The summer of 2023 brought laughter, sunlight, and vibrant colors across the hills and forests of southern Germany. Children ran through fields, hikers filled the winding paths of the Schwarzwald, and tourists lined up for a taste of the region's famed cherry cake and wood-carved souvenirs. But in the same heart of this beauty, something ancient began to stir—a forgotten horror that had slumbered for decades beneath moss and myth.
That summer birthed a story the world was never supposed to hear.
JilferSturm, a wildly popular livestreaming channel operated by renowned survivalist and adventurer Shawn Jilfer, had been broadcasting wilderness explorations for over a decade. From the arid cliffs of Jordan to the overgrown temples of Cambodia, Jilfer had seen it all. His fearless attitude and encyclopedic knowledge of survival had earned him over 15 million followers, with tens of thousands tuning in for each expedition. But it wasn't just his skill that brought people in—it was the way he narrated danger, the way he made even silence feel like it was holding its breath.
On Saturday, September 9, 2023, Shawn was deep in the southern Schwarzwald—known in English as the Black Forest—accompanied by his loyal cameraman, Max Presco.
Their mission was clear: to uncover remnants of long-abandoned trails rumored to be linked to pre-war logging routes.
The stream that day was titled:
"Journey through the Ever-Mysterious Fog in Schwarzwald."
At first, it was a routine expedition—drone flyovers, commentary on local flora, tracking tips—but then the fog rolled in.
Thick. Dense. Almost sentient.
Around 3:17 PM local time, they came upon a rotting wooden sign, half-buried beneath ivy and fungus. The lettering, though eaten by time and mites, was still legible:
Dämmerwald
The chat erupted.
"Dude, what is that place?"
"Creepy!"
"Bro that's not on any map I can find."
"Go in! Do it for the views!"
Even as the sun began to dip behind the trees, the viewer count surged. From 5,000 to 10,000… and climbing. Shawn, though visibly intrigued, made the call to set up camp and return in daylight. The fog was worsening, the wind was howling, and thunder was already rumbling in the distance.
That night, Max recorded ambient audio on his backup mic. Later, when the files were retrieved and enhanced, there were sounds. Not animal. Not human. Something... humming, deep below the threshold of the storm. Rhythmic and distant, like something echoing through layers of stone.
The next morning, on September 10, a message was posted to all JilferSturm's social channels:
"Wir entschuldigen uns, dass wir euch aufgrund des gestrigen Regens informieren müssen. Es liegt ein Signalproblem vor, weshalb ein Livestream nicht möglich ist. Wir werden die aufgezeichneten Videos später auf unserem Kanal veröffentlichen. Also, bleibt dran. Jilfer out."
Translation:
We apologize for having to inform you about yesterday's rain. There is a signal problem, which is why a livestream is not possible. We will publish the recorded videos later on our channel. So, stay tuned. Jilfer out.
It was meant to calm the fans. But something was already wrong.
The next 24 hours were quiet. Too quiet. No posts. No footage. No signal. No backup uploads.
Until…
5:47 AM, September 11, 2023
A ping echoed across subscriber devices.
"JilferSturm has started a livestream."
At first, there was confusion. Just a blurry feed—dark branches, wet leaves, heavy breathing. The chat trickled in.
"Is that… blood?"
"Where's Max??"
"What's going on??"
"IS HE RUNNING??"
And then, the camera tilted sharply. A glimpse of a face—Shawn's. Ragged. Bleeding. Terrified.
His voice, barely above a whisper, rasped one line over and over.
"Es lebt… Es lebt…"
(It's alive… It's alive…)
His left cheek had deep claw marks. His right eye was bloodshot, possibly ruptured. Mud coated his arms. Something glistened behind him in the frame—too fast to be caught clearly. A shimmer. A silhouette. Gone in a blink.
The viewer count exploded. 12,000… 20,000… 35,000… People screen-captured. Shared. Tweeted. The media caught on within minutes.
Rain fell again. Harder now. Sirens began to echo faintly through the stream—rescue crews mobilized from nearby towns. Shawn, disoriented and gasping, had somehow run more than 6 kilometers—through dense, uneven terrain with no proper trail—all the way to the outer boundaries of the Schwarzwald.
Even as he stumbled, the stream kept rolling. Viewers were now hearing overlapping interference—distorted voices, perhaps even Max's faint scream lost in the static. Some claimed to see faces in the mist, blinking in and out of visibility frame by frame.
At 6:01 AM, his camera finally tumbled to the forest floor, capturing only his muddied boots and the outline of emergency responders as they rushed in. He collapsed moments later, unconscious.
The last thing the livestream showed was a gloved hand lifting the camera, and a rescuer shouting in the distance:
"Wir haben ihn gefunden! Er lebt!"
(We found him! He's alive!)
The feed cut out.
BNN – Berlin News Network
6:49 AM Broadcast – Live
"We're receiving breaking reports this morning of a famed DRH streamer, Shawn Jilfer, also known as JilferSturm, who was found severely injured and in a post-traumatic state near the eastern boundary of the Schwarzwald in Baden-Württemberg. Officials say he is being transported to a local trauma hospital for urgent care. Sources confirm he was discovered alone, though no comment has been made on his cameraman, Max Presco, who remains unaccounted for."
Later that day – Freiburg Medical Institute
Room 207
The fluorescent lights hummed gently above. Monitors beeped rhythmically in the dim light. A nurse, charting vitals at Shawn's bedside, suddenly noticed a shift on the ECG monitor. His heart rate had steadied. His breathing normalized.
Then, his eyes opened.
Wide. Alert. But... distant. As if still watching something behind her shoulder.
The nurse stepped back slowly. Shawn's lips moved.
No sound.
Then one word emerged, cracked and dry like broken glass.
"Max…"
And the monitor beeped into silence again.