(POV Shift: First Person - "ZeroCool_x")
"And of course, you can't forget the 'Based on True Events' sign. Oldest trick in the book, folks." My voice was a drip of pure cynicism. On screen, an actress with a chronically scared face stared at a crucifix that turned on its own on the wall. "If this is based on true events, then I'm an astronaut. The only paranormal entity here is the screenwriter, who was clearly possessed by the ghost of unoriginality."
My small studio, a sanctuary of LED lights and posters, was my stage. I, eighteen-year-old Alex, was the conductor. But in this world of fiber optics and avatars, I was "ZeroCool_x," the critic horror developers and directors feared. Or so I liked to think. The chat in the corner of my monitor was a whirlwind of skull emoticons and laughs. It was my symphony.
"Let's see, what are they saying here?" I muttered, glancing at the comments. Suddenly, the special notification chimed, a deep, resonant echo that momentarily silenced the usual beeps. A golden box flooded the screen.
[An Observer has donated $50.00]
I cleared my throat and put on my best trailer narrator voice. The message was short, but dense.
"He who mocks what is unseen shall be forced to look. Your lens shall be the proof of your terror and your only escape. May your skepticism be your anchor in the abyss."
An honest laugh escaped me. "Wow! Fifty bucks to sound like a Final Fantasy villain. Appreciate it, buddy. 'My lens will be my escape,' he says. Sounds like you're daring me to record a documentary marathon. I accept the challenge if the next donation is just as generous."
I leaned back in my chair, victorious. The money was good, and the content was easy. What could go wrong.
Then, my LED ring light flickered. Once, twice. And went out.
(POV Shift: Second Person)
The darkness in your room isn't normal darkness. It's heavy, absolute. The hum of your PC dies, but in your headphones a new sound is born: a silence so profound you can hear your own heart beating in your ears. The monitor, now black, flickers with a solitary light in the center. The light illuminates nothing; it simply is.
A voice, which is not a voice but a vibration in your chest and in your mind, speaks to you without sound.
DISBELIEF IS A PRIVILEGE. YOU HAVE LOST IT.
Panic tries to surface, but you have no air to scream. Your body, previously relaxed in a gaming chair, now feels stiff, trapped. The monitor's light expands, devouring your vision in a pure, sterile white.
YOU WILL RECORD THE TRUTH YOU DENIED. YOU WILL BE THE WITNESS. YOUR AUDIENCE, THE JURY.
You feel an icy, violent tug, as if you're being ripped from the world by an invisible cable. You smell old wood, wet earth, and something else... something sour, like stagnant fear. The blinding white gives way to gloom. And you fall.
(POV Shift: Third Person)
An eighteen-year-old boy landed on his knees on the damp, overgrown grass, a gasp tearing through the night's silence. He was dressed in a hoodie and pajama pants, an absurdly out-of-place figure in that lonely rural setting. In front of him, beneath the pale moonlight, stood a colonial farmhouse. Its paint was peeling, its windows looked like dark, empty eyes, and beside it, a large, gnarled tree extended its branches like skeletal fingers towards the sky. A nearby lake lay still, its surface black as obsidian glass.
Alex stood up, trembling uncontrollably. He looked at his hands. In his right, fused with his flesh, was his video camera. The plastic and metal felt like an extension of his own bones. He tried to shake it off, but the pain was sharp and deep. On the camera's small screen, a red dot blinked ceaselessly: REC.
He recognized the house. He had seen it in photos, in documentaries, in clips. It was the Perron farmhouse, in Harrisville. The setting of The Conjuring. The epicenter of a story that, ten minutes ago, he considered a farce.
(POV Shift: First Person)
"No way. No, no, no." My brain refused to process it. This was a dream. It had to be. I slapped myself, hard. The pain was real, sharp. The house was still there. The camera was still stuck to my hand. The god of commentary... the bastard had done it.
Panic was an icy wave threatening to drown me. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, in a genuinely haunted house. I was going to die. And then, in my field of vision, the interface appeared. Translucent, ghostly, but unmistakable. It was my Twitch overlay. And the chat... the chat was live.
xX_GamerGod_Xx: WTF, where are you, Zero? That set is insane. LaChicaGamer92: Omg, are you on The Conjuring set?! It looks so much like it! What a production! TacoDestroyer: This is an early Halloween special! Epic! Esceptico_Total: Fake. It's a green screen. But good try.
They were seeing what I saw. They were here with me. Suddenly, a donation notification, bright and loud, burst into my vision.
[El_Valiente_777 has donated $10.00]
The message was a challenge. "$10 for you to go into the haunted house! No fear, champ!"
Almost instantly, a new window appeared. Green text on a black background, like a programmer's console.
[SURVIVAL SHOP ACTIVATED]Current Balance: $10.00 --- ITEMS AVAILABLE ---
High-Powered Flashlight (Full battery) - $10.00
Smelling Salts (Restores composure) - $5.00
Protein Bar (Restores energy) - $5.00
Sage Incense (Repels minor presences) - $20.00
A glitch in their system. An opportunity. I wasn't powerless. With a mental effort, I selected the flashlight. My balance updated to $0.00, and with a flash of green light, a heavy metal Maglite-type flashlight materialized in my free hand. It was cold, solid, real. An anchor in this nightmare.
I turned it on. Its powerful beam of white light cut through the gloom, illuminating the decrepit porch and the house's front door. The fear didn't leave, but now it had a companion: a furious, desperate determination.
I raised the camera, pointing it into the darkness that awaited me. I was about to say something witty for my "audience," something to maintain the ZeroCool_x facade.
But then I heard it.
It came from inside the dark, silent house. A clear, sharp, utterly impossible sound.
CLAP. CLAP.
Two claps. Playful. Inhuman. An invitation.
Shit. The game had already begun.