Dive into Red-Room.exe, a chilling horror story that will haunt your nightmares. This creepy story weaves a terrifying tale of Kazuo Nakamura, a reclusive teen drawn into the dark web’s sinister depths. What begins as a search for a mysterious website turns into a descent into a scary ghost story, where unseen forces lurk behind glowing screens. Red-Room.exe is a horror story by The Horror Collection. Packed with suspense, this creepy story delivers spine-tingling dread, perfect for fans of scary stories and unsettling supernatural tales.
I’m Kazuo Nakamura, 17, and my world is this dim room in Setagaya, Tokyo. Cherry blossoms bloom outside, but I don’t care—they’re just noise compared to the hum of my computer. My walls are covered with posters of Street Fighter and Neon Genesis Evangelion, a cocoon I’ve built to keep reality out. My parents, Hiroshi and Emiko, barely exist to me.
Dad’s always at his desk job, crunching numbers; Mom’s off praying at the shrine. I’m alone, and that’s fine. It’s better than the whispers at Setagaya High, where I’m the “weird kid” who’s too quiet, too glued to his phone. They don’t get me, and I don’t want them to.
School’s a gauntlet of sideways glances and snickers. “There’s Nakamura, probably coding something freaky.” I don’t fight back—it’s easier to disappear. My real life is online, where I’m ShadowByte, a name that means something in the dark corners of the web.
Two years ago, I had Aiko, my best friend, the only one who saw me. When she moved, it broke something in me. I dove into the dark web—forums, encrypted chats, places where no one asks your name. It’s freedom. It’s home.
Lately, though, there’s been a buzz in the chatrooms. A site called the Red Room. Not the torture garbage—something worse. “It finds you,” one user typed before going silent. I don’t buy curses, but a site that tracks you down? That’s a puzzle I need to crack.
I’ve been hunting the Red Room for days, chasing dead links through Tor’s maze. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, and my grades are tanking—Dad yelled about it last night, his voice chasing me up the stairs. Mom left a note: “Eat, Kazuo. We’re worried.” I crumpled it. They don’t get it. This isn’t just curiosity—it’s obsession. I need to know.
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Last night, I hit a wall. After hours of searching, nothing but broken URLs and trolls. I was about to crash when a private message popped up, no sender: “Stop looking. It’s watching.” My stomach dropped. My VPN’s airtight; no one should know I’m here. I typed back, “Who are you?”
Nothing. The message was gone like it never existed. I checked my logs—clean. My hands shook as I shut down. Sleep didn’t come easy.
Tonight, I’m back at it, but something’s off. My room feels colder, the air heavier. I’m clicking through a dead forum when my screen flickers. A red window pops up, bottom-right, no browser, no app. Just a box with white text: “Do you like | ?”
I try to close it—nothing. Click again, and check task manager—empty. It’s not a program. I run a malware scan, heart pounding. No threats. I reboot, unplug my router, and swap monitors. The window’s still there, pulsing like it’s alive. My annoyance sours into dread. The text shifts: “Do you like the | ?”
I stare at my reflection in the monitor, my face pale, eyes wide. I click inside the box, half-expecting my PC to fry. The text moves: “Do you like the r| ?”
My pulse hammers in my throat. The room’s too quiet, and my PC hums too loud. I click again—“Do you like the re| ?”—and the air gets thick like I’m breathing soup.
My chest tightens. “Do you like the red | ?” A ringing starts in my ears, faint, like a far-off alarm. I want to stop, but my hand won’t listen. “Do you like the red r| ?”
The shadows on my walls twist, stretching wrong. The monitor glows brighter, a red light spilling across my desk. “Do you like the red ro| ?” The ringing’s sharper now, a knife in my skull. My eyes sting, like I’ve stared into the sun. “Do you like the red roo| ?”
I click one last time. “Do you like the red room?”
The words burn into my vision. My body locks up, fingers glued to the mouse. The ringing turns to whispers—hundreds of voices, overlapping, clawing at my brain.
My skin crawls, like bugs are burrowing inside me. I try to move, to stand, but my legs are dead weight. The red light pulses, matching my heartbeat, flooding the room until everything’s drowned in crimson.
Blood drips from my nose, hot against my lips. I wipe it, smearing it across my hand, but it keeps coming. My eyes blur, the room tilting like I’m falling.
The whispers sharpen: “You found it. You belong here.” I scream inside my head—Get out, shut it off!—but my hand clicks again, on its own. The screen flashes: “Welcome to the Red Room.”
Static explodes across the monitor, then clears. It’s a live feed—my room, my face, staring back. But it’s wrong. My reflection moves, tilting its head when I don’t. It smiles, lips splitting too wide, blood seeping from the cracks. Its eyes weep red, pooling on a desk that isn’t mine.
I can’t breathe. My chest’s caving in. The reflection holds a blade, glinting red, and presses it to its throat—my throat. I feel it, cold, sharp, slicing into my skin. Blood gushes down my shirt, but my hands are empty. I claw at my neck—no cut, no blade, but the pain’s real, ripping me apart.
“No!” I choke out, my voice barely mine. The reflection laughs, a wet, choking gurgle. The blade digs deeper, and I’m burning, my throat splitting open. The whispers roar: “Stay with us. Stay forever.”
My room vanishes. The walls close in, red light swallowing my posters, my bed, my life. I’m falling, drowning in blood that’s mine but isn’t. The last thing I see is my reflection, smiling as it carves me away.
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Morning came, gray and heavy with rain. Hiroshi knocked on Kazuo’s door, annoyed at his son’s late sleeping. No answer. He knocked harder, then tried the handle—locked. Emiko joined him, her voice sharp with worry. They forced the door open.
The room was a slaughterhouse. Blood coated the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, as if sprayed from a hose. Kazuo sat slumped in his chair, head lolled back, eyes open and empty.
His skin was pale, almost translucent, veins visible beneath like spiderwebs. The monitor glowed faintly, the red window still open: “Do you like the red room?”
Emiko screamed, collapsing against Hiroshi. He fumbled for his phone, hands shaking as he called the police. The responding officers were seasoned, but even they paled at the scene.
No wounds on Kazuo’s body, no weapons, and no signs of an intruder. The door and windows were locked from the inside.
Forensics found no explanation for the blood—it matched Kazuo’s type, but there was too much, far more than a human body could contain.
The case was ruled a suicide, though no one could explain how. The coroner’s report noted an anomaly: Kazuo’s eyes were bloodshot, and the vessels burst as if he’d stared into something unbearable. His laptop was seized, but the hard drive was fried, and the red window was gone when powered on.
Weeks later, the story spread, first in whispers, then online. Setagaya High buzzed with rumors. Some said Kazuo had been hacking into something he shouldn’t have.
Others swore they’d seen a red flicker on their own screens late at night. A classmate, Yui, posted on a forum: “I knew Kazuo. He was looking for the Red Room. I told him to stop.” Her account was deleted hours later, and Yui stopped coming to school.
Across Japan, similar stories emerged. A college student in Osaka, was found dead in her dorm, blood painting the walls, her computer displaying a red window.
A salaryman in Fukuoka, collapsed in his office, the same message glowing on his screen. Each case was isolated, unexplained, and dismissed as a coincidence. But the dark web forums Kazuo once haunted grew louder, threads filling with warnings: “It’s real. It finds you.”
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In Shinjuku, a 14-year-old girl named Reina heard the rumors. Unlike Kazuo, Reina wasn’t a loner. She was popular, sharp-witted, the center of her friend group.
But she had a secret—she loved horror, the darker the better. Creepypastas, urban legends, forbidden sites—she devoured them all, chasing the thrill of fear.
Reina stumbled across Kazuo’s story on a subreddit, the details grislier than any fiction. The Red Room intrigued her, not as a curse, but as a challenge. If it’s real, I’ll find it, she thought, smirking at her laptop. Her friends laughed when she told them, calling it fake, but Reina was determined.
She downloaded Tor, following guides from sketchy blogs. Late at night, when her parents were asleep, she dug deeper, clicking links that led to broken pages, and pop-ups that crashed her browser. Nothing worked. Frustrated, she typed into a chatroom: “Anyone got a Red Room link? I’m not scared.”
The reply came instantly, from a user with no name: “Careful what you wish for.” A link followed, a string of numbers and letters that made her stomach twist. She hesitated, then clicked.
Her screen froze, then blinked red. The window appeared: “Do you like | ?” Reina laughed, nerves tingling. This is it. She clicked, expecting a jump scare or a rickroll. The text shifted: “Do you like the r| ?”
Her laughter faded. The room felt wrong, the air thick. Her phone buzzed—her friend Miki, texting: “You okay? Saw your post.” Reina ignored it, clicking again. “Do you like the red | ?” Her ears rang, a low hum growing sharper. Her reflection on the screen looked… off. Her eyes were too wide, her smile too tight.
“Do you like the red room?”
Reina’s hand froze. The hum became voices, whispering her name. Blood trickled from her ear, staining her shoulder. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Her reflection moved, raising a hand to wave, though Reina’s arms were still.
The next morning, Reina’s parents found her room empty. Her laptop was on, the red window glowing. No blood, no body—just absence. The police searched for weeks, but Reina was gone, another name added to the whispers.
The Red Room endures, a ghost in the machine. Some say it’s a virus, others a demon. Those who search for it rarely return, and those who do don’t speak.
In Setagaya, Kazuo’s room remains untouched, the door locked. Neighbors swear they see a red glow through the blinds at night.
The question lingers, unanswered: Do you like the red room?
