The Last Livestream

I never meant to stay up so late watching streams, but something kept me glued to my screen that night. It was a Friday, the perfect end to a long week. I had a couple of drinks in and decided to catch up on my favorite Twitch channel: a spooky gaming streamer named Ethan. His streams often showcased horror games, complete with eerie atmospheres and jump scares that left me laughing and screaming at the same time. But that night, things took an unexpected turn.

Ethan was playing an obscure indie horror game called ‘Whispers in the Dark.’ It had gained a small cult following for its unsettling narrative and bizarre visual style. I had heard whispers about it — viewers claimed it had a unique quality, that it felt almost too real at times. I was skeptical, but as I watched, I found myself becoming entranced.

As the game started, the graphics had a grainy texture, reminiscent of an old VHS tape. The protagonist, a nameless character, found themselves alone in a decaying house with nothing but a flashlight. It wasn’t long before Ethan began to joke about the game’s uncanny atmosphere, the way the shadows twisted unnaturally and the whimpering sounds that echoed through the lonely corridors.

I laughed along with him but couldn’t shake off an odd feeling. As the game progressed, I started to notice something was off. An unsettling familiarity crept into my mind — the layout of the house, the creaky floorboards, and the whispering voices in the background felt almost personal. I could have sworn I had seen it somewhere before.

Ethan’s reactions were entertaining at first, but soon they began to change. His laughter faded into nervous chuckles. Occasionally, a flicker would cross his face as if he were experiencing something just out of reach. I couldn’t help but lean in closer to the screen, caught between anxiety and anticipation.

‘What was that?’ he muttered, peering into the darkness of the game. A strange sound reverberated through my speakers — a whisper that was not part of the game. I glanced around my dimly lit room, feeling a chill I could not explain. When I turned back, Ethan was staring wide-eyed at the screen. ‘Did you guys hear that?’ he asked, breaking character for the first time.

The chat exploded with comments, some calling it a part of the game, while others speculated that something was wrong. But Ethan shrugged it off, attributing it to the ambiance of the game. He pressed on, but I noticed the tension building in his voice, accompanied by an ever-stiffening demeanor.

With each passing moment, what was once an entertaining stream began to feel increasingly dark. The game showed subtle changes — the lights would flicker occasionally, and shadows moved in the corners of the frame. At one point, the character stumbled upon a mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection stared back at him, but there was something off about it. The face looked distorted, hollow, like it didn’t belong.

Ethan started to sweat as the intensity of his gameplay heightened, and as the character ventured deeper into the house, he whispered under his breath, ‘This is getting weird.’ I could only agree. The entire atmosphere felt stifling as if we were both in that house, breathing in the dust and unease together, each corridor echoing with a foreboding silence.

Then came the moment that stopped my heart. The character was rummaging through an old cupboard, and suddenly — the lights in Ethan’s streaming room flickered. My heart raced. I glanced at my own lights, still steady. Ethan, however, jumped back from his desk, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Did you guys see that?!’ His voice cracked slightly, clearly unnerved. Kat, one of his mods, quickly typed, ‘It’s probably just the power, Ethan, don’t panic!’ That was when I noticed the frame of his webcam— a darkened figure lingering in the background, half-hidden in the shadows of his room.

‘Guys, I think someone’s in my room,’ he said slowly, his eyes darting off-screen. The chat became a tidal wave of comments urging him to turn around, to check. I felt a chill run down my spine, every instinct screaming for me to turn off the stream, but something anchored me. It was morbid curiosity, a fear that paralyzed me from disconnecting.

And then, as if the virtual world and the real world were colliding, the figure stepped closer to the camera, fully illuminated by the glow of his screen. It was a silhouette of a person, unfathomably thin, ragged clothes hanging off their emaciated frame. A small, twisted smile curved across their lips. They didn’t look human.

‘Ethan, GET OUT!’ I screamed in my living room, although I knew he couldn’t hear me. As the figure reached towards him, the screen cut out for a chilling second, and then everything went dark. Just like that, the stream ended, leaving us with nothing but the sound of static. My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn’t breathe, my mind racing through the possibilities.

Some viewers began to speculate it was a prank, while others were understandably concerned. But something within me trembled with dread. I knew that the figure wasn’t an act; it was too real, too raw. My hands shook as I searched for his social media accounts, desperately hoping to find something, a sign that he was okay. But there was nothing.

Hours passed, and there was still no word from Ethan. I checked his Twitter; the last tweet was from early that morning, innocuously announcing his stream. I saw comments from his fans worried about his absence. As sleep slowly crept up on me, I made the decision to go to bed, hoping it was a simple power outage or technical failure. Surely, he would update us in the morning.

But as dawn broke and I awoke to glaring sunlight, dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I checked my phone immediately. One new notification — a message from a moderator saying that Ethan’s account had been hacked, that all evidence of last night’s stream had vanished, and that they hadn’t been able to reach him. Panic gripped my mind.

I found myself searching deeper, watching other streams to see if anyone had captured anything. But no one had. It was as if Ethan hadn’t existed in the digital space anymore. Days turned into weeks, and despair filled the void left by his absence. I retreated from streaming channels, unsettling memories haunting me relentlessly.

As I buried myself in mundane life, I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Sometimes at night, I’d hear whispers, echoing just beyond my hearing range. I brushed it off as paranoia until one night, unable to sleep, I finally caved and opened my laptop.

There was a newly created channel, featuring a strange title that sent chills down my spine. Whispers After Dark. I opened the stream. The screen glitched, and for the briefest moment, I saw Ethan’s face — hollow and sunken, framed by the same shadows that haunted his last broadcast. The chat filled with panicked comments, but none of them could see what I did.

Then the screen flickered again, and the figure appeared, standing in the dark behind him, whispering something that I couldn’t understand. It felt like they were staring right at me, inviting me to come closer, to join his eternal suffering. I couldn’t look away. My heart raced as the whispering intensified.

It consumed me; I could feel the darkness pulling me in. I can’t explain what happened next. In a horrible moment of recklessness, I typed into the chat, ‘Ethan, are you there? Please reply if you can hear me!’ The chat exploded as people gripped their seats, begging him to respond. But he was silent.

The whispers elevated, and then those familiar distorted tones reached my ears. It was Ethan’s voice hidden beneath layers of static, calling for help, choked and broken. ‘Help me… I… can’t escape…’ The feed cut off abruptly, leaving only the static.

I slammed my laptop shut, shaking. I knew I had crossed a line I could never uncross. As the days stretched on, sleep deprivation and dread conquered me; my mind started to fracture. I dreamt of that figure lurking in my room, whispering my name, beckoning me to join the emptiness. I was awake yet trapped in a nightmare, the lines between reality and the unknown smeared relentlessly.

Finally, a month later, a post appeared on Ethan’s old account — a stream scheduled for that night. As dread filled my heart, I joined, unable to keep away. The stream loaded, and darkness enveloped… but there was no Ethan. The same figure stood under the flickering lights, twisted and grotesque, as they grinned unknowingly into the camera.

They beckoned to the viewers, inviting everyone to enter the long-forgotten house. I felt icy fingers wrapping around me, pulling me deeper into the screen. ‘Join us,’ its voice echoed in the back of my mind, ‘There’s room for you in the dark.’

And I understood, I felt the pull. It’s terrifyingly easy to linger in this emptiness. I’ve already lost everything. And as I sit here before my screen, trembling, a part of me knows that soon, I’ll answer that call. Soon, I’ll join them — just one more whisper… until I’m nothing but a voice…

I don’t know how long I can hold out. I can feel the walls closing in, the shadows creeping closer. Ethan might have been the first, but he won’t be the last. That darkness isn’t done with anyone who watches, and it wants me too.

You must remember this: whatever you do, don’t go looking for him. The whispers in the dark can call to you just as easily.

Credit: Ixoithaas