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6/4/2025, 1:59:17 AM
>Open the File
It takes considerable effort to force through the mental barrior that the host has placed around it's mind, however our will is much stronger than whatever simulacrum of the Cheryl human remains within us. We force the finger down, and with a tap the images are revealed to our sensory organs.
Photos of dark corridors fill the screen, within them a single human, male, brown haired, wearing some kind of red and black flannel jacket is seen along with a hand on the very edge of the photo. The subject of the photo appears to be a abandoned store front, long falling apart from urban decay, the walls are littered with graffito. We slide of finger, the next photo shows more of the same, except the male figure has in their possession a 'Spraycan', which it uses to mark the walls, the still image radiates a smile even through the digital screen, our heart is pumping abnormally. We shift our organs and neurons to slow the heart, next photo. 2 humans, the host and the human figure smiling, close up. The host has stuck out her tongue and the human male has wrapped his arm around the host, I still feel his grip upon my shoulder...
That cold grip, it never left me, never, never, nev-
the next is not a photo, rather a 'Video' as the humans call it. There is no sound when we press the 'Play' button. Until we discover a pair of headphones buried within a pile of clothes which has begun to blare incessantly to our enhanced hearing. We dig the headphones out from the pile and start the video again. Contained within, panting, gasping, the camera shaking heavily. A loud screaming echos throughout, off the walls, through the ruined and broken tiles. For a brief moment the camera flicks back behind the recorder, IT follows, cast in shadow. IT's claws marred in blood, a face warped by a sadistic smile barely visible, pixelated and grainy from the dark. for only a moment is IT visible, until the camera screams back forward, out of the mall, into the empty parking lot, far into the night. Behind, the figure stands still, glaring at the recording device from the parking lot, then it is gone.
We recognize IT's face, Eve, a former classmate, we delve into the Host's memory only to find... Nothing. Nothing but a hole in the host's memory. We dig further, interrogating the hole, attempting to find any connection to IT's face and this 'Eve' figure. Nothing. There is only 2 more photos remaining in the folder.
It takes considerable effort to force through the mental barrior that the host has placed around it's mind, however our will is much stronger than whatever simulacrum of the Cheryl human remains within us. We force the finger down, and with a tap the images are revealed to our sensory organs.
Photos of dark corridors fill the screen, within them a single human, male, brown haired, wearing some kind of red and black flannel jacket is seen along with a hand on the very edge of the photo. The subject of the photo appears to be a abandoned store front, long falling apart from urban decay, the walls are littered with graffito. We slide of finger, the next photo shows more of the same, except the male figure has in their possession a 'Spraycan', which it uses to mark the walls, the still image radiates a smile even through the digital screen, our heart is pumping abnormally. We shift our organs and neurons to slow the heart, next photo. 2 humans, the host and the human figure smiling, close up. The host has stuck out her tongue and the human male has wrapped his arm around the host, I still feel his grip upon my shoulder...
That cold grip, it never left me, never, never, nev-
the next is not a photo, rather a 'Video' as the humans call it. There is no sound when we press the 'Play' button. Until we discover a pair of headphones buried within a pile of clothes which has begun to blare incessantly to our enhanced hearing. We dig the headphones out from the pile and start the video again. Contained within, panting, gasping, the camera shaking heavily. A loud screaming echos throughout, off the walls, through the ruined and broken tiles. For a brief moment the camera flicks back behind the recorder, IT follows, cast in shadow. IT's claws marred in blood, a face warped by a sadistic smile barely visible, pixelated and grainy from the dark. for only a moment is IT visible, until the camera screams back forward, out of the mall, into the empty parking lot, far into the night. Behind, the figure stands still, glaring at the recording device from the parking lot, then it is gone.
We recognize IT's face, Eve, a former classmate, we delve into the Host's memory only to find... Nothing. Nothing but a hole in the host's memory. We dig further, interrogating the hole, attempting to find any connection to IT's face and this 'Eve' figure. Nothing. There is only 2 more photos remaining in the folder.
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