It started as a dare. A stupid, reckless dare. Cole had found a link on the dark web, buried deep in some forum he claimed to have stumbled across. “The Invitation,” he called it, like it was some urban legend, a challenge only the bravest could accept. The website was crude, just a black screen with a single blinking cursor. Underneath it, a message read: Enter your name to play.
I wanted nothing to do with it, but Jess and Emily egged me on, laughing, teasing me for being scared. They were my best friends. We’d grown up together, shared secrets, fought, made up, and now… now they’re gone. And I’m here, writing this, even though I know they’ll come for me if I do. But someone has to know what happened.
It took less than an hour after entering our names. Jess was the one who clicked the button, her grin wide with a mix of fear and excitement. A few minutes later, we all got the same text: “Welcome to The Game. You’ll be picked up at midnight. Come alone. No phones. No second chances.” I should have stopped it then. I should have said no. But we laughed it off, thinking it was some kind of joke.
At midnight, the van arrived. Matte black, no windows. The driver wore a mask, featureless and pale like porcelain. We hesitated, but Cole climbed in first, calling us cowards. One by one, we followed. The doors locked behind us with a heavy click.
The ride was silent, suffocating. No one spoke, not even the driver. When the van finally stopped, we were in the middle of nowhere—just a warehouse surrounded by endless woods. The air smelled like rust and decay. I wanted to run, but the masked driver opened the door and pointed toward the building. His silence was more terrifying than if he’d spoken.
Inside, the place was cold, sterile. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A dozen others stood in the center of the room, all our age, their faces pale with dread. Before we could say anything, a voice crackled over hidden speakers: “Welcome to The Game. Tonight, you play for your lives.”
The first challenge was simple—a puzzle we had to solve together. But then the rules changed. Each round became more twisted, more violent. By the third round, we were no longer solving puzzles; we were the puzzle.
They pitted us against each other. At first, it was small things—choosing who got food, who stayed tied up longer. Then it escalated. They handed Jess a knife and told her to choose: cut Emily or herself. She refused at first, screaming, begging. But they showed us a screen—our families, my little sister, Jess’s mom, Cole’s dad—watching us from their homes, oblivious to the cameras. “Refuse, and they die.”
Jess did it. She cut Emily’s arm, sobbing so hard she could barely hold the blade. Emily screamed, blood soaking her shirt, but we all knew it could’ve been worse. We thought that was the worst of it. We were wrong.
By the time we reached the sixth round, there were only six of us left. That was when they brought out the guillotine. A real, ancient-looking thing with rusted metal and bloodstained wood. The rules were simple: one of us had to step forward, or they’d kill all six. No one moved. I couldn’t even breathe.
Cole stepped forward. He was always the brave one, the idiot. He tried to make a joke about how his head was too big to fit, but his voice cracked. I’ll never forget the sound of the blade dropping, the sickening thud that followed, or the way his body collapsed while his head… God, his head…
I don’t know how I kept going after that. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the fear of seeing my sister’s face on that screen again. The final round was just me and Jess. They gave us a gun with one bullet. “Only one walks out.”
I begged Jess not to do it. We could find another way, fight back, something. But she just looked at me, tears streaming down her face, and whispered, “I’m sorry.” She raised the gun, her hands shaking so badly I thought she might drop it. I don’t even remember grabbing the knife—I just remember her falling, blood pooling around her, and the sound of her choking on her last breath.
They let me go after that. I don’t know why. Maybe they thought I was broken enough. Maybe they wanted me to live with it. They dumped me on the side of the road, miles from town. By the time I stumbled into the police station, I could barely speak.
They didn’t believe me. They said there was no warehouse, no van, no game. Jess, Cole, Emily—they were all listed as runaways. The footage of my sister, of all our families, was gone. The only thing left was the scar on my hand where Jess had cut me during one of the earlier rounds.
Now I get texts. Random times, random numbers. “We’re watching.” “Share this, and your sister dies.” I see their faces in my dreams, hear the sound of that blade, Jess’s last words.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe to warn you. Maybe because I can’t take it anymore. The Game isn’t over. It never ends. And if you’re reading this, you might already be playing.
