I found Real News by accident, which I’ve learned is the only way anyone ever finds it.
It was 12:41 a.m. I remember because my microwave clock was still blinking from a power outage earlier that evening, and I’d just reset it. I wasn’t looking for conspiracies or hidden truths. I was doomscrolling. Insomnia had me by the throat, and I’d already burned through every social feed, every news site, every argument thread where strangers bled opinions at each other.
I clicked a link buried three replies deep in a forum I don’t remember subscribing to.
REAL NEWS! THE ONLY REAL NEWS ON THE WEB!
The site loaded instantly. No buffering. No ads popping up asking me to accept cookies. Black background. White text. No images at the top—just a block of writing labeled Foreword.
I almost closed it. Something about the page felt… attentive. Like it knew I was there.
But then I read.
Foreword:
I am not sure how you got here. I am not sure how you leave.
I smiled at that. Edgy. Cute. Internet theater.
Then came the rules.
Twelve of them.
By the time I reached the third, my smile had faded.
Rule one told me to read the foreword carefully because sometimes it asked for help, and if it did, I should leave immediately.
Rule two said the site was only safe between midnight and three a.m.
Rule three said I had to come back every night.
The phrase “destroy your device and hope he didn’t notice” appeared twice.
That’s when I checked the time again.
12:46 a.m.
I told myself it was just a creepypasta site. Performance horror. A gimmick. I’d seen a hundred like it. Still, my mouse hovered over the back button longer than necessary.
I didn’t leave.
The homepage looked like a stripped-down news aggregator. Headlines stacked vertically. No categories. No dates. Each article had a username attached.
I remembered Rule Four.
Read the username before reading the article.
The first one was posted by inkandstatic.
Safe enough.
The headline read: LOCAL BRIDGE COLLAPSE PREVENTED HOURS BEFORE FAILURE
I clicked.
The article described a rusted support beam discovered during an unscheduled inspection. Specifics followed—location, time, even quotes from officials. It sounded real. Too real. I opened another tab and searched for it.
Nothing.
No record. No article. No mention.
When I returned to the Real News tab, the page had scrolled slightly on its own, as if nudged.
A chill crept up my arms.
I read another article. Then another. Each one described events that hadn’t happened—but could. Fires averted. Murders stopped. Elections that almost went differently. The writing was calm. Clinical. Proud, in a quiet way.
I noticed the sidebar ads then.
They weren’t selling anything.
They were images. Blurry, half-formed shapes. Abstract patterns that shifted when I wasn’t looking directly at them.
I remembered Rule Eight.
If they depict a man’s face, reload immediately.
I scanned them carefully.
No faces.
Just static.
At 2:58 a.m., I was halfway through an article about a chemical spill that would “no longer be necessary” when my phone alarm chimed softly—my reminder to take medication.
The clock flipped to 3:00.
Rule Seven flashed through my mind.
Finish the article before exiting.
I read faster, heart pounding, words blurring together. The moment I hit the final sentence, I closed the tab.
The silence afterward was immense.
I slept poorly. Dreamed of knocking inside walls.
The next night, I came back.
I told myself I didn’t have a choice.
That wasn’t true. I could have stayed away. But sometime after dinner, I realized I’d been watching the clock all evening. Waiting.
At 12:02 a.m., I opened my laptop.
The site loaded faster this time.
A new message sat above the headlines.
WELCOME BACK.
No exclamation point.
Just a statement.
I scrolled.
New articles had appeared. Some usernames repeated. Others were new. One caught my eye immediately.
Posted by: MecklandArchive
My stomach dropped.
Rule Four again.
If the username contains “Meckland,” do not read.
I didn’t click it.
I hovered.
The headline was partially cut off, like the page didn’t want it fully visible.
YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO—
I scrolled past quickly.
That’s when the closet light in my bedroom clicked on.
I froze.
Rule Nine.
Stay on the article. Do not investigate.
I hadn’t been reading an article.
My cursor trembled.
The light stayed on.
I clicked the nearest headline at random and stared at the words, barely absorbing them. My heart hammered in my ears. The light hummed softly behind me, just out of sight.
After what felt like an hour, it turned off.
I didn’t move for a full minute.
Then I exhaled and closed the laptop at exactly 2:59 a.m.
By the fifth night, Real News had become routine.
That terrified me more than anything else.
I structured my evenings around it. Made sure my devices were charged. Closed my blinds. Checked the sidebar ads with paranoid precision.
I never commented.
I never read Meckland.
And then, on the seventh night, the foreword changed.
Foreword:
If you are reading this, I need help.
My breath caught.
Rule One.
Exit immediately.
I slammed the laptop shut so hard it hurt my fingers.
I didn’t open it again that night.
I didn’t open it the next night either.
Or the one after that.
I made it four days before the knocking started.
It wasn’t loud at first.
Just a dull tapping behind the walls. Like pipes settling. Like a neighbor hanging a picture.
Then it moved.
From the living room wall to the hallway. From the hallway to the bedroom.
On the fifth night, my phone turned on by itself at 12:14 a.m.
The screen lit up.
A single notification.
REAL NEWS: YOU MISSED US.
My closet light turned on.
I screamed.
I don’t know how I’m still alive.
I don’t know why he let me back in.
But on the sixth night, shaking and hollow-eyed, I returned to the site.
The homepage was different.
The headlines were gone.
Only one article remained.
Posted by: Meckland
No suffix. No archive. Just the name.
I couldn’t look away.
Rule Four screamed in my head, but it was drowned out by something heavier—certainty.
I clicked.
The article was about me.
My name wasn’t written, but every detail was unmistakable. My apartment layout. My insomnia. The power outage. The blinking microwave clock.
The final paragraph hadn’t been written yet.
The cursor blinked at the end.
Then new text appeared.
You keep coming back because you want it to be true.
The closet light turned on.
I didn’t turn around.
The site scrolled.
A comment box appeared.
Against my will, my hands moved. I typed.
What do you want?
Rule Ten.
Too late.
I stumbled to the window, threw it open, and repeated the words out loud, voice cracking, hoping I hadn’t misremembered a single letter.
Behind me, something inhaled.
The site refreshed on its own.
The article updated.
He wants you to understand how real news is made.
The knocking began inside my walls, violent now, rhythmic, impatient.
The sidebar ads changed.
Every one of them showed the same face.
A man I recognized only because I had never seen him before.
The clock read 2:59 a.m.
The article scrolled to its final line.
This is where you help.
The cursor blinked again.
I am writing this now because the site is still open.
The clock is ticking.
And somewhere in my apartment, something is learning how to use my voice.
If you find Real News—
If you’re reading this—
Please.
Read the foreword carefully.
