This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MikeJesus on 2024-10-19 18:10:32+00:00.

I apologize for any odd phrasing or typos. For the past couple of days, I’ve been having trouble eating and I’m feeling pretty light-headed. Sleep also hasn’t come easy. Honestly, being behind a computer is probably the last place where I should be, but I need to get this off my chest before I can carry on with my life.

We live in a time of constant distraction. Some spend their days with podcasts buzzing in their earbuds, some calm their minds with a constant stream of YouTube shorts and others make ambiance for their apartment with quiet Netflixed sitcoms. For the past couple of months, my choice of attention duller has been unsecured CCTV cameras.

I’d eat my lunches to feeds from vape shops in Bangladesh or quiet intersections in Stockholm. Working home office has instilled a sense of gentle claustrophobia in me. The live feeds assured me that life existed beyond the three rooms of my apartment. For a long time, I found those assurances soothing.

But then I found the warehouse cam.

It was in an unsorted directory and there were no identifying marks in the footage. I was looking at a feed from the side of some warehouse that bordered the edges of an industrial district. The camera was low, but the streets were empty. I had seen feeds like that before, yet what caught my eye was the gentle snowfall.

Beyond the warehouse there was a forest of pine trees. When I had started my lunch, they were their usual dark green. Yet, as I ate, and as the first snow of the season fell, the trees slowly turned heavy with white. The tranquil scene had kept me distracted from my thoughts as I ate and I was getting ready to search for something new, but then I saw people.

A procession, to be precise. At least three dozen people dressed in lab coats walked down the road towards the forest in a single file line. They weren’t dressed for the cold and none of them seemed to be pleased with their journey, yet they walked without pause or stumble.

I watched the camera long after the scientists had marched by, hoping for at least a hint of explanation, yet none came. The snow stopped falling and the empty streets and forest became a near static image. I went back to work, but I did bookmark the camera address and took note of the time.

The next day, as I took my lunch break, I caught the procession once more. They arrived at the same exact time as they did the day prior. More snow had fallen, and it covered much of the sidewalk, yet the scientists moved no slower.

With faces completely blank of expression and clothes not suited for the winter, the scientists marched through the snow and disappeared into the forest. On the third day, when the snow turned to slush, they marched once more.

The people in lab coats made the same trip at the same time every day of the week. Even during the weekend, when I didn’t have to be behind my computer, I would attend our scheduled lunch appointment. Every day they walked by and every day I was there to watch them. 

I found the mystery of the scientists exhilarating and its regularity allowed it to be a constant in my days. Even when I wasn’t on my lunch break, I would keep the camera feed running on the background of my browser in hopes of catching a passing car’s license plate or anything else that would help me locate the feed. I wanted to know where the scientists were. I wanted to know who they were so that I could understand their daily march.

Yet no such opportunity presented itself. The nature of the camera feed remained a frustrating mystery. It irritated me. I wanted to know more about the scientists.

I was naïve back then. I did not realize the comfort that existed in my unknowing.

Three days ago, on my lunch break, I was once again counting down the minutes to the usual appearance of the scientists. I had gotten into the habit of only eating when they finally appeared on screen and I was quite hungry that day.

The moment I saw them, however, I lost my sense of appetite.

They still marched through the snow of the sidewalk and mud of the forest trail. They still wore their lab coats and they still moved in their orderly single file without pause, yet the scientists had changed.

They were burnt. They were all horribly burnt.

With some, the flesh had slipped off parts of their face and revealed the bone beneath. Others still had eyes and skin, yet the extend of the damage was undoubtedly fatal. None of them should have been capable of walking. None of them should have been alive.

I watched my screen with utter shock and disgust. The innocent questions I had about the daily procession of scientists turned into sheer terror. My heart was seized with fear and my stomach had been thoroughly robbed of all appetite, yet my mind still hungered for knowledge.

Knowing that no one would believe me on my word alone, I decided to record the procession the next day. I had hoped that, perhaps, with video evidence of the scientists someone would be able to see something I had missed.

The next day, I attempted to record the procession and it was a grave mistake.

Over the months I had gotten used to the unfriendly weather that would occasionally accompany the scientists, but when I tuned into the feed the following day there was a snowstorm the strength of which I had never witnessed before. The sidewalks were engulfed in snow and the road itself seemed impossible to pass through by car. The weather was horrid, yet the line of burnt scientists still marched.

They forced their way through the snow without rest or pause as they always did. That day, however, as the final scientist of the march passed the camera, they stopped. Their skin was too charred for me to get even an inkling of their identity, yet they clearly stopped and looked at the camera.

Slowly, but clearly noticeable on my screen, the scientist shook their head.

It was as if they knew I was watching them.

Though I was in my warm apartment, looking at the snow-filled scene made me shiver. It wasn’t until after the scientist had left, however, that I felt true fear.

I do most of my work on the computer. I have not skimmed on making sure I have a strong rig. A simple screen recording is nothing my machine couldn’t handle, yet when I tried watching back the footage from the procession the video was a complete slideshow.

I had tried collecting evidence of the burnt scientists, but all I have is pixelated shots of a snowstorm. When I woke up the next morning, I was committed to making another attempt at capturing the procession.

That, however, would not be possible.

My internet access had been completely shut off. When I called my ISP to figure out what had happened, I was placed into a two-hour waiting queue. When I finally managed to talk to a representative, they were cagey.

Apparently, my internet had been shut off due to criminal use.

Apparently, the police would contact me about the details.

I write this post on my phone while sitting at a bistro. I do not know which law I have broken and I trust the situation with the police will be quickly resolved, yet I fear staying in my home. I fear that whoever is responsible for that procession of burnt scientists knows my IP address.

I write this post on my phone while sitting in a bistro. This place used to be one of my favorite lunch spots whenever I wanted to treat myself and order in. I’ve never refused a burger from this place. It’s the best in the city.

I’m hungry and the air is filled with delightful smells, yet I can’t bring myself to eat. I can’t bring myself to eat, because whenever I try, all I can think of is the burnt scientists.