Ben Drowned

It started with a dusty cardboard box tucked away in the back of the attic—a graveyard of your older brother’s childhood memories. Sifting through the tangled wires and plastic cases, one particular cartridge caught your eye. It was a worn copy of Majora’s Mask, the gold paint peeling, with the name "BEN" scrawled across the front in fading permanent marker.

Curiosity got the better of you. You took it to your room, blew the dust out of the pins, and clicked it into the console. At first, the nostalgia was comforting, but the atmosphere shifted quickly. The music began to play in reverse—a distorted, dragging melody that set your teeth on edge. Suddenly, the screen froze. The colors bled into jagged streaks of neon green and black before the monitor flickered and went dark.

Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Then, the screen began to glow with a sickly, static light. A hand emerged from the glass, followed by a figure that looked like a twisted distortion of the game's protagonist. He stepped into your room, tall and lean, clad in a tattered green tunic and matching pointed cap. His blonde hair fell over eyes that weren't human—they were voids of black with glowing red pupils that wept a dark, ink-like substance. He adjusted his hat, his face contorting into a wide, jagged grin that didn't reach his hollow eyes.

"Hahaha! Oh! Looks like I scared you? Is that right?"