diary of the Backrooms
In the interstices of existence, where cosmic threads fray and dimensions converge, I, a weaver of improbable narratives, present to you a chronicle—a mortal flung into the Backroom, that dimly lit dimension where the remnants of shattered realities coalesce. Here, fragments of forgotten worlds gather like dust motes, and the air hums with the echoes of vanished civilizations.
Level 0, they call it—an innocuous designation for a place that defies mortal comprehension. Imagine, if you will, a labyrinthine expanse of corridors, each stretching into infinity. The walls, a mélange of peeling wallpaper and faded paint, whisper secrets to those who listen. The floors—uneven, warped—yield underfoot, as if bearing the weight of countless footsteps across eons.
Our mortal protagonist, nameless and bewildered, awakens here. His senses, attuned to the peculiarities of this realm, detect the faint scent of mildew and the distant drip of water. His diary, a fragile tether to sanity, lies open before him—a canvas for musings, observations, and the cryptic comments of otherworldly beings.
The Backroom, you see, is no mere curiosity. It is a cosmic timepass—a diversion for entities like myself, who traverse the multiverse with idle curiosity. We fling mortals into its depths, like dice cast upon a celestial board. Some arrive willingly, seeking answers or escape; others stumble in, lost between dimensions.
And so, our mortal scribe begins his entries:
“I wake up in this strange place. The walls look weird, like they’re bending in impossible ways. Is this some kind of dream? I hear faint voices telling me to find a crimson door. But where is it, and what’s on the other side?”
Dear reader, your role is pivotal. You, a transient consciousness, can shape his fate. Offer hints, cryptic riddles, or dire warnings—the ink of your comments seeps into his reality. Will you guide him toward salvation or plunge him deeper into the labyrinth’s heart?
And thus, the tale unfolds—a dance of choices, a symphony of uncertainty. Mortal, immortal, and everything in between—we are but threads woven into existence’s grand tapestry. So, dear reader, what say you? Will you aid this lost soul or consign him to oblivion?
THEONEWHOSEEKSTRUE · Seram
