Level 80 : "Khögshin Highway"

My journey to Level 80 was as jarring as it was unplanned. While attempting a no-clip I had done a hundred times before, I was abruptly plunged into darkness. It felt as though I was falling through the cracks, then just as abruptly I found myself knee-deep in cold, sludgy mud. I immediately checked my phone, and to my dismay, I had no signal. I quickly realized that I could be in an unknown level, unprepared, and alone. Luckily I had a few bottles of Almond Water, my camera, and enough miscellaneous supplies to not completely panic over my predicament.

Around me, in every direction, a myriad of different trees reached out of the murky mire. The swamp was quiet, unnaturally so, and the air was thick and acrid. I knew my boots would only protect my feet for so long—I needed dry ground and a plan, fast. Through my monocular, I caught sight of what appeared to be a distant structure to the east.

As I slowly trudged through the slough, I took note of my surroundings. The water around me was viscous and stagnant, and an iridescent film clung to the surface. Each step broke apart the slick, sending whorls of oil spiraling around my legs and settling behind me as I made my way forward. Atop the knees of a withered cypress tree I saw the first signs of life within Level 80: three little brown birds. They were, for lack of a better term, generic—they lacked any recognizable features of any birds that I know. It wasn't until they opened their beaks to warble that I realized something was off; the birds were completely silent. They made all the motions expected of a bird, yet not a single note would escape them.

I had finally approached the structure, a nondescript house half-submerged in the mire. A few yards from the home, I noticed a small white mailbox peeking through the muck. I pulled myself onto the front porch, which was pitched to the back a few degrees to match the building's sinking orientation. Peering through the window, I could see a dark, well-furnished room, vacant by the looks of it, despite the many trappings. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.

Once inside, I removed my sopping clothes and retrieved the wetsuit I thankfully always keep in my bag. When adequately dry, I paced to and fro, checking out the furnishings. The room had typical arrangements: couches, a table, a curio cabinet, a small TV, and an end table. The walls were filled with knick-knacks and picture frames that seemed almost normal until inspected further. The pictures were of what I would assume to be a family: two taller figures and three smaller, child-sized ones. All but one of the depicted individuals had no faces, where one would expect to see one, but instead there was static.

I paid little mind to the pictures as I decided to explore the house further. I opened the door at the rear of the room and was greeted by a nondescript hallway. And not nondescript in the mundane sense—no, this was completely blank. A stark white wall of unknown material, no doors, no framework, no flooring—it was just featureless. I turned heel and went back outside, searching for my next potential destination.

I found many such buildings in my time on the level: homes, halls, bedrooms, factories, odd scientific facilities—all with half-baked architecture, empty, shallow facades, and a veritable myriad of forgotten places. Some were small and some quite large, but all lacked the details needed to be a real place. Rooms ended too soon, hallways led nowhere, and whole sections felt unfinished. They were like small snippets of locations that could exist but probably never did, all lodged haphazardly throughout the swamp. Though most of these places were empty, that was not always the case.

The swamp and its many scattered substructures are home to a surprising number of creatures and even humanoid inhabitants. Though the level can often feel empty, it did not take long for me to realize I was far from alone.

The many animals of Level 80 are all rough approximations of their normal counterparts. Much like the birds I previously noted, each one was missing some fundamental detail that made it feel uncanny. Deer with textureless "fur", vague hybrid insects, and motionless marsupials were just some of the animals I witnessed. Regardless of the species, they all looked out of place—like background imagery that didn't quite match.

There were also far less mundane creatures living in the swamp. A large chicken-like bird dressed in a full cosmonaut uniform was the first oddity I came across. It stood tucked behind a sickly oak tree, staring intently as I passed by. When I made eye contact with the bird, it opened its mouth—"The Internationale", orchestra and all, echoed from the creature, muffled slightly by the glass helm of the cosmonaut suit. The music didn't stop till I was several dozen meters away.

A few days later I came across a family of small humanoid raccoons, happily enjoying a sunken playground. Their color was lackluster, like an old VHS recording. They had long, scorpion-like appendages where their tails ought to have been. Then they paused as I passed, hiding behind trees and watching closely.

Later that day, I entered an undeveloped electronics store, its floor slowly being subsumed by raised bog water. All the adverts and products had blurry images and nonsensical lettering—just enough to look real at a distance. As I plundered the concession rack for label-less, generic candy, a large amorphous being burst through the rear wall. With my heart in my throat, I stumbled back, anticipating some sort of fleeing-for-my-life type situation. But instead, nothing. The creature was silent, posed in the illusion of motion. I don't even know if it realized I was there—it was unsettling, to say the least.

There were more unique creatures I could elaborate on, but none were as interesting as the people that inhabited the swamp.

A majority of the "people" I saw in Level 80 were a messy facsimile of a real person. Most were vague, shadowy figures occupying my peripherals, or ghosts reenacting a scene that never was. Some were more corporeal, having a physical presence, though still lacking key details. These often faceless individuals were incapable of communicating in any meaningful manner—most just rambled nonsensical questions and responses, as if reading from a script that no one else knew.

Of the dozens of inhabitants I saw, three encounters stood out from the rest.

Dr. G. Schwartz

On the sixth day of my impromptu expedition, I entered the shallow husk of a hi-tech research facility. There were many nondescript rooms vaguely meant for containment and experimentation. In the last of the non-corrupted rooms, I met a man named Doctor G. Schwartz. He had more features than most—brown hair, fair skin, and clothing—but no matter the angle I viewed him at the details of his face were obscured by a black redaction box. He wore black slim-fitting scrubs under a bleached white lab coat with a prominent emblem on the lapel: a circle with three inward-facing arrows. I felt the conversation that followed would be best summarized through a transcription of the audio recording I took.

Transcript #1 – Dr. G. Schwartz

Tuesday: Thanks for letting me record this, mister…?

Dr. Schwartz: I am Doctor G. Schwartz.

Tuesday: Great, my name is Tuesday. You got a first name, Doc?

Dr. Schwartz: I… I don't remember it.

Tuesday: So what's your deal? Why are you here?

Dr. Schwartz: Well, since entering this place I've been dealing with some form of retrograde amnesia. I remember some key details about my past—however, it's been troubling trying to recall my own memories.

Tuesday: Amnesia… Yeah, that's a tough break. Does your face have anything to do with that?

Dr. Schwartz: My face? I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean.

Tuesday: Here—hold on.

(I took out the mirror I keep in my bag and showed him his reflection—no reaction.)

Dr. Schwartz: My face looks fine to me.

Tuesday: …Never mind. So, what do you remember?

Dr. Schwartz: Well, I was some sort of researcher. The details are fuzzy, but I remember working to contain something. I worked for some sort of foundation.

Tuesday: Oh, interesting. Like the M.E.G.?

Dr. Schwartz: I don't think so. But I believe my lapse in memory is due to some sort of anomaly. Whatever I was studying… there must've been something wrong with it.

Tuesday: Could be! When did you start losing your memory?

Dr. Schwartz: Since I awoke here, in the swamp.

Tuesday: You must have bonked your head when you no-clipped in.

Dr. Schwartz: No-clipped?

Tuesday: It's, well, never mind.

Dr. Schwartz: Well, regardless, it's certainly possible—however, I didn't have any sort of external injury.

Tuesday: So, you remember your last name and your job… Anything else you remember?

Dr. Schwartz: Not at all. Just that I was trying to research some sort of crustacean.

Tuesday: Like a shrimp? Interesting…

Dr. Schwartz: Where are you from?

Tuesday: Me? I live on Level Eleven, but I, well, I ended up here somehow.

Dr. Schwartz: There are levels to the swamp?

Tuesday: No, it's—it's a bit hard to explain.

Dr. Schwartz: I see…

Tuesday: Do you want to come with me? We can look for a way out together.

(He stared at the floor for a few minutes without answering.)

Tuesday: Doctor Schwartz?

Dr. Schwartz: No. I can't leave. I have to go back to work… I think you should go now.

Tuesday: Well… Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.

Dr. Schwartz: You're most welcome—good luck out there.

The "Administrator"

I eventually wandered into what looked to be a crudely drawn replica of one of Base Alpha's auditoriums. It leaned awkwardly on its side, the swamp slowly swallowing it whole—but on the stage stood a peculiar man. He was a pantomime performer dressed in standard-issue M.E.G. attire. A red knit beret sat atop his head, above a fully painted face. A half-smoked cigarette dangled loosely from his lips as he delivered a crazed lecture in French.

While I'm not fluent in the language, from what little I could gather, he was ranting about a lack of lore consistency. I admit it didn’t make much sense at all.

He claimed to be an administrator, though I had never heard of a man named "Blorb Shitto" being in charge of anything. It was around the time he began brandishing two clearly stale baguettes that I decided it was best to take my leave.

Ulysses B. Donkman

A few kilometers from "Base Alpha", I found a small log cabin built upon the crumbling remains of a Texaco gas station. It stood out from the rest of the structures I had found, as it appeared to have been built intentionally within the level. In this cabin I met a gentleman by the name of Ulysses B. Donkman. I can't quite describe his physical appearance—not because he lacked details but because every time I think back on our conversation, I remember him looking completely different. Unfortunately, my camera was dead by this point, but my recorder still worked. Below is a transcript of our conversation.

Transcript #2 – Ulysses B. Donkman

Tuesday: Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Mister Donkman.

Donkman: The pleasure's all mine, little lady. And please, call me Ulysses, my father is Mr. Donkman. (He laughed like a braying mule.)

Tuesday: Alright, Ulysses, can you tell me anything about this place?

Ulysses: Well, I don't reckon you're talkin' 'bout my home, so I assume you're a'meanin' out yonder. Yeah, I suppose I could shed some light on that now, couldn't I?

Tuesday: So you do know—about the level, I mean?

(Ulysses took out a cigarette, gesturing offeringly to me before lighting it and taking a long drag.)

Donkman: Level? I'm guessin' that's what they're callin' it nowadays. I reckon it's where we all go when the big man is done with us.

Tuesday: I'm sorry, sir, but I'm fairly sure we aren't dead…

Donkman: Now there's somethin' we can agree on, Missy. The real question is what're you doin' here? You seem a bit too put-together for a place like this.

Tuesday: What do you mean by that?

Donkman: Well now, most folks who wash up here got a funny look about 'em. Like a house frame without the boards nailed on. But you? You got some weight to you. Purpose. Someone's still payin' attention upstairs.

Tuesday: Upstairs?

Donkman: Mhm. Big ol' desk somewhere, I reckon. Papers piled up high. Every now and then someone picks one up, scribbles a bit, then tosses it aside again.

Tuesday: I… don't think I understand.

Donkman: Course you don't. Wouldn't be fair if you did.

(We sat in silence for a few moments.)

Donkman: Folks around here, we're the ones that got set down and never picked back up.

Tuesday: You enjoy speaking in riddles, don't you?

Donkman: (He chuckled.) Ain't riddles, Miss Tuesday. Just polite conversation… or the ramblin's of a tired ol' man.

Tuesday: So you're saying everyone here was… abandoned?

Donkman: "Abandoned" is a mighty harsh word. I prefer archived. Sounds more dignified.

Tuesday: And you? You seem more put together than the rest of the people I've met—how long have you been here?

Donkman: Oh, I been 'round a good long while. Had a few good years out in the wide world before I wandered into this bog.

Tuesday: Well, what happened?

Donkman: Same as the rest, I reckon… One day the fellow tellin' my story kinda just… stopped tellin' it.

(He let out an exaggerated sigh.)

Donkman: Nothin' personal, mind you. Happens all the time.

Tuesday: And you're not angry?

Donkman: Angry? Naw. I had my time in the limelight.

(Ulysses tapped ash into an empty coffee tin.)

Donkman: Truth is, I'm grateful someone remembers me well enough to come ask questions.

(He laughed again.)

Donkman: Means I ain't sank all the way under yet.

Tuesday: Under what?

Donkman: The mud, Missy.

(He gestured vaguely toward the swamp outside.)

Donkman: Same mud that's eatin' all them half-built places you been walkin' through. Give it enough time and it'll swallow the folks too.

Tuesday: That's… not very reassuring.

Donkman: Don't fret none. Like I said—you ain't got that unfinished look. Whoever's writin' you's still holdin' the pen.

Tuesday: Well, why haven't you tried to leave. There's plenty of places in the Backrooms better than this.

Donkman: Naw, it ain't time for me yet, not for a lack of want—but I'm doin' just fine here in the meantime. Though, I's reckon you're just about ready to skedaddle from this here swamp, ain't'cha?

Tuesday: You know how to leave?

Donkman: That I do, miss, it's just a skip and a holler down the way—I'll gladly show'ya

Tuesday: Really? That's amazing—thank you! Though I'll feel bad leaving you behind… are you sure you don't want to come? I can show you–

Donkman: That's alright, don't'chu worry 'bout a thing, miss. It'll take more than silly swamp to keep ol' Donkman down. Besides, I reckon maybe I was put here for this very reason, helpin' folks like you finish your story.

Tuesday: Thanks… You're an alright guy, Mister—I mean—Ulysses.

Ulysses and I walked for a good while—along the way he told tall tales of his adventures "back home". Finally we reached an old dirty staircase rising up from the mud like a forgotten monument. At its precipice stood a rusted metal door. The door was embedded in an immeasurably large wall, stretching in every direction as far as I could see. I asked him what it was, and he told me that the entire level was cube shaped, from what he could tell from exploring it. He gestured to the stairs, and with a wink, he told me "Go on now, before the big man changes his mind."[sic] We embraced shortly before I started to climb. At the top, I could make out the word "Save" etched into the peeling door. I opened it and walked in, subsumed by the darkness. And then here I was, back in some random back alley of Level 11.

I'm not quite sure of the point of it all—the swamp, the structures, the uncanny inhabitants—I feel like I'm so close to understanding, yet it's still just beyond my grasp. It reminds me of a quote I once heard:

"Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name."

And I may not know what's really going on at Level 80, but I hope that one day, when I'm all but forgotten, someone will take the time to take note of me too.