It was supposed to be a regular night—pizza, video games, and dumb internet rabbit holes. Jake and I had spent countless weekends like this. But that night, Jake had other plans.
“You ever heard of RedRoomX?” he asked casually, spinning in his chair.
“No. What’s that?” I replied, barely looking up from my phone.
“It’s this livestream thing on the dark web. People pay to watch real torture. Like… it’s legit.”
My stomach twisted. “That’s sick, Jake. Why would anyone watch that?”
“Relax. It’s fake,” he said with a grin. “Probably some staged horror movie crap. Let’s check it out.”
I hesitated. Jake was always the reckless one, dragging me into things I didn’t want to do. “What if it’s real?”
Jake smirked. “Then we’ll know, won’t we?”
Before I could protest, he had already opened his laptop, booting up Tor. The screen glowed dimly in the dark room as he navigated to the site.
The homepage was simple: black background, red text. A banner flashed across the top.
WELCOME TO REDROOMX: WHERE THE SHOW IS YOURS.
A chat box flickered below the video feed. Jake clicked the link, and the screen went black for a moment.
Then it loaded.
The feed showed a small, windowless room with concrete walls. In the center was a woman tied to a chair. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly, her head slumped forward. Her hair was matted, and her shirt was torn, exposing cuts and bruises along her arms.
“This has to be fake,” Jake muttered, though his voice wasn’t as confident as before.
The chat exploded with messages:
“$500 to start with her hand!”
“$1000 for an eye.”
“DO IT!”
The door in the corner of the room creaked open. A man in a black ski mask entered, holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a knife in the other.
My blood ran cold.
“This is staged, right?” Jake whispered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
The man walked to the woman and yanked her head up by her hair. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She tried to scream, but her mouth was gagged. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled against the ropes.
“Jake, turn it off,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Hold on,” he muttered, his eyes glued to the screen.
The masked man turned to the camera, tilting his head as if waiting for the chat’s instructions.
One message stood out: “$2000 to gouge her eye out.”
The man nodded, as if acknowledging the comment. He raised the scissors and pressed them against the woman’s face. She thrashed, muffled screams pouring from her gag.
“TURN IT OFF, JAKE!” I yelled, my heart pounding.
Jake slammed the laptop shut, plunging the room into darkness. We sat there in silence, the only sound our ragged breathing.
“That wasn’t real,” Jake said finally, though he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
Neither of us slept that night. I kept seeing her face every time I closed my eyes—her fear, her helplessness, the blood.
The next day, Jake texted me: They know we watched.
My stomach dropped. What do you mean? I replied.
He sent a screenshot of an email. The subject line read: THANKS FOR JOINING US.
The message was simple: Stay quiet, or you’re next.
I stared at my phone, feeling sick. Did you reply? I asked.
Jake didn’t answer.
A week later, he stopped showing up to school. His parents said he was staying with relatives, but I knew better.
The emails started coming to me, too. Anonymous addresses, all with the same subject line: ARE YOU STILL WATCHING?
I stopped opening them, but they kept coming. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I hear someone outside my window.
I don’t know if Jake’s alive. I don’t know if they’re watching me.
But I know one thing for sure: I’ll never feel safe again.
