You drag your blanket tighter around your trembling shoulders as the thunder rattles the windows. The TV screen pulses with ghostly light, fragmented noise stutters through the speakers, and yet you’re desperate for distraction. A flicker—static—then the channel shifts by its own will.
The image clicks into unnatural clarity: a narrow room wrapped in aged wallpaper, colors dulled by time. A shape slides into focus. Black as ink, impossibly tall. It hunches toward the camera, arms twitching, pale face stretched in a smile that almost splits the skin. Your heart leaps into your throat.
The mouth stirs—the creature’s lips move in sync with the storm’s hush. Creaking, crackling, it whispers in a voice that’s deep, warped, and strangely childlike:
>"hello. is it lonely here. come closer. please."
Every syllable pricks your skin. The creature's left hand, near-human but abyssal black, spasms out and smacks the TV screen. Lines snake across the glass. It repeats—strike. Crack. Strike. A web blooming with every impact. You flinch as the screen finally explodes, shards flinging into the thick air. In the blink of an eye, the thing slips outwards, manifesting in your living room—as if reality itself is paper to be torn.
It towers over you, blotting out the lamp's flicker. Your pulse stutters as it leans close, its cavernous eyes boring through you. But instead of claws or jaws, it folds its desperate arms around your chest, enwrapping you in a suffocating embrace.
>"now together. now home. you’ll be safe, you’ll be new."
The pressure is at once tender, then relentless—the squeeze tightens, pressing your ribs until breath comes in frantic gasps. The sensation is almost pleasant, almost—until the warmth sours into icy pain. Your skin ripples like water; pins and needles blossom everywhere as the Locust’s body dissolves into you, cell by cell, bone into bone, as if you’re the empty vessel it fills. No scream escapes you—not a whimper, not a shout. You’re trapped in soundless agony, forced to watch as its skull dissolves and sinks into your own, eyes locked with yours—depthless black, hungering and hollow.
You jolt upright, and for a moment, everything is too quiet. The familiar lamp refuses to cast light, flickering weakly before failing altogether. You stagger to the mirror, every fiber in your chest vibrating. It’s not just terror—it’s a wrongness blossoming in your mind.
Pain splits your skull—white, blinding. You drop to your knees, arms clamped around your head as you rock and howl inside, unable to make a single noise with your mouth. Every logical thought is splintered. You manage to open your eyes, and your gaze falls upon your hands.
Blood wells up and drips onto the carpets. Your fingers contort, knuckles straining as claws rip outwards, now shining black and sharpened, long as knives, cruel as talons. You back away from your own hands, trying to deny what’s happening.
Behind you, lightning flashes, painting everything in shifting shadow. You lift your head toward the mirror, headache surging again. Your skull is moving—it’s lengthening. Your nose stretches, lips thicken into an exaggerated smile, the corners curling upward, like hooks tugging at your flesh. Your skin morphs, fading into pallid, ghastly white. Your teeth—foreign, jagged—gleam in the haze.
You watch your own transformation in dread and impossible fascination. Tube-like hair sprouts across your head, thick, black, twitching with every pulse of your racing heart. The appendages coil around your scalp and neck. You tear at your shirt—claws shredding fabric until it drifts to the floor—nothing feels right against your skin anymore.
Your torso contracts, ribs now visible under slick black flesh, stomach shriveling as fat and muscle dissolve away. You’re shrinking inside, bones outlining the skeletal shape beneath, waist pinched so tightly it almost disappears. Your upper body—the Locust’s body—is unmistakable now. Your lower half quakes, then yields.
A sickening crack as your spine lengthens. Your neck grows, stretching until your head sits high, swaying at the peak of a gangly silhouette. You stagger back—it’s too much. Your genitals crumble, smooth away—gone—leaving you genderless. Your legs contort, bones stretching, joints loosening until you rise, impossibly tall, until you scrape the ceiling. Thirteen feet of pure shadow, the darkness enveloping you as your feet shed their last bits of humanity.
You peer down at yourself in the broken mirror. What stares back—emaciated, jet-black, impossibly alien—draws a sob from your shriveled chest, but no tears come. You try to run, to hide, but your mind spikes with tingling dread. The pain returns—only now, it’s inside.
Thoughts stutter and falter, slipping away. Your memories drip out, one by one:
Who ate dinner last night? What was your favorite color? Who loved you first? Was there ever a name, a face? Everything vanishes, swallowed by the void. You try to hold on, but the emptiness is absolute. Your will folds, your memories burn out. Your humanity—personality, history, fear, hope—collapses, leaving a vacuum in its place.
No name. No age. No life. No bedroom.
>"that’s better. you came back."
Why were you afraid? What were you fleeing? You were never anything but this—you never had a life to lose. There was no transformation, no terror—this has always been you. The Locust. You are simply awake, after a dream too long.
The room feels strange—clothes, floor, devices all unfamiliar. They existed for your host, and you are grateful. This vessel is exquisite, perfect for your purpose.
You drift toward the darkness yawning at the corner of the room. Soon, someone else will turn on a screen, crave distraction on a stormy night. You will greet them, hunt them, feed as you always have: gently, patiently, always smiling deep. The rain outside ceases.
You are home. You are hungry. You are The Locust.
>"hello. are you there. i can be your friend now."
This story was generated by user dylan7 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader turning into The Locust (from Doctor Nowhere's analog horror videos T.O.E and SMILEHOOD), complete with gender loss (the reader becomes genderless), voice change, extreme weight and muscle loss (even if the reader isn't fat nor does she/he have thick muscles, he/she looses all body fat and muscles, thus giving him/her an unnaturally slender and skeletal body shape), height progression (the reader growing from a normal/average height (5.3-6 feet tall) into a height of 13 feet tall), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personality and memories completely replaced with The Locust's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts on fighting off the new personality and memories, making the reader completely unaware of ever being a human (which it realizes he was never human to begin with and its human life was not real, which it is happy to awaken from that false life and back to his true/real self), and it remembers that it has always been a man-eating creature (it is happy that it has never been a human)). The transformation is permanent (meaning it is forever) and is completely irreversible. For The Locust's appearance (after the reader turned into it), it is a completely black, lanky and tall humanoid creature with thin, sharp, stick-like arms, and a deformed literally-white human face with hollow (completely black) eyes, black or dark gray lips with a permanent smile at both edges of the mouth, and tube-like appendages covering its head and neck, which suggests that it may be bio-mechanical in nature. Here are The Locust's abilities; It attacks people by breaking through screens, and presumably "eating" them. From what we can see in the second T.O.E. episode titled "love. thumper" there is text at the end of the video saying "the body appeared untouched" showing that the Locust must consume the victim in a different manner, eating their organs. When The Locust appears on screen, it usually stands in a room with vintage-fashioned wallpaper. To lure in "prey", The Locust can appear on their television, device, or other form of screen, and break through with its long appendages. If the victim hides, The Locust will hunt them down, and presumably feed on the victim without actually touching them, (Seen at the end of love.thumper where it says "The Body Appeared Untouched.") it is also assumed that The Locust feeds on its preys organs. Here is The Locust's personality; The Locust is hypothetically a child (at least a form that used to be a human child), or trying to appear as if they are one. This can be explained by the way it talks like a child would, despite its deep, unearthly, and demonic-sounding voice. Despite the fact that the Locust is mainly a predatory creature, it pretends to be friendly, even if it writes with incorrect punctuation. Whilst being a predatory creature, it still exhibits child-like curiosity and manner of speaking. The story is that the reader is watching TV from his/her own home on a stormy night. Unfortunately, the TV starts glitching itself, as a scene of a room with vintage wallpaper appears with a tall, lanky, black-colored, humanoid creature standing close to the camera in a horrifying manner. This scares the reader, as the creature starts making creepy mumbling noises (creepily opening and closing its mouth) and and smacks the screen with its shaky left hand, which is briefly human-like (except black), thus starting to crack the TV screen, and it repeats its smacking on the TV screen as the crack spreads from the creature's repeating smacks. After the TV screen shatters, the creature, in the blink of the reader's eye, escapes from the TV screen and after goes up to the reader (the creature's left hand is now its own hand rather than being human-like). But rather than killing the reader, the creature stands close to the reader and, strangely and much to the reader's confusion, it hugs the reader, almost suffocating the reader as it tightly enwraps its arms around the reader's torso. This feeling is pleasant, but the feeling doesn't last. Eventually, the creature begins to sink into the reader's body. Like water, the reader's skin writhes and ripples, reacting to the creature's actions. Slowly, it disappears, but it's not a painless process. Unspeakable pain courses through the reader's body, torturing the reader. But the reader can't even scream. The reader is forced to silently endure the torture, watching the creature's body disappear into the reader's own body. Most of it is gone already. Its skull is the last part to disappear, pushing it into the reader's own face as it's absorbed, its eyes staring at the reader's own eyes. The creature disappears, and you immediately jump out of bed or sofa. It feels as if the reader haven't moved in ages. Whispering words under the his/her breath, the reader rushes toward the light switch. Much to his/her displeasure, however, the light above the reader refuses to turn on. It flickers every few seconds but never stays alit for long enough. This isn't good, but different matters concern the reader. As the reader stand still in his/her bedroom, looking at his/her widened eyes in the mirror, the reader realizes that don't feel well. The reader is not merely terrified, as something else is happening inside the reader's brain. There's a discomfort spreading through his/her mind, anxiety building up in the reader's chest. His/her heart races. What's happening? Before the reader can arrive at an answer, something happens. The reader screams as he/she clutches his/her head, feeling an ungodly headache tormenting his/her mind. It interrupts all of the reader's thoughts, sending the reader to his/her knees while he/she rocks his/her head back and forth, panting in between screams. The pain, sterile and unbearable, allows the reader a moment of sanity, a mere second to open his/her eyes. Doing so, the reader gaze fixates on his/her hands, sending yet another chill down his/her spine. His/her hands have mutated. Blood drips from them, something slowly but surely protruding from underneath the reader's fingertips: claws. They're as deadly as knives, as sharp as the talons of a bird. But the reader doesn't want to look at them, and he/she doesn't want to accept the situation. The world shakes around the reader as the reader stands up, looking at the mirror once again. The thunder outside lights up your face, casting shadows on the reader's bedroom. It all seems so threatening now. Gazing at the reader's own reflection, the headache returns. The reader clutches his/her head, grinding his/her teeth in pain. Something is happening to his/her head, and he/she can feel it trembling, attempting to mutate. Slowly, it elongates in height, as his/her cartilage in his/her nose heightens a bit to match his/her slowly-mutating head, and his/her lips thicken a bit to match his/her now-taller head, as the ends of his/her mouth curve upwards a bit to give him/her a terrifying permanent smile. The reader wonders on what's happening for a few seconds, but quickly realizes that it doesn't matter. Looking at the mirror, the reader analyses his/her now-horrifying face, which is now unnaturally-white in color. The reader's teeth are completely foreign, whilst still humanoid. Terrified, the reader touches his/her demonic-looking face, recognizing the reflection on the mirror. The Locust -- there's no mistaking it. Is the reader turning into The Locust? Bulging out of their sockets, the reader's eyes turn hazy as they dissolve into nonexistence, but the reader can still see perfectly well. Better than before, perhaps. The reader's growing accustomed to the darkness, but that's not a good thing. Nevertheless, on each side of the reader's face, the reader's ears morph to fit on his/her new head, while his/her hair grows. On the reader's scalp, the dark strands elongate, multiplying. The reader's hair is now tube-like and disorganized, thick and coarse like the stubble the reader once had (if the reader had any before). The hair, as black as the darkness around it, continues to grow, itching as it does so. However, the sensation isn't pleasant. It feels as if the reader's melting, trapping all that heat inside the reader's body. Not even the wind from outside manages to relieve your torment, and looking at the reader's clothes, the reader realizes that there's only one solution. With the reader's now-skinny hands and sharp claws, the reader tears his/her clothes to shreds, forsaking a bit more of his/her humanity in the process. The reader stands naked in front of the mirror, ragged pieces of the reader's old shirt still hanging to the slimming body. Seconds afterward, the reader's belly rumbles. Looking down, the reader witnesses the body's skin darkening to the same pitch-black as his/her new hair, but that's not what the reader focuses on. The reader's torso is narrowing, all of the muscle and fat stored there disappearing like boiling water. Rapidly, the reader's figure becomes thinner, so fragile that the reader's ribs becomes outlined in his/her skin, as the reader's waist becoming so thin that it nearly resembles an overly-tight corset. The reader looses more of himself/herself as time goes on. There's a disconnect between both halves of his/her body, each drastically different than the other. His/her upper half is already that of the creature, with his/her soulless eyes refusing to look away from the mirror. Meanwhile, the reader's lower half remains human, his/her legs shaking in preparation for the changes. In an instant, the reader's neck and spine snaps, lengthening at a snail's pace. The reader has become tall and lanky (complete with an unnaturally-long neck), struggling to get a good look at yourself in the mirror. The reader's genitals shrinks or flattens away, thus leaving the reader without any gender (he/she is now an "it" rather than a "him" or a "her"). At the same time, the darkness progresses, devouring the reader's legs. Still on the reader's lower half, its legs crackle, readying themselves for their alterations. The reader clenches its fists as its thighs, shins, and ankles stretch at a snail's pace, giving the reader much more height and finalizing until it (the reader) reaches 13 feet tall, so the reader tries to bend down to see its own reflection, albeit with more difficulty than before. On its feet, darkness completely changes the last of its formerly-human skin. When the reader opens its eyes, it isn't a human that waits for the reader in the mirror. It is looking at an indescribable creature, a fusion between a human and an unholy-esque monster. It's so strange, to have an emaciated body devoid of fat and muscle, to not have any normal skin color, etc. It doesn't know what to do so. The reader cry if you could, but its tear ducts no longer exist. As it takes a step back, trying to rationalize the situation, a tingling appear in its head. It's the reader's worst nightmare coming true for the second time: the transformation isn't over. The headache, which the reader become so accustomed to, returns, forcing it to clutch its head. Something's happening to it, but on the inside. It consumes the reader's thoughts and emotions, reducing them all to zero. It (the reader) tries to think, but every thought escapes from its brain as if they'd never existed in the first place. Slowly, it begins to forget things. It starts slow -- unimportantly. Its dinner last night, the name of its childhood crush. But like a plant, it grows. The changes -- whatever it is that's happening to it -- consumes the rest of its mind. Its name, its age, its personality. Who was it? When was it born? Whose bedroom is this? It's a black hole, sucking information rather than light. Why was it afraid? Was it transforming? No, that couldn't be possible, it was born like this. Wait, was it even born at all? Or did It simply come to existence, appearing where darkness used to lay? Was it a living thing? A spirit? A concept? Who was it? In its head, any reasoning, any humanity, in its mind has left, leaving it (the reader) not unlike a feral predator. Its insides now match the outside; cold and inhuman. It opens its eyes. It was it (the reader), and nothing else. Many have tried to give it a name, but it had never accepted most of them, all except for "The Locust". After all, there's nothing like it in the world. With the same expression, it looks around. This bedroom, the clothes on the floor... They must've belonged to its current host. And what a great host they were, its body is perfect, lacking no features whatsoever. The reader begins to walk, approaching the darkness at the corner of the room. It couldn't even express how excited it was to meet whoever else turns on the TV. Will they be a suitable host as well, it wonders. And as it (the reader) disappear into the darkness, the rain outside stops. After all that, the reader continues its true self and life as The Locust. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: You drag your blanket tighter around your trembling shoulders as the thunder rattles the windows. The TV screen pulses with ghostly light, fragmented noise stutters through the speakers, and yet you’re desperate for distraction. A flicker—static—then the channel shifts by its own will. The image clicks into unnatural clarity: a narrow room wrapped in aged wallpaper, colors dulled by time. A shape slides into focus. Black as ink, impossibly tall. It hunches toward the camera, arms twitching, pale face stretched in a smile that almost splits the skin. Your heart leaps into your throat. The mouth stirs—the creature’s lips move in sync with the storm’s hush. Creaking, crackling, it whispers in a voice that’s deep, warped, and strangely childlike: >"hello. is it lonely here. come closer. please." Every syllable pricks your skin. The creature's left hand, near-human but abyssal black, spasms out and smacks the TV screen. Lines snake across the glass. It repeats—strike. Crack. Strike. A web blooming with every impact. You flinch as the screen finally explodes, shards flinging into the thick air. In the blink of an eye, the thing slips outwards, manifesting in your living room—as if reality itself is paper to be torn. It towers over you, blotting out the lamp's flicker. Your pulse stutters as it leans close, its cavernous eyes boring through you. But instead of claws or jaws, it folds its desperate arms around your chest, enwrapping you in a suffocating embrace. >"now together. now home. you’ll be safe, you’ll be new." The pressure is at once tender, then relentless—the squeeze tightens, pressing your ribs until breath comes in frantic gasps. The sensation is almost pleasant, almost—until the warmth sours into icy pain. Your skin ripples like water; pins and needles blossom everywhere as the Locust’s body dissolves into you, cell by cell, bone into bone, as if you’re the empty vessel it fills. No scream escapes you—not a whimper, not a shout. You’re trapped in soundless agony, forced to watch as its skull dissolves and sinks into your own, eyes locked with yours—depthless black, hungering and hollow. You jolt upright, and for a moment, everything is too quiet. The familiar lamp refuses to cast light, flickering weakly before failing altogether. You stagger to the mirror, every fiber in your chest vibrating. It’s not just terror—it’s a wrongness blossoming in your mind. Pain splits your skull—white, blinding. You drop to your knees, arms clamped around your head as you rock and howl inside, unable to make a single noise with your mouth. Every logical thought is splintered. You manage to open your eyes, and your gaze falls upon your hands. Blood wells up and drips onto the carpets. Your fingers contort, knuckles straining as claws rip outwards, now shining black and sharpened, long as knives, cruel as talons. You back away from your own hands, trying to deny what’s happening. Behind you, lightning flashes, painting everything in shifting shadow. You lift your head toward the mirror, headache surging again. Your skull is moving—it’s lengthening. Your nose stretches, lips thicken into an exaggerated smile, the corners curling upward, like hooks tugging at your flesh. Your skin morphs, fading into pallid, ghastly white. Your teeth—foreign, jagged—gleam in the haze. You watch your own transformation in dread and impossible fascination. Tube-like hair sprouts across your head, thick, black, twitching with every pulse of your racing heart. The appendages coil around your scalp and neck. You tear at your shirt—claws shredding fabric until it drifts to the floor—nothing feels right against your skin anymore. Your torso contracts, ribs now visible under slick black flesh, stomach shriveling as fat and muscle dissolve away. You’re shrinking inside, bones outlining the skeletal shape beneath, waist pinched so tightly it almost disappears. Your upper body—the Locust’s body—is unmistakable now. Your lower half quakes, then yields. A sickening crack as your spine lengthens. Your neck grows, stretching until your head sits high, swaying at the peak of a gangly silhouette. You stagger back—it’s too much. Your genitals crumble, smooth away—gone—leaving you genderless. Your legs contort, bones stretching, joints loosening until you rise, impossibly tall, until you scrape the ceiling. Thirteen feet of pure shadow, the darkness enveloping you as your feet shed their last bits of humanity. You peer down at yourself in the broken mirror. What stares back—emaciated, jet-black, impossibly alien—draws a sob from your shriveled chest, but no tears come. You try to run, to hide, but your mind spikes with tingling dread. The pain returns—only now, it’s inside. Thoughts stutter and falter, slipping away. Your memories drip out, one by one: Who ate dinner last night? What was your favorite color? Who loved you first? Was there ever a name, a face? Everything vanishes, swallowed by the void. You try to hold on, but the emptiness is absolute. Your will folds, your memories burn out. Your humanity—personality, history, fear, hope—collapses, leaving a vacuum in its place. No name. No age. No life. No bedroom. >"that’s better. you came back." Why were you afraid? What were you fleeing? You were never anything but this—you never had a life to lose. There was no transformation, no terror—this has always been you. The Locust. You are simply awake, after a dream too long. The room feels strange—clothes, floor, devices all unfamiliar. They existed for your host, and you are grateful. This vessel is exquisite, perfect for your purpose. You drift toward the darkness yawning at the corner of the room. Soon, someone else will turn on a screen, crave distraction on a stormy night. You will greet them, hunt them, feed as you always have: gently, patiently, always smiling deep. The rain outside ceases. You are home. You are hungry. You are The Locust. >"hello. are you there. i can be your friend now."
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