#journals

“I hope this thing is on. I still don’t know how to work it properly." *THUMP THUMPTHUMP THU-THUMPTHUMP* *BREATHING INTO THE MICROPHONE*

Have you ever thought of a person that you knew for sure couldn’t be human? That could never die even if you tried everything in your might to stop him. I am not talking about Jeff or Jane The Killer, no. I am talking about someone equally, or possibly, more terrifying than them: Tulo Beloff A.K.A. "The Home Run Killer."

-11/8/12 -

Dear Diary,

MISSING

2 Thessalonians 2:11- and for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie:

Day 1

“Bobby! Pay attention!” he heard his teacher say. He snapped out of his reverie and looked up to see her glaring at him. “Did you hear anything I’ve been saying?” she continued. Bobby shrugged his shoulders. Prior to being disrupted, he was daydreaming that he could freeze time, and before that he was imagining himself navigating the classroom if he was only 5 inches tall. The teacher continued to rant at him, just as they all did, then she placed him on detention Friday night after school.

I’ve brought myself back to where it happened, so I can relive the events that occurred five years ago, I shall try and recall them as accurately as possible.

I woke up, cold sweat, with something reminiscent of a bad dream clouding my head. Neck cramps, figures. I shift around a lot in my sleep - move about restlessly for a reason I know not.

[The following was uncovered from the hard drive of Simon Colo’s office computer. For psychological research purposes only.]

His face never changes. It's pale white. His eyes are grey, empty. Wide. So fucking wide. I can't take my own eyes off of them and because I can't, I feel them painfully dry up, just as his should. But they don't. He never closes them. He's always, always watching.

The following are transcripted entries from the journal of a Soldier that didn't survive the trip home from a deployment in Iraq. Content was provided via the victim's relatives. This might be disturbing for some people to see. Proceed with caution. - 17-MAY-2008 Fort Huachuca, Arizona -

It was a dark, and stormy night when I write this journal, stating the horrific things I have experience just the other day..

June 24th, 2011 Finally found a job working with Zach at his uncle’s place. A salvaging company, digging up boat parts and other junk from the river to make it safer, stuff like that. It’s not really my thing, but it’s a job and I’m grateful for it. Met his uncle earlier today, his name is Walter, really jovial and built like a concrete mixer. We got to talking for awhile, ended up liking me and gave me a position as a diver for his crew. Told him I never dived a day in my life, but he said he…

Ever had a fear of monsters under your bed? Like you could have sworn you saw what seemed to be a shadow moving down there, or freaked out when you heard a noise under the bed and was scared to look?

The following dialog was found written on a scrap of paper in the cell of a now missing John Doe.

The Journal of Harry Rellic The following; a series of the most recent excerpts from a private journal of ‘Harry Rellic’, a 22 year old found dead in his apartment this evening. Apparent death by overdose on cyanide. … I wake up at ten in the morning to my phone ringing. I pick up, expecting Hannah to be on the other end, but instead I hear her sister, Mary. She is in hysterics. I ask her what the problem is, trying to calm her down; she tells me Hannah is dead.

I am a dead man. I would like to think of myself as a reasonable, level-headed individual; and that is exactly why I know that there is no happy ending for me by any measure whatsoever. I have only one thing left I can do… whether it works or not, this document is to serve as my last will and testament. I will not try to diminish my responsibility in what happened, but before I die the blame will be placed squarely on the heads of those who deserve it. It was the combined hubris of two men that…

Read Part 1 Here This is what happened next. I’ve been up for three nights. Energy shots and cold showers help. I don’t want to sleep. It’s been much worse lately—the dreams, and the voices. I won’t smoke anymore of these things, I’ve decided. I need answers first. And I need these maddening voices and whispers to stop barraging my nights. I have to listen to music, TV, something, at all times. Or I start to hear them. So far, I’ve only told Mike about what happened.