That’s probably important to understand.
I wasn’t anyone special. I had, at best, a couple hundred subscribers, mostly people from my high school or the small horror community I’d found over the years. My videos were nothing spectacular. Just simple narrations of creepy stories, urban legends, unsolved mysteries. I’d read them out in my monotone voice over stock footage, add a bit of moody background music, and upload them on Sunday nights.
It was harmless. Fun, even. Until it wasn’t.
The first time I saw the username, I didn’t think much of it.
@TheManInTheComments
It was under a video I’d posted about haunted numbers you could call. I’d gone down the usual rabbit hole: the “999-9999” curse from Japan, the red numbers in Eastern Europe, stuff like that. Campfire story stuff. Then, buried under the usual spam and bots, I saw his comment.
"Don’t call numbers you don’t understand. They answer back. They always answer."
It stood out only because it wasn’t generic. Most comments were some flavor of "spooky!" or "this is fake lol." But this… it had a tone. Like he wasn’t playing along, or laughing either. Like he meant it.
I hearted the comment, because I tried to be nice to people who engaged, and forgot about it.
The next video, he was there again.
"You’re getting closer."
This time, it bothered me a little. What did that mean? Closer to what? I checked his profile, but it was empty. No videos, no about section. Just a gray silhouette for a profile pic.
I told myself it was just some edgy kid messing around.
By the fourth comment, it started to get under my skin.
I’d uploaded a video about a series of strange, unexplained disappearances in a national park. Creepy stuff, lots of theories about cryptids, rogue rangers, or even secret government tunnels.
His comment popped up within minutes of posting:
"I know where they went. Some of them are still alive. Some of them are watching you read this."
I didn’t heart that one.
I scrolled past it, tried to ignore the tightening in my chest.
But I didn’t delete it either.
I’m not sure why. Maybe curiosity, maybe fear. Probably both.
Over the next few weeks, @TheManInTheComments never missed a video.
Never.
And it wasn’t just my videos anymore. I started seeing him in other channels I followed. Even the big ones, the ones with millions of subscribers. Buried beneath thousands of comments, there he was, like he was following me across the platform.
"He’s watching you, too."
I couldn’t help it. I clicked on it, and my stomach turned when I realized it linked to my own channel.
I’ll admit it: I was properly freaked out now.
I made a short post on my community tab, joking about it. Something like: "Anyone else seeing this weird dude in the comments? Should I be flattered or call the FBI?" People played along. Memes were made.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
For about a week, it was a running joke.
Until the messages turned personal.
One night, I uploaded a routine video: “Top 5 Unexplained Recordings,” you know the kind. Numbers stations, UVB-76, that chilling "I feel fantastic" mannequin video. Easy stuff.
About ten minutes after it went live, the notification hit.
New comment: @TheManInTheComments
I almost didn’t look.
Almost.
But I did.
"Your front door is unlocked."
That one drained the blood from my face. I froze, heart pounding so hard it felt like my ribs might crack.
Was it?
I got up from my desk and, with trembling fingers, checked the door.
Locked. Deadbolt secured. Chain across.
I breathed a shaky laugh. Must be coincidence. Must be.
Just lucky guessing and my imagination running wild.
But then the second comment came, seconds later:
"Not that one."
I bolted for the back entrance. The sliding glass door to my patio. My stomach lurched when I saw it was open an inch.
Not wide, but enough. Enough to let someone slip inside.
I locked it, shut the curtains, and turned every light in the house on.
For the first time, I seriously considered calling the police. But what would I even tell them? "Hi, there’s this guy online leaving cryptic comments, and my door was open a little bit?"
They’d laugh me off the phone.
I barely slept that night. When I did, I dreamed of eyes watching me from cracks in the walls. Thin, pale hands peeling open the seams of my house like it was made of paper.
The next day, I woke to find a new comment pinned to my most recent upload.
But I hadn’t pinned it.
"Do not delete your channel."
The words felt like ice in my veins.
I hadn’t pinned the comment. I hadn’t touched anything.
Panicked, I logged into my account settings. Password: changed. Recovery email: changed. Two-factor authentication: disabled.
My hands trembled as I tried to secure everything, resetting passwords, enabling every layer of protection I could. I checked the activity logs, there it was. An unrecognized login from somewhere across the country.
I deleted the pinned comment.
Seconds later, it reappeared.
Pinned. Again.
"I warned you."
Things got worse after that.
He started naming things in my videos that I’d never mentioned. Personal details. Childhood stories I’d never shared online. Pet names from years ago.
Private things.
"You still sleep with the hallway light on. But it won’t help."
"Your mother’s maiden name won’t save you either."
"Stop looking behind you. It’s not there yet."
I snapped.
I made a video. A desperate one. Not my usual content. Just me, raw, unedited, staring into the camera, pleading for someone to explain what was happening. I explained the comments, the break-in, the hacking, everything.
It was a mistake.
Within minutes, @TheManInTheComments replied:
"Good. They can see you now."
That comment got thousands of likes.
Thousands.
People flooded the video with “lore theories,” assuming it was all an elaborate ARG. They thought I was faking it for views, staging a viral marketing stunt.
But I wasn’t.
God, I wasn’t.
The next night, I started streaming.
Not for entertainment. For safety.
I figured if I kept the camera on me at all times, I’d be safe. If anything happened, people would see it live. Someone would have to help.
For hours, I sat in front of my webcam, exhausted, wired on caffeine and fear. My chat scrolled by, full of the usual jokes, people roleplaying as The Man In The Comments, egging me on.
Then, my screen glitched.
Just for a moment.
A flicker.
The live chat froze, and when it refreshed, every single username had changed.
Every single one.
They all read:
TheManInTheComments
And they were all typing.
"HE IS BEHIND YOU."
I felt the hairs on my neck stand up, ice threading down my spine. Slowly, mechanically, I turned my head to look at the reflection in my monitor.
There was no one there.
Just an empty room.
And yet, the stream continued.
Viewers spammed the chat, frantic, saying they could see him.
Describing a tall, gray figure standing right behind me.
Breathing down my neck.
The last thing I remember was the screen going black.
Not a normal blackout. Not power loss.
Just total, perfect, deliberate darkness.
I woke up in my chair, hours later.
The stream had ended on its own. My computer wouldn’t turn on. My phone was dead. Router fried.
But the comments were still there. Everywhere.
Carved into the walls.
Scratched into the inside of my bathroom mirror.
Scrawled across the frost on my bedroom window.
TheManInTheComments.
And beneath it, three words repeated over and over and over again:
"Do not stop."
It’s not safe for me to stop. Not now.
I have to keep making videos.
Keep uploading.
Keep feeding him, or it, whatever he is.
Because if I stop, I know what comes next.
And if you’re reading this… if you see this story posted online, archived somewhere, shared in a dark forum, then it’s already too late.
He’s in your comments now, too.
Go ahead.
Scroll down.
See for yourself.