This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-17 08:46:50+00:00.

It started as an innocent rabbit hole on YouTube. I had been scrolling aimlessly through suggested videos late at night when her face stopped me cold.

Samantha.

She’d been missing for over three years. Our whole high school had been shaken to the core when she disappeared without a trace. Posters went up around town, search parties were organized, and theories swirled: maybe she’d run away, or maybe something worse. Eventually, people moved on. But seeing her face in the thumbnail of a makeup tutorial froze me.

The video title read, “Soft Glam Look That’ll Make Him Love You! 💋”

It had to be her. Same fiery red hair, same piercing green eyes. But something about her looked…off. Her skin was too pale, her smile too stiff. I clicked the video.

The intro was bubbly and upbeat. “Hey, lovelies!” Samantha chirped, brushing her hair back. “Welcome back to my channel! Today, we’re going to do a soft glam look that’s just to die for!”

That voice. It was definitely her. But there was something robotic about her delivery, as though someone had written a script for her and she was forcing herself to sound cheerful. Her movements were too precise, almost unnatural, as if she were a puppet on strings.

I kept watching, trying to ignore the growing chill running down my spine. Halfway through the video, when she started blending eyeshadow, her hand slipped, smearing dark powder across her cheek. She froze. For a second, her bright, toothy smile faltered, and she looked directly into the camera—into me.

Her eyes weren’t just green. They were bloodshot, filled with an almost imperceptible plea for help. The video glitched for a moment, and when it resumed, she was smiling again, the smudge gone as if it had never happened.

I clicked on her channel.

There were dozens of videos. They all followed the same formula: Samantha doing her makeup, offering tips, and giving unnervingly cheerful commentary. But the more I watched, the more I noticed the cracks. Shadows moved in the background where there shouldn’t have been any. Faint whispers occasionally bled into the audio. And then there were her eyes, which sometimes darted to the side, as if checking for someone—or something—just off-screen.

The strangest part? The upload dates. The first video had been posted two weeks after she went missing.

My heart raced as I scrolled through the comments. Most were from people praising her makeup skills, but occasionally, there were odd ones: • “Why does she look so scared?” • “Anyone else hear the crying in the background at 3:17?” • “This channel gives me the creeps. Something’s wrong.”

I decided to dig deeper. I downloaded one of her videos and ran it through audio software, amplifying the background noise. What I heard made my stomach churn: soft, muffled sobbing. And beneath that, a voice—deep, gravelly, and angry.

“Keep smiling, or else.”

I slammed my laptop shut and tried to shake off the creeping dread. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed answers.

The next day, I skipped class and drove to her old house. Her parents had moved away after her disappearance, but the house was still empty, a FOR SALE sign swaying in the overgrown yard. I parked across the street and stared at the dark windows, trying to piece together what to do next.

Then my phone buzzed. A notification from YouTube.

Samantha had just uploaded a new video.

The title made my blood run cold: “Special Guest Does My Makeup! 💀”

I clicked it. The video started normally, with Samantha smiling brightly at the camera. But then she said, “I have someone very special here with me today! Say hi!”

The camera panned to the “guest.”

It was me.

My heart stopped as I stared at the screen. There I was, sitting stiffly next to her, my face pale and expressionless. She picked up a makeup brush and started applying blush to my cheeks, giggling like nothing was wrong. “You’re such a great model!” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

The version of me in the video didn’t react. He—I—just sat there, staring blankly ahead.

I scrambled to pause the video, but my phone froze. The screen flickered, and the video glitched, Samantha’s face warping into something grotesque—her smile stretching impossibly wide, her eyes hollowing out into dark voids.

Then, the video ended abruptly.

Before I could process what I’d just seen, my phone buzzed again. A notification. A comment on the video.

From Samantha.

“See you soon. 💋”