The Dark Somnium - I Have Been Trapped in Complete Isolation For Years | A Compilation of Scary Isolation Stories

Episode Date: October 16, 2024

Hey everyone! I hope you had a good weekend! here is a compilation of scary isolation stories and stories that i think give off the feeling of isolation. Let me know what story is your favorite and if you can guess which one is mine!00:00 I Spent 14 Days in Complete Isolation48:14 The Lighthouse Project01:25:04 Notes In The Dark01:49:30 Mentality02:03:55 Ashes02:46:32 This is not a Su*cide Note03:13:48 Psychosis Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Day one. All right, this is day one of seclusion for me. My therapist recommended that I get away for at least a week to try and get myself together. He also suggested that I keep a journal of my time in voluntary isolation to keep track of my progress. I'm not entirely sure what this is supposed to accomplish, but I guess we hit a wall in my treatment or something. Between mild schizophrenia, a boatload of other mental ailments, combined with some

less than healthy drug and alcohol abuse, he seemed to think it best for me to get away from the world and just be alone for a time. It might not be too bad out here, if I'm being honest. I've never really hurt for money, so I opted for a nice, private beachfront house rather than some sort of cabin in the woods. I've watched way too many horror movies to think that would be a good idea when I'm trying to heal. It's nice and peaceful out here, and the closest thing to civilization is a small town, some

30 or so miles from here. Of course, that does mean I'll have to take a drive if I need anything, but I stocked up when I passed through there on my way here. I feel like Dr. Samuel has been helping me, and I don't doubt that a little isolation could be good for just about anyone, really. It is beautiful here, though. I can see for miles over the ocean, and the sky is such a vibrant blue today. The breeze feels wonderful, and the sand feels lovely between my toes.

The house itself is gorgeous, and it's fully furnished with all the creature comforts. It even has a full bar, which will make for some peaceful times reading beside the fireplace. Good thing the doc didn't know about that part. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, as far as I'm concerned. I do have Wi-Fi and cable, too, so can't complain there either. I do wonder how that works, as this place is so far removed. move from civilized life. I used to live in the country some years back, and there were plenty of other housing developments

and neighborhoods around, but I never could get Wi-Fi out there, only cable. Still, I can't say I know too much about that sort of thing, and I'm sure not going to argue about the convenience. I think this next week is going to be pretty nice, just what the doctor ordered. Quite literally so. Anyway, that's enough for today, journal. I'm going to enjoy the rest of my day. what little there is left of this one, anyway.

I'll talk to you tomorrow. Day two. I didn't accomplish much on the first day, though I'm not entirely sure what I was supposed to achieve to tell you the truth. It was pretty late when I got here yesterday, and I was pretty much beef from the drive. So I just nursed a few drinks while watching some mindless TV and turned in early. Maybe it's because I'm so used to living in the city, but out here, with no life around, with the exception of the population beneath the water, you hear some strange stuff.

I was buzzing pretty good when I laid down, so it could have just been my swimming head in the waves brushing the shore outside. Maybe it was the seagulls squawking against the emptiness beyond these walls that sounded like laughter in a way. That's what it sounded like in the bedroom anyway. It was like kids laughing, which, combined with the odd tapping sound, made me imagine children quietly running through the hallway outside my bedroom door. I even got up a couple of times to look around, but after a while, I just shrugged it off

and passed out. It could also be that my half-sleeping mind took me back to my apartment in the city, where the brat of a kid upstairs is always hammering his feet across the ceiling. I swear it sounded like he was going to break through and land on my coffee table sometimes. I really need to move out of there. I do sort of wonder what keeps me in that ratty old person. building, to be honest. Like I told you yesterday, I'm not exactly poor.

I could certainly afford something better. I wonder where I put my keys. I thought I may have left them on the dresser at home, but I would have made it hard to drive here. I did drive here, right? Why am I asking you? You're not going to know where I put my keys. I just looked outside.

My car is right there in the parking spot where I left it. I knew I drove here. Weird. I keep feeling like there's something. I forgot to do before I left home. Not like I left the stove on or anything, but I just have that strange, nagging feeling in the back of my head. I should probably take my meds.

My doctor prescribed me dopamine to help with my schizophrenic symptoms. Honestly, the name made me laugh at first. Dopamine. It's like dope of mine. The pharmacist didn't seem to find it as funny as I did when I asked him for the dope of mine, though. The old lady in the line behind me enjoyed it, at least. Speaking of drugs, I wonder if I could score any weed out here. Maybe I'll take a trip to town later.

Though my sleep had plenty of odd interruptions, I still rested well. I actually slept in for the first time and I don't know how long. Having to be at work doesn't exactly allow much opportunity for just turning off the alarm and sleeping until I wake up naturally. I hate the job, too. It's not where I saw myself when I was a kid, you know. I was never the office type. And that cubicle practically suffocates me every day.

Gerald, my uptight douche canoe of a manager, can eat a giant sack of dicks for all I care. He may be solely responsible for my mental state as of late. Well, him and my shit bag of a dad. If you can even call him that. My apologies. You didn't ask to hear my life story and all this complaining. We're here to rest and relax. And that's just what we're going to do.

I do need to look for a new job, though. That being said, I don't even need to work, do I? Why do I put up with that prick Gerald when I could just retire if I wanted to? I've made some strange decisions in my life for sure. I don't know. I'll see you later. I think I'm going to go for a walk. Maybe jump in the water for a minute.

Oh, Christ, the water is cold. I jumped in for like a minute and rushed back out. It's almost busted my leg on the sand too. Well, not that the sand could really bust anything, I suppose. The doctor told me I had a tendency to overreact to little things, but wet sand can really hurt. I took a hot shower after I ran back into the house, which made me feel pins and needles all over. Once my body got used to the heat again, it felt pretty nice.

And I stayed in there until my fingers were wrinkly and pruny. There's a hot tub outside, so I may go out and sit out there later tonight when it gets dark. I'll take my cooler with me too. One cannot enjoy the hot tub experience without one's trusty beverage. I don't know why, but that last line made me laugh a little. You probably think I'm crazy, don't you, journal? But just for that, I'll leave you inside. No hot tub for you, buddy boy.

Hmm, I don't know what I was thinking. There's no hot tub out there. Must be seeing things. I still sat outside and enjoyed the night air, though. There's a boat way out in the water. I can't tell what kind it is from here, but it's probably some sort of yacht if I had to guess. I'd love to own a boat. Maybe I'll buy a boat and quit my job and just enjoy the open sea and tour the world.

Would you like to come along, journal? I don't know how many pages you have and all, but you're pretty thick. I bet we still have a few good years left together. But I need to give you a name, I think. I can't keep calling you journal. That would be like naming my kid. Well, kid. I don't have a kid, though.

I don't think I want children. I think I'd be a pretty bad dad, like my old man. I wonder if he had schizophrenia, too. They say it's hereditary, and that would explain a lot about his parenting methods. I don't think he ever went to a doctor his whole life now that I think about it. I can't speak for before I came along, but I don't remember him going to any. He wouldn't even go to the emergency room after he punched his hand through the living room window. So he just wrapped his hand up and went about his day.

I think it bled for like three days. He was stubborn, that's for damn sure. I didn't know there would be a full bar here, so I bought a six-pack of beer at the liquor store when I drove through the little town a ways back. I went ahead and knocked back all of them over the last few hours, but I dropped the last one before I could finish it. A damn thing landed right on his base. It shattered only on the bottom, which looked cool, to be honest.

I've never seen that happen before. I did empty out most of the beer before it tipped over, but at least I got a good buzz before I let that last one slip through my fingers. I think I'm going to go to bed, journal. It's getting late, and I'm pretty sleepy. I'll think of a name for you tomorrow. Day three. Bob, that's what I'm going to call you.

Do you like it? It's a great name because you can flip it up or down and turn it all around and it still spells Bob. I didn't sleep at all last night. I heard the laughing kids again, and they were certainly not Siegel's this time. It wasn't just the footsteps running through the hall this time either. One of the little freaks pounded on the bedroom door. I jumped out of bed, through the door open, but they were gone.

I went around, turned on every single light in the house. I even went outside and ran around with a flashlight for like an hour. I think someone's messing with me. I bet it's the people on that boat. It does look a little closer today, so I bet they got close last night and cut the lights off so I wouldn't see them. Before I go to sleep tonight, you bet you're at. I'm going to check every door and window. There's an inherent eerieness in kids' laughter, you know?

I think that's why they always have some sort of creepy ghost kid in horror movies. I mean, why anyone would want to have children? I'll never know. You have to be freaked out all the time hearing that stuff. I think I'm going to break up with Becky, Bob. She keeps talking about moving in together, but we've only been going out for like six months. It's a little premature, don't you think? What do I keep asking you questions?

Great, I just asked another one. Well, if you'd actually answer me, Bob, we're both way more screwed than I thought. Maybe I'll get a dog. I had one when I was a kid, so I'm sure I could handle one now. He would always bark, though. Got on my nerves, something serious. He was a big mutt, too. Had a deep, I'll mess you up sort of bark.

Still broke my heart when he died, though. I can't remember what happened, but I remember my dad wouldn't even let me see the body before he buried him. He told me it'd scar me for life if he let me see it. I'm pretty scarred, though. I wouldn't be in therapy and loaded up on drugs if I wasn't. At least he tried, I suppose. Maybe he wasn't such a bad father after all. I think I'm going to go for a drive, Bob.

You want to come along? Actually, don't answer that. You stay right here. I'll be back later. I didn't realize what a hovel that town was when I passed through it on the way here. I stopped and got some necessities. at the grocery store on the ride in, but I don't remember it being as a run down as it looks now.

It looks like the city may have a population of maybe a couple hundred, and half the buildings have boarded up doors and windows. Maybe they got hit with a hurricane sometime back and just never rebuilt. The guy at the counter in the liquor store looked sick too. I didn't even want to accidentally brush against his hand when he handed me my change, so I just told him to keep it. And the guy didn't even thank me. It's strange to see a place so dilapidated and so close to a beautiful place like this.

The air feels so much cleaner here than it did there, too. I'll tell you this much, Bob. If I feel the urge to go into town again, I'll drive in the other direction and see where it takes me. I think I'm going to go take a shower now. I feel gross. Well, didn't get much of a chance to enjoy my shower. Some guy came pounding on the door when I was right in the middle of lathering my hair.

I wrapped a towel around myself, ran downstairs, ready to beat someone's ass if it wasn't something important. Turns out it was the guy who actually owns the house. And he was one strange, freaking individual, too. He was probably at least six foot five, bald as a damn cue ball, and he was pretty pale-looking. You'd think he'd have at least some kind of tan owning a place like this. I invited him in, which felt kind of strange, asking the owner if he'd like to come into his own house.

He asked me if I was enjoying the stay and all that good stuff. I mean, he was asking genuinely concerned questions, I guess, but the way he asked them felt more like a damn interrogation. He just had that domineering way about him. I found myself backing up further into the chair I was already sitting in, all defensive-like. I told him about the noises and that I thought someone was trying to mess with me, but he just said the mind can play tricks with the sounds of the ocean and stuff. I don't know though.

He seemed like he knew something and didn't want to tell me, you know? I wonder if he was just checking in to make sure they were getting to me. I bet he's the ringleader. He's probably not even the owner and just wanted to come lay out the place so he can mess with me more efficiently. Maybe I should have brought a gun. I think I'm going to stay awake tonight. It's been getting dark outside and I keep hearing things.

I could have sworn I saw something out of the corner of my eye a little while ago, but it was just the light reflecting on the TV. I'm not sure where the light was coming from, but it could have just been the sunset. causing light to just pan through the window, like movie credits in reverse or something. Either way, I'm going to check it out. I grabbed a fire poker, since I don't have a lot of options to defend myself with. I could grab a butcher's knife from the kitchen, but I think the poker looks more intimidating if I see anyone out there.

I'll be back in a bit. Keep an eye on things here, will you, Bob? I didn't see anyone out there, but I swear to Christ, I heard the laughing again. It sounded like it was coming from way over to the side of the beach. where it meets the trees. I ran over there and shouted out that I was armed and that I'd kill them, but they just laughed harder. What are they playing at?

Someone's messing with me, I swear to God. The boat was closer, too. It's maybe, I don't know, like 40 or 50 feet from the shore now. The light from the moon was playing tricks with the water, but at first, it looked like an honest-to-god pirate ship or something. I was like, do I even make those anymore? Until I got distracted by the laughing again. It sounded like they were running through the sand right behind me too.

I turned around and of course there was nothing, but when I looked back at the water, the boat just looks like a yacht again. I'm starting to think that the medicine is messing with my head more and more. Doctor told me it was supposed to stop me from seeing things, but it sure as hell isn't doing the trick. I'm going to call him tomorrow. The solitude thing ain't working out, not for me anyway. I'm definitely not sleeping tonight.

I'm gonna catch these guys and make them sorry for messing with the wrong person. Hey, I'll get back to you tomorrow, Bob. They need to think I'm sleeping, so I can't talk to you anymore tonight. Day four. I saw them, Bob. I got one of them across the back of the head with the fire poker too. They were fast for having tiny little scampering legs, but they weren't planning for me to be on guard.

Even though I splattered the wall with the little bastard's blood, he still got away from me. There were like six of them or something. They were all wearing Halloween masks, but they still laughed and giggled like stupid little kids. They screamed like kids too, or at least the one I clipped did. I called the police, and they're on their way as we speak. I'll show them where I sprayed the wall with tiny hoodlum blood, and they'll have to believe me. I ain't got any cuts or anything, so they can't say I just pled myself to sell the story. Sure, they'll try to make some excuse or pretend there ain't nothing there or something,

but I didn't know what I saw. I know what I felt when the iron rod made contact to. There's no way that kid don't have a hole on his skull now. I bet he dropped close by or something. Probably running on pure instinct when I nailed him. Oh yeah, yeah, he's sorry now. He messed with the wrong guy. There's the blue lights now.

Okay, I'll be back, Bob. Figures. Of course they didn't believe me. They even threatened to arrest me if I wasted their time like this again. Yeah, I know it's a long drive to get here, but this is serious, and I'm being harassed. As I predicted, they claimed they couldn't see the blood on the wall, and if I'm being honest, I didn't see it either now. I bet somebody washed it off while I wasn't looking.

Maybe they did know I was awake and hung a tarp up or covered the wall with a thin strip of cardboard or something like that. That's probably it. They set me up. That's why the kid kept running, because he wasn't hurt in the first place. Damn! I know I made contact with something, though. Did I hit the wall?

No, no, no, I didn't hit the wall. I just checked it. There's not even a mark. Maybe the fake blood splatter wall was metal. It didn't feel like I hit metal, but I had a lot of adrenaline pumping too. Maybe it's just a lack of sleep or something. Could I have inadvertently fallen asleep and dreamed it all? It felt so real.

I need to call Samuel. These meds are messing with my head. Maybe I don't really have any mental conditions and he's performing some sort of sick experiment on me, like some sort of messed up social experiment for one of his stupid journals, and I'm just the perfect guinea pig with my background. If he's the one behind this, the pharmacist had to be in on it too. The bottle says dopamine, but maybe it's actually some sort of hallucinogen. I need to do some research on this.

I bet it doesn't even look like the pill I'm supposed to be taking. Oh yeah. Oh yeah, I'm on to you, Dr. Sam. Yeah, they're supposed to be pink. The pills are supposed to be pink, and these ones are green. I knew it. I knew I wasn't crazy. I flushed every one of those pills down the toilet, and I called my lying doctor.

Of course, he claimed that I'm having some sort of episode or reaction to the pills. He even said he's calling someone else in. But I'll be damned if I trust a word he says now. I told him I was on to him, and he told me to calm down and come home immediately, or have someone come pick me up. Like I know anyone who drive all this way to come get me. me. Who the hell does he think I am? Oh yeah, I'm going home all right. As soon as I get there, I'm kicking the shit out of a certain doctor, too. He even had the nerve to bring up my dad.

The last thing I asked him for was a therapy session over the phone. I know damn well it's not my fault. He's dead. The bastard attacked me, and I defended myself. He was the first in a long line of folks who thought they could push me around and get away with it. It's his own fault, really. He's the one who taught me how to use the gun in the first place. He showed me so I could protect myself if anyone ever tried to hurt me. What the hell did he expect when he was the one that tried to hurt me? I was still a kid when he tried pushing me around. I'm a grown-ass man now.

What does my doctor expect to happen now? He's just trying to save his own ass. I tell you, Bob, you better never try pushing me around, or you'll get yours too. I'm sorry, Bob. I got myself worked up and I didn't mean to take it out on you. I let that guy get to me, and it's probably my own fault for trusting him in the first place. Maybe I'll stay out here just one more day. Sure, I haven't been sleeping much, but now that I'm not taking the medicine, maybe my head

will clear up. I think I'm going for a drive, though. No way I'm going back to Tetanistown, but maybe I'll see what's out the other way. It does make me feel better, talking to you though. You may be my only real friend, even if you were just an empty book before I started scribbling in your guts. I've decided I'm not going to kick Samuel's ass either. I suppose intellectuals like him have to experiment on people if they want to make change

in the world, or at least get their name in the history books of mental health and whatnot. Once whatever it is he had me on is completely out of my system, I'm sure I'll be back in the right mindset. Just bear with me, Bobby, my boy. The world seems quieter again, and I think I'm starting to feel like me again, or at least getting there. I'll be back later. Don't wait up.

There's literally nothing out there. Not that way, anyway. I drove for like two hours and didn't see so much as a single gas station. Luckily, my little Honda is economical, but I may have to visit that little town that time forgot if I want to get gas anytime soon. Maybe I should just try to get one of those electric cars. I'm sure I can afford one, if I can afford to stay in this place. Strangely, I can't even remember what I paid for this week.

Probably just my foggy brain coming down from whatever those little green pills were, I'm sure. Oh, some more good news, though. I don't see the boat anymore, so that may have just been another hallucination, or maybe whoever they were decided to move on. Either way, I should sleep better tonight. It's raining outside now, so I won't be spending any time on the beach tonight. I should call Becky. Maybe tomorrow.

She hasn't called me, though. Maybe she's finally grown tired of me. I'll call her tomorrow. No reason to stress or anything like that. Honestly, I'm pretty exhausted. It's been a rough couple of days, Bob. I think I'll turn in early tonight. We'll see you tomorrow, bud. Day five. They cut me. They cut me deep, Bob. They're real. It's not the drugs. God, Jesus Christ, it hurts. I must have been sleeping hard because I didn't even feel them strap me down. It wasn't until one of them bit my thumb off that I even knew they were in the rules. room. I was fighting as hard as I could, but the straps were tight. How did they get them so tight?

They only looked like they were, what, eight or nine years old at most? How could the little bastard's jaw be so strong? There were three of them in the room, and I heard more of them laughing outside the door. Jesus Christ, I can't believe this is really happening. He just got biting off my fingers while the other two were just carving into my chest and stomach with kitchen knives. They didn't even realize I was slipping loose when all the blood that was spilling out of me made it so easy for my right hand to get free. Before the ones cutting me knew what happened, I jammed my fingers into the chubby little biter's eyes.

He started wiggling and flailing around while chunks of my middle finger were spewing out of his mouth. I didn't quit digging in his sockets until he couldn't move anymore. I got them deep in his little brain pan and the lights were out for that little evil shit. The other two were out of the door by the time I got the rest of the straps off me. I caught them though. Oh yeah. Oh, I caught those little surgeons and I showed them how a real surgeon operates. There's bits of them all the way down the hall, and I'm going to leave them there, too.

If any of the ones who were laughing on the other side of the door come back, they'll see what happens when you mess with me. I need to get to the hospital. It's a good thing I'm right-handed. I still have the ring and pinky finger left, though. Good thing the little cannibals didn't start with the most useless fingers on my hand. I'm sorry, Bob, my friend. Oh, Bobby Boy, hey.

It's shock, I think. I think I'm in shock. Bob. I called 911, called an ambulance, blood loss, lots, lots of blood. Oh, so much blood loss, I don't know how much, I don't know if it's just mine. Blood, just blood everywhere. Bloody walls, bloody floor, bloody me, bloody Bob, sticky blood, blood all over. I think, I think I'm going to pass out till the ambulance game.

Day six. It all felt so real. I know it was real, wasn't it? I woke up and it was morning again. I think it was morning. It was light, but it was light when I passed out too. I looked at the calendar and it's the twelfth now. That means it's the sixth day, right?

Yesterday would have been the fifth, so what happened? There's no blood, there's no bodies or the bits of them I left scattered through the hall. My left hand is fully fingered. It just had to have been a dream, but I know it wasn't. Don't hurt. Not really. That's the way it works, right?

I need to get away from here. Maybe it's this place, you know? Maybe there's something in the air or the water or something. Whatever turned that town into Chernobyl's little brothers, you know? Maybe it was a spill or something toxic in the water supply, but it's powerful stuff. I'm packing my stuff and getting the hell out of here right now. First thing I'm doing when I get back is finding a new psychiatrist. If I didn't need one before, I sure as hell need one now.

I'm going to stash you in my luggage until I get back home, Bob. I'll talk to you soon. It's gone, Bob. The town isn't there anymore. Well, not all of it anyway. A lot of the buildings have crumbled as if it's been deserted for centuries. There's not the slightest sign of any life around. I thought I could have driven in the wrong direction at first, but there was nothing out that

way yesterday. I know it was the same town. The more I think about it, I know it wasn't dilapidated when I first drove through it on my way here. What could cause a town to rapidly decay in a matter of days? It has only been days, right? I couldn't get gas. The gas station was in ruins, and I couldn't access any gas that may still lay beneath

the concrete ground. I had to turn around and come back to this godforsaken beach house. I didn't think I would make it. The car was sputtering something awful those last few miles of running on the road. fumes. I can't go anywhere now. I tried to call Becky. She didn't answer.

I even tried to call the dock, but it kept ringing there too. This is all his fault, Bob. First the recommendations to even take this damn trip, and then there was the hallucinogens. I think this was all a trap, all part of his sick experiment. I bet he's watching me now. The house still has power and cable and internet, but the closest town apparently closed its doors, what, a hundred years ago? If I ever get out of here, I'll put good old Dr. Sam through a few experiments of my own.

What am I going to do, Bob? Um, uh, I hear something outside. I hope it's just the waves playing tricks again. I've got to check it out. Jesus Christ, it was a kid. Bob, it was a kid. Not one of the ones from before. He wasn't scary and demented, but he was hurt.

Christ, he was crawling out in the woods, like dragging himself. itself across the ground. I was scared, you know. I thought it was one of the little demon-seed bastards again. I ran to him with my trusty fire poker held high. I was ready to just swing it into his skull, but he just flipped his body over and looked up at me. His feet. Jesus, someone had cut his feet off. I dropped the poker and got down on all fours. He was crying and wailing in pain. I tried to pick him up, but he screamed when I attempted to wrap my arms around his little body. His shirt was covered in blood. I didn't notice at first because of his feet. I lifted his shirt up and had to fight to stop myself from puking all over the poor kid.

His body was all cut up. His intestines were hanging out and his chest had been spread open. I tried to help him. I swear to Christ I did, but I actually saw his heart make its final beats. I watched it stop. Who would do something like that? I brought him inside. I didn't know what else to Dude, I couldn't leave him out there. I know him, Bob. I know his face. I can't remember where I know him from, though. I tried to call the police, but nothing.

I can't stay here. I have to get away from this place. He's gone. I took a shower to try to calm down and clean the blood off. I came back downstairs. Nobody was there. Like no body, no blood from where I carried him in. It was dripping everywhere when I brought him in.

I still see it on my hands, though. I see it dripping on the floor from my fingertips, but the drops don't stay on the ground. It's almost like it sinks right through without leaving a mark. I see it covering my fingertips and dripping down my pencil while I write this, but it doesn't stay in your pages. I went outside, and even the blood trails from the kid's ankle stumps were gone from the tree line. I'm losing it, Bob. I'm never getting out of here. I know that now.

Day seven. I'm not getting out of bed today. No use. No reason. I think I'll just stay here for now. Day eight. I'm going numb, Bob. Emotions are drained.

Mind is slipping. All six of them came in this time. The boy from the woods was there. He was the last one who came through my door. They already had me tied down before he walked in. He still didn't look evil or sinister, and he just watched. He just stood there with his arms crossed and looked on while they cut me apart. His expression seemed no different than if he was watching Curious George.

The masks were gone now, just cute little kid faces smiling down at me like they were playing a board game or drawing funny little pictures. They didn't look hateful or angry or anything, you know. Just looked like children having fun. The same chubby kid bit my fingers and toes off. He looked no more heart. harmless than if he'd just engulfed a whole jar of strawberry jam, and it smeared all over his face.

The little blonde girl scalped me, carved her box cutter all around my head, and just pulled the skin off like it was a wig of one of her dolls. The girl with brown hair, tied into pigtails, clipped off my nose and ears with some head trimmers. She tossed them to the fat kid like she was rewarding her puppy. The two other boys, a shaggy-haired blonde kid, and one with a buzz cut, just cut my my shirt off with some scissors and spayed it open. They smiled at me. It was a genuine sort of smile, you know? It was friendly in a strange sort of way. When they turned their heads back at

each other, they dug their fingernails into my skin. It was like one of those zombie movies where the undead rammed their fingers into the victim's stomach and just pull it open like a trash bag. The kids grabbed my intestines and organs and pulled them out one by one. They tossed them over their shoulders, and they landed on the floor with a splat. All of this was going on at once, Bob. I was scalped, had my nose and ears severed, my fingers and toes chewed off, and my insides pulled apart within minutes. I can't even describe the pain. I had no idea such pain could even exist. I always assumed shock would kick in and block out the nerve endings, block it from making its way back to the brain or something. I felt everything, Bob, every bite, every tail.

air, every cut. All of it. I felt the life drain out of me, and the darkness started to surround me. I was actually glad. I just wanted it to end. No sooner did the lights go out, and I found myself laying there again, not a mark on me. It happened, Bob. I swear to God, it did. I'm leaving here today. I'll keep walking until I can't stand. I won't stay here again. Day nine. I walked all day and most of the night. I ate some of the sandwiches I made for the trip and slept on the ground. I slept for maybe four hours, but when I woke up, I started walking again. This entry may be titled Day 9, but I think it may encompass a few more than just one day.

I already made it through the crumbled town, though there's far less of it remaining now than the last time I pass through it. I think I may be approaching the highway soon. I hear the rumbling of speeding vehicles in the distance. Maybe I can hitch a ride from someone, or that's what I'm hoping, at least. I probably don't look like the most inviting hitchhiker at this point, but perhaps some kind-hearted driver will offer me an olive branch. This will hopefully be my last stop-off before reaching the real world again.

My feet are throbbing, my back hurts like hell, and my supply of sandwiches is running low. My head feels clearer now, and the idea of seeing civilization makes my heart sore quite a bit. Whatever happens from here on out, I'll never go back to that beach again. That's a fact. I think I'm going to break up with Becky too. She wants kids, I think. I didn't plan to ever be a father before, and I'm sure I don't want children now. Maybe this was just some sort of psychological warfare my own brain waged on me to make me realize that once and for all. One thing is for sure. I'm not built for solitude. I can't say I care for people. I'm in general, but I realize now that I at least like to know they're around.

Not far to go now. Day 10 through 12-ish. I made it home, Bob. I never thought I'd see this shitty apartment again. I sat in the bathtub for close to two hours when I got here, just dropped my stuff on the floor and headed straight to the bathroom. I would have showered, but I could barely stand. I walked down the breakdown lane of the highway for three hours before I could convince someone

to offer me a ride. and looked worse than a mangy dog when the truck pulled over to the side of the road. I had nothing left, but the pure joy of seeing my long walk come to an end gave me a second wind enough to sprint to the passenger door of the big rig. The driver was a really cool guy, and he didn't even say a word about the way I looked when I hopped in. He looked like he was likely some kind of weekend biker or something, long gray beard, bandana tied around his ponytailed white hair.

He even wore one of those leather Harley vests. He wasn't planning to drive into the city, but he said he'd get me close. By the time we reached the city limits, he decided to just go ahead and take me the rest of the way. He was a really cool guy, I'll tell you. I offered him a $100 bill for his trouble, but he just waved it off and told me just to pay it forward someday. I definitely have a new outlook on people in general. I'd probably still be walking the highway if he hadn't come along. I think I'm going to keep you around, Bob.

You may be the only thing that got me through last week. Samuel may be full of it, but the journal was a good idea. Credit where credits do and all that. That being said, I'll see you tomorrow, Bobby Boy. I think I'm going to the bar where I can be around people for a while. Day 13? I don't know why I'm still numbering the days now that I'm home. I may just keep it up and see how high the number gets before I get to the last page.

Saying that, though, I'm not entirely sure. sure why I'm so deep into this book already. You're pretty thick, Bob, no offense intended. My last 13 days should logically only take up 13 pages at most, but I'm clearly a good halfway into this journal. Have I noticed that before? It feels like I have. But I strangely have no urge to flip through the first pages.

My head feels a little swimming. I think I'm going to take a nap. I quit my job, Bob. It was a dead end job, and I deserve better than that place. I say I quit, but I just chose not to go in or even call them. Not a great way to end a meaningless career choice, I know, but what can you do? I tried to call Becky again, but she's still not answering. Maybe she's ending this relationship the same way I ended my job.

It doesn't matter, really. Makes things easier in the long run. I do think I'll go see old Dr. Sam today. I've got a few things I'd like to say to him. I'm not trying to get arrested, so I'll keep it civil and all. But screw that guy. All right. Later, Bob.

Actually, I think I'll take you with me. I want to be able to show him what he put me through. I wonder if Mrs. Jacobs moved out. I haven't heard her little brat running back and forth since I got home. I hear someone up there walking around, but it ain't a kid. Maybe things are looking up for me. Jesus Christ, I saw them, Bob. All six of those little bastards.

I was in the taxi on the way to Samuel's office, and they were just playing on the side of the house. and they were just playing on the side of the road. I told the cabby to pull over and let me out, toss them a 20, and ran after them. Did they follow me here? Maybe they work for the doctor. It can't be a coincidence that I saw them so close to the office, right? As soon as I ran at them, they took off down an alley.

They're pretty quick, but I was able to keep up with them. I've got them cornered, I think. They ran into an abandoned warehouse or something, but this is the only entrance. No. No, I'm not going to hurt them, Bob. I just want some answers. Yes, I know it's them. You don't think I'd recognize the brat patrol that filleted me like a fish?

I could really use my fire poker right now. Forget it. I'm going in. No, no, it's not real. This can't be real. I ran in, Bob. All six of them were standing there in the center of the room. It wasn't a warehouse, I don't think.

There was plastic lining on the walls and the floor. It's like that clear plastic stuff, killers. used in the movies to help them clean up evidence and all that? It almost looked like the walls were wooden. I could even see light shining through the splits in the walls behind the tarp. They weren't alone this time. It wasn't just the kids anymore. Standing behind them, like a ringleader, was me.

How can that be, Bob? How could I be there behind them when I was standing right in front of them? Do I have a twin I didn't know about or something? They all had blood dripping from their fingers, every one of them. They just smiled at me with mouths that were way more wide than they should have been. I ran, Bob. I ran out of there and ran as fast as I could back through the door I came in. They all laughed at me when I turned tail, every one of them, even me.

That one kid, though, the one that was bleeding in the trees, the one that just stood and watched while the others tore me apart. I know who he is now. He's Jacob's boy, the brat from upstairs. I'm going to knock on their door. I don't think they live there anymore, but maybe whoever is in that room now could know where they went. The only thing that makes any sort of sense was that this was all in my head. Everything seemed to lead back to that one kid.

This is just a riddle that I need to solve, and I'll bet money on him having the answers. It was a man, an older guy, maybe in his 50s. He walked with a cane, and he looked terrified when he saw my face at the door. He actually just screamed and slammed the door back in my face. I pounded on the damn thing and called out that I needed to talk about the folks who used to live there. He just yelled. Not again. Never again.

And sounded like he had burst into wailing sobs. I think I remember something. I feel cold all of a sudden. My hands are covered in blood. It's all over them. I washed them, but they won't get clean. I think I did something, Bob. Christ, what could I have done?

I won't go back up there again. It's late. I'm going to get some sleep. Day 14. I'm going to see Dr. Samuel. I won't get distracted from my mission this time. I'm starting to remember things, Bob. It's still fuzzy, but I think I know what I've done.

The blood is still on my hands, but it's not dripping anymore. It's just stained my skin, my ruby red hands glaring up at me with their accusing stare. Part of me wants to stall, you know? I know I have to go see Samuel. but I fear I know what will happen when I do, de Javu perhaps. There's something unsettlingly familiar about all of this, but it's time to raise the veil. I know everything now, Bob. I think this may be the last time we talk, at least with this much clarity.

I went to Samuel's office, but it wasn't an office anymore. It's a house. A pleasant little house on the beach. It's not just the house now, though. There's a barn out by the tree. line, a small wooden barn with plastic lining the inside. That's where I killed them, Bob, all five kids. I killed adults, too, mind you.

Some were just for the purpose of keeping my secrets, though. I never took any pleasure in killing adults, well, most of the time anyway. They fight back, you see. They're not as easy, and I didn't feel as powerful when I tried to hold them down. It started when I was a child myself, you know. I convinced everyone that my father was self-defense, but I just didn't like the way he talked to me that day. Sure, they put me in therapy, and I talked for hours and days about how he beat me and

berated me, and I finally had enough. He never did those things, though. He did love me, I think. I think he knew something wasn't quite right with me. He tried his best after my mother died. She was technically my first, but I didn't exactly get the blood on my hands for that one. I just pinched the tube that was feeding oxygen into her cancerous lungs for a few moments. She wasn't long for this world, and I helped her, I think.

Dad never suspected that one, but it broke him regardless. He was suffering, and I'm sure he didn't mean to talk down to me that day, but the damage was done. I almost regretted it at first. The way he looked at me while he was choking on his own blood stays with me to this day. He appeared genuinely surprised, even when I forgot the circumstances. I still saw that. I guess technically, Buddy was the first time I got blood on my hands. His barking kept me awake one night too many, and I just had enough.

I carved him up a good bit. I made sure to clean the knife before I put it back in the kitchen. I don't think Dad ever suspected me of that one either. Molly was the first kid I killed. She was the same age as me at the time. She mocked me in front of everyone, and they laughed at me for weeks because of it. I didn't kill her until the whole thing was forgotten, though. I was smart enough to point the finger away from me.

When they saw what was left of her, they did not suspect that another child could have done something so brutal. Randy came next. He was another one who made fun of me. I cut him up worse than Molly. They thought an animal got to him. Tim and Julia didn't happen until I was in college. I didn't have any good reason for those two. I guess I just didn't like how they looked at me while I was walking past the playground.

The second was a little after my 31st birthday. I had gone a long time in between feeding my impulses, and he just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Becky was the first adult I had killed since my father, well, aside from a couple of people who saw things they weren't supposed to. Those were a necessity and not pleasure, so I don't count them. I didn't mean to hurt her, Bob. She got pregnant, and I had to remove my seed from her.

If she'd confessed her pregnancy to me earlier, it wouldn't have caused her so much damage, I think. She was four months along when she finally admitted it to me. I didn't mean to hurt her. Not really. Gerald was easy. I think I just did him for pure fun. He was an awful and condescending prick, another case of the wrong place for him and the right

time for me, even if it was his own home. I was just driving by when I saw him sitting out in his rear deck in his hot tub. I didn't even know he lived there, but I couldn't resist the opportunity. It was late, and most of the city was asleep. I was the only car on the road, so I didn't even try to hide what I was doing. I pulled over and snuck up onto his deck, drowned him in his own jacuzzi. Finally, Jimmy Jacobs, who kept pounding across the ceiling of my apartment, no matter how much I protested against it.

He was homeschooled and was rarely away from the apartment, so I had to lure his mother away for enough time to take care of him. I paid a bum forty bucks to pretend to be a cop. He told her that her sister had been arrested and that she would have to bail her out. She apparently wasn't the smartest of people, but she ran out of the building, leaving Jimmy home alone. Had I made quicker work of him, she would have been none the wiser when she got home. But I wanted to make an example of what he'd put me through.

I tied him down and cut off his feet with a hacksaw. How was I to know that his mother had run out without her wallet? I was enjoying my work so much that I didn't even notice her coming in. She screamed, and I turned around just in time to receive an entire magazine worth of ammo she fired into me. That's when I met Dr. Samuel, or as I would come to know him as, Samuel the accuser. I still don't fully understand the beach house. The barn I did my work in was abandoned and hidden by the forest. Perhaps the beach is just because I always dreamed of living there.

Maybe it's just that one final insult, you know, seeing my dream turns sour. I understand now why I'm so deep into your guts, Bob. Hell is in repetition. It keeps going back and back and back again. Whenever I find the truth of my horrific deeds, I go back to the beginning. Repetition over and over, a never-ending cycle. I deserve this, Bob. I'm a monster.

I'm well aware of that. Even before I knew who the children were, I wanted to kill them. Even before they started cutting me, I wanted to cut them first. Maybe if it ever gets to the point that I don't want to feel their blood sprang across my face and leaking between my fingers, maybe then I'll be free. Will I, though? Repetition, Bob. I'll be going now, my only friend. I fear I will see you soon.

Do I always call you, Bob? I wonder. Day one. All right, this is day one of seclusion for me. My therapist recommended that I get away for at least a week to try and get myself together. He also suggested that I keep a journal of my time in voluntary isolation to keep track of my progress. I'm not entirely sure what this is supposed to accomplish, but I guess we hit a wall in my

treatment or something. Between mild schizophrenia, a boatload of other mental ailments. combined with some less than healthy drug and alcohol abuse, he seemed to think it best for me to get away from the world and just be alone for a time. It might not be too bad out here if I'm being honest. I've never really hurt for money. In early April of 2016, a study was conducted on the psychological effects of solitary confinement under the influence of lights. It was on a Sunday morning when tragedy transpired for God. At their request, we have omitted the names of those involved who do not wish them included.

He had just sat down with a frothy cup of flat white when the unknown number dialed his phone. Calling from New York State Penitentiary was a prison chaplain who opened the conversation with— Good morning, Mr. Then, indiscreetly, the chaplain did not hesitate to add, I regret to inform you of this. The voice, as Guy describes it, was hollow and absent, but trying to say, It's best to sound compassionate, like an apathetic machine wired to read an empathetic script."

The chaplain continued, "...it concerns your brother. Last night, he unexpectedly passed away in our custody. The remains have been released to a mortuary and must be claimed within 48 hours or disposition must be made, as provided by law." The call was then affectionately ended with... We extend our sympathy for your loss." One day after that, a letter of condolence was sent.

At 3.15, March 13th, Guy's twin had hung himself in his cell, ending a 70-day stretch in solitary confinement. An officer had found his somewhat elevated body motionless and unresponsive. A bed sheet had been used, tied off to a plumbing fixture, death by slow strangulation, very few ligature marks visible on the neck, heavy discharges of vomit from both nose and mouth, summarized in the investigative report. It had been his fourth year of a twenty-five-year sentence for second-degree murder. He had been convicted of killing a woman he was attempting to carjack.

My little brother had issues. I've always known that. Guy fought back the quivering tones in his speech and paused to wipe his eyes. We had just graduated high school when our parents passed from a car accident. They were both killed almost instantly. We had no aunts or uncles, no trustworthy relatives. We just had each other. We got mixed up with bad people.

They got in his head and let him down a bad, very crooked path. I gave him all the help he needed. I did. It wasn't enough to steer him from that path, but I never gave up on him. After every phone call, every monitored visit, I told him I'd always be here, waiting for his sentence to clear. Guy also had this to add. I know that I'm not alone in my belief that solitary confinement is a lot of my belief that solitary

is a monstrous punishment to inmates. My brother had a history of mental issues. He should have been in a hospital, not a prison, let alone an isolated lockup. I believe we've forgotten what it means to correct bad behavior. Torture can't force a broken mind to repair itself. It only forces the mind to behave. That is not a solution or correction. It's cruelty."

Officials from the penitentiary maintained that there was little to no concern that the inmate had been planning to take his own life. Had it been the case, he would have immediately been transferred to a mental health unit. Faced with the cruel separating agent of grief, Guy turned to his research for comfort. He knew the extinguishing solitary confinement was unlikely considering its worldwide practice, so he instead focused on an alternative approach. His proposal? To capitalize on the benefits that seclusion does have for inmates, while also applying a more humanitarian method to their improvement. His work brought him to an isolation chamber, constructed within a former nuclear bunker, somewhere

off the outskirts of Hempstead, New York, a keepsake of the Cold War. After weeks of lengthy meetings, countless emails, and frustrating phone calls, guys' preparations were complete. For the next two weeks, he would lock himself inside the six-by-eight space, trapped between the cement walls and all-encompassing darkness. I needed an environment as authentic as possible. Guy explains at the outset. I found myself drawing a lot of inspiration from the hole on Alcatraz Island, a pitch-black,

tight space without any human contact. Granted, not all isolation cells have these severe conditions, but if we can still produce positive results from the worst treatment possible, imagine the success from less harsh conditions. Start from the bottom and work your way up to the top. The room was equipped with a refurbished toilet, up-to-date ventilation, a metal bed frame, and a small table. Bolted atop the table was a lantern fitted with a bulb that could be changed to different colors via remote control.

I have a very loud mind and vivid thoughts are always trying to squeeze their way out, Though there's no doubt the sensory deprivation will take a huge toll on me. That is where the light will come into play. As it changes colors, my reactions to those different colors in my mind will be noted. Colors stimulate the brain. There's a real psychology here. I hope that the changing colors will act as a tether that will allow my senses to cling on to something and will perhaps help me manage and endure my time in there with minimal

negative effects. Thus, Guy dubbed this experiment, the Lighthouse Project. The ones overseeing the experiments, handpicked by Guy himself, were Ronald Westbrook, a retired clinical and forensic psychologist, Victoria Wick, a therapist specializing in PTSD patients, and Brian Rexford, an independent radio psychologist. To protect the privacy of certain individuals, their names and identifying details have been changed. Though each came from a different background, they were all equally fueled by discovery and Guy's compelling determination. Together, they agreed on their joint schedules and varying

night shifts to observe Guy's behavior and safety throughout the test. They'd be stationed in a separate room, rigged with different screens, and connected to night vision cameras within the chamber. Internal audio would also be fed to them by the recorder Guy would have on person the entire time. Other than documenting and supervising the experiment, they were also to follow another important instruction. Do not, under any circumstances, stop the test. No matter what is said, screams, or begged, the door will remain locked until the experiment

is complete. The only exception being if a hospital is needed. Before being taken to his cell, Guy partook in several psychological tests and interviews to to examine his mental capacity of taking part in the project. He'd take with him a month's worth of military food packets, drinking water, toilet paper, and batteries for his recorder. When asked if he'd prefer a set of different sheets, Guy declined. With everything now in motion, the door was locked, the lights were cut, and the cameras

were activated. Day 1. Incarceration. Guy spent his first ten minutes in absolute darkness, lying. lying on his bed. Every so often he makes a popping sound from his mouth. Minute by minute the popping becomes a hum and then graduates into a whistle as Guy taps his foot impatiently.

After the 30-minute mark, he records his first log. Day 1. 040116. Audio log, 30 minutes inside. What a bizarre feeling. My hand is an inch in front of my face and I can't see it at all. It's pitch black and dead quiet in here. I'm not even sure what to say at this point.

I want to hear something other than my breathing bouncing off the walls. Four hours pass. Guy takes to wandering around the room, appearing to count the number of steps it takes to reach each wall. The result, not very many. Day one. Audio log. Four hours inside.

It's getting cold in here. I should have brought a heater or something. with me. I've already lost track of how long I've been here. Maybe that's a good thing. I have to say, this is the worst hotel I've seen. The service is God awful. Room service, anyone? Guy, to his credit, forces a smile for the cameras and masks the ever-growing anxiousness with humor. But, as the passages of lightless time stack up, his mild uneasiness begins to shift into paranoia. Day 1. Audio log. Seven hours inside. Beckling on this thing. Is it even working? I've said I'm cold three hundred times now,

and it hasn't changed a single degree. The blanket isn't helping that much. At least give me a sign that this piece of junk is working, all right? A knock, a tap, anything. Throw me a bone here. He sits with his legs folded on the bed and tears open the first meal packet. He eats it slowly as though to savor the taste and the new sauce. sensation it brings. Perhaps he's waiting seven hours to experience something new in the room's unchanging pitch before it becomes repetitive. It isn't long until Guy takes to pacing the room to each of the walls. The audio captures possibly an old conversation he recounts with someone

under his breath, plausibly his brother. It's not unusual. Rexford explains. Animals do the same when you place them in confined quarters. He's anxious. and trapped and bored, and pacing provides input in his life, builds a mechanism to cope with. Eventually, Guy crawls into bed and tries to rest. He manages to fall asleep for 10 hours straight, tossing and turning relentlessly in his sheets. When he wakes, the realization takes a moment to dawn on him as he rubs his eyes and tries vainly to get his vision back. He falls back into his pillow and sighs loudly. As an entire day passes in the chamber,

The adverse effects of his sensory deprivation begin to intensify and become especially more evident in his eighth log. Day 2. Audio log. 30 hours inside. They're everywhere, aren't they? All over the grainy darkness. There's so many of them.

And spindly shapes are floating around me. I'm hallucinating. I think they are organic. Spores. Swarms of them all over the place. What day is it? Can anyone hear me up there? I said, I'm hallucinating.

In view of this, he waves around both hands, sifting his fingers through the invisible objects his mind was manifesting. Before long, he claims to start hearing music in the corner, even snapping his fingers to the non-existent rhythm. For the remainder of the second day, the researchers take note of every hallucination guy experiences. Visual. A kite on the wall. Blooms of jellyfish. Spores. A. Gray Cat. Auditory. Static from a radio. A. Piano's G. Major. In coherent whispers. In the early a.m. hours of his third day, submerged in darkness, Guy reaches the threshold of his sanity. At 6.53 a.m., he is sitting against the wall,

his face buried in the crevice between his knees. Suddenly, with a.m., with a.m., the slightest portent of warning. He chokes out a gasp and flings himself desperately to the wall. He crams two fingers in his mouth, prodding desperately at his throat as he vomits profusely into the bowl. Day 3. Audio log. 72 hours inside. Right down. Oh, shit. Something poisonous is inside me. So I'd write down my throat. Will I die? Will I fill up with mushrooms? No, no, no, no. I don't want to do this.

I want out. Shut it all down, okay? I don't want to be here anymore. Judging by his panicked utterance, he seems to believe he has swallowed one of the spores. The silver lining behind Guy's severe episode was that it acted as the perfect gauge for the experiment's next step. Now that the deprivation and quarantined blackness has successfully pried away at his resilience, it is time to administer the treatment. In the next instant, the lamp, which was bolted atop the table, lights up. Due to Guy's eyes most likely being weakened from his time in the same bleak enclosure,

the white glow only shines as a dim, pale hue at the back of the room. At first, he backs away from it, his expression trapped behind pure shock. It seems that he's completely forgotten about the lamp's existence until now. A glint of joy shimmers across his face. Slowly, he approaches the table and gently rests his head over it. Nothing is said, but a distant muffled sob can be heard. For the remaining duration of the test, the bulb will shift its soft glow into a different color every eight hours or so.

By reintroducing Guy back into the light, the overseers hope to negate his long days without stimulation and, in a sense, guide back his rationality. To fit their increasingly differing schedules, each overseer agrees to assign themselves a particular color to monitor. Light exposure effects rating. 1. Westbrook. Green.

Subject's anxiety and overall mental tension have lessened considerably. His appetite has returned. Good. 2. Rexford. Yellow. Guy seemed uneasy about the room changed. changing color at first, but he seems to be over it. Yellow, being a bold, energetic color,

tends to support happy thoughts and optimistic thinking. We especially see this in his recent recordings. 3. Rexford. Blue. The compulsion to anxiously pace disappeared with the addition of blue. It looks to be making him tired. He spent most of the time sleeping during the exposure. At least his circadian rhythms seems to be getting back on track. 4. Westbrook Purple. Subject has a strong aversion to the color purple. He started complaining, growing progressively more restless, possibly an emotional situation from the subject's pass, claims the walls are moving.

The color was not active for very long. 5. WIC. Red. After looking over Guy's reaction to the purple light, I was especially nervous about what would happen with the color I chose. It didn't dawn on me at the time, but I soon realized that the only red-tinted rooms I could think of were from horror films. But his response has been a positive one.

He's more active now, even performing different exercises and physical activities in the small space. Although he's been lying in bed for some time now. Day by day, Guy, who has previously been screaming about swallowing hallucinations, starts to act like himself again. As the positive effects become more tangible, the light reveals their restorative power over his mind. In the early morning of the seventh day, as Guy stirs in his sheets, something else appears on

camera. Small, white, furry, with a pointed, twitching nose. A mouse scurries along the wall, apparently granted access to the room by way of an unchecked crack under Guy's bed, possibly even led there by the leftover crumbs from his food packets. It lets out a chattering sound, which immediately catches guy's attention. He takes a moment to register the sound before hearing it again. In a split second, he jumps to his feet and twists his neck all over the place to find the tiny creature.

By the time he spies its sharp movement, it has already crept past him and into the hidden crack. After the discovery, he deliberately starts to leave pieces of food under his bed. A newfound habit develops, where he lies along the cold. floor, constantly checking to see if the mouse has returned. While Guy's intentions are unclear, Rexford shares his thoughts in his report. I highly doubt Guy was going to hurt the thing. He is locked in stasis right now, in a room that never changes, save for the alternating lighting.

It's been a week now, and we've seen a lot of improvement, but it's far from a full recovery. The mouse triggered something for him, a reminder that there was something else other than four walls in a toilet. It's a little piece of life for him to hold on to. As many attempts as Guy makes, there is still no sign of his mouse lure working. Throughout the next few days, Guy's overall temperament begins to shift. In spite of the light and the recuperating stepping stones he's taken, paranoia starts to raise its way back, like a contaminating spill of oil. Day nine, two hundred and sixteen hours inside. They've forgotten about me, haven't they?

Forgotten about the test. I shouldn't have trusted them as I did. At some point, my food and water will run out. What then? I'll all disappear. What else? It's torturers. Lock me up and throw away the key.

Are you all still taking notes? Day nine. Two hundred and eighteen hours inside. I don't want to see these four walls anymore. Every crack. Every ancient smudge is leaving a permanent stain on my memory. Is that what you had to see? Is this the hell you lived in?

I don't want to sleep on these greasy sheets. I don't want to eat this dry, tasteless food, drying like sawdust on my tongue. Here is where I'll die. Where not even God will hear me out there. That pressure, drilling right into my temple, it's been coming back more frequently lately. Sometimes I think the walls are moving.

When I close my eyes, it feels like I'm underwater, traversing invisible depths nobody cares about. My room is shrinking further now and then. Sooner or later, it's going to crush me. Day 9. 224 hours inside. I need to move. Walk around a while. The valves in my legs are starting to swell from not moving.

It's like hell. I need to stretch them, but I can't. I can't leave the bed. I can't because I don't want to. When I start to stand a bad feeling gnaws at me like an overwhelming premonition, whatever it is, don't move. For the love of God, don't move. Something is at risk of being stimulated.

The pressure is worse than ever. It isn't leaving this time. Even the air feels different. Every breath leaves an accurate. taste in the back of my throat, as though I'm sharing the air with a different mouth." Even with his growing protest to leave the confines of his bed, Guy finally succumbs to the stabbing pangs of hunger. He crawls, cautiously, out of bed, and swiftly moves to his supplies.

As he reaches for one of the packets, he immediately jolts and stops, winding around in a fury. He retreats to his bed and grabs the recorder. Day 9, 230 hours inside. Gone. Dorn to bits, my food. I can't, I don't... What happened?

Guy has discovered that five of his once sealed food rations are torn to shreds, nod open, the flexible pouched packaging gutted by some unthinkable means. With the lack of any footage, the researchers deduced that mice were the most likely culprits. If one had found its way inside, what was to stop more from sneaking in and raiding the unguarded stash? Although it is unexpected, there is still plenty of food left untouched to make due until the experiment's final days. A day, Guy's rattled mind has transfigured into fiction by now. His already withered nerves are shot, so Guy's refusal to leave the safe boundary of his bed is only magnified. The soft light draped over the table is not providing even a sliver of comfort.

Unsurprisingly, he can no longer fall asleep. Some time later, between the hours of 3 and 4 a.m., a scream resounds in the chamber. The cameras reveal Guy scrambling backwards, pressing the small of his back firmly against the wall, with his eyes bulging and his fingers hooked into his chest. Day 10. 240 hours inside. I heard something. Something wrestling about. And then a growl, a horrible growl.

I'm all hallucinating. No, I'm not. There was a growl. There's thick. There's a potent, rotting taste in my mouth. Something was theirs. Something was watching me. The captured audio does not interpret Guy's growl,

but the feed does suffer a few stuttering distortions in particular. particular places. As the next sluggish roll of hours passes, Guy complains frequently about a growing sickness he feels. The increasing hidden pressures, the thickening rot in the air. The tension builds until his body ultimately demands to purge itself. He gags, covers his mouth, and then recklessly bolts to the toilet. When the vomiting sound stops and the shaking in his legs ceases, he finds the strength

to stand up and return to the safety net. of his bed. Suddenly, he stops. The already fleeting color drains from his face. His hands quiver nervously, pinned to his sides. A lingering thread of bile runs down his chin. The team begins to worry he is having some sort of stroke. Luckily, his motor skills return to him as he falls backwards in a series of chaotic steps

and collapses in the opposite unlit corner of the room. He sits there for some time. Eventually, he searches for his device and presses a trembling finger on record. Day 10. 245 hours inside. I'm not alone. There's something here. I felt it just now standing a few inches from me.

Why? I see nothing, but it was there looming over me, waiting for me. Adopting the shaded corner as his new found security, Guy does not return to his bed. or the light blanketing it. Even as the bulb alternates from different colors, none of them spur a different reaction. He merely sits there, staring into unoccupied spaces, and craning his neck as though seeing something. Day 10, 248 hours inside. There is movement. I'm sure of it now. I'm no longer alone. But what are they? Ghosts? No. Too active. At first, I thought the wall.

The walls were moving, but I was wrong. It was the light that was moving as they passed through it. The darkness is properly marinating my brain to see them. Sometimes vague silhouettes, sometimes textuous shapes, sometimes shifting and then reshifting moments of motion. Molar against molar, scratching nails on the floor. They are drawn to the light, moving only where it touches. hiding in it like a blanket. I don't think they can see me. Not yet.

One notable piece of footage reveals Guy making a poor attempt to reach his food and water rations. His head scans the room in a back-and-forth motion as if checking that the vacant coast of space is clear. Slowly, he drifts back into the reaching glow, inching closer to the supplies. When he is nearly there, he freezes. He turns his head towards something the camera can't see, something under the bed. After a moment of staring, he aborts the mission in a mad sprawl and retreats to the shadows of the corner. Day 11, 265 hours inside. I saw a mouse under the bed, ficking at one of the scraps I left. Then it started screaming and squirming all over the place. Blotches of blood were left where it rolled. Then it stopped and it started to float,

as though it were caught on something's invisible jaws, digging into it, opening it up, entrails dangling like wet ribbons. I'm not safe. Day 11, 273 hours inside. I know how they're getting in small spaces in the room. I want to call them pockets. They squeeze their way in. The horrible stench returns.

They squeeze their way out. I think I know where the pockets are. are two. One on the ceiling, one under the bed, one on the left wall. They're everywhere, getting more and more numerous, getting louder. Of how many now, I have to stay away from the light. It will only make me easier pray. Please, if you can hear me, turn off the light. The visual hallucinations haunting him only grow worse from there. Every audio log received grows primarily more fearful about the unseen things coming in and out of the room, while there are no remains of a mutilated rodent found under the bed, signs of discoloring

on the floor are present. Despite the three hellish days he has spent in the dense, unlit veil, Guy refuses to leave the shelter of that corner. The light, which had previously hoisted his sanity back, was now what he avoided. What should have nullified the others appears to only intensify it now. As though summoned by misfortune, The researchers face an anomaly they did not prepare for. Both the cameras and Guy's recorders begin to malfunction. The stuttering audio distortions from earlier worsen, what sound does manage to leak out of Guy's device is corrupted with hisses of static and delays.

Unable to fix the issue, they are forced to make a decision. End the experiment early and collect the accumulated data, or follow Guy's original instructions and proceed to the final day. With two in favor, Westbrook and Rexford of continuing, and one opposed, WIC, the decision is made to endure until the 14th day. Even if the audio is no longer functional, there is still plenty of visual input to extract. Guy's mannerisms only continue to deteriorate. He no longer sleeps or forms an effort to reach the food and water, let alone even use

the bathroom. Instead, he takes to urinating and defecating in the opposing ill-lit corner. Piles and pools of his excrement gather there, like the accumulating waste of caged animals. Things were bad. Rexford shares from the following interview, We honestly should have stopped and packed everything up then and there, but we had precise instructions to see it to the end. There was one night Victoria and I were working together. I remember stepping out to get some fresh air and coming back to her gasping. Her hand cupped over her mouth in shock. I quickly checked the cameras and saw exactly what had her horrified.

Guy was digging into his excrement and smearing it over the wall. At first I thought it was nothing but a smothered mess of unintelligible garbage. But then I saw exactly what he was writing. They everywhere turn off. light. After that, Victoria wanted nothing further to do with the experiments. She told us she was done being party to torture. Westbrook was also losing the amount of time he could give, so things mostly fell on my shoulders.

I didn't mind it much. I wanted to be involved. I wanted more than anything to see the success of the experiment. With two days left of Guy's confinement, Rexford takes it on himself to make the final push. I was trying to think of a way to ease him back. into the light, so I thought of a plan. Little by little I was going to amp the lantern's voltage until the room was nothing but light. No more dark corners for him to hide in. To set his plan in motion, Rexford starts by amplifying the soft blue hue within the room. The lights begin to

lick up the walls and climb over the bed. Guy quickly takes notice and noticeably shrinks further back. He tries to protest vainly, according to a recording of garbled fift. feedback. Day 13. Three hundred and fifteen hours inside. Farnty! Ignoring Guy's clear objection, Rexford shines the light more strongly as it inches closer, burning away the shadowy blankets of Guy's position.

In a desperate, animalistic effort, Guy resorts to slamming his fists against the locked door, clawing at it fruitlessly with his nails. Simultaneously, as the last shade of his protective layer evaporates away, Guy makes a mad dash toward the lantern. With a desperate flail of his fist, he punches it, shattering the bulb in an eruption of glass, like an aerial firework shell. As the darkness once again overlaps the room, and with adrenaline still racing through his system, he grabs handfuls of broken shards and shoves them in his mouth.

The corrupted bits of audio still capture the sound of sharp bits breaking between his teeth. immediately abandons his post and rushes for the chamber. He opens the door to find a room with protein-stained bed sheets, hieroglyphic feces on the walls, and their test subject collapsed over the table. The smell took me out of it. Rexford comments, an amalgam of different odors, composites of sweat, urine, feces, blood, rotting, and other questionable smells I don't care to describe. I tried to block it out. The last thing I wanted to do was vomit as I pulled him out of there.

He was sputtering something to me while spitting out globs of blood and broken glass, something about his back burning. When I checked it for him, I had no idea what I was even looking at. Bruises, hand-shaped bruises all over him. Wednesday, April 13th, at approximately 9.05 p.m., Guy is taken to Nassau University Medical Center, where he receives several stitches for his hand. and also the loose flaps of tissue in his mouth. He is constipated, running a fever, severely dehydrated, and malnourished.

When examining the peculiar bruises lining his spine, Dr. Marion Cobb asks if Guy has been assaulted. When told no, he shares his thoughts. In Vietnam, we referred to unexplainable bruises as ghost bites, marks that appear without injury and have no business being there. It could run the risk of an underlying medical problem or even a risky blood disorder. We'll perform a complete blood count for any irregularities." He added, skeptically, However, if that is the case, I've never seen any this prominently shaped before.

The blood tests came back normal. As Guy recovers from his time in the bunker, he repeats the same series of tests and interviews he took before his incarceration. The tests to do with his memory showed the edward. been impaired. He struggles with even the slightest question and takes 65% longer to complete each task. While admitted to the hospital, he is adamant that the nurse keep his room light off. As for the aftermath of the project, New York College journalist David Saxon, after months of evasion, is able to conduct a short interview with Guy on the first sunset

of August. He goes on to describe the house where the exchange took place. It was dark, not so much as a flicker in any other rooms. All the bulbs were screwed out of everything. Even the windows were spray-painted black. When I asked if the lights from our camera would be acceptable, he hesitantly agreed. The reporter added, From what I could see, Mr. looked very tired. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pale, like the pigment was being sucked right out of him.

Here's the description of the experiment as written on your website. an effort to diminish the harrowing effects of solitary confinement through the use of light manipulation. Yes. You've since retracted that statement. Why is that? Isn't it obvious? The result was not the one I wanted. Right.

In hindsight, do you think that you underestimated what two weeks in the bunker would be like? Perhaps. In the beginning, I thought that I had taken every precaution imaginable. I believed my mental fortitude could overcome any obstacle. I was wrong. If you're comfortable enough to answer, I'd like to ask you more about your time in the bunker and about the hallucinations you experienced. Oh, yes, there were countless hallucinations in that place.

Animals, toys, cars, music, you name it. But that isn't what you're asking about, is it? Well, no. I was referring to the things that killed the mouse. I can't tell you how many nights I've spent praying that what I witnessed in that place was a simple fabrication of the mind. But it isn't that complex. A light was on in a dark place, and something took a liking to it. For a time, I believed what I saw in there wasn't real.

That was until I started seeing them at home. Things rustling around, doors cinching open, nails raking the kitchen tiles, looking for me. Is that why your house is so dark? I'd like to ask you something now. Do you have any kids at home? Huh? Yeah, I have one with another on the way. Why do you ask?

Do they sleep with the nightlight? What is the relevance with that? You may want to tell your friend to turn the camera light down. They followed me home. Hopefully they don't follow you. What do you mean by that? No further questions are answered. December 28th, 6 p.m.

I'm not sure how long humans are supposed to stay sane without human interaction, but I've been doing all right so far, I think. The silence is much worse, anyway. The initial shock of it all was extremely unnerving, though. After the panic attack and near mental breakdown, I sat down determinedly. and started recording what I knew about the whole situation. Observation 1. Almost all living organisms in the city have vanished overnight. People, animals, and insects are all gone.

I'm not sure about microscopic organisms yet. The only other living things left behind are trees, grass, and most other plant life. I'm not sure how flowers and such will survive without other living organisms aiding them and pollination and such. I'll watch and see. Observation 2. Everything else seems to be as everyone left it. Cars are still in their driveways, and some doors to houses are open as if someone just

stepped through the doorway. Observation 3. Electricity is not running. Phone lines and the internet are not working. Street lamps are dead. Phone lines just beep, and browsers greet me with dead webpages. None of my contacts are responding and my phone won't charge. It's practically useless now.

Luckily, the tape recorder I'm using to record this only takes double A batteries, so I should be able to keep it going for a while. Observation 4. The sun did not rise this morning. Does this even count as morning? It's been at least nine hours since I've woken up, and it's remained pitch black outside. The sky is still completely covered with clouds, so no sense. Stars and moon can be seen.

Observation 5. The wind is gone. I haven't felt a breeze kiss my face or heard the rustling of a gust through the branches since I woke up. The weather is showing no signs of changing. Observation 6. There is no sound. No birds or crickets chirping.

No engines rumbling. Nothing. The only sounds are the ones made by me. It all sounds much louder than it shows. My footsteps on gravel, my breathing, the sound of my voice in this room, ringing in my ears, and the drumming of my own heartbeat. I can feel it in my head. It all seems so wrong.

I want to shrivel up inside myself and just disappear. The only thing keeping me sane is this watch. Thank God that it's digital. I would lose my mind from the analog ticking. And I can never forget my trusty flashlight, making this all possible. I would be stumbling in the dark, if not for it. I'll look for some batteries later. I can't risk it dying.

I think I'll spend the rest of this night gathering my things so I can explore outside the city limits tomorrow. I don't know if this is some kind of sick prank, emergency evacuation, or mass alien abduction, but I will get to the bottom of this. Tuesday, December 29th, 7.33 a.m. Last night I went to bed. I had tried to, anyway. My heartbeat was so unbearably loud, and I was hyper aware of my bodily functions.

The sounds of swallowing saliva, my breathing, snoring, and the worst of all, my heartbeat, the constant drumming in my head. All of my things are packed. I filled my car with various foodstuffs from the local supermarket as well as batteries, lots of batteries, some portable lamps and more flashlights. I don't think that counts as stealing. Normally, my conscience would bother me, but right now I'm actually feeling good about this, excited even.

It feels good being prepared. I have this all planned out. I've got some spare tires in the back, some jumper cables, and first aid, and I could always hop into someone else's car, if need be. That dread of yesterday seems to be gone for now. The nearest town is about 58 kilometers from here. If I drive at a safe speed of 30 kilometers per hour, I should arrive in two hours, more or less. 9 p.m.

So it turned out that this town was empty as well. No lights, no sound, no wind, nada. The sky hasn't cleared yet either. I'm starting to wonder if that's even cloud cover up there. It's impossible to make out. Anyways, I found a place to stay for the night, a little three-bedroom house. My heart sank as I walked by their empty dog kennel. He reminded me of Lady.

Waking up yesterday without her sleeping at my feet was bad enough, but when she didn't respond to my calls, it filled me with dread. It wasn't long before I realized she was truly gone. Her and everyone else. It broke my heart to leave home. All I have left of her are my memories and her squeaky bone. I'll keep it in my pocket from now on. I spent some time searching this place, not really for supplies, but to learn more about the family.

The framed photos around the house led me to believe that a family of three once lived here. It brings back memories. I should have spent more time with them. On this very desk sits a small photo of them together, all three dressed in white shirts and grinning at the camera. It made me smile. It's not human interaction, but it's better than nothing. I put the photo in my pocket.

Earlier, I went out looking for a loudspeaker. It's no use searching every single dark house, so I drove through the town and called out for people through the loudspeaker. I should have worn earplugs or something. My ears were not prepared for the sudden noise. Now my ears are ringing even louder than before, and it was all for nothing. There were no signs of life. During my search of this bedroom, I found a handgun under the bed.

I haven't identified any danger out there, but it's better being prepared anyway. I don't know much about guns, but I know enough to be able to shoot and load one. My dad showed me once when I was younger. Funny how those memories fled back to you after you lose the people you shared them with. The gun is fully loaded. I hope I won't have to use it. Wednesday, December 30th, 9.26 AM. I'm no stranger to sleep paralysis.

It's creepy waking up in the dead. of night with the paralyzed body. What was always worse for me, though, is the shadow man who would watch me as I lay there helplessly. It's a sleep phenomenon. The shadow men aren't really there, and it's all in your head, and generated by your subconscious mind while you're asleep. I learned that the best thing to do is stay calm and keep my breathing even, while reminding myself that the man can't hurt me.

I was still quite young when I last had sleep paralysis, and at that time, I was still quite young. I didn't know all this about sleep and thought it was normal. My parents would wake up to little me screeching in the dead of night and rush into my bedroom expecting to find a burglar or at least an actual threat, but they would always find me shaking like a leaf beneath the covers and bawling about the shadow man watching me. They would try to calm me down, stroking my forehead and reciting Psalm 23-4. They told me it was all in my head, that none of it was real. It was real, and I would scream back at them. I would tell them that I saw him with my own eyes

and that he stood right there at the foot of my bed. They were worried, so they did some research to prove to me that it was all a natural phenomenon. They took me to a nice, gray-haired doctor who explained it to me one day with some cartoons and infographics I could understand. He told me it was pretty normal and happened to other people as well. He said that we all have sleep paralysis every night to stop our bodies from thrashing around and getting hurt during dreams, and that the shadow man was nothing but a figment of my imagination. He gave me a red lollipop and sent me on my way. My parents got me some new lava lamps and that was it.

I had a few more experiences with the phenomenon, but after a few months it stopped. I can't remember if little me bought the doctor's explanation, but remember just being glad when the sleep paralysis stopped soon after. The thing about having sleep paralysis in a dark new world is that it's hard to tell dreams from reality. It's so dark that when I lie down, I can't even tell if my eyes are open or not, whether it's all a dream or not. Last night I had a reunion with my old friend.

He was even darker than this eternal night. 11.59 a.m. I'm aware that this food will expire sooner or later, so it will be able to be able to be able to so I've been eating only fresh foods like fruits and vegetables while stocking up on canned goods and honey, which will last a lot longer. I haven't found any vegetable gardens or fruit trees yet, but I'm interested to see if fruit and vegetables are still able to grow. It shouldn't be possible without sunlight and rain, right?

As long as I can find a grocery store, I'll be good, I think. I've heard that honey doesn't expire at all, but let's hope so. 8 p.m. I'm not sure what to do next, so I've been sitting around and thinking about the old days. It's painful to think about it all. All I wanted was to be alone, and now I finally got what I wanted, so why am I crying? I've been staring at this photograph for an hour. These strangers I've never met, they make me feel more human.

I miss the simple things in life, swimming on hot summer days, stargazing, watching the sunset. It hasn't even been that long and it hardly feels like I'm losing it. This is so messed up. It feels so weird. I can feel every cell in my body protesting against this new world. Humans aren't made to deal with life like this. This isn't life. Is this the afterlife?

My parents taught me that hell is a lake of fire, so even this can't be it. If this is heaven, I would rather die. 9 p.m. I've spent some time walking around outside. The darkness is like a heavy and depressive blanket. My shoulders hunch over as I walk. I feel like I'm carrying the world on my shoulders. If I were claustrophobic, I would have died a long time ago.

The air is thick, it's hard to breathe. The silence is mocking me. Sometimes the silence is unbearable and sometimes the ringing in my ears is deafening. I've been starting to click my teeth together. habitually to create some sound and drown out the ringing. And the heartbeat. I can feel my heartbeat in my head. I feel like God's plaything.

11 p.m. I've been sitting in the car with the engine on. The rumbling is comforting. Thursday, December 31st, 5.02 a.m. I think I know what to do now. I'm quite certain that this darkness must be affecting the whole country and maybe even the world. I think the next step is to find out for sure.

Even if this darkness won't end, I need to find out the reason why. I need to know if the sun and moon are still up there at least. I need to get to the beach and see if there are waves. If so, then there is still hope. If not, this world has changed forever. And chances are I'll never see the sun and moon again. The ocean is nineteen hundred kilometers from here. With rest stops for the sleep, the entire trip will take over eighty-eighthap.

hours. I need to drive slowly and cautiously. I can't risk missing something important on the way or crashing on the long road. It will be a challenge, but I need to keep moving. The preparations are complete and I'm ready to leave. I need to find people. I'll keep the photograph on the inside of my windshield to remember what I'm fighting for. 10.22 a.m. I've been driving with the car's interior lights on, as well as the MP3 player, which I completely forgot about. I've been playing Mr. Sandman on loop for the past few hours. It reminds me of home and of my mother. She would always sing it to me at night and calm me down after my late-night panic attacks.

They were so good to me. I didn't deserve them. I can't turn this music off. It's yet another thing keeping me going. And Lord knows I need all the motivation I can get. 5 p.m. I hold the squeaky toy as often as I can. Lately lady was a good dog. It was us too versus the world. She was always sweet and gentle. She would bite this bone softly, just enough to make it squeak, evident by the very few bite marks on the bone. There are three scratches on the bone, to

be exact. Now I know it like the back of my hand. This bone, a CD player, and this photograph are my symbols of hope. They keep me going. I'll hold on to them as long as I can. Friday, January 1st, 9 a.m. My friend, the shadow man, decided to visit me again last night. I saw him in my rearview mirror. He sat, watching me in the back seat.

The light of the lamp seemed to curve around him, evading him. He disappeared after a moment, and I was left unsure of how to feel. At least I'm not a scared little kid anymore. 3 p.m. The drive has been uneventful. I've made a few stops along the way to use a toilet and restock on fresh foods. Other than that, my mind has been cloudy. I feel like I'm half asleep.

I really shouldn't be driving with this state of mind, but I'm running on fumes. I don't want to lose my momentum. I feel like my sanity is draining away with every passing moment. I need to keep moving. If I stop now, I may not be able to start again. Saturday, January 2nd, 102 a.m. My worst fear has been realized. My car broke down.

I'm such an idiot. I should have saved the battery. I've been keeping the engine on to help me fall asleep. I needed that MP3 player on. I'll admit it. I'm scared. And staying sane should be on my top priority, right? I have food and water.

This trip is just a side quest, right? It doesn't matter. I'll walk. If I stay in this car, I'll eventually starve to death or lose my mind. I need to keep moving. 6 a.m. I've been walking non-stop for hours. I was so afraid to stop, but my body is about to give up.

All I took with me is my backpack, filled with food and water. I realized a minute ago that I forgot the photograph behind in the car. 6.50 a.m. I found a car on the road, a white Volkswagen Gulf. It brings back memories. It was the first car I had ever stolen and hotwired. The memories are flooding back. I was so young.

I had everything a child would ever wish for. A loving family, the newest toys, love and attention. They were so good to me. And I traded them off for cheap thrills and delinquency. I've been able to start the car. I've never been able to forget the sound of this engine. My watch is broken, so I don't know the time, and I have no other way to separate these diary entries. I think it smashed against one of the rocks.

I crashed. I thought I saw someone on the road. I drove into a pond or something. All I could salvage was this flashlight, a pen, a pack of dried fruit, and my recorder, which somehow survived. The thing was soaked, but somehow still survived. I almost forgot the gun. I still have that, saved by the belt. I'm going to follow this road and see where it leads me.

This road cuts through a mountain that goes so high that I can't see the top. I don't know how far the next town is, but I'll keep moving forward. I've lost everything. I started out with everything and I lose it all. The reality of the situation is that I can't blame this world for what I've lost. I lost it all before any of this even started, and I only have myself to blame. It's been a long while since my last entry. I can't tell how long for sure, but it feels like forever.

I've started seeing hallucinations, abstract colors and shapes float around my vision. At least my footsteps on the gravel road have been drowning out the ringing. I've been trying hard not to stop, but my feet hurt. At least it's an opportunity to record an entry. I woke up face down. I don't know how long I've been lying here for. I can't stop. I'm gripping lady's squeaky bone tightly.

I'm holding on to hope. I've started hearing voices. I keep thinking lady is following me, not too far behind. Same old roof. I keep thinking of home. I miss the Bible stories they would tell me. I was such an ungrateful child. I'm breathless, but I keep singing Mr. Sandman.

The sky feels heavy. I just noticed that I have a deep gash in my right calf. It must have been a sharp rock. It explains the numbness in my leg. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I feel like I'm locked in a dark, musty closet. I keep getting the urge to drop my flashlight, but I know I can't.

The hallucinations are getting worse. I'm starting to lose it. I keep drifting into the past. Actually, it feels more like the past is drifting around me. I keep forgetting I'm not seven years old anymore. I keep waking up, face down in the dirt. My lips are swollen and bleeding. It's hard to eat this fruit.

I told you I'm not a kid anymore. It's hard singing with swollen lips. Time is not real. I keep forgetting who I am. I don't know where I was headed, but straight seems like the right choice. How on earth am I still alive? I've passed out so many times already. I want to lay down and die.

The sky is dead. The walls are closing in. The mountain wants to eat me. The air is so thick. My cuticles are bleeding from gripping this recorder. Why am I carrying a squeaky toy? What happened to the sun? My shoes are messed up.

It's hard to breathe. It's my first day of school today. I'm so tired. but I need to keep walking and recording when I'm not. How many days have been? What are those voices? I feel like I've been walking forever. I called out for lady, but she isn't coming.

I think my lips are swollen. I'm so confused. Who is lady? I threw away the squeaky bone. I don't even know why I have it. I feel like I lost a piece of myself, and I don't know why. Mom makes the best hot chocolate. Time is not.

not real. I think someone is following me. I can see dad working on his car. He taught me all I know. I stole my first car today, a city golf. I think I meant, I told you all. I'm not a mama's boy. I'm the best in this crew. It feels good having brothers. What would Stephen think? It must have been the hardest thing in the world for them, having to explain to their son that his twin brother died in a car accident. That's all in the past now. I have other brothers. That's all in the Now, I have other brothers, and they need to be taken care of. Seven cars, I'm on a roll. If only I protected Stephen, I can't bear that look of disappointment on their faces.

I can't be near them. They've been so good to me. I blamed them to their faces, but deep down, I always blamed myself. I can't be near them. How long have I been walking for? My stomach is aching for food. How did I get here? Every muscle in my body hurts.

I'm holding on to hope. Why am I still walking? When did I learn to walk? The doctor gave me a cherry-flavored lollipop. I don't buy his explanation. I woke up screaming. I abandoned my parents when they needed me the most. I should have visited them.

I should have said sorry, but I was ashamed. I wasn't worthy of their love and forgiveness. I can see Stephen in front of me right now. This is the end of the road. I can't walk straight anymore. I can't even walk. The shadow man stands before me and I'm not afraid. He's been waiting all this time to welcome me home.

The parents from the photograph stand on either side of him, smiling their toothy smiles. I hear a dog barking. Mr. Sandman plays from some place distant. The air is vibrating and the couple's faces have changed into my parents. They are both chanting the fourth verse of Psalm 23. Mr. Sandman is playing louder now. The Shadow Man is gone now. I see Steven standing between them.

He's smiling. I should join them. They've all been waiting all this time. And I've been stubborn as usual and kept them waiting. This song keeps getting louder. That's where all the trouble started. My stubborn nature. It's time to give in.

It's time to repent. The air is shaking. The ground is moving. The chanting is in my head. The fear is gone. They are waiting with open arms. The song is playing in my head. I feel like my head will explode.

I don't know if this gun can still fire, but I'm going to try anyway. I'm going to join them. I need to leave this dark place. I've heard when you go to heaven, you see a bright light. I'm not sure if I'll make it in. I don't think I'm worthy, but even the flames of hell will produce some light. I'm ready. If this is the last entry, the gun fired.

Sheets were stained with sweat. Breath was no longer bated and unconscious solace began to surcease. Depression kills, not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer. It made me feel psychotic. It went past the brain tissue into the atoms of their molecules. I always imagined the electrons painstakingly orbiting a chunk of ice. There was never light in my imagination.

I felt a subconscious sigh omit and tossed off the sheets. I sat up, let drop head to hands, and contemplated once again my current situation. I contemplated the fact that I can no longer stay awake during the day. I contemplated the nothing I felt all the time about nothing. I've been contemplating suicide, yet I'm too pathetically apathetic. I got up and silently made my way to the kitchen. My night vision and preference for darkness have both increased proportionally. Light couldn't help me navigate the cramped quarters of my apartment any better than the dark.

Came to the counter, loosened the lid, popped the pill, instant relief. Or was it a placebo? Irrelevant. I sat down on the couch in the living room. It was 9.4 p.m. Same time I woke up yesterday. I left the lights off. I always felt the darkness bore itself into my head, like an interloper, like a conqueror.

It felt unnatural. I can't remember when it swallowed the last fuck I had to give. And so this is how I lived my days. I know it wasn't always this way, but the apathy dulls my memory. One day it just seemed like my ribcage wasn't protecting anything worthwhile. Like there weren't any organs inside me. I go out at night for groceries, for my alcohol, and for the hope that I might feel something, anything.

I find myself more and more entranced by nothing, though. I administer databases remotely for a data bank located downtown. I live in White City. I see a psychiatrist once a month to keep my prescription of Prozac abundant. He doesn't do shit. I pay him so I can pay for a drug that keeps the worst away. There's depression, but there's a place past that. A place I don't ever want to be again.

It was like being conscious that you're insane, that you're sane while you're insane. There's no way to describe it, except that it haunted me, terrorized me like I've never experienced. I'd kill myself before I go to that point again. I've been here for more than a couple of years now. I just severed myself from the ones I used to love because I no longer love. I cannot connect with anyone. Empathy evades me. I'm alone and I can't care less.

I feel cold. No happiness, no fear, no anger, no frustration, ice, apathy. The weeks go by, I find myself. in the living room, slouched upon the couch. It was 8.05 in the morning, and I felt a spectral sort of fatigue. Contradictory, tired, and not tired. The yield from an inversion of homeostasis. I sighed, preparing to let fall a deep, dreamless sleep.

I depressed the power button on the remote, gaze transfixed on the TV screen reflecting the morning sun, watching my reflection being disembowled by a jerk. gone to figure, half the inert's throne, looking like they might come out of the TV from the other side. The other half wrapped around his neck so he could devour them while keeping his scarred arms free to keep emptying me out. I stared at myself, and myself rolled its lifeless eyes towards me, until the creature slowly moved its mouth down near the bridge of my nose, cocked his head instantly, used

his tongue to spear my eyes, one by one down his throat. It began to turn its head toward the TV, but before I could behold this nightmare walker's face, the reflection changed. There was no reflection. I sat there. I wasn't able to move. Paralyzed. Seconds passed.

I screamed. As loud as I could, I used the lungs I knew were still in me, flying upwards and sprinting to the corner of the room, knocking a bookcase down so I could flatten myself against the wall. Eyes from corner to corner of the apartment I used to know, heart beating loud enough to be used as sonar. I heard sweat hit the books and finally, I felt, I felt sickened, I felt disgust, I felt confused, and I can finally feel fear.

I spent hours calming down. There was no sleep now. It seemed that the peaceful place my consciousness went to during sleep was now convoluted by a web of my internal orchans. I turned every single light on in my house. I washed a hundred milligrams of antidepressants down with something both Russian and 120 proof. Felt the fear and ethanol interact and puked it up. Turned the TV towards the wall.

I must have muttered what the hell a hundred times. What happened? I'm not sure I've ever hallucinated anything past the familiar hypogogic images preluding sleep. What was it that murdered my reflection? It couldn't find its place, and there were no variables able to induce something like that. I wasn't sure what to do. The only option I had was to talk to my psychiatrist in a couple of weeks.

In two weeks passed, the TV stayed turned, the lights stayed on, even when I slept. I can't sleep like I used to. My dream now. The DMT released when I dreamt was flooding every synapse in my brain. I saw different things. A undream, he flicked clean my rib cage. Another, I used a spoon to cut his fingers off, sticking him through his neck while he just stood there.

In one, we sat next to each other on a love seat and simply stared at ourselves in a mirror that covered an entire wall. I had no expression on my face. He had no face, and instead scars in the form of an X over each eye, and a gangrenous, greening Chelsea grin connected to each side of his hairless, deformed head. The teeth were covered in a browning red with jagged holes carved out of a few, and atrophying flesh in between most. His mutated lips were sewn as far away from his mouth as possible, leaving his dry and puffy,

and bloody and purple, rotten, and decayed gums exposed. His skin is mostly bleached a bright white, with massive cheloids in some areas and burnt flesh and others. He wears no shirt, revealing messy stitchwork covering his entire torso. He looked like the result of a drunk mortician and years of starvation. He was tall and thin, arms with reach, deep scars up the underside of the wrist, and perhaps just sinew in the stead of muscle. He was maceated, no signs of ribs, feet covered in caked blood and legs with sharp pockmarks

in various places. He was genitalless but not naked, as the skin he was in seemed more like a suit than a part of his body. I spent the first week distracted by paranoia. It eased when nothing happened. I made sure every light I owned was on. I made sure I had alcohol and me at all times. My psychiatric appointment arrived.

I told the doctor I'd experienced hallucinations and I felt intense fear. Dismissively, he told me it seemed like a result of the depression. I asked him about any side effects of the medication. Tomelessly, he said there were none relative to my experience. I asked him which course of action I should take. Carelessly, he told me to remind myself that it's all in my head, that it's all a matter of electrical flow in my brain and the neurotransmitters in the axioms. He recommended that I videotate myself when I felt like I had control of reality to prove

to my future self that everything was fine. He wrote me off another prescription of Prozac and scheduled an appointment for another month. I asked him if he would put me in two weeks earlier. He said he was too busy. Fucking prick. I got home and turned the computer on. Found out what the internet had to say about Prozac. Severe symptoms included hallucinations.

The goddamn psychiatrist. I flushed the pills down the drain and didn't even bother with the pharmacy. I turned on the webcam. Unesily, I began talking to my future self. Hey, you're okay right now. There's no one here. There's no more pro-sac. heck to fuck with your head.

I took a swig of some incendiary to warm me up. It seems like it was just a side effect of the antidepressant. You have control of reality. There are no hallucinations anymore. You're good now. I ended the recording and sent a shortcut to my desktop. I had a nightmare again that night. He removed me bit by bit with a scalpel that had been pushed into his index finger and an ocean

of blood rapidly pulling out of it. He had ripped the stitching on it. his torso off, drenching his body in a brown, tinged maroon, and was stuffing my organs inside of him. I was still alive. I felt the pain. I wasn't sure how much of the blood from his finger was inside me before I woke up, nor was I sure how much of me he had extracted. When I woke up, the bedroom door was closed. I passed the day away typically. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be feeling from being off that drug, but it was too early to discern a difference. I felt a twinged of frost in arrowhead in the tip of my brain.

Subliminal. I made another video. I told myself a few different things and it lasted a couple of minutes. Again, this file went to the desktop. I got up, stepping towards the kitchen, feeling a sort of slime touched the bottom of my foot. It didn't distract me though. The alcohol did.

I went to sleep. The next day, again, the bedroom door was closed. I know I hadn't closed it. I moved the computer desk in front of my room after I finished my night and set the webcam to record what exactly happened. I went to bed at 7.06 a.m. When I woke up, the door was closed again. I rearranged the desk and slowly moved the slider, analyzing the video. He's been watching me sleep. A bleached hand with a scalpel for an index finger grabbed the

edge of the door and closed it. He knew I was watching him. I drank. I wasn't sure what effect the medication had on me. Maybe it was too soon for the side effects to wear off. I had been taking the medication for years now, though, so why was it happening now? Either I've gone insane or something is happening. Something more real than a hallucination the mind can synthesize. I can't be insane. I go back over the video, again and again, he closes the door every time at 2.11 in the afternoon.

However much time is spent, I go back a couple of videos I made, searching for solace. I watch them, and he's in them. He's standing behind me, right behind me, in both of them. He scratches my name into his pale chest and lets his brown, red blood drip off. I look behind me and I see the stains in the carpet. I look at the bottom of my foot and there's a branch of sickly purple vessels spreading throughout. I watched the first video, telling you. myself, there's no one there, causes his unsurgically cut smile to grow.

I made the mistake of going into the bathroom. I looked down to turn the faucet off, and then up, and he's right behind me. Scalpel plunged into my eardrum, twisting and turning. I turn around, only a miasmic smell of putrescence. I smashed the mirror. So I left the apartment, and as I purchased my bottle, he's standing behind the cashier with his barbed tongue wrapped around the cashier's throat, draining blood. It water falls down his shirt.

When the cashier talks, he sounds like he's suffocating. He sounds anguished, yet he doesn't act like he notices it. I sure as hell do. I go to the grocery store. I pass by the butchering, and he's in there with a blade cutting up some sort of carcass, flies looking to get their fill. His face stares at me. The scarred X is igniting the photoreceptor cells inside my eyes.

He doesn't notice the blade cutting through his fingers first, then hand, then wrist, then wrist. wrist. I leave. I rent a hotel for the night. I open the door and he's standing in the middle of the room, in the middle of the blood-fucking drenched room that stinks like a slaughterhouse. I close the door. I'm back at my apartment now.

I have no more peace. These few weeks, I haven't been alone like I have been these past few years. There's nothing better than being alone, but he won't leave. He follows me. I sit in the corner of my living room. Every light I have in and day. my immediate surroundings. I've got 112 ounces left in a capsule of caffeine pills.

I haven't seen him since the hotel. That was hours ago. Where is he? Is he waiting in the bedroom? Is he hiding in the reflection of the broken mirror? Is he standing outside my door? He's stolen my mind. He's invaded it.

The way I used to bask in the darkness and let it envelop my imagination, I find that I now bask within his existence. He interlopes within my imagination. I can hear how loudly his scarred smile laughs. I can smell the stink of rot on his breath. I can feel him running his pale fingers over me. I can sense him in every way possible, but I can't see him. He leaves that up to my imagination.

He's here, but I don't know where. He has stolen my sanity and I don't know where to find it. It's 12.1 a.m. There is a stench in my apartment, like blood from any. for consumption, like flesh rotted to an extra rare. There's a footstep in my bedroom, one in the kitchen, another right in front of me. The radius of the light is my domain, the only place safe. He weaves through parts of the darkness.

I think I can see him yet all I see is darkness, warped and twisting in on itself. It flows fearly, consuming everything in it. I don't feel fear anymore. I feel empty. I feel the end. I take a very long drink. I turn the lights off. The river runs foul with the stench of death.

It won't be long now. For ten years I have fled, found each and every rock to hide beneath. A plethora of gutters soaked in the outcast remains of civilization. No city, nor village, nor town has provided me with shelter. No home or friend to offer me sanctuary. I am untouchable, a rotten reminder that knowledge can be the bane of all who seek and thirst for it. Ten years of nights have passed quickly since, and the dust does not shake easily from my feet,

nor does the memory of what I uncovered simply dislodge from my mind. This recording will be my final testament, and this piece of rock by the River Nile, my last resting place. Thank God for that, for I cannot continue. in this wretched shell. To those who are listening, heed my story, forget the relics of the past, for they are surely cursed by things far fowler than the modern mind can ever comprehend. I must speak quickly, for the sun is low in the sky, and soon my pursuer will be upon me. My name is Dr. Samuel Russell, and if you're listening to this, let my tale be a warning to the

curious. When all this started, I was an ambitious type. As an archaeologist, I dreamt of the day that I would make an earth-shattering discovery, one which would lead to fame, a sentence in the history books, perhaps even a paragraph or a whole volume, a name not to be forgotten at the very least. This was my desire, my passion, to find a fragment of mankind's past which would rewrite a chapter of our story as a civilization. By the age of 32, I was convinced that I had found just such a thing. The public does not realize that many archaeological breakthroughs have been decades after their initial discovery.

So many digs, so many ruins uncovered, so many bones unearthed, too many, in fact. More often than not, these relics lie packed away in crates and boxes in the bowels of academic institutions and museums, waiting to be categorized and understood by future generations. In some instances, this can take years, and in the case of my discovery, The dusty old crate which held the tainted promise of fame and fortune had been left to fester for over a century in the dark. I had been searching through the archives at the Kellangrove Museum in Glasgow, Scotland. After traveling there from New York to study the South Oost Mummies, a colleague, Dr. Greeley,

was kind enough to allow me access to the museum's basement area, where the vaults of crates, documents, and relics from digs over the past two centuries waited to be discovered. It was purely by accident that I stumbled across the tablet. I was looking for an old text on ancient burial practices to aid my study when I noticed a strange entry in an archive book. It read, 1883, pre-Dynastic Stone Tablet, Origin Unknown. How could I refuse such a mystery? Surely I could spare a few hours to investigate such a curious description. As I wandered between the crates and other boxed relics looking for the item, my excitement

grew at the possibilities held within that description. Origin unknown. How could its origin be uncertain? After all, it was a relatively easy task for an expert to identify such things, the language or hieroglyphs used, where the material was quarried from, etc. After wandering around the labyrinth of dimly lit containers, cases, and bookshelves, I finally found it. The wooden crate had a number of old weathered traveling stamps on its side, which read,

Altheum, Cairo, Boston, Vienna, London, Glasgow. It certainly had done the rounds, no doubt being handed from expert to expert as they scratched their heads trying to identify it. The crate was nailed shut, but as I prepared to pry it open with a crowbar, it was at that moment that I first notice it, a sensation which would grow with time, becoming a constant, unwanted companion through these past few years. I can only describe it as the feeling of someone walking over my grave, dread and foreboding, a coldness running up my spine and the blood draining from my face.

It was not unusual to feel uneasy in such a quiet and isolated basement, but there was something uncanny about the experience, a momentary breathlessness as if suffocated by the earth, with a taste of sand in my mouth. The uncomfortable feeling passed, and my zeal for a new discovery soon. quelled such thoughts. Plunging the sharpened end of the crowbar underneath the crate's lid, and with some effort, it finally gave way, offering up its secrets to me. Wrapped in cloth, and the stone tablet lay there, cadaverous and solemn.

Its appearance immediately surprised me. I had encountered other Egyptian tablets before, but this one was unique, older, cut in a peculiarly haphazard fashion. Its great edges cracked and crumbled like ash. It was obvious why the archaeologists of 1883 had difficulty reading it. The face of the stone had been chiseled at, vandalized by some implement. It did indeed seem as though the tablet was barely legible. Someone had not wanted its message to be read. On consulting with the museum's archivist, they could only tell me that a letter sent with

the tablet was the last known mention of the archaeologist who had discovered it. His name was Dr. Fitzsimmons, apparently a well-respected academic of his time. Accounts were blurry, incomplete, but it appeared as though Dr. Fitzsimmons had discovered the tablet somewhere in the Saharan desert in Egypt, before falling gravely ill with a sickness. In his letter, a feverish, nonsensical mess, he repeated the bizarre phrase, a thing of ash several times, a description which for some reason made me shudder. It was clear that Dr. Fitzsimmons had been struck down by a terrible illness shortly after his discovery, one which had left him delirious, and his disappearance was probably the result

of his premature death in a foreign country. With a little persuasion, my friend at the museum was able to procure the tablet for me so that I could study it more closely. Indeed, most of the museum's other academics seemed relatively uninterested in an illegible inscription from the past. For them, the message was lost to eternity, but it was not lost for me. It fascinated me, occupying my every thought, almost to the point of obsession. I was continuously fixated on the message which had been erased from the tablet. What could it have told us about the past, and why was it deemed offensive enough to be deliberately removed? Something which had clearly taken some time and effort.

From then on, my days were filled with studying the tablet as best I could, and at night I thought of nothing else. I dreamt of the sands of the Sahara Desert, and what secrets lay covered by the grain of of time. It was then that I stumbled upon an idea. I knew that several recent scanning methods had been used to decipher messages, inscriptions, and details from old text and pottery, words and pictures which to the naked eye seemed unreadable, and yet could be enhanced through modern imaging techniques. I wondered if a similar approach could be taken with the tablet. Perhaps enough information still remained within the stone, subtle depreciations and marks which would reveal the hidden message beneath. In 18.

In 183, archaeologists could not have conceived of the investigative tools available to their 21st century counterparts. It was a long shot, but after a few months and a not inconsiderable amount of money, I was able to glean new data from the tablet. Thankfully, I had been working alone with the equipment I had procured, and you'll forgive me for not mentioning the methods I used, or exact details I uncovered. I simply cannot take the risk that some other unfortunate soul will use this information to seek out the truth and find themselves in the same horrid predicament as I.

What I can tell you is that the inscription spoke of a tomb, which dated back to before the founding of the great Egyptian dynasties. I was enthused. There was the very real possibility that the images I stared upon were the oldest known examples of Egyptian writing. Furthermore, it was clear to me that they depicted an event to which my knowledge had never been seen in all of archaeology, along with the unique location. one which I knew of almost immediately, due to the unique geographical features which exist to this day.

At the foot of a mountain range in the Egyptian part of the Saharan Desert, the tomb lay nearby, in line with the rising and the falling of the sun, and a constellation above. Whoever had carved the tablet was reaching out from the past and telling me where something important could be found. As for the depicted event, much of its story remained too damaged to tell. It seemed to depict a celebration of a group of people visiting the tomb, their arms raised, praising the sun. And yet one part of its broken facade bothered me, a stone carving of a malformed, withered figure standing amongst those who had celebrated, now lying still and dead.

I was certain that this was a metaphor for a plague of some sort, which must have killed many people to have been recorded in a tablet, not wanting to share my discovery with the wider academic community quite yet, for I feared that someone with more influence would seek to claim whatever lay inside the tomb for themselves, I returned the tablet to the museum and kept the recorded images for myself, informing those at the museum, even my friend, that I had failed to uncover anything of interest. Ego was indeed my first sin, but it most certainly would not be my last. It was not long before I was headed for the Egyptian desert, to the place where the tomb lay, the source of all that has befallen me since.

Of course, finding it was difficult. Indeed, it took me over nine months of geophysical surveys and failed digs, but by God, I found it eventually. At the foot of the mountainside, covered in its shadows, I quickly saw the proof I needed. I had hired four Egyptian archaeology students, keen to make a name for themselves, and under the suggestion that after such a discovery,

they could work anywhere in the world, they were more than happy to keep the expedition a secret. We did not officially have permission to dig there in the first place, but I wagered that the uncovering of an ancient part of Egyptian history would outweigh any punishments, and my name would already be heading for the history books by then, which was all that mattered. We soon found our first relic deep under the sand and earth of the Sahara,

but it was not an ancient piece of stone or pottery as expected, but rather a digging tool. one, no doubt, from the 19th century. As we dug further, we found more. Shovels, troughs, and then bags, old supplies, all manner of provisions. While the desert was quite capable of covering anything in vast amounts of sand, as we continued digging, that horrid sense of dread which I had experienced the first time I set eyes on the tablet, welled up and sighed when I thought of what it might mean.

I suspected that the area had been deliberately filled in by someone, covering whatever lay below, both relics from 19th century archaeology and objects from the dawn of history. There was little doubt in my mind that the belongings were from Dr. Fitzsimmons' excavation, as we uncovered an old empty box with the date 1883 on it. It seemed likely that he had found the tablet somewhere, and like me, followed its directions to the unknown tomb. But why had he left his equipment to be reclaimed by the sand?

Worse still, why would he have buried? such a discovery? What was there to fear beneath the desert surface? Unperturbed by such ruminations, we continued. For three days we dug deeper, and at night, as the cold and dry desert wind blew through our camp, I slept little. There was a palpable sense of urgency among the group, and while the student archaeologists I had hired were grateful to be given the opportunity, they began to complain about the situation, accusing one another of rummaging around their belongings. One of the students, a man by the name of Harking, even claimed to have been awoken just as the figure of an intruder left his tent, scampering off into the night. As the most experienced

member of the team, I had to calm their nerves and told them to focus on the dig and the incredible discoveries which we would be part of. This seemed to only act as a catalyst to the tensions, and by day four, as we dug, each member remained silent, eyeing one another suspiciously. The silence was finally broken later in the day by a celebratory yell from harking. Clawing at the sand, each of us worked furiously, digging, shifting buckets of golden grains away from the focus of our efforts. And there, finally, it stood the sealed stone entrance to a tomb of unknown origin, a completely new discovery in the realm of archaeology, well, except for poor Fitzsimmons, but I was sure

that I would honor his memory in any papers I published on the subject. It quickly became apparent that the tomb had indeed been previously opened, as several blocks at its mouth lay discarded in front. Square holes, wide enough to fit the body of an archaeologist, a tomb robber, or perhaps something from inside. A peculiar thought, but nonetheless one which gripped me for a moment before passing. As the sun dimmed in the sky, I packed my haversack with a voice recorder, dynamo flashlight, and a camera to document any immediate findings, and gave orders that the other.

should set up battery-powered lamps and remain outside within radio contact, partly to make sure that as little of the inside was disturbed as possible, and partly because I wished to be the first of our group to lay eyes on what the tomb contained. I did, however, allow Harking to follow me, as he had been the one to first recognize that we had found what we were looking for, and it only felt right to include him. As we slid through the open wounds in the tomb's exterior, disappearing into its embrace,

I could feel the blood drain from my face, sharply, and the dried taste of sand returned to my mouth. I will not lie. This did make me apprehensive, but I did not wish to share those misgivings with the other archaeologists, as they were already nervous of the dig. I had feared that the tomb ceiling could have given in at some point to the countless eons of sand and wind, and it appeared that those concerns were justified. A long stone corridor led off into the darkness, with broken rubble and sand from me. above, obscuring most of the way. Thankfully, one slab from the ceiling had landed at an angle,

holding back the unknown tons of material on top. This gave us a tight space through which to continue towards whatever secrets the tomb contained. As we crawled along the small openings and across ancient sands, which had festered for an age within that silent place, we whispered quietly and treaded carefully for fear of causing a dangerous caven. Finally, the passageway opened up into a small room, and as my flashlight illuminated the cold interior, at first I was disappointed. The tomb seemed to contain only one chamber, but quickly this disappointment bled into utter excitement. While the room was in bad condition, an entire section of the room having fallen with age, allowing piles of sand and earth to reclaim that world beneath, something wondrous lay at

the heart of the ruin. There, entombed for thousands of years, was a relic unlike any I had ever seen before. Rising up above me was a statue at least 5,000 years old. If not, even more ancient than that. I rushed over, utterly enthralled. Reaching my hand out, I touched its cold and jagged black surface without thinking. Two aspects of its appearance were immediately captivating. It was entirely made from onyx, jet black volcanic glass, and it was of a style and form I had never seen or heard of before. It was shaped something like a man. with arms and legs, but its appendages were misshapen, as if twisted by a genetic malformation. One arm was longer than the other, and its legs gave way to a curved stoop, as it contorted at the hips.

Stranger still, the statue was faceless, no eyes, mouth, or nose to speak of, and yet its head bowed down towards me in a frozen pose. Its surface crumbled and uneven. Yes, there were no eyes, but in every way it felt. felt as though I was being looked at. I took out my voice recorder to document my thoughts, when it occurred to me that, in all of my excitement, I hadn't heard Harking's reaction to the statue itself. Turning round to face my colleague, I was greeted with an emptiness I cannot describe, as my heart thumped what felt like frozen blood through my veins. Harking screamed and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and ran off into

the tunnel back towards the entrance. At first, I thought, He thought he was merely spooked by the strange statue, but no, the horrific truth was much worse than that. We were not alone in that room, nor had we ever been. Something ancient had been watching. From behind me I heard nothing but the sound of sand, powdered grain, shifting, moving with purpose. Spinning around, I caught only a glimpse of what was there, uncertain but definite in its existence.

human, a thing which lacks substance. I'm not sure how it appeared at first, for a terror had taken me, but its face turned towards me from the corner of the room, and in that instant I recognized that it bore a startling resemblance to the statue at the center of the tomb, charcoal, misshapen limbs and all, looking yet not looking, seeing with eyes which were not there. The madness which then took me was all encompassing. No longer did I care about a cavern or fear of being buried alive, I had to escape. I rushed from the room into the precarious corridor and scrambled over fallen blocks and

through layers of festering sand, and yet as I reached the entrance, I heard the thing in the tomb, an utterance of some unknown origin, a language which I did not recognize or comprehend, some sounds are universal, transcending all epochs and cultures. And in that moment, I was certain that the indefinite figure in the darkness laughed. By the time I neared the outside, I found the rest of the group attempting to console harking from his delirium. As I slid back through the opening into the now nighttime desert landscape, the air seems strange, colder somehow, almost burning my lungs with each breath.

I opened my mouth to speak, and as I did so, one of the archaeology, just looked up. His reaction took me by surprise, for he screamed an abject terror. All four of my colleagues jumped frantically to their feet and panicked as they scratched and clawed their way out of the excavation hole. I chased quickly after them, asking what was wrong, but they only continued their escape. I then found Harking cowering in his tent, and as I entered, he pleaded with me to spare him. I spoke nothing but calming words, but it seemed as though recognizing my voice sent him into a more pronounced madness, he screamed with such despair that I stumbled backward in shock, falling to the ground outside. A searing pain suddenly etched across my face as one, then two of my colleagues

began to attack me, kicking at my face and hands as I lay helpless on the ground, each kick showering me with the grit of the desert. As blood poured from my nose and mouth, I realized there and then that my team were going to kill me. They were going to beat me to death. That realization gave me a life-saving surge of energy, and as they continued their attacks, I was able to crawl onto my knees, then to my feet, before running away as fast as I could. I fled our camp, confused, bloodied, and afraid. The desert did not want me. My insides were frozen, and while I had no water, no provisions to speak of other than the haversack I took into the tomb with me, I welcomed the unrelenting Saharan sun, as it finally rose above the sand dunes, baking the landscape below. Yet I

felt no warmth, no comfort. I felt only ice, as if my insides had been steeped in snow. The pain spread to my bones, and while I could bear the sensation, before long, I could think of little else. Utterly lost, I knew that whether I could feel the heat or not, it would soon kill me. And so I had to search for our camp, hoping to reason with my team, who it seemed had been devoured by some form of hysteria, or if they could not be reasoned with, perhaps I could at least have taken some provisions. Just what had happened to them. But to no avail, I was lost, and the first, utter thirst which could not be quenched,

had grown so strong that my mouth felt like sand, removed of any moisture, a tortuous feeling which continued unabated and unrelenting, as if springing forth from some infinite source of horror. I staggered through the desert, shivering to the bone, yet suffering from the fatal symptoms of severe dehydration. While the sun shone bright and unforgiving in the sky, I continued on, with each and every icy breath, looking for hope, some way to survive my cursed situation. But I knew that the thirst would soon kill me, and before that, the searing pain and confusion

of sunstroke would arrive. I've never considered myself a particularly lucky person, but it was at that moment that luck perhaps tried to shine on me. For as I descended a steep sand dune, I saw before me a long long, thin crack in the desert floor, a ravine of some sort, and thirty or forty meters below, a small subterranean pool of clear water sat like an oasis in shadow. In my weakened state, I knew that I risked falling to my death, but I had to try to descend, or otherwise the thirst would kill me. With each movement of my leg and tight grip of my hands,

I squeezed down through the slit of rocks towards the water below. But despite my calculation, A shard of stone which I grasped onto gave way, and I fell to what should have been my death. All I remember is clipping my elbow and dragging my face off the opposing rock wall before smashing abruptly against the stone floor. I do not know how long I was unconscious, but the sun was no longer high in the sky, and night was approaching. The thirst continued, as did the coldness within, and my throat felt as dry as the sand which surrounded everything. Nearby, I could see the pool which could save me, and eventually managed to get to my feet in anticipation of a soothing gulp of clear water. But no sooner did I step towards the pool that I saw the liquid begin to change, turning

from its healthy transparency to a blackened ooze. By the time I stood over it, nothing faced me other than an oily sludge, foul-smelling and curdled. I could not understand such a hideous transformation, collapsing once more to the ground I admitted defeat, and the thirst which so painfully engulfed me persuaded me that death would be a sweet release. There I lay, waiting for my demise, and yet I did not die. I only festered. Hours turned to days, and my torture continued without mercy, with no end in sight.

Then, on the third night, as I lay beside the poison water, I heard the footsteps of someone nearby. I looked up, and in the moonlight I could see out the crevice to the world outside. The stars shining bright in the night sky. My heart began to falter as I saw the shape of someone peering down at me from above. With all the energy I could muster, I yelled upward for help, hoping beyond hope that whoever was staring down at me could get me out and back to civilization. But there was no answer. Instead, the shape just glared at me. And then, without making a sound, slowly started climbing down towards me. There I lay, and as I watched the figure scramble across and down the rock face, I began to dread its every movement. How I wished I had remained

silent and allowed the nighttime passerby to have moved beyond the ravine and continue on its journey. But no, I had yelled, playing dead was useless to me. The figure's back arched and convulsed in the moonlight, and as it drew closer to the bottom of the pit, I could see that its arms were different lengths. and its movements malformed. Almost human. Almost, but not quite. Finally, it reached the foot of its descent, and then moved quickly towards me. On two legs cumbersomely at first, then on all fours.

Faster, quicker, its shoulder blades contorting and skewing with every movement. I let out a scream, not for help. For no one could save me from whatever evil I had disturbed in that tomb. Rather, my cry was of dread, gripping and complete. As it approached, I could feel the coldness within me growing, an icy chill deep within my bones, painful at first, and then agony. Just a few meters away, the thing from the tomb rose back up to its feet, and for some reason of everything which disturbed me.

One aspect of its being provoked the most terror, for all its movements, its climbing of the rock face, its crawling and stooped advances, there was no hint of breath from its form, And without breath, surely there can be no life. A shard of moonlight caught the side of its head. Charcoal, crumbled, no features. A darkness of the earth. Something older and more putrid than even the heart of mankind. Something of ash, as Dr. Fitzsimmons had put in his letter.

A warning which could not protect me in that cavernous gorge of the Saharan desert, but now I wished I had listened to it, reaching out its powdered fingers, the creature placed its hand on my chest. Ice ran through my heart, searing through my body. I convulsed, and with one last ounce of strength, I instinctively turned to my side and fell into the rotten pool of liquid which had once been water. I sank deep into the unknown. The thick soup of viscous, rancid sludge pulled me down into the abyss.

I flailed. I kicked my legs and threw my arms as hard as I could, vainly attempting to swim. Yet each panicked movement only pulled me deeper into the dark. The sludge touched and stuck to my open eyes, covering my vision in an absence of light. I held my breath and continued to fight against my descent into the filthy tar-like substance, but it was too much. I could hold on no longer. Finally, I involuntarily took a deep breath inward.

The thick goo oozed down my throat, filling my lungs and choking me. My eyes felt bulging, and the accompanying pain in my chest made me feel as though I was being crushed from the inside. As the pain continued, I gave up, exhausted. I stopped fighting and waited for death. Indeed, I welcomed it by then. And yet I did not die. I did not drown. I merely stayed, remained in this world, and lingered at the bottom of that pit of rotten liquid.

For the next few hours, I experienced an agony which words cannot fully convey. I was drowning, continuously drowning, but I would not die. If I could have killed myself, I would have. Such was the anguish I experienced, but I soon realized that, for whatever reason, the world would not let me go. To escape the pain, I moved around from side to side, and eventually found the wall of the pool with my hand. Fighting against the weight of the thickening liquid on top of me, I pulled myself up inch

by inch, all along with no breath. Perpetual suffocation. Even in the throes of such pain, I knew that I was merely climbing to the same. towards my death and that ashen figure above. But any alternative to drowning, but not dying, was a far more desirable situation to the one I currently faced. Finally, after many hours, I felt the air with my hand, and with one draining effort, I pulled myself out and onto the floor of the ravine.

The black liquid stayed in my lungs at first, but as I wretched, coughed and vomited, the rancid gunk was slowly expelled through my mouth. Scraping the sludge from my eyes, I looked around, and was surprised to be. to see that I was alone, the sun beaming down through the slits above. I assumed that the thing from the tomb had believed me dead and let me be, hopefully, forever. The thirst was still resolute, and all I could think of was finding another place, another source of cool, clear water to quench the urge and remove the barren, arid sensation from my mouth and throat, which had quickly returned.

In that stone prison, I knew I had to escape and find water, or perhaps even find my team, who I hoped had survived the madness which seemed to have taken them. It was clear to me that we all had been affected by our discovery, and that while it seemed outlandish, there was only one word to describe my situation, cursed. Though it took a monumental effort, nearly falling to my death several times, I managed to climb up to the rock face, taking a similar route as the creature from the tomb had, but in reverse. verse and found my freedom. The sun beat down upon me, and yet the icy chill in my bones remained. At the time, I hypothesized that it was a disease, an illness or poison of some form, contained within the tomb which perhaps invoked severe hallucinations. For weeks I searched the Saharan Desert, looked for a sign of civilization, hoping above all else to find water, to quench my horrendous thirst,

and a fire to take away the perpetual coldness. On two separate occasions, I did locate a small pool of liquid, but as I approached, both turned to the same blackened, hoard sludge as before, an undrinkable festering ooze, and yet, again, no matter how dehydrated, I did not die. While I experienced all of the agonizing realities of thirst, the world would not relinquish its grip on me. And then there were the nights, while others would prepare me for a comfortable sleep after the sun had set, each time that swollen globe of light dipped beneath the horizon,

I knew it would not be long before the thing from the tomb, that something of ash would find me. Relentless climbing along the sand dunes, no matter where I was in the desert, it would appear with the dark. Chasing, stooped, and malformed, lifeless, and yet of intent. Its charcoal appearance, crumbled and powdered, sought nothing else but to reach me. For what purpose I did not know, but I was certain that its reasons were steeped in an ancient and inhuman mind. All I could do was run, and so it was that I found myself a fugitive of my previous life, running from an ancient horror after sunset, and getting any rest I could during the day.

Finally, one night, as a small sandstorm cast its grains across the landscape, and I moved quickly through the desert to ensure the ashen figure did not catch me, I did indeed find civilization. A small Egyptian town, its name meaningless to me, but at the sight of it, I cried, sure that it and its people would prove my salvation. Several of the houses still had light beaming through their windows, and unable to contain my joy at the possibility of seeing another human being, I walked into the nearest open doorway I could find, yelling for help. The first person to see me was a young man in his teens, who screamed both in fear and rage at the sight of me. Quickly, others from the town appeared, and their reaction was violent and brutal. I was hit across the back of the head with the stone, and then I staggered through the town's streets, unable to comprehend why they hated me so.

A mob soon formed, and it became clear that my life was in danger, as it had been before with the archaeology team. The same madness, the same terror, the same violent anger. They chased me, throwing rocks and beating me with sticks and other accursed objects. Luckily, I was able to make it to the town's outskirts, weaving and dashing along lanes and through small gaps between houses. Soon, the sandstorm obscured me, and the townspeople did not follow, cheering that I had been driven out.

I rested for a moment, unsure if the taste of grit in my mouth was due to the storm or my constant agonizing thirst. I sat in the shelter of a dune, utterly heartbroken, and as the wind howled, bringing forth the sands, I looked out to the night. and saw the malformed figure of my ashen pursuer, wandering through the elements toward me. Each night I would walk, and each time I stopped to rest or ceased movement in the hope that the thing of ash would not follow, it soon appeared out of the night, clamoring, shifting, decrepit, and yet unstoppable, roaming over the sand dunes in search of its prey,

with no town or village willing to take me, for there had been many, and nothing in front of me but an endless escape. I knew the only recourse left me. I had to return to the tomb. Perhaps there I would find an answer. A hint as to why this had occurred. Reaching out from the darkness of time and therein a solution. Something to end my suffering.

For years I walked through the nightly sands of the Sahara in search of the place where it all began. But I had no means to chart my progress, no compass or a map to follow. And yet, finally, one day. I saw the mountain range on the horizon. I headed straight for it, and before long, I stumbled into our abandoned camp, which at one time had promised so much. A career-defining archaeological find, a name in the history books at least, to have achieved something worthy of being remembered. One of the tents still stood, having weathered the Saharan climate remarkably well, but the others had been lost to the sands.

It was clear that none of the archaeologists in my team had returned to the site. Had they not thought to search for me? Was Dr. Samuel Russell such an unknown that he could simply disappear without anyone ever caring for him? Or wondering where he had gone? The sentiment made me angry, furious at the way I'd been treated, and enraged at the world for producing such an evil thing, which surely was not far behind. In a rage, I pulled at the tense canvas, tearing it from its pegs, only to see my belongings

sitting there underneath, soon to be covered by the sand. My things, forgotten and obscured, just as Fitzsimmons had been. In my search for fame, I was to be forgotten. I climbed down towards the tomb entrance, still ardent that I would have some answers, and scooped enough deposited sand away allowing me to slip inside. Removing the old dynamo flashlight from my now-worn Havasak, I was delighted that it still worked, and so I moved through the familiar passageway, cluttered with rubble, and squeezed my way into the tomb.

that place which haunted my dreams. The room sat as it had before, silent and grave. The statue which remained in the center sent shivers up my spine, looking every bit as terrifying as the ashen monstrosity which had pursued me for years across the desert. And yet, I had to be brave. I had to know why this had happened to me. I had to have answers.

It was then that I noticed something at the feet of the statue, a block of granite under the sand which the foul thing stood upon, warped limbs and all. I began digging wildly with my hands and recognized the inscription immediately. It was the same as the tablet which had led me here, only in this case the scene was complete, unlike the damaged version sitting in the basement of the museum. How I wished I had left it there, undisturbed, how I wished I could go home. The stone carving showed the people praising the sun outside of the tomb, and I saw the thing of ash in the end reveling in their deaths. But this tablet had not been worn by the sands of time, not broken by the chisel

of the archaeologist who had found it. No, this tablet told the entire story. It appeared that the statue had been dug out of a cave in the mountains nearby. This would suggest it to be much more ancient than even the Egyptian civilization itself. Of unknown origin indeed. The statue was taken to a town or city where strange creatures seemed to emanate from it at night. After much death, the statue was placed in a tomb at the foot of the mountains, where it had been found. Those praising the sun were brought there to die, sacrifices which perhaps would sate the relic. That place wasn't a tomb at all. It was a home, a shrine for something wretched and evil, and the ancient people of Egypt hoped

to keep it there by offering themselves to it. And I, someone who had escaped its clutches, was cursed to walk the earth indefinitely. No water to sustain me, and feeling only the chill of death, until that thing would find me and end it all. Then I heard a sound, shuffling, clawing, crawling. The creature had returned home, and I was in its layer. As its powdered body skewed and hobbled into the room, it stared at me without eyes or mouth, without humanity, far older than legend and myth, something foul of the earth.

It kicked through the sands as it came towards me, dislodging what lay underneath, revealing something more terrifying than any creeping evil in the night. I knew then why I was always cold, for it was the iciness of that horrid place which I felt, and I knew from that moment onward why I always tasted sand, my mouth dry as the desert outside, for my body had never left the tomb. Eyes wide, mouth filled with sand, cold to the touch. The rotting corpse of Dr. Samuel Russell lay stricken on the tomb floor. I screamed at the side of my own dead body, and yet, rushing past the statue, somehow made

it to the passageway and back out into the desert, a place I would never escape from. Ten years have now passed since I first entered that cursed place. I have been unable to be near another soul with Houtterra being their response. Nor have I had one sip of water, not one cool, life-giving drink. For when I am near, all that gives life is soon corrupted into a black, festering sludge, and the coldness, an ever-present chill from the tomb in which it lies, remains potent. My dry mouth with sand, as it is filled in its resting place, as it always shall be. How many towns have I entered at night?

How many times have I been chased and beaten by those, no doubt, fearing for their lives? How many people have I terrified with my crumbling, ashen appearance? That of a walking abomination, a man not allowed to die, that is, until that ancient evil is done with me. Sometimes I question if I am even Samuel Russell anymore. I have rested during the day in the sands of the Sahara, the sun beating down, yet my bones as cold as a frozen winter. Each night that ashen figure from the tomb comes from me, and somehow I have been able

to continue on, to keep moving, to stay alive, if you can call it that. I do not claim to understand it. How can my body be lying dead in that ancient place, and yet here I am walking the earth? I suspect that whatever purpose the statue has was not completed when I fled. Was I to become one of those things? Cursing those who happen to enter my home, to hound and hunt those who leave, as I too have been hunted. I do not know what remains for me, but I refuse to be like that thing out there in the desert.

I refuse to be taken by it, to be made it slave or worse. At night, when I see it nearby, I often wonder, is that all that's left of Dr. Fitzsimmons? Chasing me, his successor. All conjecture, but that is all I am left with. And now here I sit. I've made it to the River Nile, and as it passes me, the waters turn rancid and thick, a black flowing mass of corruption. The sun has now set.

My story has been told, but I will try to record as long as I can. One way or the other, this ends now. There it is. I can see it now in the darkness, shambling nearby. I will sit by this river on this rock. I will sit and wait from my moment. For in all the years, only when I fell into that pool of sludge did the creature refuse to follow. Perhaps if it can be killed, I can be freed from this torment.

A decade of thirst and ice has worn away at my soul. A decade of terror from the bleakness of lost history has chipped away at my humanity, and I refuse to give up any more of it. What other curses lie beneath the Egyptian sands, I often wonder, and I know you wonder too. If you're listening, heed my warning and leave whatever foulness haunts the tombs of old. Leave them to the desert, and to the sands of obscurity. This is the last statement of Dr. Samuel Russell, and here comes the thing of ash, clawing up the rock toward me. I'm not afraid.

My suffering has extinguished my fear. If no one ever hears from me again, know this. I did something worth being remembered, worth being written about and recorded for all time. I pulled that ashen monstrosity into the river, and we both now sleep in its steps. Three months ago, I learned of my uncle's passing. We weren't particularly close, but he left me one of his houses in his will. I was touched, but just wanted to sell it off. I'm a fairly new father of twin girls and didn't need another thing to manage right now.

To speed up the process, I decided to travel across the country to live in the house until a sale was assured. My job just requires a laptop and phone, so I was approved to work remotely for the time being. Unfortunately, my wife had to stay at her job, so I had to come alone. At first, I treated it as a mini vacation. I had hoped it would only last a week, but the process was more involved than I thought. I had a realtor taking care of most of things, but after a month, I'm still here. I noticed things going wrong right away.

Stuff was never where I'd last placed it. I'd see shadows out of the corner of my eye. I've lost track of time countless. I thought it was just caused by stress, loneliness. Except for the few times the realtor came by with prospective buyers, the house was the quietest place I'd ever been in. The neighbor came by with a dog. She was an elderly woman who explained that she had been dog sitting while my uncle was

in the hospital. Now that I was here, she thought I should take Buster, the Golden Retriever. I thought the neighbor might have been forgetful because she seemed to think my uncle had just passed last week. Either way, I fell in love with Buster and his presence was exactly what I needed. I even thought it would be a tremendous present to bring home to my girls. I just hoped my wife would feel the same way. However, even the dog could tell something was wrong with the house.

Buster accepted his new living arrangements pretty quickly, but would never willingly go upstairs. This was all right with me at the time. I thought it would make it easier to keep track of him. Then Buster disappeared. Literally, one second he was standing right behind me as I was opening the treat jar to give him a snack. My eyes left him for a moment to put the jar back. Then he was gone.

I ran through the whole house calling his name. The kitchen was connected to the living room, and on the other end of that was the master bedroom and study. The other end of the kitchen led to the dining room, which was connected to the entrance hall that also led into the living room and the stairs to the second floor. After walking upstairs, you had a choice of left or right along a balcony that overlooked the living room on one side and entrance on the other. Going left led immediately to a guest room and a game room.

Going right led to two more guest rooms and a bathroom at the end of the hall. I looked in every room and had to accept that somehow the dog made it outside, even though there was no doggy door and every door and window had been closed and locked. So I searched the surrounding neighborhood for another hour before giving up. I was thinking about making flyers when I opened the front door and heard Buster scrambling towards me from the kitchen. I was ecstatic, of course, but I just couldn't wrap my head around how I could have missed him.

I let Buster sleep in the bed with me that night. In hindsight, it was a huge mistake, but it made me feel better at the time. Things picked up at work, though, and I soon forgot all about the strangeness surrounding this house. Clients called me constantly, and we were getting a lot done, and I landed multiple large contracts in a row. I was working around the clock, but I knew I'd be due a promotion once I returned to the home office.

Several times I'd get lost in a phone call or spreadsheet and suddenly find that it was night-time. I'd be so absorbed with work that I would block out bust or whining for food or to go outside. I started to set alarms to keep track, but I had too many important clients to slow down. I was on top of the world, but my health was starting to suffer. I'd forget to eat and even sleep sometimes. There was always something else to do or someone to talk. to.

I even got better at taking care of Buster, better than I was taking care of myself, at least. Then my good mood ended with a bang. Literally. Buster was whining behind me as I finished another spreadsheet. Then we both heard a door slam upstairs. For the first time since I brought him inside, Buster ran upstairs by himself. I almost called the cops, but I felt silly with the phone in my hand. I started to doubt that I heard anything at all.

And if there were an intruder, surely Buster would have been making more. noise, so I mustered all the courage I could manage and crept upstairs with a frying pan as my weapon. It was dark upstairs, but enough moonlight was coming from the downstairs window for me to make out Buster standing in front of the bedroom. I had purposely closed every door when I last came through here looking for the lost dog, but this door was now wide open. I flipped on the hallway light, but nothing happened.

With no better ideas, I raised my frying pan high and walked slowly to the bathroom. There was no window in here, so it was pure darkness inside. I was terrified. Bizarly, Buster just looked frozen. His tail stood straight up and he just stood there and pointed towards the door. I tried to take it as a good sign that he still wasn't barking. That's what finally got me through the threshold and into the bathroom. The whole time my eyes had been getting used to the darkness, and the bathroom was too small

for there to have been anyone in there without me noticing. I started to relax when I took a step forward. to something sticky. I suddenly realized that I had my cell phone in my pocket. I pulled it out and turned it on to cast some light on the floor. I immediately dropped it at the side of the bright red liquid that surrounded my feet. I fled the upstairs, and this triggered Buster to follow. This time I had no trouble calling the police.

Thankfully there was already a patrol car nearby, so two officers arrived within a couple of minutes. Their powerful flashlights cut through the darkness like knives, but they soon found nothing was wrong with the upstairs lights. did appear to be wrong with my pipes, though, as they called out from above that the puddle was just rusty water. Because of their insistence, I climbed up the stairs again and clearly saw a muddy brown puddle in the bathroom.

The banging must have been from the pipe breaking. Both the cops had a laugh at my expense, but were otherwise understanding. They even gave me the number of a good plumber, though my cell phone was ruined after I dropped and left it in the puddle. I would have to use the one landline in the kitchen from now on. I let them out and promised to call the plumber first thing in the morning. Yet, as exhausted as I was, I couldn't go to sleep over the excitement. So I stayed up to draft some more important documents for my company.

Before I knew it, Buster had made another mess in the living room. I was dead tired and said something to Buster that maybe I shouldn't have. I decided to do something about the stress I was under, and I spoke to my supervisor that same morning. To my surprise, they were happy to let me have the week off as a sort of mental vacation. Just like that, all my outstanding work was taken away. With nothing else to do, I tried to focus on Buster. I played games with him and fed him a bunch of treats to make up for the earlier neglect. Then I found the first message.

I didn't notice it for some time since I had been avoiding the second floor, but I realized that I hadn't actually called the plumber. Before doing so, I went upstairs to see if things had gotten any worse. Instead, I immediately saw a message written in red on the hallway wall. It read, losing your mind. For a second, I kind of did. I was scared to death of the thought that someone had to have sneaked into my house while I was there, probably when I was sleeping.

I won't bear repeating everything I said or did right after. Let's just say I hadn't become any braver since the banging. Eventually, I unlocked my bedroom door and made my way to the kitchen with Buster leading the way. I called the police again. Those same two officers were able to show up, and then, slowly, we cleared every inch of the house, yet we found no one. Everything was locked.

No sign of forced entry. The police actually took me seriously, something that bewildered me at the time, and admitted that this wasn't the first house in the neighborhood to experience this. There had been a series of break-ins where nothing was stolen, but the police had been a series of break-ins where nothing was stolen, but the police officers still offered to have a car sit outside for the night. Even though I took them up on this, I soon realized that I'd never get to sleep tonight in this house, so I called my only friend in town, and really in the whole state, an old

college roommate who coincidentally lived 30 minutes away. He offered to pick me and bust her up in a few hours, so I busied myself with packing up my suitcase. I didn't know how long I would need, so I pretty much packed everything I had brought with me to the house in the first place. I left my room to pick up some doggy toys when my friend called me, saying he was waiting outside. I decided to hang up the phone and meet him immediately.

I needed the human company and he could help me move my stuff. But the driveway was empty. There was no friend, no car. I called him back immediately and he insisted he was outside. I listened to him, get out of his car, walk up to the front door. He knocked and I could hear the door. and an elderly woman greet him. My friend asked for my name and mentioned my uncle.

The woman said that she had never heard of either of us. After thanking her, my friend left and asked me if I'd gotten all of that. I told him that I must have given him the wrong address. He rattled off the correct one and confirmed he was there. After asking him to wait and I left the house again, I walked out to the street and looked back at the numbers written on the curb and on the mailbox. there weren't any numbers. Just a message, losing your mind on the curb, written in red.

The temptation to leave right away was great. I could just start walking and never stop, but I had to get my stuff, and more importantly, Buster. So I entered the house one last time. When I came back to my room, my suitcase was empty. Everything I had just spent the last hour packing was back in its proper place. Despite how impossible this was, I focused on only one goal. We needed to leave.

I put a leash on Buster and was shocked to see how haggard he was. I resolved to make it up to him when this was all over. I tried to leave out the front door like nothing was wrong, but I couldn't open it. The knob turned freely, but the dead bolt wouldn't slide back. I was really scared now, but Buster's presence helped. I knelt down to give him a hug, and he gave me an idea while looking my face. Whatever was happening, it sure wasn't the result of a maniac hiding in my house. Still, I didn't know what forces were actually opposing me, so I walked to the backyard and

said loudly, Well, Buster, time for a little walk. The glass door slid open easily. Buster bounded out happily. I guess it had been a long time since I let him outside. I followed more tentatively and for the first time examined the backyard closely. There was an iron fence surrounding the yard with another space. between the bars that Buster could slide through.

And then I saw it. A tree that grew too close to the fence and had several branches extending through and above it. I assumed the gate would be supernaturally locked, too, so this was my exit. Buster didn't need any prodding. He waited patiently for me on the other side as I painfully pulled myself up and over the fence. I was suddenly aware of how weak and tired my recent lifestyle had made me. When I was in the process of climbing down the tree on the other side, Buster growled once and then took off like a shot towards the nearby hill.

I jumped down and gave chase. He disappeared over the top, and I scrambled to keep up on the surprisingly steep surface. Luckily, I found where someone had laid some stone bricks into the side for an easier way up. It was still steep enough that I had to focus on placing my feet correctly to keep from sliding, so I was looking down when my next reach up resulted in my hand grabbing carpet. Confused, I looked up to see the second floor landing. I looked down to see the rest of the stairs that had led to.

to the entrance hall in the living room of the house. Buster was nowhere to be found. Demoralized and dead tired. I crawled the final steps and just sat on the landing for a while, occasionally calling for Buster. Eventually the kitchen phone rang. Whatever ghosts were messing with me, I realized they couldn't stop outside forces from helping.

I tumbled down the stairs in my haste and landed hard on the cold tiles below, but I was only dazed for a second and soon was in the kitchen with the phone in my hand. My wife's warm voice filled me with hope. She was concerned that she hadn't heard for me in a while. I couldn't recall the last time I'd even tried. She tried telling me that my work hadn't heard from me in a week. While I tried to tell her to call the police, her words gave me pause, though. I asked, What do you mean?

I was given the week off. Dear, I thought you were supposed to continue working as soon as you got there. Well, yeah, but they gave me a week off because all of the stress I've been under. Wait a second. How long have I been here? Honey, you've been gone almost nine days now. My stomach sunk, but I didn't hesitate to say. Listen, I need you to call the cops.

Something is wrong. I think I'm having a medical emergency. I had just been trying to come up with an excuse to limit the amount of follow-up questions, but I ended up realizing that this was actually the most likely explanation. Maybe I was just suffering from a gas leak or a brain tumor. Either of those seem preferable to living in a haunted house. My wife asked. Baby, what's wrong?

Are you okay? I thought I saw a shadow move out of the corner of my eye as I answered. Yes, I'm okay, but no, I need help. There's something wrong about this house. You weren't making any sense. Just listen to me. Call the police. Tell them my uncle's name.

Tell them to come to this house and an ambulance might be needed. Please help me. Please help you. Pretty please. With a cherry on top?" I stared at the phone in my hand as my wife's voice continued to come out of it. It sounded like her, but in a mocking tone I've never actually heard from her before, she said.

Does your tummy hurt? When's the last time you ate? I wonder what Buster tastes like. I slammed the phone down, but whatever it was on the other side was right. My stomach was hurting. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. On cue, I heard Buster whining from upstairs. After I started running towards the stairs, did I notice how bruised and sore my legs were

from the spill down those steps? I pushed through the pain and climbed the stairs yet again. Buster was back in front of the bathroom, lying on his side and looking thinner than I'd ever seen him. Losing your mind was written all over the hallway now, including on the ceiling and the floor. I no longer had any doubt that the messages were written in blood. Some of them were still dripping. I walked over and picked up Buster while the banging started on my front door. door. I would have jumped if Buster hadn't been weighing me down. I heard the front door open,

and whoever it was, identified themselves as the police. I even recognized the voice as belonging to one of the officers who had visited previously. Why can't I remember his name? After calling out that I was upstairs, I turned with Buster and found the hallway stretched before me. Many times its original length. Despite how thin he looked, Buster felt heavier than ever. I knew this was all just some sort of trick to not get me in touch with the police officer. I thought I must have really been talking to my wife. She had to have come through with calling the police, and the ghost just distorted the end of the call.

So I started to trek back to the stairs and shuffled my feet as fast as I could, yelling all the way. But then a voice answered the police officer. It was a woman's voice. My wife's voice. I could hear her say. I'm sorry. My husband wasn't feeling well.

He's just resting in the bedroom. Can I help you? I screamed as loud as I could just to get attention, but it was no use. I heard the officer say, I'd like to check up on him all the same. Sure, sure, come in. He's right through here. It was right out of a nightmare. I was sweating profusely while every step seemed to get me nowhere.

I tried to speed up, but the hallway just stretched further. Then I heard a man's blood-curling scream from downstairs. Suddenly the hallway snapped back and I found myself right at the top of the stairs. My momentum couldn't be stopped. I fell down the stairs and landed hard. On top of Buster, he howled in pain, but at least he was still alive. I saw a long, thick trail of blood go around the corner and under my closed bedroom door. There was still a shadow of something under the door.

I painfully crept to the kitchen and grabbed my trusty frying pan before making my way back to the bedroom door, as quietly as I could. My eyes watched the moving shadows nervously. Whatever was waiting here had killed a man. That meant it could kill me. But if it could have a physical impact, then surely it had to be susceptible to a third. physical impact too. So I raised the frying pan and slowly started to turn the handle. Before I made much progress, the door flew open on its own and something turned suddenly

to me. I swung my frying pan down. The cop stood before me, a smile frozen on his face. We both looked down at the knife plunged into his chest. My hand was still wrapped around the handle. He fell to the side and I fell backwards to sit heavily on the now clean floor. I was positive that I had picked up the frying pan. I could remember its weight, but now I also remembered going to the kitchen and pulling out the knife.

I seriously wondered if I was losing my mind. I looked down to find I had the knife in my hands again. I dropped it at once and crawled back to check on Buster. He wasn't moving. I put my hand on his flank and was devastated to feel he was still warm, but not breathing. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I did nothing for a long time. I was lethargic, but somehow made it to the couch in the living room.

I waited there until nightfall, and then slept on the couch. When I woke up, I waited some more. I wasn't sure what I was waiting for, but nothing horrible was happening to me while I waited. I wasn't in a hurry to change that. But the bodies of Buster and the cop were still there. I needed to do something. My stomach rumbled as I finally got off the couch. That was another problem with just staying put.

First things first. I found a shovel in the outdoor closet attached to the backyard porch. Digging the hole was exhausting, so I settled for just bearing Buster for now. I planned on getting to the cop after finding something to eat. I picked up Buster and carried him outside. His fur was still so warm. It was hard to believe he was gone, but there was no life behind his big brown eyes. I gently laid him down in the hole and got to work.

Some time later, I wandered into the kitchen and raided the pantry. The house was quiet apart from my efforts. Whenever I stopped moving, the silence was complete. I wondered if the ghosts had just been trying to make me a murderer after all. Now that their goal had been met, maybe they would leave me alone for a while. Just in time because I was starving and didn't need any more distractions. I opened up the box of cereal and had a handful up to my lips when I paused. How could I tell I was actually eating what I was looking at?

What if I had actually been opening a box of rat poison? I still wasn't sure what these ghosts were capable of. I imagined the food turning into worms after it was already in my mouth. With that thought, I threw the cereal to the ground and stomped off, no longer hungry. I needed to concentrate on my efforts of leaving this place. Right on cue, I walked by the front door. It was wide open. Instinctively, I made a leap for it before stopping with my outstretched hand just a foot short

of the door. This had to be another trick. I could see the door slamming shut in my face, even taking a few of my fingers with it. I could feel a breeze into the house, but I was too scared to move. This was the most impossible situation I had ever been in or even heard of. All of my senses had failed me before. However, my need for freedom eventually caused my feet to move. Upon slowly exiting the house, I saw the cop car just sitting in the driveway.

The doors were unlocked, and the keys were sitting in the front seat. My mind went wild trying to explain the situation. Maybe the cop was secretly a murderer, and it killed the previous owners of this house. Maybe this sacrifice helped them move on? I couldn't think of any other explanation from my good luck at the time. So I just pushed my misgivings down and got in. I drove out of the neighborhood without incident, but I had new problems. I was in an unfamiliar city, driving a cop car with no money or other belongings on me.

I had no idea what to do next. So I kept driving. It felt good to be free of that house. It felt good to see the sun. So I kept driving. On and on. Left turn. Right turn.

Left turn. Right turn. No idea where I'm going. Then I realized I hadn't seen any other cars on the road for some time. Where was everyone? Where was I? The sinking feeling happened again, in the pit of my stomach, but also around my whole body. I sunk back into the car seat and then realized I was sitting in an armchair, back in the

living room of my uncle's house. My arms were up like I was holding onto a steering wheel. I started to cry in frustration as I stood up. up and screamed. How long had I just been sitting there with a stupid grin, moving my arms up and down like a madman? I turned around and saw my work laptop on the dining room table. It was open and glowing at me.

I walked over to it and saw that something was already written down in this post. It read, Lost your mind. Good. Now you won't mind losing the rest. Suddenly my fist felt weighed down. I raised it to find another kitchen knife in my hand. I dropped it immediately. I raised the message and started to type out a request for help.

I ignored the screen and just focused on the keys, but I kept hitting them wrong and another message solely formed. I'm sorry. I've disappointed you all for the last time. Goodbye. I could have screamed again, but I noticed something had changed. I wasn't in the dining room anymore. I was in the study.

I kept writing and writing and writing and my own words started to come out. I have sent out emails requesting help. I've posted on the local police department's Facebook for assistance, and I've just tried to keep riding no matter what. This is my last attempt to keep my sanity. Whenever I've tried to take a break, I find myself in a new room with new horrors descending on me. Once I opened the study door out to a hellish landscape and almost stepped out into lava.

I wasn't sure if it was all an illusion, but I didn't even want to have a vision of my feet burning, so I just closed the door and resumed writing. I'm not even sure this is all because of ghosts. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and the truth is simply that I have no idea what's going on. As I've gone over these crazy events, I've realized that I can't recall my uncle's name or what he looks like. I'm not sure I ever had an uncle.

I'm trying to think really hard about how I came here. Did I fly? Drive? I can't remember. Have I always been here? Even weirder, I can't remember my realtor's name. even what gender they are. I've met them in person several times.

Why don't I know things I should? I can't even remember the name of my daughters or wife. Am I even a father? Am I even a person? I know I must be because I'm here writing in this small study. But now that I think about it, I can't remember who my parents are, what they look like, or anything about my childhood. Now I just remember this house and all the nightmares, waking and otherwise I've experienced.

I'm feeling a lot like I was back in the cop car. I found a way forward, but really don't know what to do next. This is not a way to live and I'm getting more and more tired. I'm so hungry. I'm finding it harder to focus. I keep hearing voices and they're getting louder. I know if I stop writing, I won't last long, but I'm running out of things to say. My hands are tired.

I'm tired. So tired. A, B, C, D, E, F, H, I, J, K. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. I need to keep writing, but I don't know what to say anymore. What's my name? I don't know. I'll die if I stop writing.

I'll die if I stop working. A B, C, B, C, B, R, G, G, H-I-K-L-M-O, Q-P-R-S-T-U-V-W-Y-X, A-N-D-Z. The quick brown fuck's grunt over the lazy dogs, dogs. Buster. I miss Buster. I wish I could pet him one last time. but was he ever real? Is anything?

I'm so tired, so hungry. I need to focus. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy. Goodbye. The quick brown, I'm sorry, jumped over you lazy. Goodbye. I'm quick. I've jumped, disappointed all just last time.

Good. Lazy talks. I'm sorry. Jumped over. Disappointed to you. Lazy. For the lazy talks. Goodbye. I'm sorry. I've disappointed you all for the last time. Goodbye. Someday. I'm not sure why I'm writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess I've just noticed some odd things. It's not that I don't trust my computer. I just need to organize my thoughts. I need to get all the details down some more objective. Somewhere I know that what I write can't be deleted or changed. Not that that happens, it's just that everything blurs together here,

and the fog of memory lends the strange cast to things. I'm starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that's the problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment, the only one in the basement. The lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven't been out in a few days because I've been working on this project so intensively. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange.

I know, but I don't think that's it. I'm not sure when I first started to feel like something was odd. I can't even define what it is, but maybe I just haven't talked to anyone in a while. That's the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talked to online while I program has been idle, or they've simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last email I got from anybody was a friend saying that he'd talked to me when he got back

from the store, and that was yesterday. I'd call with my cell phone, but reception is terrible down here. Yeah, that's it. I just need to call someone. I'm gonna go outside. Well, that didn't work so well. As the tingle of fear fades, I'm feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went out, but I didn't shave the two-day stubble I've grown.

I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though. Because it was lunchtime and I guess that I'd run into at least one person I knew. That didn't end up happening. I wish it did. When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly. A small feeling of apprehension had somehow already lodged itself in me for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two.

I peered down the dingy gray hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building's furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it. I bought a soda from one the first day I moved in, but it had a two-year-old expiration date. I'm fairly sure that nobody even knows those machines are down here, or my cheap landlady just doesn't care to get them restocked. I closed my door softly and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound.

I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the soda machines, at least for a moment. I got to the stairwell and took the stairs up to the building's front door. I looked through the heavy door's small window and received quite the shock. It was definitely not lunchtime. The city gloom hung over the dark street outside, and the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow. dim clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city hung overhead.

Nothing moved, say the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember shivering, though I wasn't cold. Maybe it was the wind outside. I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew that it was the unique kind of late night wind, the kind that was constant, cold and quiet. Say for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves. I decided not to go outside. Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door's little window and checked the signal meter.

The bars filled up the meter and I smiled. Time to hear someone else's voice. I remember thinking, relieved. It was such a strange thing to be afraid of nothing. I shook my head, laughing at myself silently. I hit speed dial for my friend Amy's number and held the phone up to my ear. It rang once, but then it stopped. Then it stopped.

Nothing happened. I listened to silence for a good 20 seconds and then hung up. I frowned and looked at the signal meter again. Still full. I went to dial her number again, but then my phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear. Hello? I asked, immediately fighting down a small shock at hearing the first spoken voice in days,

even if it was my own. I had gotten used to the droning hum of the building. building's inner workings, my computer and the soda machines in the hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then, finally, a voice came. Hey. Said a clear male voice, obviously a college age like me. Who is this? It's John.

I replied. Oh, sorry. Wrong number. He replied, and then hung up. I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against the thick brick wall of the stairwell. That was strange. I looked at my received call list, but the number was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it further, the phone rang loudly, chalking me yet again.

This time I looked at the caller before I answered. It was another unfamiliar number. This time I held the phone up to my ear, but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise of a phone. Then a familiar voice broke my tension. John? Was the single word in Amy's voice. I breathed the sigh of relief.

Hey, it's you. I replied. Who else would it be? She responded. Oh, the number. I'm at a party on 7th Street. And my phone died just as you called me. This is someone else's phone, obviously.

Oh, okay, I said. Where are you? She asked. My eyes washed over the drab, whitewashed cylinder block walls and heavy metal door with its small window. I'm at my building. I sighed. Just feeling cooped up. I didn't realize it was so late.

You should come here. She said, laughing. Nah, I don't feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of night. I said, looking out the window at the silent, windy street that scared me, just a tiny bit. I think I'm just going to keep working or go to bed. Nonsense. I can come get you. Your building is close to Seventh Street, right?

How drunk are you? I asked, lightheartedly. You know where I live. Oh, of course. I guess I can't get there by walking, huh? You could if you wanted to waste half an hour, I told her. Right. Okay, have to go.

Good luck with your work. I lowered the phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended. Then, the droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls in the eerie street outside just drove home my aloneness in this empty stairwell. Perhaps from having seen too many scary movies, I had the sudden inexplicable idea that something could look in the door's window and see me, some sort of horrible entity that hovered at the edge of loneliness, just waiting to creep up on unsuspecting people that strayed too far

from other human beings. I knew the fear was rational, but nobody else was around. So, I jumped down the stairs, ran down the hallway into my room, and closed the door as swiftly as I could while still staying silent. Like I said, I felt a little ridiculous for being scared of nothing, and the fear is already faded. Recording this helps a lot. It makes me realize that nothing is wrong. It filters out half-formed thoughts and fears and leaves only cold, hard facts.

It's late. I got a call from the wrong number. Amy's phone died, so she called me back from me. and others. Nothing strange is happening. Still, there was something a little off about that conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she'd had, or was it, was it even her that seemed off to me? Or was it? Yes, that was it. I didn't realize it until this moment. I knew recording things would help. She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background. Of course, Of course, well, that doesn't mean anything in particular, as she could just have gone outside

to make the phone call. But, no, that couldn't be it either, because I didn't hear the wind. I need to see if the wind is still blowing. Monday. I forgot to finish recording last night. I'm not sure what I expected to see when I ran up the stairwell and looked out of the heavy metal doors window. I'm feeling ridiculous.

Last night's fear seems heavy. unreasonable to me now. I can't wait to go out into the sunlight. I'm going to check my email and shave and shower. I finally get out of here. But wait. I think I heard something. Oh.

It was thunder. It was thunder. That whole sunlight and fresh air thing didn't happen. I went out into the stairwell and up the stairs, and only to find disappointment. The heavy metal doors little windows showed only flowing waters. torrential rain slammed against it. Only a very dim light filtered in through the rain, but at least I knew it was daytime, even if it was gray, sickly, wet day.

I tried looking out the window and waiting for lightning to illuminate the gloom, but the rain was too heavy and I couldn't make out anything more than vague, weird shapes moving at odd angles and the waves and washing down the window. Disappointment. I turned around, but I didn't want to go back to my room. Instead, I wandered further up the stairs and passed the first floor in the second. The stairs ended at the third floor, the highest floor in the building. I looked through a glass that ran up the outer wall of the stairwell, but it was that warped,

thick kind that scatters the light. Not that there was much to see through the rain to begin with, but... I opened the stairwell door and wandered down the hallway. The ten or so thick wooden doors painted blue a long time ago were all called. closed. I listened as I walked, but it was the middle of the day, so I wasn't surprised that I heard nothing but the rain outside. As I stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the rain, I had this strange fleeting impression that the doors were standing like silent granite monoliths erected by some ancient, forgotten civilization for some unfathomable guardian

purpose. Lightning flashed. The old grainy blue wood looked like rough stone. I laughed at myself for letting my imagination get the best of me, and then it occurred to me that the dim gloom and lightning must mean there was a window somewhere in the hallway. A vague memory surfaced, and I suddenly recalled that the third floor had an alcove and an inset window halfway down the floor's hallway. Excited to look out into the rain and possibly see another human being, I quickly walked over to the alcove, finding the large, thin glass window. washed down it, as with the front doors windows.

But I could open this one. I reached a handout to slide it open, but hesitated. I had the strangest feeling that if I opened that window, I would see something absolutely horrifying on the other side. Everything's been so odd lately. So I came up with a plan and I came back here to get what I needed. I don't seriously think anything will come of it, but I'm bored. It's raining and I'm going stir crazy.

I came back to get my webcam. The cord isn't long enough to reach the third floor by any means, so instead I'm going to hide it between the two soda machines and the dark end of the basement hallway. I'm going to run the wire along the wall and under the door, put them black duct tape over the wire and blended in with the black plastic strip that runs along the base of the hallway walls. I know this is silly, but I don't have anything... Well, nothing happened.

I propped open the hallway to stairwell door, steeled myself, and... Stealed myself, and then flung the heavy front door wide open and ran like hell down the stairs to my room and slammed the door. I watched the webcam on my computer intently, seeing the hallway outside my door and most of the stairwell. I'm watching it right now, and I don't see anything interesting. I just wish the camera's position was different so that I could see out the front door.

Hey, someone's online. I got out in an older, less functional webcam that I had in my closet to video chat with my friend online. I couldn't really explain to him why I wanted to video chat, but it felt good to see another person's face. He couldn't talk very long, and we didn't talk about anything meaningful, but I feel much better. My strange fear has almost passed. I would feel completely better, but there was something odd about our conversation. I know that I've said that everything has seemed odd, but still, he was very vague in his responses. I can't recall one specific thing that he said, no particular name or place or event,

but he did ask for my email address to keep in touch. Wait, I just got an email. I'm about to go out. I just got an email from Amy that asked me to meet her for dinner at the place we usually go to. And I do love pizza. I've just been eating random food from my poorly stocked fridge for days, so I can't wait. Again, I feel ridiculous about the odd couple of days I've been having. I should delete this recording when I get back.

Oh, another email. Oh my God. I almost left the email and opened the door. I almost opened the door. I almost opened the door, but I read the email first. It was from a friend I hadn't heard from in a long time, and it was sent to a huge number of emails that must have been every person he had saved in his address list,

and it said simply, Seen with your own eyes. Don't trust them. They. What the hell is that supposed to mean? The words shocked me, and I keep going over them again and again. Is it a desperate email sent just as something happened? The words are obviously cut off without finishing.

On any other day, I would have dismissed this as spam from a computer virus or something, but the words, seen with your own eyes. I can't help but read over this journal and think back on the last few days and realize that I've not seen another person with my own eyes or talked to another person face to face. The webcam conversation with my friend was so strange and so vague, so eerie. Now that I think about it, was it eerie? Or is the fear clouding my memory?

My mind toys with the progression of events that I've recorded here, pointing out that I've not been presented with one single fact that I did not specifically. give out unsuspectingly, the random wrong number that got my name and the subsequent strange return call from Amy, the friend that asked for my email address, I messaged him first when I saw that he was online, and then I got my first email a few minutes after that conversation. Oh, my God. The phone call with Amy, I said over the phone, I said that I was within half an hour's

walk of 7th Street. They know where I am. What if they're trying to find me? Where is everyone? Why haven't I seen or heard from anyone else in day? No, no, no, no. This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy.

I need to calm down. This madness needs to end. I don't know what to think. I ran about my apartment furiously, holding my cell phone up to every corner to see if I could get a signal through that. heavy walls. Finally, in the tiny bathroom near one ceiling corner, I got a single bar. Holding my phone there, I sent a text message to every number in my list, not wanting to betray anything about my unfounded fears. I simply sent, you've seen anyone face to face

lately. At that point, I just wanted any reply back. I didn't care what the reply was, or if I embarrassed myself. I tried to call someone a few times, but I couldn't get my head up high enough, and if I brought my cell phone down even an inch, I lost signal. Then I remembered the computer, then rushed over to it, instant messaging, everyone online. Most were idle or away from their computer, and nobody responded. My messages grew more frantic, and I started telling people where I was, and to stop by in person for a host of barely passable reasons. I didn't care about anything at that point. I just needed to see another person. I also tore apart my apartment looking for something that I might have missed some way to contact another human

being without opening the door. I know it's crazy. I know it's unfounded, but what if? What if? What if? I just need to be sure. I taped my phone to the ceiling in case. Tuesday. The phone rang. Exhausted from last night's rampage, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up to the phone ringing and ran into the bathroom, stood on the toilet. Stood on the toilet and flipped open the phone taped to the ceiling. It was Amy, and I feel so much better. She was really worried about me, and apparently I had been trying to contact me since the last time I talked to her.

She's coming over now. And yes, she knows where I am without me telling her. I feel so embarrassed. I'm definitely deleting this journal before anyone hears it. I don't even know why I'm still recording this. Maybe it's just because it's the only communication. I've had at all since God knows when. I look like hell, too.

I looked in the mirror before I came back in here. My eyes are sunken, my stubble is thicker, and I just look generally unhealthy. My apartment's trashed, but I'm not going to clean it up. I think I need someone else to see what I've been through. These past few days have not been normal. I'm not one to imagine things. I know I've been the victim of extreme probability. I probably missed seeing another person a dozen times.

I just happened to go out when it was late at night or in the middle of the day when everyone was gone. Everything was perfectly fine. I know this now. Plus, I found something in the closet last night that helped me tremendously. A television, I set it up just before I recorded this, and it's on in the background. Television has always been an escape for me. It reminds me that there's a world beyond these dingy brick walls. I'm glad Amy's the only one who responded to me after last night's frantic pestering of everyone I could contact.

She's been my best friend for years now. She doesn't know it, but I count the day that I met her among one of the few moments of true happiness in my life. I remember that warm summer day fondly. It seems a different reality from this dark, rainy, lonely place. I felt like I spent days sitting in that playground. Much too old to play, just talking with her and hanging around and doing nothing at all. I still feel like I can go back to that moment sometimes. And it reminds me that this damn place is not all there is.

Finally, a knock on the door. I thought it was odd that I couldn't see her through the camera I hid between the two soda machines. I figured it was just bad positioning, like when I couldn't see out the front of her. front door, I should have known. After the knock, I yelled through the door jokingly that I had a camera between the soda machines, because I was embarrassed myself that I had taken this paranoia so far. After I did that, I saw her image walk over to the camera and look down at it. She smiled and waved. Hey. She said to the camera brightly, giving it a wry look. It's weird, I know. I said into the mic attached to my computer. I've had a weird few days.

Must have. She replied. Open the door, John. I hesitated. How could I be sure? Hey, um, humor me for just a second here. I told her through the mic. Uh, tell me one thing about us.

Uh, just to prove to me that you're you. She gave the camera a weird look. Um, all right. She said, slowly thinking. We met randomly at a playground when we were both way too old to be there. I sighed deeply, his reality returned and fear faded. God. I had been so ridiculous.

Of course it was Amy. That day wasn't anywhere in the world except in my memory. I'd never even mention it to anyone. Not out of embarrassment, but out of a strange secret nostalgia and a longing for those days to return. If there was some unknown force at work trying to trickle, me, as I feared. There was no way they could know about that day. All right. I'll explain everything, I told her. Be right out. I ran to my small bathroom and fixed my hair as best I could. It looked like hell, but she would understand, snickering at my own

unbelievable behavior and the mess that I'd made of the place. I walked to the door, put my hand on the doorknob, and gave the mess one last look. So ridiculous, I thought. My eyes traced over the half-eaten food lying on the ground and the overflowing trash bin. In the bed, I'd tipped to the side looking for, God knows what. I almost turned the door and opened it, but my eyes fell on one last thing. The old webcam. The one I used for that eerily vacant chat with my friend. Its silent black sphere lay haphazardly tossed to the side.

Its lens pointed at the table where the journal lay. An overwhelming terror took me as I realized that if something could see through that camera, it would have seen what I just wrote about that day. I asked her for any one thing about us, and she chose the only thing in the world that I thought they or it didn't know. But it did. It did. It did know.

It could have been watching me the whole time. I didn't open the door. I screamed. I screamed an uncontrollable tear. I stomped on the old webcam on the floor. The door shook and the doorknop tried to turn, but I didn't hear Amy's voice through the door. Was the basement door made to keep out drafts too thick?

Or was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in, if not her? Well, what the hell was out there? I saw her on my computer, though. I heard her on the speakers through the camera outside, but was it real? How could I know? She's gone now. I screamed and shouted for help.

I piled up everything in my apartment against the front door. Friday. At least I think it's Friday. I broke everything, electronic. I smashed my computer to pieces, every single thing on there that could have been accessed by network access or worse or altered. I'm a programmer, I know. My name, my email, my location.

None of it came back from outside until I gave it out. I've been going over and over what I wrote. I've been pacing back and forth, alternating between stark terror and overpowering disbelief. Sometimes I'm absolutely certain some phantom entity is dead set on the simple goal. of getting me to go outside. Back at the beginning, with the phone call from Amy, she was effectively asking me to open the door and go outside. I keep running through it in my head. One point of view says that I've acted like a madman, and all of this is the extreme convergence of probability. Never going outside at the right time by pure luck, never

seeing another person by pure chance, getting a random nonsense email from some computer virus at just the right time. The other point of view says that the extreme convergence of probability is the reason that whatever is out there hasn't gotten me already. I keep thinking. I never opened the window on the third floor. I never opened the front door until that incredibly stupid stunt with the hidden camera, after which I ran straight to my room and slammed the door, I haven't opened my own solid door since I flung open the front door of the building.

Whatever's out there. If anything's out there, never made an appearance in the building before I opened the front door. the reason it wasn't in the building already was that it was elsewhere getting everyone else. And then it waited until I betrayed my existence by trying to call Amy, a call which didn't work until it called me and asked me my name. Terror literally overwhelms me every time I try to fit the pieces of this nightmare together. That email, short, cut off. Was it from someone trying to get word out? Was some friendly voice desperately trying to warn me before it came? Seen with my own eyes. Don't trust them. Exactly what I've been so suspicious of. Practicing its insidious

deception to trick me into coming outside, why can't it get in? It knocked on the door. It must have had some solid presence. The door. The image of those doors in the upper hallway as guardian monolith flashes back into my mind every time I trace this path of thoughts. If there is some phantom entity trying to get me to go outside. Maybe it can't get through doors. I keep thinking back over all the books I've read or movies I've seen, trying to generate some explanation for this. Doors have always been such intense focus of human imagination, always seen as wards or portals

of some special importance, or perhaps the door is just too thick. I know I couldn't bash through any sort of door in this building, let alone the heavy basement ones. Aside from that, the real question is, why does it even want me? If it just wanted to kill me, it could have done in a number of ways, including just waiting until I starve to death. What if it doesn't want to kill me? What if it has some far more horrific fate in store for me? God, what can I do to escape this nightmare?

A knock on the door. I told the people on the other side of the door that I need a minute to think, and then I'll come out. I'm really just writing this down so I can figure out what to do. at least this time I heard their voices. My paranoia, and yes, I recognize I'm being paranoid, has me thinking of all sorts of ways their voices could have been faked electronically. There could be nothing but speakers outside, simulating human voices. Did it really take them three days to come talk to me?

Amy is supposedly out there, along with two policemen and a psychiatrist. Maybe it took them three days to think of what to say to me. The psychiatrist's claim could be pretty convinced, if I decided to think this has all been some crazy misunderstanding and not some entity trying to trick me into opening the door. The psychiatrist had an older voice, authoritarian, but still caring. I liked it.

I'm desperate just to see someone with my own eyes. He said, I have something called a cyber psychosis, and I'm just one of a nationwide epidemic of thousands of people having breakdowns triggered by a suggestive email that got through somehow. I swear, he said, got through somehow. I think he means spread throughout the country inexplicably, but I'm incredibly suspicious that the entity slipped up and revealed something. He said, I am part of a wave of emergent behavior,

that a lot of other people are having the same problem with the same fears, even though we've never communicated. That neatly explains the strange email about the eyes that I got. I didn't get the original triggering email. I got a descendant of it. My friend could have broken down too and tried to, and tried to warn everyone he knew against his paranoid fears. That's how the problem spreads, the psychiatrist claims.

I could have spread it, too. With my texts and instant messages online to everyone I know, one of those people might be melting down right now after being triggered by something I sent him, something they might interpret in any way they want, something like a text saying, seen anyone face to face lately. The psychiatrist told me that he didn't want to lose another one,

that people like me are intelligent and that's our downfall. We draw conclusions so well that we draw them even when they shouldn't be there. He said it's easy to get caught up in paranoia in our fast-paced world, a constantly changing place where more and more of our interaction is simulated. I have to give them one thing. It's a great explanation. It neatly explains everything. It perfectly explains everything.

In fact, I have every reason to share it. take off this nightmarish fear that some thing or some consciousness or some being out there wants me to open the door so it can capture me for some horrible fate worse than death. It would be foolish to stay in here until I starve to death just despite the entity that might have gotten everyone else. It would be foolish to think that after hearing that explanation, I might be one of the last people alive on an empty world, hiding in my secure basement room, spiting some unthinkable deceptive entity just by refusing to be captured.

It's a perfect explanation for every single strange thing I've seen or heard, and I have every reason in the world to let all my fears go and open the door. And that's exactly why I'm not going to. How can I be sure? How can I know what's real and what's deception? All of these damned things with their wires and their signals that originate from some unseen source? They're not real.

I can't be sure. Signals through a camera, faked video, deceptive phone calls, emails, even the television, lying broken on the floor. How can I possibly know it's real? It's just signals, waves, light. The door. It's bashing on the door. It's trying to get in. What insane mechanical contravants could it be using to simulate the sound of men attacking a heavy wood door so well?

Well, at least I'll finally see it with my own eyes. There's nothing left in here for it to deceive me with. I've ripped apart everything else. It can't deceive my eyes. Can it? The scene with your own eyes. Don't trust them. They...

They... Wait. Was that desperate message telling me to trust my eyes? Or warning me about my eyes, too? Oh, my God. What's the difference between a camera and my eyes? They both turn light into electronic signals. They're both the same.

I can't be deceived. I have to be sure. I have to be sure. Day Unknown. I calmly ask for a pen and paper, day in, day out, until it finally gave them to me. Not that it matters? What am I going to do? Poke my eyes out?

The bandages feel like part of me now. The pain is gone. I figured this will be one of my last chances to write legibly, as without my sight to correct mistakes, my hands will solely forget the motions involved. This is a sort of self-indulgence. It's writing. It's a relic of another time, because I'm certain everyone left in the world is dead or something far worse. I sit against the padded wall day in and day out. The entity brings me food and water. It masks itself as a kind nurse, as an unsympathetic doctor.

I think that it knows that my hearing has sharpened considerably now that I live in darkness. It fakes conversations in the hallway on the off chance that I might overhear. One of the nurses talks about having a baby soon. One of the doctors lost his wife in a car accident. None of it matters. None of it's real. None of it gets to me. Not like she does.

That's the worst part. The part I almost can't handle. The thing comes to me masquerading as Amy. Its recreation is perfect. It sounds like, Exactly like Amy. Feels exactly like her. It even produces a reasonable facsimile of tears that makes me feel in its life like cheeks.

When it first dragged me here, it told me all the things I wanted to hear. It told me that she loved me, that she always loved me, that it didn't understand why I did this, that we could still have a life together, if only I would stop insisting that I was being deceived. It wanted me to believe. No. It needed me to believe that she was real. I almost fell for it.

I really did. I doubted myself for the longest time. In the end, though, it was all too perfect, too flawless, and too real. The false Amy used to come every day, and then every week, and then finally stopped coming all together. But I don't think the entity will give up. I think of a waiting game is just another of its gambits. I will resist it for the rest of my life.

I have to. I don't know what happened to the rest of the world, but I know that this thing needs me to fall for its deceptions. If it needs that, then maybe. Just maybe I'm a thorn in its agenda. Maybe Amy is still alive out there somewhere, kept alive only by my will to resist the deceiver. I hold on to that hope, rocking back and forth in my cell to pass the time. I will never give in. I will never break.

I am a hero." The doctor read the paper the patient had scribbled on. It was barely readable, written in the shaky script of one who could not see. He wanted to smile at the man's steadfast resolve, a reminder of the human will to survive, but he knew that the patient was completely delusional. After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception. long ago. The doctor wanted to smile.

He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the delusional man. He wanted to scream, but the nerve filaments that wrapped around his head and into his eyes made him do otherwise. His body walked into the cell like a puppet and told the patient once more that he was wrong and that there was nobody trying to deceive him.