Home of nightmares

There was a place deep in the deserts of Arizona, hidden beneath the scorched sun and forgotten highways. A place known only through whispers and secondhand rumors. Journalists, thrill-seekers, and investigators flocked there in growing numbers, each lured by the legends surrounding it.

But they all regretted the moment they crossed its threshold.

Visitors would find themselves walking into a narrow, wooden hallway. It creaked underfoot, and the air was always a bit too still, too heavy. Along the walls hung portraits—dozens of them—depicting individuals clad in Renaissance attire. Each face wore an expression of unease, fear, and quiet despair, as if the paintings themselves were trying to warn those who dared to enter.

Deeper into the corridor, strange pits appeared in the floor—dark, gaping holes. Each one bore a cryptic inscription carved in decaying wood:

“Is life in your hands?”

“It depends.”

“Can you cut the tension?”

“Is there hope left?”

Those who turned back at this point often returned home haunted—eyes wide, clutching distorted photographs, plagued by nightmares that would require years of therapy. But those who pressed forward found something far worse.

At the end of the hallway stood a massive steel door, flanked by blazing torches that burned with unnatural ferocity. The heat was so intense it felt like the walls themselves might catch fire. And yet, some people—driven by madness or courage—managed to force it open.

Inside was a cavernous room.

Scattered across the floor were broken microphones and shattered recording equipment. Against one wall sat a large cage, its bars bent and rusted. In the center of the room: a wooden box. Inside, old VHS tapes and a vintage video projector. The brave—or foolish—among them inserted the tapes, and the projector flickered to life.

The footage was grainy, unstable, but the faces were clear. Too clear. Each viewer swore they recognized the people in the recordings—personally. Friends. Family. Themselves.

Behind every person on the screen stood a strange figure: childlike, emaciated, wearing a cheap, plastic emoji mask—the laughing-crying face. Its movements were jerky, unnatural. Though it appeared small, its presence dominated the frame.

Then it spoke.

"Do you have any last words?" the figure asked in a flat, mechanical voice that sent shivers down spines. The tapes were poor in quality, but some words echoed louder than others:

“If anyone hears this—you’re already lost. Get out now. And you—sick, manipulative bastard—I hope you die screaming!”

Then, calmly, coldly:

“Well, I guess you leave me no choice.” The figure pulled out a gun and a knife. It slit the throat of the person on screen, then turned the gun to the camera.

The screen went black.

Not many people stayed beyond that. But those who did returned the tapes to the box—some nearly setting them ablaze by accident with the torches. As they stumbled back toward the exit, dazed and trembling, a metal plaque above the door caught their eyes:

“This isn’t rare. The whole world wants to know who’s behind it. It happens every day. The world is against it. They want it to end. What is it?”

Beneath it, a mocking scrawl:

“Is this a joke? Because it’s not funny anymore.”

“Oh, but I’m still laughing! Can’t you see? I’m dying of laughter!”

Then it happened.

From the ceiling dropped a larger version of the masked figure, same emoji face, same hollow eyes. It bound the viewer tightly and knocked them unconscious.

When the person woke, they found themselves holding a rifle. A mustache had been painted on their face. A hunter’s cap sat atop their head. And before them stood the emoji-masked entity, now nearly human in size.

“Smile,” it whispered.

But the man didn’t smile. His face was pale, eyes wide with dread. The masked figure took his photo and carefully hung it beside all the others in the long hallway—the gallery of the “survivors.”

Beneath the new portrait, the man dug his own pit and carved into the floor the same question that haunted all who passed through that place.

The masked figure cackled to itself, low and gleeful.

“What a fool he was… He actually looked smart. But come on—it’s obvious. The answer is murder.”