The Last Livestream of Emma Reeves

Emma Reeves was a rising star in the world of social media. With her perfect makeup tutorials, glamorous fashion hauls, and carefully curated life, she had amassed over five million followers on Instagram and YouTube. Brands threw sponsorships at her, fans adored her, and her comment sections were always filled with praise about how beautiful she was.

But behind the filters, behind the makeup and perfect lighting, Emma felt trapped by the image she had created. Every day she spent hours in front of a mirror, hiding every blemish, every flaw, terrified that if she let her followers see the real her, they would leave. She knew her worth was tied to her beauty, to the image she projected online. Without it, who was she?

It was late one Friday night when Emma decided to do something different—something real. She was tired of the pressure, of the endless cycle of perfection. She wanted to be authentic, to show her fans the real Emma, not the polished version they were used to. So, in a spur-of-the-moment decision, she went live on Instagram, makeup-free for the first time ever.

The screen flickered to life, and there she was—Emma Reeves, barefaced, raw, vulnerable.

"Hey guys," she said with a nervous laugh. "I know this is kind of different for me, but I wanted to do something real tonight. No makeup, no filters. Just me."

At first, the comments were supportive. Fans sent heart emojis, telling her she was beautiful no matter what. But as the livestream continued, the mood began to shift.

The camera’s lighting was stark and unforgiving, casting shadows that exaggerated the natural lines on her face. Her eyes, once framed perfectly by mascara and eyeliner, looked dull and tired. The screen captured every pore, every blemish, every imperfection.

And then the comments took a dark turn.

"What’s wrong with her face?"

"Is she sick?"

"Why does she look like that?"

The more the viewers watched, the more they noticed something was off. Emma herself seemed to change before their eyes. Her skin, usually smooth and flawless, appeared splotchy and uneven. Her eyes looked sunken, her cheeks hollow. Her expression—though she tried to smile—seemed strained, as if she were trying to hold something back.

And then, something truly bizarre happened.

As Emma continued talking, her face… shifted. It was subtle at first—a slight distortion, as though the pixels of the livestream were warping. But it wasn’t the camera or the internet connection. Her skin seemed to ripple, her features twisting in ways that weren’t humanly possible. Her mouth stretched a little too wide when she smiled, her eyes seemed to darken unnaturally, the pupils dilating into inky black voids.

The comments exploded.

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO HER FACE??"

"Is this a filter?! This isn’t funny!"

"Turn it off, Emma! You’re freaking us out!"

But Emma didn’t stop. She didn’t seem to notice what was happening on the screen. Her movements became slower, more deliberate, as if she was losing control of her own body. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, her smile growing wider, until it looked more like a grotesque grin, lips curling upward in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.

Her voice, too, began to change. The once perky and bubbly tone was replaced by something deeper, something… wrong. "You wanted to see the real me, didn’t you?" she whispered, her voice echoing unnaturally. "Well, here I am."

The chat went into a frenzy. People were screaming for her to stop, to turn off the camera, but Emma’s hands remained at her sides, unmoving. She just stared into the screen, her eyes empty, her expression twisted.

And then, without warning, the screen went black.

The livestream ended.

For the next hour, Emma’s social media accounts went dark. No posts, no stories, no updates. Her followers waited, refreshing her pages, hoping for an explanation, for some reassurance that it had all been a prank.

But nothing came.

By morning, Emma’s account had been completely wiped. No photos, no videos, no trace of her ever existing. Her YouTube channel was deleted, her Instagram gone, as if she had never been there in the first place. Fans panicked, reaching out to her friends, her family, anyone who might know where she was.

But Emma had disappeared.

Days passed, and then weeks. No one heard from her. Her apartment was found empty, her phone left on the table, still recording from the night of the livestream. Authorities searched for her, but there were no leads. No signs of struggle, no forced entry. She had simply vanished.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said she had cracked under the pressure of fame and gone into hiding. Others believed she had been hacked, her accounts stolen, her identity erased. But those who had seen the livestream knew the truth—something darker had happened that night.

Months after her disappearance, strange reports started to surface. Several of Emma’s most loyal followers claimed to have seen her—not on social media, but in their own reflections.

It started with subtle things—a shadow moving behind them when no one was there, a faint whisper when they were alone. But then they began to see her face, distorted and twisted, staring back at them from mirrors, from darkened windows, from the reflection of their phone screens. Her black eyes, her too-wide smile, the grotesque version of the woman they once idolized, lurking just beneath the surface.

And every time they saw her, the whispers would follow.

"You wanted the real me…"

Emma Reeves was gone, but whatever she had become was still out there, waiting to be seen again.

In the reflections.

In the darkness.

And for those unlucky enough to see her, they knew one thing for certain.

She would never truly disappear.