#internet cryptid

and it wasn't the pretty, soulless copies of other artists' styles that convinced me of this.

It was the horrific, gory, distressing and disturbing work done by an AI in response to "negative" prompts (ie creating something that is the "opposite" of a set prompt), creating the new internet cryptid "Loab"

Essentially, in generating pictures from negative prompts, the AI started providing eeriy similar and deeply disturbing photos of the same woman, who's since been nicknamed "Loab".

I don't know if she's a hoax, and if she is then the idea that AI can create art can easily be taken back.

Before, many people were like just check the library of the uni or see on a pc there if you have no excess to the journal/book/docu but the travel and time loss rarely seemed worth it to me.

Now, my professor started mailing me asking kiwibes, do you maybe have a pdf of this book. They have it on the uni but I can't go now etc and 5 minutes later I just send them the pdf with a 'here u go 🙃' and this has become regular now and I guess he told other uni people cuz some coworkers have been approaching me with a 'if u really can't find sth, ask kiwibes' as if I'm some merchant npc with obscure merch and I like my reputation and the fact that some of the brightest minds of my uni have to rely on internet pirates when everything falls apart but I also want to share a tutorial with them like 'how to pirate stuff online for noobs'...

But I can't cuz we are an official institution™.

Siren Head, The Bone-Chilling Creation Of Trevor Henderson

In the shadowy corners of internet horror, few figures loom as large—literally and figuratively—as Siren Head. Standing at an estimated 40 feet tall, this grotesque humanoid with sirens for a head is not just a visual nightmare but a sonic weapon. Its creator, Canadian horror artist Trevor Henderson, introduced Siren Head in 2018, blending analog horror aesthetics with cryptid mythology to birth a creature that feels both ancient and eerily modern.

Siren Head’s design is deceptively simple: a gaunt, desiccated body resembling mummified flesh stretched over bone, topped with a pair of rusted sirens. But within those sirens lies its true terror. Siren Head emits distorted broadcasts—emergency alerts, garbled radio chatter, and even the voices of loved ones—used to lure victims into its grasp. This ability, known as audiokinesis, allows it to rupture eardrums, induce hallucinations, and manipulate perception.

Henderson’s lore paints Siren Head as a Patron Saint of Going Missing Without a Trace, a being that stalks the edges of civilization. It’s not just a monster—it’s a metaphor for creeping dread, for the uncanny silence before disaster. Its presence is often marked by electrical interference, sudden disappearances, and a lingering sense of wrongness. Some interpretations even suggest it’s capable of dimensional travel, appearing in different eras and environments like a ghost of catastrophe.

The creature’s mythos has expanded far beyond Henderson’s original illustrations. Siren Head has inspired indie games, fan fiction, and viral videos, becoming a staple of Gen Z horror. Yet unlike traditional monsters, it resists easy categorization. It’s not a demon, alien, or ghost—it’s something else. Something unknowable. Something that shouldn’t be.

What makes Siren Head especially chilling is its ambiguity. Henderson never offers a definitive origin. Instead, he hints at cave paintings, ancient sightings, and cryptic transmissions. This open-endedness invites collaborative lore-building, allowing fans to treat Siren Head as a living myth—one that evolves with each retelling.

Dirt? Moist

Leaves? Cronch

Rocks? Nom