Nine hundred and ninety-nine containers is too many. That's a truth I've become convinced of after months of work here. As I walk past one container after another, I think of how many I've myself entered, how many I have documented, and how many I've thereafter completely forgotten. I can recognize many of the numbers, but there are even more vaguely familiar ones. Each container is like its own world with its own mysteries, but in my mind it's all blending together. What even was the number of the one I came here for? Ugh…
It was 718. Container 718, the one in front of me. I inspect the door, and notice a lock, but quickly realize it's not locked. After carefully removing it, I can begin my preparations. I quickly plug my ears with two dirty ones from my pocket, equip a pair of sunglasses—more practical than stylish, and attach my foot to a handle with an intentionally loose knot. With that over, I move routine mental part comprising a few mantras. Fully ready, I finally open the door, hopeful I can resist a Nostalgia Trap if I encounter one.
There doesn't seem to be one.
detailed description, tons of different stuff from everywhere in the backrooms
backbag
body found in container
This would have to be investigated.