Phenomenon 10: Case 1
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Whoosh…

A warm wind brushes across your face as you step into Level 10. It feels like a hot, dry breath exhaled right against your skin. The grass sways in sync with the towering cornstalks, moving as one. You take a step. Then another. The gravel path crunches beneath your shoes.

In the distance, a low moo breaks the silence. The sound doesn’t echo—it simply lingers in the air, unnaturally still.

You’re almost home. Not that the word has much meaning now.

You nudge a pebble with your toe, then another, watching them bounce and vanish into the trenches of brittle grass and broken rubble lining the road. Sweat drips down your forehead, only to be blown back by a sudden gust.

You stop and look up. The sky is as dreary as always, a thick carpet of clouds hangs overhead. The wind picks up, harder now, pushing against you like it's trying to stop you.

Something in your chest coils tight. Maybe this whole thing's been a mistake. You should turn back. Maybe its just… It's probably just a superstition. It's probably just—

Bump.

You stumble backward and land hard in the gravel, grit digging through your clothes. It's a stop sign, flaked in rust and thick black spray paint.

You're here: home.

!! The house is still smothered in moss and time, slouched into the ground as if trying to be forgotten. White paint peeling away from the distressed wood The front door hangs half-detached, just enough to reveal a silhouette of something inside. It looks almost staged, like a horror film set left to rot.

No kids screaming down the halls, louder than anyone had the right to be. No laughing at jokes told around a fireplace.

Just stillness. The rule, the one transcending your lifespan by millennia, rushes into your mind. What's worse than abundant noise in the Backrooms? Silence.

Your pupils narrow, chest tightening. You shake the memories loose and dust yourself off quickly, peering at your surroundings cautiously. It's muted, naturally so.

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Your neck twists to the side before you even realize you’ve moved. Nothing. Just swaying corn and windblown dust. But you heard it. Footsteps.

You scan the distance again, now slower, analyzing everywhere someone could hide. Nowhere. Only fog, thick and pale, creeping in from the distance like a slow, deliberate tide.

You can't stay out here.

You hurry toward the house. Your hand finds the doorframe. You pull.

A rush of stagnant air surges out, thick with mold, rust, and something far fouler. Something organic. Sour. Like vomit sealed away and just now rediscovered. You cough. A dry, violent series of hacks. Each one hurts more than the last. You grip onto the doorway tightly as you push yourself forward.

The house is in worse shape than you remembered.

!!The ceiling, practically gone, is dripping with some kind of slick, thick liquid. You don’t want to name it, but your mind settles on one answer: blood. You slowly pick up one of the books scattered across the warped floorboards. Its cover is blistered and charred, barely holding together. In uneven lettering, scrawled across what’s left of the spine: I see it.

The pages inside are little more than melted fragments, smeared with frantic ink. No structure. Just spirals, symbols, and nonsense phrases written over and over again.

You set it down. Pick up another. This one reads, "What is with this mist?" Most of the pages have been violently torn out, save for the last. The only thing that remains is a single figure, crudely drawn in black ink. No eyes. No mouth. No features. Just an outline.

One of the books appears in noticeably better condition than the rest. Not a scratch on it; titled "I'm alone."

Writing. The contents are finally something coherent, but the handwriting is careful, rigid. You read aloud, your voice barely above a whisper, like you’re telling secret no one should hear:
!!

Date: 03/03/2018

No one said a word. Not even goodbye.

I saw them leave one by one.

They looked wrong. Flat. Like they weren’t really there. Their faces didn’t move. Their eyes… weren’t seeing anything. Not even me.

It’s like they forgot I existed. Like I’d already died.

I tried calling out. Screaming, even. No one flinched. Not even little Casey. She just walked with the rest, blank as stone.

They were all I had. My broken, laughing, fighting, real family. I would’ve died for them. I lived for them. And now they’re gone.

Everything I was… is gone.


The final words are underlined so many times that the paper has torn through.

The room feels stagnant now. The wind outside has gone silent, still. Something crawls across your skin. Not something you can see, but a feeling. It prickles along your arms, down your spine. An itch. Then another. Then everywhere.

You scratch one spot. Then again. Harder. Until the skin turns raw and blotched and red. The sound of your heartbeat grows loud in your ears, pounding like it’s trying to warn you of something. Yet, there's no answer to what of, just stillness.

Creak

You jolt back, your spine slamming against the doorframe. Your eyes snap to the stairwell. It wasn’t your imagination—there was something there. You felt it. Like heat from a hand that had just let go.

Your breath stutters as you edge toward the stairs. Every second stretches out like an eternity.

Empty. Just dust and silence.

Yet the feeling persists. You’re not just being paranoid. Its like a thought you didn't think, stood right behind you, just waiting for you to notice.

You start to climb. Slow. Careful. Dust blooms in the air with each movement, hanging in the stillness like ash. No matter how gentle your movements, each step moans louder than the last.

Near the top of the stairs, you peer into what’s left of the hallway. The floorboards ahead are warped and black with rot. It's choked in moss that climbs the walls like veins.

You could swear they're pulsing.

The wind carries the echoes of once distant moos. They're getting closer.

You dash towards the window, lacking any consideration for the floorboards beneath you. You fall through a large crack, landing spine-first onto hard ground. But that doesn't stop you. You crawl to your feet and bolt for the door.

Nowhere is safe, especially not here. It's following, and you know it.

Wind howls in your face. Cold. Damp. Wrong. You suck in a breath, but it’s thick and sour. Not air. Something heavier.

The mist. It's reached the house.

It pours in through the cracks—through the floorboards, the gaps in the walls, the spaces between your ribs.

Forms stir in the mist. Darker than any show shadow. Too still to be real and too solid to be smoke.

You blink, and now they’re closer. You don’t remember them moving. You don’t remember time passing.

They’re watching you. All of them. And you can’t watch back.

Your hands grip your black cotton shirt, white-knuckled. You’re shaking, on the verge of a total breakdown.

They advance. Not fast. Just inevitable. Each step they take stretches time itself. Like the moment before a scream, suspended forever. Like the silence before something awful knows you’ve noticed it.

Your "family"…

Their bodies tower over you, malformed masses of meat that pulse like something alive is trapped inside, gnawing at the walls of its prison. Veins popped out all over, but something was abnormal. Unnatural. The veins don’t just move, they breathe. They writhe like worms in a sack, screaming in a language that only the body understands.

Their eyes meet yours. Lifeless. Hollow. Almost artificial.

They moo.

A long, low sound. Too slow to be natural. Drawn out, like a funeral dirge echoing through wet lungs. And still, they do not move. Not a twitch. Not even to breathe.

They're waiting for you.

The heated wind brushes your face. Hotter than before. Damp. Familiar. It curls into your ear, whispering in a voice you remember from a dream you were never supposed to wake from.

The corn sways. It beckons. You turn to wards the field and finally understand. The worms beneath your feet are squirming in anticipation. Not chasing, guiding. Their movements carve a path. They know where you're going. They've always known.

You were never lost. You were just being returned.

And so you walk. There's no other choice.

The mist thickens. It doesn't just surround you; it's inside of you. You can feel them all, wriggling, waiting to enter their new host.

The corn closes behind you.

And in that final, breathless moment, you feel it. You feel them. Squirming their way through your veins.

You aren't being devoured; you're being redelivered to truth.

Welcome home.




Case File 1 - Phenomenon 10

Area of Effect: Level 10

Progress: Severe

Synopsis

The effect of Phenomenon 10 on this level has occurred in stages with a direct correlation to human activity within the level.

First, the wheat on Level 10 lost its nutritional value. We have the test results from the initial harvests; this wasn't always the case. This setback didn't stop us from trying to plant new crops. It was successful at first, for a few months at least. But that's when the wheat began producing excessive amounts of a viscous, organic oil. This tainted the soil beyond repair, which put an end to any long-term operations in the level.

The level's otherwise pleasant nature still led many to attempt residing within the abandoned structures found throughout it. After a year or two, we started getting reports of the hallucinations, especially from those occupying the level long-term. We still don't fully understand its mode of transmission, but the symptoms are severe nonetheless.

The most recent development is the worms growing increasingly hostile. We've discovered the remains of several groups and families with severe worm infestations. Evidence suggests they were afflicted long before they died.

Researcher Notes

Due to its proximity to developed levels, this has become a pressing issue. With the steady increase of Phenomenon 10's effect, a reclassification of the level may be necessary.

– Dr. Scott Stevens

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