Backrooms The Caretaker's Journal: Backrooms

By Fandom Books and Michael Schuerman

To whomever stumbles upon this journal,

It's odd, penning an introduction when I'm uncertain anyone will ever read this. It feels like sending a message in a bottle into an endless ocean of yellow, hopeful that someone, somewhere, will find it and know they're not alone in this maddening labyrinth.

I am the Caretaker. That title was not one I chose, but one that was thrust upon me. As days blurred into nights, and nights into days, I took it upon myself to maintain a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the Backrooms. I've swept floors, dusted off antiquated furniture, and tended to the remnants of lost souls who've unfortunately met their untimely end here.

But my job isn't solely about cleaning. No, it's more about witnessing – observing the ever-shifting rooms, the haunting whispers, and the terrifying entities that lurk just beyond the corner of one's vision. The very walls here pulsate with memories, with stories begging to be told. And I've become the reluctant chronicler of these tales.

Contained within these pages are my observations, my encounters, my fears, and, on rare occasions, my hopes. They're a testament to my time spent navigating this boundless maze, a guide for the next wanderer who might need it.

Do remember, not everything here is as it seems. The Backrooms are deceptive, ever-changing, and at times, brutally indifferent. But with every twist and turn, every narrow escape, every eerie silence, there's a lesson to be learned. An understanding of this place's enigmatic rules.

If you're reading this, perhaps you too are trapped within these walls. Or perhaps, by some twisted stroke of fate, this journal has found its way outside, a tangible piece of an intangible realm. Whatever the case may be, let this be a beacon for you. A glimmer of knowledge in the darkness.

Hold on to hope, stay vigilant, and may you find your way, as I continue to search for mine.

With an ever-watchful eye,

The Caretaker (1 of Many)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fandom Books
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223899891

Book preview

The Caretaker's Journal: Chronicles from the Backrooms

Introduction

To whomever stumbles upon this journal,

It's odd, penning an introduction when I'm uncertain anyone will ever read this. It feels like sending a message in a bottle into an endless ocean of yellow, hopeful that someone, somewhere, will find it and know they're not alone in this maddening labyrinth.

I am the Caretaker. That title was not one I chose, but one that was thrust upon me. As days blurred into nights, and nights into days, I took it upon myself to maintain a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the Backrooms. I've swept floors, dusted off antiquated furniture, and tended to the remnants of lost souls who've unfortunately met their untimely end here.

But my job isn't solely about cleaning. No, it's more about witnessing – observing the ever-shifting rooms, the haunting whispers, and the terrifying entities that lurk just beyond the corner of one's vision. The very walls here pulsate with memories, with stories begging to be told. And I've become the reluctant chronicler of these tales.

Contained within these pages are my observations, my encounters, my fears, and, on rare occasions, my hopes. They're a testament to my time spent navigating this boundless maze, a guide for the next wanderer who might need it.

Do remember, not everything here is as it seems. The Backrooms are deceptive, ever-changing, and at times, brutally indifferent. But with every twist and turn, every narrow escape, every eerie silence, there's a lesson to be learned. An understanding of this place's enigmatic rules.

If you're reading this, perhaps you too are trapped within these walls. Or perhaps, by some twisted stroke of fate, this journal has found its way outside, a tangible piece of an intangible realm. Whatever the case may be, let this be a beacon for you. A glimmer of knowledge in the darkness.

Hold on to hope, stay vigilant, and may you find your way, as I continue to search for mine.

With an ever-watchful eye,

The Caretaker (1 of Many)

Entry 1: Finally settled into the job, but what kind of a job did I stumble upon, I also found my first corpse today.

Finally settled into the job. The stagnant yellow light and the hum of fluorescent bulbs feels oddly soothing. Found my first corpse today, leaned against a corner. Mummified by the dry air, I guess.

The day I stepped into the role of caretaker for the Backrooms, I did not know what to expect. All the stories, the rumors, the whispered tales of endless corridors and rooms that stretched beyond comprehension - they paled in comparison to the reality that greeted me.

The air here is still, suffused with a silence that is almost palpable. The endless expanse of monotonous yellow walls and the dull, patterned carpet beneath my feet provide little comfort. Yet, there is a certain serenity in this sameness, a rhythm in the monotonous hum of the fluorescent lights that have become my constant companions.

As I made my rounds, navigating through the labyrinthine maze of corridors and rooms, I stumbled upon a sight that cemented the reality of my new occupation. Propped against a corner, in a room that seemed no different from the countless others, was a body. A person once alive, now reduced to a mummified husk, a silent testament to the cruel nature of this place.

The dry air of the Backrooms had preserved the body in a haunting state of suspended decay. The features were still discernible - a man, perhaps in his thirties, with a look of perpetual surprise etched onto his withered face. His clothes, though faded, suggested he was not a relic of the distant past. The realization that he, like me, might have been a wanderer, a lost soul trying to find a way out, sent a shiver down my spine.

I approached cautiously, a mix of morbid curiosity and a sense of duty propelling me forward. In his hand, clutched tightly even in death, was a small notebook. Gently prying it open, I found pages filled with scribbled notes, drawings of what appeared to be maps, and desperate messages to loved ones he would never see again. It was a chilling reminder of the fate that befell many who found themselves lost in this forsaken place.

As the caretaker, it was my responsibility to remove the remnants of those who had succumbed to the Backrooms. I did so with a solemn reverence, aware that this man, like me, had stories, dreams, and a life beyond these yellow walls. With each step I took to carry him away, I felt the weight of the task I had undertaken. It was not just about maintaining the eerie order of this place, but also about honoring the memories of those who had traversed these corridors before me.

As I laid him to rest in a designated area, a part of me wondered about his story, about the choices and twists of fate that led him here. I wondered too about my own path, the sequence of events that led me to become the caretaker of this endless, enigmatic expanse.

With the day’s task completed, I found myself drawn back to the hum of the fluorescent bulbs, the only constant in a world where time and space seemed fluid and unpredictable. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, there was an odd sense of calm that settled over me. Maybe it was the acceptance of my role, or perhaps it was the beginnings of an understanding of the Backrooms and its mysterious ways.

As I retired to my quarters, a small, sparsely furnished room much like the others but with the addition of a modest bed, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was just the beginning. That there were countless stories etched into the walls of this place, waiting to be uncovered. And so, with a pen in hand and a resolve to document my journey, I began the first entry in what would become an extensive chronicle of my time as the caretaker of the Backrooms.

Entry 2: It’s not just the dead you find here. Sometimes, I stumble upon old notes, journals, or scribbles on the walls. Hints of hope, or the desperation of someone trying to find a way out.

The dimly lit corridors felt like they were alive, breathing softly and echoing with whispers of the long gone. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows that danced and played tricks on the eyes. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of paper, sent prickles down my spine. This was a place where reality intertwined with the surreal.

But as days melded into one another, the seemingly unending monotony began to crack, revealing hidden layers. While the dead were a grim constant, the Backrooms also bore silent testimonies of those who once treaded here, of their stories, and of their futile attempts to escape.

The remnants of the lost were scattered in