Taken

Haisley

One by one, the notifications roll in, people asking if I'm okay, concerned friends wanting to reach out. I bite my lip and fight the urge to respond, my hands trembling slightly. My phone lights up with messages, but I turn it off, just like the screen demands.

The screen shifts again.

Disconnect from all internet sources, turn off everything except your laptop. No contact. Just wait.

My heart stutters. Disconnect everything? Just wait? For what?

I hesitate, but the pull of the game is relentless, a silent force pushing me to comply. I unplug the router, feeling my connection to the outside world snap. The silence that follows is deafening. No phone, no internet. Just me, alone in my house, with the darkness pressing in from all sides.

I look back at the laptop, half-expecting more instructions. But the screen remains still. Empty.

I swallow hard and sit there in the eerie quiet, waiting for… something. Anything. My thoughts spiral. What have I gotten myself into? The Devil's Dare—it doesn't feel like a dating game anymore. This feels like something much more dangerous.

I shift in my seat, eyes darting to the windows. The world outside seems still, but somehow I can't shake the feeling that something, or someone, is watching.

Grabbing my jacket, I decide to take a walk. Fresh air should help settle my nerves, right? I'm going crazy. It's just a dating game—that's all it is. How could they promote a dangerous game so widely? They can't. It's ridiculous.

I walk to the door and reach for the handle, pulling it down. But nothing happens. Frowning, I turn the key, expecting the familiar click of the lock disengaging. Still nothing. The panic starts to rise in my chest as I yank on the door harder, pulling with all my strength. It doesn't budge.

I move to the windows, trying to prise them open, but they, too, are locked—sealed tight as if they were never meant to open. My hands tremble, panic now clawing at the back of my mind. How? None of these locks were engaged before. How is this even possible?

I stumble back, breathing heavily, confusion and fear twisting into one suffocating knot in my chest. This doesn't make any sense. The door was unlocked. The windows were unlocked. So why in the hell can't I get out?

A soft beep breaks the silence.

I whirl around, my eyes snapping to the laptop screen. It's glowing again, a new message slowly typing itself across the screen:

No leaving is allowed. Wait until the next instructions are sent. There is no way out.

My stomach drops.

No way out? I stare at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. How can there be no way out? I turned the key. I tried the handle. Everything is locked down tight, like the room itself is holding me prisoner.

Panic claws at me. The instinct to run is overwhelming, my body screaming to fight, to smash the window, to do anything to escape. But it's just a game, right? Just a stupid, twisted game.

How can they see me?

I glance around the room, paranoia gripping me. Is there a camera? Are they watching through my laptop? How do they know I tried to leave?

I stand frozen, eyes darting around my apartment, every shadow suddenly sinister, every noise too loud. I feel like I'm being watched, like there's something lurking just out of sight, waiting for me to break the rules.

The door remains locked, my thoughts racing as I pace the room, trying to shake the growing dread that clings to me. Hours stretch out like an eternity, the silence suffocating. My mind keeps returning to the game—how it knows I tried to leave, how it has me trapped here. I can't stop thinking about that message: No way out.

Suddenly, a new beep slices through the quiet, and I turn toward the laptop. The screen is alive again, and this time, another message appears, cold and impersonal:

Watch the video. Now.

A link flashes underneath the text. My fingers hover over the trackpad, trembling as I hesitate. Every instinct screams not to click it, but the screen seems to pulse, drawing me in, like it's already made the choice for me.

I click.

The video player opens, and for a second, nothing happens. Then, like a storm, a rush of chaotic images and words fills the screen—blurry, distorted, constantly shifting. Faces I don't recognize flicker by in rapid succession, their mouths open in silent screams, while symbols and words flash too quickly for me to read. A slow, steady ticking sound echoes in the background, growing louder, more insistent.

In the middle of the chaos, a pendant appears, swinging back and forth in time with the ticking. It swings hypnotically, its movement slow but impossibly mesmerizing. I try to look away, but my eyes are glued to it, following its path, feeling it tug at something deep inside my mind.

Then, just when I think the video can't get any worse, the screen flickers again. From the shifting images, a figure starts to take shape—some sort of creature with glowing red eyes and dark, twisted horns, its body shrouded in blackness. The creature leans closer to the screen, its eyes burning into mine. It's not just a video anymore. It's watching me.

I want to scream, to get up and run, but my body won't respond. My limbs are heavy, unmovable. Panic rises as I realize I can't even blink. My mind races, screaming for my body to move, but I'm trapped—just an observer, helpless, powerless. I'm no longer in control.

The creature's face fills the screen now, the shadows twisting around it like smoke. My vision blurs as the pendant continues to swing, lulling me into a dizzying haze. I feel myself slipping, my thoughts dulling, my consciousness fading away.

And then—darkness.

Everything goes black, and I feel myself falling, tumbling into an endless void. The last thing I see are those burning red eyes, searing themselves into my mind as I lose myself completely.