.Exe

 Alex was an avid gamer, always on the lookout for new titles to sink his hours into. One evening, while browsing an online forum, he stumbled upon a strange post that piqued his interest. The title was “The Forgotten Game – Play at Your Own Risk.” The post described a mysterious game that no one had heard of, an old title from the late '90s, seemingly forgotten by time. The person who posted it claimed to have found a cartridge in a dusty corner of a second-hand store and had been haunted by it ever since.

Intrigued by the oddity, Alex quickly clicked the link, and within minutes, he found the game available for download. It was a small file, labeled “Lost_Adventure.exe.” Without a second thought, he downloaded it, eager to see what the fuss was about.

The game began innocuously enough. The opening screen featured pixelated graphics, reminiscent of early 90s adventure games. The title flashed in bold red letters: The Forgotten Adventure.

"Looks cheesy," Alex chuckled to himself as he clicked Start Game.

He was instantly transported into a dark, forested world, the screen flickering as he took control of the protagonist—an adventurer in search of a hidden treasure. The environment felt oddly lifelike, considering the primitive graphics, but Alex dismissed it as the game’s charm. He moved the character through the woods, battling small creatures, collecting items, and solving puzzles.

Then, something strange happened.

As Alex explored deeper into the forest, the game began to glitch. The colors on the screen warped, and the character’s movements became erratic. A deep, guttural growl echoed from the speakers, and the camera angle shifted violently, showing a dark, twisted version of the forest—a version that didn’t exist in the game’s world before.

“Okay, that’s weird,” Alex muttered, but his curiosity kept him playing.

As he navigated the new area, the game’s atmosphere grew increasingly unsettling. The trees, once vibrant and green, now appeared decayed, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Strange figures began to appear at the edge of the screen, always just out of reach. Their eyes glowed a sickly yellow, watching him as he moved.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from the speakers.

"You shouldn’t have played this."

Alex jolted in his chair, his heart racing. He quickly looked around his room—nothing seemed out of place. But when he glanced back at the screen, the protagonist of the game was no longer where he had left him. Instead, he was standing in front of a dilapidated house, the door creaking open on its own.

He clicked the door to enter, but as the character stepped inside, the game froze. The screen went black.

A single line of text appeared in the center of the screen:

“You are now a part of the game.”

Alex’s blood ran cold. He frantically clicked the mouse, trying to exit the game, but the program was unresponsive. His computer screen flickered, and then, to his horror, the door in the game opened. But it wasn’t just on the screen anymore—he heard the sound of an actual door creaking behind him.

Turning slowly, Alex’s breath caught in his throat.

There, in the doorway of his bedroom, stood a shadowy figure, its outline barely visible in the dim light. It had no face, only a hollow space where its eyes should have been. The temperature in the room plummeted, and the figure stepped forward.

Alex slammed his hands on the keyboard, trying to alt-tab out, but the screen stayed locked on the game. The figure in his doorway moved closer. A voice—deep, distorted, and hollow—whispered from the screen, then from behind him.

“You shouldn’t have played this. Now you belong to it.”

Panicked, Alex reached for the power button on his computer, but before his hand could make contact, the game’s protagonist moved—no longer on the screen, but in his room, standing next to him, staring with glowing, yellow eyes.

He screamed, trying to back away, but the figure lunged at him. The last thing Alex saw was the twisted face of the character, his own reflection distorted in its eyes, before everything went dark.

The next morning, Alex’s computer was found powered off, the game still running on the screen. His chair sat empty, but his reflection was visible in the monitor—his face pale and frozen, eyes wide with terror.

The game’s file had vanished from his computer, as if it had never existed.

But for those who dared to search the dark corners of the internet, the game’s name still appeared on obscure forums, with a new warning:

“You shouldn’t have played this.