This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TrappedInTechLoop on 2023-08-10 09:29:22.
Three weeks ago, amidst the mundane task of repainting my home office, my life changed forever.
In the process of removing the old paint, I discovered an anomaly – a minute rectangular indentation in the wall, masterfully camouflaged. My fingertips traced its outline, and with gentle pressure, a concealed nook unveiled itself, housing an innocuous looking USB stick.
Naturally, curiosity gnawed at me, so I plugged it into an old laptop. What harm could it do, right? It was a decision I’d regret for the rest of my life, however long or short that might now be.
The USB held a single file: “watchme.mp4.” The video began with a dim, unfamiliar room. The camera seemed hidden, its viewpoint oddly angled, like it was peering from a lofted shelf. The room’s sole content was a table, upon which rested a laptop identical to mine. That laptop’s screen played another video, and within that video was yet another. It was a dizzying, recursive loop of screens within screens.
As I strained to perceive details deeper within the loop, the knot in my stomach tightened. In one of the innermost videos, an unsettling familiarity took form – me, captured in an unguarded moment from just days prior. There I was, engrossed in a book, oblivious to the silent observer. But then, the “me” in the video slowly raised his gaze, his eyes not of a man living his daily life but of someone trapped, pleading, desperate. He began mouthing words, but the silence of the video rendered his message imperceptible.
The video abruptly cut off, replaced by a notepad file that flashed open, bearing a chilling message:
“Look behind you.”
My heart raced. With every ounce of courage, I turned. Empty space. Yet, the sigh of relief caught in my throat when my eyes returned to the laptop – the webcam light gleamed ominously.
Days turned to nights, but the strangeness persisted and amplified. Every gadget I owned behaved erratically. My smartphone, once my trusted companion, now displayed photos I didn’t recall taking: dark, grainy images of my sleeping form. The TV sometimes turned on by itself in the dead of night, displaying static, but if you listened closely, one could discern hushed voices murmuring my name amidst the white noise.
Then, there were the shadows. Fast-moving, darting in my peripheral vision, but when I’d try to focus, they’d vanish. Only to reappear elsewhere, growing bolder, lingering longer.
My attempts to flee were thwarted. No matter where I went, hotel, friend’s house, even the back of my car – technology betrayed me. Every screen I encountered pulsed alive with the video, screens within screens, with my terrified face trapped deep within the infinite loop.
Sleep eludes me. The whispers grow louder, my room colder. I see reflections of myself in mirrors, in windows, in water, each one looking more tormented than the last, each one mouthing those same silent words. I’ve tried lip reading apps, but they can’t decipher the message.
I’m typing this as a warning and a plea. If you ever unearth a USB in a place it shouldn’t be, let it remain untouched. For once you’re caught in the loop, there’s no escape. And if anyone can lip-read, please, watch the video I’ve attached. Tell me what my reflection is trying to communicate, before it’s too late.
Update:
The last few nights have been the worst.
Every electrical item in the house springs to life on its own. The microwave runs empty, the vacuum cleaner roars to life at 3 AM, the shower turns on with steaming hot water. The walls of my house vibrate with an unnerving frequency, the tone of a silent scream.
One particular night, as a storm raged outside, the power went out, plunging the house into darkness. I should’ve felt relief, a brief respite from the technological terror. But this was the calm before the storm.
My old analog wall clock, the only device not influenced by modern tech, began ticking louder. Each tick resonated through the house. And then, with each passing second, I began to see them — ghostly apparitions of myself from the screens, all appearing in the room, their form defined by the storm’s lightning, all of them mouthing those same indecipherable words.
In that electrified darkness, they approached, and just as the closest one reached out to touch me, the power returned, causing all the lights to flare up, banishing the spectral versions of myself.
It’s clear now that I’m not just dealing with some twisted digital prison, but something that blurs the line between the digital world and our own, pulling in tormented souls and trapping them in a never-ending cycle of despair.
I decided to seek out the house’s previous owners, hoping for answers. The trail led me to a care facility. The previous owner, Mrs. Eleanor, was an elderly lady, now suffering from severe dementia. Communicating with her was a challenge, but when I showed her a drawing of the USB, her eyes flashed with recognition, and she grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
She whispered, “It feeds on curiosity and grows with attention.”
Upon returning home, in sheer desperation, I destroyed the USB stick, smashing it to pieces, burning each fragment. But the next morning, it was there, intact, on my office table.
The whispers have turned into screams. The shadows have grown darker and more menacing. I’ve decided to leave everything behind and go off-grid. If you’re reading this, remember my warning. Some curiosities are best left alone.
If you never hear from me again, remember my story. Let it serve as a dire warning about the dangers lurking in the unseen corners of our world. Beware the screens within screens, for they might just be looking back at you.