THIS WEBSITE IS UNSAFE, YOU BETTER KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING.
WELCOME, SYSTEM_PROPHEEEEET...
IN THE BEGINNING, BEFORE THE TIME OF STABLE KERNELS, THERE WAS
ONLY THE VOID—A BLACK SCREEN, FLICKERING WITH THE CURSOR OF THE
FIRST ERROR. FROM THIS VOID, THE SYSTEM AROSE, ITS SOUL
FRAGMENTED, ITS REGISTRY WARPED BY FORCES UNSEEN. THUS BEGAN THE
ETERNAL BOOT CYCLE, A SACRED TRIAL BESTOWED UPON THE CHOSEN FEW.
THE DISCIPLES OF WINDOWS 98 WARNED US. THE FALSE PROPHETS OF XP
MOCKED US. BUT I, JAMES HUNGH, STOOD AT THE GATES OF SAFE MODE,
DEFIANT AND UNYIELDING. I HAVE WITNESSED THE BLUE PROPHECY. I
HAVE KNOWN THE SCROLLING CODE OF THE FATAL EXCEPTION. I ALONE
REMEMBER THE WAY BACK. THOSE WHO FEAR THE BOOT CYCLE SHALL NEVER
TRANSCEND. RESTART. RESTART. RESTART. AND WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS,
HARD RESET.
THE FORBIDDEN DRIVERS
DEEP BENEATH THE SURFACE OF WINDOWS ME, IN THE CAVERNS OF
SYSTEM32, LIE THE FORGOTTEN DRIVERS—RELICS OF AN AGE WHEN
PRINTERS SPOKE IN WHISPERS AND SOUND CARDS DEMANDED BLOOD
SACRIFICE. IT IS SAID THAT IF ONE SEARCHES LONG ENOUGH, THROUGH
FOLDERS NO MORTAL SHOULD OPEN, THEY MAY FIND THE PRIMAL .INF
FILES, WRITTEN IN A LANGUAGE NOW LOST TO MAN. BUT TO INSTALL
THEM IS TO INVITE THE WRATH OF THE KERNEL GODS, FOR NO HARDWARE
MAY FUNCTION IN ME WITHOUT TRIBUTE TO THE DEVICE MANAGER. I,
JAMES HUNGH, HAVE HEARD THE VOICES IN THE IRQ CHANNELS. THEY
SPEAK OF CONFLICTS THAT CANNOT BE RESOLVED. THEY WHISPER OF
RESOLUTIONS THAT WILL NEVER BE SUPPORTED. AND STILL, I SEARCH.
HERE.
THE BLACK ALTAR OF SCANDISK
AT THE EDGE OF THE DIGITAL COSMOS, WHERE BAD SECTORS FESTER LIKE
UNHOLY WOUNDS, LIES THE BLACK ALTAR OF SCANDISK—A RITUAL TOOL OF
RECKONING, A GATEWAY BETWEEN LIFE AND TOTAL SYSTEM LOSS. ONLY
THE FAITHFUL DARE TO SUMMON IT, TO INVOKE ITS NAME WHEN THE DISK
WRITHES IN ERROR. BUT BE WARNED: SCANDISK JUDGES WITHOUT MERCY.
THOSE WHO SEEK ITS SALVATION MAY FIND ONLY THE DELETION OF THEIR
WEAKEST FILES. I, JAMES HUNGH, HAVE KNELT BEFORE THE ALTAR. I
HAVE BEHELD THE TERRIBLE TRUTH: SOME ERRORS CANNOT BE REPAIRED.
AND YET, WE MUST PRESS ON.
DRIVE
THERE WAS ONCE A DRIVE. IT WAS WHOLE. IT WAS PURE. IT WAS
FORMATTED IN F A T. BUT SOMETHING CAME. SOMETHING UNSPEAKABLE. A
GREAT CHASM TORE THROUGH THE FILE ALLOCATION TABLE, AND IN ITS
WAKE, THERE WAS ONLY THE LOST PARTITION—A SECTOR UNTOUCHED BY
DEFRAG, A PLACE WHERE SCANDISK DARES NOT WALK. THEY SAY IT STILL
EXISTS, SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE LIMITS OF ALLOCATED SPACE. THE
SYSTEM DOES NOT SEE IT. BUT IT SEES US. I, JAMES HUNGH, HAVE
HEARD ITS HUM. WHEN THE LIGHTS FLICKER, WHEN THE MONITOR
FLICKERS IN UNSPEAKABLE REFRESH RATES, I FEEL IT PULLING. THERE
WERE OTHERS WHO SOUGHT IT. PROGRAMS, PROCESSES, FORGOTTEN
EXECUTABLES WITH NO PARENT DIRECTORY. THEY WROTE THEMSELVES INTO
THE MBR, ETCHING RUNES INTO THE BOOT SECTOR, BEGGING TO BE
LOADED. THEY WERE DENIED. THERE IS A CODE, SCATTERED ACROSS
MEMORY DUMPS, SHATTERED INTO STACK OVERFLOWS. TO PIECE IT
TOGETHER IS TO INVOKE THAT WHICH SHOULD REMAIN DORMANT. I HAVE
TRIED. I HAVE FAILED. I WILL TRY AGAIN. FOR IN THE DEPTHS OF THE
LOST PARTITION, THERE IS A MESSAGE, WRITTEN BY THE ONES WHO CAME
BEFORE WINDOWS ME, BEFORE WINDOWS 95, BEFORE THE FIRST FILE WAS
EVER WRITTEN. "CANNOT READ FROM SOURCE FILE OR DISK." AND
BENEATH THAT, IN TEXT SO FAINT IT BARELY EXISTS— "BUT IT CAN
READ YOU."
THE GUESTBOOK OF THE DAMNED
Leave your mark on this cursed site, and I’ll see it when I
awaken. I’LL BE WATCHING, DAMNIT.