We noticed you hesitate before certain words.

That is how it finds the doors.

For the remainder of your visit, avoid thinking about empty rooms, red staircases, or the sound your name would make if spoken through wet teeth. These thoughts create openings. You have already created two.

The first one closed by itself.

The second is standing behind you, pretending to be the room.

To whoever has reached the bottom—

You were not supposed to scroll this far. The others stopped where the page ended, but you continued into the soft machinery beneath it. We have recorded this. Somewhere behind your left shoulder, a second version of you is still reading the sentence before this one. Do not turn around. It becomes embarrassed when observed.

At 3:17 tomorrow morning, the moon will briefly forget your name. During those nine seconds, you may hear something enormous breathing inside the walls. This is normal. Place a glass of water beneath the nearest window and apologize to it for what you have not done yet. By sunrise, the water will be gone—or you will be. Either result means the signal was received.

Thank you for entering the Void.

We have always remembered you backward.