The Dark Web Report Button
Before I ever clicked the dark web report button, I witnessed an attack from my bedroom window. There were three witnesses, if you count people who stayed behind their curtains. I know because I could see two other upstairs windows from mine. Lights went out in both while the man in the alley was still calling for help.
I filmed eleven seconds. Then I called the police.
By the time they arrived, the van was gone. They found the man at the end of the alley, badly hurt but alive. I gave them the video and my details. They told me somebody would contact me for a fuller statement.
The message arrived two evenings later from an unfamiliar account on the neighbourhood group: This is being shared. Thought you should know.
There was a still image of the attack and a link. The link led to a page explaining that the footage was on a private dark-web portal. I had to ask a friend to help me open it.
The page wasn’t my video. It was longer and filmed from lower down, near the van. Whoever held the camera had been standing among the attackers.
People were discussing whether the injured man had given them what they wanted. I didn’t understand what it was. One comment referred to his sister. Another said the uploader should remove identifying details before the next post.
Under the video was a button marked REPORT ABUSE.
I clicked it.
The Form
The form looked ordinary. It asked why the upload was harmful, whether I knew the people shown, and whether I had information that could verify my complaint. I wrote that I’d witnessed the attack and already supplied footage to police. I gave the date, the street, and an email address.
A response came within minutes. They asked which side of the alley I’d been on because they needed to match my account to the camera angle.
I answered: Upstairs, facing the garages.
They thanked me and said not to circulate the material further while the report was reviewed.
Then my friend asked why a site hosting that video would care about an abuse report.
Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.
I sent everything to the detective handling the attack. He asked me not to reply again. He said the report might have gone straight to the person who uploaded the material.
That evening I stayed with my sister. A neighbour rang the next morning to say someone had been asking which flat belonged to me. The man said he had a parcel and the label was damaged.
I hadn’t ordered anything.
The police spoke to the neighbour and advised me about the threat. My employer let me work from my sister’s house. I felt embarrassed asking for that until the detective said my email address had been posted in the thread.
Resolved
There was one final message from the portal. It said my report was resolved. The video had been removed.
My friend had saved it before that happened. We watched it once more with an officer, trying to identify the person holding the camera.
Near the end, the injured man looked up. I’d remembered him looking towards the lit windows. He lifted a hand, and the camera followed it.
For less than a second, my window was in frame. You could see my phone held above the sill and the sleeve of my dressing gown.
The officer paused it.
Before I’d completed their form, all they had was a window. I’d given them my name through the email address, confirmed which window, and told them I’d spoken to police.
On the portal, the report status had changed from REVIEWING to RESOLVED at 10:17 that morning. My neighbour’s missed call was at 10:14.
Original horror fiction by J.Dark. Fictional narrator: Tomas Reed, 28. The named submitter and events are fictional. Read more dark web stories or explore the Horror Fiction archive.
