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Backrooms Level -399: The Cruelest Trick Played On Man; One who enters this place will remain in the Backrooms, but will always believe they are in the Frontrooms. They do not know it, but they have switched one for another. They are finally trapped within the hell they sought to escape. And, over time, the copies of people who entered the Backrooms will be replaced by actual people who believe, like you, they are back. And so the level preserves itself. One can enter, but one cannot escape without opening themselves up to a world infinitely worse. For a life lived in blissful ignorance is much better than a life lived in endless torture, wouldn't you agree? But there is a way out. One within this unimaginable horror might notice that they, and everybody else, has a strange reluctance to travel. Although they might think it strange, eventually the level will implant itself in their mind, seeking to preserve itself. For if one travels far enough—across the ocean, say, or better yet, towards the stars, they will notice things visibly being… off. Patches of the world are gone. Leading straight to the Void. Jump down in one of them, and you will escape. A world of falseness for a nothingness. A universe of lies for a universe of insanity—the pain of knowing that there is nothing to see you, and that if you do escape, you will simply return back to square one. Back to the Backrooms. But truth and pain over bliss and lies? That is the question. But, sometimes, the wall between this new hell and the one you "left" becomes weaker. Imagine, if you will, yourself. It has been, oh, let's say five years since you entered and “exited” the Backrooms. You have never told your family—your spouse and your children—about your journeys—they will laugh at you, or be worried for your mental state. It is a brick upon your chest, but it is manageable. You are out on a trip—not too far from home, naturally, with travel being so dangerous. Let's say the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. You and your family are staying at a hotel—one that reminds you, with a shudder, of another. But that is in the past! Right? It's your second night. You've just gotten back from a long day of sightseeing and wonder. Ever since you exited, you've loved the mountains—almost every other place on earth will forever be associated with the twisted, dark version of itself lurking in unreality. Suddenly, you hear it. A scream. Your daughter, in the hotel room, next door, is screaming in terror. Suddenly, the screams stop, with a frightening crunch. You are terribly panicked. What has happened? You race to the door separating you and your spouse's room and the kids' room. You're unfathomably thankful that your son was sleeping with you. But the door won't open. Damn those kids! Racing out of the door, not caring that you left your key card in your room, you turn with speed you didn't know you had, your gun—a dear relic of your travels—in your hand, locked and loaded, safety off. The door is locked—you blast it and kick it down, wasting precious ammunition. You can hear other residents of the hallway screaming, saying that there is a gunman here, calling 911. But you don't care about what others think. You just want to make sure your child is safe and sound. Bursting into the room, you're not sure what to expect. But no. It isn't a murderer, or some other creep who came to take your daughter's life. It's not even human. It is a disembodied floating face, with glowing white eyes and massive, gleaming, pointed teeth, lurking in the darkness. And underneath it is the lifeless body of your nine-year-old daughter, with long, blood-covered scars across her body. A large piece of flesh has been torn out of her chest. And where her happy-go-lucky face once was is a long, curved slice across her open mouth and her rosy cheeks. A monstrous, wicked smile. No… it can't be… you think to yourself.
As it approaches you with inhuman speed, drawn by the lights outside the room, you fire away with all your remaining ammunition. But it keeps coming. With it just inches away, you remember something. You lunge towards the door, barely diving out of its way. Before it can adjust course, you close it, pull out your phone and turn on its flashlight, waving it at the abomination. It screams out the cry of a satisfied hunter, and is likely inches away when you throw the bait towards the window. It flies out the window, breaking it as it disappears into the night. The monster chases it. How… how could a Smiler have come here? They were only in… And that's when it hit you. You never left. All your memories, all your friends, even your experiences with your children… they are all fake. You can hear footsteps, the cocks of loaded guns, outside the door. Police!, you hear. Open up! But why open up? You have nothing left to live for. Sobbing, you look down the barrel. One more bullet left. This bullet is for you. Initially, the Backrooms were thought to be truly inescapable. Those who entered were doomed to stay here until they died, which could come in an infinite number of ways. Starvation in the City, being devoured within Level 666, the horror of one’s face sloughing off as they became one with them… the list goes on. But then came Level 399. Imagine, if you would, of the shock and joy on the face of the first person, all the way back in 1989, who found that he could return home. Imagine the disbelief, followed by surprise, followed by euphoria which stained the faces of those in Level 1 when he returned to share the good news, a wave of happiness which later spread from the beginning to the end of the liminal hellhole—one which even permeated the remote corners, never-ending pools and inescapable backwaters of this multilevel building of terror. After centuries, the trapped finally had an escape. A sense of hope. A light at the end of the tunnel. But, alas, not all is as it seems in the backrooms'. The story of the Backrooms’ final laugh begins with something small, something seemingly insignificant—a button. But, wanderer, you have likely learned that in the Backrooms, nothing, even usual windows are what they seem. The process of exiting the Backrooms through its True Ending begins with the hardest part—navigating the warped funhouse of horror which is the Backrooms until one reaches Level 399. There, just out of reach, beyond glass doors, is the heaven of the Frontrooms. But to get there, you will have to descend back into the hell of the Backrooms. Unless one follows the proper ritual for utilizing Level 399, when they try to exit through the glass doors they will instead enter one of its most terrifying levels. To avoid this horrible fate, they must first prove themselves worthy by completing a series of tasks. These are assigned at the "front desk" of the Arcade through a small, wooden slot on an indestructible sheet of paper. Things such as "Kill a Hound", "Drink Liquid Pain and survive," "Speedrun the Backrooms," and more can be found on those sheets. Along with a small red button. The button's purpose is to ensure that one can return to Level 399 once their tasks are complete. With a single push, they will find themselves back at the Arcade, in front of the three-inch thick panes of glass separating them from their greatest hopes. Nobody has yet been able to figure out how the button works, as it seems to be unbreakable by external means. But even the strangest, most magical of technologies can be destroyed from within. In mathematics, the double negative means a positive. When a negative number is negated, or if it is to be subtracted from another number, the negative becomes positive. It moves from the realm of the dead to the realm of the living. But it will always be different. That is exactly what Level -399 is. A double negative of its parent, or a positive copy of its more famous relative. Nobody can truly know without extensive travel if they are in the double negative, for the child nearly perfectly resembles its parent. The button is how to access it—or, rather, a broken button. It is unknown what causes a button to be broken, as they seem to just… break. There is hardly any change on the outside—maybe a slightly different shade of red, a microscopic chip on one side—if there is any at all. It seems to happen once out of every twenty uses, but the chance of the breaking seems to increase with more frequent use. It is only if one travels far—perhaps ten miles—in the Changed Arcade when they will see differences. An arcade booth misplaced, a glitching version of Windows XP. But who would travel so far when they might misplace their only hope of escape?And therein lies the true tragedy of Level -399. For, just like its parent, the front desk is willing to accept your completed tasks. And is willing to open the double glass doors for you. That is what the cruelest trick known to man is. It is a near-perfect copy of reality, a Sub-Level of a Sub-Level, if you will. It is what Level -399 leads to. It nearly perfectly resembles the planet known as "Earth", and the universe in which it resides. You will be deposited within this false reality right at the "place" and "time" you left. Everybody you know is there, along with the billions you don't know. All of them, all copies playing their assigned roles in life. Or, at least, the copy it has become.
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