Info
A page inspired by the original of the same name, but not a rewrite of it.
Rather, it uses the same writing approach as it, but of course that results in a different page entirely every single time you try it:
Every author, 27 of us this time, writes a section and we continue that way until we have a whole page.
This time, each author had 2 days to write a 2000 character long segment. As a result, the project took about 2 months.
WHO DID THIS TO YOU?
Project manager: Sariastuff
list of users here
Everyday I wake up from the same dream.
It's been ages since I last felt truly rested, and it doesn't end once I'm back in the waking world.
I see it in the water, I hear it in the wind, I feel it in my bones.
I can even sense it in you, though I don't have the faintest idea of who you are yet.
You don't understand what I mean, that's fine, but you will. Oh, you will.
I'm sure you've felt some of the signs already. Dismissed them as just another one of the countless strange occurrences that happen around here, but you couldn't be more wrong.
If we want you to last long enough, you'll need to catch up, quickly. Unfortunately, we don't have much runway, but it'll have to do.
It's your work, my own, and that of our predecessors — they say there's even some from those who will come a myriad of cycles after us, but there is no way to truly know.
What I do know is that this is our lifeline. Our one hope. The reason we've kept going.
Notes, musings, revelations. Everything that we have produced and found. Anything that might help us at last break free from this curse.
This is the path we have travelled. That you and I and many others have crossed over and over.
So yes, we meet again, for the first time, and, hopefully, for the last.
See, this shit? Yeah, it’s just a bunch of shit. Straight up. I’ve read the writings before mine and they’re always smoking something. I bet the next bastard will be nodding in agreement once he sees this. See, I was always the doubtful kind, rumours of Mother, 709, the fuckin red zombie guys or whatev. It’s all a buncha horseshit, batshit, and jack’s shit.
I remember when I actually bought into it. Damn near lost my mind for months. Started waking up in levels I didn’t even know existed. I swear, the Backrooms is actually creating more than what needs to be here. My fuckin’ hand started phasin’ in and outta existence, from all that cortisol hormones stuff. They said it was some metahazard or whatever made-up buzzwords them millennials keep usin’ nowadays. I told ‘em stress will do a number on you far greater than any ghost can
It claims to… wrap itself around you, something “psychotic, hypnotic, and kinetic”. Tell me about thermodynamics next. Makes you see patterns when there ain’t any at all. I never, ever saw anything remotely close to that fakeass description, especially when I look away quickly.
…Well, except sometimes I remember memories that ain’t mine; I never saw colours, I saw people through their eyes. It was constantly the same guy too. His whole body was pure, glowing white. No face, no clothes, no nothing. Just a glowing white humanoid. And every time I saw through him, he was always running away from some… thing. That’s the best I can describe it. It was a thing. A real thing. Maybe even the thing, yknow. He, or maybe it, was running across different Levels at lightning speed, each wall no-clipped through with precision you wouldn't believe. I saw levels that were familiar, foreign, and far beyond my comprehension. Yet, I always saw it coming closer and closer. Even smarter… sometimes it was suddenly ahead, other times it camouflaged perfectly and launched an ambush. He never quite got rid of it, eh
It was a wild goose chase
And, well, I woke up
The man woke with a burning headache, as he recalled the events from last night. Bloody hell, I drunk too much again, didn't I? Stumbling to his feet, he walked past several bottles as he left his room in Level 13. Blinking at the dimly lit lamps at the halls, he approached a corner, where he took out a cigarette and lighted it, as was his procedure whenever he had recollections of memories that weren't his in his dreams.
That's 5 times in a row where I've had that happen in dreams, he thought, while blowing a smoke ring. Wonder if it's connected to some weird backrooms shenaniganry. Fuck, I hope not. Don't want that kind of shit intruding on my life again.
Just as he was brooding on his thoughts, the man heard loud footsteps nearing his location. Damn it all, can't a man have a smoke in peace? Frustration filled his mind as he turned to scold the person running towards him. "Damn you, filthy ra—" He cut off his word upon realizing the culprit of the footsteps was not human, in fact, it was the same, glowing humanoid figure in his "memories". The figure ran right past him without turning to respond, and the sound of footsteps faded shortly thereafter.
Spooked by the figure's appearance, the man turned to return to his room, when suddenly Something charged towards him, another thing in his "memories" he could recognize. He felt a sudden surge of doom as it approached him. Just then, he found an antique-looking gun made of wood lying right on the floor next to him. How did it get here?
There was no time for thought. He shouted, "YEE-HAW", then fired at Something, the firing producing no sound or recoil. Something continued to run, the shot seemingly not affecting it. The gun disappeared then, leaving the man completely helpless.
Fuck fuck fuck, he ran as fast as he could. God please don't let me die here, can't die here pleas— The last thing the man saw was Something clipping through him, and he knew no more.
The contents of this article are all sourced from various wanderers, whom have had encounters with Endless/Nameless, with their musings and ramblings having survived to tell the tale. These memory clippings, which range from scrawled notebooks, to ripped sticky notes, to deranged audio recordings, to eye witnesses, to surviving wanderers' testimonies, were all compiled to warn anyone else from attempting to make contact with Endless/Nameless in any way, physical or not. Due to the nature of these manic memories, we have had to modify them partially, so they can be legible, and to heed better as warnings. We have tried our hardest to make every piece be understandable. Do not be like the ones who have tried to document this entity's existence and behavior.
Endless/Nameless is the musings in the corners of this page.
Log 7/21/32
I saw it I see it I KNOW I saw it it's right there I know it's there sees me here waiting for me, but I thought I already saw it. I thought it became me. Why is it here again I thought it was gone. I know what it did to me, thousands of millions of thoughts rushed into my head at that moment, and I KNEW. I thought it was gone, I knew it was gone, I could see every possibility. And yet, it didn't hurt to think about it. The only thing that hurt was to think about IT. That glowing white thing. Every second that my head hurts more and more, I know it means it's getting closer. I know it means it's in my home. I know it means it's right behind me. I know it means it's writing this paper for me. I never look behind, because I know exactly the endless pain brought by looking at its pale face again.
Log 7/21/3?
Footnote: (This log is obscured by a drawing, either made before or after writing. The drawing takes up most of the page, with the writer using the empty space on the paper to draw the figure, as they seem to have only had a black pencil to draw. Since the notebook paper is white, and the intention seems to have been to draw a humanoid shape, we can safely guess that they tried to draw Endless/Nameless using only a black pencil. This log was recovered as best as we could beneath the drawing, although we have reasons to believe this log to be false, regardless.)
Nothing and everything, never and always are two defined constants running their course in opposing directions. Two dogmas that in their purest do not exist in the natural chaos, yet they persist in spite of this.
I find that both possess more similarities than differences. Two forces intertwined by concept, set principles that construe infinity in its barest form. Through the longest fang and the sharpest claw, they cling to circumstances brought forth by their own skirmishes. Every choice, every unspoken utterance, every shattered dream and every life concluded are the littlest casualties that are the most often forgotten.
Every mode of existence is irrevocably precious. Choice breeds choice, whether a star, a speck, a sight or a soul. These are the windows from which we perceive in order to be perceived. Glimpsing at the very essence that binds us to those constants that every so often gazes back and lends us their muse.
Reality reaches out in many different ways to bestow this doctrine. Symbols given power by those truly inspired. Metal plates that were once imposing sizes, now standing lithe and refined. Their surfaces lined with the tiniest pins, engraved and welded into a labyrinth of mathematical configurations. Electric pulses pour through the circuitry, bearing a thrumming mantra that drives their insatious desires.
All lie within confines of all manner of shapes and sizes, where every choice is defined by those constants.
Nothing.
Something.
Something.
Nothing.
The muse is faceless and hungry, a relentless being that haunts memory itself evermore. I've seen it once, I've never seen it before. It pains me to say that both statements are true.
The muse strikes first, and from what was once nothing- becomes everything.