dark? My cousin already bought it.

Dino Crisis? That’s not even horror.

By now my uncle was getting impatient, but this was my last game, the only horror game I’d be getting for a long time.

I had to get it right.

Finally, my uncle looked at the employee and asked,

“What’s the scariest game you’ve got?”

The guy hesitated.

“I have one…”

He glanced at me.

“…but I don’t think it’s appropriate for someone his age.”

“What is it?”

“I really don’t recommend it.”

My uncle grinned.

He took that as a challenge.

“It’s for me.”

The employee smiled back.

It was that strange smile men exchange right before they knowingly do something stupid.

“You ever heard of The Knowledge Sun?” he asked.

My uncle frowned.

“Isn’t that the banned book about sorcery or something?”

“Yeah.”

The employee’s grin never faded.

“They made a video game out of it.”

He reached under the counter and placed the case in my uncle’s hands.

It looked… normal enough.

A giant golden book dominated the cover. Mummies and zombies crawled across the bottom, and between them, in huge golden letters:

THE KNOWLEDGE SUN

My uncle studied it for a moment before looking back up.

“So… what exactly am I looking at?”

The employee shrugged.

“Nothing. Not in this version, anyway. The original release actually had passages from the book recited by the monsters throughout the game.”

“They changed it?”

“They realized any Arabic sentence being whispered over creepy music already sounded creepy and mysterious to Western audiences, so they replaced the real passages with random Arabic phrases like ‘You will die’ and ‘Welcome to Hell.’ It was easier than dealing with the complaints.”

My uncle scoffed.

“This game summoned demons into my house zero out of five I want a refund.”

The employee chuckled.

“Not exactly. The complaints usually didn’t come from the people who played it. They came from their families.”

He leaned forward

“They’d say the person started acting strangely… said something about the game… then disappeared forever with the game”

He paused.

“Look, it’s probably bullshit at least I think it is. But evil spirits are real and we both know the book is real. And honestly what is sorcery, really? It’s a form of communication with those spirits in exchange for something you want.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe you don’t even need to practice sorcery. Maybe just getting close enough to it will accidentally invite some… unwanted guests”

A beat passed. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know. Resident Evil’s pretty good too.”

My uncle laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Fair enough. I’m sold. But I want the original version, Not the bullshit censored one.”

“I have it. But It’s twenty-five.”

They haggled for a minute.

In the end, my uncle took my last ten riyals, added another ten from his own pocket, and handed over the money.

Then he pointed at the employee.

“You’re good. They should give you a raise.”

They both laughed and we left the store.

The moment we got home, my uncle insisted we try The Knowledge Sun first.

We loaded it up.

The monsters finally appeared.

Then they started talking.

“Sa yahtaweek al-dhalaam…”

…

It was unbelievably stupid.

Hearing badly pronounced Arabic in a Western horror game wasn’t scary.

It was hilarious.

The phrase meant, “The darkness will engulf you,” and somehow that only made it funnier.

My uncle stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

Then he groaned.

“That motherfucker cheated me! He charged me extra for the same censored version. Son of a bitch!”

He got up and walked out.

My cousins laughed, declared the game lame, and switched to Digimon Rumble Arena instead.

Honestly, Digimon was a lot of fun.

But deep down, I couldn’t wait to go back home and try The Knowledge Sun by myself.

I got back home, started the game, and immediately skipped the opening cutscene. Obviously. Back then, nobody cared about cutscenes. You jumped straight into the gameplay.

You played as an Indiana Jones-type adventurer running through a cave filled with mummified zombies. You pressed X to jump and Square to punch. Yes, you could actually punch the zombies in this game, which automatically made it a hundred times cooler than lame-ass Resident Evil or boring-ass Silent Hill. Sure, the zombies screamed random phrases in Arabic, but it was all goofy stuff like, “He’s right here!” or “Get him!” None of it was actually scary.

That was until I heard the sound of a tape rewinding.

The music stopped.

The screen glitched.

Then the PlayStation restarted.

The Sony logo appeared, followed by the PlayStation logo, but there was no sound. It was completely silent.

I got up to check the TV, thinking one of the audio cables had come loose. The second I got close, an image of fish appeared on the screen.

Real fish.

Just a screen full of real fish.

Then the image started zooming in and out, over and over, focusing on a single fish. At the same time, the room grew so dark it looked as if nothing in the world existed except me and the TV.

Then, as though the television itself had been a fish tank that suddenly shattered, a massive pile of fish burst out of the screen.

I looked beside me.

There was a kid, about my age.

His skin was dark blue. The area around his mouth and jaw bulged outward. His grin exposed huge gums packed with long, needle-like shark teeth. Even worse, his eyes looked wrong. The whites and blacks were reversed.

The kid opened his mouth.

I heard the tape rewind sound again.

My vision stretched from left to right, farther and farther, until the entire world collapsed into a single line across the middle of absolute blackness.

Then I jolted awake in my mother’s arms.

I didn’t cry or scream when it happened.

I was already crying and screaming louder than I ever had in my life. I had just been completely unaware of it until that moment, almost as if I had only then woken up to reality.

My mom held me tightly, reciting prayers as she gently rubbed my forehead. My dad stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. After realizing I wasn’t physically hurt, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and walked away.

I never saw the disc again.

I don’t know what happened to it.

When I asked my mom about it, she said she had no idea what I was talking about and insisted no such disc had ever existed.

I asked my cousins too.

They said we never bought a game like that.

They said the conversation my uncle had with the guy at the video game store never happened.

I’m 32 years old, And it’s Eid.

I took my little girl to the video game store.

And by that I mean I opened the PlayStation Online Store and told her to pick a game we could download and play that night.

She was beyond excited. Her mom had never let her play or watch anything horror-related, but today was different.

Today was Eid!

We scrolled through game after game, and I took my time. This was going to be her first horror experience. I didn’t want her to play something bad and walk away thinking all horror games were lame. I also didn’t want to replay something I’d already finished. I’d be bored, and she’d notice. I wanted to be excited, confused, and terrified WITH her.

That’s what horror is all about!

Resident Evil 9. Already beat it.

Silent Hill f. Already beat it.

Visage. Too hard.

MADiSON. Meh.

Then I saw it.

I froze.

A wave of dread shot through my body like a needle driven straight into my vein.

There it was.

The Knowledge Sun 2.

“When…? Wha-“

My voice caught in my throat.

The creature I had seen beside me that day was right there on the cover, staring at me exactly the way it had twenty-three years ago.

The room grew dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

Until, once again, nothing in the world existed except me and the TV, floating in a sea of pitch-black emptiness.

Then I heard my daughter beside me.

“Hey, Papa.”

Her voice began to distort, sinking lower and lower until it became a wet, gargling growl.

In the back of my mind, I heard it again.

The sound of a tape rewinding.

Then a voice whispered:

“You like sequels?”

I’m nine years old, and it’s Eid.

There’s a specific religious reason why we celebrate this day. I’m not really going to explain that. What I am going to explain is that, on this day, cool adults give kids like me money, and we go out and buy whatever we want with it.

My cousins and I are about to lose our minds with excitement. We had just collectively received enough money to buy fifteen video games.

The three of us piled into my uncle’s car, and he drove us to the video game store. Yes, that was a real place. And yes, there was once a magical object called a video game disc that you could actually buy and own forever. Shocking, I know.

Back then, games didn’t spend three years trapped in marketing campaigns. You didn’t watch the trailer, the teaser, the gameplay reveal, the developer diary, and half the walkthrough before release.

You walked into a store, stared at the covers, and picked whatever looked cool. If you were lucky, the guy behind the counter actually knew what he was talking about whenever you asked about a game. If you weren’t, his review consisted of one word:

“Guns.”

“Soccer.”

“Adventure.”

“Scary.”

“Cars.”

To be fair, those reviews weren’t completely useless.

The second my uncle parked his 2011 Crown Victoria before he’d even turned the engine off we jumped out and sprinted toward the store. The streets were completely empty. It was early morning on a holiday, and the summer heat had already become unbearable.

Inside, we went absolutely feral.

Each of us had fifty riyals, and every game cost ten, so we each got to choose five.

My oldest cousin had great taste. He bought Driver, Digimon world, Twisted Metal, Crash Bash, and Alone in the Dark.

His younger brother got some bullshit.

He bought some game about shooting chickens, a Japanese version of Winning Eleven where he couldn’t even read the menus because it was all Japanese, then announced he was saving the rest of his money for later (He spent it on ice cream.)

I wasn’t going to waste a single riyal.

I picked up two Digimon games—Rumble Arena and Card Battle. Then Porsche Challenge, which, in hindsight, was complete bullshit. It was a racing game where the only car you were allowed to drive was a Porsche 911.

I grabbed Twisted Metal 2 because my cousin had already bought Twisted Metal 3.

Then I realized something.

I hadn’t bought a horror game.

Sure, the fact that the final boss in Digimon Card Battle always opened with the exact same five cards was terrifying.

Sure, the fact that the only customization in Porsche Challenge was changing your car’s color was a nightmare in its own right.

But that wasn’t the kind of horror I wanted.

I wanted the kind that made you check behind the bathroom door every time you walked in.

The kind that made you close every half-open door because the darkness inside convinced you someone was peeking back.

That kind of horror.

So I asked the guy behind the counter where the horror games were.

He showed me the usual lineup.

Resident Evil? Already beat it.

Silent Hill? Already beat it.

Parasite Eve? Too hard.

Fatal Frame? Meh.

Alone in the Dark? My cousin already bought it.

Dino Crisis? That’s not even horror.

By now my uncle was getting impatient, but this was my last game, the only horror game I’d be getting for a long time.

I had to get it right.

Finally, my uncle looked at the employee and asked,

“What’s the scariest game you’ve got?”

The guy hesitated.

“I have one…”

He glanced at me.

“…but I don’t think it’s appropriate for someone his age.”

“What is it?”

“I really don’t recommend it.”

My uncle grinned.

He took that as a challenge.

“It’s for me.”

The employee smiled back.

It was that strange smile men exchange right before they knowingly do something stupid.

“You ever heard of The Knowledge Sun?” he asked.

My uncle frowned.

“Isn’t that the banned book about sorcery or something?”

“Yeah.”

The employee’s grin never faded.

“They made a video game out of it.”

He reached under the counter and placed the case in my uncle’s hands.

It looked… normal enough.

A giant golden book dominated the cover. Mummies and zombies crawled across the bottom, and between them, in huge golden letters:

THE KNOWLEDGE SUN

My uncle studied it for a moment before looking back up.

“So… what exactly am I looking at?”

The employee shrugged.

“Nothing. Not in this version, anyway. The original release actually had passages from the book recited by the monsters throughout the game.”

“They changed it?”

“They realized any Arabic sentence being whispered over creepy music already sounded creepy and mysterious to Western audiences, so they replaced the real passages with random Arabic phrases like ‘You will die’ and ‘Welcome to Hell.’ It was easier than dealing with the complaints.”

My uncle scoffed.

“This game summoned demons into my house zero out of five I want a refund.”

The employee chuckled.

“Not exactly. The complaints usually didn’t come from the people who played it. They came from their families.”

He leaned forward

“They’d say the person started acting strangely… said something about the game… then disappeared forever with the game”

He paused.

“Look, it’s probably bullshit at least I think it is. But evil spirits are real and we both know the book is real. And honestly what is sorcery, really? It’s a form of communication with those spirits in exchange for something you want.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe you don’t even need to practice sorcery. Maybe just getting close enough to it will accidentally invite some… unwanted guests”

A beat passed. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know. Resident Evil’s pretty good too.”

My uncle laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Fair enough. I’m sold. But I want the original version, Not the bullshit censored one.”

“I have it. But It’s twenty-five.”

They haggled for a minute.

In the end, my uncle took my last ten riyals, added another ten from his own pocket, and handed over the money.

Then he pointed at the employee.

“You’re good. They should give you a raise.”

They both laughed and we left the store.

The moment we got home, my uncle insisted we try The Knowledge Sun first.

We loaded it up.

The monsters finally appeared.

Then they started talking.

“Sa yahtaweek al-dhalaam…”

…

It was unbelievably stupid.

Hearing badly pronounced Arabic in a Western horror game wasn’t scary.

It was hilarious.

The phrase meant, “The darkness will engulf you,” and somehow that only made it funnier.

My uncle stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

Then he groaned.

“That motherfucker cheated me! He charged me extra for the same censored version. Son of a bitch!”

He got up and walked out.

My cousins laughed, declared the game lame, and switched to Digimon Rumble Arena instead.

Honestly, Digimon was a lot of fun.

But deep down, I couldn’t wait to go back home and try The Knowledge Sun by myself.

I got back home, started the game, and immediately skipped the opening cutscene. Obviously. Back then, nobody cared about cutscenes. You jumped straight into the gameplay.

You played as an Indiana Jones-type adventurer running through a cave filled with mummified zombies. You pressed X to jump and Square to punch. Yes, you could actually punch the zombies in this game, which automatically made it a hundred times cooler than lame-ass Resident Evil or boring-ass Silent Hill. Sure, the zombies screamed random phrases in Arabic, but it was all goofy stuff like, “He’s right here!” or “Get him!” None of it was actually scary.

That was until I heard the sound of a tape rewinding.

The music stopped.

The screen glitched.

Then the PlayStation restarted.

The Sony logo appeared, followed by the PlayStation logo, but there was no sound. It was completely silent.

I got up to check the TV, thinking one of the audio cables had come loose. The second I got close, an image of fish appeared on the screen.

Real fish.

Just a screen full of real fish.

Then the image started zooming in and out, over and over, focusing on a single fish. At the same time, the room grew so dark it looked as if nothing in the world existed except me and the TV.

Then, as though the television itself had been a fish tank that suddenly shattered, a massive pile of fish burst out of the screen.

I looked beside me.

There was a kid, about my age.

His skin was dark blue. The area around his mouth and jaw bulged outward. His grin exposed huge gums packed with long, needle-like shark teeth. Even worse, his eyes looked wrong. The whites and blacks were reversed.

The kid opened his mouth.

I heard the tape rewind sound again.

My vision stretched from left to right, farther and farther, until the entire world collapsed into a single line across the middle of absolute blackness.

Then I jolted awake in my mother’s arms.

I didn’t cry or scream when it happened.

I was already crying and screaming louder than I ever had in my life. I had just been completely unaware of it until that moment, almost as if I had only then woken up to reality.

My mom held me tightly, reciting prayers as she gently rubbed my forehead. My dad stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. After realizing I wasn’t physically hurt, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and walked away.

I never saw the disc again.

I don’t know what happened to it.

When I asked my mom about it, she said she had no idea what I was talking about and insisted no such disc had ever existed.

I asked my cousins too.

They said we never bought a game like that.

They said the conversation my uncle had with the guy at the video game store never happened.

I’m 32 years old, And it’s Eid.

I took my little girl to the video game store.

And by that I mean I opened the PlayStation Online Store and told her to pick a game we could download and play that night.

She was beyond excited. Her mom had never let her play or watch anything horror-related, but today was different.

Today was Eid!

We scrolled through game after game, and I took my time. This was going to be her first horror experience. I didn’t want her to play something bad and walk away thinking all horror games were lame. I also didn’t want to replay something I’d already finished. I’d be bored, and she’d notice. I wanted to be excited, confused, and terrified WITH her.

That’s what horror is all about!

Resident Evil 9. Already beat it.

Silent Hill f. Already beat it.

Visage. Too hard.

MADiSON. Meh.

Then I saw it.

I froze.

A wave of dread shot through my body like a needle driven straight into my vein.

There it was.

The Knowledge Sun 2.

“When…? Wha-“

My voice caught in my throat.

The creature I had seen beside me that day was right there on the cover, staring at me exactly the way it had twenty-three years ago.

The room grew dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

Until, once again, nothing in the world existed except me and the TV, floating in a sea of pitch-black emptiness.

Then I heard my daughter beside me.

“Hey, Papa.”

Her voice began to distort, sinking lower and lower until it became a wet, gargling growl.

In the back of my mind, I heard it again.

The sound of a tape rewinding.

Then a voice whispered:

“You like sequels?”

I’m nine years old, and it’s Eid.

There’s a specific religious reason why we celebrate this day. I’m not really going to explain that. What I am going to explain is that, on this day, cool adults give kids like me money, and we go out and buy whatever we want with it.

My cousins and I are about to lose our minds with excitement. We had just collectively received enough money to buy fifteen video games.

The three of us piled into my uncle’s car, and he drove us to the video game store. Yes, that was a real place. And yes, there was once a magical object called a video game disc that you could actually buy and own forever. Shocking, I know.

Back then, games didn’t spend three years trapped in marketing campaigns. You didn’t watch the trailer, the teaser, the gameplay reveal, the developer diary, and half the walkthrough before release.

You walked into a store, stared at the covers, and picked whatever looked cool. If you were lucky, the guy behind the counter actually knew what he was talking about whenever you asked about a game. If you weren’t, his review consisted of one word:

“Guns.”

“Soccer.”

“Adventure.”

“Scary.”

“Cars.”

To be fair, those reviews weren’t completely useless.

The second my uncle parked his 2011 Crown Victoria before he’d even turned the engine off we jumped out and sprinted toward the store. The streets were completely empty. It was early morning on a holiday, and the summer heat had already become unbearable.

Inside, we went absolutely feral.

Each of us had fifty riyals, and every game cost ten, so we each got to choose five.

My oldest cousin had great taste. He bought Driver, Digimon world, Twisted Metal, Crash Bash, and Alone in the Dark.

His younger brother got some bullshit.

He bought some game about shooting chickens, a Japanese version of Winning Eleven where he couldn’t even read the menus because it was all Japanese, then announced he was saving the rest of his money for later (He spent it on ice cream.)

I wasn’t going to waste a single riyal.

I picked up two Digimon games—Rumble Arena and Card Battle. Then Porsche Challenge, which, in hindsight, was complete bullshit. It was a racing game where the only car you were allowed to drive was a Porsche 911.

I grabbed Twisted Metal 2 because my cousin had already bought Twisted Metal 3.

Then I realized something.

I hadn’t bought a horror game.

Sure, the fact that the final boss in Digimon Card Battle always opened with the exact same five cards was terrifying.

Sure, the fact that the only customization in Porsche Challenge was changing your car’s color was a nightmare in its own right.

But that wasn’t the kind of horror I wanted.

I wanted the kind that made you check behind the bathroom door every time you walked in.

The kind that made you close every half-open door because the darkness inside convinced you someone was peeking back.

That kind of horror.

So I asked the guy behind the counter where the horror games were.

He showed me the usual lineup.

Resident Evil? Already beat it.

Silent Hill? Already beat it.

Parasite Eve? Too hard.

Fatal Frame? Meh.

Alone in the Dark? My cousin already bought it.

Dino Crisis? That’s not even horror.

By now my uncle was getting impatient, but this was my last game, the only horror game I’d be getting for a long time.

I had to get it right.

Finally, my uncle looked at the employee and asked,

“What’s the scariest game you’ve got?”

The guy hesitated.

“I have one…”

He glanced at me.

“…but I don’t think it’s appropriate for someone his age.”

“What is it?”

“I really don’t recommend it.”

My uncle grinned.

He took that as a challenge.

“It’s for me.”

The employee smiled back.

It was that strange smile men exchange right before they knowingly do something stupid.

“You ever heard of The Knowledge Sun?” he asked.

My uncle frowned.

“Isn’t that the banned book about sorcery or something?”

“Yeah.”

The employee’s grin never faded.

“They made a video game out of it.”

He reached under the counter and placed the case in my uncle’s hands.

It looked… normal enough.

A giant golden book dominated the cover. Mummies and zombies crawled across the bottom, and between them, in huge golden letters:

THE KNOWLEDGE SUN

My uncle studied it for a moment before looking back up.

“So… what exactly am I looking at?”

The employee shrugged.

“Nothing. Not in this version, anyway. The original release actually had passages from the book recited by the monsters throughout the game.”

“They changed it?”

“They realized any Arabic sentence being whispered over creepy music already sounded creepy and mysterious to Western audiences, so they replaced the real passages with random Arabic phrases like ‘You will die’ and ‘Welcome to Hell.’ It was easier than dealing with the complaints.”

My uncle scoffed.

“This game summoned demons into my house zero out of five I want a refund.”

The employee chuckled.

“Not exactly. The complaints usually didn’t come from the people who played it. They came from their families.”

He leaned forward

“They’d say the person started acting strangely… said something about the game… then disappeared forever with the game”

He paused.

“Look, it’s probably bullshit at least I think it is. But evil spirits are real and we both know the book is real. And honestly what is sorcery, really? It’s a form of communication with those spirits in exchange for something you want.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe you don’t even need to practice sorcery. Maybe just getting close enough to it will accidentally invite some… unwanted guests”

A beat passed. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know. Resident Evil’s pretty good too.”

My uncle laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Fair enough. I’m sold. But I want the original version, Not the bullshit censored one.”

“I have it. But It’s twenty-five.”

They haggled for a minute.

In the end, my uncle took my last ten riyals, added another ten from his own pocket, and handed over the money.

Then he pointed at the employee.

“You’re good. They should give you a raise.”

They both laughed and we left the store.

The moment we got home, my uncle insisted we try The Knowledge Sun first.

We loaded it up.

The monsters finally appeared.

Then they started talking.

“Sa yahtaweek al-dhalaam…”

…

It was unbelievably stupid.

Hearing badly pronounced Arabic in a Western horror game wasn’t scary.

It was hilarious.

The phrase meant, “The darkness will engulf you,” and somehow that only made it funnier.

My uncle stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

Then he groaned.

“That motherfucker cheated me! He charged me extra for the same censored version. Son of a bitch!”

He got up and walked out.

My cousins laughed, declared the game lame, and switched to Digimon Rumble Arena instead.

Honestly, Digimon was a lot of fun.

But deep down, I couldn’t wait to go back home and try The Knowledge Sun by myself.

I got back home, started the game, and immediately skipped the opening cutscene. Obviously. Back then, nobody cared about cutscenes. You jumped straight into the gameplay.

You played as an Indiana Jones-type adventurer running through a cave filled with mummified zombies. You pressed X to jump and Square to punch. Yes, you could actually punch the zombies in this game, which automatically made it a hundred times cooler than lame-ass Resident Evil or boring-ass Silent Hill. Sure, the zombies screamed random phrases in Arabic, but it was all goofy stuff like, “He’s right here!” or “Get him!” None of it was actually scary.

That was until I heard the sound of a tape rewinding.

The music stopped.

The screen glitched.

Then the PlayStation restarted.

The Sony logo appeared, followed by the PlayStation logo, but there was no sound. It was completely silent.

I got up to check the TV, thinking one of the audio cables had come loose. The second I got close, an image of fish appeared on the screen.

Real fish.

Just a screen full of real fish.

Then the image started zooming in and out, over and over, focusing on a single fish. At the same time, the room grew so dark it looked as if nothing in the world existed except me and the TV.

Then, as though the television itself had been a fish tank that suddenly shattered, a massive pile of fish burst out of the screen.

I looked beside me.

There was a kid, about my age.

His skin was dark blue. The area around his mouth and jaw bulged outward. His grin exposed huge gums packed with long, needle-like shark teeth. Even worse, his eyes looked wrong. The whites and blacks were reversed.

The kid opened his mouth.

I heard the tape rewind sound again.

My vision stretched from left to right, farther and farther, until the entire world collapsed into a single line across the middle of absolute blackness.

Then I jolted awake in my mother’s arms.

I didn’t cry or scream when it happened.

I was already crying and screaming louder than I ever had in my life. I had just been completely unaware of it until that moment, almost as if I had only then woken up to reality.

My mom held me tightly, reciting prayers as she gently rubbed my forehead. My dad stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. After realizing I wasn’t physically hurt, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and walked away.

I never saw the disc again.

I don’t know what happened to it.

When I asked my mom about it, she said she had no idea what I was talking about and insisted no such disc had ever existed.

I asked my cousins too.

They said we never bought a game like that.

They said the conversation my uncle had with the guy at the video game store never happened.

I’m 32 years old, And it’s Eid.

I took my little girl to the video game store.

And by that I mean I opened the PlayStation Online Store and told her to pick a game we could download and play that night.

She was beyond excited. Her mom had never let her play or watch anything horror-related, but today was different.

Today was Eid!

We scrolled through game after game, and I took my time. This was going to be her first horror experience. I didn’t want her to play something bad and walk away thinking all horror games were lame. I also didn’t want to replay something I’d already finished. I’d be bored, and she’d notice. I wanted to be excited, confused, and terrified WITH her.

That’s what horror is all about!

Resident Evil 9. Already beat it.

Silent Hill f. Already beat it.

Visage. Too hard.

MADiSON. Meh.

Then I saw it.

I froze.

A wave of dread shot through my body like a needle driven straight into my vein.

There it was.

The Knowledge Sun 2.

“When…? Wha-“

My voice caught in my throat.

The creature I had seen beside me that day was right there on the cover, staring at me exactly the way it had twenty-three years ago.

The room grew dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

Until, once again, nothing in the world existed except me and the TV, floating in a sea of pitch-black emptiness.

Then I heard my daughter beside me.

“Hey, Papa.”

Her voice began to distort, sinking lower and lower until it became a wet, gargling growl.

In the back of my mind, I heard it again.

The sound of a tape rewinding.

Then a voice whispered:

“You like sequels?”

Ever since I found out that I’m an NPC, my life has become so much clearer. Everything makes sense now.

In this world, there are main characters—people who are real, people who exist within a story. They have character arcs. They go through the hero’s journey, descend into hell, and somehow come back from it. The decisions they make matter because those decisions shape the story itself.

These people make up about five to ten percent of the world. The rest of us are just NPCs.

Now, please don’t be depressed about this. NPC isn’t even an insult. It simply means that we exist in relation to the main character.

If the main character goes to the mall to meet his girlfriend, for example, wouldn’t it be strange if he arrived at an empty building? The mall needs to be full of people. Otherwise, it would be an awkward date.

Let’s say the main character needs to succeed. He’s been working hard at… I don’t know… studying. Yeah, studying for a brutal exam where only the top twenty-five percent pass. Someone has to fill the bottom seventy-five percent.

Main characters have their own consciousness, thoughts, and feelings. NPCs operate more like a hive mind. We’re unique, in a way, but not really.

Have you ever experienced déjà vu? That strange feeling that this exact moment has happened before? That’s because it has—just not to you. It happened to another NPC somewhere else, standing in the presence of another main character.

Have you ever felt nervous for no reason? Like you’ve forgotten something important, but you can’t remember what it is? That’s the script shoveling random NPCs into the meat grinder for a “traumatic event” the main character has to endure, and you almost got picked. I suppose the fact that you’re reading this means you survived.

Have you ever died in a dream? Falling from a great height, only to jolt awake just before hitting the ground? And your goofy NPC brain says, “Thank God, it was only a dream.”

Well, buddy, it wasn’t.

NPCs don’t really need sleep. When your physical body shuts down for the night, your consciousness goes somewhere else—to serve as background noise in another story, another life, another scene. Over and over again.

I want you to stand in front of a mirror. Look yourself dead in the eyes and smile as wide as you can. Don’t make a funny face. Don’t flex. Don’t perform. Just stare into your own eyes and hold that grin.

It’s difficult, isn’t it? Almost impossible.

Main characters can do that for hours. It doesn’t bother them. It doesn’t even feel strange. But NPCs can’t. After a while, your face begins to look wrong. The features distort. The expression twists. You start looking less like yourself and more like something pretending to be you.

That’s because it isn’t the face of a main character. It’s a copy. A rough imitation. And under enough scrutiny, imitations begin to fall apart.

Yes, main characters know they’re main characters. Yes, they know the rest of us are NPCs. And yes, they keep it from us.

Please don’t take this the wrong way. Main characters aren’t evil. Put yourself in their place. Why would you tell an NPC that they’re an NPC?

It wouldn’t make sense.

When you play GTA, you might pick a random NPC and follow them around out of boredom. But after a while, you notice the limitations. You realize how much separates you from them. Eventually, you get bored and walk away.

I found a main character.

I know she’s a main character.

I was looking at her the other day, and she was glowing. Not literally, of course, but close enough. Her skin seemed brighter. When she smiled or laughed, the room itself changed. She smelled nice—not like perfume, but as if the air around her had been cleaned. As if the oxygen itself was better.

She knows we’re NPCs, but she’s kind to us anyway.

Unlike those alpha-male, John Wick types, the ones who leave piles of NPCs behind them, I think she belongs to a different kind of story. A softer one. A story filled with love and beauty.

It feels safe around her.

The other NPCs feel it too. They laugh with her. They love her. They want to help her.

She’s beautiful as well, but not in the kind of way that makes you lust after someone. It’s the kind of beauty that fills you with awe. The kind that makes you want to become a better person.

I have a theory.

I think NPCs can become main characters.

I think it’s a long, painful process, and the odds are tiny—maybe one to five percent—but I think it’s possible.

Because here’s the thing: NPCs and main characters are both characters in the same story.

The difference is that one matters, and the other doesn’t.

So maybe, if an NPC forces himself into the story, the story has no choice but to revolve around him. Maybe that’s what a good villain is: someone whose impact is so sudden, so shocking, that the narrative bends around him.

Stories have to explain themselves eventually. They can’t remain vague forever. They can’t be endless suffering without meaning.

So… step one:

I think that if I hurt this girl—if I become the worst monster imaginable—I could become important. Iconic. The kind of villain people remember. The kind who forces the story to acknowledge his existence.

Have you ever read Blood Meridian? Why does Judge Holden, the villain, have a name while the protagonist doesn’t? Doesn’t that make the villain the true center of the story?

Or Homelander from The Boys. People watch because of him. The others revolve around his gravity.

Step two:

The redemption arc.

I don’t know how that part works yet, but stories forgive terrible people all the time. Maybe all you need is enough screen time.

Step three:

Maybe, if my interrogation is successful, she’ll tell me how she became a main character. Maybe she was born that way. Maybe she earned it. Maybe she was once an NPC too.

Who knows?

Assuming my theory is correct. Maybe she shines now, but her past wasn’t nearly as bright.

One thing is certain:

I’m about to find out.

And I’m about to escape the life of an NPC.

Wish me luck.

He said it was, then quietly added, “They’re still up there.”

Before I tell you about how the Earth is flat, how pandas are not real, and how celebrities are immortal demons, I want to start off by thanking today’s sponsor. No, sorry, I’m joking. I’ve been watching a lot of Creepcast lately, and this is my Wendigoon impression. Heh. Pretty good, right?

He murmured to himself while giggling and looking down at his feet. In a bus full of people, none of whom wanted to be around him or even talk to him, everyone looked at him with empathy. But deep down, underneath that empathy, existed prominent, unmistakable feelings of disgust and fear. Empathy is not always the “good guy” emotion people make it out to be.

His neck was stiff, so he committed the social risk of moving his head around to loosen the muscles. His eyes tragically, accidentally met the eyes of another man—a good-looking man, probably nineteen years old, with white skin, blonde hair, and a wide, muscular frame. He looked strong and athletic. Not tall enough to be a goalkeeper, but definitely tall enough to play center back, central midfield, or striker.

“You’re alright, mate?”

He met his gaze with eyes that looked like those of a six-year-old child who had just been caught trying to steal something—terrified, guilty, and embarrassed. He gave a nervous smile, nodded his head, and immediately looked away.

“How dare you make me feel this weak?”

He thought to himself. The kid obviously hadn’t meant to offend this man, but his confidence alone was insulting enough. His smile while asking the question, his strong, steady eye contact, and his posture… all of it was insulting. Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but it was insulting anyway.

Asking him if he was “alright” implied that he wasn’t alright. But it was okay. First of all, this guy was British. British people always sounded smug and condescending, even if they didn’t actually mean it. Second of all, he was a young guy—a young lad, a young chap, a young bloke.

What I’m trying to say is that he was young, so he didn’t know about the reality of this world.

He didn’t know that the curvature rate was eight inches per mile squared at six feet above sea level. He didn’t know that the female panda had a fertile window of one day a year, that the male panda had a sex drive so low it might as well have been infertile, or that a group of pandas was literally called an embarrassment. He didn’t know that Alex Jones and Bill Hicks were the same person. He didn’t know that every celebrity had a look-alike from hundreds of years ago.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know about the fluoride in the water or the chemtrails. He didn’t know about the giant trees that had been chopped down and were being sold to us as weird-looking mountains with flat tops. He didn’t know about the pizzas and the pastas. He didn’t know about the dancing people. He didn’t know about the clock towers that were giant batteries of the old world order.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that seven billion was bullshit. He didn’t know that six million was bullshit. He didn’t know that three was bullshit.

He just didn’t know.

He didn’t know about the narrator of this fucking story trying to paint me as an insane conspiracy theorist, because if I’m right, the whole world is fucked. He didn’t know that the world would be much safer and more peaceful if I were just wrong and crazy. He didn’t know that I was probably the sanest person he had ever locked eyes with in his entire life.

You know what else he didn’t know?

He didn’t know that Rebecca, his little sister, was going to be out that night studying with her friend Grace. He didn’t know that his parents would be out on a fancy date night. And he certainly didn’t know that he’d be home alone at Riverlight Quay, near the power station, in Building 9, room 912, playing Marvel Rivals while waiting for his “online buddy” to hop into the game.

Which he wouldn’t.

Before I tell you about how the earth is flat and how pandas are not real and how celebrities are immortal demons, I wanna start off by thanking todays sponsor, No sorry im joking, Ive been watching a lot of creepcast lately and this is my Wendigoon impression heh pretty good right?

He murmured to himself while giggling and looking down at his feet, In a bus full of people none of which wanted to be around him or even talk to him, Everyone looked at him with empathy but deep down underneath that empathy exists prominent unmistakable feelings of disgust and fear, Empathy is not always the “good guy” emotion people make it out to be.

His neck is stiff so he commits the social risk of moving his head around to loosen the muscles and his eyes tragically accidentally met the eyes of another man, A good looking man, Probably 19 years old, White skin, Blonde hair, Wide muscular frame, Looking strong and athletic, Not tall enough to be a goalkeeper but definitely tall enough to play at center back, central midfield, or Striker.

you’re alright mate?

He meets his gaze with eyes that look like the eyes of a 6 year old kid who was just caught trying to steal something. Terrified, Guilty, Embarrassed, He gives a nervous smile shakes his head up and down then immediately looks away.

How dare you make me feel this weak?

He thought to himself, The kid obviously didn’t mean to offend this man, But his confidence alone was insulting enough, His smile while asking the question, His strong stable eye contact, His posture, all of it was insulting, Maybe not intentional, But it was insulting anyway.

Asking him if he was “Alright” implies that he’s not alright, But it’s ok, First of all this guy is british, British people always sound smug and condescending even if they don’t actually mean it, And second of all, This a young guy, A young lad, A young chap, A young bloke.

What im trying to say is that he’s young so he doesn’t know about the reality of this world.

He doesn’t know that the curvature rate is 8 inches per mile squared at 6 foot hight of the observer, He doesn’t know that the female panda has a fertile window of one day a year and the male panda has a sex drive so low it might as well be considered infertile and a group of panda’s is literally called an embarrassment, He doesn’t know that Alex jones and Bill hicks are the same person, He doesn’t know that every celebrity had a look alike from hundreds of years ago.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about the fluoride in the water and the Chem trails, He doesn’t know about the giant trees that were chopped down and are being sold to us as weird looking mountains with flat tops, He doesn’t know about the pizzas and the pastas he doesn’t know about the dancing people he doesn’t know about clock towers that were giant batteries of the old world order, He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

he doesn’t know that 7 billion is bullshit he doesn’t know that 6 million is bullshit he doesn’t know that 3 is bullshit

He just doesn’t know.

He doesn’t about the narrator of this fucking story trying to paint me as an insane conspiracy theorist because if im right the whole world is fucked, He doesn’t know that the world would be much safer and at peace if im just wrong and crazy. He doesn’t know that Im probably the most sane person he ever locked eyes with in his entire life.

You know what else he doesn’t know?

He doesn’t know that Rebecca his little sister is going to be out tonight to study with her friend Grace, And that his parents will be out on a fancy date night, And that he’ll be home alone at riverlight quay near the power station on building 9 room number 912 playing Marvel Rivals waiting for his “online buddy” to hop in the game, which he wont.

Before I tell you about how the earth is flat and how pandas are not real and how celebrities are immortal demons, I wanna start off by thanking todays sponsor, No sorry im joking, Ive been watching a lot of creepcast lately and this is my Wendigoon impression heh pretty good right?

He murmured to himself while giggling and looking down at his feet, In a bus full of people none of which wanted to be around him or even talk to him, Everyone looked at him with empathy but deep down underneath that empathy exists prominent unmistakable feelings of disgust and fear, Empathy is not always the “good guy” emotion people make it out to be.

His neck is stiff so he commits the social risk of moving his head around to loosen the muscles and his eyes tragically accidentally met the eyes of another man, A good looking man, Probably 19 years old, White skin, Blonde hair, Wide muscular frame, Looking strong and athletic, Not tall enough to be a goalkeeper but definitely tall enough to play at center back, central midfield, or Striker.

you’re alright mate?

He meets his gaze with eyes that look like the eyes of a 6 year old kid who was just caught trying to steal something. Terrified, Guilty, Embarrassed, He gives a nervous smile shakes his head up and down then immediately looks away.

How dare you make me feel this weak?

He thought to himself, The kid obviously didn’t mean to offend this man, But his confidence alone was insulting enough, His smile while asking the question, His strong stable eye contact, His posture, all of it was insulting, Maybe not intentional, But it was insulting anyway.

Asking him if he was “Alright” implies that he’s not alright, But it’s ok, First of all this guy is british, British people always sound smug and condescending even if they don’t actually mean it, And second of all, This a young guy, A young lad, A young chap, A young bloke.

What im trying to say is that he’s young so he doesn’t know about the reality of this world.

He doesn’t know that the curvature rate is 8 inches per mile squared at 6 foot hight of the observer, He doesn’t know that the female panda has a fertile window of one day a year and the male panda has a sex drive so low it might as well be considered infertile and a group of panda’s is literally called an embarrassment, He doesn’t know that Alex jones and Bill hicks are the same person, He doesn’t know that every celebrity had a look alike from hundreds of years ago.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about the fluoride in the water and the Chem trails, He doesn’t know about the giant trees that were chopped down and are being sold to us as weird looking mountains with flat tops, He doesn’t know about the pizzas and the pastas he doesn’t know about the dancing people he doesn’t know about clock towers that were giant batteries of the old world order, He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

he doesn’t know that 7 billion is bullshit he doesn’t know that 6 million is bullshit he doesn’t know that 3 is bullshit

He just doesn’t know.

He doesn’t about the narrator of this fucking story trying to paint me as an insane conspiracy theorist because if im right the whole world is fucked, He doesn’t know that the world would be much safer and at peace if im just wrong and crazy. He doesn’t know that Im probably the most sane person he ever locked eyes with in his entire life.

You know what else he doesn’t know?

He doesn’t know that Rebecca his little sister is going to be out tonight to study with her friend Grace, And that his parents will be out on a fancy date night, And that he’ll be home alone at riverlight quay near the power station on building 9 room number 912 playing Marvel Rivals waiting for his “online buddy” to hop in the game, which he wont.

Before I tell you about how the earth is flat and how pandas are not real and how celebrities are immortal demons, I wanna start off by thanking todays sponsor, No sorry im joking, Ive been watching a lot of creepcast lately and this is my Wendigoon impression heh pretty good right?

He murmured to himself while giggling and looking down at his feet, In a bus full of people none of which wanted to be around him or even talk to him, Everyone looked at him with empathy but deep down underneath that empathy exists prominent unmistakable feelings of disgust and fear, Empathy is not always the “good guy” emotion people make it out to be.

His neck is stiff so he commits the social risk of moving his head around to loosen the muscles and his eyes tragically accidentally met the eyes of another man, A good looking man, Probably 19 years old, White skin, Blonde hair, Wide muscular frame, Looking strong and athletic, Not tall enough to be a goalkeeper but definitely tall enough to play at center back, central midfield, or Striker.

you’re alright mate?

He meets his gaze with eyes that look like the eyes of a 6 year old kid who was just caught trying to steal something. Terrified, Guilty, Embarrassed, He gives a nervous smile shakes his head up and down then immediately looks away.

How dare you make me feel this weak?

He thought to himself, The kid obviously didn’t mean to offend this man, But his confidence alone was insulting enough, His smile while asking the question, His strong stable eye contact, His posture, all of it was insulting, Maybe not intentional, But it was insulting anyway.

Asking him if he was “Alright” implies that he’s not alright, But it’s ok, First of all this guy is british, British people always sound smug and condescending even if they don’t actually mean it, And second of all, This a young guy, A young lad, A young chap, A young bloke.

What im trying to say is that he’s young so he doesn’t know about the reality of this world.

He doesn’t know that the curvature rate is 8 inches per mile squared at 6 foot hight of the observer, He doesn’t know that the female panda has a fertile window of one day a year and the male panda has a sex drive so low it might as well be considered infertile and a group of panda’s is literally called an embarrassment, He doesn’t know that Alex jones and Bill hicks are the same person, He doesn’t know that every celebrity had a look alike from hundreds of years ago.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about the fluoride in the water and the Chem trails, He doesn’t know about the giant trees that were chopped down and are being sold to us as weird looking mountains with flat tops, He doesn’t know about the pizzas and the pastas he doesn’t know about the dancing people he doesn’t know about clock towers that were giant batteries of the old world order, He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

he doesn’t know that 7 billion is bullshit he doesn’t know that 6 million is bullshit he doesn’t know that 3 is bullshit

He just doesn’t know.

He doesn’t about the narrator of this fucking story trying to paint me as an insane conspiracy theorist because if im right the whole world is fucked, He doesn’t know that the world would be much safer and at peace if im just wrong and crazy. He doesn’t know that Im probably the most sane person he ever locked eyes with in his entire life.

You know what else he doesn’t know?

He doesn’t know that Rebecca his little sister is going to be out tonight to study with her friend Grace, And that his parents will be out on a fancy date night, And that he’ll be home alone at riverlight quay near the power station on building 9 room number 912 playing Marvel Rivals waiting for his “online buddy” to hop in the game, which he wont.

I go up the stairs, I know deep in my soul there’s demons behind me, Its dark, But upstairs there’s light, So I run as fast as I can to reach the light, There is an invisible button at the end of the staircase, I know its not real, But I also know that in the dark logic itself is not real, In the dark you really think with your skin, So I press the button, And it creates an invisible barrier that the demons smack into, They can’t reach me now, Im safe.

One day my mom told me to get some water from downstairs, I got the water bottle and I opened the light (To prevent the demons from coming after me) Then I go up the stairs, My mom is looking at me with bewilderment, She asks me why I left the light open downstairs, Well… This is very awkward for me but I explained to her that going up the stairs when its dark makes me feel like there’s demons running behind me, She scoffs at my childish way of thinking, I calmly explain to her that i’m 9 and this is creepy to me but she doesn’t care. She does give me an advice, Something about an advice from my mom is comforting to me, The advice itself could be complete bullshit but because the way my mom says it, It really calms me down and makes me feel safe.

She says every time you feel the demons come to you, just say bismillah, it wards off all the demons.

For those of you hellbound infidels, bismillah means “In the name of allah”.

I go downstairs I turn off the lights I look up my mom is there at the top of the stairs waiting for me, I don’t even need to say bismillah, Or press the invisible button at the end of the stairs, The demon’s wont come to me because there’s another person there waiting for me, You see demons only come for you when its dark, That’s true because demons only operate in the darkness and light scares them away. But also if there’s another person with you, Even if its dark, Demons still can’t get to you, That, I can’t fully explain… Maybe because they’re too scared we will make fun of them, Maybe they’re bullies who only attack lonely people, Or maybe the other person literally shines their own invisible light that scares away the demons.

The next day Im back from the supermarket with my dad, We’re both carrying groceries, I got the small bag and he got two big bags, We go in the house he goes up the stairs, I follow him and he looks back at me and tells me to close the house door, Ah yes because both of his hands were busy he couldn’t grab the handle, One of my hands is not busy so I can grab the handle, So I have to close the door, Makes sense, Also Im fucked.

Because by the time I close the door he will have already went upstairs and I will have to go upstairs by myself alone in the dark.

Now let me tell you something about the demons and why they scare me so much.

They don’t have a specific look, One time it was a wave, a literal tsunami wave of rattlesnakes, Another time it was the nemesis from resident evil 3, For a little while it was the girl from the ring, I need you to close your eyes and quickly imagine the scariest thing your mind can come up with on the spot, Got it? Ok that’s the demon, So in a way you can never really outgrow it because it’s just gonna update itself to whatever creeps you out the most.

Now luckily there ARE good news, You CAN outrun the demons, Like I said in the beginning, You just have to run as fast as your physical body allows you to run, And when you reach the second floor where there’s light just for good measure press that invisible button you don’t really need to but just to really make sure they don’t follow you around upstairs even tho its very unlikely since there’s not only light but other people as well.

This is ridiculous, Surely Ive grown out of this silly little fear by now, if the grown ups like my dad and my mom just walk up the stairs with zero problems, Why can’t I do it? I get it Ill just do what they do, Ill just say bismillah and just walk it off confidently no need to panic like a little baby, I got this, Bismillah.

Ok there’s literally more demons now, Mom… what the fuck, The more I say it the more demons appear behind me, Fuck it back to the original plan, I drop the grocery bag on the floor because who cares about that and I take off as fast as my legs can go Im jumping three treads at a time and… I can’t reach the end of the stairs.

Ive been running for a while now, I can’t keep my frantic sprinting that I was doing at the beginning because my heart would literally explode, I slowed down to jogging speed, But even at jogging speed, Its been like 25 minutes, How am I not at the end of the stairs by now? What is happening to me?

I think it must have been at least 2 hours now, Im almost at a walking speed now, The stairs are just not gonna end, Im starting to think they never will.

Ive been walking up the stairs for almost 7 hours, I can’t breathe, Im thirsty, Sweating, My throat feels sharp and dry, My feet are swollen and I can’t even feel my toes anymore, I have a theory.

I think this is a test from god, This is my coming of age story, This is how I get over my fear of the stairs, I slow down my steps that were already slow, Then I stop completely, Now is the moment of truth, Now I turn around and face my greatest fear, This is it, This is how MEN are made.

I slowly begin to turn my head, Then my shoulder, My heart is literally beating against my chest like it’s trying to escape through my rib cage, I keep turning my shoulder, Then I turn my head, Then my shoulder, Then my leg, Then my head, I have now turned around at a 90 degree angle, One turn from my head and a glance from my eye and Ill see it, And when I see it, It will be over, I will conquer it.

I turn my back against it and start sprinting up the stairs again.

Nope, nononononononononononononono.

That was ridiculous, What the actual fuck was I thinking, Face my fears? That is the dumbest shit I’ve ever thought about in my entire life, There is no way that I will do that, Impossible, Its out of the question, Im just not gonna do it, Im not built for it, I would rather my legs explode and I die from blood loss then turn around and face whatever it is that was behind me, Never ever doing that again.

Its been 23 years now, my legs have turned into two pirate legs made out of real bones that I stab into each step of these stairs, I only breathe through my nose now because whatever function my mouth used to have is completely gone, My mind and thoughts feel like a fever dream, Like none of this is real.

Thats because its true, None of this was ever real, this whole story is nothing but a dream I had, Not the 9 year old afraid of the stairs, No the real me.

The real 33 year old me who had a horrific car accident and is dying in a hospital bed with his daughter and wife next to his bed, They say the last minute before you die you see your entire life flash before your eyes, But all I saw was this random memory from when I was a kid, But its funny tho, Because now that I think about it, This really is my life story, My whole life Ive been running from an invisible demon climbing up a ladder that doesn’t end.

The stairs still won’t end, And I still can’t face the demon, only one thing left to do, I stop in my place, And close my eyes, And without turning around, I fall backwards, And in my final moments I laugh and think to myself.

This shit is so fucking retarded.

As the electrocardiogram flat lines and shows that my heart have stopped, My girl cries and looks at her mother, My wife jolts in her chair looking at the device with the red line on it with tears and terror in her eyes, She instinctively screams BISMILLAH, and she’s panicking trying to call for the nurses.

Something awakens so deep in my heart that transcended Logic, Rationality, And reason, Maybe its because my wife’s voice somehow reached me, or maybe its because none of these things exist in the dark anyway, But I reorient myself in the last moment before I lose balance, And kept running forward while screaming BISMILLAH BISMILLAH BISMILLAH BISMILLAH.

The demons were still there and the stairs still didn’t end, But I somehow woke up anyway, With my wife and daughter next to me, And the nurses and doctors looking at me funny like they just witnessed a miracle, I simply laughed.