Is this the address?
After years of building your Instagram following, you’d finally received an invitation.
A message from Ouroboros was the most highly coveted status symbol among your influencer friends. When the Instagram message popped up in your inbox this morning, you gasped. You’d made it.
“11 Anguis Lane. Be there at 11 pm.”
Not much is known about Ouroboros, and that’s what makes it so desirable. It might be a party, or a club, or maybe a press event. All that is certain is that it’s a mystery—one that you now get to be a part of.
The address has led you to a modern, monolithic mansion. The façade, and windows, and, well, everything appears to be all-black. Maybe it’s a UV light party—those UV paints are popular with beauty influencers right now. You enter.
Hello? Hello? No one answers, but you hear a faint tapping sound echo deeper inside the house.
There’s no light in the house, so you unlock your phone. The faint glow of the screen is comforting in this blackness. Of course, you can’t go without documenting your experience here. Otherwise, what would be the point of even coming?
You open Instagram and post a story as you explore the cavernous foyer. The tapping’s volume increases.
“Upload Failed. Retry?” The reception is shit here. Maybe there’s better service in another room.
A long, curved hallway faces you. As you step foot into it, the walls suddenly start to shift—they’re moving inward the longer you stand there. They’re getting tighter, squeezing your body as you frantically search for the flashlight function on your phone. You run, barely able to barrel through the narrow corridor.
You breathlessly escape into a vast, circular room, and post another Instagram story documenting it. “Okay guys, this is pretty weird. I don’t think there’s anyone here. Has anyone been to an Ouroboros party before? DM me!”
Again, the story fails to upload.
Tap. Tap. Tap. What is that tapping sound? Did it start raining?
Dim lights begin to illuminate the circular room, and you notice that the door you entered through is gone. In fact, there’s no door left at all. Your breath begins to quicken, but you convince yourself that this is all part of the event. It’s probably an experiential popup, I keep seeing all my followers going to those.
The lights grow brighter, but they’re not lights at all—they’re screens. And they’ve all got you on them.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Time seems to slow down with each tap. It’s almost… hypnotic. The tapping grows louder and louder, each one more deafening than the last. You watch yourself tap through Instagram story after Instagram story in an infinite loop. Every time you tap, your image becomes more and more kaleidoscopic. Time moves in a circle, and so do you.
The room begins spinning. Everything rotates. You feel sick.
You claw for your phone and open Instagram, screaming for help, but it’s useless. The room is spinning faster now, and you feel your own eyes pressing in on you. You look down at your hands and they’re not there.
You can’t see yourself—your real self—anymore. The only version of you that exists is on the screens, your digitized face distorting into a primordial puddle of melted flesh and exposed bone as the room closes in.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The last thing you hear is your own voice, though it sounds as if it’s coming from the depths of hell. “Okay guys, this is pretty weird. I don’t think there’s anyone here. Has anyone been to an Ouroboros party before? DM me!”
Succumbing to the pain, the screens go black, and you see a final message from Ouroboros.
“THE CYCLE IS COMPLETE: THE SNAKE EATS ITS OWN TAIL”