Chapter 1: The Invitation

Chapter 1: The Invitation

The clock on Alex Vance’s monitor glowed 2:17 AM in angry red pixels. Outside his third-floor dorm window, the campus was a silent, sleeping giant. Inside, the only sounds were the hum of his overworked laptop fan and the frantic tap-tap-tap of his fingers on the keyboard. A half-eaten pizza sat cold in its box, a monument to a dinner he’d forgotten to finish. Data structures, algorithms, a sea of C++ syntax—this was his refuge, a logical world where every problem had a solution, unlike the messy, illogical grief that still clung to him like a shroud, years after his brother’s death.

A framed photo on his desk caught the monitor's glow. Two boys, years younger. One, a lanky, glasses-wearing version of himself, smiling awkwardly. The other, smaller and frail but with a spark in his eyes that outshone everything, was Leo. The photo was a relic from a time before the hospital rooms, before the smell of antiseptic became the scent of his childhood. Alex quickly looked away, pushing the familiar ache back down into the pit of his stomach. Focus on the code.

A notification pinged, a jarring intrusion into his self-imposed isolation. It was from Chris.

Chris: dude. you gotta see this.

A link followed. TheDen.███.

Alex sighed, rubbing the dark circles under his eyes. Chris was his best and perhaps only friend, a whirlwind of boundless enthusiasm for the internet’s dark and weird corners. He lived for ARGs—Alternate Reality Games—and cryptic online rabbit holes. Usually, Alex found them a waste of time, elaborate digital scavenger hunts with no real prize.

Alex: Another ARG? I’m swamped, man. Project’s due Friday.

Chris: no no no this is different. it’s not like the others. feels… real.

Alex: They all “feel real.” That’s the point.

Chris: just click it. trust me. ten seconds.

Against his better judgment, curiosity won. With a click, Alex’s browser opened a new tab. It was stark, almost aggressively minimalist. A black screen. In the center, a single white cursor pulsed like a weak heartbeat. Below it, two lines of simple, serif text.

MAKE A REQUEST. STATE YOUR DESIRE.

That was it. No ads, no navigation bar, no “About Us.” He instinctively right-clicked and selected “View Page Source.” His screen filled with code, but it was gibberish. Not obfuscated or cleverly encrypted, but pure, nonsensical chaos—a jumble of unclosed tags, random character strings, and what looked like fragments of dead programming languages. It shouldn't have rendered a webpage at all. It was technically impossible.

His intellectual arrogance, his primary flaw, was piqued. This wasn't just a simple HTML page; it was a well-crafted puzzle. Chris was right; this was different.

He typed back to his friend.

Alex: Weird source code. It’s a mess. Shouldn’t even work.

Chris: told you! so what’d you ask for?

Alex: I haven’t asked for anything. It’s a script. It probably just scrapes your browser history and serves you a creepy targeted ad.

Chris: boring. live a little. i asked for a hint on my physics homework. nothing happened. maybe you have to be specific.

Alex stared at the pulsing cursor. STATE YOUR DESIRE. It was absurd. A digital genie in a bottle. Still, the programmer in him wanted to see the trick, to understand the mechanism behind the illusion. What could he ask for? Something impossible. Something the most sophisticated algorithm couldn't guess or procure.

His eyes drifted back to the photo on his desk. To Leo. He remembered a specific, rainy afternoon. They were kids, huddled in their shared bedroom. Leo, already sick but not yet fragile, was clutching a worn teddy bear with a missing button eye. He’d named him Barnaby. Leo had loved that bear more than anything. He’d whispered secrets into its frayed ear and insisted it could ward off nightmares.

Alex’s fingers moved to the keyboard, typing before he could second-guess himself. He didn’t type “teddy bear.” He typed the name.

Barnaby.

He hit enter.

The screen flashed once, a blinding white, then returned to the pulsing cursor. The text was gone. Nothing else happened. See? Just a gimmick. A clever bit of Javascript to create a dramatic effect. He felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief.

He was about to type a mocking reply to Chris when a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from his dorm room door.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Alex froze. It was almost 2:30 AM. No one roamed the halls at this hour. Campus security was downstairs, and deliveries weren’t allowed past ten. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly in the silent room. He crept to the door, peering through the peephole. The hallway was empty. Its fluorescent lights cast a sterile, greenish glow on the cinderblock walls. There was no one there.

Probably just some drunk from the next floor, he thought, trying to rationalize the sudden spike of adrenaline. He was about to turn away when he looked down.

On the floor, pushed up against his door, was a plain, unmarked cardboard box. It was about the size of a shoebox, sealed with a single strip of brown packing tape. There was no label, no postage, no address.

A cold dread, heavy and suffocating, settled over him. This was impossible. He had clicked the button less than thirty seconds ago. The logistics were unthinkable. Even if Amazon had a drone hovering right outside his window, it couldn't be this fast.

His hands trembled as he undid the latch and pulled the door open. The hallway was still empty. He snatched the box, pulled it inside, and slammed the door shut, locking it and sliding the deadbolt home. He stood with his back against the wood, breathing heavily, the box clutched in his hands.

It felt cool to the touch and was surprisingly light. He took it to his desk and sat down, staring at it as if it were a bomb. This had to be a prank. Chris must have set it up. He must have had a friend waiting in the hall. It was the only logical explanation.

He grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the tape. The cardboard flaps fell open. Inside, nestled in darkness, was a familiar shape. The air that rose from the box was wrong. It smelled of damp earth and something acrid, like formaldehyde.

With a deep breath, he reached in and pulled the object out.

It was a teddy bear. A cheap, brown, plush bear, its fur matted and worn. One of its ears was frayed at the tip where a dog had chewed it years ago. And one of its plastic button eyes was missing, leaving a small puncture in the fabric.

Barnaby.

It wasn’t a replica. It was him. Alex would know that missing eye anywhere. He remembered the day it came off, how Leo had cried until their mom promised to fix it but never did.

His mind reeled, frantically trying to build a logical framework around an impossible event. Where had Chris found it? Alex had no idea what happened to most of their old toys. They were probably in a landfill somewhere. But Barnaby… Barnaby was different.

The blood drained from his face as the final, horrifying memory clicked into place.

He remembered the funeral. The small, polished white casket. He remembered his mother, her face a mask of stone, placing the bear inside, next to Leo. “So he won’t be alone,” she had whispered.

Barnaby wasn’t in a landfill. Barnaby had been buried with his brother.

Alex dropped the bear onto his desk as if it had burned him. It landed with a soft thud, its one remaining plastic eye staring up at him, reflecting the pale, terrifying glow of the website that was still open on his screen.