The Santa Fe Tape.

Tanner Moss wasn’t just another content creator. At 24, he was already a digital phenomenon—known for his charisma, offbeat humor, and magnetic presence that kept fans refreshing their feeds for his next viral hit. With over five million followers across platforms and brand deals stacked in his inbox, Tanner had mastered the influencer algorithm.

He was also strikingly good-looking—light brown skin, sharp cheekbones, thick brows, and deep-set hazel eyes. His curls framed his face like a halo gone rogue. He moved through the world with the confidence of someone used to being seen, followed, and admired.

But everything changed the day it arrived.

It came in a plain envelope. No return address. Just the words "Santa Fe" scribbled across the front.

Tanner had tossed it aside with his fan mail at first, assuming it was just another odd PR stunt or creative promo. But when he opened it and found a VHS tape, something in his gut twisted. Curiosity turned into obsession.

“I don’t even have a VCR,” he muttered, thumbing the black cassette like it might whisper its secrets.

The next day, he stopped by his grandfather’s place—his sweet, tech-savvy granddad who always had a fix for anything analog or digital.

“Fame’s like lightning,” his granddad told him as he handed over the old VCR. “It’s bright, but it burns hot and fast. Don’t lose yourself chasing sparks.”

Tanner smiled and gave him a hug. He didn’t mention the tape. Not yet.

Later that night, back in his apartment, Tanner finally hit play.

The screen flickered, tracking lines glitching across the grainy footage. A room appeared—abandoned, dusty, dimly lit. There was a single wooden chair in the center.

Then he saw himself.

Same curls. Same face. Same clothes.

The double looked around nervously… then stepped onto the chair, looped a rope from the ceiling around his neck, and—
jumped.

Tanner gasped and slammed the stop button, heart pounding. Sweat chilled on his skin. “What the hell was that?!”

He checked the envelope again. No address. No sender. Just Santa Fe.

His fingers trembled as he grabbed his phone. “Brooke,” he said when his agent picked up, “Did you send me something weird in the mail?”

“What? No—just your usual packages. Why?”

“I got something… it’s not good.”

Brooke promised to look into it, chalking it up to some twisted fan prank. But Tanner could barely sleep.

The next morning, an anonymous email appeared in his inbox:

"I tried to stop it from getting to you, but it was too late. Get rid of it before it kills you."

Brooke called again, still skeptical. “Probably some idiot savant fan trying to get in your head. Ignore it.”

But Tanner couldn’t. At his fan meet-and-greet later that day, he smiled and posed like always, but inside, he felt hollow—haunted.

That night, back home, the tape sat on the counter like a sleeping monster.

He called Jaime, a fellow influencer friend. “You ever get sent anything... weird?”

They agreed to meet up.

When Jaime watched the tape, it showed nothing but the empty room.

“What are you talking about?” Jaime said. “There’s nothing here, man.”

Tanner’s blood ran cold.

Back online, Tanner searched everything he could.

That’s when he found the subreddit.

Threads upon threads of stories—people who claimed they had received VHS tapes showing themselves dying in surreal, horrific ways. The deaths were always different. Always personal. Some said the tape read your fears. Others said it cursed you.

More than a few posts ended with updates like:

“OP deleted their account.”
“He died two weeks after posting this.”
“They found her… she had scratches all over her face. Like she’d been trying to claw something off.”

One commenter wrote:
"It senses your fear. That's how it knows what to show you."

Tanner watched the tape again.

This time, he saw himself laughing uncontrollably—maniacal, eyes wide with madness, while dragging his own limp body across the floor.

He yanked the power cord and fell to the floor, heart jackhammering.

Then—another email.

“Visibility is vulnerability.”

Brooke called with news: they tracked the post office where the tape originated.

Against her advice, Tanner went alone.

The clerk recognized him instantly. “Yo—you’re Tanner Moss! I follow you. Man, that’s crazy. You know, people been mailing out tapes like that. Always labeled Santa Fe. But it’s always someone different bringing 'em in.”

Just as Tanner was about to leave, a woman in black, hooded like security, cornered him in the alley behind the post office.

“You can’t be here! You’ll get us all killed!” she hissed.

“Wait—what?! Who are you?”

“Name’s Britney,” she said. “I used to be online too… until I got the tape.”

Behind the post office, Britney told him everything.

It started with Natalie, a.k.a. Nat Nat, a famous beauty influencer who died in a mysterious fire. But before that, she'd been receiving comments from an account called WhichWitch, who wrote, “I know what you did. Your punishment is coming. And it won’t stop with you.”

And then what followed days later was a tape of her own. Showing her dying in a fire.

Natalie’s secret? She once promoted a faulty skincare product. A girl died from an allergic reaction. The agency covered it up with a quiet settlement.

Somebody knew.

When Natalie burned, the curse got a name: The Santa Fe Tape.

Now, others were dying the same way.

Britney led Tanner to a secret meeting of others who’d survived. No official name. They kept it that way—harder to track.

They had a list—names of online personalities marked for “visibility.”

That’s how they found Tanner.

He wasn’t targeted because of guilt.

He was targeted because of influence.

“Fame,” Britney said, “is the curse.”

Just then, Tanner’s phone buzzed.

Another email.

“You should’ve destroyed it. Now it’s watching.”

CUT TO BLACK.