Horrifying Deep Web Stories ,Why I Quit Hacking (Graphic) A Scary Hacker Story

 Some people like to think that the Deep Web is a joke.

 It's not. It is in no way a place for some half-hearted showoff to stumble into. In fact, I would tell even the most seasoned hackers with any sense of morality to stay far away from that place. It's a place that will scar you and leave you terrified to ever follow someone else's digital footprint again.

I know this because I'm a hacker, or I used to be one. I have been using computers since I was 12 years old. The idea of being a cyber crusader, determined to explore the unknown corners of the internet, has always fascinated me. I got pretty good at using different bits of software, and soon, even the slow crawl of dial-up internet didn’t bother me. I knew exactly which processes to keep running and which ones to stop to make my computer work faster.

By the time I was 20, I could safely and confidently call myself an expert hacker.

 I could keep up with the best and had built a name for myself among other hackers on the web. In fact, I was one of the few who had figured out how to hack the Google search bar to dive deeper into directories to get what we wanted. It was our little act of revenge for Google buying YouTube and hitting content creators with copyright infringements. Back then, the early years of YouTube were not pretty. My own channel got taken down several times because of Google’s new rules, but that’s a story for another time.

• I'm just giving a bit of background, especially for the younger generation of internet users. Anyone who was a hacker knew about the Deep Web. It had the same purpose as people speculate it does today: drugs, guns, illegal imports — you name it, and it was there. The Deep Web was, and still is, the gateway to the global black market. I had bought a few imported goods and a decent amount of drugs.
• At that time, it was the middle of the first semester of my sophomore year of college, and I was high almost all the time. I was a regular customer on the digital black market. Most of my friends came to me for their supply, and I could always give them a good deal because of my frequent interactions with sellers on the web.
• Accessing the Deep Web back in the day wasn’t as simple as using Tor browsers—those didn’t exist yet. To explore the darker side of the web, you had to know exactly what you were doing. Ghost hacking, proxies, parent directories, backdoors, scramblers, and dump sites were the tools of the trade. This was before Java became prevalent in browsers like today. It used to be referred to as the "dark net." I don’t know when it transitioned into the "deep web," and frankly, I don't care—I'm never going back.
• I had just upgraded my computer. The old CRT monitor I had been using finally gave out, so after ordering a new monitor and some more RAM, I was ready to go. My plan was to eventually barter for a better sound card with a vendor I knew on the dark net. As I was setting up for a bit of gaming, I received an alert from one of my online friends. He mentioned he had stumbled across something intriguing—a series of black boxes that, when opened, seemed to lead down another web directory. It was like tunneling, but more expansive.

Knowing my curiosity, he passed the information on to me, knowing I'd want to investigate. I was one of the few vagrant hackers in our circle, an explorer who mindlessly took one path, then another, opening doors just to see where they led. Most times, you’d find a treasure trove of information—or just hit a dead end.

He didn’t cut any corners when breaking it all down for me. He described his starting point, the different pathways he had taken, how often he reset his IP address (every 30 to 45 seconds), the protocols he used to cover his tracks, the encryption levels he encountered with each box, and how long it took him to reach the next one. He had reached seven boxes in total but got stuck at the seventh.

Challenge accepted. I quickly glanced over the data and began booting up.

Accessing the Deep Web back then was a different experience compared to today. You didn't have things like Tor browsers; to access the darker side of the web, you needed to know what you were doing—ghost hacking, proxies, parent directories, back doors, scramblers, dump sites—these were all terms hackers utilized when Java was not as prevalent in browsers. It was often referred to as the dark net, and I don’t know when it transitioned into the deep web, nor do I care; I'm never going back.

I had just gotten some new equipment for my computer; the CRT I had been using finally quit. After ordering a new monitor and some more RAM, I was pretty set to go. My plan was to try and barter for a better sound card with the vendor I went to on the dark net. I was setting up to do a little bit of gaming when I noticed I had an alert from one of my net friends saying they had stumbled across something interesting: a series of black boxes that, when opened, seemed to lead you down another web directory. It was like tunneling but more vast.

Knowing my curious nature, he passed the information on to me, aware that I would want to follow up on it. I was one of the few vagrant hackers in my circle, exploring mindlessly, taking one path and then another, opening a door to see where it goes. Most times, you would come across a treasure trove of information or a dead end. He hadn’t cut any corners when he broke everything down for me—his starting point, the different pathways he had taken, how often he reset his IP address every 30 to 45 seconds, the protocols he used to cover his trail, and the level of encryption he encountered with each box and how long it took him to reach the next one. Seven boxes he had come across, and upon reaching the seventh is where he'd gotten stuck. Challenge accepted.

I quickly glanced over the data, already booting up the ghost hacks and IP scramblers I needed to have what was in front of me knocked out of the way. With the new encryption I had made, I would be able to latch onto an existing IP address for 30 seconds before bouncing to another one, making it seem like I had disappeared. This was great in theory but forced my movements to be slow when it came to doing things on my sad little Inspiron. In ten short minutes, I was ready to go. Like he had shown me, I followed his pathways and activated my encryptions to keep myself safe, wandering from parent directory to parent directory.

It didn’t take long for me to run into the first black box—

just a basic encryption that took almost no time to break through. Inside was a direct directory with four different subdirectories. I knew that the second link was where my friend went, but my curiosity led me to pick the first one. In about three minutes, I realized it was a dead end, so I quickly backtracked and made my way to the main directory, deciding not to deviate from his original path. In about half an hour, I ran through all six black boxes, coming across the seventh and realizing that the encryption on this particular box was very different. 

No matter how good, every hacker leaves a sliver of information behind; you just have to know what to look for. I knew my friend had been here, and this was where he had gotten stuck. This was a unique lock, one that I knew would take a bit of time to break through the encryption. It was a Thursday night, and I had finished up my work early for a change; I wasn’t called into work, so I had time to kill. Now, this box was a tricky little puzzle. I had never encountered so many tedious things to break through in my entire life; it was more annoying than an actual challenge. A tug here, a pull there—slipping and dipping and moving around all the different codes to decipher just what all this information entailed.

I wasn't allowed the luxury of lingering because the minute I got distracted trying to see and understand what I was swimming through, the encryption would completely kick me out of the box, forcing me to start all over again. After another 45 minutes, I managed to break through, and I felt like I was sitting on top of the world. But the only problem was that I was in another directory again, except this time there was only one thing inside of it—a redirect hyperlink labeled WTT MH. 

I was so happy to know I'd broken through the encryption code blocking this pathway that I didn't even stop to think about what those letters meant. Like a fool, I just clicked on the link and let it redirect me. My ghost was active, so I wasn't worried about being traced. It did its thing, redirecting me to another website. This site took a little bit longer to load, possibly because my ghost was attempting to filter and tunnel through anything that would have pinged me on someone's radar. This was also an indication that I had entered through a back door—one that I really didn’t have any business utilizing, but I did anyway.

When messing around in the dark net, you only ever used the back entrance to pages if you thought you were invincible and didn’t think you’d get caught, or you were the site manager themselves. About five minutes later, the webpage finally loaded up. Soft, creepy carnival music played in the background, barely above the sound of a whisper. Even with headphones on, I had to really pay attention to take notice of it. Across the window, in big bold letters, read "Welcome to The Monkey House." I was immediately intrigued, being the huge fan that I am. I recognized the title for what it was but for anyone else...

Who has read the compilation of short stories? I assumed I was about to walk into a place full of rebels preaching on their soap boxes like they were Harrison Bergeron. I wished that had been the case; I wished it more than anything. Now that I think back on it, a window popped up on the bottom right of the browser—a chat window and a greeting message I'll never forget. The way my heart almost shrank in on itself in response to that gray box read, "Welcome to The Monkey House, home of all the chills and thrills you can imagine, some even beyond your wildest dreams. Would you like a guided tour?"

Despite my interest, I didn't want to linger around in this place. The host was most likely surveying the area and monitoring all traffic flows spilling onto the site. Hell, the site owner could have very well been the one hinging that automated message to me right at that second. "No, thank you," I wrote. "If you insist, do you already know your way around the Monkey House? Then I don't think I've seen you around here before."

"No, I was referred by a friend." I couldn't believe I just straight-up lied like that, but I panicked. Something told me that this wasn't some bot; I was talking to a real person, and I already knew I was a lot further in the dark net than I normally wandered into. They could eat me alive if I gave them a single reason to get suspicious of me.

Their response: "Oh, you mean for the event this evening? We had given guest vouchers to all of our VIP members so they could invite their friends to tonight's special event." Event? What the hell? There was an event? I decided I would just play along so as not to give myself away. I had clearly come across a membership-only site, waltzing in through the back door like I owned the place.

"Yeah, that's it. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know my way around, and I don't see any guide links telling me where I need to go or even where I can go."

"Well, you wouldn't be able to see any of that with a guest voucher anyway. The Monkey House is membership-only, and the only way in is either through a voucher or an actual invitation. This explains why I didn't recognize your IP address."

My heart dropped into my stomach. Oh, shit. He could see my IP, which meant that if I didn't turn off my Piggy B code, they would see my IP change right before their eyes. Panicking, I quickly pulled up my command prompt window and stopped my ghost from scrambling my IP and latching onto another person's as they passed within my latch zone. I stared at my now static IP address, listing that I was from Turkey.

"I see. Well, the event will be starting soon. Just follow this link when you're ready. Chatting is free, but the picture quality will be reduced to SD resolution since you're just a guest. HD is for members only. I understand basic etiquette applies. You will receive one warning, and then afterward, you will be banned. You are free to leave before the event has concluded, but your IP will be permanently blocked from regaining entry unless you can get a personal invitation to return back to The Monkey House. Your IP has been logged for future reference so that we may extend the invitation to you in the future. We will not be held responsible for any physical, emotional, or psychological trauma that you may incur due to attending the event. Do you understand the rules?"

I was so frightened. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent. Well, as previously stated, just click on the link that I provided, and it will take you directly to where the event is being held. Thank you for coming and enjoy the show." The window disappeared off my screen, and all I could do was stare at the website, the dark carnival music continuing to play softly in the background. A ticker flashed across the top of my screen, announcing that the event would be taking place in just a few short minutes. I suspected that I was still being monitored, so I clicked on a link, and it redirected me to another page where a graphic of a stage with velvet red curtains was drawn. Ambient sounds that you would normally hear in a theater—the hushed whisperings of the audience, the shuffling of programs, and even a person coughing every so often—could be heard. I was impressed; they'd certainly gone all out for this thing, whatever it was.

When it got to about ten minutes before the launch, another window popped up on my screen. This time larger than the first, and different screen names began to pop up inside as people came into the room. It was clearly a group chat window, the one that would allow all of us to talk to each other while the show began. Some people immediately passed off greetings as though they were being reunited with old buddies for the game and knocking back a beer. I hadn't chosen a screen name yet, remaining as the default Anonymous 10235 or whatever the hell the number was at the end of it.

A soft ping sound rang out, and we watched the animated curtains part. Behind it was a video screen, more than likely connected to some live feed. The camera was off, and the transmission was offline, as stated in the top right corner of the window. People's excitement was clear in the chat, and they all discussed what the event would be about. It must have been an understood rule not to talk in detail about what had been previously showcased in another session, as no one dared to drop hints or blatantly speak about what they had seen before.

This was crazy. I was scared before I had even really done anything. Nothing was happening, and I felt extremely on edge. That should have been my first sign that I needed to get the hell out of there, but I still hadn't said anything. Someone took note that I hadn't either. "Hey, you think Anon went AFK?" I went wide-eyed at the screen. "Don't know, yo."

My stupid mouth. A hailstorm of messages flooded the chat, mostly people counting down the seconds as we hit the one-minute mark. A time ticker appeared over the video window mounted on the stage. When it hit 30 seconds, they went from white to pink and then a shade of red, growing darker as the numbers decreased slowly to one. Zero was completely blood red and then disappeared from the screen as static appeared in the video frame. The show was about to begin.

A person with a mask appeared on the screen—the mask a stark porcelain white with a pair of painted blue eyes and a black twisted smirk spreading across the lower portion of it. Their wild, matted hair stuck out around the edges of the mask, the rest hidden by a silk top hat. He was dressed to the nines, a deep red and black three-piece suit and half cape draped over one of his shoulders. He held a long black cane with a silver skull at the top of the handle as the decorative piece.

"Good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen! For all returning members, it is so very good to see you again! As for all the newcomers, I welcome you to The Monkey House. I'm your host, Hans Twilight, the ringleader of this humble little carnival of mine." I couldn't help but laugh a little, feeling some of my anxiety wash away. What the hell was I watching? I had been so worried about a sideshow freak like this. Jovial music played in the background of the video, and I leaned back in my chair, silently fussing at myself for having gotten so worked up over nothing.

"We have a very special treat in store for all of you this evening! Are you ready for this little show of ours to begin?" The chat room was soon flooded with messages confirming that they were, in fact, ready. Hans appeared to be looking off to the right where the window was, and he let out a chuckle, rolling the cane between both of his leather-gloved hands. He leaned towards the camera a bit more and tilted his head to the side.

"Very well! Let the show begin!" He stepped away from the screen, giving out a wide, flourishing gesture with his cane as he pointed the tip to an area behind him. It was too dark to see anything until an overhead light came on, illuminating a man strapped to a table who was wearing an elephant mask. He struggled against the leather straps binding him just as a buzz saw roared to life at the space between his legs by his ankles. There was applause being heard in the video—something I had assumed and hoped was just an audio track that was playing in response. The chat was going crazy with excitement as my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. The realization of what was happening hit me. I immediately covered my mouth with my hands.

"Oh my God! Starting out the night, we have Ringo, ladies and gentlemen! You all cast your votes last week, and we held a little competition to see who this week's winning executioner would be. Trixie Mir 571, you are this week's winner and get to choose how each of our three attractions gets to die. Your entry, 'Death by Table Saw,' is what helped you win the competition! So here it is!"

I watched as that very screen name began to type out her gleeful screams, and everyone else congratulated her—all except me. Did no one care about the muffled screams of the man strapped to the fucking table? "What the hell is wrong with these people?" I was sitting there, literally watching as Trixie typed more stuff into the chat window. I wanted to tell myself that this wasn't real, that this couldn't be real, but as Trixie typed out that she wanted the man to slowly inch forward towards the saw, it became horrifically clear that this was all real.

"Please, don't do this!" I couldn't help myself as the words tumbled from my lips, and I typed them into the chat box. I knew it was futile, and yet I was still desperate enough to try and stop it.

"Ah, we have a brave one!" Hans announced with a sinister gleam in his eye. "But I'm afraid that the only way out is to bear witness to the show. This is why the guest vouchers are given out, darling. You all may find this dark form of entertainment appealing."

The video camera began to zoom in, and my heart nearly stopped when the sound of the saw increased. It was all a matter of seconds as Ringo continued to scream in agony and terror. The camera zoomed in on his face, the moment before the blade made contact.

It felt as though the entire world stopped. Time itself froze as I sat there, frozen with horror, unable to look away. A horrible, guttural scream erupted from the pit of my stomach as the saw met the skin of his ankle. Blood sprayed across the screen, splattering onto Hans’s pristine attire as he howled with laughter.

The chat erupted into chaos, and I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle my screams.

I finally broke away from the screen and bolted upright, nearly knocking my chair over as I scrambled to my feet. I ran for the door to my bedroom, the blood rushing in my ears as I slammed it behind me, locking it in case someone wanted to get in. I could hardly catch my breath, my heart racing in my chest as I felt my throat constrict. I couldn't believe I had actually stumbled into a place like that, where people watched live executions.

That was when I heard the familiar ping of the chat window on my screen—my IP address still showed up in there, the window still open, yet my heartbeat was racing far faster than it had just seconds ago. A small voice in the back of my mind dared me to go back.

I had just run away from something that fascinated me. But I didn't want to be that fascinated. I didn't want to be sucked back in. I found myself inching toward the door again, a wave of dread washing over me as I thought about what I had just seen.

What if I never left? What if they came to get me to say something? What if they found me? They knew my IP, and I didn't even know how to fully cover my tracks at this point.

I stumbled back towards my computer and shut it off. It took everything I had just to slam the monitor down and the entire screen blanked out in front of me. I collapsed against my desk and pulled my knees up to my chest. My phone rang, startling me as I jolted in my seat, and quickly grabbed it.

"Shit! Who the hell is calling me?"

I glanced at the screen, the caller ID showing my friend Nora’s name. I hesitated for a moment, letting it ring until the voicemail kicked in. As I focused on breathing, I managed to calm my racing heart.

After a minute, I finally picked up my phone again and sent her a quick message: "I can't talk right now."

I shut it off just as another ping went off in the chat window, my breath quickening again as I thought about that invitation.

Just as I caught my breath and reached for the mouse to get ready to click the button, I remembered the web browser had saved my login information. I gasped, thinking about how I would need to scrub my browser history clean. As I came to my senses, I pulled open the drawer and began searching for the flash drive I had hidden away.

My breath quickened as I glanced up at the clock on my computer—it was almost 10:30.

I had wasted almost thirty minutes by panicking. I looked at the page still open before my eyes darted back to the drawer. I needed to take care of this before I did anything else.

I grabbed the drive and plugged it into my laptop. Just as the notification chimed, I started to fumble through the browser, ready to shut down everything before Hans or anyone from The Monkey House could find me.

A voice suddenly crackled over my laptop speakers: "Ah, you're back, dear guest! I thought we lost you!"

I screamed, pulling my hands away from the keyboard. My heart raced again, and I didn’t know how to get away. I had shut everything down, but I hadn’t cleared the window, and it was still running.

I thought about running away again, but when I opened the window again, Hans's chilling laughter met my ears.

"Welcome back to The Monkey House, darling!"

I pulled the drive out and decided it was best to shut down the computer again, all while my heart raced in my chest.

I just wanted to forget what I had seen. What had I gotten myself into?

As his screams began to elevate, his legs were spread and arms held straight up above him. The sound of blades cutting into human flesh is no different than the sound of a butcher carving into a hunk of meat. The hum of the buzz saw escalated as soon as it made contact, and the spray of blood that followed made me turn my head and cover my mouth. Elephant man's screams were now a high-pitched squeal, and had I not been so afraid of vomiting, I would have used both of my hands to cover my ears.

I was greeted by the sounds of death while closing my eyes. I couldn't watch; I just couldn't. But the sound of meat being sawed through, the cracking of bones, and the spray of blood intermingled with the horrible sounds of his screams would be forever burned into my mind. I ignored these sick bastards in the chat room because they were clearly all getting their rocks off on this. During my time moving around in the dark net, I had heard rumors about stuff like this—these twisted shows with nothing but horrible people and guaranteed deaths for their victims. Each member paid monthly dues or some other fee, and the worst part was that the general public wanted more. They paid to watch people get tortured and killed and then cast aside without much care in the world. It was murder.

It felt like forever before only silence remained in that place. That audience applause track played again, along with the dark carnival music. It wasn't until I opened my eyes to look back at my computer screen that I realized I had been crying. Never in my 20 years of life had I ever experienced anything so messed up. I was that young person who had grown up believing in the good in everyone—that all people deserved a second chance. Not these guys; they all needed to be dumped off in a nuclear waste zone and left there to fend for themselves. Every single one of them. But I couldn't call them out on it. I couldn't threaten to tell the cops either. It would have been nothing for one of those guys on his team, or even the actual site host, to look at my static IP and realize I was piggybacking off someone else. Without a way to escape, they'd zero in on my true IP address and quite possibly hunt me down.

Actually, no—scratch that; they would hunt me down. I tried to exit out of the browser just to pull myself out of that nightmare, but my browser wouldn't close. Not even hard killing it through the task manager did anything. Some kind of script on the site was preventing me and everyone else from being able to close the browser. We were locked in. I couldn't get out.

"Well, that was certainly colorful, wasn't it?"

"Let's have Bridget come out now."

The next victim was brought out—a young woman wearing a tiger mask. She was sitting in a claw-foot bathtub filled with water, a live battery, and a jumper cable situated on a table nearby. "No, no, no, no!" I thought. I didn't care anymore; I couldn't watch another second of this. I activated my command prompt. I was going to kill these scripts one at a time if I needed to. I just needed to make enough of a hole for me to wiggle out of—just enough to get myself out and have it seal itself shut behind me. Since I assumed I was the only one trying to get out, then a couple of scripts dying here and there wouldn't bring me any unwanted attention.

The very second I killed one script, a separate chat window popped up on my screen.

"I've been waiting for you to make your move."

My mouth went dry almost instantly, and my hands froze as they hovered above the keyboard. No, they couldn't have noticed that. It was just some basic, insignificant code that wouldn't have affected any of the scripts on the current page. It was just some silent background coding. I decided to play dumb.

"What are you talking about?"

"You think I don't recognize a ghost hacker when I see one? God damn it!"

I had been so careless; I knew I had. I should have never let my curiosity get the better of me. "I'll give you some credit, though. I know you're not in Turkey, but you're doing a fantastic job of misdirecting me from your real one."

Now I was scared. I was terrified. This person was trying to put a crack in the only shield of protection I had in this place. If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn't have bothered making my IP static in the first place. My misdirection sequence would only be successful for so long before it finally lost its effect, and I would be discovered.

This was my first time running across another hacker with malicious intent against me. I didn't know what I would expect or what would come of me the moment I was caught, but I didn't care anymore. Without blinking, I reached behind my rig and pulled the power supply cord loose from the machine. My screen went dark, and the carnival music was no more. I didn't waste another second getting my tools out. I started dismantling my tower, ripping parts out of the machine before dumping memory sticks and various other components into the bathroom sink. I flooded them in the basin without a second thought, returning to my room grabbed a handful of refrigerator magnets, and started running them across everything that had been inside my rig.

My roommate walked in just as I was stripping the shell of my rig to the bare minimum, and when she asked what I was doing, I told her that it was in her best interest not to pry about it—not that I would have told her anyway. It's safe to assume I tore the ever-living hell out of my machine. It's also safe to assume that for the next six months, I didn't go anywhere near a computer that wasn't part of campus property. Outside of my school email, I erased all of my previous emails and messenger names, even the ones dating back as far as middle school.

I did everything I could to erase my very existence from the internet world for a time and stopped being a hacker altogether. I hadn't even let any of my contacts know I was going off the grid. Maybe it was better for them not to know. I never did tell my friend that I managed to break through that last black box. I still haven't, even after all these years. I don't know if that place is still running or not or if, after eight years, the person in charge finally just had enough and threw it all away. To tell you the truth, I don't want to know either.

I took one thing from that experience and made one wish: that for the rest of my life, I never see a message addressed to me saying, "Welcome to The Monkey."