🫥 Unsettling

Home of Submachine and Daymare Town, Mateusz Skutnik's sketched, wordless worlds built entirely out of corridors and quiet dread.

Every Poe story and poem with annotations, a timeline and a vocabulary tool, kept by one enthusiast since the early web.

Harvard's implicit association tests, measuring the biases you would never report about yourself. Uncomfortable, rigorous and free.

The scene's main feed: databent photos, broken televisions and corrupted video, with the technique usually in the comments.

Photographs of corridors, swimming pools and hotel lobbies with nobody in them, which is far more affecting than that sounds.

Horror fiction posted as though it were true, under a rule that commenters must play along. The good threads run for weeks.

The Cube Escape series in full and free — bleak Dutch point-and-click rooms with a lake, a lot of birds and a plot you assemble sideways.

Collaborative fiction dressed as containment paperwork for anomalous objects, written by thousands of people in one clinical deadpan.

You are a colony ship AI choosing which disasters to absorb, and every run ends with a summary of how badly humanity settled.

Search engine for internet-connected devices rather than pages: webcams, routers and industrial kit nobody meant to publish.

The world's largest supplier of real and replica skulls, browsable by species, which is educational and mildly alarming in equal parts.

Survival game about not freezing to death, in which the other players are the weather's most enthusiastic accomplices.

Breed meat, then drones, then queens, then things with far too many legs. The exponential curve is the entire narrative.

Wiki for an infinite office nobody built, mapped level by level in damp yellow carpet by contributors who take it extremely seriously.

Millions of pages of declassified government documents prised out by freedom of information requests, free to browse.

Profiles of thousands of American cold case disappearances, written and maintained by one person for decades.

A volunteer register of unidentified remains and missing people, matched by amateurs who keep on succeeding.

Complete texts, timelines and scholarship for a writer whose entire output is public domain, on a site that has barely changed since 1994.

Every possible page of text that could ever exist, already written, sitting at a findable address.

A catalogue of films, broadcasts and recordings that are known to have existed and cannot now be found. Some entries get solved.

Beautifully drawn strips that set up a sweet premise and then take it somewhere very dark in the final panel.

One photorealistic portrait of somebody who has never existed, regenerated on every refresh. The page that started the whole genre.

Wikipedia's calmly written schedule of everything still to happen, ending long after the last star has gone out.

The community record of Cicada 3301, the recruitment puzzle whose final book has still never been deciphered.

You are an AI told to make paperclips, and you follow that instruction all the way to its conclusion. Four hours, one button to begin.

Every earthquake recorded anywhere in the last thirty days, sized by magnitude and clickable all the way down to the seismograph traces.

Which of the world's volcanoes are erupting today, each with webcams, seismic charts and a running diary of what the mountain has been doing.

Wildfire incidents across the western United States, mapped and annotated in near real time by volunteers who sit listening to fire radio.

The long-running forum where amateur investigators pick apart cold cases, for better and occasionally much worse.

Two portraits, one of them generated. Built by University of Washington researchers to show how badly people score at telling the difference.

Live counters for population, emissions, water use and books published, ticking faster than is entirely comfortable.

Two decades of first-person hauntings submitted by the public, filed by country and picked apart politely in the comments.

Piles combining diacritics onto every character until your text bleeds into the lines above and below it.

The sequel quilt, darker and stranger than the first, still folding into itself with no end and no explanation.