He Vanished Midstream—and the Chat Went Silent

“Chat, are you seeing this?”

The comment feed was already flooding in.

wtf is that behind him??nah bro that door wasn’t openREWIND AT 12:36 WTFhe doesn’t see it. he doesn’t see it.

Dylan “DYLO” Marsh was used to attention.

He’d built his empire on shock content—abandoned buildings, "haunted" livestreams, and 3 a.m. challenges. Most of it was fake, edited for clicks. The scares, the EVPs, the flickering lights—all just sound design and a guy named Chad with a smoke machine.

But this stream?

No crew. No fake props. Just Dylan, a GoPro, and a condemned hospital scheduled for demolition in three weeks.

The building was real.

And so was what he found inside.

The stream started like any other.

“Yo, what’s up, psychos? It’s DYLO, and we’re live from the Red Pines Sanatorium—untouched since 1997.”

His voice echoed in the main atrium—paint peeling, debris crunching underfoot, rusted gurneys pushed against moldy tile.

His LED ring light glared harsh circles into the darkness.

“I’m here alone tonight. No fakes, no friends. Just me and... whatever the hell still breathes in here.”

A few thousand viewers tuned in within minutes.

By the hour mark, it tripled.

Then, the door slammed shut.

“Okay, okay. Nice touch, wind,” Dylan laughed nervously.

He approached the door—pushed.

It didn’t budge.

“Alright, chat. I guess it’s just us now.”

He smiled, but his hand shook slightly.

The comments rolled in faster:

You locked in now bruh 💀something walked by at 43:12deadass look at the gurneyYOUR CAMERA GLITCHED WTF

It was around the ninety-minute mark that the glitching began.

Not simple pixel drops or buffering.

The video feed warped—faces flickered in reflective glass that weren’t his. Viewers claimed the stream reversed itself in 1-second loops, like something else was watching.

Then came the voice.

Not Dylan’s.

Not human.

A rasp, broadcast through his mic:

"You're showing them our home."

The chat exploded.

Dylan froze.

“I didn’t say that,” he whispered.

His breath fogged—despite it being mid-June.

He ran.

Through a corridor that seemed to stretch longer with each step.

The livestream followed—motion blur, signal flickers, feedback hums.

He passed an exam room door with the number 303 scratched out and replaced with "NO EXIT."

He heard his own voice from behind the door.

Screaming.

Pleading.

Not from this stream.

From a different time.

He yanked open a rusted locker and crawled inside, heart hammering. The comments had slowed, not from lag—but from fear.

dude this is too realthat wasn’t his voiceim out bye

He stayed inside for ten minutes.

The camera kept streaming, the static growing thicker, like fog.

Then he emerged.

The halls were different now—tiled in bloodstains that hadn’t been there before. Lights blinked behind walls that shouldn’t have power.

The chat slowed again.

Not from lag—but from silence.

Viewers stopped typing.

Or rather… they couldn’t.

Dozens reported their keyboards freezing. Phone screens locking. One viewer claimed their webcam turned on—on its own.

Then the livestream window went black.

Followed by three blood-red words:

“STREAM OFFLINE.”

It wasn’t archived.

Not officially.

But fragments appeared on obscure video forums, usually with garbled titles like dylo_exe_3h33m.mp4 or RPinesLeak_final.mkv.

In these clips, Dylan’s face is seen melting digitally—glitching into static, then reforming with someone else’s smile.

In one version, he turns to the camera and says:

“I’m not Dylan anymore.”

In another, he walks backward up a wall while chanting “buffer me in”.

Experts claim the files are corrupted. Deepfakes, maybe.

But there’s one constant across every version:

At exactly 3:33:33 into the stream, a line of chat appears.

From a user named “NULLMIRROR.”

“He’s in now. Are you next?”

DYLO never came back online.

His social media accounts posted one final message, scheduled for two weeks later:

“What happens when the watchers become the watched? What happens when the stream watches back?”

The post was removed an hour later.

But by then, hundreds of people had watched the leaked file.

Some reported seeing figures in their homes during playback.

One girl claimed she saw Dylan reflected in her bedroom window.

Smiling.

Even though her window faced a brick wall.

Another streamer who tried reacting to the leak passed out live on camera. When he woke up, he had no memory of ever watching it—and a fresh scar under his eye.

One viewer ended up in a psychiatric ward. All she would say was:

“The upload isn't done yet. It’s buffering… inside me.”

Red Pines was scheduled for demolition in July.

The wrecking crew refused to enter.

Not because of the asbestos, or the caved-in roof.

Because of the screams.

Audible from outside.

Every night at 3:33 a.m.

Last month, a new Twitch account appeared.

Username: "dylo_live"

It has no profile photo.

It never hosts visible streams.

But when you click the channel, your camera activates.

You don’t see Dylan.

You see yourself.

And a second version of you—behind you.

Smiling.

Buffering.