#journals

“The year is nineteen-ninety-nine.” That sentence brings me back to my senior kindergarten class when I was five years old, where we used to read out the date on the blackboard every single day. The year 1999 exists as a stain in my mind however, as a memory that will not go away no matter how I try to forget it. 1999 marked the year I lost my first tooth, my first time on a plane, and unfortunately the early loss of my childhood innocence.

During the summer of 2003, events in the northeastern United States involving a strange, human-like creature sparked brief local media interest before an apparent blackout was enacted. Little or no information was left intact, as most online and written accounts of the creature were mysteriously destroyed.

Sunday 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 the computer… I just… need to organize my thoughts. I need to get down all the details somewhere objective, somewhere I know that what I write can’t be deleted or… changed… not that that’s happened. It’s just… everything blurs together here, and the fog of memory lends a strange cast to things…

August 13th, 1921 Prof. Herbert Clayton Children's Ward St. Mary's Childrens Hospital Fife, Scotland Dear Professor, My trusted friend and mentor, I write to you in the hope that you may advise me on a matter of urgency concerning a patient of mine. Edward is a boy of just nine years who arrived with his mother six days ago with a disposition so positive that we did not at first admit him. This did not last long.

The year was 1942, and I was a young Jewish boy who was sent to the concentration camp, Auschwitz. My brother and I were separated from our parents a couple weeks back, and haven’t seen them since. We were attempting to make it across the border to Russia in order to escape the Nazis, but we weren’t fast enough, and they quickly caught up. My brother, Alois, was two years older than me, and went to Auschwitz when we were caught. Unfortunately, he died on the fourth day from too much hard labor.

My brother was a whopping eleven years older than me, so I don't remember much of when he was still living with us during his college years. I was only thirteen when he moved out. But he was always weird. His self-professed hobby was to watch people. I remember there were times when he would pick me up from school, and, as we drove home in the afternoon sunlight, we would see something like a group of children walking home in their uniforms, and those little mundane scenes--old ladies feeding…

“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.

3:47 pm. August 4th, 1973. My name is Kevin Matthews. I am at the Matthews Lakeside cabin in Black Rock Park which I received in my dad's will. I'm writing this to document my odd findings of my family's lakehouse.

[POST #1] Hello all. Today I went on an interesting trip. It took me a while to save up for the plane tickets, but it was worth it. Before I get into too much detail, I should introduce myself. Well, not really, I'm very paranoid when it comes to the internet, and I won't disclose my real name, so if you want to speak to me, just call me Delmar. I don't know what’s about that word, but I've been digging it lately.

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.

Dear Diary,

Screaming. I woke up screaming. Looking around once again to a completely empty room. I panted in the dark, and stared around wildly to make sure I was home in my room. Looking at my bedside table at the clock, it was the same time as before; the dreams were getting worse. 3:30AM. I closed my eyes, when I did, I felt hot breath on my face and the crooked mirthless laughter rang in my ears. The alarm clock went off, and I sat up slowly. Blinking myself awake and looking around the room. The sun…

Wipe your feet when you come inside. Cliché. Old school. Who does that anyways? Well, the shit your grandmother tells you isn’t always bad advice. Quite the contrary really. I’m about to tell you a story you won’t believe. A story that will never leave me. A story about what exactly happens when you don’t WIPE. YOUR. FEET. And please, whoever finds this, heed my advice. Read the story. It’s too late for me…

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."

Now, when I think back to the excuses my parents used to make, I feel like an idiot. I remember being twelve years old, standing at the top of the staircase and watching all of the people filing into our basement. Some men wore white masks, some women wore bonnets. But they all had small suitcases, as though there was a bus stop beneath our house. And every one of them looked pale, frightened.

The term “synthetic drug” refers to a new type of drug on the market that has been created to skirt existing laws on illicit drugs. Thousands of psychoactive compounds are regulated by the law of the Federal Controlled Substances Act. However, in creating synthetic drugs, manufacturers alter the chemical structure of an illegal drug, modifying it to create an “analog” or derivative of that drug, to, essentially, make it quote unquote legal.

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…

I guess I’m not really sure what to write down. These past few weeks feel…It’s just hard to put to words what’s going on. I can hear sirens in the distance. Not much time left now. The police’ll be here shortly. Only one more thing left to do, but first I want to leave some kind of a record. Some testament to what happened so when they look back on this insanity, maybe somebody will know I wasn’t crazy. At least, not completely. I’ll write down the facts as they happened, try and give you a…

Day 1

They are always there. Always calling to me, at school, at parties, and even with my closest friends. "Come on babe," they'll say, "just grab that pair of scissors from your backpack, go to the bathroom, and we can play around for a little while." I try to remain focused on whatever the task is at hand, but they continue to seduce me. "You know you want to," they'll say. I tell them to wait until tonight to ease them, and as the stern voice weakens to murmurs, I can still hear them.