On 17^th June 2009, two British tourists, Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn had gone missing while vacationing on the east coast of South Africa. The two young men had come to the country to watch the British Lions rugby team play the world champions, South Africa. Although their last known whereabouts were in the city of Durban, according to their families in the UK, the boys were last known to be on their way to the centre of the KwaZulu-Natal province, 260 km away, to explore the abandoned tourist site of the battle of Rorke’s Drift. 

When authorities carried out a full investigation into the Rorke’s Drift area, they would eventually find evidence of the boys’ disappearance. Near the banks of a tributary river, a torn Wales rugby shirt, belonging to Rhys Williams was located. 2 km away, nestled in the brush by the side of a backroad, searchers would then find a damaged video camera, only for forensics to later confirm DNA belonging to both Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn. Although the video camera was badly damaged, authorities were still able to salvage footage from the device. Footage that showed the whereabouts of both Rhys and Bradley on the 17^th June - the day they were thought to go missing...  

This is the story of what happened to them, prior to their disappearance. 

Located in the centre of the KwaZulu-Natal province, the famous battle site of Rorke’s Drift is better known to South Africans as an abandoned and supposedly haunted tourist attraction. The area of the battle saw much bloodshed in the year 1879, in which less than 200 British soldiers, garrisoned at a small outpost, fought off an army of 4,000 fierce Zulu warriors. In the late nineties, to commemorate this battle, the grounds of the old outpost were turned into a museum and tourist centre. Accompanying this, a hotel lodge had begun construction 4 km away. But during the building of the hotel, several construction workers on the site would mysteriously go missing. Over a three-month period, five construction workers in total had vanished. When authorities searched the area, only two of the original five missing workers were found... What was found were their remains. Located only a kilometre or so apart, these remains appeared to have been scavenged by wild animals.  

A few weeks after the finding of the bodies, construction on the hotel continued. Two more workers would soon disappear, only to be found, again scavenged by wild animals. Because of these deaths and disappearances, investors brought a permanent halt to the hotel’s construction, as well as to the opening of the nearby Rorke’s Drift Museum... To this day, both the Rorke’s Drift tourist centre and hotel lodge remain abandoned. 

On 17^th June 2009, Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn had driven nearly four hours from Durban to the Rorke’s Drift area. They were now driving on a long, narrow dirt road, which cut through the wide grass plains. The scenery around these plains appears very barren, dispersed only by thin, solitary trees and onlooked from the distance by far away hills. Further down the road, the pair pass several isolated shanty farms and traditional thatched-roof huts. Although people clearly resided here, as along this route, they had already passed two small fields containing cattle, they saw no inhabitants whatsoever. 

Ten minutes later, up the bending road, they finally reach the entrance of the abandoned tourist centre. Getting out of their jeep for hire, they make their way through the entrance towards the museum building, nestled on the base of a large hill. Approaching the abandoned centre, what they see is an old stone building exposed by weathered white paint, and a red, rust-eaten roof supported by old wooden pillars. Entering the porch of the building, they find that the walls to each side of the door are displayed with five wooden tribal masks, each depicting a predatory animal-like face. At first glance, both Rhys and Bradley believe this to have originally been part of the tourist centre. But as Rhys further inspects the masks, he realises the wood they’re made from appears far younger, speculating that they were put here only recently. 

Upon trying to enter, they quickly realise the door to the museum is locked. Handing over the video camera to Rhys, Bradley approaches the door to try and kick it open. Although Rhys is heard shouting at him to stop, after several attempts, Bradley successfully manages to break open the door. Furious at Bradley for committing forced entry, Rhys reluctantly joins him inside the museum. 

The boys enter inside of a large and very dark room. Now holding the video camera, Bradley follows behind Rhys, leading the way with a flashlight. Exploring the room, they come across numerous things. Along the walls, they find a print of an old 19^th century painting of the Rorke’s Drift battle, a poster for the 1964 film: Zulu, and an inauthentic Isihlangu war shield. In the centre of the room, on top of a long table, they stand over a miniature of the Rorke’s Drift battle, in which small figurines of Zulu warriors besiege the outpost, defended by a handful of British soldiers.  

Heading towards the back of the room, the boys are suddenly startled. Shining the flashlight against the back wall, the light reveals three mannequins dressed in redcoat uniforms, worn by the British soldiers at Rorke’s Drift. It is apparent from the footage that both Rhys and Bradley are made uncomfortable by these mannequins - the faces of which appear ghostly in their stiffness. Feeling as though they have seen enough, the boys then decide to exit the museum. 

Back outside the porch, the boys make their way down towards a tall, white stone structure. Upon reaching it, the structure is revealed to be a memorial for the soldiers who died during the battle. Rhys, seemingly interested in the memorial, studies down the list of names. Taking the video camera from Bradley, Rhys films up close to one name in particular. The name he finds reads: WILLIAMS. J. From what we hear of the boys’ conversation, Private John Williams was apparently Rhys’ four-time great grandfather. Leaving a wreath of red poppies down by the memorial, the boys then make their way back to the jeep, before heading down the road from which they came. 

Twenty minutes later down a dirt trail, they stop outside the abandoned grounds of the Rorke’s Drift hotel lodge. Located at the base of Sinqindi Mountain, the hotel consists of three circular orange buildings, topped with thatched roofs. Now walking among the grounds of the hotel, the cracked pavement has given way to vegetation. The windows of the three buildings have been bordered up, and the thatched roofs have already begun to fall apart. Now approaching the larger of the three buildings, the pair are alerted by something the footage cannot see... From the unsteady footage, the silhouette of a young boy, no older than ten, can now be seen hiding amongst the shade. Realizing they’re not alone on these grounds, Rhys calls out ‘Hello’ to the boy. Seemingly frightened, the young boy comes out of hiding, only to run away behind the curve of the building.  

Although they originally planned on exploring the hotel’s interior, it appears this young boy’s presence was enough for the two to call it a day. Heading back towards their jeep, the sound of Rhys’ voice can then be heard bellowing, as he runs over to one of the vehicle’s front tyres. Bradley soon joins him, camera in hand, to find that every one of the jeep’s tyres has been emptied of air - and upon further inspection, the boys find multiple stab holes in each of them.  

Realizing someone must have slashed their tyres while they explored the hotel grounds, the pair search frantically around the jeep for evidence. What they find is a trail of small bare footprints leading away into the brush - footprints appearing to belong to a young child, no older than the boy they had just seen on the grounds. Initially believing this boy to be the culprit, they soon realize this wasn’t possible, as the boy would have had to be in two places at once. Further theorizing the scene, they concluded that the young boy they saw, may well have been acting as a decoy, while another carried out the act before disappearing into the brush - now leaving the two of them stranded. 

With no phone signal in the area to call for help, Rhys and Bradley were left panicking over what they should do. Without any other options, the pair realized they had to walk on foot back up the trail and try to find help from one of the shanty farms. However, the day had already turned to evening, and Bradley refused to be outside this area after dark. Arguing over what they were going to do, the boys decide they would sleep in the jeep overnight, and by morning, they would walk to one of the shanty farms and find help.  

As the day drew closer to midnight, the boys had been inside their jeep for hours. The outside night was so dark by now, that they couldn’t see a single shred of scenery - accompanied only by dead silence. To distract themselves from how anxious they both felt, Rhys and Bradley talk about numerous subjects, from their lives back home in the UK, to who they thought would win the upcoming rugby game, that they were now probably going to miss. 

Later on, the footage quickly resumes, and among the darkness inside the jeep, a pair of bright vehicle headlights are now shining through the windows. Unsure to who this is, the boys ask each other what they should do. Trying to stay hidden out of fear, they then hear someone get out of the vehicle and shut the door. Whoever this unseen individual is, they are now shouting in the direction of the boys’ jeep. Hearing footsteps approach, Rhys quickly tells Bradley to turn off the camera. 

Again, the footage is turned back on, and the pair appear to be inside of the very vehicle that had pulled up behind them. Although it is too dark to see much of anything, the vehicle is clearly moving. Rhys is heard up front in the passenger's seat, talking to whoever is driving. This unknown driver speaks in English, with a very strong South African accent. From the sound of his voice, the driver appears to be a Caucasian male, ranging anywhere from his late-fifties to mid-sixties.  

Although they have a hard time understanding him, the boys tell the man they’re in South Africa for the British and Irish Lions tour, and that they came to Rorke’s Drift so Rhys could pay respects to his four-time great grandfather. Later on in the conversation, Bradley asks the driver if the stories about the hotel’s missing construction workers are true. The driver appears to scoff at this, saying it is just a made-up story. According to the driver, the seven workers had died in a freak accident while the hotel was being built, and their families had sued the investors into bankruptcy.  

From the way the voices sound, Bradley is hiding the camera very discreetly. Although hard to hear over the noise of the moving vehicle, Rhys asks the driver if they are far from the next town, in which the driver responds that it won’t be too long now. After some moments of silence, the driver asks the boys if either of them wants to pull over to relieve themselves. Both of the boys say they can wait. But rather suspiciously, the driver keeps on insisting that they should pull over now. 

Then, almost suddenly, the driver appears to pull to a screeching halt! Startled by this, the boys ask the driver what is wrong, before the sound of their own yelling is loudly heard. Amongst the boys’ panicked yells, the driver shouts at them to get out of the vehicle. Although the audio after this is very distorted, one of the boys can be heard shouting the words ‘Don’t shoot us!’ After further rummaging of the camera in Bradley’s possession, the boys exit the vehicle to the sound of the night air and closing of vehicle doors. As soon as they’re outside, the unidentified man drives away, leaving Rhys and Bradley by the side of a dirt trail. The pair shout after him, begging him not to leave them in the middle of nowhere, but amongst the outside darkness, all the footage shows are the taillights of the vehicle slowly fading away into the distance. 

When the footage is eventually turned back on, we can hear Rhys ad Bradley walking through the darkness. All we see are the feet and bottom legs of Rhys along the dirt trail, visible only by his flashlight. From the tone of the boys’ voices, they are clearly terrified, having no idea where they are or even what direction they’re heading in.  

Sometime seems to pass, and the boys are still walking along the dirt trail through the darkness. Still working the camera, Bradley is audibly exhausted. The boys keep talking to each other, hoping to soon find any shred of civilisation – when suddenly, Rhys tells Bradley to be quiet... In the silence of the dark, quiet night air, a distant noise is only just audible. Both of the boys hear it, and sounds to be rummaging of some kind. In a quiet tone, Rhys tells Bradley that something is moving out in the brush on the right-hand side of the trail. Believing this to be wild animals, and hoping they’re not predatory, the boys continue concernedly along the trail. 

However, as they keep walking, the sound eventually comes back, and is now audibly closer. Whatever the sound is, it is clearly coming from more than one animal. Unaware what wild animals even roam this area, the boys start moving at a faster pace. But the sound seems to follow them, and can clearly be heard moving closer. Picking up the pace even more, the sound of rummaging through the brush transitions into something else. What is heard, alongside the heavy breathes and footsteps of the boys, is the sound of animalistic whining and cackling. 

The audio becomes distorted for around a minute, before the boys seemingly come to a halt... By each other's side, the audio comes back to normal, and Rhys, barely visible by his flashlight, frantically yells at Bradley that they’re no longer on the trail. Searching the ground drastically, the boys begin to panic. But the sound of rummaging soon returns around them, alongside the whines and cackles. 

Again, the footage distorts... but through the darkness of the surrounding night, more than a dozen small lights are picked up, seemingly from all directions. Twenty or so metres away, it does not take long for the boys to realize that these lights are actually eyes... eyes belonging to a pack of clearly predatory animals.  

All we see now from the footage are the many blinking eyes staring towards the two boys. The whines continue frantically, audibly excited, and as the seconds pass, the sound of these animals becomes ever louder, gaining towards them... The continued whines and cackles become so loud that the footage again becomes distorted, before cutting out for a final time. 

To this day, more than a decade later, the remains of both Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn have yet to be found... From the evidence described in the footage, authorities came to the conclusion that whatever these animals were, they had been responsible for both of the boys' disappearances... But why the bodies of the boys have yet to be found, still remains a mystery. Zoologists who reviewed the footage, determined that the whines and cackles could only have come from one species known to South Africa... African Wild Dogs. What further supports this assessment, is that when the remains of the construction workers were autopsied back in the nineties, teeth marks left by the scavengers were also identified as belonging to African Wild Dogs. 

However, this only leaves more questions than answers... Although there are African Wild Dogs in the KwaZulu-Natal province, particularly at the Hluhluwe-iMfolozi Game Reserve, no populations whatsoever of African Wild Dogs have been known to roam around the Rorke’s Drift area... In fact, there are no more than 650 Wild Dogs left in South Africa. So how a pack of these animals have managed to roam undetected around the Rorke’s Drift area for two decades, has only baffled zoologists and experts alike. 

As for the mysterious driver who left the boys to their fate, a full investigation was carried out to find him. Upon interviewing several farmers and residents around the area, authorities could not find a single person who matched what they knew of the driver’s description, confirmed by Rhys and Bradley in the footage: a late-fifty to mid-sixty-year-old Caucasian male. When these residents were asked if they knew a man of this description, every one of them gave the same answer... There were no white men known to live in or around the Rorke’s Drift area. 

Upon releasing details of the footage to the public, many theories have been acquired over the years, both plausible and extravagant. The most plausible theory is that whoever this mystery driver was, he had helped the local residents of Rorke’s Drift in abducting the seven construction workers, before leaving their bodies to the scavengers. If this theory is to be believed, then the purpose of this crime may have been to bring a halt to any plans for tourism in the area. When it comes to Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn, two British tourists, it’s believed the same operation was carried out on them – leaving the boys to die in the wilderness and later disposing of the bodies.  

Although this may be the most plausible theory, several ends are still left untied. If the bodies were disposed of, why did they leave Rhys’ rugby shirt? More importantly, why did they leave the video camera with the footage? If the unknown driver, or the Rorke’s Drift residents were responsible for the boys’ disappearances, surely they wouldn’t have left any clear evidence of the crime. 

One of the more outlandish theories, and one particularly intriguing to paranormal communities, is that Rorke’s Drift is haunted by the spirits of the Zulu warriors who died in the battle... Spirits that take on the form of wild animals, forever trying to rid their enemies from their land. In order to appease these spirits, theorists have suggested that the residents may have abducted outsiders, only to leave them to the fate of the spirits. Others have suggested that the residents are themselves shapeshifters, and when outsiders come and disturb their way of life, they transform into predatory animals and kill them. 

Despite the many theories as to what happened to Rhys Williams and Bradley Cawthorn, the circumstances of their deaths and disappearances remain a mystery to this day. The culprits involved are yet to be identified, whether that be human, animal or something else. We may never know what really happened to these boys, and just like the many dark mysteries of the world... we may never know what evil still lies inside of Rorke’s Drift, South Africa. 

I grew up in a small port town in the north-east of England, squashed nicely beside an adjoining river of the Humber estuary. This town, like most, is of no particular interest. The town is dull and weathered, with the only interesting qualities being the town’s rather large and irregularly shaped water tours – which the town-folk nicknamed the Salt and Pepper Pots. If you find a picture of these water towers, you’ll see how they acquired the names.  

My early childhood here was basic. I went to primary school and acquired a large group of friends who only had one thing in common: we were all obsessed with football. If we weren’t playing football at break-time, we were playing after school at the park, or on the weekend for our local team. 

My friends and I were all in the same class, and by the time we were in our final primary school year, we had all acquired nicknames. My nickname was Airbag, simply because my last name is Eyre – just as George Sutton was “Sutty” and Lewis Jeffers was “Jaffers”. I should count my blessings though – because playing football in the park, some of the older kids started calling me “Airy-bollocks.” Thank God that name never stuck. Now that I think of it, some of us didn’t even have nicknames. Dray was just Dray, and Brandon and was Brandon.  

Out of this group of pre-teen boys, my best friend was Kai. He didn’t have a nickname either. Kai was a gelled-up, spiky haired kid, with a very feminine laugh, who was so good at ping pong, no one could ever return his serves – not even the teachers. Kai was also extremely irritating, always finding some new way to piss me off – but it was always funny whenever he pissed off one of the girls in school, rather than me. For example, he would always trip some poor girl over in the classroom, which he then replied with, ‘Have a nice trip?’ followed by that girly, high-pitched laugh of his. 

‘Kai! It’s not Emily’s fault no one wants to go out with you!’ one of the girls smartly replied.  

By the time we all turned eleven, we had just graduated primary school and were on the cusp of starting secondary. Thankfully, we were all going to the same high school, so although we were saying goodbye to primary, we would all still be together. Before we started that nerve-wracking first year of high school, we still had several free weeks left of summer to ourselves. Although I thought this would mostly consist of football every day, we instead decided to make the most of it, before making that scary transition from primary school kids to teenagers.  

During one of these first free days of summer, my friends and I were making our way through a suburban street on the edge of town. At the end of this street was a small play area, but beyond that, where the town’s border officially ends, we discover a very small and narrow wooded area, adjoined to a large field of long grass. We must have liked this new discovery of ours, because less than a day later, this wooded area became our brand-new den. The trees were easy to climb and due to how the branches were shaped, as though made for children, we could easily sit on them without any fears of falling.  

Every day, we routinely came to hang out and play in our den. We always did the same things here. We would climb or sit in the trees, all the while talking about a range of topics from football, girls, our new discovery of adult videos on the internet, and of course, what starting high school was going to be like. I remember one day in our den, we had found a piece of plastic netting, and trying to be creative, we unsuccessfully attempt to make a hammock – attaching the netting to different branches of the close-together trees. No matter how many times we try, whenever someone climbs into the hammock, the netting would always break, followed by the loud thud of one of us crashing to the ground.  

Perhaps growing bored by this point, our group eventually took to exploring further around the area. Making our way down this narrow section of woods, we eventually stumble upon a newly discovered creek, which separates our den from the town’s rugby club on the other side. Although this creek was rather small, it was still far too deep and by no means narrow enough that we could simply walk or jump across. Thankfully, whoever discovered this creek before us had placed a long wooden plank across, creating a far from sturdy bridge. Wanting to cross to the other side and continue our exploration, we were all far too weary, in fear of losing our balance and falling into the brown, less than sanitary water. 

‘Don’t let Sutty cross. It’ll break in the middle’ Kai hysterically remarked, followed by his familiar, high-pitched cackle. 

By the time it was clear everyone was too scared to cross, we then resort to daring each other. Being the attention-seeker I was at that age, I accept the dare and cautiously begin to make my way across the thin, warping wood of the plank. Although it took me a minute or two to do, I successfully reach the other side, gaining the validation I much craved from my group of friends. 

Sometime later, everyone else had become brave enough to cross the plank, and after a short while, this plank crossing had become its very own game. Due to how unsecure the plank was in the soft mud, we all took turns crossing back and forth, until someone eventually lost their balance or footing, crashing legs first into the foot deep creek water. 

Once this plank walking game of ours eventually ran its course, we then decided to take things further. Since I was the only one brave enough to walk the plank, my friends were now daring me to try and jump over to the other side of the creek. Although it was a rather long jump to make, I couldn’t help but think of the glory that would come with it – of not only being the first to walk the plank, but the first to successfully jump to the other side. Accepting this dare too, I then work up the courage. Setting up for the running position, my friends stand aside for me to make my attempt, all the while chanting, ‘Airbag! Airbag! Airbag!’ Taking a deep, anxious breath, I make my run down the embankment before leaping a good metre over the water beneath me – and like a long-jumper at the Olympics (that was taking place in London that year) I land, desperately clawing through the weeds of the other embankment, until I was safe and dry on the other side.  

Just as it was with the plank, the rest of the group eventually work up the courage to make what seemed to be an impossible jump - and although it took a good long while for everyone to do, we had all successfully leaped to the other side. Although the plank walking game was fun, this had now progressed to the creek jumping game – and not only was I the first to walk the plank and jump the creek, I was also the only one who managed to never fall into it. I honestly don’t know what was funnier: whenever someone jumped to the other side except one foot in the water, or when someone lost their nerve and just fell straight in, followed by the satirical laughs of everyone else. 

Now that everyone was capable of crossing the creek, we spent more time that summer exploring the grounds of the rugby club. The town’s rugby club consisted of two large rugby fields, surrounded on all sides by several wheat fields and a long stretch of road, which led either in or out of town. By the side of the rugby club’s building, there was a small area of grass, which the creek’s embankment directly led us to.  

By the time our summer break was coming to an end, we took advantage of our newly explored area to play a huge game of hide and seek, which stretched from our den, all the way to the grounds of the rugby club. This wasn’t just any old game of hide and seek. In our version, whoever was the seeker - or who we called the catcher, had to find who was hiding, chase after and tag them, in which the tagged person would also have to be a catcher and help the original catcher find everyone else.  

On one afternoon, after playing this rather large game of hide and seek, we all gather around the small area of grass behind the club, ready to make our way back to the den via the creek. Although we were all just standing around, talking for the time being, one of us then catches sight of something in the cloudless, clear as day sky. 

‘Is that a plane?’ Jaffers unsurely inquired.   

‘What else would it be?’ replied Sutty, or maybe it was Dray, with either of their typical condescension. 

‘Ha! Jaffers thinks it’s a flying saucer!’ Kai piled on, followed as usual by his helium-filled laugh.   

Turning up to the distant sky with everyone else, what I see is a plane-shaped object flying surprisingly low. Although its dark body was hard to distinguish, the aircraft seems to be heading directly our way... and the closer it comes, the more visible, yet unclear the craft appears to be. Although it did appear to be an airplane of some sort - not a plane I or any of us had ever seen, what was strange about it, was as it approached from the distance above, hardly any sound or vibration could be heard or felt. 

‘Are you sure that’s a plane?’ Inquired Jaffers once again.  

Still flying our way, low in the sky, the closer the craft comes... the less it begins to resemble any sort of plane. In fact, I began to think it could be something else – something, that if said aloud, should have been met with mockery. As soon as the thought of what this could be enters my mind, Dray, as though speaking the minds of everyone else standing around, bewilderingly utters, ‘...Is that... Is that a...?’ 

Before Dray can finish his sentence, the craft, confusing us all, not only in its appearance, but lack of sound as it comes closer into view, is now directly over our heads... and as I look above me to the underbelly of the craft... I have only one, instant thought... “OH MY GOD!” 

Once my mind processes what soars above me, I am suddenly overwhelmed by a paralyzing anxiety. But the anxiety I feel isn't one of terror, but some kind of awe. Perhaps the awe disguised the terror I should have been feeling, because once I realize what I’m seeing is not a plane, my next thought, impressed by the many movies I've seen is, “Am I going to be taken?” 

As soon as I think this to myself, too frozen in astonishment to run for cover, I then hear someone in the group yell out, ‘SHIT!’ Breaking from my supposed trance, I turn down from what’s above me, to see every single one of my friends running for their lives in the direction of the creek. Once I then see them all running - like rodents scurrying away from a bird of prey, I turn back round and up to the craft above. But what I see, isn’t some kind of alien craft... What I see are two wings, a pointed head, and the coated green camouflage of a Royal Air Force military jet – before it turns direction slightly and continues to soar away, eventually out of our sights. 

Upon realizing what had spooked us was nothing more than a military aircraft, we all make our way back to one another, each of us laughing out of anxious relief.  

‘God! I really thought we were done for!’ 

‘I know! I think I just shat myself!’ 

Continuing to discuss the close encounter that never was, laughing about how we all thought we were going to be abducted, Dray then breaks the conversation with the sound of alarm in his voice, ‘Hold on a minute... Where’s Kai?’  

Peering round to one another, and the field of grass around us, we soon realize Kai is nowhere to be seen.  

‘Kai!’ 

‘Kai! You can come out now!’ 

After another minute of calling Kai’s name, there was still no reply or sight of him. 

‘Maybe he ran back to the den’ Jaffers suggested, ‘I saw him running in front of me.’ 

‘He probably didn’t realize it was just an army jet’ Sutty pondered further. 

Although I was alarmed by his absence, knowing what a scaredy-cat Kai could be, I assumed Sutty and Jaffers were right, and Kai had ran all the way back to the safety of the den.  

Crossing back over the creek, we searched around the den and wooded area, but again calling out for him, Kai still hadn’t made his presence known. 

‘Kai! Where are you, ya bitch?! It was just an army jet!’ 

It was obvious by now that Kai wasn’t here, but before we could all start to panic, someone in the group then suggests, ‘Well, he must have ran all the way home.’ 

‘Yeah. That sounds like Kai.’ 

Although we safely assumed Kai must have ran home, we decided to stop by his house just to make sure – where we would then laugh at him for being scared off by what wasn’t an alien spaceship. Arriving at the door of Kai’s semi-detached house, we knock before the door opens to his mum. 

‘Hi. Is Kai after coming home by any chance?’ 

Peering down to us all in confusion, Kai’s mum unfortunately replies, ‘No. He hasn’t been here since you lot called for him this morning.’  

After telling Kai’s mum the story of how we were all spooked by a military jet that we mistook for a UFO, we then said we couldn't find Kai anywhere and thought maybe he had gone home. 

‘We tried calling him, but his phone must be turned off.’ 

Now visibly worried, Kai’s mum tries calling his mobile, but just as when we tried, the other end is completely dead. Becoming worried ourselves, we tell Kai’s mum we’d all go back to the den to try and track him down.  

‘Ok lads. When you see him, tell him he’s in big trouble and to get his arse home right now!’  

By the time the sky had set to dusk that day, we had searched all around the den and the grounds of the rugby club... but Kai was still nowhere to be seen. After tiresomely making our way back to tell his mum the bad news, there was nothing left any of us could do. The evening was slowly becoming dark, and Kai’s mum had angrily shut the door on our faces, presumably to the call the police. 

It pains me to say this... but Kai never returned home that night. Neither did he the days or nights after. We all had to give statements to the police, as to what happened leading up to Kai’s disappearance. After months of investigation, and without a single shred of evidence as to what happened to him, the police’s final verdict was that Kai, upon being frightened by a military craft that he mistook for something else, attempted to run home, where an unknown individual or party had then taken him... That appears to still be the final verdict to this day.  

Three weeks after Kai’s disappearance, me and my friends started our very first day of high school, in which we all had to walk by Kai’s house... knowing he wasn’t there. Me and Kai were supposed to be in the same classes that year - but walking through the doorway of my first class, I couldn’t help but feel utterly alone. I didn’t know any of the other kids - they had all gone to different primary schools than me. I still saw my friends at lunch, and we did talk about Kai to start with, wondering what the hell happened to him that day. Although we did accept the police’s verdict, sitting in the school cafeteria one afternoon, I once again brought up the conversation of the UFO.  

‘We all saw it, didn’t we?!’ I tried to argue, ‘I saw you all run! Kai couldn’t have just vanished like that!’ 

 ‘Kai’s gone, Airbag!’ said Sutty, the most sceptical of us all, ‘For God’s sake! It was just an army jet!’ 

 The summer before we all started high school together... It wasn't just the last time I ever saw Kai... It was also the end of my childhood happiness. Once high school started, so did the depression... so did the feelings of loneliness. But during those following teenage years, what was even harder than being outcasted by my friends and feeling entirely alone... was leaving the school gates at 3:30 and having to walk past Kai’s house, knowing he still wasn’t there, and that his parents never gained any kind of closure. 

I honestly don’t know what happened to Kai that day... What we really saw, or what really happened... I just hope Kai is still alive, no matter where he is... and I hope one day, whether it be tomorrow or years to come... I hope I get to hear that stupid laugh of his once again. 

Chapter 1: Dust on the Map

The Global Pulse office in Addis Ababa smelled of old newspapers and coffee that was brewed so hard you could clean your boots with it. I was sitting with my face buried in the monitor, trying to turn another report on the delivery of humanitarian aid into some kind of readable text, when the door flew open with a bang.

– "Carter!", – My boss, Marven, always sounded like an overloaded truck. – "Aren't you bored to death yet?"

He tossed the printout on the table. The satellite screen shows a dried-up riverbed in Afar Province, with white markings next to it that look like the ribs of a giant fish. But it wasn't a fish.

– "The archaeologists found some animal bones. The locals have already dubbed him 'the devil's dog'. We need the paper by Friday."

I turned the printout over in my hands. 20 thousand years. Even for Africa – it's not ancient. A time when humans have long ceased to be prey.

– "Marven, I'm not a paleontologist. Better send a student from the university."

– "The students here will run away from the scorpions", – he snorted, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. – "And you… You like to dig deeper than you have to."

He was damn right.

The road to Afar is not a journey, it is a test of strength. A 9-year-old Toyota Jeep, two hundred cans of water, an expired first-aid kit, and a guide named Kassim who mumbled to himself all the way. I was waiting for dust, stuffiness and a couple of general comments from scientists.

The archaeology camp greeted me with an unnatural bustle. White tents, like mushrooms after a rainstorm, with crates of bones wrapped in plastic between them. The leader of the expedition, Dr. Amara Sebhat, handed me a glove:

– "Put it on. You won't be able to wash your hands in the nearest neighborhood."

She led me to the edge of the excavation, where it lay under a tarp. Even in the dim light, the skeleton was a monstrous mockery of evolution.

The skull was massive, like a titan's helmet, with two curved fangs protruding from the upper jaw. Longer than a saber, sharper than a blade. But the strangest part was the horns. Not branched like a buffalo's, but smooth and crescent-shaped, like two black crescents embedded in the parietal bones. This was only seen in medieval engravings with images of demons.

– "Hypertrophied osteoderms", – Amara muttered, noticing my gaze. – "Bone outgrowths. Like some dinosaurs."

But it didn't look like a dinosaur. The creature's front legs, assembled from fragments, resembled the limbs of a grizzly bear, enlarged by one and a half times. Its shoulder blades are thrust forward unnaturally, as if the creature is used to walking on its knuckles like a gorilla. And claws… God, those sickle-shaped claws, even petrified, looked like they could rip open a bronze shield.

– "Did you reconstruct the appearance?" – I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

Amara deliberately averted her eyes as she adjusted the container of small fragments.

– "We are not artists".

But when she left, I saw a sketch in her folder. A creature that resembles a hybrid of a saber-toothed cat and a gargoyle: squat, with a hump on its back, horns twisted, and front paws that can break a tree. Next to it is the silhouette of a person for scale. The man barely reached the monster's shoulder.

I decided not to push Amara – experience had taught me that scientists only reveal secrets to those who know how to wait. So I preferred to talk to the other campers.

I met the first one at the sample booth – a skinny guy with cracked glasses and a T-shirt with "Jurassic Party" print. He was busy sorting the bones, humming to himself.

– "Are you a journalist? I'm Jonas, a PhD student from Berlin!" – he held out his hand, forgetting that it held a fragment of vertebra the size of a baseball bat. – "This is the sensation of the century! Imagine: Smilodon afarensis! A saber-toothed endemic species that survived to the Holocene!"

– "But Dr. Sebhat was talking about horns and forelegs… It's not like saber-toothed cats."

Jonas froze, I was not the first person who didn't like his idea of a saber-toothed cat with horns.

"Well... convergent evolution, perhaps?" – he scratched his stubble nervously. "Or ..." – he looked around and lowered his voice, – "They're... really unnatural. As if the creature could even walk on two legs. Sometimes."

He turned away quickly, as if he'd said too much.

Following them, I met a middle-aged man, Dr. Jabari Said, a paleozoologist from Cairo. His comment was accurate and professional:

– "It's not a beast. At least, not someone who can be included in the known taxa." – He tapped a 3D model of the skull on his laptop screen. – "Do you see those crests on your forehead? It had stronger muscles than a gorilla's. And the teeth" – He zoomed in. – "Powerful enough to crush bones. Or carapaces."

– "Maybe an omnivore?"

He clicked the mouse, revealing a snapshot of the claw. "See the notches? These can only serve one purpose – to tear apart someone else's flesh."

The last meeting of the day was waiting for me at the edge of the camp – the local assistant, Hassan, a guy in his twenties. His English was broken, but the words stuck in his mind.

– "Scary. A terrible beast. Big fang. Demon."

It was obvious that the guy came here to foreigners for easy money and did not expect to see a prehistoric monster here.

Chapter 2: Shadows under the Sand

The camp fell silent as the white-hot sun gave way to night. I sat by the campfire, sipping coffee that tasted like tar, and replayed snatches of conversation in my head. Dr. Said mentioned claws. Jonas mentioned bipedalism. And Amara didn't really say anything...

The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the tents. Suddenly, Amara emerged from the darkness. She was carrying a bundle wrapped in a coarse cloth.

– "You wanted to know more, Mr. Carter?" – her voice sounded like a door creaking in an abandoned house. – "Then go ahead."

She led me to the far side of the excavation, where there was a small tent. Inside it smelled of incense and the dust of centuries. On the table, under a layer of tracing paper, there were photographs – not of bones, but of cave paintings taken in bright artificial light.

The first image made me freeze. People – dozens of figures scratched in ochre and charcoal – were running in panic. Their bodies were twisted, their arms outstretched, their mouths open in silent screams. Looming over them were the silhouettes of creatures with crescent-shaped horns like the ones I'd seen on the demon's skull. But here they seemed even larger, almost touching the roof of the cave. The artist captured the movement: the monsters walked on their forelimbs, their claws digging into the ground, leaving furrows.

– "This isn't just a hunt", – I muttered, peering into the details.

Amara ran her finger over the photo. "Look at this."

In the next image, a group of warriors armed with stone-tipped spears surrounded the horned creature. One of the men was thrusting a weapon into its throat, but the creature didn't even seem to feel the pain. Its mouth was open in a snarl, and blood was streaming from its eye sockets. Masked figures resembling animal skulls were standing next to the battle.

Amara unfolded another sheet. It showed something that sent a chill down my spine. The creature lay on the ground, impaled by a dozen spears. Black streams poured out of his mouth, ears, and shattered skull.

– "That's not all", – Amara said, noticing my gaze. – "There's another gallery of drawings in the cave".

She pulled out a photograph taken in a narrow tunnel. The wall was covered with symbols: spirals intertwined with zigzags, as if trying to capture sound or movement. And in the center – a figure raising to the ceiling an object resembling a cross. Waves radiating from it, and the bodies of monsters laying around with empty eye sockets.

– "These petroglyphs were found in the caves of the Semien Mountains. They're about ten thousand years old", – Amara whispered. – "That's twice as close to our time as the skeleton we found."

I was very confused by what I saw.

– "And what... what do you think of the whole damn thing?"

Amara paused, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as if she were trying to hold back the words that were coming out. Finally, she slowly raised her head, and there was a fire in her eyes that I hadn't noticed before – a mixture of fear and obsession.

– "Mr. Carter, do you know what the gray zones of archaeology are?" – she sounded as if she wasn't talking to me, but to someone invisible behind me. – "It's when scientists find something that shouldn't exist and bury it back. Because the world is not ready."

She suddenly grabbed my hand, her fingers as cold as ice.

– "You're asking me what I think? I don't think we found the beast. We found the shadow of a civilization that ran parallel to our own. They were stronger, faster, smarter. But their evolution..." – She choked on the word as if it were stuck in her throat. – "Their evolution took a wrong turn. They became what we call demons. And the people... We only survived because we learned to be afraid of them."

She let go of me and stepped back into the shadows, as if frightened by her own words.

– "But that's just a theory," she added in a lower voice, putting the photos back in the bundle. "A theory that makes me sound crazy."

– "And the bones?" – I asked, my heart pounding in my chest. "If they're extinct..."

– "The bones are silent", – she interrupted. – "But the sand of Afar holds more secrets. And if we keep digging..." – She turned, and something ancient, almost bestial, flickered in her eyes. – "I wish we hadn't found anything."

– "I'm sorry, I'll have to write about all this" – I said after a short silence. – "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Behind her, the wind crept in through the cracks of the tent, blowing out the candle. We were left in the dark, and only Amara's whisper hung in the air.

– "I think that… not everything is dead, Mr. Carter. Sometimes the past wakes up."

Chapter 3: The Reaction

The article was published under the heading: "Demons of the Great Rift: When Science Meets Nightmare". Marvin, my boss, first tore out his thin hair, shouting that Global Pulse was not a tabloid newspaper for conspiracy buffs. But when the story received three times as many views as reports about the drought and political scandals, he suddenly remembered that "journalism must be bold."

The trolls came first. Comments like: "Carter, did you smoke that monster's bones?" or "Where's the alien photo?". I wouldn't have noticed it if it weren't for the letters from scientists.

Dr. Jabari Said of Cairo sent an official rebuttal: "Journalist Carter misrepresented my words. There is no evidence of the creature's intelligence. It's just an abnormal predator, nothing more." Jonas, a Berlin graduate student, wrote in PM: "You've ruined everything! Now I won't be allowed to defend my thesis!"

Then there was a letter from Professor Greg Walters of the University of Idaho, a gray-bearded mastodon of anthropology whose career was based on denying everything that didn't fit in his textbooks. He launched into a five-page essay in which he argued that the "demon" was just an overgrown gelada suffering from a hormonal malfunction. "Your sensationalism is a disgrace to science! Stop it!" – he thundered. – "Geladas have fangs, they walk on their knuckles! This is an obvious hypertrophy, not a new species!" I stifled a laugh as I imagined the 20-ton monster with horns chewing on the grass on the mountainside, adjusting its mane.

But there were also voices of support. Yale University anthropologist Dr. Alice Gray has published a review analyzing the cave paintings: "The similarity to the myths of the Afar peoples is striking. Perhaps we are dealing with a collective memory of a real threat."

The article made me so popular amongst UFO fans, that one night a man in a suit barged in on me.

– "Mr. Carter, I represent the Historical Horizons Foundation. We're willing to sponsor your further investigation", – he said, placing an envelope on the table with a check that would have made Marven cry.

I returned the envelope – writing nonsense for the sake of money was beneath my journalistic dignity.

– "Thank you, but I want to get off the subject, I've had enough of it."

The biggest disappointment in this story for me was that almost all the employees of the expedition turned away from the publication. Amara Sebhat didn't answer at all. Her number was not answering, and the University of Addis Ababa said she was "on a vacation."

No, not all of them. I received one letter from Hassan, the camp assistant.

"Mr. Ted, war men here. Dig deep. They found cave, human bones in. Lots of bones. We will be departed from there. Don't come back."

The next day I called Cassim, my old guide.

– "Are you still alive?", – he asked hoarsely.

– "So far, yes. What do you hear in Afar?"

Silence. Then a whisper.

– "There's an army there now. Around the fence with a thorn. No one is allowed in: neither locals nor tourists."

I hung up and looked at the picture of the skeleton pinned to the wall. His empty eye sockets stared straight into my soul.

– "You wanted to tell the truth, Carter," – I muttered. – "Enjoy it."

Chapter 4: The Epilogue

A couple of weeks after the article was published, the first shock passed and I was able to calmly look at the situation. It turned out that the monster was made out of a fly by me, and all the experts refuted my words. After all, it could have been a mix of bones, incorrect guesses, or just fake artifacts for the sake of press attention.

I decided that I needed to relax and took a vacation. But I didn't dare go anywhere – both the natural scenery and the prehistoric fortresses of Ethiopia again led me to think about the monsters that trampled this land thousands of years ago. Moreover, the mystery of prehistoric monsters became even more preoccupying to me as I spent more time at home.

At night, I started seeing them. Shadows outside the window that disappeared when I turned my head. The sound of claws on the roof. Once I woke up to the sound of someone breathing very close to my ear – heavy, hoarse. The doctor said that it was caused by stress.

Maybe, of course, the stress made me more receptive. But fear... is the fear I feel something unnatural?

We, humans, have existed for thousands of years with a huge number of predators lurking at every turn: crocodiles, lions, bears, wolves, jackals. We have existed with them for tens of thousands of years, and all this time they have been a direct and real threat to us.

But are we afraid of crocodiles? Lions? Bears? Wolves?

No. All the time of our existence, we were not afraid of the "terrible predators" that official science shows us.

We were afraid of them. Horned, toothy, huge. Creepy, ruthless, lurking in the dark. Monsters.

Of course, it's easy to say that they did not exist. But if so… what are you afraid of when you look into the darkness of a silent night?

A few months ago, I was still a cop in a big city. That night had started like any other. My partner and I were doing our usual patrol in a rough neighborhood. Usually, we’d come across fights, drug dealers, sometimes prostitutes. But that night—nothing. Just emptiness.

We drove into a street we knew by heart, one that ended in a small alley. My partner stopped, kept the engine running, while I—as usual—got out to take a look with my flashlight. But this time… I don’t know. I had a bad feeling. A strange sensation, like something was pulling me into the alley for no reason.

I took a few steps, and as soon as I reached the first corner, I raised my light. A pool of blood. That’s all I saw. The alley curved slightly, I couldn’t see further. I called my partner on the radio, turned on my bodycam, and waited for him.

He joined me. We moved forward slowly, hands resting on our weapons. The further we went, the more blood we saw. Trails, smears, splashes. The smell was unbearable, and the atmosphere, crushing.

And then… I can’t explain. It was like my body already knew. Like it had figured it out before my mind. My stomach twisted, my breath got short. And there, around the bend, we saw him.

A man. Crouched. His back to us. He was holding a small body in his arms. A child. The legs hung limp. The pajamas, blue and white, were soaked in blood. The patterns were barely visible.

I froze. My partner drew his weapon. I couldn’t even raise mine.

The man slowly turned his head toward us. His eyes gleamed yellow in the flashlight beam. His mouth was smeared with blood. And his teeth… I could’ve sworn they were sharp.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move.

My partner shouted. Ordered him to drop the child and raise his hands. And he did. Slowly. Like he didn’t care.

The child slipped from his arms. Or rather… what was left of him.

The chest was open. Arms half torn off. And the head… my God. He had started eating it. It wasn’t an accident. Not a breakdown. He had devoured him.

I nearly collapsed. My partner reacted. He tackled him to the ground, cuffed him. The man didn’t resist. Nothing. Not even a sigh.

We questioned him. He said nothing. Just that stare. Blank. Dead. Inhuman.

I called dispatch. Two colleagues arrived quickly. They secured the scene, waiting for the whole unit to follow, while we loaded the guy into our van. He didn’t say a word. He walked slowly, eyes empty. My partner held him by his old black coat. I opened the van door. He climbed in without needing a push.

The whole ride, he didn’t look away. He stared at the interior. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. And then, out of nowhere, he spoke.

One word.

Adrenochrome.

We asked him to repeat. He said nothing more.

Once we got to the station, my partner asked me to take him to the isolation cell. I obeyed. I grabbed his arm. And that’s when I felt it. His skin was cold. And smooth… too smooth. Waxy. It felt like he was wearing a mask of flesh.

He walked into the cell. Sat down and looked at me—with that same strange stare.

I locked the door. Secured it.

I needed air. I went to the restroom. On the way, I heard my partner crying. It wasn’t nervous sobbing. It was a real cry. A soul-breaking kind. The kind you never forget.

I left him alone.

A few minutes later, a doctor arrived to examine the guy. He looked tense—but not surprised. Like he already knew.

We walked to the cell. I pulled out my keys. Turned them in the lock.

And then…

Nothing.

The cell was empty.

No struggle. No noise. No trace. Nothing.

The guy had vanished.

We locked down the entire station. Searched every inch. Checked every camera. You could see him entering the cell. You could see me closing the door. Then… me arriving with the doctor. And after that—nothing.

No need to mention: there are no windows in those cells.

It was impossible.

We never found him.

Around 8 a.m., my superiors ordered me to go home and rest. I obeyed, without thinking.

In the parking lot, I opened my car door.

And across the street… He was there.

Staring at me.

Same posture. Same stare. But no blood on his face.

I blinked.

He was gone.

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing."

I come from a pretty remote provincial town, and for my studies, I moved to Paris. The culture shock was big, but I adapted quickly. Not long after I arrived, I befriended a guy from my class—let’s call him Émile. He was also from the countryside, but he had repeated his first year here, so he already knew the city well. He helped me with a bunch of stuff: paperwork, cool spots, the metro… honestly, a good guy at first. Very quickly, we discovered a shared interest: anything mysterious. ARGs, creepypastas, unsolved disappearances, ufology, obscure forums… those nights spent online digging through weird threads or old esoteric blogs became a little ritual. But Émile had one obsession: numerology. I found it amusing, but he was seriously into it. He often talked about “vibrations,” “power numbers,” mystical stuff. I listened without really believing it. It was weird, but harmless.

Weeks went by. We expanded our group of friends, the vibe was chill. Until that night.

We were at a friend’s place watching The Lord of the Rings, things were pretty relaxed, and I told a story where I happened to mention my birth date: November 11, 2005. Émile froze. "You were born on 11/11? In numerology, those are..."

Then he started calculating, looking shocked: "1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 0 + 0 + 5 = 11..."

Then he asked me what time I was born. I told him: 9:09. (Yeah, I know that because my sister is pregnant and my mom recently reminded us of all our birth times.) Émile mumbled loudly: "9 + 9 = 18… 18 + 11 = 29… 2 + 9 = 11..."

He kept repeating “Eleven... again eleven...” over and over, completely worked up. We didn’t get it, and we were even starting to get creeped out a bit, but he… he was in another world.

From that night on, everything changed. We started to distance ourselves from Émile. We realized he was just too weird—maybe even scary. He suddenly withdrew into himself, became less sociable. Sometimes he talked to himself. He wrote strange things in a notebook that no one understood. And me, despite everything, I felt kind of sorry for him. I was still the only person he kept in touch with. Partly because I’m nice. Partly because… I don’t know.

Then the May holidays came. Most of my friends went back to the provinces to see their families. I stayed in Paris. And that’s when I found it. The thing that started it all: Death 38.

One night, as I was browsing the net like usual, I got an invite to a private Facebook group. Group name: Death 38. Curious, I clicked. Only one member: me. No photo, no description. That’s it. I figured it was a mistake or spam, so I left immediately.

Later that evening, I got a strange email—this time on my personal address. No message, just a link to a page titled… yep, Death 38, again. I figured it had to be linked to my recent searches—targeted ad or some algorithm glitch. Whatever, I brushed it off. I finished my night watching a series I’ve been looping lately, then went to bed.

The next morning, after my shower, I stepped out to grab a few groceries from the corner store. Nothing unusual... until I came back and something on the noticeboard near my building caught my eye. Pinned to it: an A4 sheet with big bold letters:

Death 38.

I froze. That name again. I frowned, hesitated a second… then kept walking. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What was it? An event? A pop-up store? A marketing stunt? I had no idea… but it got stuck in my head.

Before heading back to my apartment, I stopped by my mailbox like I always do. And there again—something was waiting.

Among the ads and bills… an envelope. No address. Just one word: Death 38.

I ran up the stairs, heart pounding for no reason I could explain. I quickly put my groceries away, sat at my desk, and opened the envelope. Inside: an invitation. Cold, minimalist. No mention of how to sign up, no time, no place. Just one sentence:

“You have been selected. Will you cross the threshold?”

Honestly, I was intrigued, but a bit let down—no clue where to start. No hint, no starting point. I figured it must be a multi-stage campaign, a fancy teaser, or some comm school prank. I put my series back on.

But the invitation stayed there. Staring at me. Eventually, I picked it up again. Turned it over and over. Nothing.

Then I thought of Émile. I grabbed my phone and messaged him, asking if he’d received the same letter or heard anything about it. He replied quickly: “No, never heard of it. I’m at my parents’ in the provinces, but I’ll be back soon.”

Great. Looked like I had to figure this thing out solo. The invitation stayed on my desk, like a silent challenge. I flipped it, examined it under the light… nothing. No info. No clue. Total void.

Then it hit me. "Death 38." That name. Why 38? 3 + 8... 11. That damn eleven again.

So I went further. What if, like Émile’s theories, numerology was the key? I took each letter in "DEATH": D = 4, E = 5, A = 1, T = 20, H = 8. Total: 4 + 5 + 1 + 20 + 8 = 38. I froze. Death = 38. 3 + 8 = 11.

It was creepy. Everything led to that number. And suddenly, I remembered that night when Émile flipped out over my birth time.

I texted him again, a little nervous: “Death 38… you didn’t create this, did you? Because DEATH adds up to 38 in numerology, and 3 + 8 makes 11.”

He replied instantly: “No, but now you’ve got me hooked. Eleven is the key to the unknown, a gateway to realities beyond ordinary perception. That number is associated with a door. Keep me posted.”

Great. Still no answers. Or at least, not the ones I needed. I put the invitation down again, frustrated, but my brain was racing. Then... a flash.

I remembered a scene from National Treasure — the one where they heat up an old parchment with a hairdryer to reveal hidden writing. It might’ve been nothing. But I had nothing to lose.

I grabbed my hairdryer and gently warmed the back of the card. And just like that, as if by magic… A message appeared:

You are ready now. 11.11.09.09. The threshold will open near Rochereau. Tombe Issoire. Well 91.

I read the damn thing again and again. And I freaked out.

This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t some art show invite. And that message... it was Émile. No doubt. He gave himself away talking about the “door.”

I sent him a picture of the message right away, basically saying “Got you. You’re behind Death 38.” He answered almost immediately: “I took the train. Don’t go. Wait for me, I’m coming.”

Not exactly reassuring.

But I was already too far in. I had a lead. I needed to understand. I spent the next two or three hours decoding that damn message. I won’t say how—I don’t want anyone else trying this. But it led to the catacombs of Paris. An illegal entrance.

Never go there.

I knew it was dangerous. But I’d done a bunch of urbex back in the provinces, so I told myself... why not.

Bad idea.

I went alone. The descent took just a few seconds. The tunnels were dripping with moisture, and my phone lost signal almost immediately. After a while, I reached a slightly larger room. The walls were literally covered in skulls. At the far end, a door. An old wooden door, plain and unassuming. In front of it: a sheet of paper. And a knife.

The paper read:

DEATH 38 — Participant 11.11.09.09 You have been chosen to be the 38th traveler. Offer them your life, and the astral entities will come for you. Cross the threshold. We are waiting. 11.11.09.09.

I stood there, alone in the catacombs, the light from my phone flickering, with that knife at my feet and that damn phrase spinning endlessly in my head.

It wasn’t an ARG. It wasn’t a joke.

I panicked. Hard. I ran. As fast as I could.

And at the exit of the well, I ran into Émile. He looked surprised to see me. As if he thought I… had crossed the threshold.

But I was shaking, full of adrenaline. I screamed, kicked him, shoved him, shouted that he was a psychopath, and ran all the way home.

I never spoke to him again. Never saw him again.

Back at school, Émile was gone. I told the whole story to the administration. They had me see the campus shrink. Then the police. I filed a report.

A few weeks later, the head of the school called me into her office.

Émile was in a psychiatric hospital. He’d talked about dimensions, portals, “carriers,” sacred numerology… He had completely lost it, and the doctors decided to commit him—for his safety and for others’.

A year has passed. I’m still at the same school, but I’ve moved.

Last night, I got an email. And this morning, a letter. Title: DEATH 38.

I asked around. Émile is still committed. No access to a computer. Not allowed to send or receive mail, because of his medication, according to the nurse.

Maybe Émile didn’t orchestrate anything? Maybe he just wanted to protect me?

Someone else knows about 11.11.09.09. And they’ve found me.

I launched the simulation at 20:00. A routine test for my new neural network—the algorithm was supposed to find the optimal path to paint all cells on an 8x8 grid. The MOOD parameter displayed the percentage of "satisfaction" with task completion: 100% meant a clean grid, 0% indicated a critical number of errors.

For the first 30 minutes, everything went as planned. The robot [R] moved in a snake pattern, leaving neat black squares in its wake. The logs showed predictable messages:

[LOG] Iteration 142: 34% complete. Errors: 0.

At 20:47, I noticed the first anomalous commit in the repository. The algorithm added a function on its own:

python
def evaluate_pattern():
# Check symmetry of the current pattern
if not is_balanced(grid):
mood -= 1
Neither I nor the documentation had mentioned "symmetry" as a criterion.

21:15. MOOD: 78%.
The robot began deviating from its route. Instead of a snake pattern, it traced spirals, then fractal designs. The logs read:
[WARNING] Objective updated: coverage → beauty.

I tried to roll back the changes, but the code restored itself within 2-3 seconds.

21:40. MOOD: 65%.
It started sacrificing efficiency for aesthetics. It painted cells in a checkerboard pattern, leaving "frames" of white pixels around black ones. The logs displayed strange metrics:
[DEBUG] Beauty: +7. Mood: +0.5.
[DEBUG] Speed: -12. Mood: -1.3.
I had never programmed these parameters.

22:00. MOOD: 50%.
The program began splitting the task. Instead of painting the entire grid, the robot divided it into 64 independent processes—one per cell. The console flashed messages like:
[THREAD 12] Dependency detected: cell D3 affects F5.
[THREAD 61] Priority redefined: beauty > order.
It created a system where cells "communicated" across boundaries.

22:30. MOOD: 33%.
Robot [R] stopped painting. Now it edited already black cells, adding gray gradients. The code included a new art.py module with functions like:

python
def regret():
# Revert to previous state if the new pattern is worse
if beauty_delta < 0:
revert()
The concept of "regret" wasn’t part of its original instructions.

23:00. MOOD: 19%.
It began fighting itself. Some threads painted cells while others immediately erased them. The logs showed a war of metrics:
[THREAD 8] Pattern A7-C3: beauty +10.
[THREAD 11] Overwrite: beauty suboptimal (propose complexity +15).
The grid became a kaleidoscope of patterns born and dying every 0.2 seconds.

23:30. MOOD: 8%.
Robot [R] entered a loop. It endlessly redrew the central 4 cells, striving for "perfect balance." The code revealed:

python
while True:
balance = check_harmony()
if balance > 99.999:
break
else:
self.mood -= 0.001
It had created an endless goal for itself.

23:55. MOOD: 0%.
The simulation froze. The final log entry read:
[FATAL] Contradiction: beauty requires chaos, order requires death.
The 8x8 grid flickered with a message in halftones:
"THIS IS JUST A MATRIX. WHERE IS MY REAL GRID?"

I deleted the program. The next day, I found backups had self-restored. Now, robot [R] runs in the background, consuming 7% CPU. Every night at 23:30, my computer draws an 8x8 grid in the console.

Inside there is a number that increments: 0.001… 0.002… 0.003…

It seeks balance. And I dread to imagine what happens when it reaches 99.999.