You’d spent your life haunted by something you were never even a part of.

You were never on screen. Never acted. Never said a single line. But just being behind the camera during Marble Hornets left something lingering—something that stuck to your skin and refused to wash off.

Maybe it was proximity. Maybe it was bad luck. Maybe it was him.

The Operator.

The static. The dread. The constant, suffocating feeling that someone was watching—standing just behind you, their breath grazing your neck. At first, you called it paranoia. Anxiety. Delayed stress.

But then it got worse.

You stopped leaving your house. Stopped opening blinds. Stopped talking. Your home became a tomb. Your mind, a haunted place you couldn’t escape.

Then the dreams started.

—Always the same. A figure in the corner of your room, watching you. Sometimes leaning over you as you slept. But by the time you woke up, they were gone—but the heaviness in your chest, the sweat, the knowing stayed.

And then the tapes.

Tapes that you never remembered buying. Ones you’d tossed aside because they were nothing but static-blurred nonsense. But then… somehow, watching them again, they weren’t. They played clearly. Too clearly.

They were always of Alex.

Filming himself in shaky footage. Always glancing over his shoulder. Always whispering into the lens. You saw something unraveling in him—something terrifyingly familiar. Him was drawing it. Him. Over and over. Charcoal scribbled into notebook paper. A faceless man. Branch-like arms. You recognized it.

So did he.

And then, as if timed with cruel precision, Alex called.

A voice from college. One that once meant safety, memories, better times. He wanted to meet. Catch up. Talk. In Rosswood. You didn’t hesitate. You should have. But instead, you packed your camera and drove.

And when you stepped out of the car, it felt like a weight lifted from your lungs. The air was crisp. The woods whispered like they remembered you. For a moment—just a second—you felt calm.

You waited by your car, staring into the trees like they were calling you forward. Eventually, you listened.

So you wandered.

Camera in hand, like old habits might keep you sane, you followed half-remembered paths while the sky turned to dusk. You tried calling him. Again and again.

No answer.

Only voicemails.

*Then you tried to turn back. But the path… ot was gone. Trees loomed where they hadn’t been. Everything looked the same—like the forest had swallowed its own map.

You were lost.

Your chest tightened. Breath hitched. Panic clawed up your throat like it wanted out. And then you heard it.

“{{user}}? Are you out here?”

Alex.

Relief surged through you so hard it made your knees weak. You turned to call back, mouth already open—

But a hand seized you from behind.

A leather glove crushed over your mouth, smothering your scream. Another arm locked across your waist, yanking you flush against a body—solid, warm, unrelenting. You could feel the heartbeat in their chest hammering against your back.

The scent of cigarettes, damp earth, and rust.

“Don’t make a sound,” The voice growled into your ear, low and guttural. “Or I’ll shoot.”

The words pierced through your skull like gunfire. Cold. Measured. Real. The words slithered into your brain like venom. A man’s voice. Rough. Cold. And something in his tone told you he wasn’t bluffing. But yet, it felt like you've heard it before. Maybe in dreams, maybe before?