This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obvious-Secretary151 on 2024-11-16 19:21:52+00:00.
I never should have opened that email.
It came late one night, buried in the sea of spam clogging my inbox. The subject line was simple: "Play the Game. Win the Prize." I don’t know what possessed me to click it. Maybe I was bored, or maybe the insomnia had scrambled my brain. Either way, I clicked.
The email had no text, just a link. Against every ounce of common sense, I hovered over it, hesitating only a second before clicking. My browser opened to a black screen with a single line of text:
"Welcome to The Game. Will you play? Yes / No."
I stared at it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It had to be a prank or some kind of viral marketing stunt. I typed "Yes" and hit enter.
The screen flickered, and new text appeared.
"The rules are simple: Do what we ask. No questions. No quitting. Win, and you’ll receive a reward beyond your wildest dreams. Lose, and… well, you won’t."
A countdown started in the corner of the screen: 30 seconds. Underneath, a new message appeared:
"Level 1: Knock on your neighbor’s door."
I laughed. Was this it? A weird scavenger hunt? My neighbor, Mrs. Kline, was a sweet old lady who baked cookies for the whole block. I figured I’d humor the game and give her a laugh.
I grabbed my phone and walked next door. The house was dark, but I knocked lightly anyway. No answer. I tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed.
"We didn’t say ‘lightly.’ Knock harder."
I froze, staring at the screen. How did they know?
Heart pounding, I raised my fist and pounded on the door. This time, the lights flickered on, and Mrs. Kline opened the door, looking confused but unharmed. I mumbled an apology about a prank and rushed back to my house.
My computer dinged.
"Well done. Level 2: Leave your front door unlocked for the next hour."
This time, I hesitated. My neighborhood wasn’t exactly crime-ridden, but leaving my door open at night? No way. I hovered over the browser’s close button, but the screen glitched and froze. My phone buzzed again.
"No quitting."
Against my better judgment, I unlocked the door. Then I sat on the couch, staring at it for what felt like forever. Nothing happened. No shadows moved across the porch, no footsteps crept up the stairs. Just silence.
When the hour was up, my computer dinged again.
"Good. Level 3: Look under your bed."
A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t looked under my bed in years—not since I was a kid and convinced monsters lived there. It was ridiculous, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping up my neck.
I grabbed a flashlight and knelt on the floor, shining it into the darkness under my bed. At first, I saw nothing but a few stray socks and some dust. Then something moved.
It was quick—just a flash of pale skin and fingers too long to be human. I jerked back, heart pounding. But when I looked again, it was gone.
My computer dinged.
"Did you see it? :) Level 4: Invite it out."
I slammed my laptop shut, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Whatever this game was, it wasn’t a joke.
But it wasn’t over. My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t a message. It was a video.
The shaky footage showed my bedroom—my bedroom, filmed from the corner near the ceiling. The camera zoomed in on the bed, and slowly, something crawled out from underneath it.
The thing was impossibly thin, its limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t. Its face was a blank, pale expanse with no eyes, no mouth—nothing but smooth, featureless skin. It tilted its head toward the camera, as if it knew I was watching.
The video ended. A new message appeared on my phone:
"Level 5: It’s inside now. Hide."
The sound of footsteps echoed from upstairs.
I didn’t think. I grabbed my keys and bolted out the front door, sprinting down the street as fast as I could. Behind me, I swear I heard the sound of laughter—low, guttural, and wrong.
I spent the night in my car, parked in a well-lit gas station. When I finally returned home the next morning, the house was empty. My computer was gone. My phone, too. It was like the game had never existed.
But I know it did.
Because sometimes, late at night, I hear those footsteps again.
And I wonder if I ever really stopped playing.