This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-10-31 20:06:51+00:00.
And if that glyph means nothing to you, count your blessings.
This language is not some virulent new strain of Gen Alpha slang, but something worse, believe it or not. And I don’t know who created /, but it’s more than symbols and sounds. It’s a language from some other world. Trying to pronounce its native name would leave both your throat and mind sore.
It would invite something dark inside.
Amongst English speakers, /\ has no fixed name. I’ve seen Apex, Concordia, and The Language of Peace, but I call it Palx. That name came to my mind from nowhere, like some parasitic horror. Made me hot and clammy. But the nightmare, I would learn, had only just begun.
Palx. From the very first time the sound slid off my tongue, I hated it. Hated that it had such a wonderful mouthfeel — sweet and milky. I never knew a word could taste of anything. Every time I utter that name, or even think it, something triggers my tongue’s receptors. Leaves a lingering flavour of euphoria in my mouth. The promise of nothing ever being bad again.
/\ seeks, then spreads from platform to platform. Morphs into a new name and a new taste for each individual. Does whatever it must to avoid detection. Whatever it must to infect more minds until we all speak it. But you don’t need its name. You’ll know its face when you see it. The selling point is always the same:
Learn this language, and know peace for the rest of your life.
That is a lie. There’s something intoxicating about that idea of the world before the Tower of Babel. A single language. No danger of misunderstanding one another ever again. Palx presents itself as a cure for war, poverty, and even civilisation’s stagnation. But it isn’t that. It affects the mind in ways I still don’t understand. If you become fluent, you’ll turn into something wretched.
Something far from peaceful.
I’m aware that language has always determined the way we think. Your tongue is fastened to your brain, whether you like it or not. You see the world through your wordstock. And that used to fascinate me. If French had been my native language, would I have become the same Wyatt?
I did actually learn French when I was a teenager. But I just don’t think a second language, learned after our formative years, really shape the mind in the same way. When I speak French, I am aware that I’m speaking French. I don’t hear words. I hear sounds to translate.
I’m sure multi-lingual children, exposed to many cultures from birth, have broader experiences. Have a better idea of the way in which words shape a person’s sense of self. But no language alters the mind like Palx.
I suppose I should tell you how I fit into all of this.
In August, I downloaded TikTok. I didn’t really want to do so. Something drove me to do it. Something other than AI-voiced Reddit stories and cringeworthy sketches. It was that voice. The same horrid voice which filled my mind with the word ‘Palx’ moments before a twenty-second clip appeared on my screen.
The video depicted an ethereal woman sitting cross-legged in a dandelion field. A white shawl encompassed most of her body, and a whiter smile encompassed most of her face. Her long, blonde hair was bound by a tight band of freshly-picked flowers from her surroundings.
“One month ago, I was an investment banker,” she softly said, flicking a golden strand out of one eye. “Today, I have only one job: to spread words that will heal the world. This language is Apex. And one day, when we all speak it, we will never need our old words again. Rotten words of hatred and greed. We will unite.”
And then the woman started grunting gutturally. She offered a definition for each word, but those low, monstrous sounds cut deeply into my mind. These words weren’t like ‘Palx’. They tasted sour. Each fresh one stung my grey matter and worsened a burgeoning rage beneath the surface of my mind. Yet, I did not stop watching. Did not stop listening. It was only after I summoned the urge to thumb the screen that I woke from the trance.
Now, anyone else might’ve dismissed that woman’s language lesson as an odd video from an odd TikToker, but I wasn’t so quick to push my feelings aside. I promptly deleted the app and found myself praying to never hear a word of those ancient, inhuman noises again. Of course, I would not be so fortunate.
Palx found me in the real world. It always finds its students. I dreamt of sounds and symbols. Dreamt of translations. And, again, I’m sure some would’ve dismissed the nightmares as nonsense. An overstimulated brain, perhaps. But I knew better. And there was no denying the terror I experienced during my waking hours.
After two or three weeks of bad dreams, those foreign symbols started to appear in the real world. Glyphs had been etched into bus stop adverts, my company desk, and even my apartment’s front door — which caused hostility between my flatmate and me. He didn’t believe that I had nothing to do with it, but at least that proved the horrible truth.
I had not gone insane. This was all real.
A virus within my mind was teaching me the otherworldly language. But I did not feel enlightened as the spiritual TikToker had promised. I felt threatened. Frightened. From the very beginning, I sensed that Palx did not intend to bring peace.
“You okay, Wyatt?” Bradley asked as he entered my office cubicle.
I looked up and tried to focus my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You sure don’t look it,” my co-worker said.
“Thanks,” I replied.
Bradley sighed. “You’re still thinking about that video, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I pleaded.
“It’s just a strange online trend, Wyatt,” my friend said. “It’s not a real language.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeated.
“Sorry,” he replied. “Have you spoken to the man?”
I frowned. “The man?”
Bradley nodded. “The one who asked for you at the front desk. Didn’t Lynn call you?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Ah,” my friend replied. “Well, someone wants to see you.”
“Does this ‘someone’ have a name?” I asked.
Bradley shook his head. “Nope. He gave Lynn and me the creeps. I was just down there with her, and she said she’d give you a quick call.”
I rubbed my eyes sleepily. “When was this?”
“About ten minutes ago,” he said. “I told her that I didn’t mind relaying the message… I would’ve come straight to you, but there were a few emails I needed to send first.”
“Lynn probably just got distracted,” I replied. “I’ll head down now.”
“I’ll come with you,” Bradley said as he followed me out of the cubicle.
“I’m still wondering who’d even be here to see me,” I said. “You really don’t have to come with me, Brad.”
My friend shook his head. “I didn’t like that man’s vibe. Besides, Bill’s not here yet. Let me waste a little of the morning, won’t you?”
I smiled and nodded as we entered the lift, then I buzzed the G button.
But when we stepped out into the lobby, I immediately felt out of place. Immediately felt isolated, even with Bradley’s company. It wasn’t just the strange man standing in the centre of the deserted room. Wasn’t even Lynn’s absence behind the reception desk. It was the silence of the room. A silence too weighty to be natural. That blanket of nothingness buried dark noises beneath. The buzzing grunts of words from a language that shouldn’t exist.
“Hello, Wyatt Lewis,” said the stranger coldly.
He was an unassuming figure. Five-six with a beige bomber jacket, faded jeans, and polished shoes. The visitor had the appearance of a man younger than this years. But his smooth, rosy-cheeked complexion was a false one. That good health was an illusion.
“How may I help you?” I asked, assuming the stranger to be a client I’d slighted somehow.
“By letting me fill in the gaps,” he answered. “By completing yourself.”
I paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re nearly there, Wyatt,” the man softly said. “After all, you know that the…”
The next words out of his mouth were alien sounds which caused Bradley to scream in pain — caused his knees to buckle and slam into the floor.
“WHAT?” my friend screamed. “WHAT IS THAT? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”
I didn’t quite understand the words either, but I was close. Closer than Bradley. Fluent enough to remain on my feet — to not be left in a state of agony. My kneeling friend and I locked eyes, sharing the same petrified expression. Bradley’s ears canals were dribbling lines of blood, but I didn’t do a thing to help him. I watched in frozen terror.
The stranger smiled. “It’s not for you, Bradley. You don’t have the capacity for peace. You don’t fit.”
Then this man, neither young nor old, scurried towards us on feet that, when hitting the tiles, barely produced sounds. I felt unable to intervene as the stranger seized my friend’s throat and continued to speak words which very nearly made sense — which tasted sweeter by the second.
“Wait,” Bradley choked, eyes wide as if he’d finally comprehended something. “I hear what you’re saying…”
I heard it too. A beastly voice which spoke of things that I’m too afraid to put in writing. Most horrifyingly, the stranger’s lips weren’t moving. Whatever was speaking to us in that alien tongue, it wasn’t him. It was something else. Something nearby.
It spoke of things which sounded so lovely and tranquil, yet blinkered and inflexible. A language that was willing to hammer triangles and squares into round holes, but not pentagons like Bradley. Some shapes would never “fit”.
And I felt the haunting beginnings of a smile on my l...
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