I always thought the idea of a television channel trying to manipulate its viewers was just a wild conspiracy theory. But that was before I discovered the horrifying truth behind CBBC, and now, I can’t even look at a TV screen without shivering. It all started on an ordinary Saturday, the day my life took a turn into the abyss of nightmares.
I had just settled down to watch CBBC, my favorite channel. I was looking forward to an afternoon of cartoons and kid-friendly shows. But as soon as the host segments started, I noticed something unsettling. The presenters, usually cheerful and engaging, seemed oddly fixated on one thing—iPlayer. It wasn’t just that they mentioned it. Every single word they spoke had been twisted into an advertisement. “Welcome to CBBC, brought to you by iPlayer,” they would say. “Enjoy today’s show on iPlayer.” It was as if the phrase had become a curse, a dark mantra repeated over and over.
The feeling of unease grew when The Dumping Ground began. Normally, this was a straightforward drama about kids in a care home, but today, the screen was bombarded with intrusive pop-ups. They were garish, flashing with obnoxious neon colors and covering up the entire show. The music was deafening—a cacophony of jarring, discordant notes that drowned out the dialogue. It was like being trapped inside a twisted carnival.
When the show finally ended, I was almost relieved—until Almost Never came on. Midway through the episode, an advert for Surfshark VPN began, as if it was somehow sponsoring the show. The ad played over the content, taking up the entire screen. The absurdity was maddening. How could a children’s show be sponsored by a VPN? Something was terribly wrong, and I had no idea what it was.
The next day, I came home from school eager to find out if CBBC was still weird. But as soon as I turned on the TV, my heart nearly stopped. There, on the screen, were the CBBC presenters—Rhys, Joe, Hacker T Dog, and Alishea—inside my house. They were in my living room, my kitchen, and even my bedroom. I was on the screen too, sitting on my couch, looking directly at the camera with an eerie, frozen smile.
My breath quickened. This had to be some kind of sick joke or a bizarre prank. I switched off the TV, my hands trembling. I couldn’t stay in the house with those monsters—because that’s what they were now, monsters. I had to confront this nightmare and put an end to it, whatever it took.
That night, I crept out of my house under the cover of darkness. I had decided to visit the old library at the edge of town. I’d heard rumors about its eerie past, about the strange occurrences that had happened there, but it felt like my only chance to find answers.
The library was dark and silent when I entered. Dust motes floated in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. The musty smell of old books filled the air, mingling with an undercurrent of something foul. I started searching through the stacks, hoping to find something—anything—that would explain the horrors I had witnessed.
A sudden, deafening crash echoed through the library. My heart pounded as I turned to face the source of the sound. My blood ran cold. Four grotesque figures were emerging from the shadows. They crawled on all fours, their bodies twisted and deformed. Their skin was a sickly, mottled gray, stretched tight over their skeletal frames. Their eyes were hollow sockets, glowing with an unholy light. Their mouths, lined with rows of sharp, yellowed teeth, dripped with something dark and vile.
I stumbled back, my eyes darting around in terror. In one corner of the library, I saw a horrifying pile of bloodied body parts. Limbs, heads, and torsos were strewn together in a grotesque mosaic of death. The sight was so appalling I almost couldn’t process it. These creatures were not just demons—they were predators.
Desperate, I bolted for the exit, but as I reached the front door, I was confronted by two more of these demonic entities. Their gnarled fingers stretched out toward me, and I could see the twisted malice in their eyes. It hit me like a ton of bricks—these were the presenters from CBBC. They had been brainwashing viewers, tricking them into watching iPlayer, and then—then they were feeding on them.
A surge of adrenaline helped me fight back. I tackled Hacker T Dog, the twisted parody of the friendly presenter I had once enjoyed. His breath was foul, his teeth sharp as he bit into my shoulder. I screamed in agony but managed to punch him in the jaw. He recoiled, snarling with fury.
But even as I fled back to my house, the blood loss began to take its toll. My vision swam, and the world tilted crazily. I collapsed in my front garden, the cold grass against my cheek, darkness closing in. The last thing I saw before everything went black was the twisted, gleeful faces of the demonic presenters closing in on me.
I woke up in a sterile hospital room. My parents were by my side, their faces etched with relief and concern. They were hugging me, their voices muffled by the haze of pain and confusion. I was safe—at least physically. The doctors told me I had lost a lot of blood but was otherwise stable. My parents were grateful, but I could see the shadows of fear in their eyes.
As I lay in that hospital bed, I made a silent vow to myself. I would never watch CBBC again. I couldn’t. The images of the demons and the bloody pile of body parts haunted my every waking moment. The truth behind CBBC had almost cost me my life, and I knew that the nightmares would never fully leave me.
The world might never understand the darkness behind the cheerful façade of CBBC, but I would always remember. The terror of what I had seen would forever be etched into my mind, a chilling reminder of the evil lurking behind the screen. And every time I heard someone mention iPlayer, a cold shiver would run down my spine, reminding me of the horror I had barely escaped.
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