The Ben Drowned's Demise: Haunted Majora’s Mask

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Creepy Legend of Ben Drowned in Majora’s Mask

The night was silent except for the constant whisper of rain outside. Evan sat cross-legged before his old television, the dim blue glow reflecting off his tired eyes. It was nearly midnight, and the hum of his Nintendo 64 filled the air, nostalgic yet unsettling. He had always loved the strange comfort of retro gaming, the simplicity, the memories—but tonight, the air felt heavier, colder.

On the screen, the familiar golden Triforce shimmered faintly before fading into darkness. Then came the title: “The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask.” But something was wrong. The letters were slightly distorted, trembling as if alive. He blinked and leaned forward, but before he could react, the file select menu appeared.

There was only one save file. Its name: “BEN.”

He frowned. “That’s weird. This thing’s supposed to be blank.”

He’d bought the cartridge earlier that day from a yard sale on the outskirts of town. The seller was an old man with a crooked smile and glassy eyes. He had said very little except one thing: “Be careful what you play, boy.”

At the time, Evan thought it was just some dramatic joke, something to give the old cartridge a creepy legend. But now, sitting alone in the flickering light of his room, those words echoed in his mind like a warning.

Curiosity outweighed caution. He clicked on the file.

The world loaded. Clock Town. Familiar music—except slower, warped, like a dying cassette. Link stood motionless, his blank eyes fixed forward. The sky above shimmered red. Evan moved the joystick, and the character began to walk, but the controls felt… heavy. Unnatural. As if something else tugged back from the other side.

He tried speaking to NPCs. None responded correctly. Some turned their heads a full 180 degrees, their faces frozen in grins. Others simply said the same phrase over and over: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Okay, this is seriously glitched,” Evan muttered. He laughed nervously, trying to dismiss the dread rising in his chest. “Guess someone modded this thing.”

He tried saving and quitting, but every time he selected “Save and Quit,” the game froze, the screen filled with static, and a voice whispered—so faint, he almost thought it was his imagination—“Stay.”

He turned off the console. But as soon as he reached for the power switch, the TV flickered back on by itself, showing the same scene. Clock Town. Only now, Link wasn’t alone. Another figure stood beside him—a small child, same green tunic, same hat, but his skin was pale and damp, his eyes hollow black voids, and his lips twisted into a smile too wide to be human.

Text appeared on the screen: “You met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?”

“What the—” Evan gasped, backing away. The controller slipped from his hands. He pulled the plug from the wall—but the screen remained on. The power indicator on the console glowed bright red, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Then, the whisper came again. This time, from behind him.

“You can’t stop now.”

He spun around. The room was empty. The only movement was the reflection of the flickering screen on the rain-streaked window. But when lightning flashed, for a fraction of a second, he saw something standing behind him—a small figure, drenched in shadow, grinning up at him.

He screamed and stumbled backward, heart pounding, breath shaking. But when he looked again, the figure was gone.

“Get a grip, Evan,” he whispered to himself. “You’re tired. That’s all.”

He shut everything down, grabbed the cartridge, and tossed it into a drawer. But when he turned off the lights and crawled into bed, he couldn’t sleep. The melody of the Song of Healing echoed faintly in his mind, over and over, like a lullaby sung by something that wanted him to dream… or remember.

That night, he dreamt of water. Endless, dark water. He stood on its surface, staring into the depths below. And from beneath, a pair of glowing eyes stared back. The child rose slowly, breaking the surface, smiling that same impossible smile. “You shouldn’t have done that,” it said, voice echoing like waves. Then the water pulled him under, and he woke up gasping for air.

For the next few days, strange things began to happen. His computer turned on by itself, displaying messages he never typed. “PLAY AGAIN,” one read. Another: “BEN IS WAITING.” His phone glitched, showing timestamps that didn’t exist. Mirrors fogged up, and in the mist, words appeared: “You can’t escape.”

Everywhere he looked, he saw signs—graffiti on walls, notes slipped under his door, whispers on the radio. The same phrase followed him: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Desperate, he decided to destroy it. That night, beneath heavy rain, he dug a hole in the muddy soil behind his apartment and buried the cartridge. “Stay buried,” he muttered. Lightning illuminated his trembling hands. “You’re not coming back.”

But the next morning, he awoke to the sound of music—the Song of Healing—playing faintly from his living room. His stomach dropped. He ran downstairs, and there it was. The cartridge sat neatly on his table, mud still clinging to the edges. But the label was different now. The words “Majora’s Mask” were gone. Instead, scrawled in childish handwriting, it said: “EVAN’S DEMISE.”

“No…” His voice trembled. “No, no, no…”

He backed away, but his feet felt heavy. The TV flickered on, though he hadn’t touched the remote. The same distorted Clock Town appeared, the sky blood-red, the moon a monstrous grin hanging overhead. His save file was gone—replaced with one word: “EVAN.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” The voice was closer now. He turned—and there stood the boy. Wet. Pale. Smiling.

“Why me?” Evan whispered. “What do you want?”

The boy tilted his head. “To play.”

Before Evan could react, the world shifted. The room blurred, melting away. The carpet dissolved into green fields, the walls into a crimson sky. He stumbled backward, realizing he was standing inside the game. Link’s mask hung on a nearby tree, and the moon loomed low above him, its eyes hollow, weeping darkness.

“No!” Evan shouted. “This isn’t real!”

But the boy only laughed, the sound high-pitched and echoing across the fields. “You took my place. You took my name.”

“I didn’t!”

“You played my game,” the boy whispered, stepping closer. “Now it’s your turn.”

The sky cracked open, revealing a swirling void. Evan felt himself being pulled upward, weightless. He screamed, clutching at the grass, but his hands slipped through it. The last thing he saw before being consumed was the boy’s empty face watching him vanish.

Then, silence.

Back in the real world, the television flickered off. The console powered down. Evan was gone.

Days passed. His friends came looking for him after he stopped answering calls. The apartment was locked, untouched. On his desk lay a single note: “You shouldn’t have done that.” The console sat beside it, plugged in but silent, the cartridge glinting faintly under the dim light. The label read “Majora’s Mask.”

Curiosity got the better of one of his friends. “We should see what’s on it,” she said nervously. They turned on the console. The menu loaded. Two files appeared. The first: “BEN.” The second: “EVAN.”

“He named a file after himself?” one of them murmured.

They tried selecting it, but the cursor wouldn’t move. The screen glitched, flashing red and black, before the game froze entirely. Then, faintly, through the speakers, came a child’s laughter.

They turned off the console and left. None of them ever spoke of that night again. Weeks later, the building’s maintenance worker found the TV on one morning, though no one had entered the apartment. The screen showed a still image: Clock Town, empty, silent, the moon frozen mid-smile. A single line of text lingered at the bottom:

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

They removed the cartridge and placed it in evidence storage. But strange things continued. The lights in the storage room flickered. Voices whispered in the dark. The old security camera caught brief flashes of a child standing near the shelves—barefoot, dripping wet, smiling.

And then, one night, the cartridge vanished.

Rumors spread online. People claimed to find “haunted” copies of Majora’s Mask. Some posted videos showing distorted gameplay, strange dialogue, eerie figures following them. Others swore they heard laughter from their speakers at 3 a.m. Each one of them reported the same thing before disappearing from the internet entirely: a message on their screens that read, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Maybe it’s just an urban legend. Maybe it’s all a coincidence. Or maybe—just maybe—Ben is still out there, waiting. Watching. Smiling. And the next time you pick up a used cartridge, look closely at the label. If you see a name scratched into it, if you find a file you didn’t create, if you hear faint laughter echoing through your speakers—turn it off.

Because some games aren’t meant to be played.

And some children never die.