The Rulebook of Hive 13

 We thought that after barricading ourselves inside the bunker, after holding off waves of the infected with homemade flamethrowers and rusted machetes, we had found safety.

We were wrong.

The first mutant bug appeared three days after the last known zombie was decapitated and burned. It crawled out of one of the corpses like it had been gestating in there. And it wasn’t alone.

By the end of that week, our “safe zone” was nothing but Hive 13 — the thirteenth attempt to survive. Most didn’t make it. I did. But only because I followed the rules.

If you’re reading this, burn the paper when you're done. And for your own sake, follow every single rule below.

---

Rules for Surviving Hive 13

1. Never kill a mutant bug inside the base.
When squashed, they release spores that enter your eyes and nest in your brain. You’ll still look like yourself for 72 hours. After that… your skin splits open like wet tissue and something else crawls out.

2. If you hear buzzing from the vents, lock yourself in the freezer room and don't make a sound.
It’s not a bee. It’s a scout. If it hears you breathing, it marks you by vomiting bile on your door. Then comes the Queen.

3. Don’t trust anything that looks like a friend who died.
They’ve started using the bodies now. They wear them like puppets. You’ll notice the teeth are always wrong — too many, or facing inward.

4. No mirrors after sunset.
They don’t have reflections. You’ll see that. But worse — if you look too long, you’ll see yourself smiling when you shouldn’t be.

5. The red lights mean the hive is beneath you. The green lights mean it’s above. If both are blinking, pray.
They’ve tunneled into the walls. Into the ceilings. Into us.

6. When you hear the clicking, you have exactly 19 seconds to cut your nails.
It’s a pheromonal signal. The bugs read traces of keratin to identify hosts. If your nails are too long, they assume you’ve already been harvested. They don’t like waste.

7. Never sleep alone.
If they catch you isolated, they burrow through the ear canal. You’ll wake up standing, humming a song that doesn’t exist.

8. Do NOT feed the things in the feeding room after midnight.
We still don’t know what they are. But they grow. And the meat isn’t always from outside.

9. If you find a cocoon in your bed, don’t scream.
Screaming triggers the eggs inside to hatch instantly. Instead, climb in, close your eyes, and wait for the morning shift. They’ll know what to do.

10. Once a week, one of us has to be chosen.
We send them to the tunnel with a blade, a light, and the map. No one ever comes back. The horde slows down when it gets a sacrifice. It’s brutal, but it works.

I was chosen once.

I came back.

But I left something down there. And lately, I can feel it... crawling up my spine.

---

Burn this now. Then cut your nails.

And don’t look in the mirror.

Not after sunset.

Never after sunset.

The Contract

I still remember the exact moment I clicked "I Agree." The screen flashed briefly, confirming my acceptance of the service contract. What I didn’t realize then was that clicking that button wasn’t just agreeing to terms — it was signing away more than I could imagine.

A few hours later, a sharp, unbearable pain shot through my left arm. I looked down and saw a thin, red mark forming around my wrist. It wasn’t a rash, nor a scratch — it was a brand, burning into my flesh like molten iron.

Then came the message on my phone:

“You have been entered into the Population Reduction Lottery. Your scheduled service will commence in 72 hours.”

At first, I thought it was a sick joke. But that night, my dreams were filled with buzzing — like a swarm of insects under my skin. I woke to find my sheets soaked in blood, my arms covered with tiny puncture wounds. I tried to scream, but my throat was raw, my voice barely a whisper.

Day by day, the changes became undeniable. My skin peeled away in long strips, revealing muscle and sinew beneath. My nails blackened and split. In the mirror, I barely recognized myself — eyes sunken, pupils dilated unnaturally. The worst part was the hunger. A deep, gnawing craving for raw flesh.

The night of the service arrived. They came without warning. Pale figures, faceless, with blades that gleamed in the dim light. They dragged me into a dark room — walls slick with old blood, the scent of iron heavy in the air.

I screamed, but it was no use.

They cut and carved, piece by piece. I felt every incision, every rip of flesh. Yet, through the agony, there was a cold precision — as if they were harvesting something vital.

When it was over, I was left broken and bleeding on the cold floor.

But the worst was yet to come.

The brand on my wrist glowed faintly, a sinister pulse matching my heartbeat. I could feel the infection spreading. Soon, I would join the lottery again, reborn as something else — a warning to others who dared to click "I Agree."

If you ever see that button, don’t hesitate. Don’t click.

Because once you do, there’s no turning back.

DOCUMENT 017 - EMERGENCY FILE / CLASSIFICATION: CONFIDENTIAL

INTRODUCTION

Audio transcript recovered from the last emergency transmission captured in the red zone of biocognitive isolation. Date and location compromised. Record originally found on a tape recorder inside a sealed bunker. The following content remains without rational explanation, but is believed by civilian and military authorities to be true.

“If you're listening to this, it means that the lockdown failure has already occurred.

The borders have given way. The containment protocol has been broken.

 There is no longer a safe zone.

This recording is not a call for help. It is a warning.

Don't try to understand. Just listen. Memorize. Obey.

Those are the rules. The only chance to stay human.

RULES OF SURVIVAL - PROTOCOL 9/17

1. Don't look out of the windows. Never.

At first, I ignored the warning. It was just curiosity. One second was enough. I saw my neighbor scream and be pulled off the ground by something that shouldn't be there. The glass burst. Blood splattered on the ceiling.

2. Cover all mirrors. Any reflective surfaces must be removed or sealed.

I thought it was an exaggeration. But what I saw wasn't a reflection. It was movement behind me, inside the mirror, even though I was alone. Since that moment, the image has been watching me. Even when I close my eyes.

3. Don't open the door, even if you recognize the voice.

She was crying. She was crying for help. It was my sister's voice. Only she died last week. I know that. I saw the body. So what was outside scratching the wood with its nails?

4. Don't make a sound. No prayers. No sobbing.

My neighbor tried to sing to calm his daughter. The creature descended through the walls like smoke. The girl stopped crying. The singing turned into screams. Now there's only the echo.

5. If you hear scratches under the floor or inside the walls, don't investigate.

I followed the sound. It was something crawling. It was inside the wall. Then behind the wall. Then inside the room. Eyes burst out of the wood like boiling bubbles.

6. Turn off all the lights. Darkness doesn't protect, it hides. And that's a good thing.

The light attracts them. They see in the light. They feel the warmth. When the light bulb burned out, I shivered. But that's what saved me. I saw the neighbors light up. I heard the clicks. Then silence. Now there's just the smell of burning.

7. If you smell iron or sulphur, run.

It was like boiling blood and rotting flesh. And it was coming from the ceiling. When I looked, the black stain was spreading. The ceiling was dripping. The smell made me vomit before I blacked out. I woke up with marks on my arms that weren't mine.

8. If you're bitten, tear off the contaminated tissue. Immediately.

He hesitated. He said it was just a scratch. Two hours later, he pulled out his own teeth and stuck them in his eyes. He laughed as he fell apart inside. It wasn't him anymore.

9. Never sleep unattended. If you're alone, fight sleep.

I fell asleep for minutes. I dreamt of a hand holding my heart. When I woke up, it hurt. As if it had been squeezed for real. As if something had... touched.

10. If someone says everything is fine, run.

Calm no longer exists. Optimism is a symptom of conversion. A smile is the first sign. The second is bleeding from the ears. The third is too late. They talk like humans. But they're not.

EPILOGUE

The recorder closes with wheezing and gasping. After three seconds of silence, there is a muffled noise like fingernails dragging on steel. Then a very low voice whispers:

“You've already raped at least one of them, haven't you?”

---

END OF FILE.

Transmission closed. Document classified as high psychological risk. Not recommended reading outside controlled environments.

The Whistler from the Plains

Cryptid: El Silbón (Venezuelan and Colombian plains)

When young Emiliano killed his father in a fit of rage, he didn't expect mercy. But what he got was a curse.

Condemned to wander the plains with a sack full of his father's bones on his back, his spirit became what is now known as El Silbón - the Whistler.

It is said that his whistle is heard in a paradoxical way: if the sound seems distant, he is close. If it sounds close, there is still time to escape.

One dry night in the interior of Barinas, a lone cowboy heard the whistle for the first time - three ascending, drawn-out notes, like the call of a sad child. He laughed. He thought it was the wind.

The second night, he heard it again. Closer. The sound chilled his bones. The dogs hid under the bed. The horse ran away.

On the third night, everything fell silent.

The next morning, they found the cowboy dry as a thorn branch. And next to the body, an old sack - full of human bones, each marked with the name of the next victim.

Salt in the Wounds

 Cryptid: Yacumama (Peruvian Amazon)

The Yacumama, “mother of water”, is avoided by fishermen in the Upper Amazon. They say that the snake sleeps in the deep riverbeds, and that the sound of a whistle can wake it up - a whistle that no man should have the courage to blow.

But Miguel, an ambitious young fisherman, didn't believe in legends. He wanted to prove that the creature was just superstition. Armed with harpoons, cameras and the courage typical of ignorance, he set off upstream, where the sun barely reaches the surface.

On the third night, he blew a handmade whistle made from fish bones. And waited.

The calm waters stirred. The fish disappeared. And then, from the depths, something emerged.

A snake with scales as dark as oil and eyes the size of windows. Yacumama didn't roar. It didn't attack. It just stared - deeply. Miguel put down his whistle. He tried to row. But the water closed over him like a mouth.

His boat was found days later, riddled with symmetrical cuts and covered in salt - something impossible on a freshwater river.

The Sound of Hooves

 Cryptid: Patasola (Andean forests - Colombia, Ecuador, Venezuela)

Forestry engineer Lorenzo worked supervising selective logging in the Colombian Andes. Used to dealing with nature and its silent brutality, he wasn't impressed by tales of the road, let alone warnings about “one-legged women”.

But when men started disappearing at dusk, and contradictory reports spoke of a beautiful woman who cried in the woods - and then attacked like a jaguar - Lorenzo began to pay attention.

One rainy afternoon, he followed footprints in the mud. The marks were strange - deep, wide, always one-footed. At the end of the trail, a female voice whispered his name. He turned around.

She was there.

Long black hair, an angelic face... but from the knee down, nothing. Just a single limb as strong as a mare's, treading firmly on the ground. His eyes glowed red.

They say he tried to run.

They say she caught up with him in seconds.

In the camp, the radio still emits indistinct noises every morning. But among them, a phrase can be heard, if the volume is loud enough: "She walks with one leg. You won't walk at all."

The Lake Never Sleeps

Cryptid: Nahuelito (Patagonian Loch Ness-type creature – Argentina)

In the icy heart of Patagonia lies Lake Nahuel Huapi—a glacial lake so deep, no light reaches its bottom.

Martín was a diver hired by a geological institute to measure the lake’s shifting tectonic patterns. His team laughed off the warnings about Nahuelito, the "lake serpent" said to guard the depths.

On his second dive, Martín descended beyond the last ledge, where the sunlight faded into thick, ink-like water. There, his sonar picked up movement. Large. Deliberate.

He stopped.

Out of the gloom came a shape—serpentine, scaled, and impossibly long. A pair of eyes, reflective like polished stone, blinked once. Slowly.

Then it vanished.

He returned to the surface, shaking. But no one believed him. The footage had been mysteriously corrupted. The pressure damaged the drive, they said.

On his final dive, Martín brought down a harpoon—"just in case." He never resurfaced.

The only thing found was his camera. On it, a single frame: a vast tail disappearing into the darkness, and dozens of small bones scattered across the lakebed—each one perfectly clean.

Locals say Nahuelito is ancient. That it doesn’t kill out of hunger, but because the silence of the deep must remain undisturbed.

Feathers in the Fog

 Cryptid: Mapinguari (Amazonian Rainforest – Brazil, Bolivia, Peru)

Dr. Isabela Coutinho had spent ten years studying mammalian evolution in the Amazon. When the rumors of a "giant, red-haired beast that smelled of death" reached her, she dismissed it as local myth—until she found the claw marks.

Ten feet high. Deep as knives. And fresh.

She followed the trail into a sector of rainforest untouched by satellite mapping. The air grew still. Birds fell silent. Her assistant refused to go further, returning to camp trembling.

She pressed on.

By twilight, she reached a clearing filled with crushed vegetation and bones—both animal and human. The stench was overpowering. That was when she heard the low grunt behind her.

Standing on two legs, nearly ten feet tall, covered in reddish fur matted with sap and blood, was the Mapinguari. Its single eye blinked slowly. Its mouth was on its stomach—lined with glistening teeth.

Isabela ran.

She survived, barely, with a broken leg and mind frayed by what she had seen. No one believed her, not even after the photographs. They said it was a hoax.

But deep in the forest, the red-furred guardian still walks—keeping intruders away from a part of the jungle not meant for humans.

The Humming in the Trees

 Cryptid: El Pombero (Guaraní Mythology — Paraguay, Northern Argentina, Southern Brazil)

In the dense subtropical forests near the border of Paraguay, Esteban took a temporary job at a lumber camp. Isolated from civilization, the crew worked long days and drank long nights, unaware—or uninterested—in the warnings of the locals.

“You don’t whistle in the woods,” the old woman at the village market had told him. “And never leave tobacco out at night without permission.”

Esteban had laughed.

That first week, strange things happened. Tools disappeared. Footsteps echoed in the underbrush. And every night, a low humming, almost human, filled the darkness around their cabins.

The men blamed monkeys. Esteban suspected pranks.

One night, alone by the fire, he heard it again—closer this time. A soft, raspy whistle. Not made by lips, but something dry and thin. He stepped into the trees.

There, in the shadow of a ceiba tree, stood a figure no taller than a child, with shaggy black hair, yellowed eyes, and a twisted grin. Its feet were backward. Its breath reeked of fermented fruit and soil.

“El Pombero,” Esteban whispered.

The creature smiled wider.

Esteban was never seen again. But every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of rum appear beside the ceiba tree—half-drunk, half-smoked, and still warm.

The Watcher Beneath the Cliffs

A lighthouse keeper named Emilio lived alone near the cliffs of Punta Chanquín. For decades, he maintained the lamp that guided ships safely into the harbor, even during the wildest tempests.

He had one rule: never look down when the wind howled.

But on his sixty-fourth birthday, curiosity bested him.

That night, a terrible wind blew. Waves struck the cliffs with unnatural force. The rocks groaned and cracked as if something enormous moved beneath them.

Emilio stepped outside with a lantern, walking to the edge.

Far below, between two reefs, something moved. A great shadow with ridged scales and spiraling horns scraped against the cliffside. The Camahueto. It paused, as though sensing him.

It turned its face upward.

Emilio dropped the lantern.

The next morning, the lighthouse stood empty. The door was ajar, the table set for breakfast. But there was no sign of the keeper.

Only deep gouges in the stone wall—gouges made by claws sharper than knives, and a trail of wet hoofprints leading to the edge of the cliff.

The Salt Merchant’s Bargain

In the 1800s, a merchant named Alonso crossed from mainland Chile to Chiloé, carrying barrels of salt to sell in the coastal villages. His ship, La Novia del Sur, vanished during a storm near the Los Lagos reefs.

A year later, Alonso returned.

He was thinner, older, and walked with a limp—but alive. His hair had turned white, and his right hand was missing.

He claimed he had been shipwrecked and washed ashore on an uncharted islet. He spoke of a creature—a beast with the face of a drowned horse and a horn carved like spiral bone—that came from the sea each night to speak to him in a voice like grinding stone.

“I made a deal,” he said.

He refused to say more.

His salt began to cure faster than any other. Fishermen who bought from him always returned with full nets. People whispered that Alonso had found the Camahueto and bartered something precious for its favor.

But then the storms came—stronger than ever before. The sea swallowed entire boats. And on one moonless night, Alonso was found dead on the shore, a second horn growing from the stump of his missing hand.

It was smooth and white, and still warm.

The River Calf

No one fished the Río Pudeto after dark.

But Lucía, a university student studying marine folklore, believed in data, not ghost stories. She came to Chiloé for a thesis on oral tradition—how myth survives in modern communities. So when she heard of the river where no one dared go, she dismissed the warnings as superstition.

At dusk, she hiked into the forest, toward the mouth of the river. As twilight deepened, the birds stopped singing.

She noticed something odd: the ground near the riverbank was gouged with deep claw marks. And in the mud—hoofprints, large and fresh, heading toward the water.

Lucía knelt to inspect them. That was when she heard the low, bubbling snort behind her.

She turned.

Half-submerged in the reeds, the Camahueto watched her. Its eyes glowed faintly green. A single horn protruded from its skull, fractured at the base and slowly regrowing.

Lucía couldn’t move. She watched as it opened its mouth—sharp teeth reflecting the moonlight—and disappeared beneath the surface.

The river surged.

She never spoke of it again. But she left Chiloé that same week, her thesis abandoned. Locals say she still wakes screaming, whispering about a calf with a horn that grows back no matter how many times it is cut.

The Horn of the Camahueto

 In the mists of southern Chile, where the cliffs of Chiloé rise jagged from the sea and the forests whisper tales older than time, there lived a man named Mateo. A fisherman by trade, he was known for braving waters others avoided—waters near the Isla de los Muertos, where birds fell silent and compasses spun like drunkards.

His grandfather had warned him, years ago, never to fish too close to the underwater cliffs. “That’s where the Camahueto swims,” the old man had said, his eyes pale with memory. “A beast born in riverbeds and raised by the tide. They say its horn can heal or destroy, depending on who wields it.”

But Mateo, hardened by hunger and the emptiness of his nets, no longer feared stories. One morning, before the sun had dared rise, he set out with his dog, Tolo, toward the forbidden coast.

The sea was uncharacteristically still. A fog, thick as wool, rolled across the waters. As Mateo cast his line, a strange sound broke the silence—a groaning, grinding noise, like stone being torn from the earth.

Tolo growled.

Suddenly, the boat rocked violently. Beneath them, something vast stirred. A shadow, long and sinuous, passed under the hull. Mateo peered into the depths—and saw it.

The creature had the head of a calf, with gleaming black eyes and a spiraling horn. Sharp teeth lined its jaw, and when it rose, water cascaded down its back like a waterfall. Another horn jutted from its shoulder, cracked and regrowing.

The Camahueto.

Mateo froze as the beast circled the boat, claws raking the coral reef below. Tolo barked, fur bristling. Then, with a sudden lurch, the creature dove. Moments later, it burst through the cliffside near the shore, boring a hole through the rock with terrifying force.

Terrified but compelled, Mateo followed it.

In a hidden cove beyond the cliffs, he found bones—human and animal alike—scattered along the shore. But among them, gleaming in the sand, was a shard of horn. Warm to the touch, it pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.

He brought it home.

From that day, Mateo’s life changed. His wounds healed faster, his strength returned, and his nets came back heavy with fish. The villagers whispered of miracles. But they also noticed the change in him—his eyes darkened, his voice grew cold, and Tolo refused to stay near him.

One stormy night, a child from the village went missing. Footprints led to Mateo’s hut, then vanished at the shoreline.

The next morning, only the horn remained—blackened and still warm—on the sands of Isla de los Muertos.

They say the Camahueto does not take kindly to thieves. And when the sea groans, it is not the wind you hear—it is the horned beast, searching for what was stolen.

The Forgotten Ones

 Epilogue: The Letter

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet streets of Grey Hollow.

Far away, in a distant city, a letter was being written. It was a letter that would find its way into the hands of another curious soul. A journalist, perhaps. Or a traveler. Someone who, like Lena, would venture into the unknown.

The letter was simple, yet chilling in its message:

“Do not go to Grey Hollow. Do not stay. And never ask about the missing.”

It would find its way into the hands of someone who couldn’t resist the pull, someone who would seek out the truth, and in doing so, become another lost soul, another forgotten name in the dark, eternal embrace of Grey Hollow.

The cycle would begin again.

The Forgotten Ones

 Chapter 9: The Cycle Begins Again

Lena wandered the streets of Grey Hollow for what felt like eternity. The Hollow Ones never spoke of escape; they didn’t need to. They were beyond such desires. They had become the town, and the town had become them. It was a never-ending cycle of loss and renewal. The town would wait patiently, hidden from the world, for the next curious soul to stumble upon it.

The next one to uncover the truth.

And so, as Lena roamed the streets with the other souls of Grey Hollow, she couldn’t help but wonder who would come next. Another wanderer, another soul seeking the truth, drawn in by the mystery of the forgotten town. Someone like her, full of curiosity and unrelenting need to understand.

And when they did, she would be there—waiting. Waiting to welcome them into the Hollow.

Grey Hollow was patient. It always had been. And its hunger would never be satisfied.

The Forgotten Ones

 Chapter 8: The Price of Curiosity

Days passed—or was it weeks? Time no longer mattered to Lena. She had become one of them, lost in the fog of Grey Hollow’s eternal curse. She wandered through the empty streets with the other Hollow Ones, her mind a fractured collection of memories and whispers.

But sometimes, in the dead of night, a piece of her would remember who she was—who she had been. The journalist who had come to uncover the truth. The woman who had driven into Grey Hollow seeking answers.

And in those moments, a deep, gnawing regret would fill her. She had been warned, hadn't she? The letter, the stranger in the woods, Elias’ journal. They had all tried to warn her, but her curiosity had driven her forward, deeper into the heart of the mystery.

Her fate was sealed now.

And yet, there was something else—a deep, twisted part of her that felt satisfaction in her transformation. She had become a part of the story, a living piece of the horror that had plagued this forsaken town. Her name, like all the others, would fade from history, but she would remain. Forever.