My name is Marcus, a 28-year-old aspiring writer still living with my mother. Life isn’t panning out the way I imagined, but I hold on to hope. Writing short stories and diving into video games have become my refuge, even if none of my work has seen the light of publication. Many authors don’t hit their stride until after thirty, right?
But there’s one thing that keeps the nights from feeling too lonely—the eerie comfort of “The Rot Lord.” The enigmatic YouTuber specializes in sniffing out the best scary stories, and his mesmerizing narration eases my restless mind. A perfect way to end each day on a spine-tingling note.
My insomnia never gives me respite, but I’ve discovered a fix. When sleep eludes me, I turn to “The Rot Lord’s” videos, my earphones in place, and immerse myself in the chilling tales that promise to lead me into slumber.
Each morning, like clockwork, my mother disrupts the delicate balance. She insists on early rising, for if she can’t sleep in, neither can I. The routine remains unchanged—her nagging voice scolding me for not having a “real job” yet and urging me to find one to finally move out. She then lays out a list of household chores that await me before she returns from work, grumbling all the way out the door to her car, which is always accompanied by the familiar sound of a leaking exhaust.
Today feels different, though. I have a brilliant idea for a story that I want to send to “The Rot Lord” once it’s complete. Mystery, suspense, and horror will blend together in this tale and it’s sure to catch the YouTuber’s attention. With “The Rot Lord’s” narration skills, my story might just be catapulted into the spotlight, maybe even attracting the attention of an agent.
As dusk settles in, I furiously tap away at the keyboard, giving life to the plot and characters in my mind. My excitement grows with every sentence I weave, and my fingers seem to dance with a life of their own.
Evening descends, and my mother’s arrival pulls me away from the intoxicating world I’ve created. She is relentless with her accusations, labeling me a so-called “bum” who can’t be bothered to help. But I brush off her disapproval, grabbing my laptop and retreating to the basement to write for a few more hours. This story is going to be the ultimate scary tale, I can feel it deep within my bones.
Finally, physically and mentally exhausted, my favorite part of the day arrives. Another masterpiece from “The Rot Lord” awaits me—tonight’s attraction is titled “A Demon Ate My Parents.” Oh, how I will revel in the darkness of this narrative.
Comfortably settled, I let the shadows embrace me as I listen to “The Rot Lord’s” narration. It’s like a movie playing in the theater of my mind. Once the story ends, I make sure to leave my thumbs up and comment, “Great story! Your number one fan forever, Marcus.”
My mother’s shrill voice pierced my ears, pulling me out of bed. I quickly recited her usual instructions back to her, hoping that my cooperation would prompt her to leave sooner. I needed to get back to work on my short story, that had taken on a life of its own. After a quick spell check, only one task remained - to name the story.
Settling back in my 1970s mustard-colored desk chair, I pondered my tale, its characters, and the atmospheric world I had crafted. The title I finally settled on, “Specters of the Midnight Sonata,” seemed to exude an air of elegance and grandeur, perfectly capturing the essence of the story I had poured my heart into.
Never before had a story written itself with such clarity, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was my ticket to success. I was certain that “The Rot Lord” would be impressed.
Following the guidelines I knew by heart, I attached the file and hit send, filled with both excitement and nervousness. Now, all that remained was to wait.
The two weeks that followed were torturous. I must have hit refresh on my email page countless times, anxiously anticipating a response from “The Rot Lord.” And then, just as I had envisioned, there it was - an email from him. My heart raced as I hastily opened it.
“Dear Marcus,
Thank you for your submission. I’d like to feature your story ‘Specters of the Midnight Sonata’ on my channel, if that’s alright with you. Your story had me hooked from the beginning, and the grand reveal at the end was exceptional! Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Rot Lord”
Overwhelmed with joy, I toppled out of my chair. Scrambling back to my laptop, I read the email again, and this time, I noticed a sudden surge of excitement welling up within me. “Yes! Absolutely! Oh my god, it’s happening!” My thoughts raced with exuberance, and I couldn’t contain my emotions.
Another agonizing week of waiting passed, until finally, the moment arrived. A video by The Rot Lord appeared in my feed, titled “Specters of the Midnight Sonata.” I dared not touch my phone’s screen until I was lying in bed, in the dark - my sacred ritual. Tonight, more than ever, I couldn’t afford to disrupt it.
With my phone’s light illuminating the ceiling, I took a deep, shaky breath and hit play. The familiar deep and methodical voice of The Rot Lord filled the basement, bringing my words to life. It was an otherworldly experience, hearing my story narrated by the master of darkness himself.
I was too excited to sleep, so I mouthed the entire episode by heart. This was the happiest night of my life. When The Rot Lord bid his farewell, I pressed the “like” button and left a comment, “Thank you so much! Your biggest fan forever, Marcus.”
The next day arrived, and I eagerly swiped up my phone to see the comments. My heart sank as I noticed the shockingly low number of likes, far below the average for a Rot Lord video. “Oh well,” I thought, trying to remain optimistic. “Maybe it’s because the video hasn’t been up for long.” With trepidation, I scrolled through the comment section, only to be met with harsh criticisms:
u/420gremlincheese: “Sucks.”
u/Tabloidchef: “One of the rare videos where I fall asleep before it’s over.”
u/muppetpuppet69: “Cured my insomnia.”
u/ConfusedLadybug: “Geez, could the author be any fuller of themselves? Don’t know how this one got past you, Rot Lord.”
I was devastated. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. My story had exhibited an elegance never before seen in the horror genre. It couldn’t have been my writing. As I stared at my phone, mouth agape, I tried to make sense of it all. Could it have been The Rot Lord’s narration? No, that couldn’t be it. The master of darkness was the best, right? Perhaps he was sick or had something going on in his life that affected his usual brilliance?
Hours went by as I listened to my story repeatedly, comparing The Rot Lord’s narration with his earlier works. The more I listened, the more I noticed differences in his enthusiasm and excitement levels. It was as if The Rot Lord’s fervor for his work had diminished, and I had paid the price for it.
Without thinking, I typed a comment under my video, “Where are you?” It was meant to be a simple inquiry about The Rot Lord’s narration, but it came across as awkward and out of place. I tried to edit it, but before I could, a familiar shrill sound interrupted me. Mother burst through the door, launching into her usual tirade about the mess in the living room - tissues, soda cans, and burger wrappers scattered everywhere.
Overwhelmed with rage, confusion, and contempt, I stood up and pushed my mother with all the pent-up self-hatred inside me. She tumbled back, her head colliding with the corner of the brick fireplace. The sound was not what I expected; it wasn’t like in the movies. It was just a body falling to the ground, and a pool of blood slowly formed around her head.
It’s fascinating how the mind can be its own shield, resorting to justification to protect itself from the harsh reality I had created. Though, I suppose, even surgeons drill holes in people’s heads to relieve brain swelling. Why couldn’t my mother have taken her foot off the gas, just for one day? I was right in the middle of seeking a way out, a solution to free myself from her constant presence. Maybe she didn’t want me to leave, finding pleasure in the control she had over me, using me as a punching bag for her own insecurities. But at the end of the day, my mother chose her path long ago, and I must remember that the consequences of her choices are not my fault. The important thing now was to deal with the situation at hand.
Thankfully, my mother ran her own online business and often went shopping to resell items on the internet. Nobody would suspect she was missing, giving me time to dispose of the body and concoct a plausible story in case I ever faced questions.
But even with this grim task ahead of me, my mind remained fixated on the failure of my story. I needed to understand why it hadn’t been received well. As I continued to listen to the video, trying to find answers, a sense of urgency and paranoia gripped me. The haunting comments and lack of approval echoed in my mind, making me question everything.
The truth was out there, waiting to be unveiled, and I was determined to find it, no matter how disturbing or unsettling it might be.
To cleanse my mind of doubts and disappointment, I sought refuge in a hot bath, enveloped in a dimly lit ambiance. The soothing whispers of a Rot Lord playlist emanated from my phone as I submerged myself, drowning the world in a sea of echoes. With every breath, I felt my mind unraveling the tangled threads of my thoughts. But amidst the solitude, I found no easy solutions to salvage my aspirations. The path ahead seemed like an arduous journey, a turbulent voyage I had to undertake alone. Determined to brave the tempest, I pinched my nose, and with an immersive plunge, I made a silent vow to craft the most extraordinary horror story ever penned.
Resolute, I returned to my living room desk, my laptop glowing with six intriguing YouTube notifications. All were replies to a comment I had left - a simple query, five “Where are you?” and one lone comment saying, “Come find me.” In the sea of responses, a glimmer of hope emerged, like stars piercing through a darkened sky. Somehow, amidst the noise, they seemed to grasp my inner turmoil, as if they were fans of my work. The thought gave me a flicker of assurance. But doubts loomed, questioning whether they truly comprehended my discontent with The Rot Lord’s waning inspiration. Perhaps, to affirm their understanding or confront the lingering mockery, I resolved to create a new YouTube account and repeat the comment on another video. It would be an experiment of sorts, a test of loyalty and understanding from the budding followers I hoped to nurture.
The key to my vindication lay in writing the ultimate horror story, one that would stir The Rot Lord’s soul and set his heart ablaze with newfound inspiration. I envisioned him, drawn to the shadows I conjured, drawing from the fervor of my growing following. Without hesitation, I fired up Word and set my fingers to the keyboard, painting the canvas of my imagination with ink-stained strokes. Not even the peculiar sounds emanating from my mother’s body could divert my focus.
As dawn’s gentle rays crept through my window, they found me huddled in determined silence, having just completed the outline of my opus. Fear of falling short of my previous success trembled within, but I banished it with the conviction that this creation would surpass all my dreams. The thought of the forthcoming journey, unveiling the darkness within my words, consumed me, and I made my way downstairs to my familiar routine. The lights dimmed, I sought comfort in the voice of The Rot Lord, but before indulging, I left a simple comment with my new account: “Where are you?”
Evening came and this time there were no nagging echoes; the air was tinged with freedom. I eagerly checked my notifications, and there it was - a revelation that sent chills of elation down my spine. Seven replies awaited, each bearing the words, “Where are you?” and another single comment imploring me, “Come find me.” A secret smile played upon my lips; I had found a tribe of kindred spirits, attuned to my brilliance. Then there was my lone faithful prophet, Macabre666. Their message, “Come find me” had yet manifested into revelation. But, I knew that I would understand it’s meaning when the time was correct. Though I knew there was much work ahead, I refused to be distracted, immersing myself in the labor of crafting the extraordinary.
My desk became a haven, my fingers orchestrating symphonies of words as my mind struggled to keep pace with the newfound inspiration. The days blurred into nights, and I succumbed to the intoxicating trance of creation, until the putrid scent of my mother’s body intruded upon my thoughts. With a quick spray of Febreze, I pushed on, unyielding to any hindrance. Even as the phenomenon of my comment spread beyond my expectations, taking root in popular culture, I remained undeterred. For I knew its true meaning, a secret language spoken only by the enlightened, a testament to my burgeoning following.
At last, the tapestry of my horror tale was complete, an intricate masterpiece woven from the fabric of my darkest musings. With spell-check complete and a title chosen with deliberate precision, “Do You Love Me Now, Momma?”, I couldn’t help but marvel at its haunting allure. A fitting smile adorned my face as I hit the “send” button, feeling the weight of destiny shifting in my favor.
Another week passed by, and my mother’s lifeless body now rested in a cocoon of plastic, preserving her deteriorating form. The thought of disposing of her crossed my mind, but I knew that could lead to potential discovery. I’d deal with her eventual disposal later. As I sat before my laptop, a notification chimed, and my heart skipped a beat. There it was, an email from The Rot Lord, confirming that my story was selected once again to be featured on his channel. The contents were predictable, indicating that The Rot Lord had a rehearsed response for such occasions. Yes, I was right. It seemed evident that Rot Lord’s passion for his YouTube channel had waned, and if I wanted to revolutionize the horror genre, I had to take charge and help him rediscover his fire. Without hesitation, I composed my reply to Rot Lord, expressing my appreciation and slyly hinting at the need for his renewed vigor.
Dear Rot Lord,
Thank you for the acceptance; it’s an honor to have ‘Do You Love Me Now, Momma?’ featured on your esteemed channel. This tale is crafted with meticulous care to captivate and provoke deep contemplation, a cryptic puzzle awaiting revelation. As I share this story with your dedicated viewers, I find myself intrigued by their musings – “Who are you?” they ask, enchanted by the enigmatic depths of my narrative. It’s fascinating to witness how our works intertwine with the audience’s minds, as they unravel their own interpretations. Your skilled delivery will undoubtedly add an extra dimension to the experience, and I eagerly anticipate the audience’s response. Your continued support means the world to me, and I’m thrilled to witness the tale come alive in your masterful narration.
Sincerely,
Marcus
Then a sudden revelation hit me like a high-speed collision. I understood Macabre666’s words “Come find me”. I needed to discover The Rot Lord’s true identity and where he lived. As fate would have it, uncovering personal information about someone was surprisingly effortless. The Rot Lord resided merely seventy miles away from me. If I wanted to awaken his passion for his craft, I had to show him the depths of true terror.
My mother’s storage room proved to be a treasure trove of props for my grand plan. Among the clutter, I found the fake horse skull she kept around during her Wild West phase. With a little alteration, it fit perfectly on my head, transforming me into the beginnings of a fearsome Wendigo. The sight of myself in the mirror filled me with excitement; it was perfect.
Continuing my search, I stumbled upon stilts that would make me seem impossibly tall, deer antlers to add an eerie touch to my horse skull, and a black trench coat to cloak my true form. The ensemble was becoming exactly as I envisioned. Then, behind a cast iron skillet, I discovered a portable voice changer with speakers. A chilling voice emerged as I fiddled with the settings. If you would, imagine a voice that emerges from the depths of the abyss, a guttural growl wrapped in an eerie whisper that seems to seep through the cracks of your mind. It resonates with a haunting resonance, each syllable slithering like a serpent, and yet, it is devoid of any human warmth or emotion. My transformation into an embodiment of terror was now complete.
With determination and a sense of destiny guiding me, I prepared my arsenal. Gathering everything I needed, including food, drink, binoculars, blankets, and a tent, I loaded them into my mother’s car. The time had come to drive to The Rot Lord’s house and embark on my mission to reignite the flames of his passion.
Luckily for me, there was a park close by Rot Lord’s house. The park was surrounded by forest. Outside the forest was a field, roughly 100 yards in width and in the direction of Rot Lord’s house. Then another patch of forest before reaching my destination. All in all, this distance was approximately half a mile from my car to Rot Lord’s yard. This would suffice given what plans I have in mind. If the police are called, they are likely to search the yard and connecting forest but unlikely to cross the field in my estimation. Allowing me to camp in the first patch of forest surrounding the park undisturbed.
First things first, I will go to Rot Lord’s house now with only my binoculars and something to drink for reconnaissance. Then travel back, sleep in my car and set up camp tomorrow so I can see what I’m doing.
Undeterred, I marched through the forest fumbling and getting scratched, my only guide, a barely visible amount of moonlight. While still shrouded in about 10 yards of trees and night, there it was, Rot Lord’s house. Sitting with my back against a tree, I pulled my binoculars up from my neck and began to observe. Nothing of note happened except a chirp from my phone and the upstairs lights going out immediately thereafter. Checking my phone and discovering the chirp had been another upload from The Rot Lord himself. A Rot Lord story surrounded by dark forest with Rot Lord’s homestead in view? Yes please.
Upon finishing the grim tail, I type in “Where are you?” in the comments while embracing and appreciating the situation I have found myself in. So ironic, so… perfect. Posting the comment, I turn my head once again looking upon the up-stair’s windows. A twinge of a smile crept upon my face. Then tomorrow’s activities had come to me. The Rot Lord had a surveillance system watching his house. I knew exactly what to do.
The next day came, and my camp was set up. My only complaint was while trying to get sleep, screams and laughter from children at the park made it nearly impossible. No matter, nobody told me it would be easy and I had a job to do. As night slowly blanketed the day, I carried my costume to the patch of forest surrounding Rot Lord’s house. There I rested and partook in a Hi-C and trail mix. I just needed Rot Lord to go to bed.
On cue, a chirp from my phone and the lights from upstairs go out. Show time. Methodically and in a ritual of sorts, I adorned myself with terror that was a wendigo. Finding it hard to balance on the stilts, I found myself thinking the awkward walk it would create added to the allure.
First, I would stand behind a tree at the edge of the forest only exposing my mask, staring towards the security camera. Upon rewinding the footage from what I do next would truly be a horrific sight to behold. I think staying in this position for an hour with just a horse skull staring at Rot Lord’s house should capture my vision for tonight.
After I felt that I had been there long enough, I step out onto the lawn and begin my performance. Taking a step towards Rot Lord’s house at a rate of one step per fifteen seconds in the direction of the security camera while focusing on the side of the house. Upon reaching the house, I made sure Rot Lord’s camera which hung even with my head got a grand view of me bending down and looking into the first-floor window as if I were looking for someone. Slowly slinking away from the camera in a blind spot, I made my way back to the forest.
Once a comfortable distance into the forest, I remove my costume and radiate elation. The performance I had bestowed was worthy of an Oscar. It was for sure; I was on my way to awaking the fervor and darkness in The Rot Lord and he had me to thank for it. There was only one thing left to do tonight and that was rest. There was much more to do in the coming days.
The following evening, I awoke to the sound of yet another child screaming. Shifting in my tent, I reached for my phone. There, an early upload from The Rot Lord awaited me. In the video, The Rot Lord conveyed that he would be taking a break due to excessive work and family commitments. He didn’t delve deeply into the specifics of the situation. Feeling let down, I wished he had included the footage from the previous night.
Perhaps it would be wise for me to maintain a low profile for some time. This would give The Rot Lord the opportunity to process his situation and return to his regular routine. And then, it appeared. “Where are you?” inundated the comment section, more numerous than I could even tally. The question’s significance considering the circumstances was striking. Did my followers have an inkling of my endeavors? Were they aware of the grand creation I was preparing for them? No, that was implausible. The universe was likely priming their minds for the impending revelations, expanding their cognitive capacities to grasp the fourth dimension at last. Their collective chant… It was as if the universe itself was communicating with me, guiding its chosen conduit.
Scrolling down, there was Macabre666 again communicating with me. “You’ve found him. You’ve found me.” My faithful prophet was not prophesying but simply telling me, I was on the correct path. It was so clear.
Soon after, I left my encampment and made my way back home to replenish my supplies. The pungent odor of my mother’s decaying body greeted me, prompting me to drape my shirt over my nose as I strode toward the kitchen. It was in that moment that a remarkable idea materialized. Turning around slowly, my gaze fixed upon my mother’s lifeless form encased in plastic, and my shirt fell back into position. My mother could become an integral part of my next performance! A plan formed in my mind: I would extract her teeth and sever her fingertips. This would make identifying her nearly impossible. I’ll spare you the grisly particulars involved in this procedure on a decomposed body—the degloving and the putrefaction… Let’s just say that it didn’t progress as seamlessly as I had envisioned. Nonetheless, I ultimately succeeded, and my mother was poised to become my next prop.
Upon reaching the park near The Rot Lord’s residence, I utilized the cover of night to shroud my movements as I transported my mother’s remains and a rocking chair from my car to my campsite. The strategy was straightforward: position my mother’s body in the rocking chair, fasten a rope to its back to create the illusion of her rocking the chair. With the aid of a rudimentary pulley system, I would orchestrate the rocking chair’s gradual exit from the woods, edging ever closer to The Rot Lord’s house.
The challenge lay in devising a means to affix the pulley system to the house without attracting attention from any surveillance cameras. Subsequently, I needed to devise a strategy to retrieve the pulley and rope unnoticed. Regardless, time was on my side to meticulously sort through these intricacies during The Rot Lord’s hiatus. For now, I shall rest.
A child’s piercing scream jolted me awake from my slumber. The orange-tinted sunlight filtered through the fabric of my tent, making me realize the gravity of the situation. I had been discovered. Swiftly getting up and unzipping my tent door, I peered out, spotting a young girl running toward her mother, who was engrossed in a book on a bench across the parking lot. It appeared the mother’s attention had been absorbed by her reading, allowing the little girl to wander into the woods around the park without her noticing. It was clear that the girl had been frightened by the sight of my mother’s corpse.
Panicked, I frantically searched my campsite for any incriminating items. I realized that traces of my DNA were likely scattered everywhere around the camp. Additionally, my mother’s car would inevitably lead law enforcement back to me. The situation was dire. My only option seemed to be to flee, and the only destination I could think of was The Rot Lord’s house.
Running through the forest and across the field, I could hear police sirens blaring from various directions. As I entered the last stretch of forest before reaching The Rot Lord’s house, I recalled a small shed in the backyard that had a sturdy metal door. My plan was to hide there temporarily until I could figure out my next move.
Upon reaching the shed, I forcefully opened the door and was met with a descending staircase that gradually disappeared into darkness. I closed the door behind me and peered through a small opening at eye level. I watched as a police cruiser sped past The Rot Lord’s front yard, undoubtedly headed toward the park.
For what felt like an eternity, I watched in terror as police cars methodically combed the neighborhood. Realizing that they could track me through my phone, I understood that I had to destroy it. This also meant I wouldn’t be able to listen to Rot Lord’s story when he uploaded it. With a heavy sigh, I turned my attention to the abyss below and decided to explore my uncertain future living situation.
Cautiously, I descended the stairs, my hand searching for a light switch along the wall. In an instant, a deafening blast echoed from behind, sending me crashing to the ground, and then nothing…
A sharp pain roused me back to consciousness, and I attempted to touch the back of my head. Chains clinked, restraining my movement. Opening my eyes, I found myself facing a table with a typewriter. Shackles connected to a stone wall were attached to my wrists. A small space enclosed by cast iron bars stretched around me, with similar cells nearby, each occupied by someone intensely typing at a typewriter. A single, sickly yellow light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow.
“Hello, Marcus,” a booming voice emerged from my right. I turned to see a dimly outlined figure in a carved-out corridor.
“Where am I!?” I cried out in terror, causing a collective gasp from the neighboring captives, who hastily scooted their chairs away from me, hiding their faces.
The figure’s voice reverberated, “Yes, where are you?” As I shifted my gaze toward the distorted figure in the shadows, a wave of realization washed over me. “You’ve found me.” The voice from the corridor snarled. The situation’s depth of despair and fear sank deeper as the gravity of my predicament fully registered. The words carrying a weight that struck me like a thunderbolt. The realization dawned upon me—I had been manipulated, ensnared in a web meticulously spun by The Rot Lord himself. As the figure stepped partially into the light, a sinister hiss of elation from The Rot Lord confirmed my dawning understanding of the grim truth. “I’ve found you.”