I knew Martin had become obsessed with those tapes, but I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until he disappeared. The last few months, he’d been… different. Always tired, always staring at that old TV in his basement, the screen flickering with those VHS tapes he’d found at a garage sale. He’d mumble about “Steve,” a guy in the tapes who just colored for hours on end, but I figured it was harmless. Martin had always been a collector of the odd and unusual.
After his disappearance, I felt obligated to help clean out his place, a quiet way to honor him. His family barely knew where to begin; they were so shaken up. So I sorted through his things, hoping I might find some kind of clue, something that could explain why he’d just… vanished.
In the clutter of his basement, I found them: a box of tapes, each labeled Colouring with Steve. I stared at them, remembering how much Martin had gone on about them, how he insisted there was something “deeper” to the show. I couldn’t imagine how—Colouring with Steve sounded like something for kids, not adults. But I was curious, and maybe even desperate to understand what had consumed him. So I packed up the box and took it home.
That night, I sat alone in my dark living room and loaded up the first tape. The screen crackled to life, and there he was—Steve. He looked like a friendly guy, middle-aged, with a bushy mustache and a bright yellow sweater, sitting at a small table with crayons scattered everywhere. The backdrop was a pastel-colored landscape, with trees, mountains, and a sun, all drawn like a child’s sketch. He smiled warmly, introducing himself in a gentle voice.
“Hello, friends! Today, we’re coloring a beautiful landscape.”
His voice was calm, almost hypnotic. He colored meticulously, narrating every choice. There was nothing remarkable about it, but it was… relaxing. I could almost see why Martin had enjoyed it.
But as the episode went on, I started to feel uneasy. Maybe it was the quiet, the way Steve’s voice filled my living room with an uncomfortable intimacy. He never looked away from the page, his eyes fixed on the colors blending together. I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, but something felt… off.
The episode was winding down, and I almost decided to stop there. But then, as Steve finished coloring the sky, he did something he hadn’t done before—he paused. His crayon hovered above the paper, and he looked up, straight at the camera.
“Martin?” he asked softly, his eyes unsettlingly direct. “Where are you, Martin?”
A chill ran down my spine. I sat there, frozen, trying to convince myself I’d imagined it. But his eyes didn’t waver. He looked right at me—no, right through me. As if he could see Martin through the camera, even now.
“Come back, Martin,” he whispered, his voice hollow and pleading. The screen flickered, his face twisting as the image distorted. And then—static.
I ejected the tape, my hands shaking. That couldn’t have been real. There was no way Steve—a recorded image on a decades-old VHS tape—could know Martin, let alone address him like that. But I couldn’t deny what I’d just seen.
Maybe it was just a glitch, I told myself. Some bizarre coincidence. But the way he’d said it… like he knew him. Like he was waiting for him.
I barely slept that night, haunted by the memory of Steve’s eyes and that pleading voice. Against my better judgment, I knew I had to keep watching.
Despite every instinct telling me to stop, I felt drawn to the second tape. My hands shook as I slid it into the VCR, and the screen crackled to life. Steve’s familiar face appeared, smiling just as warmly as before, but this time something was different. Instead of a scene with landscapes or animals, there was a blank sheet in front of him. He held a black crayon, and as he placed it on the page, he looked up at the camera, almost as if he were acknowledging me. I swallowed hard, feeling like he could somehow see me.
“Today,” he began, “we’re drawing a special map.”
The black crayon moved slowly, sketching out crude lines that began to form a rough layout of a town. My town. Familiar streets, landmarks, even the distinct curve of the park pathway near Martin’s house—they all appeared under Steve’s careful hand. I felt my stomach twist as he continued drawing, his lines growing thicker and darker with each pass, like he was reinforcing certain areas. The lines soon led to an area near the woods on the outskirts, a place Martin and I had hiked a few times when we were kids.
“That’s where we start,” Steve murmured, smiling. “There’s a lot to find here.”
As he colored in various parts of the map, I started noticing small symbols scattered along the paths—a spiral near the woods, an eye inside a triangle next to the park. They were symbols I didn’t recognize, but they sent a prickling unease up my spine. As the map became more detailed, the room around me seemed to grow colder, quieter. Every scratch of the crayon felt like it was echoing, filling the silence.
Then, the static interruptions started. It was just a flicker at first, the screen jumping as if the tape had been damaged. But each time it returned, Steve seemed slightly closer to the camera, his eyes darker, the smile more rigid. I felt the skin on the back of my neck prickling, but I couldn’t look away.
The static returned, harsher this time, and for a split second, I saw something else—a brief, almost subliminal image of Martin. His face appeared, pale and empty, his eyes unfocused, staring blankly into some dark, endless room. He looked like he was lost, wandering, his movements slow and aimless.
“Martin?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The image faded back to Steve, who was still drawing, now almost frantically, filling in dark patches that led to what looked like an entrance to the woods. His face was a little different now, strained, as if he were tired.
“Sometimes, we get lost,” Steve said, his voice soft, tinged with sadness. “But there are always friends who come to find us.”
I gripped the edge of the table, feeling as though I was the one he was talking to, that he was drawing me into something I didn’t want to be a part of.
Another flash of static, and this time the image lingered. Martin was closer, his face almost filling the screen. His mouth was slightly open, as if he were about to speak, but all that came through was a faint, distorted sound, like he was trying to call out but couldn’t form the words. Behind him, shadows seemed to twist and stretch, pulling him deeper into the darkness.
The static faded, and Steve was staring directly into the camera, his hand still, the crayon hovering above the page.
“Are you ready to find him, John?”
The sound of my name coming from Steve’s mouth broke something inside me. I scrambled to hit the eject button, heart pounding. The tape slid out with a soft click, but I didn’t feel any safer. That look on Steve’s face—that eerie calm—was burned into my mind.
I sat there in silence, clutching the tape, my thoughts racing. How could he know my name?
After that last tape, sleep became a luxury I could barely afford. Steve’s voice, that unnerving stare, and the terrifying image of Martin haunted me every time I closed my eyes. But fear wasn’t enough to stop me. Instead, it drove me deeper.
I spent hours digging through the internet, looking for any trace of Colouring with Steve. Finally, I found something—a mention of an obscure production company called Bright Kids Television. According to the limited records, it had been a small, local studio in the early 1970s that focused on low-budget children’s programming. Most of their work had faded into obscurity, but Colouring with Steve had been one of their first—and last—productions. The show had been abruptly canceled, and shortly after, Bright Kids Television closed its doors for good.
With some more digging, I found contact information for a former employee—a man named Harold Watts, who had worked as a junior editor at the studio. I reached out, hoping he could shed some light on what had happened all those years ago. When he finally answered, his voice was shaky, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to ask about Colouring with Steve ever again.
“Please… don’t bring this up again,” he whispered after I explained why I was calling. “Those tapes… they’re dangerous. I don’t know how you found them, but you need to stop watching. They’re—” He paused, his voice breaking. “Just stop. You’ll only make it worse.”
Before I could ask anything else, he hung up, leaving me alone with more questions than I’d started with. I was unnerved, but I couldn’t let it go. There was something in those tapes, something that felt unfinished, and I was drawn to it, no matter how many warnings I got.
That night, I sat in front of my TV again, the third tape in hand. I told myself it would be the last one—that I’d watch this episode, see if there was anything that could explain why Harold had sounded so terrified, and then I’d be done. With a shaky hand, I pressed play.
The screen flickered to life, and there was Steve, smiling as always, a sheet of paper in front of him. This time, he introduced the episode with an unusually somber tone. “Today,” he said, “we’re drawing a very special place. A place where people go to work and share ideas. A place where friends can… meet.”
He started sketching, and as the lines took shape, I felt a strange sense of recognition. Steve was drawing what looked like an office building—nothing particularly noteworthy at first. But as he added more details, it began to look familiar, like something I’d seen before.
Then, I realized—he was drawing the Bright Kids Television office.
A chill ran through me as Steve’s hand moved across the page, adding doors, windows, desks, and hallways. The lines seemed to pulse, warping as he colored them in. Slowly, the scene began to change. The walls twisted and stretched in ways that defied perspective, bending like something alive. Dark patches appeared along the floors, like stains that grew deeper as he shaded them in.
The interruptions started again, static crackling across the screen. But this time, the disruptions lasted longer, each flash of static revealing figures in the warped office space, shadowy shapes standing in the corners or seated at desks, staring blankly ahead.
One of the shapes began to grow clearer as the camera zoomed in. It was a man—dressed in clothes I recognized. I felt my heart drop. The figure was wearing the same outfit as Harold Watts, the man I had just spoken to.
I leaned closer, barely breathing, my mind racing. It was unmistakable; even with the shadows obscuring most of his face, I could see enough to recognize him. The Harold on the screen sat motionless, his gaze locked somewhere out of frame, his expression a hollow void.
The camera panned out, returning to Steve, who hadn’t missed a beat. He colored in more details, adding faint smudges on the walls that almost looked like handprints, growing darker and more numerous. He paused, his eyes drifting up to the camera, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, he simply stared. That friendly smile was gone, replaced by a look of exhaustion and something… hungry.
“Sometimes,” he whispered, “we lose people. And sometimes, people come looking for them.”
A flicker of static, and I thought I saw my own face in the shadows this time, just a brief, blurred reflection. My heart hammered in my chest.
Steve’s eyes seemed to bore into me. “Are you ready to meet them, John?”
I yanked the tape from the VCR, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Whatever Colouring with Steve was, it wasn’t just a show. It was something far darker, something that knew who I was, what I was doing.
And it wanted me to keep watching.
I told myself I’d stop, but each tape felt like a piece of something bigger—a riddle I couldn’t ignore. I replayed them, hunting for details I might have missed, and it wasn’t long before I noticed strange symbols, etched into the corners of Steve’s drawings. Small, almost imperceptible marks—circles within circles, twisted shapes like runes—that felt too deliberate to be accidental.
As I analyzed each symbol, a sickening realization settled over me: these shapes connected. They weren’t just random; they mapped out a pattern, a sequence hidden in the lines and colors. It was as if Steve had embedded a code into his drawings, one that only revealed itself to those who looked closely enough. The symbols pointed to something larger, a narrative I was just beginning to glimpse.
When I loaded up the fourth tape, a part of me knew this would bring me closer to understanding whatever haunted those reels. The screen crackled, and there was Steve again. But this time, something was different. He looked tired, his gaze heavy and distant. His usually bright sweater seemed faded, his colors duller, almost washed out.
“Hello again, friends,” he murmured, barely looking at the camera. “Today… we’re coloring a very old house. A place where… many things happened.”
As he began to draw, the shape took form slowly, and with each stroke, a shiver crept up my spine. The house he was coloring looked… familiar. The way the roof sloped, the distinct window placements, the thick lines forming the entrance—all of it reminded me of something. I racked my brain, trying to remember where I’d seen it before. Then it hit me.
It was the building where Bright Kids Television had once operated.
Steve continued to color in the details, adding strange markings around the windows and doors, shapes that seemed like symbols from past episodes. As he shaded them in, his hand trembled slightly, and his usually reassuring smile flickered, slipping into something darker, almost strained.
“Long ago, people gathered here,” he said, his voice softer, almost reverent. “They had big ideas. Big plans.” He paused, glancing toward the edge of the frame, as if someone—or something—was just out of sight, watching him. “But they weren’t alone.”
A flash of static disrupted the image, and when it returned, the house had changed. Dark figures lined the windows, barely visible but unmistakably there, their faces blurred, their bodies warped like shadows stretched across the walls. The colors Steve used grew darker, muddier, the once-welcoming scene transforming into something decayed, haunted.
“They wanted more than they were given,” Steve continued, his voice distant, as if he were speaking to himself. “The ones who came before… they left something behind. And now…” His smile flickered, fading entirely for a moment. “Now they’re waiting.”
The screen crackled with static again, and in a flash, I saw myself reflected faintly, as if I were somehow within the scene he was coloring. It was just for a second, but it was enough to make my blood run cold.
Steve stopped coloring, his eyes fixed on the page, his hand hovering above the paper. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, John?” he whispered, finally looking up at me, his gaze hollow and unblinking. “People think they can watch without being seen. But the truth is…” He leaned closer, his face filling the screen, his eyes dark and almost pleading. “…they’re still watching, John.”
The screen went black.
I sat there, numb, my thoughts racing. Who were “they”? What was Steve trying to tell me? My heart pounded as I rewound the tape, desperate to replay that last scene, to look for any hidden details I might have missed.
But when I hit play again, the tape was blank. Just empty static, hissing softly, like a whisper reminding me I was no longer alone.
I knew it wasn’t just me watching the tapes anymore.
I found the studio’s address buried in a forgotten corner of an online forum—a crumbling building on the edge of town, long abandoned. My hands shook as I drove there, knowing I was about to confront something dark, something that had been haunting me through those tapes. But I needed answers, and the only way to get them was to see where it all began.
The building was worse than I expected. Vines crawled up the cracked walls, and shattered windows stared back at me like hollow eyes. The front door hung loosely on its hinges, creaking ominously as I pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. The walls were lined with fading posters from long-forgotten children’s shows, their bright colors faded to dull grays. I made my way through the narrow hallways, the faint echoes of my footsteps making the silence feel suffocating.
In an old storage room, I found a box of production notes, yellowed and brittle with age. Rifling through them, I came across sketches of the Colouring with Steve set, alongside typed instructions for “creating an inviting and child-friendly environment.” But then my eye caught something else—a photograph, grainy but unmistakable. It was Steve, standing on set, smiling his familiar, cheerful smile.
But something was wrong.
The photo looked ancient, yet Steve appeared exactly as he did in the tapes. No wrinkles, no signs of aging. It was as if he hadn’t aged a day.
I kept digging, uncovering more photos, each one sending chills down my spine. Some showed Steve with various crew members, others with children sitting around him, enraptured by his drawings. But in each one, Steve looked frozen in time, eerily unchanged. And then there were the notes, scrawled in the margins in messy handwriting: “The Initiative begins.” The phrase was repeated, underlined, as if it held some deeper meaning.
The Initiative. The words stuck with me, gnawing at my thoughts. It seemed to be a project funded by the studio’s founder—a mysterious figure named Edgar Holstein. No photos of him, no information, just his name scrawled in the same handwriting next to vague references about "reaching beyond the ordinary."
I couldn’t stay in that place any longer. Clutching a handful of notes and photos, I fled the building, my mind buzzing with questions and unease.
Back home, I tried to make sense of what I’d found. The photos, The Initiative, the studio’s abrupt shutdown—none of it added up. As if on autopilot, I picked up the next tape, unable to resist the pull. This one, I hoped, might finally give me some clarity.
As I pressed play, Steve appeared, smiling as usual. But there was something strained in his expression, a glint of unease in his eyes. He introduced the day’s picture: the inside of an old building.
I felt a chill run through me as he began to draw the familiar hallways of the Bright Kids studio. Every stroke of the crayon added more detail to the decrepit walls, the dusty floors, the flickering lights that hadn’t worked in years. My heart pounded as I watched, my eyes fixed on the screen.
Then, as Steve filled in the shadows, I felt it—the air around me grew colder. The room dimmed, the edges of my vision blurring as if shadows were creeping in. I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was just my imagination, but the feeling grew stronger, heavier.
On the screen, Steve’s smile faltered, his hand pausing mid-stroke. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “places hold memories… memories that linger, long after everyone’s gone.”
He continued coloring, but his movements were slower, more deliberate. The picture grew darker as he shaded in corners, filling them with something that almost looked like figures—shadowy, indistinct forms lurking just out of focus.
The room around me seemed to grow colder still, as if the shadows from the screen were bleeding into my space. I felt something behind me, a presence, heavy and watchful. I didn’t dare turn around.
Steve glanced up at the camera, his eyes darker than before, and he whispered, “They’re here, John. The ones who came before.”
The static crackled, and I felt an icy breath on my neck. Panic surged through me, but I couldn’t move, my body frozen in place. The screen flickered, and in the corner of Steve’s drawing, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before—a small figure, standing alone in the dim hallway he’d colored.
The figure wore the same clothes as I did.
The room felt like it was closing in around me, the shadows pressing closer, suffocating me. Steve’s voice, barely more than a whisper, echoed through the room.
“They’re still watching, John… and now, they’ve found you.”
The screen went black, leaving me alone in the cold, silent darkness.
After the terrifying experience watching Steve’s last tape, I barely slept. I spent the night researching, digging through every corner of the internet, hunting for any clue about Bright Kids Television and its secretive “Initiative.” My mind was racing, connecting scraps of information that almost felt like they’d been buried on purpose.
The truth was darker than I’d imagined.
The Initiative, I learned, was an experiment. Bright Kids Television had started it with the goal of breaking down the barrier between the screen and the audience. Their aim was to push boundaries, to see if they could make viewers feel like they were part of the show, to become active participants rather than passive spectators. But this wasn’t just a metaphor. The Initiative was more than a harmless production gimmick—it was an attempt to “open doors” between media and reality.
The further I read, the more I understood that the show was designed to make its viewers vulnerable, to let something reach out from within the show and connect with them. They called it “inviting them in.” The more you watched, the more you let them in. This wasn’t just TV; it was a ritual. And everyone who watched was part of it, whether they realized it or not.
I knew I shouldn’t keep going, but I had to see what happened next. I felt trapped, like the tapes had latched onto something inside me that wouldn’t let go. Reluctantly, I loaded up the next tape, knowing it could push me further into this nightmare.
The screen flickered to life, and there was Steve. But this time, he looked disheveled, unhinged. His hair was slightly messier, his usual cheerful smile replaced by something more manic, almost desperate. His eyes seemed wider, darker, and his voice was hoarse.
“Hello, friends,” he greeted, his smile twitching. “Today, we’re going to talk about… inviting them in.”
He reached for his crayons, his hands trembling as he gripped them. “The crayons connect us all,” he muttered, his gaze darting around the room as if he were being watched. “Each color is a link, a bridge between you and… us. It’s how you see us. And how we see… you.”
He began to draw, his movements erratic, almost violent. Each stroke was jagged, twisting and turning across the paper in unnatural ways. The image took shape slowly, morphing into something that was more chaotic than any of his previous drawings.
As I stared at the colors blending together on the screen, I saw faint, terrifying shapes emerge within the lines and shadows. Faces—distorted, grotesque faces—hidden within the colors, like ghostly apparitions buried beneath the surface. Each face twisted in agony, eyes wide and empty, mouths stretched into silent screams.
These weren’t just random faces. I recognized some of them. They resembled the figures I’d seen in the photos at the studio—the children, the crew members, all staring out from within the colors, trapped, as if they were still somehow there.
Steve kept coloring, his expression wild as he muttered under his breath. “They were the first,” he whispered, his eyes darting toward the edges of the frame. “They opened the door, but they didn’t know how… how deep it goes.”
The room around me seemed to grow colder, darker, and I felt a sickening sensation of being watched, as though the faces on the screen were aware of me, reaching out through the colors. My skin prickled as Steve looked straight into the camera, his gaze piercing.
“They’re all here now,” he said softly, almost mournfully. “Every color… every line. They connect us. And soon, you’ll be part of it, too.”
I wanted to turn it off, but I was frozen, unable to look away. The colors on the screen intensified, bleeding into each other in impossible ways, swirling and blending until they formed a warped, monstrous image of Steve himself—his face stretched, distorted, his eyes hollow, his mouth twisted into a horrifying grin that seemed to split his face in half.
“You’re almost ready, John,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if he were speaking directly to me, and only me. “Just a little further… and then you’ll see… you’ll see what they see.”
The screen cut to black, leaving me in the deafening silence of my empty room, the air heavy with an unnatural chill. I sat there, my heart pounding, realizing that the more I watched, the closer I came to crossing that threshold, to being pulled into whatever nightmare Steve had prepared for his “friends.”
I knew now that the tapes weren’t just a show. They were a trap—a bridge meant to drag me into their world, one line, one color at a time. And the worst part was, I felt like I was already halfway there.
The strange occurrences began slowly at first—a faint rustling in the dark, the soft creak of a door moving ever so slightly, as though someone had just brushed past. I brushed it off as paranoia, the result of all the sleepless nights and disturbing revelations. But soon, the noises grew more insistent, unmistakable. Late at night, I’d hear a faint scratching behind the walls, like claws scraping against the plaster, as if something were trying to dig its way out.
Then objects started moving. Little things at first—a book shifting from one shelf to another, a mug nudged just out of place. I’d find the tapes in different locations, stacked in a new order as though something, or someone, had been rearranging them. The temperature in my apartment would drop without warning, and at times I’d swear I felt a presence hovering just out of reach.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Desperate for answers, I loaded the next tape, hoping—maybe foolishly—that it might offer some kind of explanation.
The screen flickered to life, but this time, Steve wasn’t sitting in his usual spot. Instead, the camera seemed to follow him as he walked down a dimly lit hallway. It didn’t take long for me to recognize it as the Bright Kids Television studio, though it was different. This version was twisted, empty, and swallowed by darkness. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing down on me as I watched.
The walls were covered in symbols—the same strange marks I’d noticed on previous tapes, only now they were larger, more pronounced, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, as if they were part of the building’s very structure. They pulsed with a sickly glow, giving the impression that the walls were alive, breathing, like the place itself was watching.
Steve’s footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, each step slower, more deliberate. His expression was blank, almost trance-like, as he walked deeper into the darkened studio. He turned a corner, stopping in front of a door that looked oddly familiar.
My heart froze as the camera zoomed in on the name scrawled across it in fading paint: Martin.
Steve reached out, resting his hand on the door, and leaned in close. I could see every detail of his face, his features stretched and haunted. He whispered, almost reverently, “He’s almost here.”
My pulse pounded as I stared at the screen, realization dawning on me. Martin wasn’t just gone—he was trapped. Somewhere within the twisted reality of these tapes, Martin was still here, lost in this warped, nightmarish version of the studio. The walls, the symbols, the sounds… they were all part of some twisted gateway, a connection between our world and whatever lay beyond the screen.
Steve continued walking, his hand trailing along the wall, his gaze unfocused. He didn’t look directly at the camera, but his words felt like they were meant for me, echoing in the quiet of my room. “Some people… they belong here,” he murmured, his tone almost mournful. “They just don’t know it yet.”
The screen flickered, and for a split second, I saw something—an image of Martin, pale and ghostly, his eyes vacant, standing alone in that darkened hallway. The vision vanished, replaced by static, but it was enough to send chills down my spine.
I leaned back, my mind reeling, trying to process what I’d just seen. The tapes weren’t just cursed—they were a bridge, a trap, pulling people in and binding them within that dark, endless studio. And now, they were pulling me in, too.
As the screen went black, the temperature in my room plummeted, and I felt a familiar scratching behind the walls, louder this time, more insistent. The presence around me felt stronger, as if the boundary between my world and the world of the tapes was wearing thinner by the second.
Martin was still in there, somewhere, lost and waiting. And as much as every instinct told me to stop, to throw the tapes away and never look back, I knew I couldn’t leave him there. The tapes were a gateway… and somehow, I was already halfway through.
I sat alone, the final tape clutched in my trembling hand. Every nerve screamed for me to stop, to get out while I still could, but I had to find Martin. This was my last chance.
With a deep, shaky breath, I slid the tape into the VCR. The screen flickered, casting an eerie glow over the room, as if it were reaching out, eager to pull me in. Steve appeared, his face stretched in a disturbingly wide grin, but there was something hollow in his eyes, something that told me he knew exactly where I was.
“Hello, John,” he whispered, the words sharp and chilling. “It’s time to finish the picture. You’re so close now.”
Behind him, the familiar backdrop of the Bright Kids Television studio seemed to stretch and warp. The walls twisted, symbols pulsing like a heartbeat, mirroring the ones I’d seen in my own room. I blinked, and for an instant, it felt as if the two spaces—the studio on screen and my living room—were bleeding into each other, merging. I rubbed my eyes, but the blending continued; the walls around me seemed to flicker, shifting between the studio’s dark, haunted halls and my own reality.
On the screen, Steve extended his hand, his gaze unwavering. “Come on, John,” he beckoned. “Finish the picture. It’s the only way to find him.”
I felt my hand lift, as if guided by some invisible force, reaching out toward him. The boundary between the screen and my world seemed to weaken, almost dissolve. The studio’s dim light bled into my room, casting strange shadows that danced across the walls. I could feel the cold air from Steve’s world seeping into mine, thick and oppressive, filling the room with the unmistakable sense that I was no longer alone.
The screen rippled, and suddenly I was standing inside the studio.
The hallway stretched before me, dark and pulsing, with symbols scrawled across every surface. The air was thick and stifling, each step echoing around me. The corridors twisted and turned, leading me deeper into the labyrinthine nightmare.
And then, I saw him.
Martin stood at the end of the hall, his back turned. His shoulders slumped, his head hanging low, as though weighed down by the darkness around him. I called out to him, my voice barely more than a whisper, but he didn’t respond. I took a step forward, and the hallway seemed to stretch and compress, like the entire studio was breathing, pulling me closer.
As I approached, he slowly turned around. His face was pale, his eyes empty, and he looked through me, as if I were part of the shadows. He wasn’t alone, though. Dozens of faces swirled in the darkness, distorted and twisted, the same faces I’d seen in the tapes—viewers, staff, children—all bound to this place, trapped within the walls.
“Martin…” I whispered, reaching out to him.
He stared at me, lost, and held out a single crayon, as if it were the last thing tethering him to his identity. “You have to finish it, John,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “They’re waiting… for us.”
The shadows closed in, surrounding us, pulling us deeper into the studio’s core. I felt the crayon slip into my hand, cold and heavy, and the walls around us began to pulse, like veins feeding some dark, ancient heart.
I looked down at the crayon, the wax smeared with dark colors, swirling with the faces of all those who had come before. And then I understood—this was the connection, the bridge. The only way out was to become part of the picture, to surrender myself to the colors, just as Martin had done.
As I lifted the crayon, my hand moved as if guided by something unseen, something in the walls, something that had been waiting. I could feel the colors seeping into me, binding me to the studio, the same way they had bound Steve, and Martin, and everyone else who had been drawn in.
The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me was the lens of a camera, staring back at me. And I understood what I had to do. I raised the crayon, turned to the camera, and smiled, feeling the cold wax between my fingers as I began to draw, letting the colors pull me into their depths.
The screen faded to black, and in the silence, I heard the faint sound of scratching, as if from behind the walls, as if something were still trying to reach out.
In my empty apartment, the TV flickered, the last tape ejecting with a soft click. The VHS box lay open on the floor, one last tape resting inside, labeled in shaky handwriting: John.