I never thought I'd be the type to mess with creepy internet shit. I'm just a uni student in Sydney, scraping by on instant noodles and too much scrolling. But late one night, buried in the comments of some old Spanian video—y'know, the hood Aussie YouTuber who grills randos on the street about their dodgy life choices—I stumbled on this buried thread. It was one of those "lost episodes" rabbit holes, but instead of glitches or subliminals, it was about him. Spanian. The way he calls everything "poo"—like, your nan's cooking? Poo. A bad tattoo? Absolute poo. Even the coppers nicking him mid-vid? "That's poo, lad." It's his thing, his inside joke with the lads. Harmless banter, right? Except this thread... it wasn't funny. Some anon, username "HoodGhost99," posted about a "ritual" from the early days of his channel, back when Spanian was just a feral kid from the western suburbs, beefing with everyone from bogans to influencers. The post was half-joking, half-terrified: "Heard this from a mate who knew him pre-fame. Say 'that's poo lad' three times in the mirror at 3:33 AM. Lights flicker, and he shows up. Not the YouTube Spanian—the real one. The one who sees the poo in your soul." The comments were a mix: larping edgelords calling it cap, a few "I tried it, nothing happened" posts, and then... silence. No replies after page 3. The thread was from 2022, but it felt archived, like Reddit itself wanted to forget it.I laughed it off at first. Spanian's my guilty pleasure—his vids are poo-gold, that gravelly voice roasting people into oblivion. But 3:33 AM hit while I was doomscrolling, and my flatmate was out cold. The bathroom mirror was right there, fogged from my shower. "Fuck it," I muttered. "What's the worst? A ghost bogan tells me my haircut's poo? "One: "That's poo, lad." My reflection smirked back, all baggy eyes and stubble. Normal. Two: "That's poo, lad." The fluorescent bulb hummed louder, like it was straining. Still nothing. I felt like an idiot, but a chill prickled my neck. The mirror felt... off. Like the glass was breathing. Three: "That's poo, lad." The words hung in the steam, thick as smog. The light popped—not flickered, popped—plunging the room into that sickly yellow from the streetlamp outside. And then he was there. Not in the mirror. Behind me. Spanian. But not the Spanian from the vids, all hyped up and mic'd. This was raw, unfiltered—like a demo tape from hell. He loomed in the doorway, taller than he should be, his trackies sagging low enough to show the waistband of his undies, printed with little cartoon kangaroos. His beanie was pulled low, shadowing eyes that weren't laughing. They were empty, like someone scooped out the spark and left the husk. "Oi," he rasped, voice like gravel under boots. "What's this poo then, lad?"I spun, heart slamming my ribs. "W-what the fuck? How'd you—"He didn't move, but the air got heavy, like the whole flat was underwater. He tilted his head, sniffing the damp tiles. "Your life's poo, innit? That degree you're chasing? Poo. The bird you ghosted last week? Thinks you're poo." He stepped closer—no sound, just the smell hitting me first. Cheap cigs, VB cans, and something sour underneath, like regret fermented in a skip bin. Up close, his skin was wrong: pocked and gray, like he'd been chain-smoking since the crib. But his grin... oh, that grin was pure Spanian. Crooked, knowing. "Say it again. Call it poo. See what sticks. "I backed into the sink, glass shattering under my elbow—didn't even feel it. "This is a prank, right? One of your street stings? "He laughed, but it echoed wrong, like it was coming from the drain. "Poo prank, lad. All me vids are poo now. Corporate poo. Sponsors slinging energy drinks that taste like piss. But you..." He jabbed a finger at my chest, nail yellowed and chipped. It didn't touch, but I felt it, cold drilling into my sternum. "You summoned the old me. The one who smells the poo before it hits the fan. "That's when the mirror cracked. Not shattered—cracked, spiderwebbing from the center like a bullet hole. And in the fractures, I saw flashes. My childhood home in the burbs, Dad's old Ford written off in a ditch—poo luck. That fight with Mum over uni fees, her face crumpling—poo family. The texts I ignored from my little brother, spiraling on ice—poo brother. All my shittiest secrets, reflected back in Spanian's dead eyes. "Call it," he whispered, breath hot on my ear. "Name the poo, and I'll fix it. Make it go. "I don't know why I did it. Terror? Stupidity? "M-my brother's on drugs. That's... that's poo, lad."Spanian nodded, slow, like a priest absolving sin. "Fixed." And the mirror went black. I blacked out after that. Woke up on the bathroom floor, dawn light slicing through the blinds. The mirror was whole again, no cracks. No Spanian. Just a hangover headache and a voicemail from Mum: "Call me, love. Your brother's... he's turned a corner. Came home last night, clean. Said he saw something that scared the poo out of him. "I laughed—nerves, mostly—and hit play on my phone. Spanian's latest vid popped up in recs: "SYDNEY LADS SPILL THEIR GUTS—WHO'S HIDING THE BIGGEST SECRETS?" But the thumbnail... fuck. It's me. Mid-roast, face twisted in that bathroom light, Spanian blurred in the background like a glitch. I tried deleting the app. Tried smashing my phone. But every mirror in the flat? They hum now at 3 AM. And last night, brushing my teeth, I caught it: my reflection mouthing words I didn't say. "That's poo, lad. "Twice so far. I won't look again. But if you're reading this... don't. He's real. And he knows your poo. All of it. Don't say it three times. 

The Poo Lad Ritual