The Dark Somnium - The Dark Side of Being a Social Media Moderator | Scary Stories from The Internet

Episode Date: May 11, 2026

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There is evil. It lives on social media. Today, we are going to delve into some things that will be triggering beyond a single listed tag. So, we warned. There are no holds barred when it comes to the sickness of the internet. I was a moderator and report handler for this particular social media website over the course of several years. For legal reasons, I can't name the company, but if you put your head in a novel, you'll know who I'm referring to. Why am I posting it here instead of somewhere else? A simple. Hide in plain sight.

The social media conglomerate assures the outside world that it takes care of its staff, has mental health professionals in place, and everyone is routinely cycled to ensure they don't spend too long on certain zones that house the most extreme content. That's an outright lie. In my time working for this media giant, I saw wide-eyed, fresh-faced newbies walk through our doors and within six months become shells of them for myself. Unable to face people in the outside world, knowing damn well what depravity lurks beneath that thin veneer of pleasantries.

Out of my initial team of 60, half of them were addicts within the first year. Pain killers, sleeping tablets, stronger substances, you name it. A dozen would attempt to end their lives within 18 months, seven of which succeeded. Our ops manager, Ken, came in after a particularly difficult weekend handling the leaked war videos from a remote region in Africa, sifting through the reports with all of us. He was always trying to raise our spirits, encourage us to do group bonding activities, or bring in nice food to help lighten the mood. But that day, he just looked broken.

Everyone, I thank you for your time here. I'm sorry that I won't be able to continue on this journey with you, but I can't do this anymore. Don't let my wife see me, please. We turned, bewildered, as he pulled out a gun and pointed the, the barrel to the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The shot rang out, bursting my eardrums as blood and brain matters stained the ceiling and floor. His body twitched for a moment before falling to the ground with a sickening thud.

I'd never seen such a horrific sight. We were all given free counseling, and everyone in the office that day who'd seen it was given nine days paid vacation. Yeah, nine days. Welcome to America. Another one of my colleagues, Trisha, brought in a box cutter to work and excused herself during the middle of the night shift. After downing half a bottle of painkillers, she sliced her wrist to pieces and bled out in the bathroom stall. Trisha started here as a former

Lutheran minister, just looking to enjoy her early retirement and put some good out into the world. She thought she might deal with the occasional dick-pick or offensive gesture, but not the torrent of terror that greeted her screen for eight hours a day, four times a week. She was a mother of two teenage sons and a pillar of her community. The last thing she'd seen on her screen was Mexican cartel execution video, where they tortured, assaulted, and set fire to another member sister to send a message. But I don't know if it was just that that sent her over the edge. It's never that simple.

No, I think, as in many of the cases, it was the sheer volume of people and ashamedly commenting their enjoyment of the content, even on their professional accounts. One said... Holy shit. This is some sick stuff. Hey, Jay Manning, you gotta see this, bro. Another one said, Oh my God, is this real?

No way, she got burned. People rarely ever think before they type. If you've listened this far, I will not be surprising you with some sightings of aliens or monsters. I don't need to. The monsters exist in our communities. The demons and nightmares we seek in a state of curiosity are just behind a screen. But there are things I've seen that keep me up at night with endless questions,

mysteries that will forever remain unsolved. I saw a vice documentary where a colleague spoke out on his experiences and how damaging it was for him. It emboldened me to do the same, hiding myself in plain sight where nobody will ever think to verify. I have a lot of stories from my time here, and I'll start with the ones that are the most palatable. Report 1 For the Mods.mO.V. I was working the night shift with a small team in a new, extreme exposure moderation team

that the company was trialing. You had to volunteer, go through a fortnightly evaluation, and got double pay as a result, so it was hard to say no. I remember one of my staff members, Jeff, punching a hole through his desk in a fit of rage and screaming expletives that would wake the dead. He frothed at the mouth as I came over, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. I didn't need to say anything. We were all in this shit together, so I looked over and saw the last bit of his conversation.

Jeff had been flagging content in a closed group that circulated photographs of underage teens and extremist views. You don't see many of the former pop up openly anymore, but the latter are hiding in plain sight under the guise of being a specific kind of ship posting group. Most of the members are your normal, dark-humored folks who may be edgy, but know the line. But there was always a group amongst them harboring some vile, hateful views that they propagate freely within the group's borders. In any case, Jeff had been trying to reason with the admin of one of the groups, something

moderators do not do too much anymore, but was a little bit more common back then. To avoid this getting pulled, I'll be replacing all of racial and homophobic slurs, but this guy was not pulling any punches in his complaints to Jeff. What the hell, man? Why are you getting involved in screwing up my shit? You're nothing but an NBC, you little beta bitch. What are you? Queer?

You don't like tits? Get a fucking life, you see. Snowflake. I'm sorry, sir, but your group was sharing what was reported to be minors. It must be investigated and has passed on to the relevant authorities in your area. Your account will be suspended until further notice. Oh, so now you want to get in my business, huh? If they want to send that kind of stuff, that's on them.

Not my fault, bro. But that's fine. You want to ban me? Well, I'll go out with a bang then. I hope this haunts you for the rest of your pathetic life, you cut. Before a second backup admin account posted a video entitled For The Mods.mVo. A large neckbeard-looking guy in his late 20s positioned a handycam on a table before hobbling into view. It was greasy.

His spectacles clinging to his piggy head and chins quivering as he breathed heavily before grabbing something from the ground. It was a small bag that looked like it had something struggling inside to get out. You did this! He screamed before smashing the bag against the table. I heard wet and meaty sounds of bone breaking. Then he proceeded to smash it five more times on the table. When he was done, he smeared what looked like blood all over his face. Unband me, or I will do worse.

We didn't, obviously. The sicko was arrested on child pornography and animal abuse charges and went to prison for some time. But not before Jeff got to him. Jeff tracked down his address using our database and put a sustained beating on the guy, knocking out several of his teeth, perforating his eardrums and breaking his nose. Jeff was sadly fired, and he went to prison too for battery and assault, though the judge did hold sympathy for him. I missed Jeff.

He was a good guy and just wanted to do good in the world. That was one of the first times fear gripped me in such a way that I couldn't shake it. I took up smoking weed that same weekend, and by God, if that hasn't been the driving force behind why I didn't follow Ken into the afterlife. On to our next report, one that showed what mob mentality will do unabated and unrestricted, for better or for worse. This isn't about sending a grander message of tolerance or an allegory for something hopeful. This is about letting you know of the vile underbelly that lurks just a few clicks away

from your wholesome puppy videos and good vibe memes. You probably know there's a market for everything. Crushing kittens, smoking kinks, diaper fetishes, but one man took that to the extreme on his custom live videos. Report 2. The Itch. The report came in after the first live session. Multiple users flagged his content for self-harming, and it was immediately clear why.

Mr. Payne, a terrible alt-name, I know, had told him he'd send him 50 if he burned his arms with a cigar. So he did, leaving bloodied and pus-filled holes along his forearms. He also self-flagellated, pulled off his nails, and slammed his head into a desk. Each time the task was done, he'd get a payment, and his smile would widen, almost euphoric. By the time I swept in to delete the account and try to order a welfare check, it was apparent that it was going to take some digging to find his actual info. As soon as one alt went down, another would pop up with the atypical newt or some strange

amalgamation of fictionalized and memed names, to make them harder to track. They got more aggressive the more we fought against them, too. Mr. Payne would appear, looking tired and dejected before session. It was like a drug. The comments would berate him, call him slurs and awful things, while offering him more for his suffering. The final live feed went up on December 31, 2020. Mr. Payne had been talking about a constant itch just above his temple

and was scratching at it profusely, dirty, gallowing fingernails pulling away dead skin cells at a frantic pace. He groaned about the incessant itching as the skin caked under his nails. Looking at the messages, one commenter said, Keep scratching it till it bleeds. I want to see suffering. Prove you're a big man and I'll transfer you a hundred when I see blood. He did as he was told.

I skipped ahead a few minutes until blood was pouring down his fingers and soaking his hand. He smiled and said it's still itch. Another commenter said, Dig in there. Find the root cause. Something is skittering around in your brain and it's made you were sick or. As he offered him $300 if he'd got in deep. Again, he complied.

It was sickening to see the efforts he was going to just for strangers. Another one said, You should have never jumped through that window, you sick, pop. Now you're just our plaything. Our new Mr. Payne. Wait, window. What was that about? A ding rattled off in the chat, and Mr. Payne's eyes flooded as he carried on digging.

He was being pumped full of something each time he did as he was told. Pain needles, maybe? Either way, he did the job, and two of his fingers came out of the rapidly widening wound in his head. I swear I could see a portion of his skull poking out. Time to finish. Your face needs to go. It stared down at too many innocents while you did your thing. thing.

Two thousand's to make it all stop. Pull at that wound and do not stop until you hear the ding. You took their innocence. We take your identity." His eyes widened and drool left his mouth in a moment of pure fear. I felt sick and powerless. He did as instructed. He gripped the side of the wound with his free hand and muttered how sorry he was over

and over, all while the chat flooded with messages of contentment. You deserve this. He pulled hard and I made it another few seconds before clicking off, pulling the video and vomiting into the trash by my desk. They found his body. He'd managed to get down to the jawline before shock and blood loss had him pass out, a flood of opioids to the system causing an overdose. In his apartment were stacks of papers about conferring with the dead, seances and retribution

for past sins. Mr. Payne had been a serial abuser since he was a teen, and arrogant one car. It was only after an extended absence that anyone even caught on to the issue. Problem is, the guy laying there wasn't Mr. Payne. It was another one of his victims. The real Mr. Payne was nowhere to be seen. The commenters were simply buying an audience to a torture session in plain sight. Who needs red rooms when you have private groups for just about anything?

The chat was still open when they found him. He'd been laying there for three days, and they were still mocking his corpse. I was given three weeks paid leave and offered a low-fee counselor who didn't even specialize in trauma on my return. I declined. I just quietly accepted the under-the-table salary bump and got on with my day. If I didn't do it, who would? Report 3.

Time to finish up this set of reports, with the one that haunts me the most of the first three I'm sharing today. In 2017, we started getting a lot more unusual ARG reports coming in, mostly just boomers and and easily offended folk trying to sabotage a clearly fake piece of advertisement for a new horror game or upcoming movie. There is indeed a fine line between being too sensitive. There is a fine line between being too sensitive and genuine offense. It just isn't what the media or idiots in politics think it is, but that's besides

the point. The one that we received the largest influx of reports for in a three-month period was titled Happy Home Tour, a series of posts that honestly baffled me in the beginning, but would become a terrifying reminder of learning to be objective. The post would always get removed for spam, statutes which made no sense followed by comments within seconds of each other after that, while typed out with thought, also made no sense. They'd be made by a genuine account of a genuine person, whose friends lists was also entirely composed of alts of themselves, with slightly altered names and distorted versions of their faces. Each one arguing with one another

over and over. The few friends they did have, who were real people, were constantly concerned over their behavior, said they were schizophrenic and couldn't even be reached in person anymore. They'd just ignore calls at the door. Then the photo started. First time report was just a woman taking a photo of her reflection in the window. A bouncing baby in her hand, and the caption, Can't wait to open the window and breathe real air for the first time in a long time. As it passed my desk, I was confused. It looked innocuous enough to me, and it looked innocuous enough to me, at first glance, but it was when I looked at the adjacent message from the user who reported it that I realized we may have a problem.

Ms. Sanford does not have children. An immediate call to CPS was made, as well as the local law enforcement, but when they went to investigate, Sadie, the woman in the photos, simply brushed it off and showed them the doll she was posing with. According to them, she was of perfectly sound mind, and there was no issue. I got a stern warning from my boss and continued on, a little more wary as other reports came in of her spam statuses and strange photos. That's not her baby.

These rooms look wrong. She's not in her own home. The pets don't look right. Her eyes are glazed over. There shouldn't be anyone in the house. Sadie doesn't like visitors. That doesn't look like her. Someone's impersonating her.

And so on. Maybe this was all just a long con to showcase a new movie, documentary, or game. ARGs or alternative reality games. A clever way to market a new. concept have proven wildly successful in recent years, so it's not too far-fetched. Eventually, I would just automate a dismissal, even as the reports got more frantic and pleading. I couldn't keep wasting my time on it, not when we had an influx of Nazi propaganda, animal abuse, and God knows what else floating around freely. That would prove to be one of my biggest mistakes.

A series of videos entitled Happy Home Tour would be uploaded on the night of August 16, 2019. In the first one, Sadie was holding the camera as she walked around her rather modest estate. Hi, guys, so I wanted to show you all how I lived and what it was like to be in my home. My therapist says this is an important part of their therapy technique that doing this will help me process. Not sure how, but why not? And you all get to see in the process. We'll start in the entrance. This is the hallway and foyer leading into the grand living room.

A good journey always starts here. The camera panned the wall and went through the crimson alleyway. Paintings hanging on the walls of artists I didn't recognize. It lingered over one painting I did know. Cronos devouring his son by Francisco Goya. The camera shook slightly before the jubilant voice returned and she turned into the living room. It took a minute to realize what was wrong with the scene. Like my eyes weren't quite adjusted, despite the years of ugliness I'd been exposed to. Sadie talked over it like it was nothing, panning around a large open space. filled with antiques, bespoke furniture, and a roaring fireplace. Yeah, so this is the living room. We spend a lot of time relaxing here and thinking on our lives up to this point. How we got here, where we're going, and what to do with that time. Usual old stuff, right? In the center of the living room was a tarp, smeared with blood and dirty utensils

strewn about it carelessly. Something was writhing in a body bag as she came across it. Well, this is it for the living room. Stay tuned for our next entry in the Happy Home Tour. Bye-bye. Sweat filled my brow as I immediately dialed the authorities before pausing and my rational brain kicked in. This could still be an ARG. You have to do your job.

I continued on to the next video, knowing it was my job to see this through to the end, whether I wanted to or not. Welcome back to the happy home tour. This time we're going to start in the kitchen before taking a look at the upstairs bedrooms where a special secret is waiting for us. Let's go. The woman were acting as if she were a YouTube. blogger with an infectious personality, but after what I'd seen, I felt sick. So here's our kitchen. We make some truly yummy meals in here. We make sure to never waste a morsel and anyone who steps through our door gets fed. She scans the room briefly.

Knives are scattered across the marble countertop and something is boiling on the stove. I hear the sound of a closet door creaking open before Sadie's foot smashed against it with extreme prejudice. Now we move to the first bedroom. Come on. She races up the stairs and the paintings on the All are a blur of colors and briefly spied scenes of violence filled the screen until she reached the pink door. Junie's special room. My stomach dropped into my feet. I know something is behind that door that I don't want to see, but it's my job. So I continued.

This is a special room for Junie. Well, mine too. See, me, Junie, and Guthrie all have our own rooms, but Sadie and I sometimes have sleepovers and share. The camera shakes violently as Sadie's hand is placed on the room. the door and for the first time I can detect genuine fear in her voice. Oh, a tunie doesn't want me to go in there. She says that she's got to be the one to give the tour. A pause, then a lower, gruffer voice calls out from behind the camera.

All right, fuckers, let's dive in. She kicks the door and light pulls into the room. I don't know what I expected, maybe some frilly pink and almost childlike toys to match the clearly cracked mental state of this woman. No. It was barren. The floorboard scratched to hell and the windows covered with thick wood and tinfoil. A filthy mattress sat in the corner with a pile of princess clothes by the side. Junie made an ear-piercing shriek as she stepped into the room, like a war cry. Then, for the briefest of seconds, I see someone curled up in the corner, emaciated, matted hair and almost

naked, as milky, sun-bleached eyes fixate on the camera and grow wide with fear. They shake uncontrollable. and shriek back at the camera before the video ends. I can't tell if it's a child, an imprisoned person, or just more of a setup for this pseudo-game or art piece of some weirdo setting up for their debut at a film festival, but I'm thoroughly unsettled. I'm the team manager, but I can tell this is above my pay grade, and before I click the final video, I call over to my ops manager, Lloyd. He's young, vivacious, and knowledgeable.

Toes the company line, but knows full well how much strain we're under. He keeps his distance from the really gritty stuff, especially after what happened to his predecessor. He commented on how messed up it is, but it doesn't warrant a removal. He asked if I could handle the last one, said he'd do a check on the name and report to the authorities, even hoping it's an actress. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, telling me he'd make sure me and my team rotated around after this one was done. All I could do was smile and nod. I didn't like where it was going, but you sign up for this, so you do it. Third video loads, and it's an unflattering shot of Sadie, as if she wasn't fully aware

the camera was on. Her left eye was half open and the other was wide. People dilated and her lips parted. She was marveling at something. Off camera, something smacked against the floor repeatedly. You know what's really good about windows? I mean, aside from the obvious of letting in light and being practical. She laughs and it's shrill hoarse unsettling.

The camera passes, and I see another one on the floor thrashing. They're amazing conduits for the other side. Think of a mirror. You are always blocking the view to that other place. That better place where everything you want is there. You are quite literally standing in your own way, but not with a window. No, sirree. A window can be just a normal apparatus of glass and material, unless you know how to make it something else, like I do.

The camera pans to the hallway. It is covered in the thick transatlantic. lucent tarp from before. Four bodies wrapped in layers upon layers of cling film, and a thick liquid that pulled around them and led to the door. The camera passing over each of the thrashing bodies of different sizes and a note affixed to each one. Sadie, Guthrie, Junie, Michael.

What the hell was going on? The camera stops outside a black charred door. A pale blue light leaked out from the gap in the bottom. The camera fuzzed over and distorted when it focused on. But the woman kept speaking. Her voice quivered as she spoke. What lies in this house is nothing but dead memories. What lays beyond the window is devoid of suffering.

No pain. No judgment for being who I am. Or for things I cannot control. At least I can take someone new with me, unsullied. And that's when I heard it. The crying of the baby. CPS had checked, assured it wasn't a baby. but I could hear it clear as day.

The camera focused on just Sadie's face as she opened the door and the blue light covered her face. She cried, tears of joy as the baby screamed. My legs tensed up, heart racing. It's everything I wanted it to be. She took steps into the room and didn't hesitate to open the window, letting in a gust of air as she smiled and took one last look at the camera. Time to start again. I hope when you find your window, you have the courage to step through.

It too. She lit a match and I saw something flicker in the dark corner of the room. Then she threw it behind her and grinned. The video ended and was frozen by the image of her manic grin. I took the video down, but the damage was already done and made copies of the video to share around. It would come out that a woman in the area had lured in and kidnapped down on their luck citizens and runaways, keeping them in the home and drugging them as they slept.

People were convinced someone must have helped her, but there was no signs of an accomplice. Last I heard, they were shifting through the rubble to find a scrap of evidence or information about the bodies, the woman or anything. They turned up two pieces of information, two things that haunted me long after I closed the case and took annual leave. The first was that there was no window on the second floor remotely large enough for her to fit through. The sole operable window was in the bathroom, and not only did the decor in the video not match,

but it needed a lot more effort to get through. was that they found the remains of one verifiable victim, Miss Sanford, and she was eight months pregnant. I hate interacting with other human beings nowadays. Being a social media moderator for so long taught me to spot red flags all over. Every archetype laid bare, and each one possessing all capabilities to be the next one on the reporting chopping block for those that would make your stomach turn. Someone had to say something. These are just a few examples of the ones that go on behind closed doors, both in the homes of these animals of these animals. and the corporate world that monitors and safeguards against their content.

What you have seen reported in exclusive articles or come out in court is a fraction of the true horrors. Maybe I'll share some more, who knows? Give me a couple days to decompress and keep your eyes peeled. It was an instant following in the footsteps of the happy home tour that would lead me to resigning the job and becoming a full-time freelancer in journalism. I'd always had a knack for words, and investigative journalism just had a good ring to it. I needed something to get up for in the morning.

It also reminded me that for all the monsters that lurk in the shadows, the nightmares we talk about around campfires and beasts we fear will come in the night and snatch us away. There are meters away from us at all times, connected through a screen and able to share their exploits with the world. Delete your social media, or at least to limit your exposure to it. Spending too much time on there is like wading in the shadows of a black sea. You have no idea what kind of creatures are waiting for you in the depths. Report 4. Drive. I want to start off by telling you about another employee on our sister building,

Yardley Heights, and what Nicholas did leading up to his dismissal. Some have mentioned surprised that Jeff caught prison time for his assault of the dirty little neckbeard sharing hate and under-edge nudes. I agree. He shouldn't have, but when you permanently blind a guy and shatter his teeth with a beating, you're not going to get let off with a warning. However, I feel like after what Nicholas was caught doing, it's good that we have harsher rules for people in charge of the data who abuse it. Someone has to watch the watchman. Nicholas was an in-cell.

There's no pleasant way to say it. It's not political. It's just a fact. He wasn't bad looking, really. Tall, gangly, and very intelligent. Nicholas's problem stemmed from not understanding social norms. For example, sharing with your coworker that you really like feet when they're wearing sandals or that a woman who turns you down because she has a boyfriend is a Stacey and a thought.

He would routinely make hurtful memes and put them in the break room, a little friend group back home calling him based and egging him on to try bolder tactics, like being a true alpha. All of this is pretty cringe, I know. In the intervening ten years, it seems not much has changed. Nobody likes talking about these guys, let alone hearing about it, but given what happened, it warrants discussion. After all, I'm here to tell you about what you don't see, right? Nicholas is fielding reports and stumbles across a girl's leaked nudes.

He immediately boasted. He didn't care that she might be underage, that these are private photos. He downloads them without any care, and it only takes RIT guys a half an hour or less to notify our boss. He's caught and reprimanded with suspension pending investigation, but he already knows he's going to be fired and potentially prosecuted. Yet, they failed to overlook one important fact. Nicholas had the rest of her private information when he got the flag, and he saved it.

Nicholas was spotted driving across state lines in his dad's car. His last known movements show him turning into an alley and not emerging from the other side. His account was being monitored, and posts that would fit his behavior were kept a close eye on. Sure enough, three posts of note would pop up. Two from his personal account, and one from an anonymous board fielding information only he would have. Two personal posts were a photo of him holding a girl and positively beaming, kissing her on the forehead. There were tears in her eyes. The caption,

Finally met my goddess! This, tonight is going to be amazing. Then we're going to have a grand finale. His few friends and family responding begged him to get in touch with them, that he needed to speak to the authorities, but Nicholas ignored them, as he did with every phone call from his parents and psychologist. Then two hours later, a post was made to an anonymous board with several photos that when sent to us made my blood run cold, and Nicholas's manager quit before taking her life some months later with a written apology to the girl's family. Hey, bros, I did it. I got the girl of my dreams. She's a real cute E-girl, and I can't believe I was so lucky. It must have been fate that her photos came up on my computer. I believe God wanted me to have her. Like in the olden days, take the woman you want and make her your wife. Even if that's by force,

you can't stop destiny, right? I never would have gotten this far without you guys, without this place. You all showed me how to be a real man. To step out of my own beta male shadow and take what's rightfully mine. We had a magical night. But she's growing cold towards me. It's time to speed things up. I'll see you in the afterlife, bros. I hope you get your girls too.

I'll be welcomed with open arms. F. Nicholas. It only added one photo to go with the post. A photo of the dashboard of his car, speeding down a road and towards a cliff edge. When they eventually found the wreckage, both of them were found inside, jarred to bits. Nicholas had his arms wrapped around the poor girl, even in death. Report 5. New face, old face. I have a couple of weird ones I want to share with you. After our last reports of animal and child abuse, I wanted to switch things up and share some of the

more odd occurrences. Don't worry, it's still stomach churningly, gross, and grim. I just don't like delving into detail on those subjects. You know how it is. Nobody has fun reading them. It was in the fall of 2021. It had been a solid three months since I'd had a major incident, just the usual inappropriate pictures, racist commentary, an occasion violent video or execution. I realize that sounds horrific, and it is, but I wouldn't be here if every little thing affected me. Contrary to what some people think, we are made of sterner stuff here. We wouldn't make it otherwise. began getting flooded for spam report and multiple users were reporting that they couldn't even use the site because they were getting post notifications and comments from the same account,

new face, old face. It was astronomical how much they were interacting with these people, thousands of comments simply saying, I like your face over and over. A bot script running at peak efficiency was my guess. Checking their profile, I immediately felt unsettled. Their profile picture was them with a paper mache mask, and their eyes drawn in a Picasso style and the skin crinkled in the corners, cracked in other places. Their bio just had that unsettling vibe.

New face, old face, art, dancing, windows, always searching for more. Sure, without the visual aid, that just seems like some child's attempt at being spooky, but having those uneven eyes staring at you while you scan their profile was a different kind of creepy. I scrolled down and noticed that they had a normal amount of friends, none of which had profile pictures, A series of posts just dating more of the same from their bio and a single video. The video was something straight out of a nightmare fuel gallery. It was late in the office and my only other two colleagues were across the hall. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up as I hit play.

The camera was positioned in a long hallway, the only light coming from behind, an eerie blue hue just barely illuminating the surroundings and ensuring the remainder of the front was enshrouded in darkness. You face! Something called out, echoing along the walls. High-pitched and scratchy. Old face. More gravely, getting closer.

You face! They chanted the name in this strange fashion as something stirred in the darkness, taking tentative steps with each iteration of the calling. They were wearing an all-black morph suit, walking backwards on their hands and knees. They must have been a contortionist because their joints should have snapped under the pressure. On their torso lay something white and pink. Their head was tucked in until they were in perfect line of sight with the camera. They pushed their chest up, and I swear I heard a cracking sound, the small shape that sat there flying into the air and being caught by their left hand.

Their head snapped up, and those unsettling Picasso-drawn eyes met the camera lens. They held the item up to the screen, and I felt that sense of being sized up by something far more powerful than I am. The bile rose in my throat as it came into view. A perfectly reconstructed face, lips somehow looking plump, a bit of color in the cheeks, a scar across the chin, a mole over the eyebrow and flopping around in his hand. It looked too real. And then he began pulling up the bottom of the mask. A bright red chin and broken teeth came into view for just a second as the video ended

with two more words that chilled me. My face! I immediately banned the account for spam and sent responses to the people who had complained. them responded with a thank you, save one. Their profile picture had been taken off, and all the information on them had been removed, as if the account was deactivated. I made a note of it and signed off for the night, happy I'd put in a good night's work. When I got in for my next shift a couple days later, I was pulled into a side room by my

ops manager and someone I didn't recognize. They wore black shades and said very little to begin with. The ops manager asked me if I remembered the situation the other night with the mass spam reports. Yeah, what about it? His lips pursed, and he asked me if I recalled the profile I shut down, what I remembered of it. I paused, casting my mind back to that unsettling page. They had a weird profile, like an art project, maybe only 20 friends, all of them with

no pictures. The other one chimed in, asking if I could check the accounts. His voice was low, authoritative, serious. I felt uneasy. No. Why would I? They exchanged a look and put a piece of paper in front of me. A missing persons report with the name of the final account I couldn't get in touch with,

a young man. But it wasn't the report that scared me. It was his face. The smile, the lights of his eyes, and the scar on his chin. It took me some time to calm down, and I was assured I'd done nothing wrong. I just stumbled over something that was out of my depth and the other guy took over, someone from the FBI looking into the missing persons and, if they were connected, my company natural worked closely with them.

There wasn't much I could offer them. Sadly, just told them what I knew and promised I'd be on the lookout, hoping I'd never see such a side again. But when it comes to the most awful things this place has, they don't stay hidden for too long. And it would ultimately contribute to why I left the profession, or was forced out. Depends on how you look at it. Maybe I'll tell you all about it soon. One more for the road.

Maybe I'll come back and share some more. There's still a few left in the tank, and if people care, I'll keep sharing. But it's not about the destination, so much as the journey, right? Let's talk about Report 6, the safekeepers. We talked before about someone who clearly liked faces far too much, fetacizing it and twisting it into something truly horrific. What about when a normal face, the kind you see every time you go on the internet or social media, is what chills you the most?

A couple of statistics for you before we begin. Someone goes missing every 90 seconds. In the time it's taking you to get this far, half a dozen people. people are more have vanished into thin air. They are more likely to be under 20 years old, and twice as likely to be female. Half of them are intentional runaways, a quarter are eventually found safe and well. The last quarter never turn up. Of the 350,000 that will go missing in a standard year, 5,500 never turn up. If they're not found within a few weeks, they're likely to never turn up again. Now ask yourself, why do we find so few? I say this because there's vast

metrics of data available at our fingertips and they utilize as much up-to-date info as possible to assist us and vice versa in our mission to help raise flags for authorities when someone's account is flagged because they're missing, either by a mutual friend. This is common if the person is suicidal and expresses as such, or if they suspect harm could come to them. But there are places that operate under the radar with far more up-to-date information. Enter, we must find them. A professional page set up in 2012 that routinely shares Amber Alerts,

uplifting posts and generally helpful information about missing persons and resources that you can use to share awareness, all that good stuff. Of course, that's not it. First report about the page came with a message from the user. Search up Safekeepers. I asked my colleague wanted to find what she could while I checked over the initial report. They claimed the page was sending out coded messages embedded within the code of their videos, photos, and occasionally cipher coded in their Amber Alerts.

It attracted so much interest that there was even a group. dedicated to solving it that seemed odd. Sure enough, Wanda found a closed group called the Safekeepers, and of the 200 or so, a handful of studious members dominated the posts. A lot of wild theories were being thrown around, very similar to the Wayfair scandal we saw recently, mostly baseless claims from two particular keepers, Stu Bryant and Dom Machado, both of which described themselves as avid codebreakers and proud conspiracy theorists on their respective profiles.

Ordinary guys, just a bit too much time on their hands. Scrolling back through their post, you see them flagging small, innocuous details and claiming it pointed to obvious death cults taking these poor innocent people. Or asking, as anyone else noticed that they just vanished? You know how you vanish? Hollow Earth. It wasn't exactly the scientific method, and I found myself actually chuckling at a couple of them.

It was harmless fun. After a year and a half, however, they'd amassed a small group of other dedicated scholars. And they'd become extremely focused on hard facts. I don't know if it was the thrill of the chase making them work at their craft, or just an audience, but they began finding legitimate messages hidden in some of the advertisement videos and the page put up when providing information on a missing person or layered in a photo. Things took a turn about three months prior to when they'd notified me.

Dominic shared an email sent to his work email that he did not give out. He captioned it simply, guys, they know. From Hello at We Must Find Them.org to D. Machado, subject. Esmeralda, 1911, 17. It started on a black screen, a low, staticy drone playing in the background as white text flickered. Esmeralda Mikado, 13 years old. Loves her poppy. Best friends Sarah and Mara.

Still scared of shadows. The image shifted, and I felt sick. A photo of who I assumed was Asmerelda smiling in her school picture, steadily being distorted and twisted as the next set of text appeared. She went missing on her way home from school. It took her alcoholic mother and absentee father a full day to realize she was gone. They thought she was at a friend's house. The image shifted once more and my hands started shaking as I took in what I was seeing,

a photo of Esmeralda walking home, the sun setting earlier with it being the winter. The photo was grainy. The car it was taken from was moving steadily and getting agonizingly close to her, without her even knowing. She's with us now. Keep safe. A photo of an open solitary window flashes for a few seconds as a high-pitched alarm flares for a moment, mocking the group before switching to a blackened screen with those eponymous words from their page that took on a far more sinister meaning in the light of the content.

We must find them. Dominic's daughter had indeed gone missing. He was separated from her mother and had visitations on weekends. Her mother was so drunk she'd simply assumed she'd been at her friends. By the time Dominic raised the alarm, valuable time had passed, and the search was hampered by investigation issues. Whoever was last involved, they'd passed on the info to the police, and the page had been investigated, but it couldn't be proved it came from the page,

and the website was defunct. They never found Esmeralda, and Dominic completely gave up on posting to the group. leaving it to Stu and a dedicated collective. Stu picked up the slack in his colleagues' absence, reminding people constantly of Esmeralda's disappearance and sharing posts the page would make to bring up more inconsistencies and accusing them of all sorts of things, sometimes baseless and out of anger, other times clear work put into their process. The penultimate post from Stee said he had something groundbreaking, thanks to a tip from a reliable

source, and exposing the page for who they are and what they are doing. So you're asking where the report comes in, right? Another video got posted by Stu, another personalized warning. Stu didn't have children, but he did have a brother he adored, and the page found out about it. Black screen, read text, a somber and pitch-shifted song crooning in the background. C.J. Bryant, 18 years old, just got his girlfriend pregnant. Hadn't told his best friend and big bro, Stu, yet. I was excited to see him as an uncle.

This time, the photo they displayed of CJ showed him sleeping in his bed, a tall shadow looming over him. He has no idea. Another distorted window flashes up with the same taunting message. He's with us now. Keep safe. The video goes black. CJ was taken from his home without a struggle and without witnesses in the dead of the night while Stu was working the night shift. He was an athletic young man and was somehow subdued and captured without any resistance.

That terrifies me. But instead of the video going to their organization's name, it added something extra. Something that would cause me to leap out of my seat and have a panic attack, something we would raise a red alert over and set off alarm bells up the chain of command. I wouldn't go back home until I was assured a patrol car and a gun. We've recently encountered resistance. Unwanted eyes are upon us. As such, we are entering into a partnership to keep them hidden. Keep them safe.

A series of photos of my entire team, including me, flashed up on screen as a slowed-down, pitch-shifted version of the police's every breath you take played. Those infamous words burned into my brain even now, putting me on high alert more than anything else would ever do in this job. Because when we gaze into the abyss and someone stares back, it is the most terrifying experience and no amount of page deletions and removals would blind the many eyes now watching us intently. We must find them. Your partner.

I felt the bile razz up in my throat at the mere name flashing on screen. Red text. Flashing. To the backdrop of an open window. Mr. Payne. I have to be honest. I've been keeping something from you all. I never got to my dream of being a journalist.

I didn't voluntarily leave the profession. I had a mental breakdown and was forced out of the job. I was always going to tell this story. There was never any hesitation in that. I think I was just scared to face the truth of how it was an end. face the truth of how it ended, the truth of how I got to where I am today. I don't know how many more of these I have in me, but there's a damn good reason I'm sharing these. So I'll keep going until we cross the finish line. In the immediate aftermath of the

previous events, management shuffled us around and ensured we had protection for the foreseeable future. With the risk made at our group and employees, we were told to work from home with specially provided work computers. I didn't mind. I wanted to be isolated and away from the rest of humanity for the most part anyway. These experiences are from after the newfound collaboration between Mr. Payne and the We Must Find Them charity organization. I'm running out of time, so I will endeavor to get as much of this wrapped up as possible before the end.

You need to know why Mr. Payne poses such a threat, why social media is so dangerous, and what they are keeping from you. After I began working from home, we'd get the usual reports flooding in, if anything more than usual. Being anonymous online and freedom of consequences sure know how to make people use the best of their time, doom scrolling, and other things. The change of location didn't do much to remedy my anxiety. I couldn't even take everything from my house, given how fast I had to leave and go into hiding,

but beggars can't be choosers, can they? My sanity by this point was beginning to wane. I was so tired of seeing the dredges of society displaying their behavior for all to see. I was disgusted that I'd become so desensitized to the abhorrent behavior of the most, and that now only the most vile of behaviors got a rise out of me. I hated who I was becoming, more so when I had to take up a side gig that I was not proud of in order to pay the bills and a therapist, who was admittedly a huge help with centering myself, focusing my energy, and directing it into what they said was a tulpa to hold up my negative

emotions, theoretically, but we'll get back to that. Let's start with Report 7, Carmichael's Secret Trail. We began getting reports of hateful commentary on Carmichael's content in the early hours of a dreary Thursday morning. Upon looking, I could see that in the past he'd made some colorful observations on interracial relationships, so I removed the content and gave him a warning. But curiosity got the better of me, so I looked at the rest of his page. What I found was far more surprising and disturbing than those comments.

Carmichael was a Sherpa of sorts. He would guide folks around the cave systems and forest trails in his state. He had the time to understand both was beyond me, but judging from his vlogs, he knew quite a bit. It was his third to last video, however, that piqued my interest. Window. There it was again. That word.

Clicking on it. The camera was panned down and focused on what I assumed Carmichael's feet, twigs and leaves crunching underneath his boots as he walked on the trail in silence for four and a half minutes, before coming into a clearing and resting the phone on a rock, sitting in front of it. He looked stressed, tired, and more than a little on edge. So, uh, this is the last place my last client asked me to take him. He said he'd gotten lost and that his home was somewhere out here. I assumed a log cabin or something, but when we got close to the clearing, it became obvious.

There was nothing. I didn't know if he wanted to queer up with me or kill me, but I wasn't taking the chance. So I politely said my goodbyes and walked off without another thought, but... His hands ran along themselves nervously, and he grabbed the phone, panning it around to show absolutely nothing in the clearing. I heard the unmistakable sound of someone walking into a house. The door closing behind them. I spun around and looked for some kind of trap door or prank being played on me, but... No.

There was nothing. Like he never fucking existed. The video quickly pans up. Carmichael hears something in the distance and a flock of birds fly away, his hands shake and he tries to calm himself. But as I finish looking around, I could see something in the tree line opposite me, barely visible if you weren't looking for it. He started giggling, but it's a nervous laugh, and as he zooms in, I can see why. A window, situated in the center of a large oak tree just visible from the tree line. What was that doing here?

The video ended, and I immediately looked at the next one, which showed a terrified Carmichael running through the forest in the dark, some unseen people or animals chasing after him. All manner of hooping and hollering, echoing around the forest as his whimpers grew in intensity. Eventually, he stumbled into the parking lot and gets to his car, placing the phone in its holster and driving off, crying uncontrollably the entire time. The video goes on like this for another 14 minutes before Carmichael pulls over and stops, calming himself down and taking the camera. I saw what was in that window.

It shouldn't. He was caught between a state of laughter and crying, unsure of which to go to. I have to go back. I have to see where it leads. This could be a magical trail. This could be the magical trail. The one I've been searching for.

I paused the video and looked back at his history. This guy had been searching for mythical trails for four years. He'd been a large Hollow Worth theorist and was an avid Spelunker who documented his experiences. He had next to no following, but it didn't seem to stop him. His content always seemed to be directed at some group in particular, perhaps one avid user. I clicked back and watched the rest. He resolved to go back out there and would update when he'd arrived. He never did.

Instead, a post is made by someone else and pinned to the top of the page. To everyone who followed this page, Carmichael went out of the forest in our area three days ago and hasn't returned. His truck was in the parking lot, but nothing of no to the seats. The police have been called and were searching, but nothing has come up. Our family is devastated, and we decided that this would be an appropriate way to inform you and gather info. Carmichael was a troubled but kind young man, a son I'm proud of, despite our strained relationship. He adored running this page, and he adored his passion for sightseeing. If you know anything about his disappearance, you can contact our local county PD below.

Anything would help. Thank you. Lucy O'Donnell, Carmichael's mom. O'Donnell, a name I would come to remember. The last comment was enough to make me quarantine the account and clock out early. He's safe, I can assure you. Posted by, We Must Find Him. It only gets worse as we approach the end. Report 8.

What's in My Happy Meal. Any of you familiar with a certain board known of the horrific legend that is, What Do I Keep in My Freezer? Well, if you aren't, it's going to be one hell of a ride for you. Reports have been stacking up on this one for some time, but due to the move, we hadn't had the opportunity to check it ourselves, and the covering team were a bunch of shitty temps that didn't want or care to do their job properly in the first place. So by the time I got to it, there were over two dozen reports, and I was shocked that

no media outlet had picked it up. The page was simple. Cran logo and basic posts. Many of the pictures were various happy meals you'd find from the fast food chain. toys, burgers, and nuggets, but as is the way with these experiences, they began to change. First one of note was a post made around four months prior to being flagged. He'd posted a gallery of photos entitled Feeding Frenzy and pulled out the following from his happy meal box.

Apple slices, a large bullfrog, and a wet brown bag. The photos were moment-to-moment actions, not missing a single thing. The hand stroking the bullfrog, the apple slices being chewed off camera, and the wet-brown. brown bag being opened. Ears, noses, fingers, and parts I can't bring myself to mention were taken out of the bag and fed to the bullfrog. I want to believe they were prosthetics, but the still dripping blood, staining the white table he filmed on led my logical brain to believe otherwise.

Gallery flagged, report taken. On to the next one. A bigger bag, already down on the table, this time he pulls out the following. A Transformer's toy, a hammer, a hand. And it was still twitching. and I immediately feel dread set in. He raises the hammer and begins striking at every joint until the hand is a malformed, bloodied, broken mess.

Then he does something that forces me to walk away from my desk for a few minutes, contemplating if I had it in me to finish the report or if I could simply just burn my laptop and be done with it. He squats down, we see the gate of a huge man enter the frame. His body was cloaked in a leather black outfit and a macabre, latex, and iron mask filled with hooks, scratches, and damages. But the mouth was left free. Pearly white so bright they looked almost fake, were bared as he opened his jaw wide,

and bit down hard on the latex finger, taking it off in one go. Blood spurred it all over the canvas, but he didn't flinch as he finished his meal, chewing off two more fingers before grabbing the twitching pale palm and using a bloody nub that was formerly a finger to write a message in their rapidly pooling blood. I felt sick, but not nearly as scared as when the last two photos scrolled into view. the only pair of the entire gallery that were captioned. The first reading, Bite the Hand That Feeds. The photo itself focused on the message this sicko had made the victim's hand right.

Mr. Payne. Sweat poured down my brow and my hand shook as I scrolled on. That feeling of being prey on the feeding grounds of a hungry predator overwhelming me. The last photo in the gallery only served to further that concern and a rushed call to our ops manager, After begging him to get someone around here, ASAP, it was a photo of a window in the dead of night, my window, a strange familiar glow emitting from the pains. Soon I... It was around this time the job started to fade into white noise and my mental health declined.

I clocked in, removed as many ugly, hateful comments as I could, and ignored the sea of horrific images and videos. I slept less, ate less, I became a shell of myself, but I was functioning. Then, the phone call started, always in the dead of night, always when I was truly asleep, as if they knew it would have the maximum effect at rousing me from sleep and setting me on edge. Because I was a senior moderator at this point, I was on call regularly, and so it became a habit to snap awake and alert. For those first few weeks, I'd pick up and immediately know it wasn't work.

The sounds of suffering ripping through the phone, pained groans and laughter before ending with the same line in that deep, ugly. tone. Your window is the best. We must find them. I hated it. I felt gripped with fear in that I could do nothing but sit there and listen. One night, after a particularly challenging evening, I plucked up the courage to fight through

the anxiety and exhaustion and stand my ground. Truth be told, I was just burnt out. You sickos want me? Come have me. You're at my window? Show yourselves. I won't hide. Do you hear me?

It croaked back. Someone laughing in the back. I slammed a phone down and hyperventilated, knowing I can never pick up the call again. My wife would pick up when my anxiety was too bad, but she'd always reply with the same thing. If I find you, I'll fucking end you. My wife was the assertive one at the time, and I liked it that way. She was a professional fighter, and I preferred being behind the action, watching it from the sidelines or calling it from the booth.

Yeah, I guess it's time I told you the truth, why I've been sharing these experiences. The job became too much for me. I had to start taking separate side gigs just to disconnect from the trauma. That led me to an ex-colleague who I knew was running a rule-violating page on Facebook, one that I looked the other way on for the money it offered, a discussion page that acted as a gateway to dark web fights. He was fired for separate issues, namely knowing how to manipulate his reporting figures and ultimately cutting deals with people he shouldn't in order to make extra money.

I won't reveal his name. I'm not that stupid. But if I'd known his affiliation at the time or what would come of it, well, I'd have caved his skull in right there and then. Hey, man, you've been working so hard. I bet you want to make some extra cheddar and get rid of the shit stain that is moderating, right? He took a hip from his bong before continuing. The man was never stressed, and I envied him badly for that.

Come on, man. You got a great voice, and he used to do commentary for fun before, right? It will pay you well. And if the clients like you, there's a lot more work in it. What do you say? I looked at my wife, knowing she was exhausted from the experience as I was. She told me for so many years to change jobs and just indulge my passion. I loved that about her.

I couldn't keep putting her through this. Fine. What do you need and when do you need it? I replied, hands shaking. Unwilling to let these people dictate my life anymore. My buddy laughed and gave me the details. Ten days later, I was calling a slew of violent, ugly fights for the pleasure of high-paying clients in a hidden corner of the internet, and I'm ashamed to say I liked it.

Nobody was unwilling. Nobody was being tortured. It was simply two martial artists who agreed to fight to the bitter end, and viewers could donate weaponry or stimulants. But it was pure combat, a dream compared to what I dealt with at my job. At least these sickos were honest about who they were and what they wanted. Before long, I was making enough to leave the job and do my best to forget all about the monsters I dealt with. But, of course, they never forgot about me. I came home from a live show that my friend had booked for me, a night of bumfights and a special attraction match where a roided up fighter took on some kind of imported creature,

black scales and pale wide eyes, with a mouth large enough to engulf me in one go. You can guess how that went. The lights were off when I got home, safe for the bedroom window. My wife's car was nowhere to be seen. She'd been at training the night before and suffered a mild sprain. There was no way she'd gone anywhere. Honey? Are you in? What's going on? I called.

Immediate panic setting in as I went up to the bedroom where one of the lights was still on. An all too familiar shade of blue that I had seen before. Opening the door, I had just enough time to glimpse the horrors that lay within before I was smashed over the head and sent to the ground. my wife, held by old face, new face, and beaten, being led towards the window by someone I recognized, my therapist, Dr. Lynch. Doc? I don't... What are you doing? It was all I could think to blur it out before I felt the wracking of something against the back of my skull. Vision blurring as the figure walked over to me.

Salvatore Enzo Sabota. How long have you been coming to? to see me. How long did you spill your secrets and immerse yourself in my tulpa therapy? Hmm? Six months? You spent half a year coming to me and never once noticed the cameras in the room. The change in the atmosphere with every secret you spilled? My tulpa therapy wasn't mystic woo-hoo-who-hoo-sall. No, it was very... Very real. You put that energy somewhere, and now we know what to do with it.

Of course, that leaves the problem of you left behind. You have so many secrets and so much damage. Wouldn't it be better if you were set free of it? Free of the job of the memories of your wife? A clean slate, if you will. I'm giving you a gift. Your wife is getting hers. I said we must find them.

And now we have. We found you. Our prize that sets the wheels of consumption into motion. They knelt down and I could see the whites of their dead eyes. a pure sociopath staring back at me. The window glowed, and Nora fought as much as she could against her restrainer, calling out to me. Sal Hackins, I will never stop fighting for you. The window was open instead of the night sky, a hill overlooking a large town of strange structures littering the landscape.

But the great sign was impossible to ignore, earned into my mind. Welcome to Sturgeon, a window into the strange, and wonderful. Lynch nodded to the person above me and got to their feet smirking. Your paths diverge here. But perhaps we'll see one another again someday.

After your therapy, that is. Dr. Lynch stepped through the window with the others, and I remember my head rolling back long enough to see the person who struck me. The smell of burnt flesh across their body and the way they laughed. Mr. Payne. He brought a boot down on my skull

and everything went black. When I awoke, it was inside a white-padded cell without the ability to speak. An institute I would later find out was called St. Martin's Psychiatric Ward in Central Sturgeon. I was seen by doctors and orderlies who tried to communicate with me, but every time I tried to articulate, I'd simply yelp or scream without any control, trapped in my own body. It took three long, painful years of cognitive behavior therapy and physical recuperation to get to the point where I was able to process what had been done to me at the hands of Mr. Payne. From what I understand, he kept me as a personal pet and filmed various torture sessions

with me for the delight of his audiences, only discarding me when I began to regress into myself and stop responding to his methods. I don't know how he left me in a place that got me here and didn't implicate him, but I've done my best to put that bitterness behind me. I still don't know what Dr. Lynch meant by the Tulpa, but the wheels in motion part? Yeah, I think I got that one. You should all know the rest from here. The day I got out, still putting pieces of my broken mind together, I was recruited to do commentary

for the most depraved tournament in the world. I met so many people, good and bad. The boy, Carmichael O'Donnell, was the first victim of many I saw on the fateful night. I was reunited with Noah and then— Well, you know all about that. So here we are, my shitty confessional. I decided to tell you all this as a way of coming clean about who I am. I'm a big believer in the butterfly effect, and I still feel guilt for the mistakes I made that led us to being here.

But maybe we were always destined to find our way to Sturgeon. To this end, this is the part where I connect the dots together, so bear with me here. Things have been in motion for a while now. Old rivals stirring in the bowels of Sturgeon's underbelly in the wake of what happened. Last October, on the day of the fireflies, Nell Lockwood got a call to speak to Mayor Carstairs. One, she couldn't refuse, but on arrival, the eponymous last sin-eater discovered some terrifying truths. One, the mayor was dead, his seat of power vacant, and a new NFC tournament would be crowned

to determine its ruler. There was still one sin left she hadn't devoured all these years later. Prado, meaning betrayal. Somehow, inexplicably, it belonged to the one person in Sturgeon she never thought she'd see again. Buck McGraw. If you're not caught up, I'd suggest revisiting the events of the NFC I transcribed here a while ago and coming back, but in short, her mentor, her lover, the greatest hunter's Sturgeon had ever seen, a man who died well over a decade ago to stop Amos from completing the cycle,

now reanimated and representing a group known as the Grave-Diggers, an undead sect of individuals who will stop at nothing to bring the absolute death to Sturgeon. With that single event, the Rube Goldberg machine that was Sturgeon's delicate pettors, power ballots began to move, and everyone put their name forward to lay claim to both the right to rule and their own personal wish. I tried to settle into normal life here as best I could with my memories intact and no wife to share them with, training my body for the next tournament alongside Wendy in hopes I would someday get my revenge.

They switched to a team format this season, putting up not just freedom but the control of Sturgeon itself. I'm sure you'll see other competitors sharing their stories on the airwaves as we inch closer to oblivion, but some names you should be aware of ahead of time. The last sin-eater, Nell Lockwood, Wendigo Wendy Hatthale, Nightmare Catcher Eustace DeColta, Nightmare Detective Nester Holden and Edgar Allan Crowe banded together to form Team One, Aurora Boris Nexus. To protect Sturgeon above all else, not all members were revealed just yet, but I have high

hopes for how they'll do with Sturgeon's best and brightest. Team 2, known only by its little and soul-revealed member, The Dark Workshop, and the returning Blenraq Adal, Mr. Stairs. But less said about him, the better, if you know, you know. Team 3 is the one that scares me the most, the Void Walkers. Amos has resurfaced, some say fractured and broken around repair, but still alive and very much powerful. Alongside his other selves, as he put it, they plan to dominate, devour, and destroy.

I guess we'll have to wait to find out who was with that unholy abomination. Team 4 is the odd one, the Sturgeon Farmers Collective. The city's food distributors don't exactly scream fighters, but they're mysterious, feared, and one of the two hand-picked teams by the NFC Committee. No idea what more there is to say. They hide behind thick cloaks and dent and hats. Only speaking when spoken to. Team 5.

Well, you'll see. With Team 6 being the aforementioned gravediggers, we move on to the other handpick group. Team 7, the NFC Elite. Unlike the others, this team only has two members, the Jersey Devil, Zunk, and to my shock, Aldoan von Trere. No information on how that's possible, but I assume I'll learn more at the opening ceremony. Team 8 was the sole unknown committee, only going by a title that left a pit in my stomach, knowing full well there was a killer by that name in Sturgeon, the Order of the Anglerfish. So after seeing the teams, imagine my surprised when I saw the brackets and one of the teams that was featured, Team 5, the Order of the

Chameleon, featuring some names I didn't know as, such as the expressionless, the garbage man, and the meat clown, but three names I very much recognized, Old Face Newface, Dr. Lynch, and Mr. Payne. I wanted you all to know the kinds of monsters that lived on our normal side, the proliferate even now in the depths of social media, undeterred by the prospect of punishment and emboldened by a legion of anonymous users who care nothing for the victims they'll never meet in real life. They are all seeds that will someday sprout into new, more terrifying versions of the monsters I have faced. But now, to put on my best outfit and get behind that microphone one more time and put my life on the line alongside Sturgeon's Best, Nell, Wendy, Eustace, Nestor, and so many more are representing Sturgeon's

best to protect the future. So it's time to do the same. My name is Sal Suboda. I'm the commentator for a tournament of nightmares known as the NFC, and it's time we finish this.