You know how the depths of loneliness can draw you into a void, so chillingly dark that you’d latch onto any flicker of light? That’s how I found HeartChord, an app that didn’t just come with a user agreement, but with a ritual. Its aesthetics lured me in—a tapestry of glyphs and fractals that seemed almost sentient, as if they were staring back at me, studying me. That should’ve been my first warning.
The app’s setup was more like an occult ceremony than a profile creation. “Full moon selfie,” it demanded. Not only did it ask for my blood type, but it also asked for the phase of the moon under which I was born. Each question seemed like a piece of my soul was being extracted, distilled, and saved in some unholy database.
Then, I matched with Celeste. Her beauty was transcendent, almost nauseatingly perfect. Her eyes were abysses, swirls of color so deep that they seemed to have no end. We met in a place that wasn’t just off the beaten path; it felt like it existed in the shadows between worlds. Talismans and hex signs adorned the walls, casting distorted reflections that seemed to mock my presence.
Celeste shimmered like a mirage as she approached. She ordered a drink that looked like liquid shadow, exuding an odor of decay and petrichor. Her words seemed to warp reality itself. She spoke of realms that should not be, of cosmic horrors and forbidden rites. It felt like I was conversing with an echo from beyond the veil, a projection of something monstrous, longing to break through.
“I would like you to stay,” she hissed as I mumbled an excuse to leave. Her eyes blinked horizontally, revealing a pitch-black void, and I felt invisible talons grip my very essence. Summoning every ounce of my willpower, I broke free and stumbled out of the café, each step an agonizing struggle against a force that yearned to drag me into a realm of ceaseless torment.
And then there was Lilith. We met in an accursed theater, its very architecture oozing malevolence. Long rumored to be haunted, it was a place where people had vanished without a trace. Lilith stood bathed in an aura of stygian blackness. Our conversation descended into outright horror—she spoke of soul flaying, of eternal damnation, and her laugh sounded like a cacophony of the wailing damned.
Suddenly, she disintegrated into a monstrous form, a writhing mass of shadows and fangs. The walls of the theater began to breathe, contracting like a beast’s innards, intending to digest me alive. Panicked, I deleted HeartChord, and the walls convulsed, regurgitating me back into the real world as if expelling a foul morsel.
I deleted the app, but the terrors it unleashed haven’t left me. Shadows in my room form grotesque figures; I hear voices—guttural and demonic—whispering my name in the dead of night. I’ve been marked, and something beyond the ken of human understanding now has its sights set on me.
So listen to me: Do not download HeartChord. It’s not a dating app; it’s a digital grimoire, a cursed interface that summons things that exist in the spaces between dark matter and the human soul. I’ve let them in, and now I hear their footsteps, slithering, clawing, drawing inexorably closer. They’re coming for me, and if you’re not careful, they’ll come for you too.