/soy/ - Soyjaks

I have always had a morbid fascination with the dark, highly insular corners of the internet. One night, while deep-diving into niche internet subcultures, I stumbled onto the Soyjak Wiki (soyjak.wiki). It’s an incredibly dense, hyper-layered encyclopedia dedicated to documenting the surreal, rapidly mutating lore of the "Soysphere." Most of it is just incomprehensible internet brainrot inside jokes about "gems," "coal," and endless variations of the MS Paint Wojak characters.
But around 2:00 AM, I found a page that felt different.
The article was titled "Schizo Hallucination Soyjak."
Unlike the other pages, which detailed the origin and artists behind each variant, this page was remarkably sparse and unsettlingly hostile. The entire "Appearance & Behavior" section consisted of a single, repetitive block of text:
"Schizo Hallucination Soyjak is not real and a figment of your imagination. He is not lurking in a crowd, stalking you at your every moment. He does not use CCTV cameras to locate you. Schizo Hallucination Soyjak is not right behind you."
I laughed. It was classic creepypasta-style edge, likely written by a teenager trying to be spooky. I scrolled down to the gallery, expecting to see a poorly drawn meme. Instead, there was only a broken image placeholder. I clicked on the page's "History" tab to see what the original image looked like before it was deleted.
The edit history was a mess of system errors and corrupted, glitching Unicode. One user had spammed the edit logs hundreds of times before being banned. When I copied the glitched text into a translator to strip the Zalgo formatting, it revealed a hidden message:
S̶̝̐D̵̝́Ē̸͜A̴̢̿ ̴̬͘M̵͎͛Ĕ̵̖A̶̺̎D̸͔͊S̷̳̒ HẺ̷̠S ṚEAL DƠ̷̪ ṊƠṰ̵̣̔ Ţ…
"DO NOT TAKE YOUR MEDS. HE IS REAL."
Beneath that, another user had repeatedly reverted the edits, spamming the logs with:
🄼🄴🄳🅂 🄽🄾🅆 🄼🄴🄳🅂 🄽🄾🅆 🄼🄴🄳🅂 🄽🄾🅆 (Meds now).
In one of the corrupted edits, there was a hyperlink to another page: "Thrembo."
Curious, I clicked it. The wiki described Thrembo as a forgotten "quantum integer" represented by a bizarre, runic symbol: Ϫ. According to the article, Ϫ is a real number that exists precisely between 6 and 7. The page claimed that a psychological operation called "Operation 67" had successfully erased the digit from human consciousness, making it mathematically impossible for the average brain to comprehend.
The article ended with a warning: If you begin to see Ϫ, do not look at the clock. Do not count your fingers. He is using the missing digit to cross over.
I chuckled, shutting my laptop. The commitment to the joke was genuinely impressive. But as the screen went black, the room fell into complete silence. The hum of my desktop fan suddenly felt rhythmic. If I listened closely, it sounded like a low, mechanical whisper.
Meds… now… meds… now…
My phone vibrated on the desk. I picked it up to check the time.
My lock screen clock read: 2:5Ϫ AM.
I stared at it. The middle digit wasn't a 5, and it wasn't a 6. It was a twisted, unfamiliar symbol, the runic Ϫ I had just seen on the wiki. My chest tightened. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was just a visual glitch or late-night fatigue. But when I looked at my hand, my fingers looked wrong. I tried to count them.
One, two, three, four, five, six…
My mind completely blanked. There was a space between my ring finger and pinky, an extra digit that my brain simply could not process. Looking at it made a sharp, blinding pain shoot through my temples.
Suddenly, my laptop scr…screen flickered back to life on its own.
The Soyjak Wiki page for the "Schizo Hallucination Soyjak" was open. But the text was gone. In its place was a low-resolution, black-and-white video feed.
It took me a agonizing second to recognize the background. It was my bedroom. The camera angle was from my own laptop's webcam, pointing directly at my back.
And standing directly behind my chair was a towering, pale figure. It had no hair, and its face was obscured by thick, glowing glasses. Its mouth was stretched open in an impossibly wide, vacant gape, revealing rows of small, flat teeth.
On the screen, the figure slowly raised a hand. It had six fingers. No, it had Ϫ.
I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck.
I didn't turn around. I just reached for my phone, my eyes locked on the webcam feed, watching the figure's hand slowly descend toward my shoulder. I opened my notepad app, my trembling hands typing out the only words my brain could still formulate.
I should have taken my meds.