Front Matter

I don't usually start the NoSleep eBook with anything other than acknowledgements for editors and
artists, but there are a few important pieces of information you might want to know before turning the
page and heading into the dark abyss that the NoSleep community has so artfully crafted.

First, you'll notice that this volume is laid out in reverse chronological order. I made that choice to
accommodate the Best of 2013 winners. Many of the stories in this category are also monthly
winners. Winning a Best of NoSleep award is a much more auspicious honor than a monthly award,
and I wanted all stories in this category to take their rightful place among 2013 royalty. Had I ordered
this volume chronologically, some winners would have been displaced to their monthly seat.

Second, I've recently received input from NoSleep members about changing the way series stories are
handled in the eBook. I held a discussion about this in /r/nosleepOOC which was productive and
generated some good ideas. The turnout, however, was small. If you like the NoSleep eBook and
want to weigh in on any future changes, feel free to post a comment in the OOC subreddit or message
me directly; /u/EtTuTortilla.

That's it! Thank you for reading and supporting our authors!

The NoSleep eBook is compiled by EtTuTortilla. You can read his work at The Brass
Wyrm, OsoBrazos, and Filmalogical.

The amazing cover art for this volume was created by zer0ace. You can see more of her work
at ilikedrawingdudes.tumblr.com.

The interior art, "The Three Stoogies", was created by werewally.

Best of NoSleep 2013
Kept Me Awake - Scariest Story of 2013
630-296-7536

BLOODWORTH writing as boothworld

Winner - Scariest Story of 2013, Honorable Mention - Best Single-Part Story of 2013

Im sure that all of you on /r/nosleep are used to the cry for help type stories by now. Help me, help
me, blah-blah-blah. I wont bore you with another. Even if I wanted your help, you couldnt give it to
me, because your help is useless.
Why?
Because youre not a member.
I just wish that I wasnt either.
It all started innocently enough. With a phone call.
Id been up for a few hours, unpacking and cleaning, waiting for the plumber to call. I just moved into
a cabin and the contractors fucked everything up. Because of that, I now have the wonderful task of
making calls to competent people that can fix what the original contractors did wrong.
The phone rang at 12:06.
Not bad, I thought. Usually plumbers dont bother to call or show up until 5.
When I picked up the phone I didnt even get a chance to say hello before a woman on the line told me
to Please hold for the next available operator.
I hopped up and sat on the cabinet in the kitchen. It was one of the few places in the cabin not
occupied with boxes. Elevator music leaked into my ear. Id started to drowse off when the music
stopped and a piano chord that sounded like it was three notes that didnt quite go together played
through the receiver twice.
A voice came on the line.
Welcome to Boothworld Industries. My name is Samantha and I will be your operator today.
Name?
I didnt know what to say so I told the operator my name.
Sir, we know who you are. Im your operator. Please give me a name to access.
I dont understand, I said.
It can be anyone, sir. We just need a name.
Uh, okay, I said. I made up a name. Harold Withers.
Sir, as your operator, I must point out that fictitious names, or the names of people that you dont
know, cannot be used.
Used for what? I asked. How had she known that Id made up that name? The whole thing felt like it
was some sort of prank, but hardly anyone knew my new phone number.
Remodeling.
Remodeling? Is this the plumber? I asked.
Welcome to Boothworld Industries. My name is Samantha and I will be your operator today.
Name?
I took that as a yes and gave them the name of an old ex-girlfriend. Jessica Goodwin.
I could hear the clicking of a keyboard on the other end of the phone. It sounded like the woman was
pounding the thing with her fists. After a few moments of this, she returned.
Jessica Goodwin, she said. Remodeling is scheduled for August 21, 2015. Would you like to
reschedule?
I was silent on my side of the phone. I couldnt believe this. Someone had to be playing a prank on
me.
Who is this? Is this you, Jessica? Are you playing a prank on me? I asked.
The woman didnt respond for a long time. I thought that whoever was on the other end of the phone
was holding in a laugh.
Hello? I asked.
Yes or no, Sir? The woman asked back.
Yes? I said, not understanding what the woman was asking.
I have a Tuesday appointment available. Will that work?
At this point I thought I was going insane and that it actually was the plumbing company.
What about today? I asked. Do you have anything available for today?
Normally we cant arrange for a reschedule on such short notice, but today we had a cancellation.
How does three oclock work for you?
Three oclock is fine, I said.
Three oclock it is then. Would you like a courtesy call?
Sure.
Wonderful. We at Boothworld Industries say thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous
day.
That strange chord played twice again and the line went dead. I rolled my eyes and went back to
unpacking.
My phone rang at three oclock on the dot that afternoon.
Hello? I said.
Sir. This is Samantha with Boothworld Industries again. Your courtesy call begins now.
What do you- I began to say, but was cut off by those diminished chords blaring into my ear, then I
heard Jessicas voice.
Why are you doing this? Jessica asked. I could hear the tears in her voice.
Jessica? I asked.
Sir, the operator said. She cannot hear you. This is a courtesy call. The appointment has already
concluded.
Please, Jessica begged. Please dont do this. Ill do anything you want. Ill-
Jessicas voice choked off into a wheeze and all I could hear on the other end of the phone was the
rustling of clothing and more wheezing. Eventually it stopped and someone picked up on the other
end.
The scheduled work has been completed, a mans voice said. We at Boothworld Industries say
thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous day.
Sir? The operator came back on the line. Was that to your satisfaction?
I sat there for a long time, cold sweat dripping down my ribcage. Jessica was my ex, because I
walked in on her and my best friend fucking at a party in high school.
I smiled and whispered, That was perfect.
Wonderful, the operator said. We at Boothworld Industries aim to serve. Would you like to make
another appointment?
As I stared at the water leaking from the door of the dishwasher, I smiled even bigger.
Yes, I said. Yes I would.
Name?
Dan. I dont have a last name. Hes a contractor.
Dan Arencibia. July 13, 2032. Would you like to reschedule?
Yes, I said.
How would Wednesday work for you?
Didnt you say you had a Tuesday appointment available? I asked.
I did, but unfortunately that slot has been filled by another member. Would Wednesday work for
you?
No, I said. I have a job interview that day. What about Thursday?
Unfortunately Thursday will not work. You are due for remodeling Wednesday night.
What? I asked.
She repeated the exact same thing to me again.
Can we reschedule my remodeling? I asked.
Of course we can, sir, the woman said. It sounded like she was smiling on the other end of the
phone. Theresalways a way.
I waited for her to tell me how. She didnt speak.
HOW? I asked.
Boothworld Industries is always looking to add new members. We are, of course, a membership by
invitation only club. Sadly, our membership numbers have fallen in recent years. Economic
recessions. Wars. Politics. What we would like you to do, in order to avoid your own remodeling
appointment, is help us add several new members.
The light at the end of the tunnel, I thought.
How many members do you need? I asked.
One thousand.
I choked. One thousand?
Yes, sir. Otherwise well have to keep our scheduled appointment. We must inform you that the
member that scheduled this appointment did request a courtesy call.
Everything stopped at that point for me. All my life Id just skated by, not doing anything, not making a
difference.
My mouth actually dried up. Id always thought that was just a thing people wrote in books to be
dramatic.
Its not.
Ill get you your one thousand members, I whispered.
We at Boothworld Industries say thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous day.
The connection ended.
I hung up the phone and stared at it for a long time. Im scheduled for remodeling on Wednesday, and
somewhere, someone will be getting a courtesy call to listen to my last few breaths if I dont get one
thousand members to join Boothworld Industries.
Its funny. Id always wanted to join an elite club. Skull and Bones. New World Order. I'm not sure
how I got in, but now Im a member. I've got until Wednesday to enjoy it.
Like I said at the beginning: even if I wanted your help, you couldnt give it to me, because youre not
a member.
Membership is by invitation only.
Im inviting you in.
You can help me.
Just call 630-296-7536.
Any updates found here.
The Minimalist
AntonScheller writing as urban_teller.

Runner Up - Scariest Story of 2013

His name is Sven. He is 27, blond and used to have a well-shaped body.
We lived together for three years, him and me. Nights with beer and peanuts and good talk and days
that we barely saw each other because of my busy schedule. He is an architect, or maybe he just was,
Im not so sure.
In March he made his life dream come true. He travelled to Japan and for three weeks his Facebook
wall was plastered with photos of temples and streets and people. But most of all there were pictures
of houses, large and small, finally photos of houses and apartments from the inside. Besides one of the
pictures, to this day, stands a sentence that I think started his obsession:
The people here are really nice. Tell them you are an architect and ask nicely and any stranger will
show you their house just make sure to take your shoes off!
In his posts and the two short phone calls we had during his time in Japan I noticed that he seemed to
have a new passion: Minimalism. Simplify and declutter your life and you will simplify and declutter
your mind.
You know, he said. They have apartments here, not even bigger than student rooms, but they have
everything! A shower, a kitchen, everything in just one room and you dont even notice it!
The first thing Sven did when he came back was to pack most of his life first spare clothes, his
game consoles and his TV, then also old gifts or random memorability into boxes. He placed the
boxes on the sidewalk and within the hour they were gone. Within a week more and more left his
room: Old birthday cards, photos, trophies, even his heirloom grandfather clock. Soon all was at the
side of the street. Soon all of it was gone.
A room with a near-empty shelf, a near-empty wardrobe, a desk and a chair.
Isnt it beautiful? he asked.
And I had to agree: So simple, so clean, so relaxing.
No clutter. No memories.
No worries.
Although some of Svens motivation jumped over to me my room stayed a mess.
You should really declutter, he said. Ive never felt happier.
And Sven lived simpler by the day.
Its so much more relaxed.
He smiled while he said that.
Simpler food.
I feel so light.
Simpler clothes.
I dont need to choose anymore. Three sets, rotate. Everything else is excess!
No desk.
Its not good for your back anyway.
No shelf.
It just collects dust.
No bedsheets.
Your body learns to face the cold.
No mattress.
Soft is bad for your spine.
No bed.
Its so much easier.
Oh, I said. But where do you sleep?
The floor is enough.
He smiled that smile again. Relaxed, calm, serene, impossibly happy.
And what do you do when it gets cold?
He grinned.
No problem. I still have the wardrobe.
In early August he moved into the wardrobe. And since then Ive never seen him anywhere else.
Im not exaggerating when I say that.
Not in the kitchen.
Not in the bathroom.
During the day he keeps his wardrobe door open. At night he closes it.
You should really join me, he said. Theres lots of space here.
I dont think so.
Oh, Sven said. Youre just too attached to things.
I said goodbye to the Sven I knew on the 12th of August, the day he shaved his head. By that day he
was already thin; far too thin to be healthy.
Sometimes I brought him food.
No, he would say. Im not hungry.
He was never hungry and you could see it, when he was sitting sideways in his wardrobe and the only
things that gave a shape his body were his ribs and bones that nearly seemed to penetrate the skin.
But he always smiled.
You really need help, I said.
And he smiled with teeth of which the gums were slowly retreating.
Dont worry about me. Im much better this way; much better than ever before.
Dude, this is not healthy.
Much healthier than you live, he said. You should really join me in here. Theres space for two!
Theres no space, I said.
I really shouldnt have said that.
Sven installed a board in the wardrobe, right above his head.
You can have the top bunk, he said.
I thought that was a joke.
And every day the top bunk seemed to grow and his space seemed to shrink. But he fit.
He always sat there, quietly, sometimes with a book borrowed from me and at other times just with
his mind.
It was September then.
Really, he said. You can have the top bunk. You will definitely fit.
Im not so sure about that.
Oh, he said. Ill make a bit more space. Tomorrow youll definitely fit.
And the next day, as a joke, I sat on his top bunk.
He closed the door.
There were just my heartbeat and his breath.
Isnt it serene? Sven asked.
A bit too tight for me, I said. And something smells.
Back then I would have said it smelled like nails.
That will go, he said.
By the next day the top bunk was even bigger. His space was by then just a thin shelf, maybe as high
as five or six books stacked on top of each other.
The smell got worse.
Rot.
Dont worry, he said. It will get better.
Sven, I said. I think youre dying.
And he laughed.
You cling too much to your body, he said.
No, I said. Really. You need to get to a hospital.
Im not crazy, Sven said. Dont start that debate again.
Give me your parents number.
No, he said.
For the first time he looked angry.
Please, I just want to help.
No, he said. Im perfectly fine.
I smell your body rotting.
He laughed.
Dont worry. Thats just the healing process.
Healing?
The wounds, he said.
What wounds?
Nothing major, he said. Nothing I needed.
Show me.
No!
Show me!
I grabbed his right hand.
It was bony and small and cold.
Stop it! he said.
But I pulled.
He felt lighter than my bag was on most days.
His fingernails dug in my arm.
Stop it! he screamed.
His whole body slid out from his shelf.
Just no left arm.
And no legs.
I let go.
Fuck you! he screamed.
And with one push he was back in his shelf.
Youre crazy! I said.
No, he said. You are. You dont need all these things for happiness.
I walked backwards to the door.
What did you do to your legs?
Didnt need them, he said. Cut them off two weeks ago.
My god, I said. You will die.
His eyes looked soft again, and he smiled.
Simplify, Sven said. Then you stop worrying about such things.
Probably I should have called the ambulance or the police, or just somebody anybody. But I didnt,
because every time that I try I look at him and he smiles.
He is happy, happier than anyone I have ever seen.
Its been four days now. Sven is still there, happy. Sometimes I hear him hum or sing. Other times he
just sits there quietly, smiling.
And I should be terrified, disgusted, horrified.
Instead I just feel serene when I look at him.
When I feel stressed or worried I look at him and I feel calm from his smile.
Without even thinking about it I have begun tidying my room. Sven is right in some respects, certainly.
Decluttering calms me down. The first two boxes were on the street today.
And at night, just before I go to sleep, I wonder what it would feel like to be with him, in there, in his
wardrobe bunk bed.
And when I close my eyes the darkness seems to fill with a memory. I hear nothing but my heartbeat
and his breath. And all I remember is how happy I felt in there.
^^
Declutter
Best Single-Part Story of 2013
World's Best School Psychologist
CreepyCarbs

Winner - Best Single-Part Story of 2013

When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family,
was against me. I was never a problemed child, but my parents sure treated me like one.
For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of
play time outdoors. I wasn't allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to
go over anyone elses. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter
how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games and forced me to read books and
then write a book report on them to prove I actually read it!
Now, even though those rules listed above were quite frustrating to me as a child, they aren't what
upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother
was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty of accidents or mistakes I've made. My father
only knew one emotion: frustration. The only time he spoke to me was when he screamed at me for
receiving poor test scores or beat me for misbehaving.
But enough about them, lets talk about my schools psychologist. For his own privacy, we will call
him Dr. Tanner. Like most junior high schools, a psychologist is always available on campus during
school hours to assist any students in need of counseling whether it is emotional, academic, social,
behavioral, etc.
To be honest, I have never seen any students talking with Dr. Tanner. Every day, I would walk past his
office on my way the cafeteria and peek through his doors little window. He would always be alone
in there, working on some paperwork.
I guessed that most kids were too afraid to speak about their problems to an adult who
was practically a stranger. For this reason, it took me three weeks to muster enough courage to go into
his office. March 2nd, 1993, was the day I decided to voice my troubles to Dr. Tanner. During lunch
break, I stood in front of his office door and knocked.
Through the window, I could see him raise his head, smile, and motion for me to come in. I did.
He greeted me by introducing himself and asking for my name. Dr. Tanner was a very soft spoken man
who seemed to radiate kindness. In less than thirty minutes, I rambled to Dr. Tanner about how mean
my parents were to me and how they didn't care about me at all. After a while, my voice began to
quaver and I stopped speaking. The psychologist listened patiently to my whole spiel, arms folded
and head nodding. I half expected him to begin talking about how everything I had just said was untrue
and that my parents loved me dearly and blah blah blah. But he didn't.
Dr. Tanner leaned towards me with a grin on his face and said You know Im the best school
psychologist in the world. I promise we will fix this.
I rolled my eyes. Okay, but how? I asked.
I have my ways! he replied. Im a man of my word. I promise that within just one month, the
relationship between you and your parents will change for the better. Forever.
After a brief pause, he continued; Although, I do need you to make me a promise.
You have to promise me that youll come back to my office after school tomorrow and that you wont
tell anyonethat we had this conversation today. Itll be our little secret.
I promised.

The following day, I returned to Dr. Tanner after school. It was around 4:00pm when I entered his
office. After a warm welcome, he asked me to have a seat in front of his desk once again.
Upon sitting down, I watched Dr. Tanner close the blinds of the doors tiny window. There, he
smiled, now we have all the privacy we need!
We began to talk about my likes and interests, my favorite subjects in school, my least favorite
teachers, and things of the like. About an hour into the conversation, Dr. Tanner offered me a soft
drink.
I gladly took the offer, considering my parents never allowed me to drink soda. Dr. Tanner reached
over to his mini-fridge and fidgeted around before setting down two open cans of soda on the desk.
Afterwards, we continued to talk about what was going on in my life but it wasn't long before I
passed out from whatever drugs Dr. Tanner placed in my drink.

It took me a minute or so to adjust my blurred vision upon waking

And when it did, I had no idea what to think.
I was handcuffed to a bed and my mouth was sealed with duct tape. I immediately began to panic-
squirming and tugging at the cuffs- but gave up soon after.
My eyes widened in disbelief after looking around the room. There were posters of superheroes
pinned up along the walls and photographs of famous athletes on shelves. In the middle of the room
was an old television and Super Nintendo, various game cartridges stacked alongside it.
I didn't know what to think. Here I am in a room filled with items most kids would die to play with. I
would have probably cried from joy hadn't I been handcuffed to a bed frame.
My stomach sank once again as the door opened and Dr. Tanner walked inside. He sat down on the
edge of the bed.
Now listen, he said, remember that Im here to help you and I would never hurt you, okay? Dr.
Tanner gently removed the tape from my mouth and then the cuffs from my hands.
My first instinct was to begin crying but something about Dr. Tanner made me feel safe. He smiled at
me. Youre going to be staying here for a while, he continued, and during this time, youre allowed
to play with any toys in this room while Im here at home.
But when I leave the house, Ill need to cuff one of your hands back to the bed. You can still watch
the television, but I want you to only watch the news channels when Im away.
I sat in silence, still trying to process the information he had given me.
So! Dr. Tanner yipped, slapping me on the knee. You go ahead and knock yourself out; Ill be back
when its time for dinner.
He got up from the bed, walked across the room and clicked the TVs power button before locking the
door behind him.
Several more minutes passed before I realized that Dr. Tanner wasn't joking. All that was left for me
to do was boot up the Nintendo and play Mario until nightfall.
At about 7:00pm, Dr. Tanner returned to the room carrying two plates of mashed potatoes and chicken
strips. I finally gathered up the courage to ask him how long Id be staying in this room. Well, about
a month, he replied, give or take a few weeks. I just have some work I need to do.

The following morning, I awoke to Dr. Tanners hand patting my head. Hey bud, you dont have to
wake up right now if you dont want, but I am going to need to put this back on, he whispered,
clamping the cold steel handcuff onto my wrist.
I gazed up at him. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks, a coat draped over his shoulder and a
suitcase at his side. He looked just how he always did when I saw him around school. Before leaving
he placed the TVs remote next to me and told me to turn it on and watch the news.
The first thing I saw upon turning it on was a breaking news segment. An important looking police
officer stood at a podium surrounded by people with microphones. I happened to begin viewing half
way through his speech.
A statewide Amber Alert has been issued as of this morning. We have several investigators
working towards identifying potential abductors, but as of right now there is not much evidence.
Faculty members state that the boy had been last seen around four or five in the evening on-
I began to feel nauseous as a photograph of me appeared on the screen. It was my yearbook picture
from last year. Captions for the photograph displayed my name and age, my school, and my town.
Above my picture were alternating titles: FBI BEGINS SEARCH FOR CHILD and KIDNAPPING
SUSPECT UNKNOWN and POTENTIAL RUNAWAY.
The live footage continued and two figures I soon recognized as my mom and dad stepped up to the
podium. Both appeared to have reddened eyes. Tears streamed down my mothers face as she took
hold of a microphone.
Id never seen so much emotion come from my mother before as she wept on live television, stuttering
on sentences such as please return my baby back to me and Im so sorry and please come home
to us.
When my father took the microphone, I nearly expected his attitude to be stone cold, but he too had
tears in his eyes. He pleaded to the world to bring his son home safely and lastly begged
for my forgiveness! I know I havent been the best father, but goddamn it do I wish I had been now.
Please bring my boy back.
I turned the power off shortly after. My emotions were mixed for I had never once seen my father cry.
I felt miserable that my parents were being put through so much, but at the same time I felt relief. I
now know how much mom and dad love me.

Nearly four weeks have passed and Dr. Tanner has been treating me with the utmost respect. He
leaves me in the morning cuffed to the bed frame, but returns in the afternoon to eat lunch and dinner
with me, talk, and play games. I never would have guessed how good Dr. Tanner was at Monopoly
and Scrabble.
But one morning when Dr. Tanner woke me before heading off to work, I noticed a stern look on his
face. I also realized that it was three hours earlier than when he usually wakes me.
You need to watch the news today. No exceptions. I want you to keep the television on all day and
pay close attention to it, he stated grimly.
I, of course, complied and watched him exit the room.
About two hours later, a breaking news segment interrupted the toothpaste commercial I was
watching. The title:
HUMAN REMNANTS FOUND
Two staunch looking men in suits stood aside one another and began speaking:
We are displeased to bring up such unfortunate news this morning regarding our missing child case
from earlier this month.
One of the men bowed his head while the one speaking shuffled through some papers. He continued:
Remains of a body have been found in a garbage bag beneath a highway overpass. The body
appears to be that of a child, although not much of it is left. The body has been decapitated and
much has been burnt to ash and bone.
The screen shifted over to a helicopter view of the freeway, dozens of police cars gathered near the
bottom of a tall overpass. The mans voice could still be heard:
Within the bag police found a junior high school identification card labeled as such.
The screen showed the school ID card I always kept in my backpack. The plastic was sort of melted
away, but my photograph and name were intact.
After the two men dismissed themselves, the camera panned over to my parents. They were sitting
among reporters; my mothers face held a painful grimace and my father sulked his head down at his
knees.
I shut the television off.

Dr. Tanner returned home very late. He hurried into the room, unlocked my cuffs, and placed a bottle
of fizzing water into my hand.
He placed his hands onto my shoulders and smiled.
I made you a promise, didn't I?
I nodded, tears squeezing their way out my eyes.
You need to make me a promise again, he whispered.
He told me that I needed to drink all the water in the bottle- it would help me sleep- and that from
here on, I am never to tell anyone that I ever met him. I promised.
I told you Im the best school psychologist in the world, didn't I?

And he was right.

I awoke later that night to find myself lying in the middle of a park, stars shining brilliantly across the
night sky. I recognized the park; it wasn't too far from my school.
A mile or so down the road, I saw my house. The lights were off inside, but I could make out my
father sitting on the step leading to the front door.
I hesitantly called out to him. He lifted his head slowly, but when he saw it was me, he sprang to his
feet, ran towards me arms open, yelling my name. My mother erupted from the house behind him.
Dr. Tanner was right. Things have changed with my family and I. My parents smile more often and
treat me lovingly. I could not ask for a more perfect ending.
Every now and then, I see Dr. Tanner on campus- talking to and from his office. Rarely do we ever
make eye contact, let alone speak to one another, but sometimes hell shoot me a wink and a smile.
Ill always keep my promise to him and pretend I never met him, but there will always be one
question forever floating in my mind: who did Dr. Tanner decapitate and throw off the overpass?
Why I Didn't Shower for 21 Years

Red_Grin

Runner Up - Best Single-Part Story of 2013

I have nightmares where Im trapped in a shower. The drain is plugged, and the the water won't stop
pouring down on me. Water rises to my ankles, to my waist, and then over my head. The shower
curtain turns to glass, and my screams turn to gargles. A dark figure presses its face against the glass
on the other side, and it watches me. I plead, but it wont let me out. I swallow water and flail
helplessly in my glass coffin.
I wake up gagging.
I know where the nightmare came from - I never have to dig deep. The incident is never far from my
subconscious. Finding it is easy.
Getting over it is not.
It was the summer of my 12th birthday when the Hudsons moved in across the street. Three people,
one of them a really old woman. She was tiny, frail, skeletal almost. Thin white hair, faded, blue
flowery dress - her head hung from her neck and it wobbled as the man pushed her up a makeshift
wheelchair ramp into the house. At the time I couldnt figure out if she was alive or dead.
A few minutes later she appeared in an upstairs window, sitting in her wheelchair. She was directly
facing my bedroom, and I cautiously peered out from behind my curtains. Her head was upright now,
and she stared at me. Just stared, without moving her head an inch.
I closed my drapes.
For days she sat at the window. She watched the cars putter down our suburban road and gazed at the
neighborhood kids scurrying through their yards. I never saw anyone else in the room; never saw her
move from that wheelchair. At night Id nervously peek through the crack in my drapes. Her silhouette
was still in that window, lights off, staring out into the darkness at my bedroom. I couldnt tell, but I
knew she was watching me.
The stories about her cropped up pretty quick amongst my friends in the neighborhood. That she was a
witch. That she was just a doll. That she was actually dead. But I knew she wasnt dead. Sure, I never
saw her move from that window, not once. And I never saw her head turn. But I felt her eyes move as
they studied me. I could feel her watching me. All alone in my bedroom, in the middle of the night
with my drapes firmly shut, Id wake up and shudder. Her eyes were on me, I just knew it.
I began sleeping on the floor. The lower I was, the better. Maybe she couldnt see me if I was on the
floor.
I told my parents that the old woman across the street was creeping me out. I pleaded with them to
talk to the Hudsons and ask them to move her to a room without a window. They laughed and told me
to let her live out her twilight years in peace. She was just watching the street, they said, and that
probably made her feel happy and feel younger.
Are you just going to stick me in a windowless room when Im an old lady? my mom laughed.
Remind me to move in with your sister when Im in a wheelchair!
A week later there was some commotion at the Hudsons. I watched from my bedroom window as the
man ran out of the house and opened up the double-doors of his van. He jogged inside, and he
reappeared minutes later pushing the old woman in her wheelchair down the ramp. She looked frailer
than before. She couldnt have weighed more than 70 pounds. Her head was flung to the side, resting
on her right shoulder. Her body jostled in the wheelchair.
But her eyes never left me. Watched me the whole time.
The man picked her up and placed her in the car. He folded the wheelchair and stuffed it in the trunk.
He quickly hopped into the drivers seat, the younger woman pounced into the passenger seat, and the
man put his foot to the pedal.
The old womans limp head still faced me. It bobbed up and down as the van reversed down the
driveway. I studied her face. It was expressionless, emotionless. Her tongue slightly hung from the
right-side of her mouth. But her eyes were on mine, and they stayed on me.
The van accelerated down the street, and it was gone.
My parents heard the news that afternoon from other neighbors: the old womans condition was
getting worse, and the Hudsons had taken her to some sort of a home. She wouldnt be coming back. I
went straight to my bedroom, and I looked across the street. I smiled. Her window was finally empty.
The Hudsons didnt come back the next day. No van. That night I looked out towards the old womans
window. There was no one there, no wheelchair. But the bedroom light was on. I remember telling my
dad I thought it was strange, and he just shrugged and said, Must be on some sort of timer or
something.
I woke up in the middle of the night and nervously peered out my bedroom window. That bedroom
light was still on. It suddenly flicked off, and I ducked below my window frame. I slowly rose and
looked out, expecting to see the silhouette of that tiny, skeletal being. I watched for ten minutes,
pinching and straining my eyes. The lights quickly flickered on and then off again.
I slept on the floor again, clutching my pillow close.
I had a late baseball practice the next evening. When I got home, my house was empty. My parents
were at my little sisters softball game. I headed to the shower to rinse off.
About three minutes into my shower, I felt cold. The hot steam was escaping the bathroom somehow,
which didnt make sense because I had shut the door. I wiped the shampoo from my eyes, turned my
head, and I heard a strange noise that would haunt me in nightmares for years: the metal rings of the
shower curtain being dragged across the shower rod. Someone was slowly opening the curtain.
The shampoo stung my eyes, and through the stinging I saw a dark figure behind the curtain. Long,
pale, bony fingers gripped the curtain as it slowly opened. I instinctively backed up in the shower,
and the curtain opened completely.
There stood the old woman. I must have only looked at her for one, maybe two seconds, but at that
moment time stood still. All these years later I can still draw you a vivid picture of the horrifying
image in front of me. Disheveled white hair, crazy in her eyes, bones jutting out from under her
stretched skin, stark naked. Blotchy skin, warts all over her body, skinny breasts hanging to her waist.
Hair where I didnt know people could grow hair.
She smiled grotesquely, and I felt the shower tile against my back and the hot water pound my face. In
her other hand, the old woman held a letter opener.
August, she mumbled. August, August, August.
I leaped past her, knocking her tiny body to the floor. I ran downstairs, naked and sopping wet. In my
panic I somehow remembered I was nude, and I yanked a pair of shorts out of the hamper in the
laundry room, sending the hamper crashing to the floor. I high-tailed it on foot down the street,
eventually winding up at my friends house.
When the police arrived they found the old woman, crumpled to a heap in the bathroom. The shower
was still running. The policemen were all really nice to me, admiring me for my bravery. I told them
what she said to me - August - and asked if they knew what she could have meant.
It will be August in a few days, one of them shrugged. And you can never fully understand old and
crazy, son.
The Hudsons only came to our street once more to retrieve their stuff. The For Sale sign was up in
days. My mom told me they couldnt face the neighbors for what happened. Apparently they had taken
the old woman - the mans mother - to a special home downstate. Somehow, someway, the woman
managed to escape the home and caught a bus back to our town. It never quite made sense to me - she
was so old, so frail, so helpless. She could barely move those weeks she lived in that house. How
had she managed to travel hundreds of miles on her own?
Anyway, you can imagine what this did to me. I didnt shower for 21 years. I took baths, which I
suppose arent that different - its still a tub, and it involves hot, soapy water. But a shower, with its
closed curtain, water peppering the tub floor and steam climbing the walls - you get lost inside your
own head in the shower. Thoughts consume you, and it feels so utterly safe. For a few minutes, you
are alone from the world. Its your own private, misty kingdom.
But thats what makes the shower dangerous - youre enclosed, vulnerable, naked.
Youre exposed.
I talked to people about it - my parents, a shrink - but mainly I tried to push the incident deep down
into places where I couldnt find it. I didnt talk about it with anyone since I was a kid - life carried
on. Besides the baths, I was pretty normal.
A few months ago, something inside me clicked. I felt the urge to re-examine the incident, it was
almost like a voice in my head was telling me to do it. My head wanted closure.
I spent hours online one night, trying to track down any information on the Hudsons and the old
woman. I finally found what I was looking for - an obituary for the old woman. She had died four
years ago. Somehow that walking skeleton hadnt checked out for another 15 years. The obituary
photo was a black-and-white picture from when she was a young woman - it was a photo of her and
her deceased husband on their wedding day.
His name was August.
And he looked exactly like me.
I closed the browser and stared at my computer desktop for ten minutes. It finally made more sense,
why she called me August. Why she was obsessed with watching me. Maybe she used to write letters
to her husband, and thats why she was clutching the letter opener that night.
For a small moment, I felt a little better. Things always feel better when they make more sense.
Honey, is everything okay? It was my wife.
I think so, I said.
I took the first shower I had taken in years that night. I didnt even jump when the curtain rungs
dragged across the shower rod and my wife entered. But as she embraced me under the hot water, one
question wouldnt leave my head:
How come the young woman in that wedding photo looks exactly like my wife?

Best Multi-Part Story of 2013

Operation Stingray is in effect. God help us.

Jaunt-701

Winner - Best Multi-Part Story of 2013, Honorable Mention - Scariest Story of 2013

Part 1

I have to make this quick. I don't have much time. None of us do.
I'm going to be leaving out some details and changing others. I have no way of knowing which of you
reading this is already working for them.
In fact, you don't know if you are either.
Christ, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.
I'd known Brian since college. We lived on the same floor freshman year and had some intense Call
of Duty battles while everyone else was out improving their social skills. He was an asshole, but he
was my kind of asshole, and I took a liking to him.
He was a computer science major, and I was in the music school. To this day I don't know a damn
thing about computers, but I would get a kick out of listening to him talk about that stuff. He did a lot
of black hat hacking and would constantly make vague references to bizarre documents and
schematics he would pull off of government computers. To me, they sounded ridiculous.
Bioengineered doomsday viruses! Underwater experimentation labs! Laser cannons in space! I was
convinced he was making it all up.
After graduation we both stayed in the city, but weren't able to see each other much due to our
respective work commitments. We'd get together every few months or so, and he'd always have some
new piece of government conspiracy meat for us to chew on. We got drinks over the summer, and he
told me he was looking into something major, something called Operation Stingray. Serious
security, even around the most innocuous references to it. A very, very big deal, he assured me. I
nodded and challenged him to some drunken Team Fortress.
Can't tonight, man, he said, but when I blow the lid off of this thing, I'm going to Pyro your ass like
the old days.
Sure thing, Brian, I said. Let me know how that works out for you. That was the last I'd heard
from him for months.
Then, out of the blue one night, he texted me:
Brian: Need to talk. Meet me at [local restaurant] tomorrow at noon. Don't mention this to anyone.
 Me: Sure man. Everything ok?
Brian: I don't know. Just please don't be late.
I chuckled. Always so dramatic. Lindsay rolled over in bed. What's up, hon? she said.
Nothing, babe. Just Brian being Brian again. Go back to sleep.
I got to the restaurant a few minutes early to snag a table before the lunch rush. Across the street there
was a small protest going on outside of one of the big downtown banks. Money for schools, not for
bonuses, they chanted.
Brian staggered in. Week-old scruff, pale and puffy skin, bloodshot eyes, sweat. I'd seen him like that
a few times in college, but Christ we're supposed to be adults by now. He clutched a crumpled manila
envelope with both hands.
Morning, beautiful, I said.
Thanks for coming, man. I didn't know who else to call. I'm sorry.
Dude, relax, sit down.
He glanced around the restaurant and took his seat. He didn't let go of the envelope.
Were you followed? he said.
Listen to you, 'Were you followed.' Are you serious? Look, we can pretend to be spies but only so
long as you don't actually creep me out.
He reached into the envelope and pulled out a small white pill. He held it out to me.
What the hell is that? I said.
Just take it.
Dude, I am not going to get fucked up with you in a crowded restaurant in the middle of the day.
It's not, it's...it's just a vitamin. Take it.
Since when did you become such a health nut?
Just fucking take it, man, please. His eyes were wild and desperate, and they evaporated any trace
of a smile from my face.
Okay, okay, chill. I took the pill and swallowed it. Happy?
He visibly relaxed and reached into the envelope again. He removed a stack of papers and placed
them on the table. I'll try to go over what I can. I don't know how much time we'll have, but
everything you need to know is right in here.
Seriously Brian, are you going to tell me what I just swallowed?
It started about a year ago, he said. I was cracking some DoD contractors for shits and giggles,
and I kept seeing the word Stingray being mentioned. Cryptic shit, like top secret memos that just said
'Stingray is a go,' stuff like that. I was curious, so I poked around for leads. There wasn't a lot to go
on, but there were a few breadcrumbs that led to a facility out in the desert in bumblefuck Utah. DRS-
117, they called it. Tiny place, a staff of a couple dozen with bullshit names like 'Jane Smith,' 'John
White,' et cetera. Everything about this place was classified, and I mean everything. The fucking
cafeteria budget was redacted.
Riveting. You've really outdone yourself this time, man.
Shut up and listen, he said. The place was a black hole. No info came out of there at all, save for a
few emails sent to DoD heads that said, 'The project is proceeding on schedule.' I poked around for a
while, and eventually I pulled the name of an 'applicant' they were interested in working with at DRS-
117. Some big shot neuroscientist out of Stanford. A few days after I saw his name mentioned, there
was a news report that said he had died in a car accident in the redwoods. A few days after that, a
memo made the rounds saying that 'the new 117 project member is proving to be a valuable resource
to Stingray's development.'
A smiling waiter walked up to our table. Are you gentlemen ready to order?
I think we'll need a few minutes, I said.
Not a problem, take your time. The waiter lingered for a second. His mouth was smiling, but his
eyes seemed to be studying us. He left and Brian continued.
The Stanford guy was a big name in his field. He specialized in developing systems that could link
the human brain with computer interfaces. His early work eventually led to the development of some
new next-gen prosthetics.
He leaned in and his voice dropped to a low whisper. Here's the kicker. At the time of his 'death' he
was working on a method for wirelessly transmitting electrical signals into the brain to stimulate
neural impulses. Massively complex stuff, but the gist is that his system could project images, sounds,
and sensations directly into the brain from a computer. Not just that, but depending on what part of the
brain you targeted, it could create emotions, memories, even thoughts themselves out of thin air. His
colleagues thought he'd lost his shit, but he maintained that the system would someday revolutionize
mental health treatment. He thought he'd be able to diagnose specific malfunctions in an individual's
thinking and fix them with a laptop. Of course, after the accident no one was able to locate any of his
research. His hard drives had been erased, and his notes were missing from the lab.
I rubbed my eyes. I wasn't nearly drunk enough to be listening to this shit, and I was starting to get a
headache. Not to sound uninterested, I said, but let's go ahead and order already. I'm not feeling so
hot right now.
Try to focus, he said. I knew I needed to get more info, so I looked for a weak link in the
communication chain. I found the information choke point, the one guy who was the direct liaison
between 117 and the Defense Department. Everything went through him. Over a few months I got into
every piece of computerized electronics this guy touched, and I waited. The guy was careful, very
careful. It took a while, but eventually he slipped. He left an unencrypted video file on his laptop
without password protection one night, and I snatched it up. When I watched it, I...well, here, see for
yourself.
He tapped his phone and handed it to me. The screen showed a large white room with a chimpanzee
sitting in the middle eating from a bowl of fruit. Off to the side a man stood at a computer console. He
was facing the camera. Stingray experimental test subject number 117-011. Simple motor functions,
he said.
He tapped on the keyboard and the chimp stopped eating. Stopped moving at all, actually. It sat there
completely motionless, like a doll. Right arm, the man said as he tapped a command on the
keyboard. The chimp raised its right arm. Stand, the man said. The chimp stood up. Take seven
steps to your left. The chimp did so.
The video cut out and started up again, apparently at a later date. The same setup as before.
Experimental test subject number 117-011, the man said. Emotional regulation. He tapped on the
keyboard and said, Anger. The chimp immediately flung the fruit across the room, and launched into
an awful screaming rage. It rushed at the man and raised its arms to strike him. Sadness, the man
said. The chimp collapsed onto the floor and moaned. It curled into a ball and pressed its face into its
knees. Fear, the man said. The chimp screeched and scrambled into a corner of the room, wide-
eyed and shaking.
Again, the video cut out. When it restarted, the man stared into the camera without speaking for a long
silence. Experimental test subject number 117-011, he said at last. Self-preservation override.
The man tapped away on his keyboard then paused for a moment, looking at the chimp. His finger
hovered over a key. He sighed and pressed it. The chimp went motionless for a second, and then
raised its hands to its face. The chimp sat there quietly as it tore its own eyes out.
The man looked into the camera. Based on these results I recommend moving into Phase Two
immediately. The video went black.
What the fuck did you just show me? I said.
That's not even the half of it, Brian said. Pretty soon after I saw that video, I started talking with
LaFarge. And that's when things really got weird.
The waiter stepped up to the table again. Brian waved him off. We still need a few minutes, he
said.
I'm sorry sir, but there's a phone call for you.
Brian frowned. It must be LaFarge. I told him I was meeting you. Wait here.
Brian and the waiter stepped into the back of the restaurant, and I sat there rubbing my temples. I
wasn't in the mood to listen to conspiracy fantasies, and now it looked like I was getting a migraine. I
decided that I was going to excuse myself when he got back. Conspiracy games aren't fun when you
have a splitting headache.
I looked out the window at the protest. A waifish girl with blonde dreadlocks and a knit sweater was
reciting slam poetry about the evils of greed. The ineffectiveness of it all would be comical if it
wasn't so sad.
The waiter walked by again, and I touched him on the arm. Listen, I'm afraid I'm not feeling well,
and I'll have to step out. Please tell my friend I'm sorry, and I'll get in touch with him later in the
week.
Not a problem, sir. Will your friend be arriving soon?
No, I mean my friend who was just here. The one you took back for the phone call.
The waiter looked puzzled. I'm sorry, sir, I'm not sure what you mean.
What? Why?
You've been sitting by yourself since you arrived.
I looked at him. Was this kid messing with me? That's not funny, I said. I stood up and walked to the
back of the restaurant. Brian, I called. Hey Brian, are you back here? I turned down the small
hallway that held the phone and the restrooms. It was empty. I checked the men's room. Nothing.
I walked back to the front of the restaurant. Okay, cut it out kid, I said to the waiter. Where's my
friend?
I'm sorry sir. I don't know who you're referring to. I felt eyes on me, and I looked around. The rest
of the waitstaff were all standing perfectly still, starting at me with blank expressions. The waiter
stepped toward me. But there is a phone call for you, he said. Please follow me to the back. The
waitstaff advanced on me.
A thunderous crash as a brick smashed through the plate glass window at the front of the restaurant. I
looked out the hole and saw that the peaceful little protest had turned savage. Protesters were
smashing windows and cars and attacking passersby. The poetry girl was standing in the middle of the
street, staring into the restaurant with a crazed grin. We locked eyes for a moment before a police
cruiser smashed into her, sending her flying in a cloud of red mist.
The restaurant erupted into chaos. Diners attempted to flee, knocking the waitstaff aside. I grabbed
Brian's manila envelope from the table and jumped out the open window.
Police officers flooded the scene. They fired tear gas and beat the protesters bloody with batons. But
it was all wrong. They came too quickly, almost immediately as soon as the protest had turned
violent. As though--
As though they were waiting for it to happen.
I sprinted home and bounded up the stairs to my apartment. I flung the door open. Lindsay was slicing
tomatoes in the kitchen, and she gasped when I burst into the room. I slammed the door behind me and
locked it.
Jesus, honey, is everything alright? she said.
I don't know. We have to call the cops. Something happened to Brian.
What? What happened?
He just disappeared. He went to get a phone call, then the waiters... My head was throbbing, and I
collapsed onto the couch.
Lindsay ran to me. Honey, calm down. Just breathe. Everything's going to be fine, okay? Just
breathe.
I sat up, and she stood behind the couch. Her hand on my back made me feel better, and I relaxed a
little. You're right. I just...I just need to think. I don't even know where to begin, I said.
I looked down at the manila envelope in my hand. I opened it and saw another, smaller envelope
inside. I pulled it out and saw that the words If anything happens to me were written on the front.
Just calm down, Lindsay said, rubbing my shoulder gently. Whatever it is, we're going to figure it
out.
I touched her hand and looked up at her reflection in the TV screen. Thank you, I said, smiling.
I looked back down at the envelope. I opened it and pulled out a stack of papers. On the top there was
one with a single word written in black marker:
RUN
I looked up at Lindsay's reflection. She was raising the knife above her head, ready to plunge it into
my back.
Part 2: Love Hurts

I fell in love with Lindsay the first time I met her. It was her smile that did it. Warm and sweet, with a
sparkle of mischief behind the eyes.
She was wearing that smile as she held the knife over me, ready to plunge it through the back of my
neck.
I leaped forward out of the couch just as she whipped the knife down. It slashed my shoulder open,
and I fell onto the coffee table. I reached back to touch the wound and felt hot blood seeping between
my fingers.
I rolled over and looked at her. Jesus fucking Christ, Lindsay, what are you doing? I stammered.
She was staring straight ahead, not even looking at me. Just gently smiling into nothing. Her head
slowly lowered, and she looked into my eyes. Everything is going to be alright, she said. She
walked around the couch, slowly and deliberately, her eyes fixed on mine the whole time.
I rolled off the coffee table and backed away from her across the carpet. Lindsay, I said, put down
the knife. I am not fucking with you right now. Put it down.
Just relax, babe, she said. She walked around to the front of the couch and picked up the stack of
papers from Brian's envelope. You're going to be fine. Brian is going to be fine. Everyone is going to
be taken care of. She stepped toward me, the papers in one hand and the knife in the other.
I backed up into the exposed brick wall, and pain flashed across my shoulder. I stood up, breathing
hard. Stop, I said. Stop right there. Please don't take another step toward me, or I might have to
hurt you. I don't know what's going on, but please don't make me do that. I love you Lindsay. Please
stop.
She paused a few feet from me. We stood in a thick silence. You're such a sweeeeeetheart, she
growled in a raspy voice that froze my intestines. Too bad it has to end like this.
She rushed at me, waving the knife in front of her. I dodged to the side, grabbed her wrist, and spun
her around into the wall. I pounded her wrist against the brick, trying to knock the knife loose. I felt a
wet snap in the bone, and I gasped and looked at her. She was still smiling.
I threw her to the side, and she crumpled onto the floor. She laid there a moment, squares of bright
sunlight from the windows making her look like a dream. I was seeing purple spots in the center of my
vision, and a high-pitched ringing sound was spiking my brain like an icepick. It was wrong,
everything was wrong. This couldn't be happening. I pressed my palms into my eyes. The pill.
Something was in that pill that Brian gave me, and it was making me crazy. I have to wake up. That's
all I have to do is wake up.
I took my hands away, and Lindsay was standing in front of me. The smile was gone. A guttural
animal cry exploded from her and she swung the knife at my head. I ducked under her arm and shoved
her waist as hard as I could. She staggered back and fell into the window. It shattered and she flipped
over, clutching at the windowsill just as she went over the side.
I ran to the window and and grabbed her wrist just as she let go of the sill. The knife spun and flashed
down to the street. Brian's papers fluttered through the air like snowflakes.
Lindsay looked up at me. The smile was gone, the rage was gone. It was just her. Oh my god, she
cried, Oh my god, what's happening?
Fuck, baby, hang on, I said. My hands were sweaty and slick with blood. I squeezed harder and felt
the bones twist and pop in her broken wrist.
She screamed and jerked her arm. My grip slid down to her fingers.
Hold still, I yelled. Hold still. Reach with your other hand.
I can't, I can't, oh God don't let me fall. She was shaking and gasping for breath. I tried to pull her
up, but my shoulder screamed fire and gave out. She slipped another inch.
I was barely holding onto her fingertips. I looked in her eyes. Wet, red and frightened. I felt her
fingers sliding from mine.
Please, she whispered.
Then she slipped.
I watched her eyes the whole way. Her scream cut deep into me, and she hit the pavement with a
crack that will ring in my ears forever.
People on the sidewalk shouted and ran to her. They circled, and one guy knelt down next to her
motionless body. He looked at the others. She's alive, he yelled. Call 911.
I ran to the front door of the apartment, grabbed my coat to cover her in case of shock, and flew down
the stairs. I tripped and landed on my bleeding shoulder on the way down. I groaned and hissed
through clenched teeth, but I scrambled to my feet and kept running. I got to the front door of the
apartment building and shoved it open.
She was gone.
I turned and looked both ways on the sidewalk. There was no Lindsay, no crowd circle, nothing.
People were walking up and down the street like nothing had happened.
I ran my hands through my hair. What the fuck, I whispered, what the fuck what the fuck what the
fuck.
I looked across the street. A man in a black overcoat and a bowler hat was standing there. We
watched each other for a few long seconds. He held something in his hand. It was dark blue and
shaped like a smartphone, but thin and translucent like glass. He touched it, and I felt something like a
drill bit boring between the two halves of my brain. He's doing it, I thought. Somehow he's doing all
of this.
I felt an urge foam up inside me, an urge to run across the street and beat him to spongy pulp. I could
see his bloody face on the sidewalk in my mind, but a piece of paper blowing against my leg snapped
me out of it. I picked it up. It was Brian's note from earlier: RUN.
I turned up the sidewalk, picked up a handful of papers strewn across the concrete, and I ran.
After a few blocks I stepped into a drugstore. I hid my bloody shoulder under my coat, and I
purchased some first aid supplies. Is there a bathroom I can use? I asked the cashier.
You're not going to shoot up in there, are you? she said.
I walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I patched my shoulder up the best I could,
and I looked into the mirror. The headache was a rock hammer in my skull, and my eyes were starting
to sting. I popped a few ibuprofen, but I doubted it would help.
I pulled out the papers I had rescued from the street: some MRI brain scans with certain areas circled
and highlighted; a satellite image of what looked like a major city, though I couldn't tell which one; a
sheet with a list of names, on which I recognized a few political and media figures; and a handwritten
note from Brian that looked like the last page of a letter:
out of the city as quickly as possible. Don't pack, don't talk to anyone, just get into your car and
head to [nearby town]. Like I said, you have to find LaFarge. You'll know what to do then.
So I guess that's that. If you're reading this, we might not see each other again for a while. Maybe
never, in fact. Just...just know that you were always my best friend, even if I never said it to you.
There's no one else I can trust to expose these sons of bitches before it's too late. You're going to
succeed where I failed. I know it.
Okay, enough of that. Whatever you do, find LaFarge.
Brian
Chalkboard fingers scratched my skull, and my head felt like it was going to split in half. I flipped the
note over:
PS: Sorry about the pill man. It keeps them out of your head, but it has some nasty side effects.
I looked in the mirror. An oily black liquid was trickling out of the corner of my eye.
Part 3: Who is LaFarge?

Whatever you do, find LaFarge.

Brian's last words echoed in my mind as I made my way uptown. I held a plastic bag with some
supplies I had picked up on the way: bandages for my shoulder, a small pocketknife, a flashlight,
some bags of trail mix, and a bottle of water. Not much, but it would float me while I headed up north
to look for LaFarge.
LaFarge. Jesus Christ, I didn't even know who this guy was, or how I was supposed to find him. Brian
hadn't finished telling that part of the story yet before he...before they...
I shook my head. My vision was shimmering like the pavement on a hot day. The side effects of the
pill were getting worse, and I didn't know how long they would last. I was seeing things now. Several
times on the walk uptown I thought I saw the man in the bowler hat reflected in a store window. He
was never there when I turned my head, but I swear his reflection was getting closer.
I reminded myself it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. At least I hoped that's all it was. In any
case, as long as the pill was working it was shielding me from their control devices. The real thing to
be afraid of was the side effects wearing off. That's when I would really be in trouble.
Control devices. Mind control devices. It still sounded ridiculous, even after everything I'd seen that
day. There's a government conspiracy to control our thoughts! Everyone is in on it! For fuck's sake,
there are crackheads who think more rationally than that. What proof did I have? Brian's papers were
gone, no one else could corroborate anything I'd seen, I was actively hallucinating at that very
moment because of the pill. Oh my god, I pushed Lindsay out of the god damn windowor did I even
do that? Was any of this real, or was I laying in a hospital bed, foaming at the mouth, shouting,
They're coming for my thoughts, don't let them get me? Was the world really in danger, or had I just
lost my fucking--
Whatever you do, find LaFarge.
Okay, Brian, I said to myself. We'll do it your way. I'll head up north. If I don't find him, I'll get to
enjoy insanity for the rest of my life. I've heard it's actually quite nice.
If I do find him...well, I'll figure that out when I get to it.
I found where my car was parked, across the street from a dingy punk bar a dozen blocks from my
apartment. There was always parking around there, because old punkers would sometimes smack the
cars with barstools to relive their glory days. My car had a few new dings on it, but nothing major. I
got in and set the bag down in the passenger seat.
My phone chimed. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw that my mom had sent me a text: What's going
on??? CALL ME!!
I looked around. The street was completely empty, save for a mailman making the rounds. I looked
back at the phone. It was a stupid risk. Stupid stupid stupid. But I had to try to warn her. I swiped it
open and called my mom.
She answered, and I could hear the fear in her voice. Honey, what's happening? The police just
called me. They said something happened to Lindsay? Are you alright?
I'm fine, mom. I need you to listen to me. Grab a bag, pack what you need, and drive out to Aunt
Clara's right away. Don't stop, don't wait for anything, just get out of the house and go as quickly as
you can.
What on Earth are you talking about? Are you in trouble? Tell me what's going on.
I can't. I'm sorry, but I really can't right now. I'm mixed up in something big, and they might try to hurt
you. I'll explain later, but just get to Clara's and tell Uncle Jim that he has my personal permission to
shoot anyone who trespasses on his land. He'll love it, trust me.
Who's trying to hurt you? Is Lindsay alright?
I swallowed. Lindsay is fine, mom, it's just...Brian and I have been looking into something, and I
really don't have the time to explain further--
I knew it had something to do with Brian. That boy has done nothing but stunt your potential ever
since you met him. He's a lazy creep, and he smells like stale potato chips. I don't know why you ever
decided to spend time around--
Mom will you just fucking listen to me? I shouted. I'm in danger. Lots of it. And that means you're
in danger too. Get out of the house and get somewhere safe. Now. Do you understand me?
How dare you. I never thought I'd see the day where my own son would be shouting obscenities at
me from outside a filthy bar like an animal.
Oh my god, mom, will you just stop and listen towait, how did you know I was outside a bar?
A silence on the other end. We only want what's best for you dear.
The driver side window exploded as the mailman punched through it with clenched fists. He reached
in, grabbed me by the jacket, and pulled back hard. I shouted and punched at his head, trying to knock
him away. He barely flinched under my blows, and his hands were vice grips on my collar.
I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled myself away from the window. I reached toward the
passenger seat. The knife was just beyond my fingertips. With my other hand I felt for his face and
squeezed my thumb into his eye. His grip gave way just a bit, and I grabbed the knife. Fierce
adrenaline pumped in my veins as I flicked the knife open and stabbed frantically at his face. He held
on, his eyes unflinching and cold like a wolf's. He pulled harder, and I felt myself going through the
window. A sick terror raced through me, and I stuck the knife hard into his neck. He let go and
clutched at the wound. I opened the car door into his gut, and he fell backward onto the street.
I jammed in the keys, shifted into gear and gunned it down the street. I looked in the rear view mirror.
The man in the bowler hat stood next to the crumpled mailman, and he watched me drive away.
Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw him nod at me as I sped off.

Late in the day I reached the town Brian mentioned in his last letter. It was an old coastal town, about
200 miles outside of the city. Quaint little place. I remembered Lindsay and I had stayed at a bed and
breakfast there once when we were first dating.
I ditched the car in a wooded area a few miles outside of town and covered the rest of the distance on
foot. I had tossed my phone out the window after I got away from the mailman, and all I had in my
pockets were a few crumpled dollars and the flashlight.
In the distance I saw the old historic lighthouse that was the town's trademark. It stood watch on the
rocky shore, still vigilant even though it hadn't been used in years. The sleepy little town took shape
as I moved closer to the shoreline, and I walked down the silent main street in the afternoon light.
During the tourist season this street would be humming with families shopping for souvenirs and
eating greasy battered seafood. Now though, the place was cold and deserted, and the sound of my
own footsteps was making me nervous.
Find LaFarge. Well gosh Brian, couldn't you have given me a little more help than that? What am I
supposed to do, walk into the town pub and ask if anyone knows him?
I turned a corner and saw the one business in town that was open: The Pink Coral Bar and Grill.
I sighed. Fuck it.
I opened the door and felt all the eyes in the room size me up immediately. Dainty little pretty boy
from the city, their eyes seemed to say. I remembered why I hated this place.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. My head was swimming and I rubbed my eyes with my
thumb and forefinger. When I looked up I could see the man in the bowler hat reflected in the bar
mirror in front of me.
I gasped and turned around. Nothing.
Woah, relax there buddy, we're not gonna bite, the bartender said, and a couple of the guys laughed.
I forced myself to laugh too, in a sad attempt to look normal. What brings you out this way?
Sightseeing? the bartender asked.
Yeah, just taking a drive up the coast to relax a little, I said.
Well, you sure look like you could use it big guy. More laughter.
Hah, yeah I guess. Hey listen, there's an old friend of mine who used to live out here. Haven't seen
him in years. Name's LaFarge. Do you know if he's still around?
The bartender cracked a wide grin. Hey, this gentleman's looking for LaFarge, he called out. The
barflies cracked up, and everyone turned to look at me. Yeah, the bartender said. I guess you could
say that old nutcase is still here.
Do you know where I could find him?
Sure, the bartender smiled. Only one place to look.

I stood in the graveyard in the fading light, looking down at the simple headstone in front of me:
Sebastian LaFarge
February 19, 1951
July 22, 2011
Together we will shine into the darkness
Okay, Brian, I whispered. I found him. You said I'd know what to do when I found him, and I did.
So now what?
I walked out of the graveyard and back toward the town. I had to have missed something. Maybe
LaFarge was just a code name or something, and I had to contact him a different way. Maybe there
was another LaFarge in the town, and the bar hicks were just messing with me.
Or maybe I really was crazy.
My head was starting to feel better. The pill was wearing off. Either I was crazy, or they'd take over
my brain soon. Either way, I was at a dead end.
I kicked a plastic cup with a lighthouse logo down the sidewalk. Tears clouded my vision. Of all the
places for the story to end, why did it have to be here? Why did I have to meet my doom in a bullshit
little tourist trap town full of assholes peddling shitty food, cheap souvenirs, and stupid plastic cups
with cheesy lighthouses printed on the--
Lighthouses.
Together we will shine into the darkness.
I ran toward the old lighthouse as the pink sunlight faded from the sky. The wind whipped my coat
along the rocky path to the base. I flicked on my flashlight and found an old door rusted into the side
of the lighthouse. It was locked, but a few good kicks knocked it open.
I climbed the stairs up to the lantern room and shined the flashlight around. It was pitch dark and
dusty, and the crumbling remains of the lantern sat like a flayed skeleton in the dark.
I looked around. Aside from the ancient equipment there was nothing out of the ordinary. Great. Looks
like I had just added destruction of property to the long list of crimes I'd be arrested for. I turned back
toward the stairs.
A pair of heavy hands clamped down on my shoulders and threw me back onto the ground.
I cried out, but a black form held me down and covered my mouth. I felt the cold metal of a knife
against my throat.
What are you doing here? Who sent you? a voice demanded.
The hand moved from my mouth, and I stammered, My friendBrianhe told me to come,
between gasps of air.
The hand grabbed my face and moved it from side to side. The body stepped off of me and pulled me
to my feet. Sorry about that, the voice said. I had to make sure it was you and not just them using
your brain. Can't be too careful these days.
Who are you? I said.
He stepped into the moonlight. My name is Sebastian LaFarge. You and I have a lot to talk about, my
friend.
Part 4: The Truth Will Set You Free

So, LaFarge said, what's the plan?

He was a big, hefty son of a bitch, with a bushy mustache and a mop of stringy gray hair. Heavy dark
bags sagged under his eyes, and he reeked of BO and wood chips. I have no idea how he was able to
ambush me without my smelling him first.
I blinked. What do you mean? Brian told me to find you. I assumed you had the plan.
LaFarge shook his head. Brian is the brains. I'm just the eye candy. Where is he anyway? Is he on his
way?
My eyes sank down to the floor. When I looked up, LaFarge's expression had turned grim. Damn it,
he said. I guess that means Phase Two is underway.
Phase Two?
How much did Brian tell you?
I told the story of everything that had happened to me: Brian's disappearance, the riot outside the
restaurant, Lindsay attacking me, the man in the bowler hat, everything leading up to us meeting in the
lighthouse.
LaFarge shook his head. Well, you managed to make every stupid mistake you possibly could, but at
least you're still alive. Maybe that's why Brian trusted you, because he knew you were lucky. It
certainly wasn't because he thought you were smart.
I could see why he and Brian got along. Well if we don't have a plan, then we should at least get out
of this lighthouse, I said.
Agreed. I've got a safehouse a few hours from here that should do until we figure out our next move.
But first-- he reached into his pocket and took out a white pill. He held it out to me. I hesitated.
Don't worry, he said, it's a much milder version than the old batches. Won't drive you crazy, for
one thing. I swallowed it.
We headed back toward the town in the cold moonlight. LaFarge held a strange device in his hand, a
mess of soldered electrical components. He glanced at it from time to time. I looked around nervously
as we walked the silent streets.
It's okay, he said, looking down at the device. The town's clean. Not a single Stingray for a few
miles in any direction. And they only have an effective range of a few hundred feet, so we're in the
clear for now.
Stingray. Is that what they call the mind control device?
Nothing gets by you, kid.
How do you know so much about it?
LaFarge let out a short, bitter laugh. Because, he said, I helped create it.

I climbed into the cab of LaFarge's rusty pickup truck, and we drove off into the night. He stayed to
the country roads, and the branches made checkered shadows on his face as he spoke.
2008 scared everyone, he said. Until then the US government had been living in a world of make-
believe. We had defeated communism and stood alone as the world's last great superpower. We were
the capstone on top of the global pyramid, free to enforce our will as we saw fit. There were cracks
in the armor. The Towers, Iraq, Katrina. But to the people in charge they were just a few bumps in the
road. No reason for alarm. Just tweak the strategy a little bit, put a black guy in the White House,
that'll calm 'em down.
But in the fall of 2008, the financial crisis hit. Global commerce stopped for a few days. Stopped.
For a terrifying moment, the whole system looked like it could unravel. And every economist with a
brain was saying the same thing: this is only the beginning. The old boys in charge had finally seen
truth. They'd been having a picnic in a minefield, and the first one had gone off.
In the 30s it was easy. The great engine of American industry was still churning, and there were
enough resources to pull the whole world back from the brink. Not anymore. Whatever resources
exist are concentrated in the hands of people who refuse to give them up. Maybe a few old
billionaires would fund cancer research to win points with Saint Peter, but by and large the financial
elite had told Washigton, 'We aren't paying for this mess. Figure something else out.' But it was a
riddle without an answer. Who could stabilize the system? China? China is a house of cards, one real
estate bubble away from collapsing like the Soviet Union. India is a backwater pretender, and the
Russians are digging for oil like a smackhead poking around for that last vein. No, there would be no
New Deal, and history shows that when a government can't govern, eventually the people rise up.
Democracy and commerce were no longer compatible. One of them had to go. So a plan was
hatched. Funds were allocated. A tiny research station was built in the desert. All of it authorized by a
top secret memorandum detailing the three phases of a desperate project: Operation Stingray.
I was brought in for Phase One: testing and experimentation. I'm an engineer by trade, though I had
dabbled in biochem in my youth. I detested the idea of working for the feds, but the money they
offered was unbelievable. I flew out to Utah and walked through the doors of Defense Research
Station 117 thinking I had won the lottery.
It was weird from the beginning. They gave us a few vague directives, but never told us what we
were actually working on. We weren't allowed to fraternize with anyone outside our immediate team,
and we were under constant surveillance day and night. Eventually a bunch of us confronted the
principal investigator, a man known to us as Dr. Dreiser. We told him it was ridiculous to expect us to
accomplish anything when we didn't know what we were making. So he arranged a demonstration.
He sat us all in front of a table with a mouse cage on it. He wheeled in a bizarre contraption on a
cart and started typing on a keyboard. The mouse froze still. Dreiser typed something else and the
mouse very slowly began to eat its own paws. I was shocked and sickened, and I looked at Dreiser's
face. He was grinning. The frightening, inhuman look of a man drunk on power.
We were horrified. Several of us demanded to be taken off the project. But Dreiser told us all the
same thing: you signed a contract. You belong to us.
After that, they clamped down. We weren't allowed to call home, go outside, even talk to each other
about anything other than the project. They posted armed guards in every room. It was surreal and
frightening, like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Then one day, they woke us all up and told us we had completed our contractual obligations and
were free to go. We packed into the back of an old army truck and drove away. I suppose I shouldn't
have been surprised when the driver stopped the truck, ordered us out, and told us to march into the
desert. He sprayed gunfire into our backs, and we collapsed forward in a bleeding heap. I was the
lucky one. The shot went through my shoulder, missing everything important. I laid there on the ground
as the soldier approached us. He popped two into the heads of every man down the line. I waited
until he was at the guy next to me, then I sprang up and wrestled the gun from him. I gave him two to
his head, then drove away in the truck.
When I got back to civilization, I saw that the news was reporting the deaths of every member of the
project and their families, all killed in tragic accidents. Car crash. House fire. Accidental drownings.
I had apparently suffered a massive heart attack. But I was the only one whose family hadn't died with
him. It was a message. Dreiser was saying, 'Don't even think of coming forward, or your wife and son
will pay.' So I stayed in the shadows, determined to find a way to shine a light on this whole thing.
I've been on the run ever since. They brought in a new team after us, and now it looks like they've
moved on to Phase Two.
What's Phase Two? I asked.
What do you think? Field operations. Crowd control. Targeted assassination. Using the Ray to
eliminate enemies and prevent the masses from congealing into any kind of a threat. It's a remarkably
simple feat. That riot you witnessed, for example. They didn't need to take over everyone's brain to
do that. That was probably a single Ray turning up the aggression of a handful of the protesters and
setting the whole thing off. That's all they need, the ability to control a few key players at a few key
moments, enough to tip things in their favor 51% of the time. With the proper planning you can control
a whole city with a skeleton crew of maybe half a dozen Rays. Put a a crew like that in every major
city, maybe infiltrate a few foreign governments, and, well...I'm sure Dreiser thinks he can control the
whole world like that. The scary thing is he might be right.
Who's in charge of it all? I asked.
LaFarge shrugged. Ostensibly it's under the Defense Department, but I don't know how much sway
they really have. A couple of them got spooked and tried to pull the plug a few months ago, then
promptly died by apparent suicide. Maybe the president is calling the shots, maybe he's under the Ray
like everyone else. The closest thing to a leader the project had was Dreiser, and he was more mad
scientist than anything else. But you're already well acquainted with him, I believe.
The man in the bowler hat?
Bingo. He's a real ruthless SOB. The thought of a man who loves power that much being given a
blank check for it frightens me more than anything about this whole situation.
I stared out the window. I had been too scared to ask the real question. I took a deep breath. So if it's
a three phase operation...what's Phase Three?
LaFarge shook his head. Whatever it is, it's big. The largest wing of the facility was behind a door
marked 'Phase Three Development.' Dreiser was the only one I ever saw go in or out of there. There
were whispers and rumors, but no one had any idea what he was doing. All I know is that if Phase
Two is already being implemented, Phase Three must be nearing completion.
We pulled off the road onto a long gravel driveway leading to a tiny cabin deep in the woods.
LaFarge shifted the car into park. Listen, he said. I know this is a lot to take in. I know it seems
like you've set yourself against overwhelming forces. But they aren't invincible. There are
weaknesses. They've made the Ray a handheld, but the tradeoff is that its signal is weak. They have to
be near you for it to work, and that limits its effectiveness. And there's the pill. I had to dig up a lot of
old biochem knowledge to create it, but it seems to work. If we can figure out a way to mass produce
it and get it to the public, we can turn the tables.
And most importantly, he said, we have the truth on our side. That was the one thing that kept
Brian going, the fact that he was shining a light into the darkness. When he told me he was going to try
to bring you to the rendezvous, I knew that he must have seen something in you, something that told
him you would devote yourself to doing the right thing. He trusted you, so I trust you.
He opened the door. So come on, he said, we have a lot of work to do.

That was a few weeks ago. Since then we've been hard at work, improving the formula for the pill
and spreading the word to whoever will listen. We've been on the move, staying at the various
safehouses LaFarge has scattered across the country. There've been a couple close calls, but we've
managed to stay ahead of them.
I'm sure most of you think I'm crazy, but I wrote this to get the truth out there. There are still lots of
unanswered questions, chief among them the nature of Phase Three, but I'll continue to update as we
uncover more information.
I'm sitting here now, waiting for LaFarge to get back from town with supplies. It's been a tremendous
weight off my shoulders to tell all this to you guys. I feel less alone knowing that there are others out
there who share this burden of knowledge. Maybe some of you will help us resist, help us start the
ripple that will become the tsunami strong enough to defeat the whole operation.
It's strange. I'm looking out my window at the trees and even though I know full well what we're up
against, I feel strangely hopeful. I'm hopeful that we'll be able to turn things around, that we'll spark a
movement too big for them to control, that we'll be able to wake the people up and tell them the tru
no
no no no no
lights
lights outside the window
helicopter, voices, soldiers, breaking glass
bowler hat
they found me
god
dear jesus god help me
they found me...
Part 5: Phase Three

The truck ground to a halt. Home sweet home, maggot.

A gun butt jammed into my bruised ribs, and I fell out onto the pavement. Blood and mucus ran down
my mouth, and I spat between clenched teeth. The inside of the hood smelled like rotten meat, like I
was in my own little world of death.
On your feet. Gloved hands squeezed my broken collarbone and hoisted me to stand. I wheezed and
hacked up something that tasted like rusty iron.
I shuffled along the pavement, the shackles on my swollen ankles and wrists only giving me a few
inches of movement. There was a hole in the hood, and I could see a few things. Bright lights, guard
towers, armed soldiers with dogs. Fifty feet in front of me the man in the bowler hat walked toward a
large set of double doors. The doors opened as he stepped through, and the guards inside saluted him.
The gun butt struck me again, and I picked up the pace. As I walked through the double doors I could
read what was printed on them: DRS-117.

I stood naked in a fluorescent room while a guard sprayed me down with freezing water. He turned
the hose off and laughed at my shivering form. Rat in a sewer, he said, and tossed me an orange
jumpsuit.
I was led to a cell the size of a closet and shoved inside. The heavy door slammed shut, and I looked
around. The room was completely bare save for a stone toilet in the corner and four surveillance
domes in the ceiling. I sat down on the cold metal floor and put my head between my knees.
No sitting, a voice said from somewhere, and a jolt of pain seized my body. Electrical current ran
through the floor, and I struggled back to my feet. I stood, paced, stood again for what must have been
several hours. I tried to lean against the wall, but the floor zapped me again. My feet were numb. I
staggered and swayed and fought to keep my balance. Finally my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto
the ground. I braced myself for the pain.
The door opened. He wants to see you.
Two guards led me through a maze of brightly lit corridors. Men in lab coats and military uniforms
hustled to and fro throughout the facility. When they passed me, their eyes would dart downward,
avoiding my gaze.
We came to a long hallway with a door at the very end. As we approached, I saw another man in
orange step out, flanked by his own set of guards. My vision was blurry and distorted, but there was
something familiar about him. I squinted and focused as he drew nearer.
Brian.
Oh my god, Brian, are you okay? I shouted as we passed each other. His head lifted, and I got a
good look at him. His face was sunken and hollow, covered in bruises and fresh scars. His lips were
white and cracked, and part of his ear had been torn off. But it was his eyes that frightened me. Dark
and empty, the soulless eyes of a man being broken apart. He looked through me instead of at me, and
then turned his head back down. The guards pushed me forward.
We entered a tiny room, and I was strapped to a metal chair. The man in the bowler hat stood with his
back to me, facing the wall. There was a long silence.
The human animal, he said, is a remarkable creature. Not for his inventiveness, or his reason, or
his ingenuity, or any of the other fabricated qualities for which he congratulates himself. No, the
human animal is remarkable for one reason and one reason only: his sheer capacity to delude himself.
Specifically, his ability to pretend that he is not an animal. He imagines that he is above the natural
world, separate from it. He creates a fiction of laws and morality to convince himself that he is a
being closer to the gods than to the filthy earth. But man is not made of air. He is made of meat, and he
screams when that meat is torn from him. He cowers when threatened and groans when beaten. Man is
an animal like any other, and there is only one law that governs animals: the right of the strong to rule
over the weak.
He turned around. His pale, wrinkled face would look frail if not for the crazed fire behind his eyes.
You've caused a lot of trouble for us, young man, he said, coughing into a handkerchief. I don't like
to have my time wasted, and you've wasted a lot of it.
Where's LaFarge? I said.
He smiled. LaFarge never stopped working for us. He just stopped drawing a paycheck. His task
was to find weaknesses in the operation, and he performed it admirably, even if he didn't realize it
was helping us. Once we know how the pill functions we'll be able to develop the next generation of
Stingrays so that nothing can keep us out of your heads. Of course, we still have some research to do,
but we will learn all that we need to when we dissect his brain.
I struggled to free myself from the chair, but the straps held me tight. You son of a bitch, I shouted.
He stepped toward me and studied my face. Please, he said, call me Dreiser. You and I are going
to be working very closely in the coming days. The pill's effects are still protecting you, but that's just
as well. I'm going to be doing this the old fashioned way.
He gestured to one of the guards, and took a rubber club from him. He raised it above his head and
smashed it onto my left hand. Bones splintered and white pain shot up my arm. I clenched my jaw. I
wasn't going to scream. He struck me across the mouth, and teeth clattered on the stone floor. He
struck my knee and the crack reverberated up my thigh. But I gave him nothing.
I panted hard. That all you got? I said.
He smiled. Excellent. Truly excellent. I knew there was something special about you. He gestured
to the guards. That's all for now. Take him away.
The guards unstrapped me and lifted me up. I hobbled to the door. As we left the room, Dreiser called
to the guards, Send his friend back in for another session.

Electric pain jolted me awake. I had passed out, though I wasn't sure for how long. I scrambled back
to my feet as the guards entered to carry me away again. They laid me on a metal table with straps
holding me secure. Dreiser sat next to me, softly running a hand through my hair. He held a
handkerchief to his mouth and coughed into it for several seconds.
Phase One was the most difficult, he said at last. The science was years behind where we needed
it, and the most brilliant minds on the subject weren't exactly enthusiastic about the goals of the
project. Nowadays we can point the Ray at them and make them do what we want, but back then we
had to use more traditional methods.
He dipped a small needle into a dish of clear liquid and inserted it into my arm. Fire erupted in my
veins, and my whole body burned with blinding agony. My hands dug at the table until my fingernails
cracked. After an eternity of screaming anguish, the pain subsided.
Phase Two was relatively simple, by comparison, Dreiser said. Our first field agents were experts
in human psychology, but we soon learned that that was unnecessary. As I said, humans are animals.
When they're hungry, they eat. When they're scared, they run. When they're angry, they kill. If you
know what buttons to press, you can make them do whatever you like.
Stimulus, he said as held up another needle, response. He inserted it into my arm, and I felt
barbed wire in my veins again. My vision darkened around the edges, and the room started to float
away. I thought I was dying, until cold water splashed on my face, bringing me back to reality.
No, we didn't need experts, Dreiser said. We only needed men with the strength to pull the trigger.
Of course, the project was still far from complete. There remained the possibility of a mass
movement too large for us to control. The same problem that confounded leaders from Caesar onward
still plagued us: how do you break the mob's will once and for all? We were determined to press
onward until we had solved the final equation of history.
My lips moved in a breathless whisper. Dreiser leaned in and pressed his ear to my mouth as I
struggled to make a sound. At last I was able to force out a few choked words:
What is Phase Three?
Dreiser laughed as he prepared another needle.

My mind floated back from an unconscious void, and I slowly regained my senses. I was strapped
into a chair again, sitting under a pool of light in an otherwise dark room. As the fog lifted, I became
dimly aware of the presence of another person in the room with me.
I'm sorry, baby.
My head shot up. Lindsay, I called, Lindsay where are you?
She hobbled forward into the circle of light. Her head was shaved bald, and a jagged scar ran over
her scalp. Her arm was in a cast, and her left foot was twisted and bent.
Jesus, Lindsay, I said, my eyes watering. Please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you. Dreiser,
that fucking monster, he's doing it. He's doing all of it. Oh god, Lindsay I'm...I'm so happy you're
alive.
She moved closer. Her eyes were soft and sad, and she gently touched my cheek. I'm so sorry, she
said.
It's okay, Lindsay, I'm sorry too. I know it wasn't really you. I know that Dreiser was the one who--
She shook her head. No, baby. I'm sorry that I don't love you anymore.
What?
Dreiser stepped in from the shadows. There's nothing you have that we cannot take from you, he
said. Do you understand? Everything you own, everyone you love, even the things inside your own
head are ours to take or leave as we choose.
He ran a finger down the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.
I will take things from you for as long as you fight me, he said. I will strip you down to nothing if I
have to. I will carve you down until I find your soul, and I will smash it to bits. And then, when you
are completely hollow, I will have a final task for you. His spotted hands ran up her arms, and she
sighed.
I shook my head. Lindsay, listen to me. You have to fight it. It's not you right now. He's inside your
mind. He's making you do things you don't want to do.
Dreiser smiled at me as he unzipped her dress. She certainly looks like she wants to, doesn't she?
He made me watch.

I stood in my cell. He's trying to break me, I thought. He doesn't want information, even if I had any to
give. No, he wants to conquer my mind, and he wants to do it without the Ray. He wants to reduce me
to a simpering puddle, and, when I am kissing his feet and pleading for mercy, only then will he kill
me. Well, I am not going to let that happen. He can torture me to the brink of death, and, with my last
ounce of strength, I will spit in his fucking face. If kills me, he'll do it knowing that I defied him to the
end. And if I can do it, others can too.

We're the same, you and I, Dreiser said, pushing me down the corridors in a wheelchair.
I scoffed. I'm nothing like you.
Really? Mind control isn't new. Organizations all over the world have been practicing it for
centuries, albeit in primitive forms. Psychological warfare, brainwashing, propaganda. And you, my
boy, are a born propagandist. Or do you think we hadn't seen this?
He handed me a tablet with a web browser open. I looked at the top of the page: Operation Stingray
is in effect. God help us.
It was really quite amusing, he said. You published your story for the public to read, believing that
you were striking a grand blow for freedom. You thought you could galvanize your readers to action
and spark a mass movement to overthrow us. You believed you would change the world.
He turned a corner and wheeled me down a long hallway. At the end was giant steel door flanked by
two armed guards. Printed on the door in huge bold letters were the words, PHASE THREE
DEVELOPMENT.
It's time for you to see something, Dreiser said.
The doors opened, and we entered a massive, dome-shaped room with a raised dais in the center. The
dais had a semicircle of keyboards and control panels around it. I looked around and saw that the
inner surface of the dome was covered in hundreds and hundreds of dark monitor screens.
Dreiser stepped onto the dais and tapped a key. One of the monitors lit up. It showed a young woman
looking into the screen, applying makeup. A female voice was speaking softly. She spoke in rapid,
broken sentence fragments, and she talked about her classes, her mother, the laundry, and a television
show, all simultaneously.
The image was odd. It was clear in the center, but fuzzy on the edges. It flickered dark every few
seconds. Suddenly it panned downward to show a bathroom sink. A hand picked up a tube of lipstick,
and the image flicked back upward. The woman began applying the lipstick. I realized she was
looking in a bathroom mirror. Was she wearing a camera somehow? It was almost as though I was
looking through her--
I gasped as I realized what I was seeing. Dreiser grinned. The first generation of Stingrays were
quite limited. he said. They allowed us to transmit commands and little else. But the newest
versions are wonders of technological innovation. Now not only can we transmit whatever we like,
but we can observe and manipulate all brain activity as well.
He typed a command into the keyboard. The woman looked into the mirror and her expression
hardened. Her inner voice became grim and anguished. She said she hated herself, her life was
painful and meaningless, she would always be alone. The woman's face twisted, and a film of
moisture distorted the image. She looked at a razor blade. She picked it up slowly with trembling
fingers and held it to her wrist.
Imagine, Dreiser said as the monitor faded to white. Stingray antennas covering every inch of the
globe. Imagine countless minds at our disposal, ready and willing to perform whatever tasks we
choose. Imagine wielding complete omniscience and omnipotence over all of humanity from this very
platform. What is Phase Three? My dear boy, Phase Three is nothing less than the power of God.
He touched a key and the entire dome of monitors lit up. I looked through the eyes of people all over
the world. A man shopping in a crowded market. A doctor performing an operation. A woman
bicycling down a desert trail. A fighter pilot in the skies. An infant laying in a crib.
You believe that you can lead the people in a revolution against us, Dreiser said. Tell me, what
will you do when we have six billion cameras showing us everything we need to see? When every
living creature serves us, and their thoughts become tools we use to enforce our will? What will you
do when we delete the word for 'resistance' from human memory with a keystroke?

I stood in a white room. The world was thick and distorted, like I was underwater. Was I dreaming?
Brian sat on the floor near the opposite wall. His head was down, and his hands clutched the back of
his neck. I called to him, but the sound was lost in the curdled air. I ran to him, my slow motion body
heavy and aching. I called again. I needed to warn him about Phase Three and the danger facing the
world. I finally reached him, and he looked up.
His eyes were completely black, and his face was a grimace of fear and pain. He shrieked like a
frightened animal, and he bounded away on all fours. He cowered in the corner of the room and
screamed.
Dreiser's voice whispered in my ear. Animals, he said.
I walked to Brian and begged him to snap out of it. I searched his eyes for any trace of understanding
or intelligence. Any trace of my best friend. But his eyes held nothing primal fear, the unthinking look
of a beast in danger. The look in his eyes was like a claw hammer to my heart. He had been broken.
He was gone.
You are alone, Dreiser said.
I sank down to the floor. Yes, I was alone. Totally, helplessly alone. Dreiser was right. He had taken
everything from me. Everyone I cared about. Every hope I had. Everything.
No. Not everything. I had one thing left. I had the rage that burned in my chest when I thought of his
face. I had the image of his bloodied corpse that hung in my mind's eye like a mandala. I had my hate.
I would find a way, somehow, to get my revenge on him. And if I couldn't, then I would kill him every
time I closed my eyes. That was the one thing he couldn't take from me. The one thing that would be
mine forever.

We've reached the end of our time together, Dreiser said.

We sat across from each other, separated by a small metal table. My body was weak and quivering,
but I forced myself to hold his gaze. He coughed and hacked into a handkerchief, and when he pulled
it away from his mouth I could see a reddish goo inside it.
I cannot break you, he said. I have tried everything at my disposal, but still you defy me. The
others have broken. Your lover, your friend. Even LaFarge begged for his life in the end. But no
matter what I do to you, it only hardens your resolve. I can see in your eyes that your fury cannot be
extinguished. It sustains you. It keeps you whole.
He leaned forward. But anger is a lie, my boy. It makes you feel strong in moments when you are
most weak. No, it's time for you to learn something about the true nature of power.
He pulled a gun from his hip and placed it onto the table.
I laughed in spite of my aching ribs. That's it? You're going to kill me? Be my fucking guest. But do it
knowing that you couldn't beat me, you bastard.
Dreiser grinned and shook his head. You misunderstand me, son. This isn't an execution. This is a
job interview.
He stood up and walked over to me. He unfastened the straps on my arms, and he sat back down.
The human animal is weak, he said. Weak of body, weak of mind, and, above all, weak of will. He
tells himself fairy tales about the 'indomitable strength of the human spirit' because in his heart he is
ashamed of his weakness. He knows that he will crumble if placed under the slightest bit of
pressure.
I lifted my shaking hands from the straps and rubbed my wrists.
But you, my boy, you are different. I saw potential in you from the very beginning. A fighter's spirit.
A fierce survival instinct. An iron will that can withstand any attempt to destroy it.
I placed my hands on the table.
Just the kinds of qualities I've been looking for in my replacement.
I looked at the gun.
I'm old. This line of work takes its toll over time, and I don't have it in me to see Phase Three to
completion. We are on the cusp of a new day in history, and we need a leader with the strength to pull
the species forward, triumphantly, into the glory that awaits.
I touched the gun with a trembling hand.
The parasites in this facility are worthless. Yes-men and bureaucrats. Spineless worms who couldn't
wield true power without a memorandum telling them how to do it. No we need a God-king, a
Pharaoh. Someone with the vision and the will to reign over the churning masses like Poseidon over
the seas.
I felt the gunmetal warm to my touch.
Someone who knows how to kill without mercy.
I closed my hand around the grip.
All great men have a virtue they cling to above all others. For some it is honor. For some it is love.
For you it is vengeance. You will be the God of the Old Testament, raining punishment upon the
wicked in cleansing fire. Your hate will light the way.
I lifted the gun.
It feels good, doesn't it? The power. Imagine wielding this kind of power over billions. That is your
destiny, my boy. That is what awaits you.
I touched the barrel of the gun to his forehead.
Yes. That's it. I remember now. I remember the first real taste of power I held over another human
being.
I cocked the hammer back.
I had that exact look that you have now.
My hand was calm and still.
That very same look.
Boom.

It's amazing what a shower, a shave and a fillet mignon can do for your outlook on life.
I looked up from the Phase Three control dais at the dark world of monitors. I reached my bandaged
hand to the controls. The doctors had patched me up and injected me with something to take care of
the pain in my broken body. I had them thrown in the prisons afterward, along with half of the facility.
Anyone who so much as looked at me while I was in custody would be getting an important lesson
about loyalty.
Technicians were working on Brian and Lindsay, trying to reconstruct their minds from the mush that
Dreiser had reduced them to. They were making progress, though it would be a while before they
were at full mental capacity. They asked me if I wanted them back as they were, or if I wanted to
make any improvements. Mostly as they were, I said. Maybe make Brian a little less caustic, and
give Lindsay more of a sense of humor. And they both should probably lose any negative associations
they might have with the project, now that things have changed.
I touched the control panel, and the monitors lit up. Dreiser was wrong. I would prove that. Phase
Three is an incredible tool, a tool that could be used for the betterment of all humanity. I could end
war, poverty, and suffering for all time. I could lead us into a paradise, a perfect world free from
want, or fear, or death, or any thoughts that could cause pain. Dreiser wanted to use it for evil, but I
would change the world for the better. No, he was wrong. I'm nothing like him. Nothing.
I looked at the monitors. A world of minds ready and waiting to receive my input. I looked around
me. And I smiled.

Into the night...

The Case Files Series

Organizing_Secrets

Runner Up - Best Multi-Part Story of 2013

Case File #1 The Lightning Man

A week or so ago I was actually searching through some of the more bizarre documents released by
the Freedom of Information Act when I came across a download link for a folder, just nestled in
between some of the various case files. Interest was had and I downloaded it. Contained within my
little mystery folder were hundreds, possibly even over a thousand case files not shown on the regular
FOIA site. I browsed through a couple and noticed a few things immediately. Every document was
written by a group with a Federal Designation of Organization 440, that every case took an intense
and rather serious approach to paranormal entities, and that there is literally no rhyme nor reason for
the order of the files.
I'm going to make a serious attempt to type out these case files and find more information on the group
and people mentioned in the documents. NoSleep, prepare yourselves for information I don't think we
were meant to know...
Case File: 001-653
Case File Date: 06/24/1981
Location: Birming, Oregon
Subject: Randy Smith
Entity: The Lightning Man
The following report comes from several crumpled sheets of paper found at the residence of Mr.
Smith.
We have a legend in our town, one of those little, local folk tales.
The Lightning Man.
The story goes that the Lightning Man is some kind of ghost or something. Spooky paranormal shit,
whatever, every town has creepy stuff. Anyways, people have been seeing the Lightning Man for
years during...well...lightning storms. Someone would look out a window and POW! Flash of
lightning. Figure in the distance.
Most people usually describe him as a tall, humanoid figure made up entirely of nerves and muscle. I
guess that it makes sense. Lightning is electrical and nerves deal with electricity or something of that
nature. I don't know. Not a medical student or anything. So yeah, he's this tall, sinewy creature. Arms
longer than nature usually permits. Claw-like hands. Definitely a 'stuff of nightmares' creature. But the
trademark thing that every Lightning Man story has in it is the eyes. Most people describe them as two
balls of electricity resting in the eye sockets that left a haunting afterimage in it's wake.
Up until a few weeks ago it really was just a story for me.
I moved out of my parent's house and got myself an old house on the edge of town. Wasn't perfect but
the price was right so I couldn't complain. It isn't anything special. Two stories, medium sized house.
Quite a lot of room for one guy. The real draw for me were the fields though. My house is surrounded
by fields on three sides and after that they end in forest. I enjoyed the earthy feel, it gave off a
different feel than the more urban surrounding I had at my parents house.
The creepy shit started up maybe two weeks ago. I was sitting at home watching tv one night, the
weather channel. Thing is the weatherman said that we were having record highs for temperature and
were in a drought. Look outside and there was a heavy storm. Like, the kind that topples stuff on your
porch and makes the house creak nonstop. And it definitely wasn't hot. If anything I'd say it was
unseasonably cold. Definitely weird but I shrugged it off as a freak storm that hadn't quite hit town
yet.
Finally got tired and head upstairs to my bedroom. Walked by my window and CRACK! Flash of
lightning. My window looks out one of the fields and right at the edge of the field where it met up
with the border of the forest I thought I saw him. Standing. Lumbering maybe. It was real quick so I
thought I was crazy. But when I looked away in the darkness of the room I still had two small dots of
light burned in to my vision temporarily. Like any rational man I shrugged it off and went to bed.
Didn't give it a second thought.
I woke up to more lightning. It was still really dark outside so I figured I had gotten maybe an hour or
two of sleep. Looked at my alarm. 8:00. It was the morning. First thing I did was throw on the news,
at this point I assumed we were getting a freak storm and I wanted to check things out. News was
normal. Threw it over to the weather, hot and sunny. No way. No how. Grabbed my phone and called
my parents. Or I tried to at least. My phone was dead.
CRASH! More lightning. The storm outside was relentless. I'm sure it had to be bordering on
hurricane strength. My male bravado won out and I decided to try and brave the storm. I wrestled the
door open and fought against the wind and the rain just to take several steps on to my porch. CRASH!
Another flash of lightning and there he was. Much closer than last night but still in the middle of the
field. I could see that his arms were so long that the clawed fingers actually drug across the ground.
This was even more impressive because the Lightning Man had to be almost seven feet tall. At least
that's what I remember thinking at the time. Hard to really good measure of something when it's still a
bit away and only visual for two, maybe three seconds.
That was enough to kill my ideas about leaving. I holed up in my house for the rest of the day and fell
asleep huddled up in my bathroom with all the doors locked.
The next day was much the same. Actually...the entire week was this way. I'd wake up to find the
storm still raging, phone still dead, and the rest of the world oblivious to my little prison. And then
the power went out.
I've spent this entire week fumbling around my house just trying to survive hearing the crash of
lightning every once in awhile. Every time I had to leave the bathroom to get food or to check the
weather I'd have to pass a window. And every time lightning would flash and I'd see those eyes creep
closer and closer. Last time I checked the Lightning Man was at my window.
A few hours ago the power came back on, although the lights have been flickering on and off since. I
slowly crept through my house and grabbed a pen and paper. If I am going to die here then I want
everyone to know exactly what happened, that The Lightning Man is no legend. He's real.
I can only take comfort in the fact that I have blocked off the windows and that no lightning can get in
here. I will die eventually, but at least it won't be at the hands of that monster. Now if only the damn
lights stopped blinking.
Mom, Dad, I-
(Secrets: The writing at this point on the paper became very rushed and ran together, I'm typing it out
normal for all of our sakes.)
He's in the house. I don't know how but he's here. I can see the eyes. And he can see me. Closer.
Closer. Ran to other room but claw hit side. Felt intense electricity. Hurt. Bad.
The writing stops there.
Action Taken: Two agents slipped in to investigation team. They found and concealed the final notes
of Mr. Smith. The body was never found and it was made in to a missing persons case.
Analysis: The Lightning Man appears to be a spectral entity that does not rely on lightning but on the
sudden appearance and absence of light. A flash of light should do, although lightning probably
sustains a physical form for the being much better than a simple ceiling light. The people of Birming
most likely associated the entity to lightning due to the light flashes from the storms they commonly
receive. As to Mr. Smith's death he was most likely impaled or ensnared by the claws of the Lightning
Man and electrocuted to death, abducted to whatever plane the beast uses as a lair. The storm that
appeared around Mr. Smith's residence may have actually occurred in another plane of existence,
capture of the entity necessary for further theories and answers.
The Lightning Man(Subject 653) has been authorized for capture and study under The Paranormal
Defense Act. Contact ______ ______ (Secrets: Literally the only thing redacted from this document
was this name.) for further information.
Case Update: Subject 653 caught and contained at the Northeast Branch. Entity is contained
through a complex system of magnets, electric fields, and flashing low light bursts. Constant study
and experimentation of Subject 653 will now begin on regular intervals with updates sent via PRB
Report. (Secrets: Not sure what PRB stands for.)
Case File: Closed.
So yeah. Case File One. Intense way to start up a series of documents if you ask me. I've scanned
through some more, looks like they have interviews with people, unsolved cases, some facility
reports, just stuff. Stuff I knew NoSleep would appreciate.
I've got a desire to get all this information out now. The original download location for the file is
gone. Not surprising. Personally I think this folder wasn't supposed to be released to the public.
Maybe someone messed up, or wanted them to get caught. I'll have to keep reading and sharing to
know for sure. Stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets

Shaowl's sketch of The Lightning Man: Here

Cynique's take on The Lightning Man: Here
R3V3RI33 an a friend's drawing of The Lightning Man: Here
ciwaw's illustration of The Lightning Man: Here
Case File #2 Banner Station

Case File: 002-Volos

Case File Date: 08/25/1986
Location: Banner Station, Antarctica
Subject: ASSTF (Anti-Soviet Special Task Force) Unit Seven
Entity: Volos, Slavic Deity of Death
The first reports are from members of ASSTF Unit Seven
Captain James Alders, Commanding Officer of Operation Novolazarevskaya
Day One: Our team moved into base under the cover of United States researchers. Novolazarevskaya
Station is roughly 10 miles north of the newly dubbed Banner Station. Mission parameters are to
investigate claims and info leaks that Novolazarevskaya Station is actually a research base for Soviet
super weapons. If we confirm the presence of said weapons we are to terminate any and all personnel
and retrieve or destroy the weapons and research notes.
My squad is composed of fifteen Special Forces Men as well as myself. A civilian by the name of
Matthew Hoffer has also been assigned to our unit as a specialist. Not sure what he specializes in.
Whole thing is definitely off, but I'm not payed to complain.
Day Seven: Everyone is settled in. Weld and Shaffer got in to a scuffle. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Sending two men to scout out the Soviet Station tomorrow. Also, Hoffer is being exceptionally
reclusive. He could just be intimidated by being stuck in this frozen hell with a bunch of spec ops
guys but I'm keeping an eye on him regardless. He also hasn't contributed much and when I asked him
what exactly he was here for he told me "I'm only to act in case of certain situations." and then flashes
me this Federal paper about nondisclosure. Secrets in a secret mission. I hate this James Bond shit.
Day Eight: Allers and Weld reported back. Novolazarevskaya Station for all intents and purposes
appears to be abandoned, right down to the front door being left wide open. This is far beyond what I
expected. Daniels and I talked things over and decided it was probably a bio weapon gone wrong. He
assured me that we have the gear to let us check out the base. I'm sending five men, Reynolds in
charge. They are to do a discrete infiltration of the Station and then radio us if the facility truly is
empty.
Day Ten: After two days of high alert due to Reynolds' squad not reporting back we finally picked up
something on radio. It was choppy and near impossible to make out but the words "send help" were
clearly heard. Shaffer is staying here with Hoffer. The rest of us are about to head over to
Novolazarevskaya Station. If I can save even one person from whatever happened I will.
Day Eleven: It's been a God damn nightmare. We got to Novolazarevskaya Station and everything was
just as previously reported. Front door wide open. No lights. No power. No life. I made the call to
not send everyone in. Daniels was more of a doctor than he was a soldier and I had him and most of
the team stay back on top of a hill maybe a quarter mile away. Weld, Osa, Mendez, and myself crept
up to the wide open doors that led inside.
The station itself is comprised of three different research modules as well as a living quarters. Weld
and Osa searched through the first research module while Mendez and I took the second. Besides the
lack of power and noise things were pretty normal. No signs of a scuffle. No bullet holes. No blood.
We all met back up at the third research module, which you had to walk through to get to the living
quarters.
I should have known what was coming the second we cracked the door open and that smell wafted out
to us, the scent of blood. And yet I stood there completely horrified at the scene before me. It was
truly horrible. This was clearly the scene of a vicious slaughter. Blood and small chunks of meat
splashed against the walls and ceiling. Halves of men lay strewn about over counters and chairs. One
corpse must've been slammed in to the wall so hard that the body had squished halfway in to the wall
and it had stuck in place. And there was one in the corner of the room that will haunt me till the day I
die. The man was slumped against the wall with his face pointed straight up to the ceiling. His jaw
must've been severely dislocated as a severed arm was shoved down his throat hand first, almost up
to the shoulder. For some reason he just kept standing out to me so I looked closer, his eyes were
clearly focused on the arm during his last moments, meaning he was fully conscious when this
happened to him. Besides that he looked like any other Soviet.
We did a quick check of the room, none of the corpses belonged to my team. The four of us gathered at
the door to the living quarters and pried a severed arm off the handle. Son of a bitch must have been
trying to escape the room and didn't quite make it. Osa tore the door open and Mendez and myself
aimed our guns and entered the room.
The living quarters had bunk beds lining each wall and it was pretty standard. We did a quick sweep
of the room. There was nothing under the beds, nothing of note in the cabinets, nothing in the room at
all. Just another door at the far side of the room that probably led to the kitchen. While Osa and
Mendez searched the room more thoroughly Weld and I took the kitchen door. He swung it open and I
trained my rifle on the darkness.
I was immediately struck to the ground. Something was flailing on top of me. As I struggled with
whatever it was I vaguely heard Weld call out for the others to help with something. I couldn't make
out the words nor see what was attacking me. I threw out a few heavy punches that connected to what
I assumed to be a face. My flashlight had fallen with my rifle when I had been knocked down. My
assailant recoiled and moved away from me. I scrambled over to my gun, and more importantly my
light source and started waving it around. I finally found who had attacked me in the corner of the
room. Wilkens, one of the men I had sent with Reynolds three days ago. He was curled up and
pressed against the wall as much as he could manage, clutching on to what looked like an old book.
We tried to talk to him for several minutes but couldn't get anything out of him. There was nothing in
the kitchen either. I made the call to leave. We weren't finding anything and I was getting unnerved by
the whole situation.
We met up with everyone outside and told them what happened. Against my advice Daniels asked to
be taken to the third research module. His face was as pale as the snow when he returned.
"Do you think it was an animal attack?" I remember him asking. "Dunno. What kind of animal does all
of that without actually eating any of the bodies?" He shrugged and everyone spent the ride back to
Banner in silence. Except for Wilkens, he had begun to make pained noises every minute or so. Still
holding that damn book. No one can get him to let go of it.
We got back to base and I couldn't even tell Hoffer and Shaffer what happened. I just dragged myself
over to my office and started writing this report. Had to get my thoughts out. Daniels has Wilkens over
in the medroom and is checking his health as well as trying to get him to talk. I'm going to drink
myself to sleep, rules be damned.
Emerson Daniels' Report and interview of Brian Wilkens
It's the eleventh day of Operation Novolazarevskaya. While I was initially placed on this team, due to
my past training in psychological health, to help my fellow soldiers cope with the harsh environment
we've been placed in, it now seems like I'll be using what I know to find out what happened to
Wilkens, Reynolds, and the others.
He's ok physically, besides not sleeping for a few days, lack of water, food, etc. Another curious thing
is that book. I've gotten some good glances of it and it looks old, really old. I saw what looked like
snakes and some form of cattle or boar on the cover, which seems to be made of some heavily treated
and worn leather. No writing on it that I can see but I doubt it's in English. Wilkens must have grabbed
it while they were over at the Soviet's station. My training has taught me a few things: When the mind
snaps due to a terrible sight, situation, etc., the person in question may latch on to an object of
importance. Apparently this book is important, but why? I think I'll try to take it from him in a bit after
the sedatives I give him kick in.
Quick update, took the book from Wilkens. Leafed through it a bit. Not written in English, not really
surprising. I believe it could be an archaic form of Russian. I'm not sure though since I don't speak a
lick of the language. I think Wilkens and Kusman speak and read Russian, although Kusman is part of
the missing squad. I was about to give up and had closed the book when Wilkens shot back up and
looked at me. He calmly asked me to give him back the book, which I of course did. I'm not sure how
he's awake so soon but he's talking again and is willing to tell me what happened at the base.
Daniels: Brian, you and four others went to Novolazarevskaya Station ahead of the rest of our team to
check it for survivors. What happened?
Wilkens:(He is stammering and putting his emphasis on the wrong parts of words. Obviously from the
trauma.) We arrived to find the place just like we were told. It was deserted, doors were wide open. I
think for a minute we just stood there. Reynolds probably thinking about tactical stuff. Baker and
Hurst were making ghost jokes, messing around, being stupid. Kusman and I stayed our distance
initially. I personally felt something bad emanating from the whole place and from the look on
Kusman's face I'm pretty sure he was feeling it too.
Reynolds finally gave us the order to go inside. Kusman and I to the left, Baker and Hurst to the right,
Reynolds would aim center. We executed everything properly expecting something to be there. I was
happy at the time to be let down. The place was abandoned but not in an eerie fashion. I was
seriously expecting bloated corpses or zombies the entrance area as well as the initial two modules
were clear. The only place left was the door that led to the third module and the areas beyond. My
sense of foreboding was going full swing and I found myself not being able to hold by gun steady.
We entered the room to find nothing.
Daniels: But I've been in that room Brian, it's covered in some of the most grotesque things I've seen
done to a hum-
Wilkens: There was nothing there man, trust me. We moved on to the living quarters and it was empty
too. Empty beds empty room, as was the rest of the building. So we started to leave the facility and
that's when we saw the bodies. They were all there just as you saw. But we had been in that room
maybe ten minutes prior and it was empty, what's with that shit man?
So, we searched that room, very carefully. That's how we found the book. It was just laying on one of
the center tables, closed and kind of unassuming. Kusman picked it up and that's when everything
went wrong. One of the corpses in the corner of the room grabbed Baker. We didn't see it move, hell
I'm not even sure where the corpse initially was. Anyway, I remember it grabbing him by the arm and
just pulling him away.
As this was happening some kind of black tendrils or tentacles or...something reached down from the
ceiling and grabbed Reynolds. Just grabbed him around the arms, neck, I could even see them start to
grab the edges of his mouth and pull. And then he was gone. He was just, just pulled up in to the
ceiling.
Baker's screams brought me back to the present. I looked over to see the corpse thing just tear his arm
off. It looked effortless to be honest. The muscles and skin put up little resistance, or that thing was
inhumanly strong. Baker, now armless, started flailing around a bit and fell over. He proceeded to just
fall through the floor as if there was nothing there to begin with. The corpse thing then took Baker's
arm and just...just started forcing it down it's throat, I could almost here the jaw dislocate. At this
point the other corpses strewn about the room were all stirring and showing signs of...life? Unlife?
Man...so fucked up.
Well, Kusman, Hurst, and I bolted for the exit. Hurst reached it first, and paid for it. The door flew off
it's hinges like an explosion had gone off behind it and nailed Hurst. It smashed in to the wall and
Hurst was just crushed..it was a sickening noise. Everything in that room is sickening.
Those tendrils appeared again. They blocked up the now open doorway, so we could only retreat to
the living quarters. I made it first and turned around to see a tendril grab Kusman just as he reached
the doorway. He threw me the book for some reason and then the door slammed shut.
Daniels: I've seen some of the corpses you mentioned Brian. But they weren't any members of our
team, they were all Soviet researchers.
Wilkens: Don't you get it? We see whatever it wants us to see. You saw Soviet corpses in place of
Hurst and the others because that's what it wanted.
Daniels: What who wanted?
Wilkens: I was trapped in the back of the room. I was scared and alone. I read the book because I had
to. My mother immigrated to the United States from Russia so I know a fair bit of Russian myself. The
book is some kind of summoning book or spell book I think. It's definitely powerful. My guess is that
the Soviets aren't holding up well and need an edge on us. Well, they turned to summoning a very old
and very dead God, Volos.
Daniels: Well, that warrants...study. So how did you end up getting in contact with us through the
radio? Baker had it on him when he 'disappeared'.
Wilkens: Volos spoke to me after I had read parts of the book. He told me he'd let me go if I took the
book with me. I think that was the deal. I blacked out at that point and didn't come to till I saw you
holding the book. You, you didn't open it did you?
Daniels: Why would that matter?
Wilkens: From what I read I think it acts like an invitation. Like...the corruption can only infest a
place if you open it in that building. Or, something like that. I'm not really sure. I couldn't read every
word to begin with and it's not easy to describe portals and shit when you're talking all archaic.
Wilkens refused to speak after that. He seemed tired and just curled up on the cot to sleep. I'm not
sure what to make of the story he told me. It could be his brain's way of coping with the room. It just
couldn't take the stress and he snapped. All I know is that I'm not touching that book again. It's getting
late and I think I need sleep as well.
The final moments of Captain James Alders.
Day Fifteen
I'm writing this down now in case I do not make it out of here. Almost everyone is dead. God damn it
all. Daniels spoke to me briefly about it before he was killed. It's some kind of God or demon or
something. I've read through his interview with Wilkens as well. Nothing in there that helps much.
And Wilkens. I had no idea. He brought something back with him when we saved him. It took contol
of him and he's gone. He's not human anymore.
All that's left of us is Hoffer, Fenn, Weld, and myself. We're currently holed up in my office but there's
hope. Supplies are coming in by helicopter tomorrow. We're going to make a break for the outside and
catch a ride. Jenny, if I don't make it and someone finds this note please know that I love you so much
and I'm sorry for all the time I've had to spend away from home. If I can get home I'll never leave you
again.
Mission Report from Operative Matthew Hoffer
Tome of Volos is secured. The entirety of Unit Seven was lost as well as the researchers from
Novolazarevskaya Station. I carried out the final plans of Captain Alders and escaped via helicopter.
If the text is to be believed then Volos should only be contained at both Novolazarevskaya Station and
Banner Station. I've been told that Banner is to be burned immediately, no word on
Novolazarevskaya.
Mission Roster:
Alders: Shot in the leg so Operative Hoffer could escape. Last seen being dragged back to Banner
Station.
Weld: Flesh ripped off by Volos tendrils during the escape.
Shaffer: Cracked under pressure and shot himself in the head. Corpse later animated by Volos.
Allers: Was lured out of safety by visions of his family fabricated by Volos. Cause of death not seen
but screams heard.
Daniels: Cut off from the team during Volos' attack on Banner Station. Corpse later seen with chunks
missing.
Reynolds: Pulled in to ceiling via Volos tendrils.
Osa: Impaled by Volos tendrils and torn apart.
Mendez: Head ripped off by possessed Wilkens.
Wilkens: Body completely possessed by Volos. Body assumed burned with Banner Station.
Kusman: Death unseen. Arm found however. Assumed dead.
Baker: Arm forcibly removed and spatial displacement.
Hurst: Crushed against wall.
Fenn: Shot in the leg so Operative Hoffer could escape. Confirmed to be dead.
Guerra: Ripped apart by Shaffer's corpse.
Glenshaw: Cut badly during attack on Banner Station. Later bled out due to lack of medical supplies.
Wagner: Decapitated be ceiling Volos Tendrils.
Hoffer: Escaped. Retrieved objective with acceptable losses. Promotion in consideration.
Analysis: Tome of Volos is a direct gateway to Volos' realm of existence. The book also contains
other passages of power that can be utilized if one can get past Volos himself. Preventative measures
are in place to allow more in-depth study of the book and power that we can utilize. The Tome of
Volos is to be stored in The Vault when not it direct study.
Case Update: Banner Station has been burned along with all evidence held within, excluding that
which we have confiscated. Novolazarevskaya Station remains. The Soviets refuse to destroy it but
have yet to replace their former staff.
Case File: Closed.
I'm having trouble wrapping my head around this one. I thought maybe this Organization was some
sort of mini-cult or something initially. But, they slipped a man in to a Spec Ops operation during the
Cold War and successfully covered it up. I don't know what I was expecting but...but yeah. Maybe this
is all a little over my head. Regardless, I'm intrigued to my core and am still willing to share more if
the interest is there. Take care of yourselves NoSleep.
-Secrets
Case File #3 The Kepler Photographs

Case File: 003-111

Case File Date: 04/12/1984
Location: Constance, Pennsylvania
Subject: Mary Cowan, Alex Kepler
Entity: Unknown Entity (Codenamed E-byss)
The following is a record of the interrogation of Alex Kepler.
Interrogator(Shortening this to 'I' for the sake of length): Alex Kepler. Age 24. Lived with Mary
Cowan.
Alex: Lives. I live with her. Not past tense.
I: But she's gon-
Alex: (Tense posture and language) I'm going to find her.
I: We'll see Mr. Kepler. Could you please start at the beginning of when Ms. Cowan and yourself
started having encounters with th-
Alex: The bastard who took her? (Stands up, infuriated. Two operatives walk towards him and he sits
back down, sighing to regain composure) Yeah, the beginning.
Thing is, it didn't start with us...not initially. People started turning up missing...hah, turning up
missing is a funny way to word things. It's like saying you appeared to not appear or some shit.
I: You're getting off topic Mr. Kepler.
Alex: (Throws an annoyed glance at the interrogator before continuing) People were starting to
vanish. Kids, adults, old people, one day a person was simply gone. It kinda missed the news I guess.
We aren't a huge city or anything though so twenty, thirty people missing wasn't being covered.
I'm ashamed to say that most people in the town took a "Didn't happen to me so I'm going to look the
other way." stance. As long as someone's kid or lover didn't go missing they just sorta carried on as
normal, and I was right fucking there with them. I just wanted to work my shitty job, be with my
awesome girlfriend, maybe get around to doing something with my life. (Alex slumps down for
several minutes in his chair. He doesn't move or say anything)
I: Mr. Kepler. Alex, we need you to continue your story.
Alex: (Deep sigh, rubbing eyes with both hands, he sits back up to continue) Yeah. There were five of
us right? My friend group. It was Darren, Lyssa, Oliver, Mary, and me. We were all old high school
friends and had yet to move out of town, just five people working, hanging out, living. It really was
pretty much like being in high school. We'd all work all day and then meet up at one of our places and
spend the rest of the day hanging out. It was nice, maybe naive in a way, but nice.
It was on one of these nights that the shit storm began. Five of us were over at Darren's place, we
were drinking and watching scary movies. Darren had just broken up with his she-bitch and
celebrations were had. Anyway, I remember looking over and seeing Lyssa just staring at this photo.
Looked like one of those ones that pop out of the bottom of the camera immediately after you take the
picture, I don't really remember what those are called. [Pretty sure it's called a Polaroid Camera.
Could be wrong. -Secrets] Well she was just staring at this picture intensely. I was sorta amused by
the whole thing so I made some funny faces in her direction. She didn't look up from the picture and a
minute or so had gone by so I finally chatted her up.
"Hey Lys, whatcha got there?" I remember her jumping a little when I spoke, she was a tiny, mousy
girl that was always so serious that it was actually almost humorous to me to see her jump like that.
"Heh, ha, nothing really, I don't think. Hey Darren?" Darren turned away from the slaughterfest on the
screen and turned back to her.
"Yeah?"
"I didn't know you had one of those weird cameras."
"I don't own a camera Lyssa, you know I hate having my picture taken."
"Yeah..that's what I thought. Um, could you come look at this?" Darren got up took a look at the
picture and I saw his mouth drop slightly and he looked more than a little disturbed.
"Yo man, what is it?" He looked up at me and kinda, shrugged it off I guess, that bit of horror or
whatever I had seen was replaced by his usual non-belliever smart guy attitude.
The photo was a picture of Darren which was weird in itself. Darren hated being in them. Whenever
we took a group picture Darren was always the cameraman. Any way the picture was of Darren
standing outside at the park in town. He wasn't too far away from the camera, just enough that you
could see him from head to toe. Overall he was a pretty average kid. Average height, average build.
Glasses, some disheveled hair and his trademark 'Questioning the laws of the universe at all times
makes me seem like a better intellectual' face was plastered on.
This was all fairly normal besides the fact that Darren should never be in a picture. In the background
was a tree, it was pretty big probably an oak or maple tree. It was maybe 20 yards behind Darren and
there was a figure leaning out from behind the tree. It was also Darren. Sorta. It certainly looked like
Darren for the most part but there were some minor differences. No glasses, the shirt had some kind
of dark stain on it, his hair was matted down in parts. But what really stood out was the face and
hands. His hands were around each side of the tree as he leaned out from behind it and were clearly
claws. They weren't just some photo illusion, they were some serious looking claws. This mouth was
open in this mischievous looking smile, like the biggest prank ever was about to happen to 'normal'
Darren. They eyes were the worst part. Or lack of them I should say. They were definitely just two
black circles. The distance was far enough away though that at the time I remember thinking that it
could have just been marker or really good pen.
Everyone got a good look of the picture and we all sat there for a few seconds.
"Well, one of us is good at pranks." I remember chiming in to break the silence. We all played it off
after that as a prank. Stupid. That was so stupid. I couldn't think of a single way that you could edit
one of those photos to add 'Weird" Darren in the background. On top of that you'd have to initially get
the first two pictures of Darren in the first place and that was nigh impossible.
Life went on for about another week. I thought things were normal and everything was fine but looking
back on it I can see the signs. Fucking hindsight. The group would meet up except for Darren. We'd
give him a call, he said he was sick. That happened three times. And he skipped out on a dinner
without telling anyone. We all just assumed that he must seriously be ill so after dinner I went over to
his place to check on him while the others went back to Mary and my's house.
The house was pitch black except for a light coming from his bedroom on the second floor. The door
was unlocked so I let myself in. Unsurprisingly, I found him in his room, sitting at his desk. Laid out
on the desk were several photos like the one from earlier in the week. I just remember him looking so
haunted. He had huge dark circles around his eyes and he definitely hadn't been showering, probably
not eating as well.
"Hey man, what's up?" I remember asking him so feebly. I was afraid of my own friend.
"Hey." Just one word. He sounded so...defeated, hollow. It wasn't like him at all.
"What are these? More photos?" I started leafing through them.
"Yeah. They keep popping up around me every few hours."
The 'Weird' Darren crept closer to Darren in each frame. It was hunched over in an almost comical
sneaking pose. At the end of the series of photos it stepped in to the exact pose that Darren had been
in so that the picture was just a picture of 'Weird' Darren from head to toe. Now that he was this close
to the camera I could see how off it was. The stains on the clothes were blood. The matted down hair
was also from blood I think and the skull looked like it had been cracked open in the back. The hands
were definitely clawed although not in quite as an extreme manner as I had thought before. Darren's
mouth was twisted up in to a grin, or mockery of one and now I could see that the teeth were pointed
and fang-like. And there were no doubts now that these eyes were just blacked out holes. The whole
thing almost gave you a sense that it was gloating over the fact that it had taken Darren's place.
I flipped the photo over to see that 'END' had been written on the back of it.
"You write this Darren?"
"No. It was already there." I noticed him slump a bit. Darren was crying. The most logical of my
friends and 'more often devoid of emotion than not' Darren was sobbing away. There were no words.
I didn't say anything, I just...hugged him I guess? Maybe embraced is a better word. He was my friend
and he needed me so I was there. I remember asking him if he wanted to come to my place and him
refusing bluntly. So I helped him get in bed and told him I'd stay there till he fell asleep and then I'd
head back to my place.
He eventually did fall asleep and I went home. Another mistake. I've made a lot of those recently. I
didn't talk to the others about what had happened. I told him he definitely wasn't feeling good and that
I was going to go over to his place the next day and stay with him.
That didn't happen. I messed up so bad. Hell, it's even a fucking horror cliche but part of me wouldn't
believe it. Of course when I got to the house he was gone. And of fucking course the room was
trashed, serious signs of a scuffle any direction I looked. I lost Darren because I refused to believe in
the shit going around me.
(At this point Mr. Kepler breaks down. All attempts to communicate with him fail and he is taken
back to his room. The interrogation continues on the next day)
I: Are you ready to continue Alex? Surely you want to help us catch this thing.
Alex: No. I don't want to help you catch it. I want to kill it. I want to kill him.
So yeah, let's continue then. We filed a report with the police because my friends thought it would
help. I still wasn't talking about the photos but I wasn't in denial at this point. My goal was to protect
my friends that were left and to catch this thing. I read up on town history, local legends, and even in
to the other people missing. Nothing. Two weeks spent being vigilant and intense research and I
couldn't come up with anything.
Left with little options I decided to tell my friends what I knew. Maybe they'd help. Maybe they
wouldn't. So when we were all together I dropped everything I knew on them. I mean, it wasn't much
but I could tell them about what happened with Darren and the photos. They took it better than I
thought they would. Oliver was a little disbelieving but that was just in his nature. Mary seemed to
take what I said to heart though. I remember Lyssa just sorta being there. She was always quiet and
soft spoken but it seemed strange to me that she'd just have nothing to say. I know I was talking about
hindsight earlier but seriously. It seriously kills me that I didn't pick up on this at the time.
Later that night I was woken by a phone call. It was Lyssa. She was sobbing heavily and I could
barely understand her. She asked that I come over immediately. I told Mary to stay at home because
Lyssa didn't really tell me what was wrong. I remember thinking that if it was whatever took Darren I
could get revenge. It wasn't to be though.
Lyssa was gone by the time I got to her house. I didn't know if she had been taken or fled so I looked
around a bit and I found a pile of photos like the ones Darren had. In the first photo there was a
picture of Lyssa from about the waist up and she was staring straight ahead at the camera. I couldn't
really make out anything in the background that could be threatening her. Then I looked at her face, she
looked scared. I noticed her throat had a bulge in it like something big was lodged in it. In the series
of photos she had the bulge worked it's way up and up till she had her cheeks puffed out, sorta like a
blowfish. Flipped over to the last photo in the pile and Lyssa's mouth was now wide open, probably
about as far as she could manage and the largest, nastiest looking spider I've ever seen was forcing
it's way out. I flipped the photo over and once again saw "END" written on the back. She had kept
this all to herself and pretended it wasn't happening as opposed to Darren who shut himself off from
others.
This didn't set well with the others when I showed them. Oliver actually skipped town. He didn't
want anymore to do with this and I honestly think that might have been the right thing. He may be fine
now. Not like Mary..
(Mr. Kepler stares off to the side for awhile before continuing)
Mary and I were sorta in a haze after that. I lost the will to fight for my two lost friends and Mary just
sorta shut off. We stayed this way for maybe a month or so. I did get my will to fight back however,
after Mary found her first photograph.
With her the photo process was even more intimate than the others because she was sharing with me
how she felt. Her photo was initially a picture of her standing by a lake. The only off thing about it
was a slight pale blue tinge to her skin and lips, almost not noticeable. Her progression was soon
made apparent though, the skin turned even more blue. Her eyes glazed over and her body began to
bloat. This was Mary if she had drowned and been left in the water. That's when I pieced another
piece of this thing together. Mary's worst fear ever was drowning. It was so bad that she sometimes
had to be coaxed in to a swimming pool and she never swam in a lake or river. Lyssa was definitely
afraid of spiders. I'd seen her hair stand on end just at the sheer mention of them. I wasn't quite sure
what Darren's picture represented but I assume it had something to do with him hating getting his
picture taken. Our worst fears were being portrayed in these photos. Whatever this was it had an
intimate knowledge of us that definitely unsettled me.
Mary only got worse as we found more photos. This happened for maybe a week and a half. I had quit
work and spent all that time talking to people who were family of or who know other abducted
people. Some of them mentioned weird photos and others had no idea what I was talking about. In the
end I knew little more when we got the last photo with "END" written on the back.
I was around her constantly at that point. I had a baseball bat and a will to protect the love of my life.
Mary was the exact opposite. She was giving up and ready to just accept how pointless it all was.
The photos or something about them drains you, makes you want to except whatever that unknown end
is. But at that point I was feeling anything but giving in. I was angry, I was brave, I was foolish.
The night it, he, whatever, came to take her I was awake watching over our bedroom as she slept. I
had been taking little burst naps during the day so that I could spend all night awake and protecting
her.
There's an eerie feeling when that thing enters your room. It's cold, but not regular cold. It's more like
just the sheer absence of heat. I pricked up when this happened, grabbing my bat and pacing the room,
looking for anything grotesque that I could kill. I pulled a full circle and was surprised at what I did
find. A figure was standing over the bed right beside my Mary. It was definitely male, wearing a
black hoodie that obscured all of it's face. I think it was wearing baggy jeans or some shit too but I
really wasn't just standing there studying the damn thing. I rushed him and took a swing at his head.
The intruder caught the bat mid-swing, just stopping my entire attack. I noticed the claw hand from
Darren's picture and was then forced in to the wall. Hard. What I saw him do after that was beyond
belief for a rational person. But I'm far past rational at this point.
His body seemed to unzip, not just the hoodie but his entire body. He took his new...wing span? Cloak
span? I don't fucking know. But he took both sides of his unzipped body and enveloped Mary. Then
the fucker glanced up at me, I still couldn't see his face but I know I caught a smile before they
disappeared.
You guys pretty much know the rest. You found me at the police station after I told my story and rose a
ruckus. I've been kept here since. So tell me, that thing wasn't human was it?
I: It's a paranormal or otherworldly entity actually. We believe it stalks and then abducts it's victims
to it's home plane of existence.
Alex: Since when do monsters wear a fucking hoodie?
I: You'd be surprised at what we've found them in. Suits, fancy wear, the more intelligent ones do it
for reasons we haven't fully discovered.
Alex: And you're keeping me here because?
I: Quite frankly we feel that you're the next target and we want to catch it when you're attacked.
(Mr. Kepler stares off for a while before reaching in to his pocket and pulling out a photograph. He
pushes it across the table to the interrogator)
You've already received your first photo?
Alex: More like my last.
I: But I see nothing wrong with this. It's just a picture of you.
(Mr. Kepler slumps again, a defeated posture)
Alex: That photo used to have Mary and I in it. Each photo I got she was more and more transparent
until I was the only one there. My greatest fear was losing her, which ironically has already
happened. So if it's all the same to you, let me go. I need to prepare for this thing so I can kill it. Or, it
can take me and I'll find her there. Either way, it won't do me any good to be trapped here.
I: I'm sorry Mr. Kepler but you will be staying here. We need to catch this entity and you are now our
best lead to do so.
Alex Kepler was then led back to his cell. Various S-Class detectors and P-Sappers were placed in
and around the cell. Unfortunately Subject 653 attempted another breakout and the Non-Paranormal
Sector 12 lost power for several minutes. Alex Kepler escaped and was never found again. He is
assumed to have been taken by the newly dubbed E-byss.
Analysis: This entity has officially been named E-byss by the research staff due to it's connection to
Ether and it's manner of abduction. It somehow uses Ether to warp between locations. It is also
assumed that it can manipulate Ether to create the various photographs that victims receive. E-byss is
definitely highly intelligent. It toys with it's victims and we can only assume it does this to amuse
itself. Tests on E-Particles left on the photos and at abduction scenes have led us to be able to track
the E-byss and other creatures that dwell in it's plane of existence. Abducted victims seem to be taken
to an Ethereal Plane which could harm or kill normal human beings. I strongly suggest we move ahead
with The Flint Directive and proceed with The Hysteria Project.
It also appear that E-byss has moved locations. We're not exactly sure why. It could be it was hunting
something specific in Constance, or it might be because we discovered it's hunting ground and didn't
want us so close to it. Regardless, we lack the means to fight E-byss as of now.
Case File: Unresolved.
The further I read the more I hate Organization 440, though I guess that's a given right? I've started
reading Case File Four. It appears to be about The Hysteria Project so at least we'll find out what's
going on with that. Might as well go further down the rabbit hole...
-Secrets
Case File #4 The Hysteria Project

All the regular info that is listed on these documents like the date, location, etc., were redacted..so,
that obviously won't be written out today. I assume that this takes place in the mid to late 80's as they
had talks about The Hysteria Project at the end of Case File 3. I don't know for sure though.
Doctor Harry Marlowe's Introduction to The Hysteria Project
This fine Organization was founded early in our country's history to investigate and combat the
paranormal and otherworldly. We tried our best but you can't fight atrocities with mere men. A few
projects were headed up back in the 50's and 60's to create a better being, something we could use to
fight the unfightable and perhaps even advance America's interests worldwide. They failed miserably.
Ethics of the time as well as lack of funding are to be blamed. Under The Flint Directive we have
been given the money, resources, and approval to improve upon normal humans or to create some
new sort of metahuman in an attempt to protect this fine country. We may not be the only project now
underway but we will be the most successful.
The Hysteria Project is based around the concept of excess emotion and paranormal entities. These
entities, which are - in layman's terms - "Ghosts", naturally give off various emotions and energy
signals associated with the emotion. We believe that we can use this to alter the human physiology
and give us a chance at fighting back. We have 120 subjects all together, 60 volunteers, 60...non-
volunteers. Half of each group will be subjected to P+(Positive Paranormal Particles) while the other
half of each group will be subjected to P-(Negative Paranormal Particles). P+ are positive emotions
such as joy and happiness elevated to extreme highs while P- are the exact opposite.
We have extracted "matter"(if you can call it that) to be infused with each subject. Each sample of
matter is associated with the emotions of the entity it was taken from. We also plan to use P-
Emitters(A retooled version of the P-Sapper) to bombard the subject with the energy and emotions to
further stimulate change and progress. This will be done over a period of time that is of right now
unspecified, we are making progress in to the unknown and I do not wish to set constraints just yet.
Everyone is to read the safety procedures and treatment guidelines on the following page. Should you
have any questions please direct them to me after work hours. Also, please stay away from
Paranormal Research Bays 1-5, those are for the other projects and are classified. That being said
please also be on the lookout for other project members straying in to Bay 6. Our project is just as
classified as the others and they are not allowed in here.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: One
Note: Dr. Marlowe used these notes to write up the official report for The Hysteria Project but his
personal notes are much more inclusive and will be stored in the archives instead.
22 out of 30 P+ Volunteers remain.
17 out of 30 P+ Non-Volunteers remain.
12 out of 30 P- Volunteers remain.
19 out of 30 P- Non-Volunteers remain.
Initial week of testing has gone by about as well as can be expected. Most of the failed subject's
bodies could not contain the introduction of the matter to their system. A few more were lost when we
introduced the P-Emitter signal. Those killed by the emitter simply died of brain hemorrhaging and
were disposed of while the matter-induced deaths have been a bit more "fruitful".
It seems that the matter we introduced in to their system was capable of killing a body too weak to
fight off whatever force it was that was attacking it. I was going to dispose of these bodies but we
soon found that the bodies were constantly moving in to new positions and locations in their cells
when no one was looking. We checked the surveillance footage of each cell and found that the bodies
would indeed get up and move around in quick, jerky movements. The current popular theory among
Hysteria is that each corpse is now semi-possessed due to some effect from the matter in their body. If
you let the corpse know that you've seen it move it usually stops the dead body charade and you can
then attempt to communicate with it.
It seems that the initial P-Energy decides the mood and temperament of the Mannequin(Unofficial
name). Those introduced to positive particles seem to have their face set in a permanent smile/laugh.
Their movements aren't fluid at all but there is a sense of zeal or joy in the way they animate
themselves. Talking with them is exceedingly difficult as they either talk too fast to be understood or
they just speak plain gibberish. When you can communicate with them they act very child-like and
appear to want to play "games" which we've found out to be extreme acts of aggression and perhaps
even murderous intent.
Negative particles produce an entirely different Mannequin. The face of a Negative Mannequin is
either very sad and somber or set in to a glare/snarl-like face. Negative Mannequin's personalities are
also different on whether they are sad or angry. Both are easy to understand and talk in a slow, rolling
manner of speech. Sorrow Negatives move very slowly and fluid, very much akin to a sloth, while
Rage Negatives have fast, jerky movements(Although the only time we've observed them moving is
when they've tried to attack a researcher or though the surveillance camera where they didn't move
much at all). Expectantly the Rage Negatives are bloodthirsty to a fault. Sorrow Negatives are the
most rational of the three Mannequins and almost seem to be human. It may be that a larger chunk of
the original person's personality is retained.
We took a Sorrow Negative over to a testing room to see if we could use them. The Mannequin was a
young boy, he was an exceptionally frail Non-Volunteer that had been chosen just to see if P-Energy
could make him stronger. I was not surprised to find he had died from the matter infusion. It turns out
that Mannequins are quite durable. Five pistol shots to the head, impalement, and removal of limbs
does not kill or stop a Mannequin. Incineration seems to be the only viable manner of disposing of
them as of now.
Each Mannequin also displays certain abilities that I hope will manifest in our living subjects at some
point. Positives have started to display above average speed in their movement. This can create a
disturbing afterimage effect that they seem to use to demoralizing effect. Rage Negatives have the
highest constitution of the Mannequins and can take a great deal of punishment before their bodies
start to lose effectiveness. Sorrow Negatives appear to work on a psychological level. They seem to
be able to induce suicidal thoughts and feelings in to some of the people around them.
Mannequins are certainly a happy accident of The Hysteria Project. It may be quite possible to create
a harness or means of control. However, we are are tasked with creating living subjects so the
Mannequins are to be moved to another branch to be utilized by a future project.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Two
No further casualties.
We've upped the P-Emitters as well as added direct exposure of an entity to each subject. Several
mutations have been noted. A few of the subjects have a dim glow to their eyes, not sure what it will
produce however. A couple of others are showing growth in their limbs in a manner much like
Subject 653 and Target Omega. I believe there are other changes going on that we can't perceive yet.
In regards to behavior we've noticed some patterns as well. Positive Volunteers appear to act almost
completely normal to before treatments except for the fact that they no longer sleep. We are not sure if
they've achieved some metabolic harmony and no longer need sleep or if something is just preventing
them from doing so. We will observe this for a while longer before acting.
Positive Non-Volunteers act similar to the Positive Mannequins, they are overly giddy and are starting
to show signs of homicidal intentions. I've had low-grade tranquilizers added to their medicinal
cocktails to keep them from suddenly lashing out. We've also found them in corners whispering to
themselves.
Almost every Negative Volunteer has degraded in to a zombie like state. It's getting to the point where
we have to feed and clothe them. The few that aren't zombies act rather normal.
Every Negative Non-Volunteer has degraded to an animalistic state except for one. We can't
communicate with them at all. A shame really but if they show enough signs of enhancement then
perhaps they could be controlled like the Mannequins. The one that hasn't become feral has shown
signs of increased stamina, agility, and mental capacities. No other changes as of now.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Three
2 out of 30 P+ Volunteers remain.
7 out of 30 P+ Non-Volunteers remain.
3 out of 30 P- Volunteers remain.
1 out of 30 P- Non-Volunteers remain.
Things have most certainly progressed, bad and good. One of the Positive Non-Volunteers killed two
researcher and escaped the facility. At first we were unsure of how he could pull this off but
surveillance cameras show that he had developed the teleportation ability found in several entities.
The boy's name is Chris something or other. He was brought here along with three others who are
now Mannequins. While annoying this is hardly a set back.
We may have made mistakes with the Positive Volunteers. We started forcing them to sleep because
we noticed that the lack of rest was starting to effect them physically. They all refused to sleep and
we were forced to start giving them sedatives. All of them besides twin sisters died in their sleep.
When I asked them why everyone else had died they replied that it was because "The monster can't
get us if one of us stays up to guard the other". Somehow one of them had overcome the sedative long
enough to allow the other twin to sleep for several hours, they then switched roles. We're letting them
sleep on a rotation now to accommodate this development. The twins do seem to be developing
rudimentary psionic powers however.
We have more Positive Non-Volunteers left than in any other group. All seven of them have undergone
physical changes. They have developed elongated arms and their shoulder bones are now tipped with
a slight point. Their teeth are also becoming more fang-like. Their odd behavior has only increased
but this pales in comparison to their newfound ability. We've found them sitting high up on their cell
walls or even on the ceiling. Surveillance just shows them walk right or crawl right up the wall with
ease. I can only guess that the P-Energy has somehow given them the ability to alter gravity around
themselves.
Every Negative Volunteer that was in that zombie-like state has died. They didn't come back as
Mannequins either which I found to be mildly disappointing. The three that we have left are showing
signs of growth in muscle mass, height, and strength though so this group still seems to be successful.
All three appear to be perfectly sane although they have become rather closed off/antisocial.
It appears all of the feral Negative Non-Volunteers died of symptoms that reminded me of rabies. It
took several days but each morning we'd inspect their cells and find them covered in a frothy blood.
None of them became Mannequins. The lone survivor has truly become a metahuman though. He
appears to be perfectly normal, no abnormal growth, no disfiguration, and he is superior to a regular
human in every way. I have high hopes for what he'll be able to do for the Organization. I only hope
that his status as a Non-Volunteer doesn't get in the way.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Four
No further casualties.
It's been 8 months since the beginning of The Hysteria Project and we have finally reached the fruits
of our labor. It appears that all ability growth and mutations have finally slowed down or stopped
entirely so there is now plenty of reason to start Live Testing.
The twins are the only live subjects to retain the dimly lit eyes. We believe that this allows them to
see things we normally can't, perhaps it's a view in to another dimension, or maybe they can see
beings invisible to us humans. Their psionic abilities also seem to have progressed but there is one
overall hiccup. They can only function in tandem. What they've told us implies that what ever being
killed off the rest of the Positive Volunteers can kill them if one of them uses their powers without the
other twin. At least we now know the proper subjects to gather to recreate this power set.
Positive Non-Volunteers have become truly interesting creatures. Their final mutation is much like the
very beings we are hoping to combat. The shoulder blades of each subject have jutted out in definite
points. Their arms are now almost identical to Subject 653's. More extreme mutations have occurred
as well. All body hair has fallen out and they are now entirely bald. The head of each subject has also
elongated in to an almost cone shape and their mouths now extend to each ear. A second row of
pointed teeth has also grown in on both the top and bottom of the mouth. The most remarkable
mutation is the second set of arms however. The arms grow out of the back, slightly above the kidneys
and grow outward, they are elongated and end with well developed claws that the original set of arms
lack. It seems that a lot of the bone matter used to fuel this growth was taken from the lower ribcage
so the skin and muscles in that area has hardened more than the rest of the body to compensate.
Positive Non-Vounteers have been hard to peg down intelligence-wise however. We can no longer
communicate with them but it appears they possess an animal cunning to replace it. Perhaps we will
test them with basic puzzles or step up surveillance on them, but I'm truly excited for their Live
Testing segment.
The three Negative Volunteers have capped physical growth at slightly over 8 feet tall. They've lost
all body hair like the Positive Non-Volunteers. They have gained a remarkable healing factor
however and their bodies will push out a bullet and repair the wound in mere minutes. They keep up
an emotional wall at all times but they are still quite willing to cooperate.
The sole Negative Non-Volunteer continues to be the pinnacle of this project. He can beat every
researcher here in a game of chess with ease, has aced every intelligence test we've thrown at him,
and is physically superior to humans. While initially worried that he'd be angry at us due to his Non-
Volunteer status he is actually quite thankful that he's been transformed. I'm not entirely willing to
believe that just yet but there's not much more we can do besides keeping an eye on him.
Live Testing Sequence
The Live Testing Sequences put a subject(two in the twins case) in a large, yet contained room with
simulated debris, light levels, and other variables to simulate an actual encounter zone. Subjects will
be pit against U.S. Special Forces/Mercenaries/and various other people with combat training who
have been told that they are performing a live fire drill, with no other knowledge of what they will be
experiencing.
Subject One: Positive Volunteers
Two soldiers are introduced in to the environment with the twins already in place. The soldiers creep
through the debris, clearly attempting to remain hidden from the danger they were not told about. That
stopped when they saw the twins. Both men lowered their weapons and came out of hiding which was
a fatal mistake. The first soldier was torn apart from the inside out by a psionic hurricane created
within his body. The remaining soldier fired a few shots but they were deftly deflected by one twin
while the other killed the soldier in a manner similar to the first.
This brought up questions about how much punishment their psionic barriers could absorb. Everything
from shotguns to grenades to anti-matter rifles have been tested and the twins can absorb all of it,
although both of them had to simultaneously deflect some of the heavier firepower.
Subject Two: Positive Non-Volunteers
One subject is placed in the environment with one soldier. The subject quickly zones in on to the
soldier's location despite the fact that he is hidden. Subject uses walls and ceiling for cover and
proceeds to follow and "toy" with the soldier for one hour and fifty-three minutes before finally
pouncing on him and tearing his limbs off with the clawed arms and choking him with the original
arms. Subject then feasted on the corpse before various gasses were introduced in to the room to
incapacitate it. Several more tests were held introducing more soldiers in to the environment while
maintaining one subject. In these circumstances the subject bides it's time and slowly picks off
soldiers one at a time, often falling from the ceiling to make an attack and retreating just as quickly.
Every time there was one soldier left the subject would take it's time before finally making the kill.
Subjects seem to take a cat-like approach to their targets. One subject batted a man around for several
minutes before retreating again to watch him some more. Other subjects have baited the men in to
looking one way only to appear from another direction and not attack. It appears subjects enjoy
demoralizing targets. Clawed arms are mainly used for maiming while the regular arms for holding,
grasping, or strangling. This is also the first time we've seen them demonstrate their pouncing ability.
Subject Three: Negative Volunteers
All three Negative Volunteer tests progressed in the same manner. The soldier/soldiers would enter
the room and assume cover to scout out the area. The subject would lumber up to them, taking fire the
whole time. Subject reaches the soldier/soldiers and proceeds to smash them or rip them apart with
bare hands. Their wounds heal several minutes later and they appear unscathed. The Negative
Volunteers requested weapons and a larger group of soldiers to test them. Various bladed and blunt
weapons were provided and upped the subject's efficiency, even against larger groups of soldiers.
Subject Four: Negative Non-Volunteer
Initially the test was to have the subject pitted against one soldier but he requested several more
soldiers be added to his test. This request was granted. Eight soldiers were introduced in to the
environment. The subject approached them like he was another part of the "test" and convinced them
that there was another, unseen threat in the area. Subject then used powers we were not formerly
aware of. He would get close to a soldier and his eyes rolled back in to his head momentarily while
whispering something in to the soldier's ear, the soldier would then turn and shoot a fellow soldier
leading to him being shot by the remaining soldiers for the "unexplained murder". Subject did this
several times to whittle down their numbers, all the while telling them of the horror in the room with
them. When there were three soldiers left the subject snapped two of their necks before approaching
the remaining soldier and whispering in his ear. The subject then walked away from the soldier, who
was staring at his gun, to return to his holding cell. The soldier eventually put the gun to their head
and killed themselves due to whatever power of suggestion the subject has.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Five
I've just met with some of the higher-ups in the Organization, my project is not only the first to
produce results but also looks to be the only project other than The Architect Project to produce
usable subjects. I've gained a lot of credibility due to this and will be given rights to even more
ambitious projects in the future. That being said I need to review the attributes and abilities of the
subjects that my work has made.
Dossiers for Subject Groups One-Four
Group Name: Subject One
Experimentation Type: Positive Volunteers
Subjects Survived: Two
Names: Redacted
Age: 13(Both)
History: Both of the girls joined the project willingly after their parents were caught smuggling
secrets out of the Organization to sell to other countries. The deal was that if they participated in the
project then their parents would be spared, they are now being used to keep the twins from rebelling.
Powers/Abilities: Psionic powers, both offensive and defensive. Enhanced vision, possibly in to
other realms.
Op Name: Aegis 1 and Aegis 2
Additional Info: Both girls talk about a figure or entity that will kill them if they sleep or use their
powers alone. This means that Aegis 1 and 2 can only be used as a team instead of as separate agents.

Group Name: Subject Two

Experimentation Type: Positive Non-Volunteers
Subjects Survived: Seven
Names: Redacted
Age: Various, ranging from 19-37
History: All Non-Volunteers were taken from various sources including homeless shelters, mental
institutes, prisons, and a few kidnappings. All subjects are now roughly equal in appearance
regardless of original age, sex, and race.
Powers/Abilities: Extreme mutations. Extra set of clawed arms as well as elongated original arms.
Enhanced jaw and teeth. Ability to climb and stick to walls and ceilings. Impressive leaping power.
Op Name: Stalkers
Additional Info: Stalkers have been named after their desire to stalk and toy with their target before
killing them. Stalkers also appear to be completely feral so a means of control needs to be created or
they need to be utilized in situations where civilian losses are acceptable. Also, it is unknown if the
one subject that escaped will become a Stalker, he possessed a teleportation power not found in the
others.

Group Name: Subject Three

Experimentation Type: Negative Volunteers
Subjects Survived: Three
Names: Redacted
Age: 27, 31, 39
History: All three subjects were previous Organization agents who volunteered for the project to
advance our agenda.
Powers/Abilities: Enhanced height and muscle mass. Effective Healing Factor.
Op Name: Titan 1, Titan 2, and Titan 3
Additional Info: All three Titans have displayed a willingness and desire to use weapons, both melee
and ranged, to complete goals. Loyalty to Organization can still be confirmed.

Group Name: Subject Four

Experimentation Type: Negative Non-Volunteers
Subjects Survived: One
Names: Redacted
Age: Redacted
History: The surviving subject was taken from his home due to an unusual blood-type that we wanted
to see if P-Energy could fuse with.
Powers/Abilities: Enhanced intelligence, strength, and speed. Power of persuasion.
Op Name: Savant
Additional Info: Savant is the metahuman that the project was hoping to create from the start. It is
surprising that it came from the Negative Non-Volunteer group but the unusual blood-type may be to
blame. Savant is to be watched carefully for any signs of rebelling.
Closing notes of Dr. Marlowe
I've created, including the Mannequins, seven new types of beings to be utilized by Organization 440
in their endeavors. I consider The Hysteria Project a giant success. The beings and creatures are to be
transferred to the Current Ops Branch for further conditioning and assignments. I've also just gotten
word that The Architect Project was the only other successful project and they only managed to create
one creature. Laughable, truly laughable. I'll be taking a several month break I think, a well deserved
vacation while I wait for instructions on the next project.

And that's where it ends. Secrets here again by the way. I figured that I'd take this space to address a
few things and even just provide everyone with more insight into the situation.
First off, a few people have been asking me why I don't share the folder, here's a direct quote of mine
from Case File One:
"This may not be the coolest thing to say but I think I'm holding on to these. My first reason is
reasonable I think: I really don't know what or who I'm dealing with. If I get in trouble for sharing
these then I want to be the only one in trouble, not endanger my favorite subreddit this side of the
Ethereal Plane. My second reason is a little less noble..I have something that literally(That I know of)
no one else has. Every horror buff and cryptozoologist would kill to get their hands on what I now
have. I'm like the kid who got the new Pokemon game a year before everyone else. I mean, if shit gets
bad or if I feel I could lose the information I may do a mass upload but as of right now I'm holding the
keys to the kingdom. I am sorry and hope you understand."
I later followed this up by revealing that I was actually experiencing weird things with the file:
"A few people have asked me how many Case Files there are and I never give a straight up exact
answer. That's because it keeps changing. The number of Case Files within change to a different
amount every time I exit and enter it. On top of that, I've noticed Case Files being moved around. It's
not the easiest thing to pick up since the Case Files don't have unique names but regardless I've seen
the change in order. And on top of all that I can't help but notice that the order of the Case Files seems
deliberate so far."
Several people speculated that someone or something could be moving the files around on purpose,
that it may use some kind of archival system not seen in civilian devices yet, or even that the only
reason I had this file to begin with is to reveal it to you guys so that the Organization can get a gauge
on our reactions to their actions. Dunno. Not enough info quite yet. I've disconnected the laptop that
the file is located on to see if someone was using the internet to alter it.
That being said, I've had some seriously good conversations with a bunch of you in the comments. If
you're just checking these out or if you've been here from the start and haven't been reading comments
I advise you to think about it. I offer a lot of my personal opinion in the comments section as well as
engage in speculation along with everyone else. It's refreshing to get other people's takes on these
Case Files.
Another thing to mention is that the files themselves are not words of text. They are photographs of
written documents. The handwriting on these can get pretty hard to read and it takes time to upload.
Also, if you find doubled words, spelling mistakes, things like 'me using effect instead of affect' it's
because I'm also usually preoccupied with something while typing these whether it be music, video
games, or a movie. More than once I have found myself slipping in a lyric that I had just heard simply
because I wasn't paying attention. So, I apologize for that in advance, I plan to slowly go through
these and edit my grammar mistakes.
Oh, and before I forget. One of the Case Files appears to be titled Hoffer. I've mentioned that in the
comments as well and it probably needs to be said in post. The Hoffer file is actually one of the
things that made me notice that the files are moving around in the first place.
With that I bid you a good day NoSleep, I look forward to meeting you in the comments. As always,
stay safe.
-Secrets

Cynique's sketches of a Positive Non-Volunteer(Stalker): Here

Shaowl's drawings of a Positive Non-Volunteer(Stalker): Here and Here
Case File #5 Jack

Case File: 005-151

Case File Date: 08/24/1990
Location: London, United Kingdom
Subject: Kyle Grant
Entity: Jack
The following report comes from Mr. Grant's personal journal, found at his apartment.
08/24/90 Friday Entry One
Mom bought me a journal to keep my thoughts in while I'm living away from home so here goes! My
name's Kyle Grant and I'm studying literature abroad in London. This is all so exciting, I never
thought I'd leave Ohio let alone the United States. It's a frightening yet truly wonderful experience.
My apartment building is a little dingy but I don't really mind. I'm on the third floor and can look out
at a fair bit of the city. The district of London I'm in is called Whitechapel and I suppose it's a bit
lower class but the apartment was cheap and I should be able to commute to school in very little time.
There are four separate apartment units on my floor but I think only mine and one other are occupied,
I'll have to meet my floor-mate later since we'll probably see each other from time to time anyways.
Classes start monday and I'm excited, no idea what to expect though. Guess I'll finish unpacking and
call it a day.
08/25/90 Saturday Entry Two
Explored Whitechapel a bit today. There's a ton of culture here regardless of the status of the people
here. Tons of cool little shops tucked away and a few places that I know I'm going to go eat at. The
one thing I didn't like was how...bright my clothes seemed compared to everyone else. There were
lots of black, brown, and grey, occasionally a splash of pastel on some of the women. But there I was
in bright green, just trudging through the streets.
Came home but didn't meet the other tenant on my floor yet. No biggie, I'll get around to it I'm sure.
Time to write, I've been so stressed/excited/curious about my surroundings that I haven't been able to
really write like I usually do.
08/26/90 Sunday Entry Three
Didn't end up writing much last night and I fell asleep at my desk. I was kinda in a haze all day too. I
think it's just a combination of anticipation and homesickness. I wrote a letter to Mom that I plan on
mailing out in a few days and that made me feel better. Oh, and I met Jack.
I heard his door open with a rather loud creak from my apartment and hurried out to greet him real
quick. He was interesting enough at a glance. Pale skin, sharp features, dark eyes, black hair. When he
spoke it was with a very faded british accent, like he'd been away from the United Kingdom for many
years so it was losing it's touch. He picked up on my American accent and we talked about why I was
over here. He mentioned that he had just moved back from the states and that it had been a long time
since he had been back to London. A bit strange since Jack doesn't look a day over 25 but maybe he's
one of those younger looking people.
Class starts tomorrow morning, excited but I need to sleep now. Hope it's a good day.
08/27/90 Monday Entry Four
Classes were enjoyable. I got a little bit recognition for being The American of the class and it was
kinda nice to be able to tell them about home. Really helped with that homesickness problem I was
having too. We shared some of our previous work with everyone else today. A lot of people actually
liked my writings, a lot. Guess I really did get in to this school for a reason. I think it's going to be
great, life that is.
09/19/90 Wednesday Entry 27
I met a girl today. I was visiting my favorite little restaurant across the street and she happened to be
eating there alone as well. Her name is Jenessa and she is beautiful. Long dark hair...big brown
eyes...she caught my eye immediately.
I can't really say how it all came together but we ended up eating together and talking for a few hours.
We're going to meet up tomorrow after I have class.
Also, a lot of noise has been coming from Jack's apartment. It's nothing I can really understand. Just
loud noises. I'll have to ask him about it later.
09/24/90 Monday Entry 32
Jenessa and I have kinda became a thing. I guess meeting back for dinner day after day will do that. I
found we have a lot of the same interests and she even enjoyed a little bit of my story I wrote back in
high school. She was so cute and awkward about asking if we could continue dating regularly and
then she just...kissed me. It was sudden and I know she had to have been working up the courage to do
that since we met for dinner today.
On another high note I seem to be around the top of the class. I wasn't bad at school back in the states
but I am really applying myself these days and it feels so good. Need to write another letter to Mom
she still hasn't replied to my last one.
Talked to Jack about the noises today. I know it's stupid but I swear I saw his eyes tighten or
whatever, like when a book describes someone's momentary anger. It was like that but only for a
second. I'm going to be cliche and say it was my imagination this time. Anyway, he said the loud
noises were his television. He had an older one and the volume liked to jump on it.
09/30/90 Sunday Entry 38
I swear I heard screaming coming from Jack's apartment today. Women's screaming, and it was loud
too. I want to believe it was the television but maybe...nah, I'm sure it's nothing.
Jenessa is going to come over in a few days. I'm so excited and nervous at the same time. I really
don't have the most...luxurious place around but she's something special. I'm sure it'll be ok.
(The writing here becomes really bad, like Kyle was writing this down quickly. -Secrets)
I'm sitting here defeated, with what may be some of my last moments and I need to write this out.
Jenessa is dead. We had an amazing evening together in my apartment. I saw her out and went back up
to my room, I could see her walking down the street from my window. Then Jack attacked her. He
came out of nowhere and plunged a knife deep in to her abdomen...I could only look on in horror as
he cut her from hip bone to hip bone letting some of her...entrails fall to the ground.
I'm writing this out detailed in case I never get the chance to tell the police about this. This is the
important part I think. Jack stood over her now lifeless body and something happened to his face I
think. He was turned away from me but I think his face jutted forward a bit. Then it opened right down
the middle, I know this for a fact because I saw both sides of the face flip backwards and flap in the
wind. His eyes, mouth, skin, I even saw muscle.
Jack leaned down close to the wound so that he was inches from it and then slowly pressed whatever
was now his face to the wound. At that moment something started writhing though Jenessa's body, I
could see the mass push at her skin in places and it was making her body twitch. May have been the
most unsettling thing I have ever seen. I think it came from Jack's head and it appeared to be
systematically searching the inside of her body for something. It found whatever it was because the
twitching became full on convulsions and it looked like something was ripped from her body and in to
Jack's face.
He slowly turned around and I saw what his face now was. It was nothingness. It was hollow. It was
death. There was a deep black hole replacing the entire face region on Jack. I was beyond feeling
terrible at this point, I still do. I didn't and probably couldn't save her.
Jack's fell to the ground for a moment and his face flaps fell back over his face. It looked like some
sinewy material latched on to both flaps and pulled them together. The face then seemed to fuse back
to normal and he looked just like regular Jack again.
I kept watching as Jack grabbed Jenessa's body and slumped out of sight. And I was still watching
when he came home several hours later, blood stains still on the leather apron that I had just noticed
he had on. I listened the whole time as he trudged down the hallway and in to his room.
Now I'm sitting here lost and very much alone, Jenessa is dead, and my neighbor is both her killer and
a monster.
One day since Jenessa's death. I didn't go to school. I didn't go out to eat. I laid here and thought about
Jack and Jenessa. The things he did to her. Why did he kill her? Why root around in her body? What is
he? I'm not sure if I want to find out.
Two days since Jenessa's death. I'm not ok. Mentally, physically, or emotionally. I spent all day
yesterday lamenting over her death but now I need to figure out what's going on. I need to stop Jack.
Three days since Jenessa's death. I finally left my apartment to go get food. The restaurant is so empty
without Jenessa though and it did me no good emotionally to be eating there. I picked up some
groceries for home so I wouldn't have to go out.
Saw Jack on my way back up to the apartment. I don't want to say he knows that I know he's a monster
but he wouldn't stop staring at me. I was trying to act as casual as I could without being too obvious.
Four days since Jenessa's death. Jack brought a girl back to his apartment today. They seemed to be
very flirtatious and she willingly went in to his place. I think she may be the next victim. I need to
watch and listen closely.
Five days since Jenessa's death. She still hasn't left the house. Jack has come and gone several times.
She may already be dead but I'll keep an eye out.
Six days since Jenessa's death. I heard the screaming again so I slowly crept out of my room and
pressed my ear to his door. The sobbing pleas of the girl I could make out were along the lines of
"Why are you doing this?", "Stop, just let me go.", and finally she got terrified and shouted "What are
you, oh my God, what are you?". I heard a gurgle, a tearing noise, and then this ridiculous slurping
noise. And then I made a mistake. I leaned to close to the door and actually pushed it open a slight bit
making a loud creaking noise. I saw Jack spin around through the crack in the door and I ran back to
my room and locked the door.
He's cut my phone line. I tried going out the window but I can't drop three stories without dying or
severely hurting myself. I can here him at my door tapping at it and calling my name, I know he's
going to force his way in soon. All I have to defend myself are a kitchen knife and a wooden plunger
that I sharpened the end of with the knife. I'm going to try and stab it through his face, maybe it's a
weak spot. Mom, I love you, thanks for always believing in me. Jenessa, this is all my fault. I got you
killed and I know it. I'll fight Jack to avenge you and then I don't know...
(The handwriting changes here to a more crude style that is nothing like Kyle's previous handwriting,
implying, well, you know. -Secrets)
GOT HIM.
The Journal ends there.
Action Taken: An agent imbedded in Zone 1(Europe's collective paranormal research organization.
Each Country is Zoned.) sent this information to us. A search has begun for "Jack". Sending Agent
Hoffer.
Analysis: Jack is a known entity to this Organization. His original name is unknown but he seems to
have taken the moniker somewhat recently. He is first mentioned committing several gruesome
murders in London in 1888. The trail goes cold until he is found in Cleveland, Ohio during the
timeframe of 1934 to 1938, jumping to Los Angeles, California in the late 1940's. The fact that he still
appears to be a young man despite his age and seems to take something from his victim's bodies
implies that he's found a sort of immortality hidden in the human body. Jack will need to be captured
and interrogated for the necessary information.
Case Update: Kyle Grant's mother was found dead at her house, her body had been slashed open.
It appears Jack is once again in the United States. Recall Hoffer from the United Kingdom and
redirect his efforts around the murder point.
Case File: Unresolved.
Seems there's intrigue to be found everywhere, even in history. I don't have much to say here today
except that I added links to drawings and sketches that Shaowl and Cynique have made to Case File
One and Case File Four. Check them out, tell them that they drew scary stuff. I did.
Stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
Case File #6 Earth-A

Case File: 006-189

Case File Date: 3/18/2007
Location: Redacted
Subject: Marleen Reyes(Earth-A)
The following is the questioning and interrogation of Marleen Reyes.
Interrogator(I): Could you please introduce yourself for the log Miss Reyes?
Marleen: (Coldly) My name is Marleen Reyes and I'm dead.
I: Miss Reyes, could you please tell your story from the beginning?
Marleen: Yeah, sure. I only have a while to be here anyway right?
I: We're not entirely sure, that's why we would like to get your story recorded as soon as possible.
Marleen: (Deep sigh) Ok. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, I was with Miles. Miles is my
boyfriend and we've been together for awhile. Well, I started seeing things, weird things.
I: Care to explain exactly what you saw?
Marleen: I'd see a cat and it was transparent, no one could interact with it or see it besides me. I'd see
a person and they'd have weird afterimages around them like they were in two places at once or
something. It was stuff like that for most of the day. I also started feeling weird things as the day drug
on.
I: What kind of feelings?
Marleen: It's not the easiest thing to explain but I would feel like I was being "tugged" on
periodically, like something was pulling at my very existence. Gravity seemed to get very heavy.
I: Have you felt this sensation since you arrived here?
Marleen: Yeah, a few times now, mainly in the past couple hours.
I: I see. Go on.
Marleen: Well, I tried to go about my day. I figured I could go to the hospital in the morning if it had
gotten any worse. I laid down for the night with Miles and woke up in a desert. I ended up wandering
it for a day or so before collapsing and passing out. That's when I woke up here. Been here ever since
getting questioned and being told I'm not alive.
I: In a manner of speaking. What did the initial scientists and researchers here tell you? We'd like to
get the information straight from you on record.
Marleen: (Breaks down in to tears) They told me...they told m-(Has a Dimensional Pull at this point.
Ms. Reyes is given several hours to rest before the questioning continues.)
I: Are you feeling better Ms. Reyes? Are you ready to continue?
Marleen: I really am going to leave soon aren't I?
I: Nothing is certain Miss Reyes. Please continue.
Marleen: Right. The doctors. Well, I woke up here in a cell. Immediately after waking some men
came in and took me to a lab. I was stripped of my clothes and scanned right there. I can see how
that's sorta necessary but I was still scared and confused at the point and wasn't very cooperative.
After they took readings and stuff for maybe a little under an hour I was given clothes and they talked
to me a bit.
I: What did they say?
Marleen: Just stuff like who I was, questions to confirm my identity, the stuff with the pulls I told you
about. They then told me some serious things that I definitely did not believe at first. That I was dead.
I: Not quite.
Marleen: Ok. That the me from this dimension was dead. Hell, even being told that I wasn't in my
own world and had somehow crossed dimensions is not an easy thing to believe or cope with.
I: Yes, but it did happen, and it has happened before. You see, we've found that our dimension is
extremely close and parallel to another dimension. We call that Earth: Earth-A. You are from Earth-A
and were pulled here randomly as many things have been before.
Marleen: Yeah. That's what the doctors said. They also told me that on the morning after I was
teleported my boyfriend killed me. He was having an affair or some such and I found out. Well, the
Marleen from here found out and he killed her. I didn't believe it at first but I've watched the story on
it from the News Channel, read the articles in the newspaper, and even seen the official police report
on it. Miles killed me.
I: That is unfortunate, if you do get the chance to return to your Earth what are you going to do?
Marleen: (Angrily) I'm going to kill him.
(At this point the space between Ms. Reyes seems to fold in around itself and she let's out a scream
that fades and contorts until it suddenly stops. Ms. Reyes is no longer in the room with the
Interrogator.)
Analysis: Earth-A and our Earth appear to almost be the exact same place. Our scientists think
that a significant event in the future will denote the major split in our continuities. We were able to
use the readings taken from Ms. Reyes to create a kind of viewing device into Earth-A. This
denotes one split from Earth-A that we have. Marleen Reyes returned to her home dimension and
immediately killed Miles Barton. She was then given the death sentence and killed some time later.
This mirrors what happened to Miles in our Earth. In the end both Miles and Marleen have died.
We will keep watching to see how big a difference this has caused on each Earth. Scientists are
looking for a way to travel to and from Earth-A at will.
Case File: Pending.
Wasn't exactly expecting something like this. It was a bit shorter than the other Case Files but I feel it
has given me a bit to think about. The date also gives me pause. 2007 wasn't that long ago. So, stay
safe No Sleep.
-Secrets
Ca3e F1le !: ecThoHEes oLf aIGHTNnoINGtheMr dimAensioNn

Case File: Z&(78ts8*

Case File Date: 06/24/1981
Location: Birming, Oregon
Subject: Jamie Smith
Entity: &dwg898&Gdw89a#@$%*
The08932y49follwd08qdw0 80repo9asdwd980hawqwx h8 09we 98h0 w098 Smi111th
"We have a legend in our town, one of those little, local folk tales.
The Lightning Man."
That's how my brother's note began. It goes on to talk about him being stalked by this monster and then
eventually being killed by it. Thing is, our town has no legend, there is no Lightning Man, and my
brother isn't dead. Certain parts of his story do match life though. He had just moved in to a new
house on the edge of town and his description of the house is spot on.
After writing this note Randy went in to a coma and was taken to a hospital on the other side of town.
For a few weeks I just accepted it like everyone else but then I started seeing things too, short flashes
of vivid images and then those turned to watching whole events unfold.
In these 'visions' I saw life as if Randy had actually died. I experienced loss, I grieved, I learned to
live without him. It was actually eerily similar to how I was feeling with him currently. With him in a
coma I had been grieving and feeling loss. It was then that I decided to actually investigate this whole
thing and see what was up with this hospital. We already had a main hospital in the center of the town
and it seemed to be more than adequate to be of service to the city, plus we had several private
practitioners of medicine that catered to the older folks around town. Why build another one and put it
a bit out of the way? That sorta screamed fishy to me.
Local records did not have much to say. On the outside it was just United Birming General Hospital, a
weird name as well. Almost gave off the sound of a church to me, you know, minus that General
Hospital bit. So I had to ask around, turns out that the hospital was actually a bit of a folk tale with the
kids and teenagers now. Apparently people around town were going in to comas and then they'd be
taken to this hospital and were basically never seen again. There were variations of it and such but it
all shook out the same. People in the 20-30 year old range knew next to nothing about the place like
myself. Anyone older than that would not talk to me about it at all or were extremely hostile to me. I
actually had some police officers come to my house and ask me to stop "stirring up the community"
and that they were going to let me go with a warning because of my "recent loss".
I had exhausted all other options so I could either give up and be done with this whole thing, or I
could attempt to sneak in to United Birming. I honestly think I would've quit there but my visions were
getting worse. I was now acting extremely paranoid and was locking myself in my house for long
periods of time. I think days or maybe weeks straight before I'd come out again, and I started seeing
The Lightning Man haunting me. I'd look out a window and see these glowing eyes peering in, it was
truly horrible. I was getting the feeling that when he caught me in my visions I would probably go in
to a coma too so doing nothing was never an option.
I took a few days to look the place over really well. It didn't have huge walls or tons of security or
anything. I noticed one security guard on the premise at all times and doctors going in and out all day
with a couple staying through the night. From which rooms still had lights on at night I deduced that
they must stay in one section of the hospital all night with the guard doing general rounds every few
hours.
My plan was to go in at night, the windows weren't fastened all that well and some doctor's left them
them cracked due to the heat. I'd just have to pop out the screen and slip in to the building on the side
that the doctor's didn't stay at. After that I'd just search the building, see what I could find.
I got in without a problem and found myself in an office. I kinda searched it a bit but most of the
documents I found were just budget reports. I noticed they were getting a huge amount of cash from
some organization, probably a government branch or something. I left that room and found myself in a
huge hallway. None of the room names really caught my interest until I passed a hall that said 'Patients
P-T'. I thought that Randy was probably in there and I wanted to see him. Plus I wanted to know what
they were doing with the patients that they kept here.
I ended up in a surprisingly large room filled with beds and machines. Each patient appeared to have
a gas mask-like thing over their heads with hoses going to the mouth and wires to the back of the neck.
I eventually found Randy. I kinda broke down for a minute or two just seeing him like that. We were
actually close siblings and it hurt to see my little brother look more machine than man. I couldn't even
see his face.
There was a clipboard attached to his bed so I picked it up and scanned through it. There was a lot of
information that I didn't even begin to comprehend like medical dosages and other medical jargon. A
few pages back I started finding stuff that actually related to Randy's notes and experiences with The
Lightning Man.
I think this is a good time to mention that I never actually told anyone that I'd read Randy's notes. I
was the one that had went over to his house to find him in a coma and I noticed the notes in the other
room after I had called 911 and perused them. I set them down and had never mentioned them again.
At the time I was too stricken with grief to even think about them. From what I was piecing together I
think I would've been in a lot more trouble if these people knew I had read the notes at that time.
The clipboard kept mentioning something called a "Converging Point" and "Dimensional Bleeding".
The way the paper kept using the terms I think that the doctor's thought that something extra-
dimensional or something was the cause of Randy's coma. The "Dimensional Bleeding" could've been
the visions I was getting. So does that mean that the events with The Lightning Man were occurring in
another dimension? And the "Converging Point" could be the moment you fall in to a coma, when The
Lightning Man kills you. I don't know if it has any truth to it but that's what I got out of the reports. I
scanned around the room at the various other patients and noticed that I knew several people there.
They were people that I was certain had gone off to college and settled down elsewhere. Their
families never let on that anything had ever happened to them.
At that point I heard steps coming my way and I ducked under one of the beds. Several minutes passed
and no one actually came in to the room but it was enough that it had spooked me. I ended up sneaking
back out the way I came and went home to have a restless night of sleep.
The next day I went over to the parent's house of one of the girls I had seen in the patient room. She
was a year or so older than me and last I knew she was off at college still to become a doctor. Her
dad answered the door and I immediately brought up his daughter. He mood changed instantly and he
told me to leave and was starting to close the door when I told him I had seen her in the hospital last
night and asked him why everyone thought she was off at college still. He opened the door back up
and his mood had changed again. He looked both scared and beaten and made me promise to never
repeat what he was about to tell me to anyone else. His daughter had gone off to school for awhile
like I thought but while she was away she had slipped in to a coma. The doctor's at United Birming
offered the man and his family a large sum of money if they let her stay at their hospital and acted like
she was still away at college. He said that he suspected that his family wasn't the first one to get a
deal like this and that I shouldn't ask too many more questions in case it got dangerous for his family
or myself. I said my goodbyes and sorta just tranced though my next few days just trying to get a grasp
on reality.
Then I ended up having another vision, in this vision The Lightning Man made it's way in to my house
and actually attacked me. I struggled to run away but in the end it touched me and sent currents of
electricity through my body. I felt myself losing consciousness as the pain coursed through my body
and then I woke up. I woke up with a mask strapped around my face feeding me terrible tasting
liquids and oxygen. I was in the hospital.
I panicked and struggled to pull the mask off. It caught on the wires that were now embedded in the
back of my neck and caused me even more pain. I stopped freaking out and slowly pulled the wires
straight out. It hurt but I was pretty sure it wasn't doing any permanent damage to me. After they were
out I slowly unfastened the mask and removed the tubes from my mouth. They were actually fed down
my throat a good deal and I started gagging as I removed them. With my eyes not unhindered by the
mask I noticed I was in the patient room again, in a bed next to my brother. I had actually lucked out, it
was night and there was no one around to see me freaking out, or so I had thought. Turns out the
machine I had been attached to was freaking out and sending out alarms. I waited behind the door
until several doctors got close to it and pushed it open hard. I'm pretty sure I broke the closer doctor's
nose and the second one was too focused on his colleague to follow me.
I managed to make it back to that office I had snuck in previously and used that window to escape.
Paranoia set in so instead of trekking back to my house I slowly snuck through town to my parent's
house. They were surprised and scared to see me. Apparently I had gone in to a coma myself about
two weeks ago. I was shocked and upset to find out I had been out for two weeks and even more
shocked to be awake again. I remember The Lightning Man touching me in that last vision. My parents
told me that they'd been bribed to keep it quiet that I had gone in to a coma and that they had received
money from United Birming. I had them sit down and told them everything I knew at that point. Pretty
much everything that I am telling you now. My dad kinda sat there in thought for a bit and then told me
that I could hide out with them for the next several days. He had a few friends that he could call that
he thought could help. Those friends directed him to a government group that specialized in stuff like
this and so here I am.
The only other information I can give you is that my visions have started up again. I think that The
Lightning Man didn't end up killing me but the contact from him made the vision me pass out which
led to my short term coma. But he's getting close to me. I think I only have another vision or two
before he catches me and then I'll probably fall in to a coma again. So, you can help me right?
The interrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr33408432&(T(DWD(& Sm111i1i1irh.
T's Memo: I wasn't planning on contacting you this soon but it is what it is. You shouldn't be attacked
again, I'll make sure of that. You just focus on getting these out. I'll be in touch soon.

So. Apparently it's been awhile right? A month or so. I think three weeks since I've actually replied to
anything on here. Well, let's go over this then: I mentioned several times that I was going to be
working my days and a coworkers days for a week, which ended up turning in to two weeks. So
initially that stopped me from being on NoSleep. But, something happened...I got amnesia'd hard or
something. But it wasn't like JRPG protagonist amnesia. I only lost my memories when it came to
NoSleep, the Case Files, and Reddit in general, and whatever event it is that caused me to forget in
the first place.
Well, today I got on my computer to see this...Case File(?) in a word document on my desktop and I
read through it. It sorta jogged some memories but not at the same time. It was like I remembered that
I had forgotten something. So I sat on it for a few hours and then I looked at the weird title which is
definitely THE LIGHTNING MAN in caps slipped in to the phrase 'echoes of another dimension'.
Seeing The Lightning Man jogged some more memories and I got on reddit to see that I had an account
on here. At the time I didn't remember even having an account so I looked at the posts that I had made
and read through all the Case Files. Took me a little longer but eventually I pieced together my
memories. Well, I checked my laptop that I was storing the Case Files on and it had nothing on it. I
wasn't going to post anything and was planning on just letting this go. I mean, it would have been
pointless to post on here that I had been attacked and lost the Case Files. You guys could forget about
me and I'd be safe.
Well, nope. I had gone out to get groceries and when I got home there was a flashdrive plugged into
my computer with the Archive window open. So, here I am. I'll at least write out the next Case File
while I'm figuring out what to do. Sorry for any alarm or anger I may have caused. I definitely never
meant it. Stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
An added note: thinking about it, I'm actually not even sure if NoSleep was the extent of my memory
loss. I haven't remembered that I've forgotten anything else. But...how would I really know anyways?
Yet another note: Who the fuck is T? And why is he talking to me through weird Case Files? Or at
least I assume that was to me.
Case File #7 The Hastings Incident

Case File: 007-867

Case File Date: 11/3/2009
Location: Zone 7, Redacted
Subject: Zone 7, Argus Hastings
Entity: Stalker, Target Omega
Mission Briefing
Argus Hastings has worked with Organization 440 for many years contributing to our operations,
projects, and generally advancing our interests. We have now found out that Hastings has defected and
is planning to give a large portion of our work as well as facility locations to Zone 7. We cannot
allow this. Agents are to covertly lock down Zone 7 and insert a Stalker to kill all inside. Collect
Zone 7's data and sabotage the facility after Stalker has cleared it.
Mission Synopsis
Most information of the mission was taken from Zone 7's surveillance cameras post-mission. Almost
all dialogue has been translated from it's original language for ease of reading.
11/3/2009 0400
Agents Chan and Weles infiltrate the perimeter of Zone 7 through the use of superior tech. The outside
guards are dispatched through various discrete means including silenced firearms, hand to hand
combat, and bladed weapons.
0430
Entire perimeter of Zone 7 is secured. Agent Chan hacks and systematically locks down Zone 7 while
Agent Weles calls in Stalker's transport.
0445
The Stalker is successfully inserted in to Zone 7 via the ventilation shafts. Agents seal up the shaft
immediately to prevent Stalker from escaping and then proceed to secure any other exit Stalker may
find.
0450
The Stalker finds it's first victims in the engineering bay. The engineers had been trying to breach the
main exit door with various tools when the Stalker made itself known with a loud shriek while
staying in the darkness. Of the five engineers in the room three of them fan out over the large area with
their tools as weapons. The other two engineers attempt to open the door.
The engineer on the far right is attacked first. The Stalker jumps down right behind him before leaping
back up with both claws pressing in to his back. The force of the leap pushed the Stalker's claws
through the Engineer's back and out through his ribcage. The Stalker disappears in to the shadows
among the ceiling with the body of the engineer as the other two engineers investigate the noise.
The Stalker tosses the engineer at the two others and hits one of them, breaking the tossed engineers
body and knocking the engineer down. The standing engineer raises his torch up near him in a
defensive stance. The stalker lands to the right of him and tears his head off with one swipe of a
clawed arm (Note: Researchers idea to sharpen claws on Stalkers proves to be a smart choice.). The
Stalker ambles over to the downed engineer and snaps his neck with little hesitation before returning
to the darkness around the ceiling.
The remaining engineers working on opening the door call out to their comrades before setting back
to the door once more. The Stalker lets a few cries out around the room to unnerve them. It then
throws several chunks of the deceased engineers close to the two men in an effort to spook them
further. The engineers panic and turn their back on the Stalker to open the door quicker. The Stalker
takes this opportunity to land behind them and attack. The engineer on the left is grabbed by the
Stalker and slammed several times in to the wall. The other engineer turns his torch on the Stalker but
the Stalker swiftly breaks the man's hand with it's spare hands and turns the torch upon him, burning
him to death.
0525
Everyone in Engineering is dead and the Stalker detects other people in the facility, using the air ducts
to travel around.
Hastings is in the main research bay, visibly shaken.
0530
The Stalker gains access to the main hallway system and disposes of the several employees and
guards trapped in there.
0540
The head of security(trapped in the Security Surveillance Room) notices the Stalker on
camera(Agents had shut down most cameras but several were still working at this point) and alerts
the rest of the facility via intercom.
Transcribed copy of the warning.
Unidentified, physical entity is loose in the facility, we have confirmed casualties. Please block the
vent entrances in your rooms and any other entrances that the entity could use to enter. Also, it appears
that most of our facility is suffering from technical difficulties. Doors are not working, computers and
phones are down. This may be an act of sabotage.
Hastings is hiding in the corner of the research bay and is writing in a notebook.
0550
The Stalker sniffs out three researchers hiding in a lab and starts prying the metal doors open. One
researcher runs to a computer console and starts typing furiously.
The Researcher's Message
We're under attack. It must be because of that defector that arrived yesterday. I knew letting him in
here was a bad idea, should've taken him to corporate or some place public. Organization 440 is just
too strong and advanced right now to be opposed. Luckily most of our research has been moved to
Zone 2 due to our new agreement. It's a cold relief that they won't get their hands on my work. ______
, this message may never get to you but I love you so much. I am sorry I never told you about my
work. Please raise our son to be-
The Stalker bends the doors back and lunges at the closest researcher, tearing him clean in half. The
other two researchers attempt to hide in the back of the lab but the Stalker forcibly removes them from
their hiding places and strangles each of them before moving back through the hallways.
0630
Four rooms remain with people in them. Security Surveillance Room, Main Research Bay,
Recreation, and Test Room Two. The several guards in Security are trying to find a way out of the
room and have been banging and pulling on the doors, chipping at the reinforced glass, and trying to
get the facility's systems back online.
The group in Main Research Bay are rapidly sealing off portions of the room and making barricades.
A few of them have noticed a ventilation shaft and are attempting to create a makeshift ladder to seal
it off. Hastings is still in the corner of the room writing.
Recreation appears to be one of the areas that wasn't locked down. The group inside is split between
trying to escape and bordering up the room to hold out for rescue.
The several people in Test Room Two are panicking more than the other groups. It appears that
they've been trapped in the middle of an experiment and the entity that was the focus of the experiment
is breaking out of captivity.
0650
The cameras for Test Room Two goes out at this point.
The Recreation group is split nearly in half. Five of them want to make a break for it while the other
four want to barricade. The Stalker throws open the doors and pounces on the nearest two people,
ripping at them with claws and gouging out eyes. Four people make it out of the room, two people run
further back in to Recreation to hide, and one person is gutted while trying to save one of the
researchers from the Stalker.
0655
The Stalker roots out the two hiding researchers in Recreation and rips them limb from limb.
(Researchers repeated desire to hide from the Stalker is ineffective. The Stalker's keen senses prove
to be too much.) It begins feasting on the corpses in the room.
0700
The four researchers continue to flee through the hallways, trying various doors as they go and
navigating around previous victims of the Stalker.
0705
Two of the researchers stop at the Security window and pound on it while the other two continue on
towards the main exit.
Static and screams pour from Test Room Two's microphone. The screams appear to be a mix of the
researchers in the room and the entity they were researching.
0720
The Stalker finishes eating. (A Stalker can burn through an immense amount of energy if constantly
attacking and moving. They are prone to taking breaks to feast on prior victims to regain energy.) It
lumbers out in to the hallway and starts making it's way towards the Main Research Bay.
The two researchers at Security get in to a brief discussion about where to go next. One wants to
check on Test Room Two to make sure their failsafes did not go down while the other wants to head
towards the exit. They debate for several minutes before splitting up.
0730
The Stalker reaches the Main Research Bay and begins pounding and tapping on the various doors,
testing their strength. Several of the people inside grab desks and various other large objects and start
barricading the doors on that side of the room.
The researcher reaches the entrance to Test Room Two and is visibly shaken. He screams several
times at the door before falling backwards and resting against the wall.
The screams stop emitting from Test Room Two.
Everyone in the Main Research Lab stops doing what action they were doing prior and seem to be
listening for or to something.
Hastings makes a mad dash for the leg space under one of the desks and curls up there.
0731
The Stalker lets out a shriek.
The door to Test Room Two suddenly opens despite the lack of power to it. The camera pointed at
Test Room Two's door from the hallway starts to flicker and a large mass of...matter writhes out in to
the hallway and envelopes the researcher slumped against the wall. (The camera is filled with static
and interference making the visibility of this event poor.)
0732
Every camera in the facility suddenly goes off. There is no audio or video.
0740
Every camera turns on again. Each room is filled with horrific sights, the only movement seen when
the cameras turn back on is someone already halfway out the main entrance door. They leave through
the door and it closes behind them but Chan and Weles report no one coming out that door and the
exterior camera does not show the door opening nor anybody leaving the building.
0900
A team is sent in to investigate the building and find Hastings. They find pages of his notebook in the
entranceway to the facility.
Hasting's Notebook
The facility has just locked down, trapping us in Research. I assume this means that Organization 440
has come to reclaim me or at least deny me from helping anyone else. I'll know when I figure out
which Operative has been sent.
I didn't really betray Organization 440, not in a malicious way or anything. I found someone else who
has something that you didn't have and decided that my talents would be of use. In the end working
here and with these people would benefit all humankind in their constant battle against the strange and
paranormal.
I admit that I was going to have to release some information that would compromise a few locations
and probably get a few of the Organization's labs destroyed. That was an unfortunate side effect of
gaining their trust. They wouldn't let me work on the project unless they were sure I wasn't a mole.
Now we need to get to the reason I'm writing this message, why I'd be writing a message to the
people that might be trying to kill me. If you do succeed in killing me then you'll still need guidance. I
still have people I care about out in the world so I will put aside my petty feelings to make sure what
needs to be done gets done.
They found and captured Target Omega. I have no idea exactly when or how they did it. Technically
they shouldn't have been able to. While every secret paranormal organization across the world has
access to really good tech that is easily above what the public use Zone 7 still wasn't particularly high
on the power list.
They won't tell me specifics but I believe that Target Omega was caught in a hibernating state of some
kind within this country. It worries me more than a little, stumbling across one of the most powerful
entities in our plane of existence and they've only encountered it while it's sleeping. There's
something to be said when you don't earn your entity.
So now you know why I defected. If I had instead told the Organization about Omega then a raid on
the lab would've been inevitable, there was a high chance that Omega would awaken and be lost. I
couldn't let that happen, so I did what I did. Unfortunately, the attack happened regardless and I can
only hope nothing happens beyond the loss of the research staff here.
An announcement about keeping vents closed just went off. A Stalker? You do intend to kill me.
This is all I know about Target Omega: It is an entity both like an unlike other creatures we've faced
before. It has the 'standard' plane jumping power associated with many otherworldly entities, psionic
powers the likes I've never seen, and apparently the ability to manipulate matter. This thing is Deity-
like in every way, more so than trapped Gods like Volos.
It's most impressive and erratic ability seems to be entirely unique to it however. It's a shapeshifter
but not like the ones we've seen before. Omega seems to be in almost constant flux changing from one
thing to the next. There is a catch to this however, if someone is looking at Omega it can not or will
not change shape. Cameras also seem to impair Omega's ability to shape shift.
When I personally got to observe Omega it was a beautiful woman. I was told to turn around and then
look at Omega again. The woman was now a butterfly. I was completely bewildered and questioning
when I saw this. How could something that took such...soft forms truly be a threat? The project lead
told me that Omega was only taking calm forms because it was having positive dreams. He also told
me that when Omega was first here that it was plagued by constant nightmares and transformed in to
things that led several employees to kill themselves.
You no- Oh god it's free. Currently hiding under a desk. Everyone can hear the noise now, surely it's
the sound of death itself.
Writing becomes more erratic.
The power went fully out. Back up lights just kicked on so everything is bathed in a dark red light.
Still under the desk, no one else is talking though I do hear a strange noise.
Got up to investigate noise. I could see movement in the far corner of the room but I was having
trouble seeing so I flicked my phone's light on it. Mistake. Something happened to the other
researchers. Several were hanging inches off the ground, the entrails reaching the whole way up to the
ceiling. One of them had a microscope shoved the whole way through the eye and out the back of the
skull. A few of them appeared to now be hollow, their ribcages jutting outwards allowing me to see
the lack of organs. One of the hollowed out corpses even had another whole corpse shoved inside of
it.
The noise I heard came from behind this carnage. Three researchers sat in a circle eating one
another's intestines. The sounds of the flesh ripping was what I heard. One of them noticed me and
looked my way with the most haunted eyes I have ever seen. Their mouth contorted in to what I can
only assume was a silent scream and then they collapsed, the other two following suit.
I finally started to realize my situation and was beginning to panic so I ran over to the door only to
find that it was now open. In the hallway I was immediately greeted with the remains of the Stalker. It
was one of the original Stalkers created, one of the most experienced and deadly. Now it was two
separate halves, cut clean down the center. Both halves appeared to still be living and were trying to
claw their way towards each other.
I ran a bit down the hall before collapsing against the wall. I have since calmed down enough to write
this out, I am back and in control. The scientist in me needs to go further. Perhaps I'll find a way out
as well.
It's been several minutes since I've written down the last section and I've finally reached the security
area. The glass windows are absolutely covered in blood and gore.
I've also pondered a bit about my situation as well. I believe Omega awoke and I'm now either in a
pocket dimension that is a far cry from the facility I knew or Omega has just altered the matter of my
reality to suit it's whims.
Hastings' handwriting becomes nigh illegible at this point. It took time to decipher his scrawls.
I can see her. The woman. Omega. On the far side of the hallway looking at me, not moving. Writing
this down with out breaking eye contact for fear of attack.
Dropped pencil. Had to bend down to get it. Accidentally broke vision. Stupid. Omega is
significantly closer, now a tall, sexless creature. Evil eyes. Also can see that Omega is slowly
moving closer despite eye contact.
The writing reverts back to a more readable format.
A corpse slammed against the window in the security room. I was spooked and flinched away from it
for a second. When my eyes opened Omega was gone. Am I a plaything? I definitely saw evil in
Omega so this is not an act of mercy.
It must have been hours since the last time I wrote in this notebook. I've stumbled across Omega
twice. The first time it was on the other side of a glass window in the shape of a child. The room was
locked so I couldn't get in, though I probably wouldn't have went in regardless.
The second time I saw it was in the recreation area. It looked like a variation of a Stalker and was
playing with the corpses inside. I purposefully broke eye contact to see what it would do. Initially it
had it's back turned to me maiming the corpses and biting at them. Then, the posture changed as if it
was suddenly picking up on me. It still kept it's back turned to me but slumped down in a seemingly
harmless position. When I looked back it was inches from me, hunched over with it's face very close
to mine. Contorted scream-looking mouth, eyes black and hateful, teeth sharp and long even for a
Stalker. I ran from the room and was not followed.
I think I'm going to try leaving, see if my pocket dimension theory is incorrect.
The door to leave is wide open, though I can't see any light coming from outside. It must be night at
this point or I may actually be in another dimension. I am going to leave my pages here in the facility
as well as some of the formulas I was working on for a better containment field for Omega. Someone
may need them.
Hastings' notes end here.
Analysis: Omega and Hastings were not found. Our inside source must have planned for both of these
things to happen as Organization 440 would not have made the attack knowing such a dangerous entity
was poised for escape. Information on Omega as well as Hastings' containment formulas have been
found and are being studied. Talks are in session about what to do with Zone 2. They may now
possess information on Omega.
Case File: Unresolved.
Secrets here. T left me a note via a Word Document left on my desktop, I believe he/she wanted me to
post it at the end of the Case File from the way he/she worded things.
T's Note: Way to get back on the horse and continue writing Secrets. Proud of you and all that. Now I
know you and NoSleep have many, many questions about what happened to you, what's up with the
Case Files, and probably as to who or what I am, plus many more questions related to other things I'm
sure. So how about we have ourselves a little Q and A? Case File 10 will be a rather short file and
then me answering questions that NoSleep will PM you or comment on in Case File 9. I'll answer
what I can and what I choose to. Also, I'll just reveal some information about me on the whole. Have
fun moving, can't wait to enjoy the heat with you.
Q and A huh? Well, I decided that I'd go along with it. I need info as much as you guys do and playing
this little game is a step towards doing just that. So, after I post Case File 9 PM me or post comments
asking questions I guess. I'll leave them in a Word Document on my desktop...though to be fair he
knew I was writing Case File 7 out before I posted it so...maybe that's that necessary. Also...it
appears he at least knows the climate of the place I'm moving to. Fun. If people know anything or
whatever feel free to contact me, I'm sociable enough on most days. Oh, also, the previous Case
File...uhm..Case File Exclamation Point or whatever you want to call it may have been passed up by
some of you for reading due to weird naming conventions. Just a friendly reminder to check it out if
you haven't. As always stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
Case File Letter T: Tattle's Tantalizing Tale

Case File: This isn't one.

Case File Date: Then and Never.
Location: Complicated.
Subject: Me. And some other people.
Entity: Me? Other things.
So Secrets isn't home right now. Though I feel you might have guessed that already. I didn't kill him or
do anything to him either, he's currently out and about, preparing to move, doing not being at home
things. Anyway, I am writing this little exposition here to...acquaint ourselves before the Q and A. I'm
sorry to break the usual formula here but I promise there will only be a few more of these "Tales"
from me. To tell you the truth I was not going to reveal myself to you or Secrets for a while, so I do
apologize for this break in protocol.
Story Time
There were two boys. Friends.
The boys were oft-seen together, attached at the hip as they say. One was an intellectual, a thinker, a
puzzle solver. The other was an explorer, curious to a fault, and courageous. Between the two of them
they were the perfect pair. Unbeatable. Unbreakable. Their time was spent adventuring through the
woods, through town, through whatever they found and there was nothing that could break their bond.
Though there was one who could test it...
Enter the Father. Not friendly. A bad man with a shitty job and a drinking problem. Nothing new, but
nothing pretty. He was hateful and spiteful of all, including his son's perfect friendship. Child beatings
and bruised ribs, isolation with little consideration of feelings. Yet best friends the two boys did
remain. Treading softly around the Father the two boys retained their bond.
One particular day the two boys stumbled across something while rooting through the attic: Enter the
Unknown. Malevolent. Malicious.
Unknown spared the boys to get better acquainted with the dwelling and it's inhabitants: The Father,
the two friends and one more. A Mother. Submissive. She would cringe from the Father's touch and
abhorrent personality. She was a silent bearer of her shame.
Unknown continued to stay in the house watching Father and Mother as well as being an "Imaginary
Friend" to the friends. It was a manipulator and a planner, biding time and feeding off their energy.
Eventually Unknown started messing with the family. It would bump someone or hide objects, break a
window or leave slain animals around the house. At first the two boys were blamed and punished, but
then the Father and Mother started noticing the events happening even when the boys were away from
the house or at school. An exterminator was called and found nothing, the police were also called
upon but could not help in anyway. Enter the Detective. Dutiful.
The Detective had seen things he couldn't explain away with logic. He had solved cases that had been
unsolved for years. He was truly a master of his craft, mixing a firm sense of reality with a
willingness to accept alternative causes. He quickly ruled out an animal or a break in so he
interviewed Father, Mother, and the two boys.
The Detective picked up on the evil that was the Father very quickly. He had little desire to help this
man but at the end of the day a paycheck was a paycheck. He tried to talk to the Mother about it but
she would have nothing to do with his questions and quickly shut off around him.
He came to questioning the friends. He learned that the friend that was always around was here
because his parents were always working and he was afraid of being by himself. The Detective also
learned of their Imaginary Friend. He learned how it was always present and always watching the
family, and also of the disturbing comments it would make.
The Detective viewed what information he had and came to several different conclusions: The Father
was the cause of all or most of this, that the Mother was finally acting out repressed emotion, or that
the friend's Imaginary Friend was somehow to blame. As fate would have it, all three of his
conclusions were right in one way or another.
One evening the Detective decided to stay a bit late to look in to the lesser traveled parts of the house.
Unknown did not appreciate the sudden investigation occurring within it's domain and decided to take
the vessel with the weakest resistance: the Mother. Countless years of being beat and degraded had
lowered her mental health to abysmal levels and Unknown used that to the fullest to take her body
from her.
Unknown then attacked the Detective, attempting to strangle him to death. The Father walked in to this
scene and let out a forceful strike that hit Mother's frail body. He then lost himself to his usual barely
concealed rage and throttled the woman. In the end Father ended the life of Mother and expelled the
Unknown from her body. Bitter irony that a piece of shit man like Father would save the Detective.
The two men worked out a deal where the Father and his son would leave town and settle down
elsewhere while the Detective looked in to what made the Mother snap and to delve deeper in to this.
And so the other friend was left behind without a goodbye, pondering what had become of his other
half.
And that's where this chapter closes, but it is not the end of this story, merely fuel to feed your fire.
I know how you all vicariously read through the Case Files. I read what you send Secrets. I know that
you want more. Luckily, it suits my needs to entertain you thus far but remember this: you have not
stumbled on some ARG. This goes far beyond whatever horror-culture cliche you may think NoSleep
holds. Secrets wasn't the first to stumble on Organization 440's works, though he is the first to obtain
the entire picture. Do you really know how many of these "stories" are accounts or recollections of
the Paranormal? Or how many of these "authors" were paid or intimidated in to acting like they wrote
the stories? Not everyone in the Organization just goes and sends an Operative out to kill people,
bribery and intimidation actually keep people alive.
I'm here because someone has to keep Secrets on track. Secrets is here to share these with others. And
you. You are here to read and remember.
Now to the intrigue you love so much. I am in these "Tales" somewhere. Maybe in this one. Maybe in
one of the future ones. But I am in them. Secrets may be in them and he just as equally might not be.
He may be both.
I can stick around for a little bit to poke and prod but Secrets will need to get home eventually and
freak out at this.
Oh. And the name's Tattle.
EDIT: Leaving now so that Secrets does not meet me. See you next time.
Edit: Secrets here... It is almost 10 pm where I'm at...I may be on in a few hours after I sift through all
these comments. I don't know.
Case File #8 The Villier House

Case File: 008-695

Case File Date: 09/24/1995
Location: Rainston, Virginia
Subject: O440 Paranormal Squad Three
Entity: The Man in the Corner(Subject 695)
Squad Three Roster
Robert DuLange
Dane Samuels
Rory Jackson
Ted Avery
Zack Paulson
Initial briefing given to Squad Three.
In Rainston there is a house known by most in the area as being a nexus for haunted happenings. It is
known as The Villier House. People around the house go missing, a major portion of the people who
enter the house end of dead or mentally incapacitated. We believe that it is either truly a paranormal
nexus or that a high level entity has chosen that house as it's dwelling. You are to investigate the house
and find the true source of this phenomenon and to take offensive action if you deem it possible.
This is a report of what we initially knew.
On 9/24/1995 Squad Three entered The Viller House. Shortly after they entered the house there was
an extreme spike in paranormal energy. The house subsequently locked itself up. Squad One and
Squad Four were sent to try and enter the house to retrieve Squad Three but could find no way in to
the house. The doors and windows wouldn't break even if fired upon. Squad Three was considered
lost until the house opened up a month later.
Squads One, Two, Four, and Five were sent to retrieve Squad Three. Three men were recovered
alive: Robert DuLange, Rory Jackson, and Zack Paulson. The full corpse of Dane Samuels was found
and parts of Ted Avery were found.
Robert was in a fairly normal state and was able to be interviewed within several days of being
recovered from the house. Rory shut out most attempts at communication and would not be
interviewed for several months. Zack can still not speak or be communicated with, however several
months after being recovered several of our doctors picked up on patterns that were used to get his
side of the story.
Robert's Debriefing
I guess I'll start with us on route to The Villier House. Rory and Ted were doing their whole Aliens
thing again with Rory saying he "had a bad feeling about this drop." and Ted would play along with
him and they'd end up quoting half that damn movie. Dane was off in the corner reading schematics or
the mission briefing or something technology related, I don't really know. Dane was always the quiet
one on the team. Zack spent most of the way there just listening to music or something. Kid sure liked
his tunes.
Well, we got there and I gave everyone their entry points. Dane and myself would take the front door,
Rory would take the back door, Ted would take the basement door, and Zack had taken a set of stairs
to the second floor's back porch and would be taking the second floor door.
I gave the signal and we all entered the house. Dane and I found ourselves in an empty living room.
The place was dirty. It had rotten floors, mold in places, missing floorboards every now and then.
Right out of a damn haunted house stereotype.
Everyone radioed in that their location was clear so I gave them the ok to set up various scanning
equipment.
Our equipment wasn't shoddy either, and I know some of you business management types aren't
familiar with our tech so lemme give you a brief rundown. We were all just in regular tactical armor,
stuff that SWAT teams and some militaries used. The paranormal don't particularly use guns
themselves but have been known to possess others to use weapons on us so that will at least protect
us from that.
Our guns were modified rifles or SMGs of various kinds depending on the individual. We were all
well trained soldiers and the higher ups let us have our toys. Anyways, all of our guns were special
modified to cycle through various types of ammo depending on what type of entity or creature or
whatever we were fighting. Up against some type of electric monster? Shoot him with magnetized
ammo, fuck him up real good. The more types of entities we discover, the more types of ammo the
science teams supply us.
We had two types of scanners. A handheld one and a stationary longer ranged one. The scanners
would pick up on movement, changes in temperature, EMP disturbance, P-Particles, the whole deal. If
it was irregular then the scanners could usually pick it up.
So yeah, everyone was setting up scanners around the house, we were playing things defensive. Then
all the doors slammed shut. I ordered everyone to watch their scanners closely for movement and then
we'd meet up in the middle of the house.
Suddenly Dane's scanner and my own lit up like crazy and everything went dark for me.
When I woke up I was in...a different building or something. I was in the middle of some hallway. The
walls were shitty and deteriorating but not like The Villier House. These walls were steel or some
type of metal and were rusted and corroding. I looked over to see Dane passed out on the floor beside
me. I noticed then that we were both lacking our equipment and weapons.
I didn't want to venture too far down the hallways in case Dane woke up soon but at the same time I
wasn't going to sit around doing nothing so I remember that I walked down a direction of the hallway
just to see if I could find a door. I guess I should also mention that the halls were lined with shitty
fluorescent lighting. Anyways, I walked several minutes down that hall and didn't come across
anything so I headed back to where Dane was. He was still out and I sat by his side for what I
assumed was several hours before he started to come around.
That waiting wasn't exactly easy either. It was deathly quiet, like that supernatural quiet where your
ears just ring because there is nothing else for them to pick up. Eventually though Dane started to stir
a bit and eventually woke up. I asked him what he remembered and what he said pretty much matched
up with what I remembered.
Dane then brought up what I had been thinking for a bit, that we had fallen for the house's trap and
were now in some sort of test, or just being kept somewhere to be killed later. Dane was also open to
the possibility that we were in some sort of illusion or weird pocket dimension as well. The guy was
crazy smart so I didn't really argue with any of his theories, I just stood there and let him try to reach a
conclusion. In the end Dane figured that if we kept walking we'd either reach some sort of test, the
entity, or possibly a weakness in whatever was holding us here.
We set off in the opposite direction of where I had walked before and passed what must of been an
hour without anything happening. At first I was worried we were stuck in a loop of some sort but
Dane said he'd picked out a few visible markers in the wall and that we hadn't passed any of them
again yet. We really were just in the longest damn hallway ever.
Several more hours passed, nothing new happened.
Several more after that, still nothing.
I can't believe we didn't go crazy from the lack of anything new and the ringing in our ears. When
something did finally happen, well, it was shittier than I had hoped but right along what I had
expected.
We were still slowly creeping down the hallway and suddenly the lights behind us started flicking
out. It was a shitty horror movie but actually happening. Slowly the next closest set of lights would
flicker out. Dane and I knew enough about horror movies to know we didn't want to let the dark catch
up with us so we picked up the pace and started jogging.
Hah, I see the look you're giving me but yes we jogged, just fast enough that we were outpacing the
darkness and were slowly pulling away from it. What good would it have done us to panic and spring
just to wear ourselves out? We're trained soldiers not freakin' teenagers waiting to take a machete to
the head.
Anyway that plan didn't work out so well for us. The darkness picked up it's pace so that our jog was
now a run, no way we could've kept that up for a long period of time. I'd say a good ten or fifteen
minutes passed with us running and the darkness was only a couple sets of lights when we finally saw
relief. A door on the left side of the hall. It was rusted like everything else but Dane ripped the door
open and we both veered in, slamming the door shut on whatever was in the hall.
We caught our breath and checked out the new area we were in: a small room, no bigger than the
living room of my apartment. Ceiling must've been about seven or eight feet, cement floor, walls were
now more like painted cinderblock, a dull white with an off green stripe. Sorta reminded me of a
school or hospital room. There was nothing else in it 'cept for the one lightbulb hanging from the
ceiling.
I remember swearing for a good minute or so while Dane just sat there analyzing stuff. You know,
Dane always was a good thinker...given a few years he'd probably have gotten a squad of his own.
He'd have had one by then if he was just a little bit more of a leader.
Dane figured our current situation was at least mildly better than in the hallway and that we should
take a few minutes to rest. I didn't argue and actually ended up dozing off. I woke up to Dane calling
for help and struggling to close the door we came in. Pushing in from the hallway was...well, the
darkness. Black tendrils or tentacles or something were trying to pry the door open. I jumped up and
threw all my weight in to the door and actually managed to slam it shut. I swore that I saw some of the
tendrils get cut off and fall to the floor but when I looked down all I saw was cement.
Dane slumped down against the door. He looked like shit, pale and scared. I asked him what had
happened since I'd nodded off. He told me what happened and I actually remember what he said
pretty well:
"As soon as you went to sleep I began to investigate the room more thoroughly. I was looking for
clues of some sort, at best a hidden door of some sort. I searched the entire floor area first and came
up with nothing. I then checked around the walls looking for maybe some loose paint or a seam of
some sort. When I got to the far corner of the room I got this...off feeling, almost like a sense of dread.
That made me spin around towards the door which was now wide open. The hallway outside was
entirely dark and the only thing I could see was the silhouette of a person, maybe a humanoid? All I
could tell is that the figure was portly. I ran over to the door to close it and that's when I called for
you Sir."
Now I see you looking at me again. You're a business-managment type so I'll clue you in a bit. In
training we are taught to trust any weird feeling we get. The human body rejects the unnatural. Dane
felt that thing in the doorway and it made him spin around. Hell, I bet my body was unnerved too even
though I was sleeping.
I wish I could say that Dane and I manned up and went out in to that hallway kicking ass and escaped.
Didn't happen. Shortly after we got that door closed the lightbulb started flickering. I think Dane and I
knew that we were fucked if we stayed in the room at that point so we tried to rip open the door, it
wouldn't budge a damn inch. Light went out and I felt my body thrown to the floor. I was unable to
move, unable to speak, just cold and in the dark.
An unknown amount of time goes by with me laying in the dark when the light flicks back on. I noticed
three things immediately: It's a ton dimmer now, enough that there's darkness in the corners of the
room, Dane is laying several feet to my right breathing but not moving, and that there's a large man
standing in the corner of the room. Just so you know he was fat like Dane said, not some of those tall
shits the science guys always fuss about.
The darkness turned back in to a living creature of some sort, I could almost see it breathing. The Man
in the Corner turned to face us and as he walked closer I began to see that he pretty much had a
featureless face. Bald. Two perfect circles for eyes, literally perfect circles, that had two little black
dots in the center. I can't remember the nose. He might have had one, maybe he didn't, I just can't
remember. I do remember his mouth though. It was the most confident smirk you've ever fucking seen,
like he knew exactly what was going to happen at all times or was privy to the secret of the universe.
I think I remember him wearing like an undershirt for a suit or something and then just dress pants but
I really wasn't focusing on anything past that face.
He walked over to where Dane was laying and bent down to touch him. As soon as his hand touched
Dane the darkness in the corners of the room leapt towards him and started pushing down his eye
sockets and mouth. Dane kinda struggled for a bit, kicked for awhile, and then he went still. Stupid fat
fuck..and he was looking at me now.
I was ready for him to touch me and let the darkness take me or whatever but he just stared at me for a
bit. His smirk was gone, his little dot eyes were shaking a bit.
Then? I don't really know. I woke up in the damn living room of The Villier House laying next to
Dane with Hoffer and his damn Squad One shaking us, Dane was dead, I wasn't.
I later found out who else had made it and died...as well as everyone's condition. Rory is still shut up
inside himself and Zack is off the damn reservation. I know that you and some men behind the glass
back there are trying to figure out my condition as well and I'm going to speak to you plain.
Shit happens with this job. I'm upset that I lost my squad, I'm upset that you chose to send only my
squad in to an unknown situation, I'm upset that Hoffer probably saved my life, fucking dick that he is.
But you pay us good money to do what we do and I feel like I'm keeping kids or innocents from
stumbling across these nightmares. I may not be the smartest man around but I'm stubborn enough and
apparently you deem me good enough to lead. Give me a week off or something and then let me train
up a batch of newbies. Oh, and tell Hoffer I'm coming for his job.
Robert DuLange resumed command of his Squad several weeks after this debriefing.
Further Case Details: The Man in the Corner now known as Subject 695 has been captured through
less than tactful means. The Villier House was ripped from the ground and air transported to base.
Many citizens of Rainston had to be bribed, threatened, or taken to keep this information from
spreading further.
Rory's Debriefing
It's been a couple of months since my incident and I'm still having trouble talking about it but I believe
I can now share my part of the mission. I'm sure Robert gave you the overall rundown on the mission
so I'll just start with when I entered the house.
I opened the back door and entered the house, I ended up in a kitchen, a really dirty kitchen. I checked
my corners, covered the various entrances, looked for hiding spots. Nothing. I radioed in an all clear
as I rifled through the cabinets and fridge, not that it mattered since they ended up being empty. Rob
gave the order to set up scanners and I did just that. I set up my larger scanner and pulled out my hand
scanner. The hand scanner caught something coming from a far door and then suddenly the outside
doors and window coverings snapped shut. Rob threw up some warning on the radio and I started
walking to that far door when I heard my floor scanner go crazy. I remember trying to turn around to
see the scanner and then I must've blacked out.
I woke up laying on a gurney in some rundown hospital. I admit that I panicked a little and called out
for the others when I should've laid low and checked my surroundings. No one replied and nothing
rushed in to the room to kill me so I got up and left the room.
Now, all my equipment was missing as well as my gun so I attempted to keep to the walls and make
my way down the hall.
I eventually found a map of the hospital on the wall and used it to get my bearings. The hospital had
an East and West Wing as well as the Emergency Rooms located in the central part of the hospital. I
was on the second floor of the West Wing. Now that I had a general idea of where I was I began to
search through every room in the West Wing. I believe all of them were completely empty except for
one room. One of the rooms contained an old...like...well, a gentleman's hat or old hat. I can't
remember what they're called right now but it was just laying in the corner of the room. This is all I
found in the West Wing.
I made my way to the central part of the hospital and tried to leave through the front entrance, doors
did not budge at all. I punched them, kicked them, pushed them, pulled them and nothing happened.
I was getting bad vibes from the Emergency Rooms so I checked out the East Wing. After an hour of
searching the rooms I came up with nothing and was back to the main lobby with the entrance doors
and the Emergency Rooms.
I entered the Emergency Room hallway to see that there was about 10 or so rooms in it. I checked out
the first two sets of rooms without finding anything. When I returned to the hallway I saw someone
entering a room on the far side of the hall.
At the time I thought it could've been someone from the squad so I went over to that room and went in
without hesitation. Had I actually stopped to think about it though I would've realized how slim those
chances were and have been more cautious.
As I opened the door I saw the outline of someone in the corner of the room. My creepy vibes were
pretty much max at this point but my fear of being alone here overcame that and I walked over to the
person. As I hit about the halfway point of the room the light went out for maybe five or six seconds.
When the lights came back on...well, traumatized me enough for my entire life. The tiled floor, walls,
and ceiling of the hospital were no longer building materials. Now the walls were fleshy and lined
with fanged mouths and eyes. The ceiling looked like it was breathing. And the floor was covered
with grubs and worms. The Man in the Corner turned around and I saw that it was no member of my
team. It struck me then that I was most likely trapped in this horrible room with the very entity I was
sent to hunt.
He gave me a quick smile, which was actually more of a smirk now that I think about it, and started
walking over to me. I've read bits of Rob's report and I can tell you that this was definitely the same
thing: dressy clothes, fairly rotund, the eyes, even that smirk. Well, he came over to me and grasped
my shoulder.
The ceiling started spasming, the mouthes in the walls started biting and all the eyes were looking
angrily at me. The worst part were the bugs, they started crawling up my legs and I could not move. I
couldn't slap them off. I was entirely helpless. I looked up to see the Man walking back towards the
corner. I closed my eyes with the bugs climbing up my neck and when I opened them again I was in
the kitchen with members of the other squads around me.
Every night from then on I have a nightmare where the mission repeats itself. I believe it will keep me
out of the Organization's squads for the rest of my life. Also, I really didn't want to talk about this at
all so I may have skipped some descriptive details just to tell my part as quick as possible. I didn't
leave out anything that would be vital so don't worry about it so much. I need to excuse myself now.
Rory Jackson is now locked up in a mental institute run by the Organization after attempting to kill
himself.
Zack's Debriefing: Told by his Head Trauma Counselor
Zack Paulson was difficult to figure out for several months. He lost the ability to talk and the only
medium we could get him to interact with was art, specifically colored pencil drawings. Initially
there was no rhyme or reason for his drawings but several of his caretakers as well as myself noticed
patterns in the drawings. Apparently Zack was telling several separate stories through multiple
perspectives with his drawings. I confirmed it when I read through Robert DuLange's debriefing.
Zack had basically drawn out the entirety of those events but through Dane Samuel's eyes.
We actually missed this initially because he didn't draw them in any order or set. We looked through
all the drawings that corresponded to Dane and noticed that he hid small numbers somewhere in the
drawings so that we could put them in order. Zack appears to have drawn his last picture because as
soon as he was finished he returned the remaining paper and his pencils back to their drawer and will
no longer go near them.
Besides Dane we also have sets of drawings that correspond to Zack and Ted Avery, as well as one
other set of pictures that may shed some light on this entity.
I will also only be summarizing what can be surmised from the drawings. This will lead to rather
short but detail heavy debriefs.
Ted's Story
The drawings start in the transport with Ted looking at Rory Jackson and the other members.
Eventually Ted is in the basement of The Villier House. The drawings show it being filled with racks
of undershirts, black slacks, and old top hats and bowler hats.
The next piece of paper is colored completely black and I believe it is of Ted passing out much like
the others.
Ted wakes up in what looks like a mineshaft. The drawing contains mine carts and various strings of
lighting that are used in mines. Ted roams the mines for awhile and I think he was frightened by
something because most of the drawings show Ted's arms and legs in a sprinting position.
He was running down a long mine shaft when he appears to look over to an intersecting shaft where
you can barely make out what I believe is the entity. Both Robert and Rory referred to it as The Man
in the Corner so I will as well. Ted either doesn't notice the Man or doesn't react to him too much as
he keeps running down the shaft.
There is actually a lot of drawings of him just running until the edges of the drawings start becoming
dim and black. I believe this shows exhaustion on Ted's part.
Ted eventually trips over a mine cart rail and falls over. When he spins around there are spider like
creatures on the edges of his vision. One of them appears to be about the size of a mine cart in the
drawings so I actually believe Ted was being chased by large spider-like creatures.
He attempts to get up but the closest one snags his leg and drags him back to the other creatures. This
leads to him being held my his arms and legs by the creatures and flailing to get free. The Man in the
Corner is shown to be leaning out of a side shaft and walking towards him. The Man walks closer to
Ted in each drawing and eventually touches his stomach. At that very moment the spider-creatures
pull on Ted's limbs until they tear off.
This set of drawings end with most of the page covered in black with just a small drawing in the
center of what appears to be a mouth smirking.
Zack's Story
Zack's drawings actually differ from the other series because he had headphones on playing music
during the entire mission. For some reason Zack remembered exactly what was playing during his
encounter and wrote the lyrics and some musical notes at the bottom of each of his drawings. Now, I
don't believe that the lyrics themselves are important but rather that he chose to write them down in
the first place since he has written no other words.
Zack ends up in a bedroom of some sort in The Villier House. Zack sees a blur of movement in the
doorway and raises his gun to it when he blacks out.
The next section of Zack's drawings are...interesting. Parts of the drawing appear to be a dark forest
of some kind while other parts of the same page will be of The Villier house. Something to note is that
when Zack's right arm is shown in the house he his still holding his weapon but that it is empty when
in the forest. I personally think that Zack was supposed to go to a forest much like everyone else was
supposed to be transported to other places except that the music that was constantly playing in his ear
was keeping him grounded to the house or to reality or something, I don't study the entities and I have
no desire to start.
Zack roams through the forest-house hybrid until he reaches the basement of the house/the tree roots of
a giant tree. He appears to search through the racks quickly with his gun trained on him. In the forest
sections there are rather menacing eyes popping up around him.
Zack notices The Man in the Corner in...well, the corner of the basement, staring at him with eyes
different from the other pictures. Angry. In the forest a clawed arm of some sort is seen reaching for
Zack out of the darkness. Zack aims his gun at the Man and shoots in his direction. The Man
disappears from the corner, leaving a couple blood splatters, and Zack is seen running upstairs with
more hands grabbing for him in the forest.
He gets up to the first floor and appears to be looking around. The hands in the forest parts appear to
be flimsy and wobbling, rather weak in their overall appearance. Zack appears to take several more
steps before collapsing. When he wakes up several soldiers are around him and he takes the
headphones off, ending the lyrics. The rest of his drawings just relate to his time at the clinic here.
The Other Set of Drawings
This set of drawings contains five pictures that helped me piece together a little bit more about The
Man in the Corner.
The first drawing is the living room of The Villier house with Robert and Dane laying on the ground.
The Man in the Corner is in the picture smothering Dane his head turned directly towards the person
viewing the drawing.
The second drawing is of the kitchen. Rory is sprawled out near a side door and The Man in the
Corner can be see leaning out from behind the fridge, once again staring at the person viewing the
drawing.
The third drawing is in the basement. It shows Ted having his leg ripped off by The Man in the Corner
while he stares down the viewer.
The forth drawing is of the bedroom. Zack is seen struggling to get up and The Man in the Corner can
be seen in a mirror looking at Zack angrily.
The final drawing that Zack drew was in this very building. It's a drawing of Zack sitting at the table
where he drew most of these and me leaning over his shoulder. It was probably set in the past three
months or so. Outside the window a bit in the distance is The Man in the Corner staring in.
I'm resigning from this position and moving. I advise you to provide better containment measures for
the entity as I believe it has tricked you in to thinking it is contained.
My final analysis on all of this is that the entity appears to teleport people's consciousness to other
realms and then attacking their physical bodies to kill them. I'm no expert on these things though so I'll
leave you to study further. Just please contain him. For Zack and my sake.
Zack and the Head Trauma Counselor are now missing. Better security measures have been placed
around Subject 695 although we have proof that it was in containment since we have relocated The
Villier House.
Case File: Closed.
Secrets here, posting the very first Case File from my new apartment. Awesome. But yes, I am now
living in a new location far from my hometown.
I don't actually have much to say about the Case File itself. It seems standard fare for Organization
440 although I now believe that not 100% of the people in Organization 440 are evil. I mean...I
figured that anyways but written proof is always good too.
Nothing new has happened with Tattle. Remember that Case File 9 will probably be the last time to
ask Tattle questions for his Q and A.
I'll also answer anything relevant that I can in the comments below. So...as always, stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
Case File #9 The Tulpa Project

All info regarding the usual info is redacted much like when I went through The Hysteria Project so
let's just get in to this.
Doctor Harry Marlowe's Introduction to The Tulpa Project
It has been several years since my initial success with The Hysteria Project. I have been the lead on
two moderately successful projects since then, The Mannequin Armament Project and Project
Artemis. A new project was brought to my attention, one that could possibly thrive under my
supervision and leadership: The Tulpa Project.
Tulpa is not a new concept in the least. Buddhist monks have used Tulpa as one of the center
principals of their faith, and many researchers in the public eye are starting to conduct extremely
basic tests of Tulpa. But Organization 440 already knows the potential, the research already done can
be found in your info packets. Our job is to see what we can create with Tulpa whether it be powerful
new soldiers, new operatives, or just a new way to create and destroy.
We have a total of 120 subjects ranging from children to adults, students to military men to murderers.
Our goal will be twofold: To test and improve individual Tulpa use/progression/strength and to test
group Tulpa in use/progression/strength.
Initially we will test each subjects ability to focus, project their thoughts, and manifest ideas to the
physical plane. Any subjects who show a lack of aptitude or are quite skilled at projecting their Tulpa
will be singled out for various testing. Harsh regimens will be provided for the bottom tier to see if a
rough stimulus can increase their power. The high tier will have very light testing mainly to determine
details that we can use to emulate their strength in the future. Mid tier will continue regular testing to
see if they develop more power if given a little more time.
After individual testing has brought out the cream of the crop we will proceed to group Tulpa testing
to see what the limits and abilities of it are. Many of the tests will be similar to individual but
preformed on small groups of subjects instead of the individual. After that we will move on to using
all remaining subjects in one large group.
The top several subjects will be heavily evaluated to see if they can be turned in to Operatives or
tools to aid the Organization. Live combat testing may or may not occur at my discretion.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Pre-Project Musings
All the subjects have been brought in to their rooms and are being interviewed and assimilated in to
the program. Several of them have already caught my eye though. A serial killer, a set of twins, a man
with severe amnesia, a young boy with ties to an entity, and an artist who specializes in lucid
dreaming.
Over the next week we will be scanning their brainwaves as they try to concentrate and think things in
to reality, their focus and natural ability will be gauged and I can start putting them in to tiers. The
task that they will be trying to accomplish is to extend their psyche, and therefore their ability to sense
the environment, and to attempt to will several small objects in to existence.
I'm fairly confident that none of them will actually be able to create the small object, however the
extension of the psyche should be within some of their ranges of ability.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: One
Note: The current figures are rough initial estimations. Certain subjects are in in-between Tier levels
and have been lumped in to a Tier at this early stage in the project.
Low Tier: 55 Subjects
Mid Tier: 45 Subjects
Top Tier: 20 Subjects
The first week of testing has come to a conclusion. As expected we have a majority of Low Tier
subjects. Also as expected, my special six subjects are within the Top Tier.
The brainwave scans have proven useful thus far as we've noticed that the more creative parts of the
brain are used in Tulpa. I feel that any artists or creative-centric subjects will thrive in this project
while more serious and noncreative subjects will be kept to the Low Tier. Of course there is also
room for noncreative subjects to have more concentrated willpower and be able to be successful with
Tulpa as well.
Also of note is that the senses of several subjects have increased due to an improved and extended
psyche. The subjects claim that they can feel the research staff approaching their rooms and two of
them have accurately guessed the number of staff in the entire building.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Two
Low Tier: 49 Subjects
Mid Tier: 48 Subjects
Top Tier: 23 Subjects
It has been several weeks since my last set of notes. We've had several developments since then and I
am quite pleased with where things seem to be progressing.
First off, we've looked in to the young boy in more detail. The boy is only three years of age so a lot
of the testing is being modified to accommodate him. He's the youngest subject we have by far and if
not for his special condition I would not have used him in this project. It seems that the entity has
latched on to his psyche. It has a separate and slightly smaller brainwave that accompanies his own.
The Tulpa practice is strengthening both the boy and the entity.
The serial killer has developed some less than normal habits. He had killed women in the past for
reasons he would not disclose to the police or to us. Now he seems to talk to his past victims and
interact with them as though they were actually there. We know for a fact that there are no ghosts
within his cell so he may be using Tulpa to recreate his victims. I can only hope that he is successful.
Amusingly similar to my original Aegis twins, the twins in this project seem to be able to create more
in tandem than any of the other subjects. I'd initially write this off as them having the advantage of
group Tulpa use but they are 400% above the next most proficient subject. The twins have willed a
silver fork in to being and we will be stepping up their tests to include larger and more complicated
objects.
The lucid dreamer is the next proficient subject after the twins. She is also one of the two that has the
heightened sense ability. It is my personal belief that the lucid dreamer will probably get more
creative use out of Tulpa then some of our other subjects due to her imagination and prior training in
how to focus.
There have been a few other subjects that show promise but I feel like the success rate overall may be
lower than my previous projects. Nevertheless, success is still success.
The project will now take a slightly archaic turn. Both the Nazis and Soviets have attempted Tulpa
experiments in the past. A common trial of theirs was to have their subject attempt to create a second
version of themselves or a "living imaginary friend". A lot of these tests ended with the subject losing
their sense of being or losing control of the projection and being killed by them. I plan to keep several
safeguards in place that should minimize this from happening.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Three
Low Tier: 47 Subjects
Mid Tier: 48 Subjects
Top Tier: 20 Subjects
Five subjects are now dead after the newest trial, two Mid Tier subjects and three Top Tier. Two of
our Low Tier subjects have improved and moved up to Mid Tier so at least that loss has been
mitigated somewhat.
Two of the five dead subjects simply lost their sense of being and we believe they lost their grasp on
life. One of the subjects killed themselves after having their projection tell them that it was going to
kill their friends and family after the project was over. One subject repeatedly slammed his head in to
the wall until his skull caved in. Normally I'd count this as an act of suicide but you can see the
subject struggling at various times which lead me and several others to believe he was killed by a
hostile projection. The final deceased subject was thrown around the room much like a child's rag
doll. The corpse was quite broken by the time personnel got to it. Just another case of an uncontrolled
projection.
The serial killer has gained tremendous progress with his projections of his former victims. They can
now physically interact with the environment even though we can still not see them. It is confirmed
that these are projections of his will and not ghosts coming back to haunt him so I believe that he may
have killed these women out of lust and is now creating versions of them that accept him.
The young boy and his entity have had some progress as well. For the first time since entering the
program the entity's brainwaves are stronger than the boys. It looks like the entity has not taken over
the boy's body though and I'm not entirely sure why. My theory is that it's waiting for the boy to be
stronger to do the takeover but long term observation may be necessary.
The amnesiac has finally started to shine too. He has almost no memory to draw from so when he
creates items or people they have interesting twists to them. His manifestations of people seem to
interact outside social norms and he finally created a dagger that was spiraling and triple bladed.
The rest of the subjects have also made leaps and bounds with this trial. The vast majority of them
can now sense the entire building by "feeling out" with their psyche and most of the Top Tier can
actually leave the building spiritually. I have high hopes that we will be able to create spies or
scanners with the subjects best at these technique.
I have the basic regimen for the Low Tier nearly finalized. They will be pushed to the breaking point,
traumatized, and hopefully left in an easily suggestible state. My hope is that if they are all in the same
mindset that a group Tulpa session with the entire Low Tier may prove to be fruitful and that they can
be used as one giant tool as opposed to useless individuals.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Four
Low Tier: 1 Subject
Mid Tier: 45 Subjects
Top Tier: 23 Subjects
Several months have passed since I've last sent in my notes and we've had some...interesting turns
with the Low Tier subjects.
A few of the researchers under me voiced concerns and objections to what I put the Low Tier through
but I had to remind them that total failure would not be tolerated by the top floor. In the end I
convinced everyone to go through with my regimen.
The 47 subjects were initially subjected to disturbing footage that I compiled. Japanese demons
caught on security cameras, Russian suicide videos, video taped cult rituals gone wrong, and the like.
A crass collection to say the least but effective. A large portion of the subjects were thoroughly
disturbed but no deaths occurred at this stage, the trauma that I needed had not been obtained yet.
The next stage in this regimen had each subject locked in a small, dark room akin to a prison cell. On
the left and right side of the cell the walls are chained and a mannequin is in each cell. At this point I
decided to sacrifice several subjects to quicken the pace for the rest. The chains were cut in several
places to allow the mannequins to break through and kill the subjects within. Ten subjects were
sacrificed this way. The gore was not cleaned, the walls were repaired so that the next set of subjects
would not be killed, and the subjects were then subjected to the mannequins and the slowly rotting
gore. This proved incredibly effective and the vast majority of the remaining subjects were finally in
the state of mind and mental health that I was trying to obtain.
The few subjects that were resilient to the mental trauma I was looking for were subjected to several
horrors conjured by the Tome of Volos. This was not a method I wanted to use in case it contaminated
their mental being but I decided that using it on the six remaining subjects would not do much harm.
The 37 subjects were brought to the Group Tulpa Testing Room and instructed to project their will in
to one mass of energy. My plan had been to use that energy to bring a large or complicated object in to
existence but I had another happy accident in my research.
The influence of the six subjects subjected to Volos changed my plans completely. Volos, or an aspect
of Volos, managed to enter the mass projection and infect the other 31 subjects. What was left of their
personalities, emotions, and thoughts ended up being mixed and transferred between them all. The
Biblical story about Legion actually comes to mind at this point as they became a collective
consciousness. From what we have learned in this brief time the consciousness possesses all 37
bodies simultaneously so that none of the subjects are individuals any more. I believe the
consciousness itself is kept in a constantly projected state and is not held within any of the subjects.
Another thing to note is that we are firmly in control of the consciousness' actions. It seems the
constant trauma I had them put through overrides any loyalty to Volos they may have.
In a moment of generosity I let a researcher below me name this new entity and was surprised that he
actually had sound logic. He named it The Thrall and as the consciousness is made of the lowest Tier
of subjects I agree completely on the name.
The Thrall's chief ability is it's sensing/scanning. We've been able to track Fidel Castro's every
movement in his villa for the past three days. Every move he made and every word he said has been
memorized by The Thrall and can be relayed back to us at any time. This is better than any satellite
scanning technology that will be emerging over the next several years. The Thrall also seems to have
gained a very small portion of Volos based powers: The subjects can utilize tendrils when faced with
danger and it seems that The Thrall can use a combination of Tulpa and otherworldly power to
summon some Volos-inspired entities to temporarily protect itself. A full investigation of The Thrall
will be conducted separately as it is no longer a Tulpa based subject.
The Mid Tier is progressing under the regular testing for an extended period of time to close the gap
with the Top Tier. Several adept subjects have caught my eye within the current Mid Tier that I hope
ascend to the Top Tier.
As far as the Top Tier is concerned my favorite six are still towards the top of the Tier. The twins
collectively are number one with the lucid dreamer a close second. We've started the relaxed testing
on the Top Tier to identify the exact parts of the brain that revolve around Tulpa but I believe I have a
theory brewing already.
Research notes of Dr. Marlowe: Five
Low Tier: 1 Subject
Mid Tier: 21 Subjects
Top Tier: 13 Subjects
We've lost a portion of our subjects since my last set of notes. It's unfortunate but I will make progress
and achieve success even with these losses. First a group of subjects decided to try and escape, they
planned to use their scanning abilities to avoid researchers and to slip out of the facility to some
place. Fortunately for me, I'm not a trusting man. I put The Thrall to work scanning all subjects
constantly and found out several things. Some of the subjects had gained the ability to project their
thoughts in to other people's heads. The weaponized purpose of this would be to brainwash, mentally
attack, suggest soldiers to switch sides, make an army kill itself, etc. The subjects with this power
were using it just to convey messages which was equally useful. The Thrall picked up on the
messages and relayed them back to us. Another useful ability of The Thrall is that it's Tulpa abilities
are so unique and twisted that it could actually hide squads of soldiers from the subject's scanning
projections.
24 Mid Tier subjects and 10 Top Tier subjects made their breakout attempt. The soldiers I had placed
captured all the subjects with tranquilizers and I decided to see if they could be conditioned and
added to The Thrall. They are currently in the first stage of that process.
The group testing has finally commenced. The 34 subjects that remain were set to focus their
willpower on certain objects. With their combined focus we were able to create what I believe was a
wormhole or portal of some sort. I don't mean to be vague with the details on this but this is a lot of
unknown ground being covered at a quick pace. I didn't have as much time as I wanted to observe the
portal but I believe the destination may have been determined by the strongest Tulpa users in the
group while the others just fueled it with willpower. Speculation of course, but that's sometimes all
we have.
The group was also able to create objects like small cars and sheds. To make something out of
nothing...truly we are recreating the laws that govern our universe here and it is so exciting. The
potential that Tulpa holds is just staggering.
Research note of Dr. Marlowe: Five
Low Tier: 1 Subject
Mid Tier: 14 Subjects
Top Tier: 10 Subjects
I tried to integrate the rebellious subjects to The Thrall today. In an interesting turn of events it only
accepted the lowest of the Mid Tier subjects in to its consciousness. The other subjects were torn
limb from limb by the tendrils. I believe that The Thrall only accepts subjects akin to its current
caliber so that one High Tier subject doesn't gain control of the consciousness due to having more
power.
We've had complications with the young boy as well. The entity latched on to him seems to have made
it's move and has boosted both it's and the boy's brainwaves to rather high levels. What seems to be
happening is that the entity is siphoning willpower, the boys very power of belief to use Tulpa to
make it stronger and to increase the boys willpower so that it has more to leech from. The problem
with this is that the entity has found a loophole in Tulpa. If given enough time it can literally will itself
in to becoming a god. As an act of mercy I used several of our emerging techniques and tools to shut
the entity back in to the boy in a dormant state. This had a twofold effect. The boy acquired almost all
of the willpower built up between the two of them and he also went in to a coma that may or may not
be long term. I've had him transferred to a civilian hospital and if he ever recovers he will be put in
an orphanage. The entity may or may not reemerge in the future so the boy will be watched his entire
life.
We had more bad news as the serial killer lost control of his Tulpa projections. He was so close to
having living beings formed from his projections, they actually flickered on the physical plane from
time to time. I believe the stress of trying to make them real coupled with any guilt he may have had
seeped in to the projections, and in the end I watched as three flickering forms dislocated his jaw and
crawled inside him. An autopsy revealed that organs had been severed within him. I believe the best
news to take from this is that we are learning more about how to deal with "living projections". The
mental state of the person using Tulpa to project another consciousness must be a healthy mind and
well in control of their thoughts. If one negative thought were to manifest in their projection that'd be
more than enough to endanger them and others. "Living projections" will be limited to certain subjects
from now on.
Another turn of events is that one of the twins killed his brother. It seems that jealousy struck and we
found the dead brother impaled upon many sharp objects. Security footage shows that the one brother
was jealous that his twin was slowly pulling ahead in performance and pushed his brother. Before the
boy could hit the ground the space behind him was littered with nails, forks, knives, sharp tools of
different shapes. While it is sad to see a twin go I have finally seen a combat use for Tulpa and it was
wonderful.
We've finally identified some aspects about Tulpa that may actually make it harder to recreate
subjects in the future. It seems that everyone's creativity levels, personal experiences, mental state,
ability to focus, and willpower will always be different. These are the core traits that define Tulpa.
I've come to the conclusion that while we won't be able to recreate any one subject easily we will be
able to find people better suited to use Tulpa.
I will attempt to train the remaining subjects in combat Tulpa use and then proceed with Live Testing.
Live Testing Sequence
The Live Testing Sequences put a subject in a large, yet contained room with simulated debris, light
levels, and other variables to simulate an actual encounter zone. Subjects will be pit against U.S.
Special Forces/Mercenaries/and various other people with combat training who have been told that
they are performing a live fire drill, with no other knowledge of what they will be experiencing.
Subject One: The Twin
A soldier is introduced to the environment and proceeds to make his way across the terrain. The Twin
quickly finds him by reaching out with his psyche and closes the distance between the two while
remaining hidden. The Twin focuses for a second and our instruments pick up an immense wave of
willpower. The Twin has created a perfect projection of either himself or his twin behind the soldier.
The projection sneaks up behind the man and...phases/oozes in to the back of the him. The soldier
falls over dead.
We're still picking up traces of the projection even after the Live Testing has ended. I believe the
Twin has fully recreated his brother and is using him/it as a weapon. As for the soldier, I believe the
projection entered his body and/or consciousness and simply switched off his organs. A tactful way to
kill.
Subject Two: The Lucid Dreamer
The Lucid Dreamer quickly closes the gap between her opponent and herself. She watched the soldier
creep around a bit, waiting for something. She throws her voice to some rubble a bit off the main
path, whether or not she actually had this talent or used Tulpa to achieve it is unknown. The soldier
approaches the rubble with his rifle trained on it and the Lucid Dreamer shows an impressive amount
of forethought and creative Tulpa use. She "flips" the gravity of the soldier so that the ceiling is now
the floor for him. Normally this would be a large fall that would most likely break the soldier's leg
except the Lucid Dreamer lured him to a place where the ceiling was jagged with iron posts and bars
created from a past Live Test. The soldiers body ends up impaled on the posts.
Something to note is that the Lucid Dreamer had to stop moving and concentrate forcefully to switch
the soldier's gravity. I also believe that she only has enough willpower to do this on a single target
and that she'd need assistance or more training to be effective against groups.
Subject Three: The Amnesiac
The Amnesiac and the soldier enter the testing area. The Amnesiac crouches down low and with
surprising agility he climbs and scales certain chunks of rubble. He gets on a vantage point above the
soldier and in an expert fashion he wills a knife in to being and hurls in right in to the base of the
spinal cord of the soldier.
The quickness of this test took a lot of us by surprise. Initially we knew about as much of the
Amnesiac as he did, however it is now clear that he must come from a military background, most
likely a special forces unit of some type. Seems he'll make a valuable combat operative after all.
Subject Four: The Whore
The soldier enters the testing area and immediately finds a defensible position. The Whore uses her
scanning abilities to pinpoint the location of the soldier. At this point we also believe the Whore
probes the mind of the soldier to learn certain things, particularly sexual preferences. The Whore
closes the gap between herself and the soldier and as she gets closer she sheds her clothing. Right
before she enters his line of sight our instruments pick up a spike in willpower. The Whore's body
begins to make subtle changes: her legs become more shapely, enlarged bosom, her hair color goes
from brown to black, her skin tone darkens, and her facial features change slightly. Where a ragged
caucasian woman once stood is now a latino model. The Whore walks up to the soldier with ease, he
even lowers his weapon, and she goes to kiss him. Another spike of willpower is registered and she
reverts back to her original features. A quick flash of her tongue is seen, barbed and elongated, as it is
shoved down the soldier's mouth and throat. His body twitches for several seconds before collapsing.
The Whore was a prostitute that was abducted off the street as one of our random subjects to be
introduced in to the program. Initially she was Low Tier but worked her way up to the top of the Mid
Tier. I believe that with a little more time she will ascend to the Top Tier. She is a perfect example of
Tulpa use being twisted by past experience and comfort zones. The Whore led a sex based life and
her Tulpa mirrors it. She's also the only subject that we know of that can alter parts of their body as
extensively as her through sheer willpower. As for her method of attack, it seems her tongue snaked
it's way through the soldier and lacerated his vital organs.
Subject Five: The Marine
The Marine enters the area before the soldier does. He is set in a dead sprint to where the soldier
will be exiting. The Marine hides behind a small chunk of rubble near the soldier's entrance to the
testing area. When the soldier finally enters the area the Marine vaults over the rubble and throws a
punch that connects with the side of his face, a spike in willpower used is registered, and several
more punches connect. The jaw of the soldier has torn away from one side of the face and is dangling
from the remaining side. The Marine give one last final punch and this time his hand phases through
the head and in to the brain instantly killing the soldier.
Another subject that was in the Low Tier but worked his way up, the Marine is a shining example of
having next to no creativity but the will to succeed. It seems that he used Tulpa to accent his punches
to inhuman levels. He was also able to phase his hand through solid matter to reach the brain of his
opponent. Simple and brutal weapons but effective all the same.
Remaining Subjects
The remaining subjects met with different amounts of success. Some killed their opponent outright,
some were killed in return. A common trait that they all shared however is the ability to sense
opponents, the ability to will simple melee weapons in to existence, and various amounts of thought
reading. These subjects will need more combat training to be effective and to stand out on their own
but will suffice as lower class operatives at this point in time.
Subject Dossiers
Subject Name: The Twin
Real Name: Redacted
Age: 17
History: Taken from a poor Japanese family with too many children, the Twin and his brother showed
immediate progress and led the pack for the majority of the project.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, the ability to summon small items in large quantities, the
ability to summon a doppleganger persona.
Op Name: Conjurer
Additional Info: Conjurer seems to use his doppleganger as a means of staying out of harms way and
for offensive purposes. The doppleganger remains in his presence at all times and can be easily
agitated.

Subject Name: The Lucid Dreamer

Real Name: Redacted
Age: 24
History: The Lucid Dreamer was an artist who practiced lucid dreaming and then would paint her
dreamscapes. She was low on cash and willingly joined the project after Organization 440 offered
money.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, ability to alter and create many things limited by only
her willpower and imagination.
Op Name: Dreamer
Additional Info: Dreamer possesses little combat training but has volunteered to learn several forms
of close combat.

Subject Name: The Amnesiac

Real Name: Unknown
Age: Unknown; Late 20's-early 30's
History: Turned up at a hospital with severe injuries and no memories, Organization 440 pulled him
from the hospital once his wounds healed.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, ability to conjure living projections and items in a
twisted state, apparent combat experience, expert with a knife, acrobatic.
Op Name: Dagger
Additional Info: Dagger is most likely ex-special forces of some kind. He is extremely proficient with
a knife and has set the record on a rather challenging free-running course.

Subject Name: The Whore

Real Name: Redacted
Age: 29
History: A prostitute living on the street, the Whore was abducted by Organization 440 to add a
random factor to our subject pull.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, ability to alter body, adept at reading thoughts.
Op Name: Temptress
Additional Info: Temptress was a Mid Tier unknown that shined during combat testing. Various mental
nullifiers are used when handling her since she often cannot control her over sexualized urges to kill.

Subject Name: The Marine

Real Name: Redacted
Age: 34
History: A volunteer soldier from our Paranormal Squads.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, ability to alter density of punches/kicks, ability to phase
through objects.
Op Name: Brute
Additional Info: Brute is another Mid Tier unknown that was brought to our attention during combat
testing. He is 100% loyal to Organization 440 and should prove to be a valuable operative.

Subject Names: Subjects 1-13

Real Names: Redacted
Ages: 19-38
History: Various subjects from different backgrounds that didn't show any powers beyond the norm of
Tulpa.
Powers/Abilities: Thought projection, sense, ability to conjure simple melee weapons.
Op Names: Shades
Additional Info: All Shades will be instructed in firearms use, close combat, and espionage tactics to
be general use operatives.
Closing of Dr. Marlowe
The fourth project under my lead has concluded and I've shown that I am still capable of getting
results. I have supplied 18 new operatives of various skill sets, The Thrall, and perhaps the young
boy can even be used in the future after he's matured a bit. I've also made serious headway in to a
previously unknown field. The applications of Tulpa had been theorized but not put in to effect. I have
shown that Tulpa can be weaponized, it can be used defensively, it can be utilized. As with my
previous projects the operatives will be out of my hands and control now. Perhaps I will lead a more
detailed study of The Thrall next, but right now it's time to pat myself on the back and rest.

Secrets here, kinda interesting to see another project Case File with Dr. Marlowe. His work is as
fascinating as it is morally ambiguous.
So the concept of Tulpa is actually something I'm a tad knowledgable about. This is the first time in
the Case Files that I'm acquainted with the subject matter so let me tell you what I know personally. I
originally found out about Tulpa through an old creepypasta floating around the web. I was curious as
always so I looked in to it further to find that Tulpa is actually a real thing. It's a major part of the
Buddhist religion as well as a core concept for Western religion. My mum is even a follower of
something called The Law of Attraction which states that if you believe good things will come your
way then you start to attract those things to you. Any more discussion about what I know and believe
about Tulpa can be handled in the comments with you fine folk.
Next up is the Q and A. Tattle promised answers that would come along with Case File 10 so if you
have questions I'd submit them now. I have no idea how Tattle plans to do this, maybe they'll send me
a word doc full of answers or edit the Case File after I post it to add in the Q and A. I dunno.
My question for Tattle is this: Why this particular order for the files? You've teased us with Earth-A,
Hoffer, Jack, hints of The Lightning Man in places, E-byss, and more. A lot of unresolved plot is here
and while it's interesting it's also maddening. Is there more in the Case Files that continues the stories
of the various entities and people that we've already been introduced to?
Anyway, I'm glad that you have kept the Case Files going strong, I shudder to think what Tattle could
do with me if they thought I was useless. I'll continue posting as long as people keep wanting so stay
safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
Edit: Seems there's a lovely little place in Reddit for Tulpa right....here. It seems to deal with the
aspect of creating living beings through Tulpa use only though. For more detailed info about the Tulpa
that Organization 440 seemed to be researching I'd try to look up Tibetan Buddhism and the like. Hell,
just searching Tulpa on the net and excluding creepypasta sites should snag you some info for the
more curious minded.
A rather discomforting update from Secrets...

Well, Secrets here and to my amazement my next post is not Case File Ten and the Q and A. I've
started writing it out but am still holding out for a few days to allow people to post questions.
What I do have for you today is something I found when I went to close my girlfriend's laptop.

It's not uncommon to wonder about what your neighbors spend their time doing. Do they stay home
and watch television all day? Do they go out and party at ungodly hours of the night? To have such
curiosity about the people that you see ever day or people that you rarely see leave their home is a
normalcy among neighbors. Sometimes, when one does rarely see their neighbor, they can have dark
thoughts. Perhaps their neighbor uses black magic, or commits homicide. Silly, yes, but it is true.
One's thoughts can get creative when they are faced with the unknown.
I have recently moved from my residence of 18 years to an apartment complex close to the school I
will be attending. When my boyfriend and I arrived our first impression of our living space was less
than satisfactory, mediocre doesn't even describe it. The first week here was spent replacing floors,
cleaning windows, and resurfacing counters. It's not what we had planned to spend our time doing,
but it had to be done so that instead of living in a literal shit hole we could have a mediocre place to
store our belongings. After everything was settled and we unpacked the few things we could, we
spent some time getting a lay of the land. Here and there we would see our neighbors across the hall
and next door leaving their apartments to get on with their daily doings. A "Hello," or "Good
morning," would be passed on but usually just a passing nod would suffice.
Life went on for about a week with no real goings-on or events. My boyfriend and I spent most of our
remaining free time playing games and lounging around before I started class the following week. I
had never really paid any attention to our upstairs neighbor before because we had been too busy to
hear them. So, as I sat on the couch I heard them walking around and I realized then that I had never
actually seen them leave or enter the apartment. I gave it no more thought since there was really no
reason to. I just assumed they were a student, such as myself, and I had just always missed them.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat thanks to a nightmare. As I lay trying to coax
myself back to sleep I began to hear an unnatural noise. It was a scratching noise, but the noise itself
seemed to be scratching the inside of my skull. I tried to ignore it and get some sleep, for I had an
early class and I was getting quite frustrated that I was awake at all. The scratching just got louder
and clearer, it seemed to be coming from the ceiling directly above me. For a moment I became very
unnerved, until I remembered seeing a mouse hole in the kitchen. I wrote it off as nothing more than
some mice and I decided that I needed to invest in some traps. In the morning I was relieved to find
evidence of mice currently keeping a residence in the apartment. I laughed at myself for feeling the
need to be relieved and for getting so unnerved that past night.
After class I was home alone because my boyfriend was out and about applying for local jobs. I
decided to put on some music and do a bit of drawing since I hadn't done much of that post-move. I
had just gotten into my "groove" when I heard a noise coming from upstairs. Under the music it was
quite muffled and it didn't bother me to an extent where I had to turn up my music. The muffled noise
from above startled me the second time for it was almost deliberately louder. I listened for it again
while turning down the music and slowing my breath. The sound I heard gave me chills. It was a
scraping sound, like when a child drags a chair across hardwood floors. The sound was painful
though, as if I had just unknowingly ground my teeth together. I don't know for how long I sat
motionless listening to that sound, for the next thing I knew my boyfriend was in the doorway asking
me if I was feeling well. I said that I was fine, because at that moment I was. Nothing was wrong, no
pain, no deafening noise, nothing but my quiet music and his concerned words. He told me that I just
looked awfully pale and that maybe I should rest. Instead, I convinced him that I was just really
hungry and that I was having cramps.
To my dismay I woke in the middle of the night again, not to a nightmare, but to that scratching noise. I
could hear it so clearly that I wondered nervously if it really was coming from the ceiling above me. I
became so engulfed in the noise that I did not move a muscle, like a small child who heard a bump in
the night and is stowed away under their covers hoping the monsters will go away. The scratching
became louder and louder, booming inside of my skull. Every scratch pulsed in my head like a
migraine, but there was no true pain, just the deafening noise of fingernails on a chalkboard. Or more
accurately, fingernails scraping the inside of a skull. My skull.
The sun was shining in my retinas through my eyelids when I was conscious again. I must have fallen
asleep because the last thing I remember was that awful noise.
While I was eating my breakfast, I asked my boyfriend if he'd heard our upstairs neighbor. He said he
has heard, on many occasions, the sounds of heavy footsteps just walking around. He then added that
he had in fact never seen them before, and asked why I was inquiring and if I had seen them. I told
him that I had been hearing some weird noises and that I had not seen him either. We threw some
pretty wild ideas to each other, being horror fanatics we mused over the idea of him being some
psycho-killer. We laughed about it, though, on my way to class that day I felt great trepidation about
our unknown "friend".
After class I came home just as my boyfriend was leaving to go to the Target across the street from us.
He said he wouldn't be too long, kissed me, said he loved me and left. It had been a really good day
so I was feeling like I needed to kick some butt in some fighting game. I popped in Soul Calibur 2 to
restart the game, got myself some Mtn. Dew, and cozzied up on the couch. Just as I had done so I
heard heavy footsteps from upstairs. I froze and was covered in goosebumps as I listened to the steps
walk from the door, to the bedroom, and back. Pacing back and forth the person who resides above
me seemed to be hastening their step. Abruptly it stopped and I couldn't tell in which room they had
stopped in. I didn't really care what room it was. I had wanted to be relieved that the pacing stopped,
but I wasn't. I felt so terrified for no apparent reason at all.
Then the scratching started. I jolted my head around to look at my bedroom. There was no mistake that
it was indeed coming from the bedroom. The sound was already eating its way into my skull. Oh, that
awful noise! I sprang from the couch determined to find the source and make it stop. I jumped up on
the bed and started to pound on the ceiling. It was driving me insane. The sound was literally driving
me insane. My hand started to throb, and well after the sound had actually stopped I was still
pounding the ceiling. I collapsed onto the bed and was awoken by my boyfriend asking, jokingly, if I
had a rough day. I tried to conjure a laugh and say that I must have been really tired. I could tell that
he didn't truly buy it, but he didn't ask any questions.
At dinner I told him that while he was gone I heard an odd scratching noise coming from over our
bed. To my utter relief he told me that he had heard it too. I had thought that perhaps I was going crazy,
so when he said that I was just too happy to continue the conversation.
Dirt. I was woken up by the feeling of dirt falling softly on my face. It startled me enough to make me
jolt upright from the bed. I rubbed my face and felt nothing. I sighed, thinking that I truly am going
crazy. As I laid back down I looked up at the ceiling, and was frozen in place. Directly above me in
the dark I could make out two small holes, and in those holes I saw the glinting of two menacing,
deep, eyes staring at me. The scratching started, already in my head and loud as ever. My upstairs
neighbor was scratching into my ceiling, bits of it were falling onto my face. The scratching, oh that
scratching, made my head pound. I couldn't hear anything but that scratching.
Those eyes looked through those scratched holes into my eyes.
I woke up late, my boyfriend left me a note saying he had a job interview and that he had bought me
some cold medicine explaining that I seemed very sick.
I threw on some clothes and bolted out of the door. I had enough. I stormed up the stairs and pounded
on the door. There was no answer. I pounded on the door again and was startled to hear a reply. It
wasn't from inside the apartment, but from behind me. I turned to see a slender looking girl with long
caramel hair, and brown eyes asking me what I was doing. I sheepishly asked her if she lived here,
feeling very foolish. She said yes and asked me if there was something wrong. Calming myself down I
decided to just ask her if she was attending a school in the area. She smiled and said that she was.
She'd be starting in a couple of weeks. Today was the day she was moving into the apartment above
me.

A little explanation for you: My girlfriend writes out anything scary or traumatic in her life. If she has
a scary dream it suddenly becomes a little short story of hers. Her mood dips a bit? She'll write about
it.
I've confronted her about this and she tried to play it off like a story but she's opened up about it and I
have in turn opened up about what the Case Files really are.
The noises upstairs have stopped and the girl upstairs complained about the holes to the head office.
They were patched up this morning and were attributed to an animal loose in the building.
So...I believe this is my first encounter with an entity, and I have yet to actually see it.
I'd say that I'd move away but we're signed on for a year, dirt poor, and my girlfriend really needs to
focus on school and whatnot. I'll be installing some extra security measures but I guess I'm kinda
taking a risk here. Keep us safe Tattle...or I swear to God..
Stay safe NoSleep.
-Secrets
Case File #10 The Pen of Grimoria + More

Case File: 009-153

Case File Date: 09/5/2000
Location: Cherry Brook, Minnesota
Subject: Abigail Hartel
Entity: The Pen of Grimoria
The following report comes from the relevant parts of the diary of Abigail Hartel.
09/5/00
School has just started and I'm already having all the problems I had last year, it's just not fair! Tiffany
Albright wasted no time berating my appearance. She knows about Dad's illness, she knows how
costly it is for us. Yet she's still the one calling me out on my Walmart clothes, lack of makeup, and
less than perfect social skills.
I was really just hoping to turn my junior year around...make a few friends, avoid drama, maybe meet
a cute guy. But I was wrong. It's going to be the same as last year and the years before it. I'm going to
be the girl they pick on and abuse. I'm tired, going to bed.
Signing off alone, Abby.
09/7/00
So I met a boy today! Well, kinda. He's a new kid, Chad. Tiffany had been pushing me around at my
locker and had removed my hairband to step on it. Gram gave me that headband a few years ago and I
was in tears because Tiffany was going to break it.
She tossed it on the ground and lifted her foot to crush it and suddenly the headband wasn't there.
Turns out Chad had saw the whole thing play out and slid by to snatch the headband. He then told
Tiffany to stop being a bitch and gave me my headband back.
He left saying he'd see me around and left. God he was cute, tall, shaggy black hair, big blue eyes.
And Tiffany didn't come anywhere near me the rest if the day and most of the kids didn't even stare at
me or laugh like usual.
Signing off with hope, Abby.
09/10/00
As I mentioned in yesterday's entry, Chad and I had a little mini-date today. We walked around town
for a bit, snagged some food, and then he showed me the antique shop his family had just opened in
town. It was a pretty cool place. They had so much elegant stuff like clothes and fancy looking
paintings.
I had told Chad about my desire to write books someday and I saw his face light up. He told me to
wait a second and went into the back room. He came back with an old looking box.
Inside was the most beautiful quill pen I've ever seen. It's some kind of polished wood, stained black.
There are weird marking etched the whole way down the side. In certain places the markings have
gemstones in them.
Chad gave me it along with a bottle of ink. He said that his family had that pen in the store for awhile
now and it wasn't selling and so he gave it to me. He told me that the pen was specially made a long
time ago for someone important and that anything I wrote in the pen was supposed to come true. He
then joked that I should write about us having a better date. Cutie.
Such a good day, this is going to be such a good year.
Ever jubilant, Abby.
09/14/00
I had more trouble with Tiffany today. Mom had bought me a new outfit because Dad's health was
turning around and it looks like he might get better. So we went out and she bought me a nice top and
skirt to celebrate.
Well, Tiffany didn't like that I was wearing nice clothes and pointed out that I was wearing something
nice while Dad was sick. I tried to explain to her that he was making a recovery but she yelled at me
saying people don't get better from what Dad had...I ran out of the hallway bawling and spent most of
the day in the Guidance Counselor's Office. Chad was also not at school so I couldn't see him.
I want Dad to get better, then Tiffany will be so wrong and the other kids won't think anything bad of
me.
With much hope that this stupid little pen works, Abby.
09/15/00
It worked! Holy crap, I can't believe it worked! The hospital called us this morning and said that
Dad's condition was a full turn around. He is 100% better and they claim it's a miracle. I got to skip
school to spend the day with Dad and wow, just wow. He looked better, acted better, he was better.
This pen may have saved his life.
I can't wait to thank Chad for this gift. I wonder if he actually knew that the pen worked? I'll have to
ask him at school on Monday. Right now I'm just beyond happy to have helped Dad.
Having a great day, Abby.
09/16/00
Dad...took a turn for the worst over the night and passed away. Doctor's said that there was something
they hadn't seen and for whatever reason his previous illness was actually keeping it in check.
Without his disease this new condition seems to have killed him. I killed him...
09/17/00 Scrawled hastily over the page.
Dad's dead. My fault.
09/18/00
Today was horrible. Tiffany brought up what I said about Dad getting better and then had some of her
friends gang up on me. They yelled at me for getting nice things while Dad was on his deathbed and
said there was a level of hell reserved for bitches like me...I think I know what to do.
I want these girls to go away. I want them to feel the pain they've caused me.
I'm tired...sleeping now.
09/20/00
Tiffany and her friends didn't show up at school yesterday...I found out today that someone snuck in to
their houses and killed them and their fathers. Apparently the bodies were in really bad condition and
one of the moms had to be restrained so she wouldn't kill herself.
The only reason I found all this out is because I'm the main suspect right now. The police interviewed
me after talking to some of the other kids at school and learning that the girls picked on me after Dad
died. I didn't want them to die, or for their fathers to die...I just wanted them to leave me alone. This
stupid pen is messing everything up. I'm going to find Chad tomorrow, I still haven't seen him.
Scared and alone, Abby.
09/21/00
Chad's gone.
I skipped school to check out his family's antique shop and the building with empty with a "For Rent"
in the window. Where did they go? I need to find out. I get a feeling Chad knew more about the pen
than he let on. I'm going to try something now and see if it works.
Bring Chad back to me.
Abby.
09/28/00
It's been a week. Chad isn't here which makes me think he did know about the pen and has someway
of making it not work. Or maybe the pen isn't working for some reason. I don't understand it. I don't
know enough.
I'm not welcomed at school anymore either. Students started harassing me really bad because they
believe I killed the others. I mean, I guess I did but it was an accident! I never wanted them to die.
Seems unfair to blame me for not thinking about the wording.
I guess they wanna talk to me in a couple days but I don't think I can let them. They'll just assume it
was me since no one can really confirm that I was sleeping during all that except me. So...I hate that I
have to do this.
The police station is going to close down.
Freaking out a bit, Abby.
09/29/00
The police station is gone. There was a gas leak leak under the building and it apparently exploded,
killing most of the officers on duty. I killed those men and women.
I think I know what I have to do now. I have to find Chad, he or his family must have planned this and
I need to find out why they chose me and stop them from doing it someone else.
Mom, if you find my journal and read this then know that I am sorry. I tried to be a good daughter, I
tried to help Dad. Then I just wanted to hide away from the people who were hurting me. Things are
different now, I'm a little different now. I don't want to hide from the problem, I want to find answers
to the questions that I now have. And maybe I'll get lucky...maybe Chad's family has other weird items
that I can use to fix this.
I love you so much. I may send you some letters from time to time if I actually get somewhere with
this.
Point me in the right direction to find the answers I seek.
Signing off with much conviction, Abby.
Analysis: Abigail Hartel was the daughter of Agent Cameron Hartel. Agent Hartel was being treated
for a disease he had received from an entity attack. News of his sudden recovery and then
unexplained death started an investigation in to him and his family. Abigail's diary entries were found
within several days of her leaving. We were aware that someone or something was spreading various
artifacts across the United States, we now know that this Chad and his family are what we're looking
for. Agents have been sent out to find and track Abigail.
As for her quill, we believe that it is the Pen of Grimoria. The pen was crafted through a mixture of
pagan witchcraft and consorting with demonic beings. It was created for a powerful being that led a
cadre of witches and pagan followers during medieval times. The pen can make whatever is written
by it become reality, however it will often twist the request if there is little to no bloodshed. Certain
measures can also be taken to become immune to the pen's effects. Capturing the Pen of Grimoria is
being added to our list of priorities.
Case File: Unresolved.
Secrets is once again not here. I thought I'd do him a favor and save him the work of typing out Case
File Ten, and now the Case File has passed so on to what many of you are waiting for. I'll be starting
with Secrets' question first and will then delve it to the other questions. I'll also be italicizing my
responses just to make them stand out a bit more, hospitality is key after all.
"Why this particular order for the files? You've teased us with Earth-A, Hoffer, Jack, hints of The
Lightning Man in places, E-byss, and more. A lot of unresolved plot is here and while it's interesting
it's also maddening. Is there more in the Case Files that continues the stories of the various entities
and people that we've already been introduced to?"
The answer Secrets, is that I am an author, you are a narrator, and NoSleep is the audience. I would
like you and Nosleep to think of Case Files 1-10 as a sort of...Season One. I've teased you all with
many entities and people with little continuation or conclusion. I will still be introducing entities but
will now be continuing the stories of things you've already been introduced to. Hope you enjoy.
"Will we get to see Organization 440 capture famous creatures like a Japanese demon or the Midnight
Man?"
Are you sure you want to know these beings are real...or is it more safe to believe they are fiction?
"My question is... WHO IS HOFFER!!?"
Who is he indeed..?
"What is Hoffer's true goal?"
To climb the career ladder.
"What exactly is a 'Stalker'? I know you mentioned it in the Hastings' Report, but I wanted to know
what it was."
The best description of a Stalker is in Case File Four. Doctor Marlowe's description is the best
you're going to find. I will say that there are now 'Generations' of Stalkers though.
"Did Organization 440 create what are known as 'Rakes' due to the Hysteria Project?"
No. That was a different Project.
"What exactly is a 'Lightning Man'? Is it some Lightning based invincible zombie?"
A being from another dimension. Unfortunately Organization 440 had spend most of their time
containing it instead of researching it so they never learned much. They did learn that it keeps sections
of its corporeal being in different planes of existence at the same time which render it "invincible". I
also know that it is not undead and if all of the entity is brought in to a singular plane it can be killed.
"I have a little question for Tattle as well, Tattle, are these 'super' soldiers still active now? I mean
they weren't made too long ago I suppose, but are they still working for O-440?"
The ones that were not utterly destroyed or holding secret agendas do indeed still work for
Organization 440...in various capacities.
"My question is very insignificant, but what is Organization 440's definition of a god? I believe I have
seen Volos and the boys entity referenced as 'gods' and I was just wondering what they mean."
Volos was called a God because he quite literally is a God. Well, a dead one. As for the term God I
believe they use it to describe any being that has deity-like powers, enough similarities with actions
the Biblical God could perform, or that can significantly alter/change reality.
"Please ask Tattle if he knows who the boy is and how old he is now and if he still lives a normal
life."
I am well aware of who he is. Twenty-one years old. He is normal enough while he's awake.
"Has any of the subjects from the Tulpa Project or the Hysteria Project been sent out on missions? If
so, is there a case file about a mission with one of the subjects that can be posted online??"
There have been many missions and you will get to read them in due time. How exciting.
"I also have a question, if it's not too late: what is the Ether? I believe it was mentioned in one of the
earlier cases."
Ether and E-Particles are similar to P-Particles in that some entities are comprised of it and seem to
use it for their powers. Ether is not native to Earth and the best that I can describe it to you is to take a
chemical compound that does not currently exist on Earth and anything that is made up of that
compound gains abilities.
"What are P-Particles? I want a scientific explanation and how they can be detected."
P-Particles are the boringly named Paranormal Particles. These were the compounds found in the
genetic structure of the very first entities killed and studied by Organization 440. Take everything I
just said about Ether and apply it to P-Particles. Also to note is that Ether comes from one dimension
and P-Particles from an entirely different dimension, sort of like different biomes breed different
animals. As for how they are detected it's much like radiation, these are particles that should not be in
our world and they stand right out if you have the right technology.
"Would it be possible for you to tell us some of what you know about this "dimension" (or whatever)
that these entities are coming from, and maybe some things about the entities themselves?"
As a continuation of the previous two questions I will say that E-byss is an entity that comes from the
Ether-based dimension. The Lightning Man, The Man in the Corner, and Omega come from the P-
Particle dimension. Volos is from an undetermined dimension. Jack is...complicated. Tulpa and
anything created by Tulpa seems to be rooted in this dimension. Earth-A is a parallel dimension that
intersects with this one at times allowing one to transport across it or for things to spill from one
plane to another.
"Is the entity Jack from your post actually Jack the Ripper?"
He's a lot of things and Jack the Ripper is one of them.
"For the Mannequins, I'm curious to know if, because they're dead, are they rotting? Or something like
losing pigment color into a grey? As I look back, it seems that they are nearly invulnerable, as only
fire can kill them. I guess another question to ask would be are the Mannequins advanced zombies? It
would be interesting if a military got ahold of this sort of knowledge and created an army of these..."
Mannequins defy all 'conventional' thought on the undead. They possess the ability to withstand
physical punishment and burn up like the undead but the body itself seems to preserve itself to what it
looked like at the time of death. There is no decay, no rotting skin. I would call them more of a fusion
of zombie and ghost than an advanced zombie.
"Are all entities discovered by these groups all 'evil?'"
Not at all. Angels, benevolent spirits and gods, entities that actually wish to help humans...they all
exist.
"What are the chances that a normal person could survive an attack from an entity?"
Depends on the entity. The Man in the Corner uses traps for instance. Once you are in its trap you are
almost guaranteed death. But it only attacks people who enter its current haunt. Avoid the building,
avoid the danger. E-byss and the Lightning Man have never been escaped from to my knowledge. Not
permanently at least. Volos will corrupt and kill when it can. Jack has been sloppy in the past and let
people get away but...well, he's had a lot of time to perfect his craft. The more intelligent operatives
will not always kill. The basic rule of thumb is that you don't want to meet an entity. Ever.
"What was it that attacked Secrets? As far as I knew, there was no known entity, or weapon for that
matter, that was capable of such "mind altering" attacks without some form of bodily damage."
I've been looking in to it and I believe the reason both you and I can't pinpoint the technology is
because it isn't from this dimension. I suspect it is Earth-A Organization 440. And if you're wondering
why they would do this then I'll mention that Earth-A 440 and myself have had...hostile engagements
in the past.
"I want a list on how to combat entities that are paranormal. I realize this can be a long list. We have
some information on how 440 combats certain entities... but so far it isn't very much. Share the
knowledge you have, tell us if holy water and salt is bs and only has the power we believe it to have
or just has no power at all. Or something no one knows. i want to know how to combat and even
approach and engage entities. I want a list of all major types of entities and what to watch out for how
to hurt them, which ones are to just stay away from because you dont have the info but know they will
fuck you up if you encounter them. We are on case file number 8 and I will be an old man before
reading through all the files when they are eventually posted. I would like a run down of all entities
and their powers and weaknesses to your knowledge, like in the most recent case file they mentioned
electric entities are weakened by magnetic bullets."
To cut down the list by a large degree I will advise you to get in to folklore, fairy tales, legends,
mythology, and the like. Stories about minotaurs, nymphs, fairies, demons, devils, etc. are all based
on actual entities. The ways to combat them are often correct as well. My advice is to use your brain,
if you encounter something that shoots fire then douse it in water. I will issue a large degree of caution
with entities that have teleportation powers. Often these entities are incapable of being harmed on our
plane of existence and you're better off running. Same goes with god-like beings. As for the bulk of
your question, it would require a lot of time on my part to answer it fully. I'll begin compiling
information now to reveal at a later date.
"Tattle, what the actual fuck is going on?"
A story. A war. Game of Thrones shit. But very little fucking to my regret.
Why? Is there are particular point that this is finally being divulged now? Or do you have an another
motive besides divulging information Tattle? Also, for my perverted curiosity: Boxers or Briefs?
I had to wait for Secrets to become the man he is today. Also, boxer briefs. Survive one night locked
in a house with me and I may even let you paint me like one of your french girls...dirty man.
"Is Secrets in danger, are you in danger?"
Everyone is always in danger. Secrets is in slightly more danger than most of you but I assure you his
chances of turning up dead tomorrow are slim. I'm quite safe though, thanks for asking.
"Given the effort that somebody or something went through to 'wipe his memory', and given the
possibility that you didn't do it to him, and especially now that you've made an appearance of sorts,
this implies that the someone or something is aware of your actions and doesn't agree with your goals.
Whatever did this to Secrets, whether good or evil, should have without a doubt did the same to you.
Or for that matter, will do the same to both of you the next time around. How can you protect him in
this case, how do we know you can protect yourself if you don't know how it happened in the first
place? Do you think you might be forgetting something important?"
I'm completely sure that there is nothing in this dimension that knows about Secrets. Unfortunately I
did not anticipate that an old enemy might make an appearance. If the culprit is Earth-A Organization
440 like I think then the new measures I have put in place will protect him. If I'm wrong and it's
something else then the other measure I put in place will protect him. As for how I'll protect him, my
plan is to kill anyone and anything that gets near him. Simple and effective. And my memory is just
fine thank you.
"What is your purpose, Tattle?"
Same as anyone else's, to live. To exist.
"Are you even to be trusted?"
Are you?
"Were you part of any testing?"
No.
"Tattle, are you the kid that escaped from the hysteria project??"
I am not.
"Did you work in any of these projects?"
No.
"I like how your and Secrets's names are opposites (a tattle tale is someone who spills a secret), and
Tattle have you had contact/are you the meta-human from the hysteria project/can you guarantee
Secrets protection and if yes, how?"
I thought I was pretty witty choosing my name, glad you agree. I've personally seen some of the
operatives you've mentioned but am not one. And my plan to protect Secrets is to keep him hidden.
Failing that I plan to kill.
"Can you or Secrets use Tulpa as explained in case file #9 or any other ways?"
Technically anyone can use Tulpa with enough focus. Neither Secrets or myself are adept with it
however.
"Tattle, are you an entity or a regular human, or not quite either? I'm wondering this because Secrets
was attacked by an entity and you were able to stop it. Not to mention saying that any entity going
after Secrets would end up dead. So, in my mind you either have access to Organization 440's
technology, you are entity, or are a part of some of the human experiments done bt Organization 440."
One of the three ideas in your mind is correct. Have fun figuring it out.
"I know you have no idea who I am, seeing as how I only know of the 440 through a second-hand
account, but I am curious as to how you play into all of this. What are you? An experiment gone
wrong? Gone rouge? A pissed of professor/captive/merc with a grudge? Everyone with anything to
do with 440 has some form of grudge to hold."
I'm complicated. And I do have a grudge. I advise you to avoid whoever gave you information. I don't
like loose ends unless I can control them.
"What is your role in all of this? Have you any affiliation with Organization 440? Are you helping
Secrets?"
My role is to be the author of this tale. I am indeed affiliated with Organization 440 in some way,
shape, or form...most likely anger. And it would be more accurate to say that Secrets is helping me.
"What do you gain from protecting Secrets, and from having him telling us these case files?"
Revenge.
"Are you a part of Secrets psyche? Are you another embodiment of Secrets that is related with 440
and are you keeping them at bay? Are you here to keep him safe...or are you a danger simply toying
with his life?"
You've hit a grain of truth in your question-guesses. As for me I am entirely separate from Secrets and
I do not want him to die.
"Tattle, it seems that you have some in-depth knowledge on these cases. Is it because you were one of
the subjects being tested or were you one of the researchers? If either of these is the case, how are
you free now to help Secrets publish these files? What measures are you taking to protect yourself? Is
the organization still out there?"
I'm afraid I am neither a subject or a researcher. I assure you that the measures I have in place will
keep me around for a long, long time.
"Why Secrets? The files were put there by someone (assuming they were you) and later removed after
he found them, because I searched for hours and couldn't find so much as a trace."
I am indeed the one who planted the files where he could find them. As for why I chose him it was
simply a matter of familiarity and sentimentality.
"The main thing I want to know from Tattle is... why tell us? The random strangers on the internet?"
Because everyone likes a show.
"With all the information that is being thrown at us...What would you have us do with it? It seems to
me we are rather powerless against such overwhelming odds. Also, cake or pie?"
Store it, remember it, share it. Just acknowledge it for now.
Also, pie.
"Who's the man behind ''Tattle''? Are you Secrets from Earth-A? After analyzing and going through
much of the info in the case file it seems you're not from this world. How do you know all of this? I
understand that there are case files and such and maybe you read through them all, but you seem to
know more. Things you may be hiding from us now."
Who said I was a man? And I'm not Secrets in any way, I promise you that. Keep secrets? Me? Surely
you jest.
"Are you from our plane of existence and time frame?"
Now you're getting to the heart of it. No.
"What's with Earth-A?"
A lot in fact.
"Question for Tattle also involving Earth and Earth-A, what version are we in right now and does
Secrets have anything to do with org 440 in teh other version? Is that why he chose Secrets?"
We are in plain, old Earth right now. Also, to this version of Secrets' probable regret, the answer is
yes. His Earth-A counterpart did have something to do with Earth-A Organization 440.
"Given what we know about O440 etc. etc., they clearly have paranormal / supernatural / mutant
beings under some sort of control and have the necessary control over their willpower (in some
cases) that O440 can tell their test subjects what to do. It seems like they're building a mass army of
super beings in a control environment much like Walter Bishop and William Bell did in the TV show
Fringe. First question, why? I understand that defending ourselves against other super-beings makes
sense - but if it was really, truly necessary I think we as a species would know. So what gives?
With such power and control, it would also seem insane to think that the kind of information we're
seeing here could just "leak". Someone must know about it, and I think that someone is you, Tattle. It
seems a bit silly to state that, but from the viewpoint of the reader, I see you as the instigator. To me,
you're someone with a hidden motive. The most morally straight person who wants to do good with
knowledge like this would not just freely release this information publicly. This leads me to think that
O440, and you, need people. The right people. People with open and malleable minds to use as
successful subjects. In that case, it wouldn't make any sense to just tell everyone about O440, you
would need an appropriate filter. Are we (the nosleep audience) test subjects in another experiment?
Is O440 using this "leak" as a talent scout of sorts? Are you using these case files to attract us and
then using your current subjects' abilities or other methods to find us? It's not like any individual
reader here would know if another reader disappeared.
I hope that last bit makes everyone reading these cases really think about just what this organization is
actually doing. A lot of people seem to trust Tattle in some form or another because the person is
adding to an already rich series of posts in a big way. This organization appears to feel the need to
defend us, and more importantly defend themselves. They'll take people at random from anywhere at
any time if it suits their needs. I could be totally 100% right about all of this and disappear tomorrow,
and I doubt very much that anyone here would notice. Creepy, right?
Edit: Also, I forgot to ask. Can the girl who supposedly alter gravity fly yet? And is she single? As
you can clearly see, I ask the tough, sensitive and hard-hitting questions."
Does war have to be noble? Does Organization 440 have to tell anyone what they are doing? No.
Secret things happen all the time. Selfish, secret things. As for your little...conspiracy theory, why
confront me? I'll admit that I could track you down and do a great many things to you but I honestly
have little desire to hurt you. And for your most important question...the last time I saw Dreamer she
was missing half her skull, an arm, and her bottom half. I may have had something to do with it. Want
me to set up a date?
"If the O-440 is still around, do they know of any current threats to the US, and if yes, where would
they be?"
There are threats everywhere. Threats from humans, threats from different dimensions, threats from
time...
"Does 440 know about Secrets?"
Negative.
"I've looked pretty hard into organization 440 without luck. Is there a secret to it?"
Yes, go find an entity. The Organization won't be too far behind.
"Is 440 planning or engaging with Earth-A or the Earth-A version of 440?"
Wouldn't that be rather ambitious of them?
"Is anything worth mentioning going on within 440 right now that you know of? Most of these case
files are pretty dated, and it would be nice to know what they're up to as of late."
Something rather severe happened a few years ago...I'll be sharing it with you soon.
"Just what exactly is organization 440's purpose?"
To study the unknown, and to protect the United States from it.
"How does Organization 440 go about recruiting people?"
Often times they will offer jobs to people from the more large scale entity confrontations. I believe a
fifth of the population of Rainston was recruited the day they airlifted The Villier House away. Other
times they'll pick up mercenaries, washed up people from various fields, or the best and brightest if
they can be persuaded.
"Is 440 in anyway linked or related to 'Nightmare Hall' in the alleged Dulce facility? If so, (and if you
can answer) why the need for human experimentation/cross species breeding?"
Different government run program.
"How often does this organization bribe or use other means to keep people quiet? It must have a large
amount of funding to be keeping it a secret. And when you finally do "Tattle" on them, will you be
going to the main media sources? Or are they bribed as well? Finally, do you like waffles?"
Depends on who is running the mission, but most of the people in charge would prefer minimal
casualties. Organization 440 still takes a significant amount of money from the United States' coffers.
I'll also mention that the Organization owns more than one large corporation. You've got me all wrong
by the way. I've already tattled on them. To you. I have no intention to spread this information any
further than where you are willing to share it. I can enjoy a good stack of waffles if the mood is right.
"I just have to ask though, what is organization 440? are they still around? is it all based in America?"
The Organization is a government funded group formed a rather long time ago to combat the
paranormal. They are based in the United States but will perform operations outside of it. They are
still around in some capacity.
"I'm sort of curious to know what type of branch of military/science this is, and how do they pick the
subjects?"
Technically it is not a military or science branch of the government. Think more along the lines of the
CIA or FBI...and then make them a step more secretive. As for the subjects, many are chosen because
of unique life experiences, certain backgrounds, or various health issues. If a project lead feels that a
certain type of subject is needed for testing then they will be brought in. Beyond that they'll also use
volunteers from within the Organization.
"Not sure if this has been asked, but here goes. Tattle, would you happen to know the origins/history
of Organization 440 and the Zones, as well as the names of any key people involved? How are these
groups being funded?"
I know the Organization was founded under a different name sometime in the 1800's. The term
Organization 440 starts to appear around the late 40's. As for a key person involved...well, Hoffer,
Hastings, a shadowy elite group of men that I'm not privy to, and the most prominent researchers. The
Zones are a bit more difficult for me to gather information on. I have absolutely no idea when each
individual European nation founded their own Paranormal Branch but the overall founding of The
Zones occurred sometime in the 1970's. Germany and The United Kingdom appear to be the leading
Zones. As for funding, Organization 440 siphons money out of the United States Treasury as well as
owning several large scale corporations. The Zones are entirely government funded at this point.
"How many cells of Organization 440 are there around the world and where are their main centers?
What is Organization 440 preparing for? There are quite a few projects that have been developing
that will give them strong soldiers. I find that nations only do that when they fear a war. How does the
organisation work? How do they chose their researchers and such?"
I am not sure of the exact number of cells. It could be as low as seven and as high as forty. The
Organization's bases are all located in the United States. I believe Organization 440 was preparing
with an eventual clash with The Zones, Omega, Earth-A, or some other large scale enemy. The
Organization works much like a cross between the military and a business. Researcher recruitment
varies between each individual but often times the Organization will single out up and coming young
researchers and offer them lucrative amounts of money in exchange for a life contract.
And that's what I've chosen to answer in this initial Q and A. Want to chat? You have twelve hours till
Secrets will be able to check this again. Make your conversations with me count. Or don't. I also
enjoy the witless banter.
I also have another topic to chime in on. Secrets asked a question back in Case File 5 and here's my
answer: get help and start a wiki. Things are starting to get deeper and I know you keep getting
frustrated when you have to sift through the Case Files for a grain of information. So...start a wiki for
those who want to go further than just read to get in a scared mood. I have ways to protect the site
from being discovered so don't worry about that at the very least.
Many of you seem to know of or have entities you wish to read more of. If you start sending requests
to Secrets I may honor your request by moving up a Case File containing that entity.
Stay wary, and remember NoSleep...no one is safe.
EDIT: My time here is done. I enjoyed the chats that I have had today. I hope you have the time of
your lives sorting through the carnage that is conversing with me. We'll be in touch.
-Tattle
Edit: Secrets here. Uh, I logged on to this. A bit annoyed I missed the Q and A but I'll live. Sifting
through all of this now and I guess we'll meet back here tomorrow to see what everyone learned.
A Short Proto-Case File: 8/12/2013

I don't actually know what to call this thing. I mean...it seems constructed like a Case File but has no
number. You guys wanted to know whenever something weird happened though and I think this counts.
This account was taken from the subject's cellphone in an unsent text message.
I'm hiding under my covers right now just like I used to do as a kid. Middle of the night and I'm
hoping that I can out wait whatever it is that is in my bathroom. This is all so silly to me, I'm a man of
logic not fear or superstition.
Let's go over what I know to see if I can find an explanation. No lights on in my apartment so I'm
limited to low-light vision. I sat up in bed, bathroom door is on the wall to my left and the door was
left open as usual. From where I sat up I could not see straight on in to my bathroom. It is only after I
slid down my bed and centered up with the bathroom that I saw the eyes. The only thing that comes to
mind right now is two pin dots of anger. I've seen a cat's or a deer's eyes in the dark before, this was
different.
After that I dove back under my covers and took a little initiative to snag my phone from the desk
beside me. We've now come to a point where I'm as curious as I am scared. An hour or so ago
monsters did not exist and I did not question the world.
I laid here for another twenty or so minutes deciding whether I had just seen too many scary movies
or if there really was something creepy in my bathroom. Maybe the eyes were just a glint of some
light from the blinds or some such. So, I got back up and slowly shimmied down my bed to look in to
my bathroom once more. The eyes were still there, I was still getting a nauseous feeling from staring
in to them, and yet I couldn't hide just yet. I needed to know that it wasn't just a bit of light catching on
some metal. As if to prove a point the eyes moved a bit to the left so that the eyes were straight in
front of me and towards the top of the bathroom. They were still angled towards me and I could see
concrete proof of both life and intelligence in those pin dots. Back to my covers for I feared that
running would provoke and immediate response and I wanted to mull things over.
Five minutes have passed since the last time I've texted in to this phone. I've been going over every
bit of horror and monsters that I can think of and I believe I have a theory that I'm unfortunately going
to have to test out. I'd bring up loved ones now but I've never really had anyone to love so here goes.
I've removed the covers and am now facing the bathroom door. I was greeted by a blackness and was
ready to admit it was in my head when the eyes opened up. Their position is still the same, lined up
with me towards the top of the bathroom, looking down at me. I'm raising one hand as high as I can
and the left eye disappears. I have moved the hand over and made the right eye disappear. My theory
is correct. I'm looking in to the bathroom mir-
The text message ends.
Tattle's Memo: Thought you'd like to see how a Case File looks in an unfinished state. I'd also like to
tell you that this took place less than ten miles from you. The Organization will be in the area for a
few day so please try not to run down the street proclaiming their downfall or anything of that nature.
Now get back to work, people are waiting for Eleven.
Woke up today with this on my laptop. Door was locked, dog never barked so I don't even want to
know how it got there. As for the subject matter, nothing too shocking besides the proximity to me.
Seems Tattle is getting impatient with me as well.
Anyway, I've been having the time of my life trying to write out Case File 11. For all the previous
Case Files I wrote them out in my web browser on Nosleep. The first time I did this my browser
crashed and I lost everything that I had written out. I was pretty pissed and started over in a word
doc. Didn't end up saving it and instead left it minimized because Word rarely crashes. Had a brief
power outage, lost all my progress again. I'm now plugging through it a third time, saving Word every
couple sentences so I am sorry for the delay. A failure is me.
Stay safe guys..
-Secrets
Edit: Have a Case File Wiki. If you can help out it would seriously be awesome as this is tough to do
with two or three people. We could use illustrations of what you think the entities look like, any fact
that Tattle has dropped in his comments to people, anyone adept at wikis to create some of that flashy
stuff, just help in general. I want this to be our go to place for information so that no one gets lost or
left out of the loop.
Case File #11.1 Room 184

Case File: 011-300

Case File Date: 10/5/1998
Location: Detroit, Michigan
Subject: Various People
Entity: Room 184/The beings within.
Interview with Officer Gary Nesbit about Room 184.
I've been ordered to share what I know regarding the disappearances and murders around Room 184
by my superior. He assures me that you guys handle cases like this and that this is the best way to
handle this. I want you to know that I don't trust you secretive FBI/CIA types, too spooky for me. But,
I want this thing solved for the people that have gone missing and that have died. I want closure for
the friends and family of these people and if you're the best way to get that done then I'll share what I
know.
Back in October ten people or groups of people checked in to Room 184 over the span of ten days.
All of those people are now missing or dead. This all happened in this dinky little motel on the edge
of Detroit located in "The Rust Belt". Funny little name that economists coined when some of the
factories shut down due to age or lack of use. It's not a great part of town so I'm not sure why people
would even choose to stay in a motel there to begin with.
I've been working on Room 184 for the past several months compiling all the info, viewpoints, clues,
etc. I've got several eye witness accounts with employees and people in the area, notes left behind by
the victims, video cameras that some of the victims had on them, and a set of hidden cameras the
owner had set up to peep on female patrons of the motel.
Day One Cedric Howe
Howe was a struggling author, had some semi-successful book and then wrote a couple flops and was
basically black listed in the publishing community. Apparently he was in town to get inspiration for a
new book he was writing.
The head desk said he checked in to Room 184 around two, two thirty in the afternoon and then left
for most of the day. We gathered up a few witnesses and found out that he was interviewing young
people in the area for research on his book. It was supposed to be some gritty, street book that was
supposed to connect with hoodlums or some shit.
Howe returned to Room 184 around eight or nine. The desk clerks said that was the last any of the
staff saw of him. The cleaning staff came in the following morning and the room looked like it had
hardly been used and assumed Howe had already left.
Howe's body was found ten days later, which is when some of the corpses from Room 184 appeared
and the investigation started. Howe was cut clean through from the neck diagonally across his torso.
The two halves of his corpse were found in an alley about two miles north of the motel.
On his person we found a small notebook he had been using for his notes from his interviews. Most of
it was just stuff pertaining to his upcoming novel but the last bits of writing are of his final moments
alive and are one of the reasons you will be given control of this investigation.
The final entry in Cedric Howe's notebook.
I got some good interviews today but I may have found something even better, drugs! The best way to
know what it's like to be a drugged out delinquent is to be drugged out myself. I'll keep my book and
pen with me and write down everything I see just in case I forget any of this. I'm finally going to get
out of this damn hole I'm in.
It's been like an hour and I haven't seen or felt anything. Is it just not kicking in? Am I immune to
drugs? Wait, the light's starting to flicker, maybe this is what I've been waiting for. I'm getting a weird
feeling now. It's kinda ominous, like I feel in danger. Probably just because I've never taken drugs
before and my psyche or body is freaking out or something. I just need to stay calm and remember
what I did.
I think I'm having a bad trip or something. I looked up at my window and it looked like someone was
there. I got up to look closer and it looked like a distorted girl? Yeah, distorted seems right. She was
kinda blurry to look at. I think she's a hallucination, a product of the drugs.
Oh, now the walls are bleeding, they are absolutely perspiring with blood. Definitely a bad trip. At
least I know that this is all fake, just a product of the drugs I took mixed with the stress in my life.
God damn! Scared the hell out of me. I went to get up from the desk to get some water and that fuzzy
girl's head was between my legs looking up at me. I jumped and hurt my knee on the desk. Luckily she
disappeared when I looked back down. Damn illusions, damn drugs.
I think I'm in more trouble than I initially thought. When I got up to get that cup of water I felt a pain in
my ankle. Sure enough there's a bruise the whole way around it. Did I twist it when I jumped? Or
maybe that girl was real. No, that is so stupid. I can't believe I'm even writing about the fact the some
creepy girl would be real.
There's been a banging coming from the bathroom for several minutes now. I'd be beyond dumb to
check that out now. My drugged out mind would conjure something crazy that would probably scar me
for life or something. Nah, I'm just going to stay right here at this desk. What do you know, the banging
stopped. Guess I got the fear out of my head.
The little girl is sitting on the bed. She called out my name and brought up some memories. She's not
as fuzzy as she was before, I actually recognize her now, dumb subconscious. The past should stay in
the past. Really starting to think these drugs were a bad idea.
She won't stop talking about the past. There's something behind her on the bed now too. I can't really
see it but I'm afraid and I don't think it's the drugs now. I'm really really scared.
Tried to leave. Something hit me in the head hard. Vision blurring. Head spinning. Blade, sharp.
Howe's entry ends here.
Clearly Howe was guilty about something. I'm guessing that if we went back to whatever town he
lives in and checked the records that we'd come across a missing persons case for a young girl or
maybe he just injured a girl at some point in his life to effect him like this.
As for drugs he never actually took any, the body was thoroughly inspected and no drugs were found
in his system. The punks he bought from most likely gave him sugar or some kind of placebo and
Howe thought all those strange things happening were not actually real.
Howe went missing sometime during the night and he was not seen again until his corpse resurfaced.
Day Two - Andrew Seaburg
Seaburg was a public official in the area. A lot of people around here already know how full of shit
he is, always putting his slant on things, taking bribes, that kind of stuff.
Anyway, he ended up at the motel on day two of the Room 184 occurrences. For someone of his
position to be there I bet he was meeting up for a shady deal. He's played off bad business practices
before and I'd believe he'd get paid to do it again.
Workers at the motel mentioned that Seaburg was gone for most of the day before coming back to the
hotel around 6. We lucked out in that he was being followed by some junior reporter looking for a
scoop. He had been tailing Seaburg for a few days and was peeping on him and saw what happened
in Room 184. The reporter got spooked by what he saw and disappeared after that night. He came to
us a couple days after the bodies started showing up. Apparently Seaburg's corpse ended up in his
apartment complex and that was more than enough to convince him to come to me.
The reporter's account of day two.
I'd been following Seaburg on and off for several months before that day. I had gotten a tip that
Seaburg was prepping for a big deal of some kind and I wanted to be the one to get that story. Actual
and irrefutable proof that Seaburg was dirty would pretty much make my career.
He planned this meeting for months before it actually taking place. People had to be paid off, location
to meet had to be chosen, bullshit exchanged from both sides, the whole deal.
I followed Seaburg to the motel and the meeting that followed. As I had expected he met with some
overseas criminals looking to get deeper roots put down in Detroit, I noticed both Russians and
Chinese there though. Kinda weird as I didn't think the criminal elements in those countries worked
together. I couldn't get near close enough to hear anything though, I was set up several buildings away.
Anyway, money was exchanged and Seaburg wasn't killed so I believe that means the negotiation was
successful.
He went around town a bit to hit up a fancy restaurant and go to a rather expensive looking lounge
before heading back to the motel. While there some black suited guys came to see him, all very secret
like. Not sure what the meeting was about but maybe he was double crossing the Russians and
Chinese. Maybe he was double dealing whatever it was that everyone wanted from him. I'm not sure,
I still couldn't get close to him.
After the suits left I took the opportunity to move a bit closer. It was starting to get late and I guess
Seaburg had something in the suitcase that demanded his attention so to my surprise he stayed in the
motel room. He ended up working at the desk for awhile and that's when I started to notice the weird
things going on in the room.
It was all just small stuff that I didn't put together at first like shadows in the corners of the room,
flickering lights, mysterious whispering. Enough to put someone on edge without making them believe
that something supernatural was going on. I can tell you that Seaburg never noticed any of it, just kept
on working on papers from the briefcase he had.
The first instance that night where I knew something was wrong was when I looked over towards the
bathroom door. There was a shadowy figure in there and it just...well, it had that quality that instantly
made me believe it was real and not a figment of my imagination. It wasn't looking in my direction
however, it had its head turned toward Seaburg. It disappeared a few minutes later and I stayed to see
what would happen next, started taking pictures too although none of them ever properly developed.
Every several minutes after that I'd catch the shadow figure get closer to Seaburg bit by bit. I assumed
by now that the thing was either going to hurt him or scare him and I was ok with it either way.
Seaburg was an utter dirtbag and he'd deserve it. Plus, the shadow had never made any
acknowledgment that I was even there so I felt even more safe. That lasted until it did notice me.
I was pretty much pressed up against the window awaiting whatever was going to happen to Seaburg
when the shadow figure suddenly appeared pressed up against the window with a noticeable
expression of anger. It was looking right at me and I bolted. When I looked back towards the window
the figure was right behind Seaburg. I went straight home after that and didn't see Seaburg or the
shadow figure again. Well, I didn't see Seaburg again till his corpse popped up around me. I'm afraid
maybe that shadow thing is targeting me now or something and I at least want to share what I know. If
there's no trial to be had I plan on leaving town, no way I want to be near this city or the motel ever
again.
End of the account.
I would've liked to talk to him some more but he disappeared the next day. His apartment was still
full of his items so I'm not sure if he was taken or if he skipped town without taking anything.
Day Three - The Greene Family
The Greene family was comprised of William and Mary Greene as well as their two kids, Matthew
and Terry. They were from out of town and passing through Detroit to meet William's brother for a
vacation down south. William had stopped in Detroit to surprise a friend but they were out of town
and The Greenes ended up staying at the motel and getting Room 184. We found that much out by
talking to family members.
Mary Greene had bought a video camera to record their vacation together and it was later found with
her corpse. The night's events had been recorded although we had to send it to a technician to have the
footage cleaned up first.
A description of the recording of Mary Greene's video camera.
The camera turns on to show the Greene boys laughing and playing in the back seat. The camera turns
around to show William Greene with a frustrated expression on his face. The camera turns once again
to show that Mary Greene is the camera hold and she tuts several times before turning off the camera.
The next shot from the camera shows the Greenes pulling in to the motel and William going in to the
main office. Mary talks to Matthew and Terry explaining the situation. The boys are unfazed and
William soon returns with a key to their motel room, Room 184.
The next several clips from the camera are of the family getting to the motel room, unpacking what
little items they needed from their luggage and then deciding to go out for dinner. Mary forgets to turn
the camera off and sets it down on the desk.
Over ten minutes pass before the entity, a hazy and slender figure, that had been standing in the corner
opens its eyes, allowing you to see it for the first time. After you've seen the entity and rewind the
footage to go back you then realize that the entity had been standing there the entire time. (Researchers
have looked through the footage and experimented with it to a degree. It appears that the entity can
become invisible to the naked eye until it chooses to be seen. On camera this can be seen with the
entity not appearing to the viewer the first time until it allows itself to be seen. Research is ongoing.)
The entity begins to shamble towards the camera when it suddenly turns its attention off screen. The
camera distorts here and the footage of the next thirty seconds or so is lost to static and bursts of color
and noise. When the camera refocuses a more shadowy and stout figure is seen staring in to the
bathroom. The camera flicks between static and clarity several times before becoming fully static. It
stays this way for about five more minutes, only becoming clear again as the Greenes walk through
the motel door. Mary notices the camera is still on and turns it off.
The camera turns on to show the family playing a board game on the motel floor. Mary is holding the
camera while Terry gets up to do a stunt dictated by the rules of the game. As she raises the camera a
young girl is seen standing in the back of the bathroom with a face covered in wounds. Mary gasps
and drops the camera but when she picks it back up and the family investigates no girl is found. Mary
chalks it to stress or sleepiness and the family decides to rest for the night. Mary has the family wave
to the camera before turning it off.
A green blur as the camera turns on and makes attempts to focus while using the limited night vision
feature of the camera. It slowly focuses to show that all members of the Greene family are asleep.
William and Mary are sleeping in the bed while Matthew sleeps in a cot and Terry sleeps in a
makeshift bed made on the floor. Nothing happens immediately and several minutes pass with little
activity. Terry's body starts to jerk slightly and then a hand or appendage of some sort can be seen
around his foot, slowly dragging him under the bed. Once Terry is knee deep under the bed the pulling
becomes more smooth and constant until he disappears beneath the sheets.
Several more minutes pass and then Terry steps out from the bathroom. His movements are quick and
jerky and he moves over to the cot that Matthew is sleeping in. Terry places his hand on Matthew's
head and the camera begins to distort. The distortion ends and Terry looks up to the camera for a
moment. He then grabs both sides of the cot and folds it up, bending Matthew's body in a way that
should've caused him to scream out in pain. He remained silent and Terry drags the cot back in to the
bathroom. The camera flickers several times and turns off.
The camera flickers on once more to the hazy figure standing beside the bathroom door. It appears to
be looking over at the bed but the lack of defining features makes it hard to tell. The figure slips in to
the bathroom and several minutes go by before Terry's voice screams from the bathroom. William
jumps up and runs to the bathroom while Mary runs over and grabs the camera in an effort to use it as
a weapon.
A wave of distortion passes over the camera and William is thrown from the bathroom in to the
bedroom wall. Mary screams and runs to the door but stops just short of the door. The camera is
raised and we see a seizing Terry covered in wounds on every bit of his unclothed skin. Mary takes a
step back, turns around, and comes face to face with the hazy figure from before. The static and
distortion takes over the camera and it stops recording there.
End of all footage on the camera.
Mary Greene was later found a couple neighborhoods over outside of a diner. The corpse was a little
dirty but there were no wounds on the body. She was still clutching the camera as well. Initially all
the footage on the camera after they arrived at the motel was distorted, but I sent it to a couple of guys
I know that are tech wizards and they salvaged this much. The bodies of Terry, Matthew, and William
have yet to be found.
Day Four - Bryan Cook and Cynthia Fletcher
Bryan Cook and Cynthia Fletcher are the two people who checked in to Room 184 on the fourth day.
Bryan was found with his head impaled on an antenna several streets over and Cynthia was found in a
factory with her stomach blown out and all her limbs cut clean off and stacked beside the torso.
We called up some friends and family and found that Bryan had driven up to Detroit to meet Cynthia
who lived here. The two were romantically involved and did not want to spend the night with
Cynthia's roommate so they went to a motel to be together in private.
The owner of the hotel had seen Cynthia when she walked in and had his peep cams put on that night
to catch footage of her. Luckily we stumbled upon the cameras when we were searching the room and
we were able to force the owner to hand over footage for the nights he had the cameras on over the
ten days.
A description of what the peep cams recorded.
The first several hours recorded are solely of the intimate time Bryan and Cynthia spent together. Both
the bathroom and bedroom cams had to be fast forwarded for awhile before anything could be picked
up.
The bathroom cam picked up a small flickering figure at some point during the couple's love making
in the bedroom. The figure appears to look in to the camera and slowly materializes as the girl from
the previous night with cuts across her face. The camera has a brief burst of static and then the girl is
replaced by Terry Greene in almost the same position. He has wounds on his visible skin and blood
on his pajamas. The camera records this switching of the girl and Terry four more times over the next
half an hour before the camera goes to full static for several hours.
Later Bryan gets up and leaves to go pick up dinner for them. Cynthia walks in to the bathroom(which
is when the bathroom peep cam turns back on) and begins to look at herself in the mirror. She frowns
for a second and goes back to the bedroom to retrieve a pillow. She stuffs the pillow under her shirt
and fiddles with it until she looks like she is pregnant. She then begins to examine herself and the look
it has on her. Cynthia lets out a long sigh and turns to leave the bathroom when the door slams shut on
her, trapping her inside. She bangs on the door and screams but no one comes to her aid. The
bathroom camera flickers and goes black. The bedroom camera shows the shadow standing on the
other side of the door, staring in to it intently.
Several hours pass and Bryan comes back to the motel. (Bryan had been detained as he was at the
scene of a hit and run and was asked to stay for questioning.) He walks over to the door and knocks
on it and gets no answer. Bryan shrugs to himself and lays down on the bed. The shadow is seen
moving towards the bed as static overtakes the camera.
The camera in the bathroom comes back to life. Cynthia is in the bathtub with her arms and legs held
out. The flickering entity of Terry/the girl stands in the corner staring at her. Cynthia appears to
scream but no noise is picked up by the camera nor does Bryan hear her. Terry/the girl walks over to
the tub and appears to stretch and elongate itself. The camera flickers and then the elongated
Terry/girl forces itself down Cynthia's throat. The force that was holding Cynthia's arms and legs
releases her and she stand up coughing. Her stomach swells up to a size that makes her look heavily
pregnant and she appears to be in great pain.
The static in the bedroom camera disappears and Bryan's arm is seen disappearing in to the ceiling.
He is not seen alive again. In the bathroom Cynthia grabs her stomach in pain before falling to the
floor. The girl is seen ripping out of her stomach amidst bursts of static and video distortion. The
shadow is seen entering the bathroom and the video distortion obscures all footage after this. The
camera returns to normal the next morning showing the maid cleaning the apartment and all the
possessions of the couple and blood/gore gone.
End of video description.
Between these last two videos I knew that something a bit beyond me was going on. With the first two
days I would normally chalk stuff like that up to drugs or illusions, but I saw the footage. I've seen the
monsters and they are scary as hell. I talked things over with my superior and he got in to contact with
you.
This half of Case File 11 ends here.
I'm back NoSleep. I'd mentioned to several people that I was having issues with crap like job hunting
and whatnot. Well, that all got a thousand times worse with a surprise visit from the family for my
birthday, which wouldn't have been bad cept they used my house as their place to stay. Then both my
cars broke down and that was pretty much horrible, more shit happened, so on and so forth. It's all
mostly resolved and here we are again.
On my end nothing supernatural has happened. Life has carried on as normal as it could be through
stress and all that jazz. This particular Case File has been taking me forever to write but I'm putting
up the first four of the ten days now. I'm going to immediately start working on the last six days and
hope to upload Case File 11.2 tomorrow which will finish this up so we can continue onwards.
Also we have the Case File Wiki. It's still being put together so we are welcoming help there.
Stay safe NoSleep, remember that I absolutely plan to follow these to the conclusion. Barring death, I
will always be here to shed light on the files.
-Secrets
Case File #11.2 Room 184

Case File: 011-300

Case File Date: 10/5/1998
Location: Detroit, Michigan
Subject: Various People
Entity: Room 184/The beings within.
Day Five - Darryl Morrill
Darryl Morrill was a teen from the local neighborhood. A lot of the kids in this area have it rough and
Darryl was certainly no exception, we found out he was abused and beat by his stepdad on a regular
basis. This caused him to steal his family's savings and attempt to skip town. He called up an old
friend who had moved out of town and arranged for him to drive up to Detroit and pick him up. It
would take the friend a few days to make the drive so Darryl's plan was to wait at the motel until the
friend made the journey up.
Darryl's friend was actually the first person to come to the police with a missing persons report out of
all the friends and families of the other victims. When I talked to him he told me that Darryl had given
him a call from the motel to let him know that he had the money and for his friend to make the drive.
This phone call was the only insight we have in to what happened to Darryl until his body turned up.
A transcription of the conversation between Darryl Morrill and his friend, Michael Bradwick.
Michael: Hello?
Darryl: Hey man, it's Darryl. The plan is a go! Come and get my ass.
M: Aw sweet dude! Where you staying?
D: Remember that shitty motel on the other side of the neighborhood? The one around all the shut
down factories?
M: You mean the really dirty one that just has a vacancy sign cause their other sign was stolen? That
place is rough, I can't believe you're staying there.
D: It may be dirty but it's cheap as hell. I'll need all the cash I have to get me by till I can find a job.
You still running and dealing?
M: Nah man, I got out of that when I met Kate. I still have a few old contacts though, could call in a
favor or something to see if I could get you in. Can't say I entirely approve though Darryl, plenty of
cash out there doing safe work.
D: I think I'll just stick to my guns, do what I'm good at. Ya know?
M: Audible sigh I know, I just think you can do better.
(Long pause)
M: You still there man?
D: Yeah. Sorry, must've zoned out or something.
M: It's cool, just a bit worried about you.
D: Hey, I'll call you back in an hour or so ok?
M: Alright man, I'll be here.
Three hours pass.
M: Darryl that you? Took your time calling, I had a few things I wanted to do today.
(Silence)
M: Darryl? You there man?
(Unintelligible whispering can be heard.)
D: Save. Me.
(Phone call disconnects.)
Michael immediately left his house to make the trip up to Detroit. He stopped at a diner on his way to
eat and was called to the pay phone by the waitress.
M: Uh, hello?
D: Too late Michael. Too...(The phone lets out a static scream and disconnects.)
M: Darryl?! Come on buddy say something!
End of the phone call transcriptions.
According to Michael he drove straight up to Detroit after that but by then Darryl was gone and the
Day Six victim was already staying in the motel. Michael came to the police the next day but little
was done immediately as it was believed to be a simple runaway case. Darryl's body was found later
near his house. No visible wounds were found.
Day Six - Kenzie Adams
Kenzie Adams was one of those save the animals, save the planet, save anything that isn't manmade
hippie types. There was some eco convention in town, a seminar on how to clean up Detroit and other
big cities. This girl made the trip to attend it and I'm sure fighting for trees doesn't pay well so she
ended up in the motel, Room 184 again. The owner once again noticed that it was a young female
guest and he had his peep cameras on to watch her.
A description of the peep camera's footage.
The day time footage shows that Kenzie was away from the motel all day. (Records show that she
attended the first day of the convention.) The peep cameras in both rooms did not pick up any
supernatural footage at all during that time. She returned to the hotel late at night and proceeded to
take a shower. The exact moment she steps in to the shower the bedroom camera begins to distort
slightly. This distortion continues until the shower is complete and Kenzie exits the shower.
Kenzie looks into the mirror and her expression turns to one of pure horror. (The camera is positioned
in a way that does not allow one to see the mirror so there is no indication of what she saw.) She runs
from the bathroom and attempts to leave the apartment but the door doesn't open.
The static and distortion on the cameras picks up and several animalistic creatures crawls out of the
bathroom. Kenzie slams on the door and screams but no one is there to answer. The animistic
creatures creep closer to her as the distortion increases further. The closest one takes a swipe at her
and the cameras shut off.
The footage ends there.
Kenzie Adams' body was under a bridge in another part of town showing signs of being fed upon by
animals. Before I saw this footage I would've chalked it up a killer dumping the body and stray dogs
eating it but, well, now I know. This is scary shit that we're dealing with and I hope you can help me.
Day Seven - The Ricochet Boys
The Ricochet Boys were a local punk rock band, doing a little homework I've found that it was a four
person band: Brad Harraway, Colin Haft, Nate Munoz, and Remi Acker. Turns out their shows tended
to get out of hand and all of them except for Remi Acker had some sort of record. The band had a
successful show at this basement venue a few streets down and decided to hold a small after party at
the motel. The four members of the band, three girls that had attended the show, and a mutual friend of
theirs, James Morgan, were there. Friends say that James always followed the band around with a
video camera in an attempt to make a documentary out of their punk rock lifestyle and rise to fame. He
recorded the events that happened in Room 184 that on the seventh night.
A description of the events caught on James Morgan's video camera.
Two girls are sitting on the bed and begin to talk in to the camera between fits of laughter. Most of the
words they say are slurred and unintelligible due to other people talking in the background but
phrases such as "...you want me to do what?" and "You're in the band too right?" can be heard. James
seems to give up on his advances with the girls and pans the camera around. Colin and the third girl
are both leaning against the wall talking while Nate and Brad are on the other side having a loud
conversation with broad gestures and hand motions. Remi is sitting alone at the desk writing out
something in between flicking his writing utensil around.
James: Hey Remi, what're you up to man? Don't ya know it's time to party?
Remi: Oh. Hey James. (Remi's face immediately glares at the camera. Friends said that Remi wasn't
fond of James.) If you have to know I'm working on new material. We aren't going to go anywhere as
a band if we get stale. Music is all I got so you guys can party.
James: Ok man. Still, you should definitely get your drink on after the keg gets here.
Half an hour passes with nothing going on out of the ordinary. A delivery man with the keg of alcohol
arrives and it's wheeled in. Everyone partakes of the beer except for Remi who stays at the desk
writing. At some point James and Colin get in a brief fight after James attempt to woo the girl that
Colin had been talking to but it is quickly resolved. The party continues on for a bit longer and Brad
speaks up.
Brad: Guys. Guys. Hey guys, gather round. James, over here. Stop trying to fuck those girls, they
already know you aren't in the band. Camera over here dude. So, it's almost Halloween and I'm sure
we won't all be together for it so I have a little ghost story to tell. Remi! You coming over here to
listen to this?
(James swings the camera over to Remi.)
Remi: I can hear you just fine from over here.
Brad: Well, suit yourself. You ladies ready to be scared?
(The girls squeal in mock terror and James trains the camera back on the group that is now in a circle
in the middle of the bedroom.)
Brad: Alright, now heres the story of a man who stalked this very neighborhood to find pretty girls to
murder!
(The next ten minutes pass as Brad tells the story in grandiose fashion. A loud crash from the
bathroom makes the girls scream and James turns the camera towards the bathroom door.)
Colin: What the fuck was that?
Brad: Remi, was that you man?
Remi: Me? Ive been sitting over here the entire time. If anything Im sure this is part of your silly
story.
James: It cant be. No one has moved the entire time unless Brad had someone else sneak in to the
room.
Colin: I guess Ill check it out if no one else will.
(The camera swings back to Colin. A young girl is now standing behind him.)
James: Colin, turn ar-
(Static overpowers James and the video mid-sentence. When the static fades James is now in the
bathroom with two of the girls, Remi, and Brad.)
Brad: What the fuck was that thing? Where's Colin?
Girl One: Melissa's gone too!
James: You werent looking? That bitch ripped him in half!
Remi: Whatre you talking about? No way a little girl ripped Colin in half.
James: I was right across from him! I saw what she did. I imagine it got Melissa too.
Remi: Or she actually got away.
(A loud thump at the door cause everyone to panic and the girls to start screaming once more. The
camera fades to black momentarily and when it picture comes back the shadowy being is between the
girls.)
James: (Barely heard through static) Oh fuck, oh fuck! Run!
(The group runs from the bathroom only to be met by the young girl again. She briefly flickers before
the camera gives way to static.)
The cameras footage ends there.
Poor kids, weve found most of their bodies throughout the area. Wounds were similar to previous
victims. Kind of rough that something like this could happen to a group of people so large.
Day Eight - Cai Yu
Im afraid we have next to nothing on this Cai Yu. No record, no family, little history. Hell, we cant
even dig up where he worked. Workers at the motel say he didnt talk much to anyone. We also found
out that he had been staying at a different hotel or motel every night for the past several weeks. Only
thing of his that we did find was this locked briefcase. Its pretty heavy duty; we sure as hell couldnt
get it open. Im guessing we give it to you?
The briefcase was opened several days later. The contents were not shared with anyone outside of
Organization 440.
According to the documents recovered Cai Yu was in Detroit for negotiations. The negotiations were
being held for the Chinese to establish a research facility for the paranormal within the city. Now that
we have this information a strike/raid is being planned in response to this. The Chinese will not be
allowed to infiltrate Detroit.
Day Nine - Neil Francis
Neil Francis was a private investigator hired by the brother of William Greene. When the Greenes
never showed up Myles Greene became more than a little worried and sent Neil to check out the last
place he knew the family was at: Room 184.
What we have on Neil about his encounter at the motel is from a recorder he kept on him at all times
to record his thoughts or interviews with others.
The transcription of Neil Francis' recorder.
I've reached Detroit and found the motel. I'm surprised the Greenes would stay in a place like this. I
know Myles has a chunk of money and I'd suspect his brother wasn't a slouch either when it came to
funds. Still, sometimes you just can't pass up cheap.
As luck would have it I managed to snag the same room William Greene and his family did. I've
begun searching the room but there's currently no evidence as to what happened to them or where they
went. I also managed to get a couple of questions answered by several employees. They remember
the Greenes staying here but said that they were checked out and gone the next day. Myles will be
meeting me here tomorrow so I may as well ask around a bit more and give the room a much more
thorough search.
It's night now, I spent most of the day grilling employees here and combing over the room. No one
saw the Greenes leave, not one person saw them check out. Apparently the money and key were left
on the desk next to the bed and the maid took them to the front desk. Very strange behavior. Also, I've
searched the room and have discovered some low quality hidden cameras. Someone here is a creep.
I'll ask around about those tomorrow when Myles is here to back me up. Hopefully they were on and
recording the night the family stayed here. I believe it is time for me to get some shuteye.
(Mumbling) It's two something in the morning. A loud thump or crash woke me. It's either from the
bathroom or the next room over. (Thumping noise) Bathroom. Definitely the bathroom.
(Clacking noise as the recorder is set down and left on. Neil's voice can be heard from a distance.)
Hello? Who's in there? Terry. You're Terry aren't you? Look, your Uncle Myles sent me here kid.
Jesus you look pale. Come back to the bedroom, I got some extra clothes you can put on to warm up.
(More noise as Neil picks the recorder up once more. Low static is constantly playing at this point.) I
found Terry in the bathroom. Kinda scared me since he was standing in the corner. Kid looks pale and
a little sickly but he looks just like the kid from the photo Myles gave me. Hasn't said a word yet
either, I'm guessing he's traumatized or something. Calling Myles now so he can get up here and
maybe help this kid out.
(The recorder is put down once more.) Myles, I found Terry. Yes he's sitting on the bed now. No I
haven't found anyone else yet. I woke up to a loud noise and Terry was just in my bathroom. I have a
couple of other small leads but this is definitely our best shot. He's not talking though, I think maybe
he's spooked or rattled. If you could get up here soon I'd appreciate it. Seven hours? No, that's fine.
You don't have to rush that fast if you don't want to. I don't mind watching over the kid at all. (Loud
burst of static followed by a loud thump.) Jesus Christ! Floating, he's fucking floating! Oh God-
The recording ends there.
Neil's body has yet to be recovered. We actually found that recorder on another victim, Myles
Greene.
Day Ten - Myles Greene
Like I said Myles had sent that investigator up to the motel to check things out while he made time to
drive up himself. The plan was for the two of them to meet up on the tenth day and to search together
for leads but that didn't work out. On Myles' body we found Neil's recorder as well as handful of
notes clenched in his hand. From the looks of it Myles began his own investigation when he got there
and paid the price that happened the other nights.
A transcription of Myles Greenes' notes.
Can't believe this. I rushed up here after that phone call between Neil and I cut off now both Neil and
Terry are missing. Did he take him? Is he planning on getting money out of me by taking Terry? I don't
know. Maybe an employee or two saw Neil leave with Terry.
None of the employees have seen Neil today. What's more they even got mad at me for asking
questions. Maybe Neil pressured some of them yesterday and left them a bit sore to people inquiring
too much. I have nothing better to do so I'll search the room like Neil did. Maybe I'll figure out where
he or William went.
I spent the whole day searching and came up with nothing. No blood, no secret things, no nothing. I'm
getting frustrated and angry. I need to find them. I'll sleep on it and hopefully figure something out
tomorrow.
Middle of the night, I'm locked in the bathroom, huddled in the bathtub with my pen and these notes.
I'm in terrible danger and I don't think I'll last the night. This may be what happened to my brother and
Neil and I have to make sure that there is some evidence left behind for the staff to find.
I woke up to a loud noise just as Neil had. After I shook off my grogginess I put two and two together
and rushed in to the bathroom hoping to find Terry or another member of William's family. The
bathroom was empty and I returned to bed. Before I could fall asleep I heard this weird yipping
noise. Kind of a mix between a dog making noise and a wet gurgle sound. I looked up to see these
crawling shadow things. Very animal-like in appearance but I knew right away they weren't stray dogs
or ordinary creatures.
There was three of them. They were all sitting on the far side of the room by the desk staring at me. I
remember thinking how horrifying it was to see the three sets of eyes glowing. I stared at them for
awhile and they stared back. I'm pretty sure the middle one even smiled at me. As soon as I moved an
inch they all quickly arched up as if preparing to charge me. I stopped moving and they returned to
their sitting position. I remember sitting their for maybe five minutes before I finally decided to try
running again.
I jumped out of my bed and sprinted towards the door. I heard the animal things yelp and run towards
me. The door wouldn't open and in a panic I accidentally flipped on all the lights. I shut my eyes and
curled up in a fetal position, ready for the beasts to attack me. A minute went by and I was still alive
so I opened my eyes. I was in the room alone.
I got up and attempted to walk back to my bed but my legs wouldn't move. It felt like something had
grabbed me by the feat. I looked down to see that my shadow was not my own. It was a weird
elongated figure that had itself clamped around my feet and it's hands were slowly moving up my legs.
I once again looked around and the only thing within my grasp was the light switches so I once again
flicked the switch and I felt the pressure around my legs and feet vanish. I guess it would make sense
for a shadow to need light in order to be tangible.
I checked the door again just to confirm that I was trapped in here. The door didn't budge and I knew I
couldn't go back to sleep. It was at this point that I started to piece my little theory together. Those
animals, that shadow, they were the reasons William and Neil disappeared. Otherworldly beings in
my motel room. Weird, maybe even slightly absurd, but that was my reality.
I believe an hour or so passed by before anything else happened. I spent that hour sitting at the desk
trying to piece together what I had just seen. If my notes seem calm at this point it's only because I had
time to accept this and to accept my fate. My thoughts were broken my another loud thump from
behind me. I turned to see a hazy figure staring at me like those animals. The figure was both like and
unlike the shadow. Not well defined physically except for the eyes. I could easily tell where the eyes
were.
A brief period of time passed where I stared into those eyes and then the hazy being became blurry to
the point where I thought I could see two separate copies of it. Then a loud thump let out and the being
took a step towards me, image as sharp as a razor. It was then that I grabbed the paper and my writing
utensil and locked myself in the bathroom.
I wish I could say I was safe in here but Terry is in the corner. That'd be great except he isn't always
Terry, every once in awhile he turns in to this little girl that I think is covered in blood. Even that
wouldn't be too bad except she does this thing where her face contorts and her mouth opens
impossibly wide and when she thinks I'm not looking she takes a step closer. She's only a step or two
away from the tub now, definitely within arms reach. Somebody please find this and lock this room
up. It's dangerous to sleep in Room 184.
The note ends there.
Like I said, we already found Myles' body. Poor guy. Anyway this should be enough info to shut the
motel down or go public with it or something right? People gotta know that his paranormal stuff is
real. There's all the info I have from working on this case. Good luck guys.
End of Gary Nesbit's interview.
Action Taken: Gary Nesbit is to be killed immediately. His knowledge and personal interest in this
puts him above bribing. Most officials should be able to be bribed. Erase the victims from all
records and eliminate any close ties they may have had. The motel is to be shut down via a
condemn order. This will keep further people form getting involved and study of Room 184 can be
covertly conducted.
Analysis: Multiple entities being involved seems to suggest that Room 184 is a nexus for the
paranormal. Perhaps there is a large amount of P-Particles in the area. There is also speculation
that this was the work of a singular entity that had multiple forms and "standard ghost" abilities.
Research will tell over time.
Case File: Closed.
Hey guys, it's been a week or so since the first part so I am pretty glad to finally get Case File 11 off
my computer. As is usual for me I made a release date and was shat on by the world. I don't actually
deal with stress well so I spent the vast majority of the last week trying to fix what happened in a
rather single minded fervor. The second I knew the issue was resolved is when I started typing this
out again. I suppose all eyes are now on to Case File 12. I'm excited. I now have enough reasons to
never stay at a motel ever again so it's time to ruin something else I may potentially enjoy.
Another thing to note is that Whittaker. I've had several brief conversations with him, basically me
trying to figure what his angle was, learning a bit about him, and then trying to figure out if I believed
him. I'm not sure if I do fully believe him but Tattle seems to be interested in him so that makes me
interested in him. This is also the first time that I've seen a picture in the folder. It was placed right
after Case File 11 so it makes sense that Tattle put it there. The picture.
I've gone almost 24 hours without sleep so...I'm going to read a weeks worth of comments and PMs
and then see if I'm sleepy or not. Stay safe NoSleep, have an awesome day for me.
-Secrets
Case File Letter A: Another Auspicious Anecdote

Case File: This will never come to pass.

Case File Date: Somewhere around 2013, possibly a Tuesday.
Location: Elsewhere.
Subject: Everyone who will never matter.
Entity: Everything.
Secrets is having a bad time but hes almost come around. Let me share another story to pass the time.
Maybe Ill even tell you why he fell silent. Its kind of delicious if you happen to get off on tragedy.
Story Time
College. A place of much curiosity and the occasional lesson learned, both scholastically and
otherwise. Our young protagonist enters the scene now. This man while perfectly normal on the
outside was a sick, sadistic shell of the person he once was on the inside. He had developed horrific
habits and done the Devils work just to appease his nature. Or perhaps to strengthen his nature. Itd
really be an open debate as to why twisted people do the things that they do and I simply have no time
for that in this chapter.
So, this young man was running the gambit on atrocities a human being could do. Murder, torture, and
manipulation were his game by night. No one was truly safe as children, men, and women were
considered prey in equal measure. A scream of variable pitch was still a scream, and young blood
was still blood spilt upon the earth.
This particular week the young man had been on binge of sort, killing those who indulged themselves
just a bit too much. That one girl from the party who had passed out on the couch, the guy in the bar
who gets thrown out after one to many and is set to staggering about his urban surroundings, that girl
from the club experiencing a whole different universe just because of a small strip of paper. Hed
collect them at their weakest and dispose of them in whatever fashion his brain could cook up.
Sometimes a simple slash of the throat and disposal was in order. Sometimes he got creative.
Breaking the bone in the legs so that they could be bent backwards and sewn into the upper back
provided him with several more hours of whatever it was that killing and pain provided.
He had attended yet another party in hopes of finding his next victim. Frat party of some sort,
hooligans and excessive drinking were particularly abundant. He skulked around a bit, making his
rounds and appearing to be quite jovial while in truth he was just looking for someone to show a sign
of weakness. The mark finally made herself known when she stumbled down the stairs and began to
snort amid her laughs as two men picked her back up and refilled her cup with that amber sin. She
was perfect.
He had to play his game carefully though. If too many people saw him close to her then he could
become a suspect when the pretty corpse was found. So he played a game of distance and followed
her for a time when the moment was right. Several cups later and she was even worse for the wear.
He took the initiative and pointed out to a few that she was ready to go home. One misled soul took
this as his chance to get lucky and jumped on the chance to walk her home. Of course our protagonist
had assumed a person like him would be the one to lead her away from the prying eyes of others.
He followed after them further into the city and patiently waited for the right time. When it arrived he
struck fast, a hard blow to the back of the mans cranium and a slam headfirst into the nearest
building. The girl, in all her infinite stupor, could only giggle uncontrollably at the sight she had just
saw. Then he did what he had done so many times in the past. He took the girl beneath one of the many
overpasses in the city and readied his hook, tonights weapon of choice. Our morally deficient
protagonist was just about to carve this girl into a modernist masterpiece when he was tackled to the
ground by an unknown figure. The hook was wrestled from his hand and he found himself pinned to
the ground, head swimming with numerous excuses, each one worse than the last.
Ive been following you for awhile _____ __________. I was hoping to get ahold of you before
more people would hurt but its been a solid year now and youve proven hard to handle.
Our protagonist went limp; he hadnt been as careful and smooth as he had previously thought. This
yet to be introduced man knew his name and had claimed to be following him for at least a year. Any
excuses were unneeded now.
So you found me. You know my name, what Ive been up to, and all that jazz so theres no reason for
me to make excuses. If youre going to kill me or arrest me do it quick otherwise Im pretty sure Im
going to gut you and try to hide.
But you cant hide _____, not with that nature of yours. Well, not yours per say but I think you know
what Im getting at. Youll actually have to kill again rather soon.
The protagonists chest tightened and his heart jumped a bit. His thoughts were a muddled mix of
surprise that someone could know so much about him, joy that he could possibly be fixed, and an
alien rage that wanted to know if the hook could be inserted into one eye socket and curved to come
out the other.
We were friends once, you and I, but I had to move far away because of something dark hidden
within the house we often shared. That same dark thing is what is wrong with you and my employers
would gladly fix you. All you need to do is come with me and after its all done I do hope youll
consider their offer.
At that exact moment two best friends from long ago were reunited and the Unknown was there to see
it.
Alright, I accept. But make sure to keep me restrained or this hook is probably going through your
head at some point tonight.
Noted.
There you have it curious reader. A continuing tale of two people you know little about. What about
Tattle? What about Secrets? What about all the paranormal happenings that youve refused to explain
to us? you may be asking. In due time dear friends.
Oh yes, and that juicy Secrets gossip I promised? Matters of the heart are to blame for his absence but
hes nearly pieced himself together once again. I swear, just remove loved ones from your life and
you'd be so much more happy. Have a preemptive Welcome Back from good ole Tattle.
Edit: The ever elusive Secrets here. Was going to post Twelve but saw that Tattle beat me to posting
and triggered that whole 24 hour wait thing. Feverish and at work at the time of this statement but I'll
do my best to check up on NoSleep over the day.
Case File #12 Vivisection 89

Case File: 089-162

Case File Date: 03/18/1997
Location: Undisclosed Research Facility
Subject: Various People
Entity: The Winged Being
The notes of the assistant to this vivisection.
I believe I've committed a sin today. In medical college we studied a fair bit of history. What comes
to mind right now are the vivisections of animals that took place in Europe during the 17th Century
and the torture committed during World War II in the name of science. Even now the Jade Dragon are
committing some horrible crimes against the genetic structure of humanity all in an attempt to get an
edge. Do a little horror to do a lot of good. It sounds all right to many in theory but I do not know if I
can condone what I have done.
As for an actual report as to what happened I will try my best to speak from my head and not my
heart. The Organization has been tracking these Winged Beings for several years now. The beings are
quite good at not being seen when they don't want to and we believe they have a sort of selective
camouflage. With the proper tools we were able to track them more easily in an attempt to catch one
and study it.
This particular Winged Being had been staying in the Chicago area, never straying too far from the
city. We tracked it for several months to gauge its speed. The Winged Being could move incredibly
fast and for the most part we would never have been able to catch it. Luckily it always seemed to stop
at the scene of an accident, fire, robbery, etc. We decided that the best way to catch it was when it
decided to stop at one of those incidents. A small fleet of vans and trucks lined with our instruments
to track it were let loose on Chicago.
Our first incident with The Winged Being took place downtown. Some girl took a wrong turn and
ended up in an alley she should never have been in. Several men followed her in and made the
attempt to take her possessions and possibly her life. The Winged Being made it to the alley and I had
the fortune of being the first one on the scene. All I saw of it was a flash of white wings and it was off
in a white blur. I did notice at the time that it appeared to give off a light of its own though. We talked
with the girl and she told us about the mugging and how The Winged Being attacked the muggers and
saved her. I remember her calling it a 'Guardian Angel'.
The next time we came across The Winged Being was at a car accident. A man was trapped in his
vehicle and there was a chance the car could ignite. Bystanders told us that there was a blur and then
a humanoid figure with wings pried open the vehicle and pulled the man out. It then disappeared as
quickly as it had came.
This happened over and over again. We'd get to an incident and The Winged Being had already saved
all those involved. I was even starting to question if we should stop it at all. I know the higher ups
wanted it studied but it was doing so much good for the area.
Finally we caught it. I wasn't out chasing it that day so I'd only heard rumors as to how it was caught.
A couple junior researchers were throwing the word "bait" around though so I now have my
suspicions. I went over to Artifacts and talked with Ben a bit. Hes a silly fellow due to his unique
condition but I know he shares my values or at least understands them. He assured me that whats
done is done and I might as well learn from this. Even suspecting dirty tactics I still had my duty to
attend the vivisection and see what could be learned.
Dr. Marlowe met me outside of the operation theatre, giddy at the prospect of learning something new.
He was both an inspiring and disturbing man. I've always found his passion for knowledge to be his
greatest feature. If only he wasn't so cruel in his ways to gain it.
We suited up and were sterilized as to avoid contaminating The Winged Being. I remember that when
I entered the room I was both awestruck and terrified of what I saw in front of me. The Winged Being
was restrained with heavy metal clamps but was not fighting against its restraints. Its wings were
spread out as far as they could be and pinned down by metal stakes.
The Winged Beings appearance was very humanlike and not humanlike all the same. It had a bald
human head with golden eyes but no nose, mouth or ears. The bone structure appeared to be there for
them but these were missing all the same. The rest of its body was also human besides the fact that it
was eight feet tall and sturdier than the normal human.
The wings reminded me of a golden hawk or eagle and were feathered appropriately. They connected
to The Winged Being with bone and ligaments that connected to the shoulder blades. If you want the
exact wingspan then you can read Dr. Marlowes report but it was massive, certainly more than
sufficient for it to fly.
The eyes held intelligence in them, though with what we had seen while tracking The Winged Being
this was more of a given than a new discovery. The sentience and will to do something morally good
was something I had already acknowledged.
Dr. Marlowe started the vivisection at this point with a cut across the chest but mere seconds after he
made the cut some sort of steam started to raise from the wounds and within seconds it had closed up.
There wasnt even a scar to show that any damage had been done. Dr. Marlowe made several more
cuts along various parts of The Winged Beings body and met with the same result.
I remember Dr. Marlowes body tense up a bit and he begun to pace. This was a pretty common habit
of his when he started to process the problem and information in front of him. I could hear him
muttering as well and the bits that I remember catching were biblicalbeing, cut
mortal, existence of God?. I was still trying to piece together those bits of information when
Dr. Marlowe grabbed a hacksaw from the instrument table and started cutting into The Beings wings,
the part of tendon and bone that connected to the back to be precise. Instead of healing like the
previous cuts some sort of blood spurted out of the wounds. It seemed to be a bit more watery than
our blood and the shade of it was a much lighter shade of red as well.
After removing the wings Dr. Marlowe made another attempt to make a cut upon the Beings torso and
this time it did not steam and it did not heal. Removing the wings had removed the healing factor. The
Being looked over to me almost like it was gauging my worth or morality if that makes any sense.
After a few minutes of it staring at me and Dr. Marlowe making his cuts it finally closed its eyes and
did not open them again. Looking back on it I still wonder why it did this, as The Winged Being
remained alive for almost a whole hour after that moment.
We learned more things about The Winged Being after taking it apart. The majority of the bones were
reinforced on the outside through some means I know not the details of while the inside was hollow.
This gave the being a strong bone structure while reducing overall weight. It also lacked some
common organs such as a stomach, kidneys, and liver while it still had a simple heart and pair of
lungs. Those were rather human like although they werent quite as efficient as a humans.
At that point it had gotten late and much of the staff had left but Dr. Marlowe wanted to carry on
through the night. I bade him farewell and returned home to write this report, which was initially
going to be submitted as my portion of the study. Im not going to do that now. Instead I will send a
less inspired version of this report and keep this for myself. It is clear to me now that there is more
going on in Organization 440 than I wanted to believe. I have lost my faith that we are still on the right
path. From now on I plan to keep a journal of all cases and projects that I work on so that I may
always remember how I felt fresh from the horror but I cant bring myself to leave quite yet, not if I
can prevent some bad from happening. So with a heavy heart I will go to bed now, for I believe that
today I killed an angel.
-Vivisection 89 Assistant Argus Hastings
Employment: Terminated.
Secrets here again. Been awhile I suppose. I've moved back to my hometown once again and tons of
stuff happened. None of it was spooky stuff, though sometimes I wish that my problems were more
supernatural than mundane. Regardless, I've put the stuff that has happened since October behind me
and am in no way looking for or needing comforting about it. Let's just get back to The Case Files and
see what happens.
As for this file, I've noticed that the File number is 089. I'm thinking Tattle must have moved this file
up since so many people were asking about entities that weren't strictly evil. It's nice to know the guy
listens to the stuff you say. I'm not going to take up anymore space up here so see you guys in the
comments. Stay safe NoSleep, the world is a dangerous enough place without the monsters.
-Secrets
Most Grotesque Story of 2013
Hunger

wdalphin writing as TwilightSparrow

Winner - Most Grotesque Story of 2013, Honorable Mention - October 2013 Monthly Contest

As a doctor, Im bound by doctor-patient privilege to not disclose the specifics of what Im about to
tell you. But as a human being, I feel compelled to share. This is, without a doubt, the most horrific
story I've ever had the displeasure of being a part of.
It was 2009, and my schedule that day was light. I was just finishing up my lunch when I got a call
from a friend and colleague who had his own practice in the same building as me. Sometimes we
would send work each others way when we knew the other could use it. I was a bit elated at the
prospect of him calling me because I had just been going over my books and stressing a bit.
Are you busy right now? Id like to send someone up to you, he said.
No, my afternoon is barren. What are the details?
Its a walk-in. From the look of it, an eating disorder. Her mother is concerned.
Eating disorder. Those can be unpleasant. Id actually had a bulimic throw up in my office once when
I stepped out momentarily to check my calendar. Still, I needed the work.
Alright, send her up.
I tried to tidy up my desk to make my office look more presentable and professional while I waited.
Ten minutes ticked by and no patient showed up, so I stepped out to go looking for her. When I got to
the hall, there was a small contingent of people standing around the elevator. They were talking
amongst themselves.
Whats going on? I asked.
The elevators broke, someone said.
Shit, I bet shes on there, I thought.
What floor is it stuck on?
The tenth and eleventh.
Yeah, that would be about right. My colleagues office was on the tenth, three floors down. I knew
from experience that it could be anywhere up to an hour before they got the elevator working again. I
hoped she wasnt claustrophobic. Returning to my office, I called downstairs.
Whats up? my colleague asked after picking up.
Shes stuck in the elevator.
He laughed. Really? Poor thing.
Whats her name?
Amelia. he paused. Amelia D-something.
Alright, thanks. If you got any impressions on her from your brief visit, maybe you can share them
later, over drinks?
Sure, I--
Dont tell me. I want to form my own opinion first.
Okay.
True to form, an hour and ten minutes later, I heard a loud cheer from the hallway, indicating the
elevator had started working again.
I should go make sure shes alright, I thought to myself, and went out to join the throng of people
standing around in the hallway.
There were a lot more people by then, and I couldnt make my way to the elevator doors or even see
them from where I was, but I could hear it when the elevator dinged indicating it was stopping on our
floor and the rolling mechanical sound of the doors opening.
There was a loud gasp from the crowd of people, followed by a lot of jabbering.
Holy shit! someone said quite loudly.
People started hustling away from from the elevator, shoving past me. I struggled against the tide and
made my way to where a number of people were standing around, staring into the elevator cab. As I
approached, I could smell this stench... it was like stumbling into the apartment of a recluse who
hadnt come out or bathed for years. It rolled like a wave out of the elevator and cascaded over
everyone in the hallway. A young man in a business suit who looked dressed for an interview was
covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I skirted around him to see into the elevator.
The woman in the elevator was not at all what I was expecting. Massively obese, she looked like she
weighed somewhere around 500-600 lbs. Her face was so puffed up, her eyes were barely visible,
just two dark dots above her cheeks. She had frizzed-out, brown hair that still had curlers in it. The
notion that I was smelling a recluse seemed all the more plausible at the sight of her.
Her mouth was covered with what looked like greasy barbecue sauce. There was even some sort of
gristle at the corners of her lips. There was more of it all over her hands and wiped down the front of
her shirt. It looked like she had come straight from an all-you-can-eat rib buffet. Clenched tightly in
one of her hands was a big, black trash bag that sagged full of something that seemed to slosh around
inside it. The smell coming out of it was nauseating.
The woman stepped out of the elevator, her eyes and nose runny with tears and mucous. I stepped
forward while everyone else backed away, horrified.
Amelia? I asked her.
She looked at me through her beady, little piggy eyes, her cheeks covered with that vile, red gunk and
streaking with tears and opened her mouth. For about three seconds, I had the horrible notion that she
was going to vomit an entire barbecue on me.
I... I was hungry, she stuttered with a thick, Southern accent.
The young man in the suit heaved involuntarily at the smell of her breath and then strode away, trying
to maintain his demeanor.
Thats okay, I said, reaching out to help her. Do you want to talk about it in my office?
Seeing me reach out to her, she clenched her black trash bag tightly and hugged it to her chest. The
contents of it made a sickening squish sound. I could taste my own lunch in the back of my throat.
Is that, yours? I asked. Im not going to take it.
She started sobbing. This horrible, almost hob-like squeal of a sob. Honestly, I didnt want to touch
her. I wanted to go back into my office, lock the door and pretend I was glad my afternoon was
completely empty. The smell wafting off her and off that bag of spoils was going to be permeating
every crevice of my office for days, I just knew it. Still, this was a human being that had come seeking
my help, and I was not about to turn her away.
My office is right down the hall. Why dont you come with me? I started walking. In my head, I
said, If she doesnt come with me, fuck it. She can go back to her apartment thats probably filled with
roaches and feces and who knows what other ungodly things, and Ill find someone else to help.
But she followed me, lumbering on legs that stretched the limits of the sweatpants she had on. I held
the door open for her and she waddled in, kneading the contents of that trash bag in her thick sausage
fingers, making it belch and splurch. She stopped and just stood there in the middle of my office.
The elev-v-vator got st-stuck, she mumbled.
Yes, Im sorry about that. I hope you were all right. Thank goodness you brought something to eat,
yes?
She started crying again, squeezing her trash bag and I was afraid it was going to explode and leave
god knows what all over my office floor. She nodded as her face turned red and tears poured out of
seemingly every pore of her head.
I went and got her a box of tissues and handed her a couple. She tried to take them while still holding
onto the bag with both hands.
Would you like me to hold that? I offered, praying shed say no.
She shook her head.
What do you have in there? I finally decided to ask.
She huffed and snorted, trying to inhale all the fluid back into her face. Using one of the tissues, she
mopped her eyes and mouth, getting blotchy red smears all over the place.
L-l-left... leftovers... she stuttered, then her chest started heaving and she threw her head back and
started bawling again. Her face was like a fountain. She was so utterly miserable, and I really started
to feel bad for her.
Look, I said, getting stuck in that elevator was obviously pretty traumatic.
Her wailing hit a crescendo.
So why dont we postpone things until youve calmed down a bit.
She struggled through her sobbing, Y-you wanna m-m-meet with me?
Well, yes... but not today. Why dont you go home and try to relax. I dont think youre in the right
frame of mind right now to talk. But I want to help you. So lets schedule an appointment for later this
week. How does that sound?
I walked back to my desk and got out one of my cards. Her mouth was quivering and she looked ready
to collapse into a pile of screaming phlegm, but she was calming down a bit, just nodding more than
anything, and she took my card with the same sticky fingers holding several drippy tissues.
Th-thank you. she said quietly. I couldnt read her face at all. Her features were so red and swollen
and wet that she seemed almost blank and expressionless.
Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby? I asked, In case something happens with the
elevator again? It should be alright, but I dont want you to be nervous.
She shook her head. That dont s-seem like a g-g-good idea.
Okay.
And with that, she turned around and waddled out of my office, slowly, sobbing slightly every now
and then. With her went that sloshy, black trashbag and with them both went that putrid aroma of filth
and squalor. I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door click shut.
She never called me back.
It was a week later that I finally got around to having drinks with my colleague from downstairs. We
were relaxing, having a couple beers, and I suddenly remembered her.
Oh, thanks by the way. I said.
For what?
For Amelia.
Who?
Amelia. Eating disorder? Last week you sent her up to me, remember?
Oh, right. he sipped his beer. The one who got stuck in the elevator. How did that go?
She was a wreck. I said. Sobbing and practically hysterical. I talked her into rescheduling, but she
hasnt called me to make an appointment.
Did you talk to her mother?
No, I didnt get any information from her. I gave her my card.
What did you think? he asked.
Classic food dependency. I said. Definitely a binge eater. Her face was just all--
No, not the mother, I mean Amelia.
What?
What did you think of Amelia? he said again.
Im telling you what I thought.
Amelia, the scrawny twelve year-old girl, you think is a binge eater?
What? No, thats not--
And then it hit me.
Was her mother with her?
Yeah, I sent them both up to you.
They were in the elevator together?
He looked at me, and the same dawning realization came over his own face.
Needless to say, she never rescheduled. Amelia D-something. Nor did her mother: the nameless,
obese woman I met that day at the elevator, smelling like death, covered in gore and carrying her trash
bag of sloshing leftovers.
Broodmother

KillaStorm1000

Runner Up - Most Grotesque Story of 2013

My granddad was the policeman of this town back from the 1950s to the 1970s, a small town near
Sydney, one of the towns only policemen. Of course, being the policeman a small town had its perks.
There were no murders in his time as a policeman and no real drama. He always used to tell us the
same stories of any semi-interesting things in his 25 years of service, but unfortunately, he passed
away early last year from health complications.
Some of his old declassified police documents were still in our attic and I looked at them sometimes
when I couldn't sleep. Mostly small things such as domestic abuse and drink driving, but sometimes
after a bit of sifting through the boring stuff I'd find something interesting.
That was, until I found this, I never searched through them again after I found this, but I thought you
guys would be interested in it.
POLICE DOCUMENT:
Name: Clarice Maryweather
DOB: 19th of August 1950
DOD: 8th of February 1971
Articles Found At Scene:
Journal Entries by Clarice.
9 minutes of video footage.
1st of January 1971:
Everyone else is out partying, friends, fun, NEW YEARS! But not me, I never get invited, I'm always
left alone, some people say I'm weird, strange, I just ignore them, they'll never know my love. Who
needs human, emotional, betraying friends? I have everything and everyone I love right here.
2nd of January 1971:
I can't believe it. I've waited years for this moment, I went over to Bubs cage and there it was, an
amazingly constructed beauty of nature, an eggsack. I saw Bubs sitting next to a freshly laid eggsack,
she had eaten her mate like spiders do. I loved Bubs, I loved her so much, but she couldn't get in the
way of my dreams. I needed my babies, MY babies. I gingerly picked her up as I had hundreds of
times before, a very large spider she was, beautiful. In a state of sadness I shoved Bubs into my
mouth, felt as she squirmed around my gums and tickled the roof of my mouth for a few minutes. There
was maybe 5 minutes of crunching, and then it was all over.
5th of January 1971:
Days of sadness went by for my lost best friend. But I had to put that behind me, focus on my real
goal. I eyed down the eggsack for days on end, a spherical construct with about an inch of diameter. It
hadn't begun squirming yet like I've read in the books. I sat next to it all day, petting the eggsack,
imagining the voices of thousands of tiny little spider children, all inside of me.
11th of January 1971:
BUBS EGGSACK IS MOVING!
14th of January 1971:
By now the eggsack is squirming, as if the spiders hearts are beating in unison. I knew this was time,
this was when I had to do it. I cut the eggsack in half, unfortunately killing some of my beautiful
babies but it was all for a good cause. The next part was so empowering, so amazing to finally
achieve after years of waiting. I put half of the eggsack in my mouth and swallowed. I could feel
babies squirming around in my mouth but I washed them down with water. The other half I put in
wherever I could on my body, I fitted them in my ears, my nostrils, the tear ducts of my eyes, my
genitals, anywhere. Now all I had to do was wait.
16th of January 1971:
I can't feel anything, I fear my babies might be dead.
19th of January 1971:
I can feel them! Moving slowly but surely, a slight itching feeling that cannot be scratched in my
insides, it was amazing, knowing that I was now a broodmother.
22nd of January 1971:
I can feel them even more, their scuttling slightly more apparent day by day. If all is deadly silent, I
swear I can even hear their angelic voices calling to me, calling to me. Their broodmother.
27th of January 1971:
My babies were getting stronger, I can feel it. In my veins that carry my blood, under my very skin.
But feeling them is nothing. Whenever I look at my skin I see my babies thriving, I can see their legs
and bodies moving underneath my skin! I had begun to feel them in my skull and in my eyes and ears, I
didn't do anything to stop them, I had to be the best mum they could ever want.
29th of January 1971:
The pressure I feel under my skin is immeasurable. I feel sharp pains all over my body. The tickling
scuttling feeling I felt earlier has turned to scratches and sharp pin pricks of their teeth. My babies are
teething! But no, that wasn't even the best part, no where near. When I looked in the mirror I saw
something utterly breath taking. When I focused on my eyes, I could see them. I could see my little
babies looking through my pupil, me staring at them, them staring back at me. They were beautiful.
1st of February 1971:
I have begun to eat less and less, the pain has turned into convulsions in my body. I can feel my babies
eating away my muscles and scraping away at my bones, pain pulsating through my head and spinal
column. I was going to be a great mum, I knew it.
2nd of February 1971:
My babies had found their way to my eardrums and have burst one of them. I'm crying, not from pain,
but from sadness. I could no longer hear my little babies as well as I need to, no longer tend to their
little shrieks of pain and excitement as they moved freely throughout my body.
3rd of February 1971:
My other eardrum couldn't stand the pressure of parenthood, it collapsed while I was sleeping.
4th of February 1971:
Convulsions turned to seizures as my babies became strong enough to take control of my body.
Whenever I ate anything I instantly threw it back up. I understand, my babies are too big and strong for
my food now, they have to start to eat me. It's for the best, for them.
5th of February 1971:
Along with the scratching and pounding all over my body, in my head, it has also spread to my eyes.
The placid spiders that I saw last time I looked in the mirror are gone. Replaced by raving adolescent
spiders frantically scratching with their legs against the workings of my inner eye. Today I also made
sure to secure my house, I had to make sure my babies wouldn't leave me after I'm gone.
6th of Feburary 1971:
My vision started faltering this morning, I saw dark splotches in my normally perfect vision. I knew
what my babies were doing, destroying my eyes. I cried all day again as I realised what this meant,
that I wouldn't be able to see my babies anymore, I could only feel them. Feel them no longer as a part
of me but as their own living entities.
7th of February 1971:
Soon.
9 minutes of 8mm film were found at the scene, where Miss Maryweather filmed her last moments:
8th of February 1971:
Face up to the camera, Miss Maryweathers' face is an extremely pale shade of white and her eyes are
indistinguishable black and red holes with dozens of spiders steadily flowing in and out. She then sits
on a chair in front of the camera.
It's happening, I can feel it. They're finally ready to burst.
The film continues to show the rapid convulsions of her skin, as spiders move up and down her limbs
and all around inside her body. Slowly, chunks are eaten out of her flesh and hundreds of spiders flow
out of her torso. Miss Maryweather is seen laughing maniacally while blood and spiders are spewing
out of her torso. Until her final abrupt moments, where she seems to switch off instantaneously. In a
final exhalation of air and bile, spiders are vomited from her mouth into the room. The rest of the film
shows a lifeless Miss Maryweather, with spiders starting to eat her flesh.
Concern was expressed about Miss Maryweathers home on the 22nd of February, neighbours
reported that there was a terrible smell coming from her house. Police investigators broke down her
door after there was no answer. Hundreds of fully grown spider carcasses completely engulfed Miss
Maryweather's skeleton up to her skull. The spiders had presumably starved to death after completely
consuming Miss Maryweather. Suicide, no charges pressed.
Best Monthly Contest Winner of 2013
The Spire in the Woods

TheBoyInTheClock

Winner - Best Monthly Contest Winner of 2013, Winner - October 2013 Monthly Contest

Part 1

Robert Edward Kennan killed himself in the Fall of 1999. I wasnt there but its where my story
begins. It begins with Rob, 17 years old, sitting in a burning car in the middle of a crowded parking
lot one Monday night in October. He burned for nearly four hours before the police let the firemen
near enough to put out the flames and pull out his body.
I didnt know him. Not really. We lived in a small town. I knew him by sight, knew his name, but I
doubt Id ever exchanged more than a few perfunctory words with him. It makes me feel funny talking
about him, like Im not justified doing it, but if Im going to tell you about the Spire, its unavoidable.
I have to tell you about Robert Edward Kennan and how the suicide notes he left behind tangled my
life up with his.
Back then, we both lived in a sleepy town in New England, a little over an hour northwest of Boston,
just across the New Hampshire border. Its the sort of place thats nice to live, if youre the sort of
person that doesnt like doing very much. Theres really only three reasons anyone ever steps foot in
my hometown. The first is that theyre on their way to Nashua, the shopping Mecca of the northeast.
The second would be the ice cream. We have a dairy farm where they sell the worlds best ice cream.
Thirty flavors, all of it made right there on the premises. And the third is because they bought one of
those Haunted New England books.
If you buy one, youll find our town in there twice. The first entry will likely be the story of how our
high school, which is one of the ten oldest in the country, came to have the Silver Specter as its
mascot. I always thought that the Specter was a wonderful mascot. Much more interesting than the
Fighting (fill in the cat species here) everyone else seems saddled with, and it reflected how
steeped in folklore rural New England once was.
Way back in the 1880s there was a terrible blizzard. A proper noreaster. It dumped several feet of
snow across the whole region. There were many, many casualties, mostly the very young and very old
stuck in their homes without heat. One of the exceptions, who was neither very young nor very old,
was Jennifer Wilkins. She was a teacher, trapped in the school when the blizzard hit.
What little food there was in the school house couldnt have lasted more than two days, and folks say
by the fifth, she had resorted to boiling her boots, to soften up the leather for eating. It was two weeks
before anyone was able to reach her. They found her, body thin as a matchstick, wrapped up in a gray
wool blanket. If only theyd had paste in those days, she might have made it.
That old school house is now our town rec center. Supposedly, old Jenny still haunts its halls,
wrapped in that gray wool blanket, her hollow, emaciated visage searching in vain for something to
eat. I was there alone once, up in the rec centers attic, when I was eight or nine. This was before I
knew the origin story of our high school mascot, but even still, it was creepy. It was August, and I had
snuck away from the rest of the summer reading program I was in. The attic was filled with these
strange drafts, hot and humid mostly, but step in the wrong spot and you could practically see your
breath. I told my mom about it, and she was the one who told me about Jenny.
The second story is that of the Blood cemetery. They call it the Blood Cemetery (its real name is the
Pine Hill Cemetery) because its supposedly haunted by Abel Blood and his family.
The story says Abel Blood lived in the center of what is now the cemetery back when it was
farmland. He returned from the fields early one day to find his wife in bed with another man a tall,
dark-haired stranger. Abel was stunned. How could Mrs. Blood, a good Christian woman, do such a
thing? Obviously this scoundrel was forcing himself on his wife!
Abel retrieved his pitchfork and charged back into the house, his mind full of vengeance. But as he
drew near, he heard his wife mid-coitus proclaim her love for the black-haired stranger, and
with a note of satisfaction to her call that Abel had never heard before. Mr. Blood saw red.
He burst into the room, pitchfork held aloft, and ran them through. Over and over, he plunged the fork
into their tangled bodies, before finally leaving them pinned, one on top of the other, to the bed
beneath them. Looking at the bloody mess hed made, Abel found his rage had not diminished. This
seemed curious to Abel but it dawned on him why when he spied a picture of his family on the
mantel. His children didnt look anything like him, nor like their mother. They were all exceptionally
tall, with full heads of somewhat greasy black hair.
Abel waited, standing in the puddle of blood that had only moments ago been coursing through Mrs.
Blood and her lover, and stewed in his ever deepening anger. He was a cuckold. He had no heir. Hed
been raising another mans children. A man who had been bedding Abels wife. For years. Abel
waited and stewed for several hours until his four children arrived home from school.
They say his sons and eldest daughter put up a noble fight, but they were children fighting a grown
man whose muscles had been hardened by a lifetime of farm labor. Only Abels youngest daughter,
barely 5 years old, made it out of the house alive. She sprinted as fast as her little legs could carry her
in a desperate attempt to reach her neighbors. But even with her head start her little legs were no
match for her dads powerful strides. Just as she scrambled up over the stone wall separating their
farm from the Hollises, Abel picked up one of the stones and smashed it down on her head.
These days, if you go there, right at the edge of the cemetery youll see this curve full of skid marks.
People say that theyre caused by cars swerving to avoid an oddly dressed little girl who runs out into
the street each night. Back home, we had a rite of passage. As soon as you or one of your friends were
old enough to drive, you had to trespass into the Blood Cemetery at night and make a rubbing of the
Blood Familys gravestones. I did it. And you should feel free to, but be prepared to be disappointed
because none of the Bloods died on the same date.
A lot of ghost stories are like that. Doesnt mean theyre not fun, but what you come to realize as you
get older is that theyre mostly a form of social control. Jennifer Wilkins really did die a horrible
death, but the story of Abel Blood is nothing but a fantasy story with a rather dark, misogynistic
message: cheat on your husband and hell kill you.
I loved ghost stories growing up. Loved them. Thats what gave me my not-entirely-unearned
reputation as the spooky kid. It was the reason that about a month after he died, Rob Kennans
suicide note wound up in my lap. There, buried in the middle of apologies to his family and clear
evidence of severe depression, was my first push towards the Spire in the Woods, the only ghost story
I truly believe.
In 1999, I was a sophomore in high school. Rob was a senior. He wasnt what youd call real
popular. Part of it was that he wasnt born in my hometown, but moved there in the seventh grade,
right when kids are at their cruelest. The first I ever heard of him was a year later. There was a rumor
floating around that he and a mentally handicapped girl were found naked in the woods together. The
implication being that hed tricked her into having sex with him. A couple of years later, I heard
another, that his parents were forced to move because Rob had been molested by their old priest
down in Amherst.
To the best of my knowledge these stories are entirely untrue, and Im deeply ashamed to admit that
when I was in the sixth grade, I did gleefully repeat that first one. I found it funny at the time. The
second I also repeated. Just not as glibly. I whispered it to my friends, adopting a sage tone and
offering it as an explanation for why the first rumor was probably true. Now, though, I see them for
what they were: nasty, false bits of gossip that may have contributed to a boy killing himself.
The rumors followed Rob everywhere. He was a quiet kid. By all accounts very bright and kind. And
I want to be clear here, he did have people who cared about him. Friends. Not many, and maybe they
werent too popular either, but they were there and they were nice guys. One of them was my ride to
school, Nathan Fletch Fletcher.
Fletch and I lived in the same neighborhood. We were never all that close, but we got along well
enough. He was a lovable goofball, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but it never got
him down. He had this grin that stretched from ear to ear, and he always managed to get me excited
about his latest musical discovery or restoration project.
Fletch used to buy old cars, fix them up, and resell them. While it helped pad his savings for college,
it also meant he was stuck driving whatever hunk of junk he hadnt managed to fix up enough to sell
yet. That year, Fletch was driving a 1984 Honda Civic.
I still hate that car.
One Tuesday morning in October, Fletchs rust-bucket didnt show up in my driveway like it usually
did. Instead his dad, an army officer nowhere near as affable as his son, was waiting for me. I liked
Mr. Fletcher fine; he was a good if not particularly affectionate father to his boys and a
respectful neighbor, but his presence in my driveway was odd, especially since I could see that Fletch
wasnt in the car.
No one could have made Rob Kennans suicide pleasant news, but the dry facts as Mr. Fletcher laid
them out, gave the whole thing a very cold, clinical feel that added to my discomfort. His son had
received a letter that Rob had hand-delivered. Fletch wasnt home when Rob dropped it off, so he
didnt open it until that night, around 9:45 or so. Upon reading the letter, Fletch went white as a ghost
and tore out of the house without permission. He raced to (Im going to omit this detail just know
its the location that Rob killed himself), but when he arrived, the car was already burning.
Apparently, the letter was a suicide note. Nathan was upset and wouldnt be coming to school that
day. It didnt occur to them to call me and tell me to take the bus.
I found myself resenting Mr. Fletcher. I know now, as an adult, that he loved Nate, and, truth be told, I
knew it then too, but he seemed so damn callous talking about a friend of his son burning to death.
And the way he apologized for Fletch not being there felt like he was implying that being too upset for
school was unmanly.
I got to school and found it changed. Compared to the day before, it was an alien landscape. It
reminded me of Tartaros in Greek mythology: a bunch of people, milling about, a vacant and lost look
in their eyes, unsure of what to do, what to say to one another. Friends clustered, silently, in small
groups. It was like Robs funeral was being held in the hallways.
Classes werent cancelled but nothing was done. Mainly the teachers made us aware of special
counseling being offered for anyone more closely affected and told us that we could come to them if
we ever needed to. I recall specifically my study hall teacher, normally a very soft-spoken man,
banging his hand on his desk and swearing that it was completely fucking unnecessary! Adding a
moment later that no one needs to fucking do that. No one.
We, all of us, drifted through the day in a haze. Youd hug your friends and ask them how they were
holding up, or how well they knew Rob. Youd hear about who was there that night at (the omitted
location was a popular teen hangout). And you heard about the cops that could have saved him but
didnt.
I mentioned earlier that Rob Kennan was left in his burning car for four hours. This is not an
exaggeration. It was four hours. Later reports said less time had passed, but Fletch was there,
screaming himself hoarse. Screaming at cops and firemen and anyone who would listen that that was
his friend in there and he was dying. It was four hours.
Being teenagers, we were quick to question the actions of the police, but I now believe that, while
their delay proved to be without merit, they made the best decision they could have with the
information available to them. Rob hadnt lit himself on fire to be dramatic. He didnt intend for there
to be a fire at all. Rob had wanted to shoot himself but couldnt acquire a gun, so he built one.
Back then, in the 90s, in a pre 9-11 world, terrorism wasnt part of the zeitgeist. It was bad,
absolutely terrible, and we knew it. Wed had Timothy McVeigh and the failed bombing of the Twin
Towers, but we hadnt entered into the Neo-McCarthyism that marked much of the early 2000s, where
the mere whisper of the word could get you thrown off an airline or placed on an FBI watchlist. And
there was a certain cach, a mystique that some of the equipment and ideas that surrounded terrorism
carried in the imaginations of adolescent boys, which is probably why Rob Kennan, like virtually
every other guy I knew growing up, had copies of the Anarchist Cookbook and the Terrorists
Handbook* saved to a 3.5 floppy disk that he had stashed in his room.
When he failed to get a gun, he built one. Im a little wary to Google it, but if my memory serves me,
the instructions for it were listed in one of those text files as the home-brew blast cannon.** Robs
blast cannon consisted of little more than a lead pipe capped on one end and filled with gunpowder
and bits of metal. It did the trick, but it also launched burning gunpowder all over the interior of his
car.
Some of the people at the scene thought they had seen someone else in the car with Rob, a girl, and
relayed this information to officer McCullough who was the first emergency responder to arrive.
Officer McCullough didnt see anyone else in the car. What he did see, though, was a burning car, a
crowd of teenagers who all reported having heard an explosion, and the lead pipe that had rolled out
of Robs unconscious hand and onto the passengers side of the floor.
Terrorism may not have been a big part of the zeitgeist at the time, but school shootings were. The
Columbine massacre had happened only 6 months prior, and Officer McCullough was looking at a
fairly typical teen loner, reports of an explosion, and what very well could have been an undetonated
pipe bomb still in the burning car. He made a tough call. It may have cost Rob Kennan his life, but,
then again, he might already have been dead. You have to ask yourself, about what that officer did:
was it worth risking more lives to find out?
I remember thinking that Officer McCullough, at that point only known to me as the cop who always
gave kids a hard time for riding their bikes without a helmet, was a bastard. And maybe he was a
bastard, but if he was, it wasnt because of this. He couldnt risk more lives. Besides, whether or not
it was a suicide, if there had been a second person in the car, where the hell was she?
Nobody who knew Robert Edward Kennan at all even people like me who barely knew him
believed for a second that he was out to kill a whole bunch of people. But there was something else
that could have been going onRob had a crush on a girl that bordered on obsession. It had lasted
years and only seemed to be getting worse.
The girl in question, Alina, worked at (omitted location), and Rob would go out of his way to stand in
her line or linger in the parking lot after-hours to try to speak with her as she was heading home.
Everyone immediately wondered if the mystery girl in the fire had been Alina. Did he pull her into his
car to once more profess his love for her, and, unable to handle another rejection, take his own life
before her eyes? Or, God forbid, try to take Alina with him?
He did not. She was quickly found around the corner, bawling her eyes out. She didnt know what
was going on, but she assumed she must be at the center of it, that either he had tried to kill her, or he
had killed himself because he couldnt stand to live without her. She was inconsolable but,
physically, completely unscathed.
No mystery woman was ever found. No second bomb ever exploded. No accomplices ever turned
up. I guess we all assumed that those eyewitnesses were mistaken. That the smoke and the flames
played a trick on their eyes. We were wrong.
Fletch wasnt in school for the rest of that week and I didnt see him around the neighborhood either. I
hate to admit it, but it was sort of a relief. I had no idea what I was going to say to him. What do you
really say to someone whose friend has just killed himself?
In the weeks that followed, a new form of gossip slowly crept into the hallways of the school. The
special counseling held in the cafeteria every morning before homeroom was supposed to be a safe
space, where anyone could share their feelings without fear of judgment and be secure in the
knowledge that it would go no further. So naturally, it was all anyone wanted to talk about.
There was a strong backlash against the kids that the other students didnt feel deserved to be there.
People who presented themselves as having been very close with Rob, but who in truth rarely spoke
with him. Several of my close friends had been at (omitted) that night, they had watched Rob burn,
seen him die and, although they were deeply affected, they werent even entirely comfortable being
there amongst his handful of close friends and, of course, Alina.
I felt terrible for Alina Aminev. Sitting there in the cafeteria, surrounded by Robs grieving friends,
listening to everyone tiptoe around blaming her...they never came out and said it, but theyd talk about
how girls wouldnt give him the time of day. How someone had recently ripped out his heart.
And when the counselor spoke about how challenging it can be to cope with the insensitivity of other
teens, many in the room cast sidelong glances in her direction, waiting for her reaction before adding
in their own two cents.
The year before Robs death, Alina had suddenly found herself with a kind of unexpected popularity.
She was born in Russia, but her parents had managed to emigrate to the United States when Alina was
still an infant (which was, during the tail end of the Cold War, no easy feat). Kids used to tease her
about her family being Soviet spies, but when she started to come into her own, the teasing turned to
flirting. She never quite reached the ranks of our schools alpha females, but her je ne sais quoi was
undeniable.
Alina was pretty, sure, but not unattainably so. She was smart but not so much so that it was
intimidating. She had fair skin and wild hair. Her eyes would sparkle whenever she said something
clever, and she had this smirk thatd spread like a wave from left to right across her lips. But most
alluring of all, Alina had this attitude, this way of carrying herself. It was like she was sure wherever
she was, was the place to be. It was infectious. In short, Alina Aminev was exactly the kind of girl
that an unpopular guy could fool himself into thinking he had a chance with. God knows I did when I
found myself suddenly talking to her in late November of 1999.
Alina had grown quieter in the weeks that followed Robs death. Even as the rest of the school began
to show signs of moving on, she continued to retreat. She quit her job, and, though I dont quite
remember when the season started and stopped, either quit or never signed up for track that year. She
just sort of shut herself off from the world and everyone in it, which was why I was so surprised to
see her at Drew DeLucas birthday party. She looked nervous. This used to be her element, and no
one at Drews that night was inclined to blame her for Robs death. This was not his circle of friends,
this was hers. But whenever she approached someone, or tried to join in a conversation, she looked
like a gazelle approaching a watering hole it wasnt sure was safe. And once she was in the
conversation, she mainly shifted her weight from foot to foot, or fidgeted with some part of her outfit,
never really engaging anyone unless they addressed her directly.
I was telling a friend of mine about a recent trip I had taken to Greenfield with Scary Kerry, the only
one I could ever drag along on my ghost-hunting trips, when I felt a gentle tug on the back of my shirt.
I turned around half expecting to see DeLucas kid sister, but it was Alina.
Can we talk?
Oh, yeah, sure.
Outside? She looked over my shoulder at my friend before adding, Alone?
If it had been spring, I would have been thrilled by the prospect of Alina Aminev pulling me out of a
party to talk alone. But it wasnt spring; it was New Hampshire in late November. We stood on the
back deck, our jackets pulled tightly around us, our breath hanging in the air plain to see.
She said she heard from Kristy McDowell that I knew a lot about ghost stories. Kristy was quite
possibly my oldest friend in the world, and yes, it was true. I knew a lot about ghost stories. I was
raised Catholic and blessed with kind, warm-hearted parents whom I was always eager to please.
This meant that I took my Catholicism and my school work very seriously, which eventually led to a
struggle between my rational and spiritual beliefs that was only exacerbated by my growing
awareness of the sexual abuse scandal and the Churchs subsequent cover-up. Id hated losing my
faith. I wanted desperately to believe as I had as a child. So when most teenagers had shut the book
on ghost stories, relegating them to little more than childhood memories or an excuse to scare a girl
you wanted to put your arm around, I doubled down. I thought if I could find something, some shred of
evidence in support of the supernatural, that would keep the door to the spiritual world open for me,
even if only for a time. Of course, I didnt share all of that with Alina. Instead, I tried to act casual.
Casual bordering on slightly disinterested.
Yeah. Well, kinda. I think she could see through me. Why?
Alina began fishing around inside her jacket. You have to swear to me that youll never tell anyone I
showed you this.
I swore. Alina pulled her hand out from her coat. Her dainty fingers clutched an envelope like it was
a particularly delicate piece of glass. She handed me Robs suicide note.
Opening the envelope and unfolding the pages felt like a profound invasion of privacy. But who could
resist reading it when it was handed to you? What were Rob Kennans last words to the girl hed
been obsessed with for years? The girl many of his peers believed was the reason he killed himself?
Thirteen years have passed, leaving me with little more than an impression of what the note said, but
even if I remembered it exactly, I think this would still be where Id draw the line. What I will say is
that it was very earnest. Rob had been depressed for a long time. He felt horrible about leaving his
family and friends to deal with the aftermath of his suicide, but he also felt isolated in a very profound
way and, more than anything, just wanted it to stop.
I also dont mind sharing that he was very effusive in his praises for Alina, but I got the distinct
impression he didnt know her as well as he thought. He wrote about her in these florid terms full of
superlatives twice he said he didnt think he could live without her but ultimately, nothing he
said was very specific. Everyone thinks the first love of their life is the most special, most attractive
person in the world and that no one could ever appreciate them as deeply as they do.
I felt for him. I really did. But reading it, I didnt feel as though Id gotten to know him any better. Not
really. As I finished reading, I looked up and met Alinas gaze. She was looking at me expectantly but
I wasnt making the connection. What did this have to do with ghost stories?
Alina pointed to the bottom of one of the paragraphs expounding on why Rob wanted to take his own
life. It read, And every hour, I see her face, as she runs the endless race.
Her face. I had assumed he was talking about Alina, but if that was the case, why would he write
her and not your in a letter that was to Alina?
A shiver ran up my spine. It wasnt the cold. It was more like someone had walked over my grave.
The endless race, I said.
Yes! For a split second, Alina was her former self again. God, I was starting to think Id imagined
it. Tell me you remember where its from.
I mumbled the line, And every hour, I see her face, as she runs the endless race, a couple of times
under my breath. I knew that I had heard it before, but where? I was positive it was a ghost story, but
Id read literally hundreds, if not thousands, of them, and they had a tendency to bleed together.
No.
Shit! Alina banged her fist hard against the railing of the deck. But its a ghost story, right?
Yeah. I know I know it, I just cant... I trailed off, racking my brain.
Alina started drifting back towards Drews house. If you think of it
I cut her off, Absolutely. So much for slightly disinterested.
As she reached the door, she turned and looked at me. She stared at me for a long time. Longer than
any pause in a conversation should be. I think he mentioned it in the one he wrote to Nate Fletcher,
too.
I stared back at Alina. Fletchs letter?
Yeah. Could you find out?
That was a line I didnt think I could cross. Yeah.
Part 2
A few days after Robs suicide, a handful of young reporters showed up at school trawling for quotes.
Before the faculty could chase them out, they pushed hard for someone, anyone, to give support to the
lone-wolf-school-shooter angle. Robs real friends flatly refused to speak to the reporters, but theres
a certain element among young people who only want attention, and the same kids who showed up for
the grief counseling, despite never having been particularly close to Rob, were the first in line to
provide quotes.
The next day, the local paper was filled with statements like, No one really knew him, says student
Melissa Bennett. For Fletch it was a slap in the face.
What? Cause she didnt know him, nobody could? About a week or so after Rob died, Fletch
resumed picking me up in the morning. I dont count? Murph doesnt count? Fucking bullshit!
Listening to him rant about the story in the paper made me think that maybe I should have said
something to the reporters. I wouldnt have pretended to have any special insight into Kennans
mental state, but it might have been nice for his friends and family to have seen something simple and
honest, something that didnt fit into the lone-wolf narrative. Even if it was nothing more than saying,
He had friends. Theyre just not talking to you because theyre grieving, you heartless parasite.
I wish I had done that, but I didnt. I also wish I could tell you that I was the one who wrote an Op Ed
the following week roasting the reporters for coming into a school and pushing students still reeling
from the shock of losing a classmate into spouting a whole bunch of pop-psych, pseudo-scientific
nonsense, but that wasnt me either. That was some senior I didnt know very well.
I had made a few tenuous attempts at getting Fletch to open up about Rob. The best I had managed
was to get him ranting about the kids in the grief counseling sessions that didnt belong. Talking about
them got the normally placid Fletch so angry I thought he might have an aneurysm. After that, I quickly
gave up.
Once I resolved not to pry into Fletchs life, our morning rides settled into something almost
comfortable. Our casual friendship was like a knee recovering from an injury: fine so long as we
didnt put any weight on it. And that was still the state of things the day we returned to school after
Drew DeLucas birthday.
Today, tracking down the story that lead me to the Spire would have been a piece of cake (for me,
anyways. For you, Ive changed too many details). I could have typed that little rhyming snippet of
Robs suicide note into Google and had my answer in seconds. But the Internet wasnt as robust back
then. Hell, Im pretty sure in 1999 I was still using Hotbot.
Nonetheless, from the second I returned from Drews until school started on Monday, I spent every
waking minute scouring every Haunted Places book and paranormal website I could find, looking for
the phrase, And every hour, I see her face, as she runs the endless race, or some variation. By the
end of the weekend, the contents of half my bookshelf had been redistributed throughout the house,
and I had scrolled past dancing ghost GIFs, clicking on link after link on Geocities page after
Geocities page until my eyes bled, but I still had nothing to show for it.
I knew I couldnt bring it up with Fletch. Not directly, at any rate. Robs death was still a raw nerve.
So I went to the only person who knew even more about ghost stories than I did: Scary Kerry.
Growing up in the woods of New Hampshire at the foot of the White Mountains wasnt all bad. My
school had a hiking club that also taught us elementary wilderness survival skills. It was immensely
popular, mainly because it culminated in a week-long hike, which meant you got to miss a week of
school. As freshmen, my friends and I all signed up to go together that fall, but two weeks before the
big event, I came down with a case of antibiotic-resistant strep throat and had to have my tonsils
removed. Fun.
Since the program was extremely popular, each student could only partake once. Even though I was
allowed to make up my hike the following winter, it was still a bit of a letdown, since none of my
friends could come with me. I was intensely jealous of my friends when they returned from the hike
closer than ever with a slew of in-jokes and stories from their week in the woods, but by the time I
left for my hike a few months later, things in my circle of friends had already returned to normal, and I
was mainly just concerned about being stuck in the woods with random classmates I had little in
common with.
If youve never spent all day hiking with a large-frame pack, you may not appreciate how grueling it
can be. Theres a high washout rate of kids who get sick or throw in the towel and have to be picked
up and taken home. Theres an even higher rate of kids who never shut up about how much their feet
hurt, and by the time we stopped for lunch on the first day, any concerns I had of loneliness were
replaced by my seething hatred for that group of kids.
Those of us capable of keeping our mouths shut (at least about our feet) quickly bonded. Thats how I
became friends with Scary Kerry Peterson, the last person on Earth I ever imagined becoming close
to. Kerry was one of those unlucky people that seems scientifically designed to be picked on. She was
nearly six feet tall, quite overweight, crap at school, poor (by the standards of my admittedly affluent
town), and cursed with a head the size of a large pumpkin. Id had classes with Kerry on and off for 9
years by that point, and before the hike, I doubt Id spoken more than two words to her. Although, in
fairness to me, sometime in middle school, she had deepened her own isolation from most of the class
by becoming intensely goth, in the Baby Bat way of late 90s teens.
There was a blond girl on the hike, I think her name was Stephanie Foster, that two hours earlier I had
found very cute, and, despite her whining, I was still thinking I might like to get to know her better
before she let this gem slip: God, I just wanted to miss school. Why do we have to do walk soooo
much?
I rolled my eyes but didnt say anything. Kerry, however, could not let it slide. The fuck did you
think a hike was?
Stephanie looked at her like Kerry was something shed scraped off the bottom of her boots.
Nobodys talking to you.
And nobody wants to fucking listen to you!
I couldnt help it, I laughed. I still didnt think of Scary Kerry as a friend yet, but it was suddenly a lot
harder not to like her.
After lunch, our line of hikers silently, and seemingly unconsciously, rearranged our marching order
with the whiners taking up the rear and those of us who could keep our aches and pains to ourselves
leading the pack. By dinner time, Stephanie and three other kids from her clique, perhaps unimpressed
by the franks and beans wed be having, decided to throw in the towel.
It gets dark early in winter. Dark and cold. After dinner in the fall my friends were able to wander
around the campsite quite a bit, but for us there was only one thing to do: stick close to the fire. And
thats where Kerry and I really bonded. Someone half jokingly asked if anyone knew any good ghost
stories. There was the usual student reluctance to step up and put yourself out there to be judged, and
our chaperones werent terribly interested in anything but double-checking our work setting up the
tents, but after a few false starts from the other kids, I decided to tell an old standby, the story of an
old woman that lived in Maine who had been caught abducting pets and small children. It was said
that she was a witch who ate the flesh of her victims and turned their bones into china.
The second I finished, Kerry started telling one of hers. We took turns telling stories the rest of the
night and continued telling stories every night after dinner for the rest of the week. Between
campsites, we walked next to each other, chatting about the kind of crap that seems important to
teenagers and quizzing each other on local paranormal hot spots.
Back at school, after the hike, maintaining my friendship with Kerry proved to be tricky. My friends
never really understood the bond. They werent mean to her, not exactly, but despite my efforts to
bring her into the fold, they never embraced her. As for the few friends Kerry had, some couldnt
mask their disdain for my taste in music and clothing, while others were the sort of kids that were
desperate and clingy two things I always found it hard to stomach. But Kerry was one of the only
people I could talk to about losing my faith, and she was always game to get together and go on one of
my very fruitless ghost hunts, so we stayed in regular contact.
The Monday after my conversation with Alina, I tracked down Scary Kerry in the cafeteria sitting
with a few other goth kids. We had talked a lot after Rob killed himself, in part because I knew that
Kerry, from time to time, had suicidal thoughts of her own. It may have been the height of stupidity,
but until Rob Kennan actually did it, actually ended his own life, I never thought that it could happen
in my town. At least, not to anyone I knew. After he did, though, I knew I couldnt let Kerry slip down
that same path, and for a while, I doubled my efforts to spend time with her; but after one particularly
awkward night ghost hunting in Greenfield, well, we had fallen back to the status quo.
I pulled her out of the cafe and recounted the events of Drew DeLucas party. Kerry was very
interested in the contents of the note. Even though, just the month before wed spent several hours
being lectured by our guidance counselors about the differences between depression the true
depression that was a psychological illness and being sad, I think Kerry still had trouble believing
anyone was more miserable than she was, and wanted to know what had pushed Rob past the point of
no return.
I trusted Kerry, but I was reluctant to share too much with her. I hate to admit it, but in spite of having
counted Kerry amongst my friends for the past year, Alinas pretty face had flipped my loyalties
completely to her in one conversation. I cut to the chase.
Rob wrote something, in Alinas note. I swear its from a ghost story, but I cant remember which
one.
Whatd it say?
And every hour, I see her face, as she runs the endless race.
Scary Kerry shivered. The Widowers Clock. I hate that one.
While my story begins with Rob Kennan killing himself, the story of the Spire in the Woods begins
almost a century earlier in the former town of Enfield, Massachusetts, a few years before it was
destroyed.
In the late 1920s, an elderly clockmaker from Boston married a beautiful young woman and the two of
them settled in Enfield. He was a master craftsman, the finest in the world, able to create machines of
such complexity and precision that he was often called the Da Vinci of clockworks (no small feat,
considering Da Vinci himself had designed clockwork automatons). She was a great beauty. Refined
and cultivated, before meeting the clockmaker she had been celebrated by the Boston Brahmin for her
wit and for throwing the very best dinner parties.
The clockmaker had amassed a great fortune, but he, like all great artists, was unsatisfied by all of the
products of his lifetime of labor. He wanted to build one more clock, a clock that would surpass even
Munichs Rathaus-Glockenspiel in its artistry and complexity. He completed his plans in the spring of
1931 and they were beautiful. His designs were classic, yet modern. Complex, yet clean. Each hour,
when the bells called out the time, the automatons would dance forth from their hidden chambers and
symbolically reenact different battles of the Civil War, each day telling the story of how the North
came to vanquish the South.
Lowell and Boston both desperately wanted the clock tower, as did a few of the larger manufacturing
and shipping companies, but before construction could begin on any town hall, court house or
corporate headquarters, the Depression hit. All the suitors disappeared in short order, one after the
other, leaving the clockmaker alone with his plans.
Miserable and depressed, the clockmaker feared he would die before hed ever have the chance to
see his vision complete. He resolved that he wouldnt let that happen, and began spending his
considerable fortune building the tower on his own, as an addition to his own house in Enfield.
One day, the clock tower nearly complete, the clockmaker returned home from picking up a custom-
made part. He arrived much earlier than anticipated, to discover his wife in bed with another man,
one of his laborers. The clockmaker burst into the room and screamed at his wife and her lover. He
had never been so angry or humiliated in all his life, but he didnt yet know what humiliation was.
Rather than beg his forgiveness, or cower before him, or even flee the room in shame, the
clockmakers wife and her lover laughed at him. They told the clockmaker that he was an impotent
old man and they were unafraid of him.
Run along back to your little gears and springs, his wife said. Maybe if youre nice and quiet Ill
still fix you your dinner tonight.
The clockmaker, in a state of shock, slunk back to his gears and springs, but rather than going to work
on the clock, he went to work on a plan. He removed the automatons from their posts and set all of his
meager strength to coiling the huge spring that ran beneath their tracks. He laid out his tools, so they
would be near at hand, and then he waited, listening to the rhythms of his marriage bed slamming
again and again against the wall.
Eventually, the rhythmic thuds reached their crescendo and then fell quiet. Soon after he heard his
wife call out to him, but he said nothing. Her calls grew in urgency and repentance crept into her
voice could she really be concerned for him? After what she did, after what she said? Still, the
clockmaker stayed silent.
When the laborer entered the room, which was little more than a giant gearbox, the clockmaker stared
at him but did not move.
The laborer leaned back out of the room and called to his lover, Hes in here!
He hasnt done anything stupid, has he?
No. Hes fine. The clockmaker was not fine.
The laborer approached the clockmaker as cautiously as a man approaches an unfamiliar dog. S
your fault, you know? The clockmaker, his watery eyes unblinking, only responded by staring as the
younger man approached him. Fine lady like that, fancy, you cant keep her in a cage, specially
round here in this dreadful place, and expect she wont get bored.
It was at that exact moment that the laborer stepped across the path of the automatons track and the
clockmaker yanked out the pin holding the spring coiled. The post, unburdened of a man-sized figure
brimming with heavy metal gears, raced along the track and collided with the soft flesh of the
laborers leg. The crack of the bone splintering was even louder than the mans screams.
The clockmakers wife called out at the sound of her lovers cries. Im coming! Im coming!
The clockmaker picked up a large wrench and moved beside the door. As his wife rushed in, her eyes
searching for her lover, the clockmaker crept up behind her and brought the wrench down on her
skull.
She awoke, hours later, with shooting pains running through her legs. She tried to look down, but her
head was agony to move. The clockmaker stood over her, his mallet hammering the metal support
rods into her thighs. Her lover was already mounted to the post, ready to fill in for the automaton and
dance when the hour struck.
Just as with the Rathaus-Glockenspiel in Munich, the clockmakers creation was hailed as a great
artistic achievement. Crowds gathered on the formerly quiet street to watch the myriad Union and
Rebel automatons zip along their tracks, round and round, in an endless race. It was weeks before
anyone noticed something wrong with two of the automatons. Their lacquered veneer bulged in weird
places and looked slick, as if it were wet. Then, one day, the finish gave way, and the crowd, which
was mostly children at this point, watched in horror as two corpses zipped about the track, chasing
and stabbing each other with bayonets.
They say even after the clock was stopped and the lovers were laid to rest, all those who saw the
wifes face were haunted by visions of her endlessly running along her track.
I didnt have to ask why Scary Kerry hated the story of the Widowers Clock. She was the one who
pointed out to me how ghost stories were frequently used as a form of social control. Here was
another story where an unfaithful woman was put to death by an angry husband and, crueler still,
children were also punished. Children whose only crime was having seen the corpse of the unfaithful
woman, a corpse that the enraged husband put on display.
I couldnt wait to tell Alina. I didnt have any classes with her, but we had lunch the same period.
Alina was sitting at a table with her friends. Ordinarily, it would have been intimidating to walk up to
a table of girls, most of whom were pretty and toned from years of soccer, field hockey, and track, but
I could tell by the way Alina was sitting with her tray in her lap, her chair pushed back from the table,
that she would like nothing more than an excuse to leave.
We were allowed to eat our lunches outside, but no one ever did during the winter. We got some funny
looks pushing open the doors and slipping out onto the yellowing grass.
Id been looking forward to telling Alina the story of the Widowers Clock for hours, but now that I
was alone with her, I hesitated to jump straight into it. Are you OK?
Alina shifted uncomfortable. Yeah. But Iwell, I havent done so great with crowds lately.
Especially when Im eating.
We were huddled in the corner of the doorway, trying to use the building to block the wind. I was
nervous as I reached out to rub her arm in what I hoped was an understanding and reassuring gesture.
She didnt flinch or pull away, she just stared at my hand for a long second before she whispered,
Thanks.
I started telling her the story exactly as Kerry told it to me, but had barely begun when the switch
flipped in Alinas head and she remembered where shed heard it before.
East Boston Camps. Pretty much everyone in our town went to summer camp there when we were
kids, because it was only 15 minutes outside of Nashua. One of the counselors there had been like
Kerry and me, and he used to delight in telling ghost stories to the younger campers. He loved it when
the kids were too scared to sleep and kept their cabin chaperones up all night.
For a second I forgot why we were trying to track down this story and got lost in old memories of
camp. But Alina didnt.
Do you think it has anything to do with why he killed himself? Her voice was steady, but she fixed
me with her eyes and I could see how desperate she was for me to say yes. Desperate to believe that
it wasnt her fault.
I think he suffered from depression.
Alinas lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.
I hugged her. Hey. Listen to me. You didnt kill him.
Alina gripped the collar of my flannel shirt and buried her head against my chest. I stood there,
holding her, as she cried. The two of us were late to fifth period.
At the end of the day, Fletch was waiting for me in the parking lot. Hed already turned his car on and
cranked the heater up to full blast. Even still, we were halfway home before it was warm enough for
me to open up my jacket.
He stared out the window. Dude, whats going on with you and Alina?
I turned to look at him. His jaw was set and for the first time in our lives Fletch reminded me of his
hardass father. I really didnt want to answer him.
She asked me about a ghost story.
Fletchs only answer was to let his eyes drift from the road. He studied my face for a long moment
before he finally said, Which one?
The Widowers Clock. Its the one where
I know the one. It was barely a whisper. Are you in a hurry to get home?
No.
Good.
Fletch pulled over to the side of the road, took a shuddering breath, punched the steering wheel twice
and started bawling. He let it out. Everything that hed been holding in at school, everything that hed
been holding in around his dad. Everything. Alina had been sad; Fletch was purging.
During the days following Robs suicide, seeing people break down like this was common, and it
continued on longer in the morning counselling sessions, but at some point, people put their guard
back up. What had been appropriate emotions one day was suddenly back to being taboo the next, and
for people like Fletch, they werent ready to be in that emotional space again. Once hed gotten most
of it out, we started talking. Really talking. I know its unfair, he said, I know its not...I mean, she
always tried to be nice, but Im sorry, I just fucking hate her.
I didnt exactly blame Fletch for how he felt. Nate was a good guy. He knew that Alina wasnt
obligated to reciprocate Robs feelings simply because he was nice to her. But he had watched his
friend, dead or alive, burn for four hours and a part of him wondered if it would still have happened
if only Alina had given Rob a chance.
Thats too much pressure to put on somebody, I said.
I know.
I reminded Fletch of everything that the counsellors had told us, that feeling sad when youve been
rejected is natural, normal behavior. Healthy behavior. You should feel sad whenever someone
doesnt reciprocate your feelings. It is sad. But while theres always something that makes a person
decide they want to kill themselves now and not tomorrow or last week, its not the final straw that
breaks their back, its all the weight that came before it. The underlying mental illness.
Fletch looked down at his hands. Yeah. There was no conviction in his voice.
Fletch pulled his t-shirt up to his face and wiped the last of his tears away. He then started the car and
we were moving, riding in silence.
After a few minutes, Fletch spoke again,
He thinks...he thought he found it.
What?
The Widowers Clock.
It was my turn to stare at Nate. Thats impossible.
Do you want to read it, the note he left me?
In the period of time between the end of the Civil War and the start of the 1920s, the population of
Boston, Massachusetts more than tripled. In fact, there were more people living in Boston in the
1920s than there are today. This put an amazing strain on the citys resources, particularly on their
drinking water.
To solve their water problem, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts undertook a number of public
works projects redirecting rivers and creating reservoirs, the largest of which is the Quabbin
Reservoir in the Swift River Valley of Western Massachusetts. The Quabbin covers nearly 40 square
miles and sports an impressive 180 miles of shoreline.
Creating the Quabbin meant flooding much of the Swift River Valley, and the Swift River Valley was
home to four towns; Dana in the northeast and Prescott in the northwest, with Greenwich wedged
between them, and Enfield in the southwest. Enfield, where the Widowers Clock was supposedly
built, now sits mostly submerged by 412 billion gallons of water.
How in the hell would Robert Kennan have found anything there at all? What would there even be to
find, 60-some-odd-years and a flood after the fact? And its not as though the Swift River Valley was
flooded overnight. The people had had years to move their homes and relocate out of the flood zone.
Why would they leave behind a whole building? And if it was there, wouldnt a clock tower peeking
up from the water tend to draw the eye?
I never felt comfortable in Fletchs house. The first floor felt like a museum. Mr. Fletcher was strict,
but it was Mrs. Fletcher who wanted her house to always resemble the cover of an interior decorating
magazine. Call me crazy, but whats the point of having a house youre afraid to live in?
Fletchs room, on the other hand, had the opposite problem. The first time I came over, at Mrs.
Fletchers insistence, I had to take my shoes off to go upstairs and then put them back on in Nates
room because while he was sure there was broken glass somewhere, Fletch wasnt quite sure where.
As you can imagine, Nathan Fletcher and his mother fought quite a bit.
Fletch gestured to his bed and I parked myself on the corner of it with the fewest dirty clothes. What
few prized possessions he owned, Fletch kept in the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, but thats
not where he pulled Robs letter out from. No, the letter he kept tucked in a book on top of his
nightstand. It occurred to me that he must have been reading it often.
The invasion of privacy I felt when I read Alinas letter was nothing compared to reading Fletchs as
he sat next to me. The letter was exponentially more personal. Rob was exposed on the page. Reading
it made me feel like I had walked in on him naked. Whereas the letter Rob gave to Alina revealed a
little about himself and next to nothing about her, this letter revealed a great deal about Rob as well as
Fletch. Fletch and Rob had bonded when Rob was new and Fletch was going through his awkward
phase. Apparently, I had been wrong about Fletch not getting down whenever he said the wrong thing.
Warm and funny and confident around his friends, there were years that Fletch was afraid to speak in
public. Maybe I didnt notice because he was older and I sort of looked up to him. Or maybe I was
just too absorbed in my own insecurities to notice that anyone else had their own. Either way, it was
news to me.
Robs note to Alina had expressed a measure of guilt for leaving everyone behind to deal with the
aftermath of his death, but in the letter he gave to Fletch, the guilt he articulated feeling was for having
lived. He apologized profusely for having been a burden. He described himself alternatively as a
baby and a leech, a drain on anyone foolish enough to move too close to him. And though he knew no
one would see it like he did, Rob viewed his suicide as a charitable act. He was ridding his friends
and family of himself.
Despite my discomfort reading such a personal letter, I devoured every word. I consumed the letter,
hoping after each line that the next would finally illuminate for me what Robert Kennan had to do with
the Widowers Clock. And finally, tucked amidst a list of his reasons why he was going to go through
with it, was what Id been looking for.
I will soon join them. Staring at her face as she runs the endless race.
I looked up, disappointed and annoyed with how little Rob had written about the Widowers Clock,
to find Fletch rocking back and forth in his chair. It made me feel like a piece of shit.
You said he thought hed found it?
Yeah.
How?
Nathan Fletcher looked up at me with watery eyes and told me everything.
Robs medication had his depression mostly under control for the last three years. He still had bouts,
but they were less frequent and less severe than they had been before. Along with his much improved
disposition, Rob had also been sleeping better, eating more and his energy was way up. But he was
never exactly happy.
See, thats something most people dont understand about depression: its not a mood. Its a disorder.
Having the symptoms of his disorder in check didnt make Rob happy, it made him not depressed.
Rob still struggled to fit in and enjoy life. He was still unpopular. He was still misunderstood.
One of the few things that Robert Kennan really enjoyed was running. He especially enjoyed cross-
country. If I had to guess what appeal long-distance running held for Rob, Id say that for someone
who always felt their loneliest in a crowd, it must have been a relief to actually be alone. Just him,
the woods, and the next mile.
And the Quabbin Reservoir offered a lot of next miles. Rob had been exploring its trails since he
was a child. When they lived in Amherst, his family used to visit the Quabbin on the weekends.
Theyd hike or picnic. Occasionally Mr. Kennan would take his two sons fishing. As a teenager Rob
looked for any excuse he could find to get down there and just go, one foot in front of the other, until
sundown when visitors had to leave.
That summer, the summer of 1999, Rob made a lot of excuses to visit the Quabbin. He had, for the
third time, mustered up the courage to tell Alina Aminev how he felt about her. And, for the third time,
he had been rebuked, this time a little less gently than before. It left Rob with a growing impression
that the love of his life found him creepy. Running was the only thing that got his mind off it.
The Fletchers had three boys. The oldest, Samuel, had gone to UMass and, after graduation, found
work in the universitys IT department. Fletch visited his brother often, and, whenever he did, Rob
would hitch a ride down to the Quabbin. Usually, Fletch would drop him off in the morning, and Rob
would either get picked up by family he still had in Amherst, or hed call Fletchs brother from the
visitors center at the south end of the Winsor Dam and Fletch would come get him.
Once, Rob had lost track of time and found himself, after sundown, miles from the visitors center.
Thats when he heard them for the first time. Bells tolling the hour. They were scarcely detectable, as
if theyd traveled a great distance, and they had an odd, muffled quality that made them sound soft and
deep.
Rob stopped running and listened. He forgot all about Alina. Forgot about contacting Fletch. Forgot
that he was an hours drive away from the nearest person he knew. He stood in the woods and turned
into the wind to listen to this beautiful sound. If he was anything like me when I first heard them, he
was overcome by a physical sensation, a feeling like slipping under a warm blanket on a cold night.
And then they were gone. Rob found himself once more in the dark woods with no idea how hed get
home.
Theres a trailer park, somewhat unusual in Massachusetts, a couple of miles southeast of the visitors
center. Rob was lucky enough to get picked up on the road by one of its residents. She was probably
barely forty but looked like she was pushing sixty, smoked continuously, and was the one who told
Rob about, what she called, the Spire in the Woods.
To her, the Spire in the Woods wasnt a ghost story. It was simply a fact of life, and like blind curves
and sinkholes, one that was best to be avoided. She didnt have a first-hand account of her own, but
shed heard plenty of stories. She knew that some of the boys from her trailer park enjoyed getting
drunk, getting stoned, and pissing in the reservoir late at night. They got a little thrill out of the idea
that somewhere in Boston, some Harvard grad was drinking their urine. Occasionally, one of these
boys would come back to his trailer unsettled at having heard the eerie beauty of the bells.
The Quabbin Reservoir is peppered with islands. The woman said that the source of the bells was on
one of them, an island just to the north of where the Old Ware Enfield Road turns into Quabbin Hill.
Somewhere, hidden in the islands wild-grown trees, the peak of an old spire, the sort you might see
on top of a church, juts up out of the ground.
Now and again someone went looking for it and never came back. Rumor around the trailer park was
that, back in 1996, John Wilkins and his cousin Anna found it, but only John came back. He killed
himself about a month later. Since then, the park mothers have kept an extra close watch on their boys.
Rob didnt really believe in any of it. He wasnt like me. The Spire in the Woods wasnt a spiritual
quest. He wasnt trying to cling to the last lingering shreds of his faith. He just wanted to hear that
sound again. Hear the bells as they chimed the hour. Have that feeling of warmth and security wash
over him.
In the weeks that followed, Rob thought of nothing except the sound of the bells. Fletch thought that
Rob was embellishing the incident, letting his memory get the best of him, but Rob was adamant that
they were the most beautiful sound hed ever heard. He insisted that something in the aging bells, or
the wind as it carried the tolling through the woods, or the acoustics of the rock and dirt surrounding
the Spire, lent to them an ethereal quality.
He was determined to find the Spire. Rob began researching the Quabbin and it wasnt long before he
realized the connection between the Spire and the Widowers Clock. He dismissed the ghost story,
but he was thrilled that a master artisan had lived in Enfield and sunk his fortune into constructing a
clock tower complete with bells and chimes.
Fletch was skeptical. If Rob had heard anything at all, it must have come from somewhere else. A
neighboring town, a proper church. Tower bells weigh hundreds, if not thousands of pounds. Whatd
be ringing them? The wind? Itd take a hurricane.
But Rob was unfazed. He was going to find the Spire in the Woods. He was going to hear the bells
again. And Fletch didnt see the harm in letting him try.
A week before school started, Fletch set off for Amherst with Rob in tow. The pair of them spent the
evening with Sam and his friends before cutting out around a quarter to ten and heading down Route 9
until they reached Old Ware Enfield Road. They parked the car near the trailer park and hoofed it the
two miles or so up Old Ware to the shore of the reservoir nearest the islands, one of which, Rob was
positive, housed the Spire in the Woods.
Each having worn swimsuits under their clothes, they simply stripped down, stashed their things and
slipped into the water. The nearest island lay about 200 yards from the shore and Fletch, never a
strong swimmer, quickly realized he didnt have it in him to make it there. After a brief argument
while treading water, Fletch turned back and Rob went on alone.
Theyd agreed Fletch would meet Rob back by Route 9 at 4am. Fletch sat on the trunk of his car for
hours, swatting mosquitoes and listening to the frogs and crickets. At first he was worried about Rob,
then he was pissed that Rob had gone on by himself, then he was worried again. Fletch set the alarm
on his watch around 1:30 or so, laid out on his back seat, and drifted off to sleep, wishing he was
drinking at his brothers.
Fletch awoke to the passenger-side door being thrown open. Rob jumped in and slammed the door
closed. Drive! Drive!
Fletch scrambled into the front seat, assuming police or a park official was in hot pursuit. He gunned
the engine, and pulled out of the trailer park.
Fletch was already back on Route 9 before he hazarded a glance at his friend. Rob was panicked.
What happened?
Rob said nothing. He just labored to catch his breath as he looked back towards the reservoir. Robs
adrenaline slipped away as Fletch drove. By the time they reached Sams apartment, Rob was
practically catatonic.
It took me weeks to pry it out of him, Fletch said. But he saw something down there.
He found the Spire? I asked.
Fletch nodded.
Did he go in?
Part 3
Rob had reached the first island. Hed been searching fruitlessly for nearly 40 minutes when he heard
them. The bells. Being so much closer now, they were even clearer. He fell to his knees, letting their
sensation, their warmth, wash over him. For a moment, he knew bliss.
Rob found himself shivering on the ground. He could hear nothing but frogs and crickets.
He rose on unsteady legs, sure of only one thing. In an hour hed be there, hed be standing before the
Spire. Hed hear the bells, feel them, up close. He ran to the shore and dove into the waters.
Rob emerged from the reservoir onto the rocky bank of the second, and far larger, island. He stumbled
barefoot through the woods, increasingly aware of how dark it was beneath the trees. As the bells
siren call faded in his mind, he began to doubt himself. As it was nearly two miles long and a half
mile across, he could search this island all night and never find a damn thing.
The bells chimed once more. His head whipped around. There it was. In the center of a grove of dead
trees, the Spire poked out from the earth like a green shoot in the spring. Its white paint was oddly
untouched by age. Small windows adorned each of its sides. Framed by the dead trees and bathed in
moonlight, it called.
Unable to resist their song, yet too overwhelmed by their warmth to walk, Rob crawled to the Spire
like an infant trying to reach its mother. He pushed against the slats of the window. They gave way
and he squirmed his way inside.
Rob landed on the top of a staircase. As the bells continued to chime, Rob pulled his shuddering body
down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the enveloping darkness within, until he lost himself once
more in the ethereal sounds and their radiating warmth.
In the silence, Robs eyes strained in vain to see. The air was humid, and black as ink. He could feel
wood, dank and rotting, pressed against his bare calves. He felt like he was sitting Indian-style inside
someones closed mouth.
His legs felt stiff as he moved to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him, groping the air. His
feet shuffled forward. He hoped hed find a wall. He didnt.
His outstretched fingers recoiled from the soft surface they encountered. What was it? He shook as he
reached out, letting his hands land once more on the chest-high object in front of him.
It was wrapped in cloth. It only extended out to about the width of his shoulders. The cloth hung loose
over something hard that his hands couldnt identify. Rods? Dowels? His probing fingers traced up
the objects outer edge until he felt something he could identify. He froze. His fingers were in the eye
socket of a skull. His thumb rested on its teeth.
The bells rang again, if only inside Rob, as his minds eye showed him the endless dance. Hed sat
there in the dark, his unseeing eyes transfixed by the clockmakers wife as she was dragged on her
post through the twirling gauntlet of Union automatons. He saw her, alive and dead, the blush of youth,
the maggots of decay, twitch and scream and moan as her body was pierced by countless bayonets. He
saw her face as she ran the endless race.
Rob shrank and shriveled, collapsing to the floor. Like a wounded animal, he scrambled and clawed
his way back. Back, back, back. Until he hit the wall, and even then he didnt stop but pushed against
it with all his strength, hoping to retreat further.
His flailing limbs struck a step, the first of many. With what little control he had over his frenzied
mind, he realized theyd lead to the surface. To an escape from the moist pit and the clockmakers
wife.
Rob hurried up the twisting stairs on all fours like a dog. He tore his way through the window and
collapsed on the ground. The fresh air felt alien in his lungs, as if it were his first breath. He took two
more as he lay there on the ground, before realizing that although he hadnt a clue what time it was, he
couldnt be there when the bells chimed.
He just ran and swam and ran and swam and didnt look back again until he was in the car. Fletch
put his face in his hands. I shouldnt have let him go alone.
So you believe him? I tried to say it in as comforting a tone as I could, but I think it came out a little
accusatory.
Fletch hesitated. Yeah. Yeah, I do.
I had so many more questions I wanted to ask, but Fletch looked drained and broken. Hed choked up
several times while relaying Robs story, and the way his shoulders were slumped reminded me of
the way Robs parents had looked at their sons funeral.
I should have gone with him, he said, without looking up at me.
I let it lie.
As I left Fletchs house, every hair on my body was standing on end, but at that point, as much as I
wanted to, I still wasnt ready to accept the story of the Spire in the Woods. Not at face value. When
wed studied The Fall of the House of Usher in English earlier that year, Mrs. Thorn had made it a
point to draw our attention to two of Poes opium references and to how Roderick Usher displayed
symptoms of withdrawal. She explained that Poes stories frequently incorporated both blatant and
subtle references to intoxicants and hallucinogens, in order to enhance the sense of phantasmagoria
and help more skeptical readers suspend their disbelief.
I knew very little about depression and even less about antidepressants, but at the time, I didnt think
it was beyond the realm of possibility that Robert Kennans encounter with the clockmakers wife had
more to do with the sudden onset of a major depressive episode than with a dead woman. I spent the
night reading about depression, tricyclics, MAO inhibitors, and SSRIs.
There were no answers, just endless possibilities. It wasnt unheard of for major depressive episodes
to be accompanied by delusions or even outright hallucinations. Psychotic disorders were sometimes
less obvious in patients whose presenting problem was depression. Hallucinations were rare side
effects of SSRIs. MAO inhibitors could cause Serotonin Syndrome, which could cause hallucinations.
And that was before getting into the countless drug interactions, which, without knowing exactly what
Rob had been taking, I couldnt even begin to map out.
I knew Scary Kerry would love to hear every last detail Fletch had told me about the Spire in the
Woods, but on Tuesday morning I just didnt feel like tracking her down. I wanted to talk to Alina.
The ride into school hadnt been as awkward as I had anticipated. Fletch was quieter than usual, and I
was content to stare out my window and daydream about what I was going to tell Alina. I wondered
what shed think about Fletchs story and whether or not I should gloss over my own doubts.
I also wondered if shed cry. I feel embarrassed, even all these years later, admitting it, but a part of
me was hoping she would. Then Id have an excuse to hug her again. I could be dependable.
Comforting. Boyfriend material. It was the kind of fantasy that marked me as a beta-male. The sort of
guy who, even in his own daydreams, couldnt think of a single reason he deserved the girl.
I roved the juniors hallway and the cafeteria but couldnt find Alina anywhere. I heard from DeLuca
that shed called out sick. I spent the rest of the day in a funk.
Kerry and I had gym 7th period, the last class of the day. It was too cold to go out to the fields, so we
had to choose between three or four indoor activities. Ordinarily Id have opted for floor hockey, the
only gym class activity I have ever enjoyed, but I felt obligated to update Kerry on what Id learned
about Rob and the Spire, so I joined her in the auxiliary gym for a little ping-pong, a game I had no
idea she was so good at.
Or it could have happened exactly like that, Kerry said, acing me for the third straight time.
I was surprised that Scary Kerry wasnt as skeptical as I was. I mean, sure, Kerry absolutely believed
in ghosts and, of course, I desperately wanted to; but we werent completely credulous about every
story we heard. We didnt relish wandering around graveyards and old buildings for no good reason.
We werent looking to kill time. We did it because we wanted to find something. We wanted to pull
back the curtain and glimpse the grandeur of creation. We wanted to feel small in the presence of the
infinite and know, if just for a moment, there was more than food, sex, and the petty minutiae of social
interaction.
What it came down to was that while I believed Fletch, and I believed that Fletch believed Rob, it
didnt follow that I believed Rob. It was the difference between lying and just being wrong. Kerry
and I had developed criteria for identifying the more promising leads, and the Spire in the Woods had
a lot going against it. Secondhand accounts. Stories with an undercurrent of social control. Witnesses
with a history of mental illness. These were red flags, and Robs story had all of them.
You wanna check it out?
Its kinda cold for a swim.
I just wanna see if we can hear the bells.
Yeah, maybe. I dunno. Its kinda far.
Of course, there was another reason I was reluctant to head all the way out to the Quabbin Reservoir
with Scary Kerry. She looked at me like I had just insulted her; she knew precisely what my other
reason was. Our last ghost hunting expedition had been a disaster. A very personal disaster.
Kerry was old for our year. She turned 16 at the tail end of freshman year and had gotten her license
the very first day of summer break. It was perfect, save for one thing: no car.
Kerrys parents were divorced, and her dad had moved to New Jersey for a job. He paid his alimony
and child support every month, but he just wasnt a very wealthy man. Kerrys mom had never gone to
college. She had to work full-time at the deli counter at our local Market Basket just to make ends
meet, which meant, most days, she had the car.
But at night, when the store was closed, Kerry had access to the worlds oldest, crappiest station
wagon. For the most part, Kerrys newfound freedom changed her life very little. Mainly, her trips
involved picking up the members of her small group of friends and delivering them to Dan Burgens
to watch anime and old horror movies in his basement. We only hung out twice that summer; both
times Scary Kerry picked me up in what I called Ecto-1, and we went ghost hunting.
Our first trip was to the Blood Cemetery. Thats how we discovered the story of Abel Blood was a
steaming load. We dressed in all black (par for the course in Kerrys case) and brought flashlights,
wax paper, and crayons. I also took the silver crucifix my parents had given me as a first communion
present and my mothers Bible, just in case we saw something. It was fun scrambling over the old
stone wall, sneaking through the cemetery with our flashlights held low, trying not to step on
anybodys grave.
Even after seeing that the years of death didnt line up, we still checked out the curve where the ghost
of the little girl supposedly ran out in front of passing cars. The blind curve was indeed full of skid
marks. It also had, about twenty feet in front of it, a Deer Crossing sign.
Two or three weeks later, we went to a charity auction at the rec center and slipped up the stairs to the
attic. The stairs squeaked beneath our feet and even though, at worst, wed just be thrown out of the
rec center, we were terrified of getting caught.
The attic hadnt changed in the seven or so years since my last visit. A couple of card tables housed
bins full of crafting materials, a pair of filing cabinets sat against the back wall gathering dust, and
most importantly of all, despite it being June, there were still cold spots.
Wed stand just outside of one, reach an arm in, and try to define the boundary of the warm and cold
air. It was tricky. The shift in temperature wasnt as great as I remembered from when I was a kid and
there were no hard, fine edges between the hot and the cold air. The temperature just seemed to bleed
from one area into another, like brine in an estuary.
I experimented sticking my crucifix into the heart of the cold spot, and felt nothing. If anything, it felt
like the cold spots were fading away. Kerry suggested we tried talking to the spirit of Jennifer
Wilkins while we still could.
I shrugged. After you.
Wed forsaken most of our ghost hunting kit as it would have been awfully conspicuous carrying
around a bible and a couple of flashlights. I still had my crucifix, but I doubted itd be necessary. The
stories of the Silver Specter were all quite tame. We had, however, brought a couple of sticks of
incense, which we lit with a very old Zippo that had once belonged to my grandfather. Kerry had
bought the incense from a new-age store, the sort of place youd shop at if you were inclined to
believe in Neo-Paganism or healing crystals. The saleswoman told her it was supposed to make it
easier for spirits to pass into our realm, but to me, it just smelled like sandalwood.
Kerry spoke in a lilting tone, Jennifer, are you here with us?
I burst out laughing and Kerry went beet red. She punched me in the arm and whispered for me to be
quiet, pointing to the floor where beneath our feet the auction was taking place.
Kerry tried again, Jennifer, if you can hear me, give us a sign!
We stood still in absolute silence, waiting for an answer. It came in the form of the industrial air
conditioner, mounted to the ceiling of the floor below us, cycling on. A few gaps in the floor boards
lined up perfectly with one of the ACs large vents. We couldnt stop laughing as the spirit of
Jennifer Wilkins returned the cold spots to full force.
Once wed regained our composure, Kerry and I decided to head over to Bickfords for a bite to eat
while we conducted the post-mortem on our latest failure. Now, a deer crossing sign and an air
conditioner dont necessarily disprove that the Blood Cemetery and our town rec center are haunted,
but they certainly had made us feel rather foolish, so while I gorged myself on eggs Benedict (which I
had only recently discovered) and Kerry nursed a cup of coffee, we started tossing around ideas for
other expeditions.
No place local. She said. Gotta stay objective. It cant be some place weve grown up thinkings
haunted.
You just dont want anyone we know hearing your little sing-talking-to-the-spirit-world voice.
Kerry, in mock anger, reached over, grabbed a home fry off of my plate, and threw it at me. It had
taken her a long time to get comfortable with me teasing her. I guess after a lifetime of being mocked
about her weight and appearance, the idea that it was the only way I expressed affection took some
getting used to.
There were a few places in and around Boston we wanted to check out, but most of them were
landmarks or buildings that were still in use. Neither of us was eager to get arrested, particularly not
Kerry who was going to have a hard enough time getting into college; so Boston was out, and most of
Lowell too. We dismissed a couple of nearby leads: the Gilson Road Cemetery, which had no actual
history surrounding it, just a hodgepodge of random urban legends, and the Blue Lady out in Wilton,
NH, who sounded somewhat promising but was most frequently sighted during harvest moons, which
we wouldnt get until late September.
Eventually we settled on the Eunice Williams Covered Bridge in Greenfield, Massachusetts. It had
everything going for it: a traumatic death, consistent sightings, and no air conditioning. The only
downside was that, for us, Greenfield was a solid two-hour drive each way, and that was if the
MapQuest directions were up to date (a mighty big if).
I didnt see Kerry again that summer. Life just got in the way. For Kerry, it was difficult to work
around her moms schedule, especially after a tiny little accident she had backing out of a space at the
mall resulted in her losing her driving privileges for a month. While for me, it was the pool Kristy
McDowells parents had put in that June. While my feelings for Kristy and our other mutual female
friends were mostly platonic, I was fifteen, and they were in bikinis. By comparison, ghost hunting
just didnt seem quite as exciting. Knowing how my friends felt about her, I never invited Kerry to tag
along. Of course, in fairness to me, pool parties werent exactly her cup of tea.
When school started up again in the fall, Kerry and I resumed talking about our trip to Greenfield, but
it wasnt until Rob Kennan killed himself and I made an effort to spend more time with her that we got
around to actually going. Kerry picked me up early one Friday evening in mid-November. Mrs.
Peterson had opened the store that morning and would be closing the next day, meaning we had Ecto-1
all night. We just needed to get the car back before she woke up and shed be none the wiser.
Driving around with friends was still novel at that point in my life. The two hours passed by in a blur
of jokes and gossip and screaming along to what little music Kerry and I could agree on. She used to
have this mix tape dominated by Nine Inch Nails and Rage Against the Machine that was a staple of
our time in Ecto-1. I think we listened to it straight through two and a half times that night.
We only got turned around once, and arrived at the Eunice Williams Covered Bridge absolutely
pumped. We pulled into the bridge, cut the motor, honked once and waited for Eunice.
Eunice Williams was not a resident of Greenfield. She had actually lived in nearby Deerfield, back in
the late 1600s. At the time, Deerfield was the northwesternmost outpost of New England, deep in the
heart of the former Pocumtuck nation.
Before the settlers had arrived in Deerfield, the Pocumtuck had already been weakened by European
diseases and war with the Mohawk People. When the settlers and Pocumtuck clashed over resources,
the settlers easily drove the remaining Pocumtuck from their land.
The Pocumtuck, however, were not ready to admit defeat. They allied themselves with French settlers
and other French-aligned First Peoples in Canada and, in 1704, led an offensive raid against
Deerfields English settlers. The French and Native Americans killed 56 settlers and burned much of
the town to the ground. They captured over a hundred survivors, and forced them to march through
brutal winter conditions into Quebec. The march would take months.
Among the captured survivors was Eunice Mather Williams, her husband, Minister John Williams,
and five of their seven children. Her infant daughter and six-and-a-half-year-old son were both killed
during the raid, but John and Eunice were determined to be strong for their other children and fellow
captives. The Williamses quoted scripture, led the group in prayer, and took turns carrying their
younger children until they reached the Green River.
Eunice fell during the crossing.
Despite having survived her plunge, a Pocumtuck warrior decided that Eunices exposure to the icy
water had weakened her too much to continue the march, so he hacked her to pieces in front of her
husband and their remaining children.
Legend has it that Eunice appears on the bridge over the waters where she was killed, asking any
mortals she finds there of news about her children and husband. Locals say she can be summoned
simply by cutting your engine and honking your horn.
Wed been sitting there in Ecto-1 with the engine off and no heat, when a thought occurred to me:
Why would the ghost of a woman who died a couple of centuries before the invention of the
automobile respond to a horn being honked?
I could see the gears turning in Scary Kerrys head as she processed the anachronism. Well...maybe
shes just...fuck!
I laughed as Kerry turned on the car to get the heat going again. And you couldntve thought of this
before we drove out here? she asked.
Well, doesnt mean the bridge isnt haunted. Just that Eunice probably isnt a car gal.
We waited for a bit, then got out of the car and poked around the bridge on foot. Ive always liked
covered bridges, ever since seeing Disneys the Legend of Sleepy Hollow cartoon as a kid, and
theres a nifty little plaque at this one that tells the whole story of Eunice Williams.
We scrambled down to the banks of the river. Its not exactly the Mississippi, but it was easy to see
how difficult it would have been to ford, especially under the strained circumstances Eunice was
facing. I skipped a few pebbles, a difficult feat in fast-moving water, before we got cold and decided
to return to the car.
Maybe it was the increasingly likely prospect that another of our missions was going to prove to be a
waste, or maybe it was just the hour and the warm air of the heater blasting in our faces and making us
sleepy, but whatever the cause, our energy was fading fast and our conversation had turned serious.
Well, serious by high school standards.
Do you think Kim Murray is pretty?
Kim Murray was one of Kerrys goth friends and I did not think she was pretty, but that put me in a
precarious position. Physically Kim had her faults, but, objectively speaking, she was significantly
more attractive than Kerry, a girl Drew DeLuca once described, with what was for Drew a
considerable amount of sympathy, as unfortunate-looking.
Kerry shifted in her seat to face me.
I dunno. Never gave it much thought, I guess. Why?
We were at Dans the other night, and she was talking about how much she likes knowing that guys
masturbate while thinking about her.
Yeah, I dont think this is a topic of conversation I want to pursue.
Kerry grunted softly. Thats what I said. Its kinda gross. There was a pause, and I could tell that
Kerry was getting a little choked up. And then Kim said, Well then, I guess you're lucky you dont
have to worry about anyone doing it over you.
After Robs suicide, I had wanted to be there for Kerry, but I never imagined shed share her sexual
insecurities with me, in part because I never thought of her in sexual terms. On some level, I dont
think it ever fully processed for me that Kerry was a girl, like Alina or Kristy. Thats not to say I was
confused about her gender identity, but that, because I found her unattractive, my mind had neutered
her, had significantly reduced her as a human being.
Kerry started to cry and I leaned over to give her a hug. She let a few hushed sobs out into my
shoulder as I patted her broad back. At some point she stopped crying. It took me a second to notice,
but what I thought was her taking a shuddering breath, or maybe just a tear-covered cheek sliding over
my skin, was actually Kerry kissing my neck.
I wanted to leap into the backseat. I was revolted and embarrassed and a part of me felt violated by
my actions and intentions being so wildly misconstrued. I wanted to lurch away from Kerry and
retreat to the furthest recesses of Ecto-1. But I couldnt do that to her. She was my friend and she was
vulnerable, and she didnt deserve that.
I froze. The nuzzling and kissing continued. Maybe she didnt notice I wasnt reciprocating, or maybe
she didnt realize that this was a red flag we never spoke about what happened in Greenfield but
either way, she needed a clearer stop sign. I put my hands on her shoulders and gently pushed myself
away from her.
She got the message.
I just...I dont...I dont think of you like that... I had trouble spitting it out.
She nodded.
Were friends, I said.
Uh-huh.
The trip home was one of the longest car rides of my life. Kerry never turned on the radio. The only
words out of my mouth were the turns I called out off of our Mapquest directions.
I felt shallow. I think we both knew that Id only said, were friends to soften the blow. I wouldnt
have dismissed the affections of any of my other female friends so readily. Even Kristy McDowell,
whom Id been friends with since the third grade, I would never have pushed away like that.
The following Monday, I made it a point to talk to Kerry in class like nothing had happened. She
played along for a bit, but then asked me for a little space. Frankly, I was relieved to give it to her.
I only told a couple of people about Scary Kerry kissing my neck. DeLuca thought it was hilarious.
He wasnt the most sensitive guy in the world. Kristy was a bit more sympathetic. She reminded me I
was entitled to have my tastes. I appreciated hearing it, but I still felt like a shit. I had set out to make
Kerry feel better about herself, and had done nothing of the kind. And I never thought of myself as the
sort of guy whod judge a girl based on her looks, but apparently I was.
Alina didnt return to school for a whole week after our last conversation. She told everyone who
asked that shed had the flu, but later confessed to me that she just couldnt take being surrounded by
people. Too noisy. Too overwhelming. Too many eyes staring at her. She needed to be alone.
I didnt see her at lunch, that day, or really, ever again. She was having trouble eating in the cafeteria,
so her parents had arranged for her to eat in her guidance counselors office. When I found out, I knew
it was good for Alina, but I couldnt help but feel like my days would be just a little drearier without
being able to look across the cafe and see her. Her wild hair. That smirk (if it ever returned). And that
was to say nothing of the wonder that years of track and cross country had done for her legs.
I finally caught up with her on Friday morning. She was at her locker. To cut down on the amount of
time she had to spend jammed between chatty classmates, Alina had taken to cramming every book
and binder shed need until lunch into her backpack. She looked like a freshman.
Hey, Alina.
She didnt look up. Oh, hey, she mumbled.
I dropped down next to where she was crouching, and lowered my voice. I spoke with Fletch.
Alina froze. I couldnt tell if she was nervous or excited. She took a couple of deep breaths as she
turned towards me. Did you see it?
Yeah. Basically said the same thing as yours. She deflated, but I continued. But then he told me
what happened. You gonna be at lunch?
She bit her lower lip as she considered for a second. No.
Oh. Well, we could
What do you have last period?
Just gym.
Can you skip it?
Id never cut a class in my life. Absolutely.
Part 4
I didnt have any classes with Fletch and rarely saw him in the halls, but I had two classes with Drew
DeLuca and he had lunch the same period as Fletch, so I had him pass along that I wouldnt need a
ride. When 6th period let out, I made my way over to the parking lot where Alina was waiting for me
next to her blue 98 Beetle.
We got in and blasted the heat. Unlike Fletchs ancient Civic, Alinas Beetle actually warmed up
pretty quick. Everything but the silence was comfortable.
Do you...do you wanna get right into it?
Alina looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. They were so blue. She shook her head. Not while
Im driving.
We rode in silence until we pulled up in front of a good-sized colonial house.
Is this ok? she asked.
Oh yeah, yeah. Sure.
I just...I dont want to talk about it in public.
Its totally fine.
Alina looked relieved as she hit the garage door opener. It was like she thought bringing me over her
house was really putting me out. Getting out of the car, I noticed the garage was otherwise empty. We
were alone.
Abbey, an aging golden retriever that the Aminevs apparently didnt kennel, greeted us with her tail
wagging and her leash in her mouth.
I have to take her out. Make yourself at home.
Just being inside Alinas house felt so intimate. Identity is everything to a teenager, and to bring
someone else into your home was to expose a part of you that was beyond your control. It was laying
bare the environment that had produced you.
When I had first entered Fletchs house, his discomfort was evident. His house was just a place he
passed through to get to his room. For Scary Kerry, her house was a source of shame. Mrs. Petersons
small, ill-kept home was a constant reminder to Kerry, not just of her parents failed marriage, but of
her mothers lack of achievement. Lack of education. They were both stuck there, in a house that
smelled of deli meats and the water that feta cheese is packed in. A smell that started in Mrs.
Petersons work clothes but now infused everything they owned.
I entered Alinas house with the same reverence I would a church. It had a feeling to it that put you in
the mood to sip hot chocolate and watch the snow fall. There were candles and tealights on the tables
and holiday-themed knickknacks on the walls. The piney scent of a Christmas tree filled the air, and
as I collapsed onto their overstuffed couch, it occurred to me that for the first time all day, I felt
relaxed.
After she returned, Alina lead me downstairs into the game room, a finished basement dominated by
a full-sized pool table. She offered me a soda from the mini fridge behind the wet bar and then we sat
down on a loveseat in front of the big-screen TV.
Alina stared at me while I spoke. I stared back. It was impossible to look anywhere else. I recounted
the story Fletch had told me, as faithfully as I could. All the while I was very conscious of where her
legs were in relation to mine. They tugged at me as if they had gravity.
Shed seemed fine the whole time I talked, but the moment I was done she began gasping for air, like
shed been holding her breath. Then the sobbing started. I was quick to close the gap between us. I
held her for several minutes while her slender frame shook and quivered. When she regained her
composure, she slowly withdrew to her end of the love seat.
Oh, God. Im sorry, she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
Dont be.
Im such a mess. I feel ashamed when Im happy and like a victim when Im ashamed. It takes
everything Ive got just to keep it together. Its exhausting.
Have you talked to anyone? Seen a...you know?
Yeah, but she wont give me anything.
Thats not a bad thing.
So you dont believe any of it? Her right leg began bouncing up and down on the ball of her foot. I
thought you were Mr. Ghost Hunter.
I scoffed. The corner of her mouth twitched as if she were about to smile and for a fleeting second, I
felt connected to her. To the old Alina.
I didnt run around telling everyone I met why I cared so much about ghost stories. I didnt wear
anything that personal on my sleeve, but I told Alina. She listened and nodded and understood me.
Can I ask you something?
She nodded.
Why does it matter to you if the Widowers Clock is real?
I need them to be wrong about me. The people who stare at me in the halls. Blame me. Like Fletch
and John Murphy.
Fletchs just hurting. He doesnt blame you. Not really.
Yes he does. Everybody does. All they get are these little snippets about how much Rob loved me.
Ive heard them talk about it. They say I thought I was better than him because I live in a big house, or
because he wasnt a jock, or because he was nerdy. He loved me, and I was a bitch for rejecting
him.
Alina pulled her legs up to chest and hugged her knees. I remember being struck by how much she
looked like a little girl. It seemed strange at the time, but in hindsight, at scarcely seventeen Alina
practically was a little girl. A kid realizing for the first time that her classmates felt entitled to
opinions about what she did with her body and affections.
I wanted to tell her that it wasnt true. That no one really believed she was a snob about money or
shallow or a bitch. I wanted to, but Id also heard the whispers.
The truth is, she said. The only thing I really knew about him is that he made me uncomfortable.
I moved beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. I could feel how tense she was as she stared
straight ahead.
Its not your fault. Her haired smelled like vanilla. Alina, look at me. She looked so full of
uncertainty. Scared. I put my other hand on her wrist. Im gonna go down there, to the Quabbin...
She grabbed me by the shoulder and held me like I might fall.
Its OK. I couldnt help smiling at her concern. I wont go in. Im just going to listen for the bells.
She studied my face. We were only inches apart. My heart was racing. Besides, I said as I leaned
in, I want to. And I kissed her.
Her lips were slow to respond. Doubts raced through me. Was she surprised? Was this a rejection?
Had I crossed a line? I felt like Scary Kerry must have back in Greenfield. But Alina didnt
withdraw.
Maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe it was just survivors guilt.
After a very long couple of seconds, Alina kissed me back. My brain went fuzzy. I almost had to stop.
Its tough to kiss with a grin. I was kissing Alina Aminev. I slipped my fingers through her wild hair.
Alina who ran track. I could feel my leg pressed against hers. Alina who smelled like vanilla and
smirked when she used to smile. I tried to press my leg between hers, but she kept her legs closed.
And that I was fine, I was happy just to be kissing her.
We spent the next few minutes on that loveseat. It wasnt the sort of first kiss you imagine, I was
nervous, and she was still. At the time, I remember thinking it was more intimate than passionate, but
that made sense to me. She wasnt in a real good place. Being with her was going to be like building
a house of cards. Itd take a slow hand and the slightest misstep could bring her crumbling down.
She wanted to drive me home before her parents returned from work. As we were getting our coats
on, I said, Lets see a movie.
She didnt answer immediately. I thought for a second she hadnt heard me. I cant. I cant.
I kissed her and asked again, but it didnt help.
What if someone sees us?
I wanted people to see us. I didnt care what people thought about her. I didnt even give a rats ass
what Fletch thought about her.
Please dont tell him. Dont tell anybody. I cant handle how theyd look at me.
She broke down. I held her.
As I lay in bed that night I found myself fantasizing about Alina. It wasnt sexual, hell, it wasnt even
about the kiss. It was about the most mundane things. Spooning her while we watched TV. Holding her
hand while we walked down the hallways at school. Having little arguments over whod sit at whose
lunch table.
Thats when I resolved that I had to find the Spire in the Woods. Right in the middle of fantasy-Alina
apologizing for not wanting to sit with my friends and telling fantasy-me that I was the most important
thing in the world to her. I had to find it for Alina. To get her out from under some of the guilt she held
on her shoulders.
And was it really so crazy to think there might be some truth to it? Even if I was skeptical of the
connection to the Widowers Clock, couldnt Robert Edward Kennan have followed the sound of
bells? Couldnt he have discovered a spire sticking out of the ground?
Maybe he even found a body. Hadnt Fletch mentioned someone had gone missing from that trailer
park? If he had found her corpse, that could have certainly pushed him over the edge.
The thought sent a shiver up my spine.
The last couple of weeks before Christmas vacation were always filled with midterms and projects,
and that year was no exception. It was the last thing in the world either of us wanted to do, but with a
group project due Monday, I had to meet Scary Kerry at the library.
We were bullshitting while I busted my rear end looking for sources for our presentation on
Robespierre (I had practically carried Kerry through the first half of European History), when I told
her that I had changed my mind. I wanted to visit the Quabbin.
Kerry was thrilled. When do you wanna go?
I dunno. Sometime over break, I guess.
We should try to figure out everything about them.
Who?
The clockmaker and his wife.
Only one of my haunted New England books told the story of the Widowers Clock, and maybe it was
because Id initially been skeptical that the story was grounded in any sort of reality, but it honestly
never occurred to me that there was anything more to know. But if there was a clockmaker, he had to
have made clocks, and if thered been a murder, there must be an obituary.
Kerry disappeared into the basement where the library kept their microfiche. With her gone, I was
able to finish researching our paper in short order and by the time I wandered downstairs, shed
found out quite a bit.
The clockmaker was a German immigrant named Adolf Riefler, born in 1857. He was hired sometime
between 1905 and 1907 to construct the clock for the Custom House Tower in Boston by an architect
named Robert Swain Peabody. The clock was a failure. In an effort to show up his two brothers, who
were also master clockmakers, Riefler attempted to miniaturize several of the motors components.
While the clock ran, it failed to keep accurate time. The clock was referred to by some as Adolfs
Folly until the mid-1930s, when Hitlers infamy outstripped Rieflers.
The bride was Robert Swain Peabodys niece, Amy Lowell Putnam, born 1892. She was just 16
when she married Riefler, who was, by that time, 51 years old. I suppose the age difference wasnt
that unusual in those times, but back in 1999, when Alina was 17, the idea of her with a man in his
50s made my skin crawl.
It also made me regard Amy Lowell Putnam with more sympathy. Imagine being married off at 16 to a
man more than three times your age. Imagine twenty years of marriage to that man, waking up to find
yourself in your mid-thirties, still in the heart of your sexual prime, with a husband in his seventies.
Of course she was attracted to other men.
We couldnt find an obituary for Amy Lowell Putnam, nor for Amy Lowell Riefler, nor for Amy
Putnam Riefler. Scary Kerry took it as a sign that the Putnams, Lowells or Peabodys, all powerful
families, had covered up the scandalous manner in which Amy Lowell had died. I, on the other hand,
chalked it up to the microfiche being a bitch to work with.
What we did find of interest, though, was a picture of Enfield in 1938. It depicted a large hill with
most of its trees cut down, a tractor pushing aside some debris and a lone man standing with his back
to a large colonial building. The large colonial was the only one still standing. And it had a little
tower. We couldnt tell whether or not it had a clock the old microfiche view screens didnt exactly
have great resolution but based on its proximity to the hill, it was easy to see how the loose soil
could have enveloped it (or another building very much like it) when the flood waters came pouring
through, leaving just a spire peaking out above the earth.
We only found one more reference to Adolf Riefler: an obituary published by The Boston Globe in
1941 (I wish I could remember the date). It mentioned that he was wanted for questioning in regard to
a disappearance, but that was all. Riefler had died in Munich. The cause of death was omitted, but
at 84, it was probably just old age. Riefler must have fled the country sometime in the mid-1930s, at a
time when the Germany he returned to must have been very different from the Germany he had
originally left.
I dont know why, but somehow knowing these historical details made the story of the Widowers
Clock so much more plausible. It was no longer a story of a man with an unfaithful wife, the
characters defined by nothing more than their relationship to one another. It started to become the
story of two people. Amy Lowell Putnam, restless and starved for marital attention, shackled to an
old man incapable of giving her what she needed; and proud Adolf Riefler, obsessed with proving
himself after his failure designing the clock for Customs House Tower, too busy and too old to see
what his young wife was up to.
Since her mom had the car that day, when we got hungry Kerry and I had to choose between waiting
for my mom to pick us up or hoofing it down to the (hometown omitted) House of Pizza to grab a bite.
Despite the cold, we opted for the latter.
Settling into a booth, a hot slice in front of both of us, things between Kerry and me felt right again for
the first time since our trip to Greenfield. We quickly fell into discussing the plans for our trip.
We should head out early, she said. The first time Rob heard the bells, it was just after sundown.
Yeah, but the later it is, the less likely we are to bump into some park ranger.
Mmm. You think there are gates or fences?
The roads in and out might be gated, but fences? Nah. The Quabbins too big.
Just as the words left my mouth, Fletch plopped down right next to me, his friend Murph lingering
behind him. Hey, I didnt see you guys come in, He said. How long you been here?
I dont know what I felt exactly. Embarrassment? Shame? But even though there was nothing in
Fletchs face to indicate that hed heard me, I got that feeling you get when your parents tell you,
Were not mad, were just disappointed. Id been so wrapped up in the fun of going on a ghost hunt
and clicking with Scary Kerry again, that Id lost sight of the fact that Rob Kennan had killed himself.
Id forgotten that the only reason I knew about the Spire in the Woods was because of his suicide
notes, and had actually been happy about the whole thing, while two guys who had lost a good friend,
quite possibly because of the Spire, were sitting right behind me.
I dunno. A bit, I mumbled.
You wanna ride home? I can take both of you.
I really didnt.
Sure, Kerry said.
Murph had just found out that hed been accepted, via early admission, to UMass Amherst, a topic
Scary Kerry found intriguing. Like many unhappy high school students, Kerry hung a lot of her hope
on the idea that her life would get better in college. She knew she didnt have the grades to get into a
top-tier school. Hell, she knew that UMass Amherst was a real reach, but she had hoped to get into
UMass Lowell and transfer after a year or two.
Of course, Murph hadnt thought hed be accepted either.
Definitely apply early, he said. Shows them youre serious. And see if you can get a reference
from someone who went there. They list where all the teachers went to in the yearbook each year.
Like half of them went to UMass.
Kerry was hanging off Murphs every word, but I wasnt paying much attention to what he was saying.
I was too busy hoping against hope that after we dropped Kerry off, Fletch would announce he
wanted to hang out with Murph some more and, as such, would have to drop me off next.
That didnt happen and we were soon alone together in the car. The second the door closed behind
Murph, Fletch dropped his mask, and I knew that hed heard me.
Youre going to the Quabbin? After what I told you, youre going to the Quabbin?
Yeah.
Are you fucking retarded? Fletch was a pretty big guy. That, coupled with the hurt and anger in his
voice, intimidated me into silence. We drove on, listening to nothing but the heater struggling in vain
to dispel the cold.
After a few miles, I found myself resenting Fletch. Who was he to speak to me like that? And why the
fuck should I feel guilty for his sake? Hed lost a friend and he had my sympathy, but that didnt entitle
him to treat me like garbage.
Whatd you tell me for?
Fletch didnt answer my question. He just kept driving.
Huh? Whyd you tell me about it if you dont want me to look into it?
Fletch tightened his grip on the steering wheel and ground his teeth together as if he were literally
chewing over the question.
We were in our neighborhood before he finally answered. Who else could I tell? Did you know the
schools been contacting the parents of everyone who goes to the special counselling sessions?
Theyre reporting any early warning signs they see in the sessions. You think I want my parents
making me see somebody or sticking me on meds? I cant go in there with a fucking ghost story.
Fletchs anger had left him. By the time we pulled into my driveway he looked deflated. I thought
youd believe me. Or could disprove it. Or, shit, I dont know.
It seemed like both Fletch and Alina were looking to me to absolve their sins. Alina wanted me to
prove that Rob had found a spire sticking up from the ground in the middle of the woods, and it was
the reason hed taken his own life. Fletch wanted me to tell him it was just a ghost story. I honestly
couldnt say what I believed, but I had to know.
I havent even told Murph, he said. I just couldnt handle it if he blamed me for letting Rob go on
his own.
What would you have done if youd been with him?
I dont know. Fletch wouldnt look me in the eyes. But at least he wouldnt have been alone.
Well, you dont have to worry about us. We just wanna try to hear the bells. Its not like were gonna
swim out there or anything.
Yeah, I know. Im not gonna let ya.
I had no idea how Fletch intended to stop us. Its not like we needed his permission to visit a public
park and I told him his as much.
Fletch looked at me like I was an idiot.
If youre going, so am I, he said.
I didnt argue. If he felt guilty for letting Rob go looking for the Spire in the Woods alone, maybe
being there with Kerry and me would help him get over it.
As Fletch backed out of the driveway, I realized there was another reason I didnt protest. Scary
Kerry. Yes, things that day had felt normal again between us, but I was still gun-shy about spending
that much time alone with her. Especially on the shore of a moonlit lake. And as an added bonus, now
we didnt have to worry about getting Ecto-1 for the night.
Alina kept her distance at school, especially after I attempted to steal a kiss from her the Wednesday
before winter break. I had left class to use the bathroom and bumped into her on my way back. There
were these moments, a few minutes here and there, where she seemed like nothing was wrong, where
her smile and her laughter would come easily, and walking her back to class that day was one of those
moments.
The corridor was nearly deserted. Just before we reached the door to her classroom, I stopped her. I
slid one hand around her slender waist, and slipped the other through her hair towards her neck. I
leaned in to kiss her and she withdrew from me, from my touch, as if I was on fire.
And just like that, the old Alina was gone and the broken one was left in her place. We stood there
apologizing to each other her reassuring me that I had nothing to apologize for, me doing the same
before she finally backed into her classroom and shut the door.
I was thankful Thursday was our last day. Winter break couldnt arrive soon enough.
I saw Alina twice over the break. Once before Kerry, Fletch, and I went to the Quabbin, and once
after. Alinas parents had a cabin at the foot of Shawnee Peak in Maine where they usually spent New
Years Eve, but that year they decided to go up on the 27th and come back down on the 30th so Alina
wouldnt miss her weekly therapy session.
The day after Christmas, she came over to our house for dinner. My parents were wonderful. I had
warned them about how nervous and anxious she was likely to be. I didnt say a word about the
suicide notes or the Spire in the Woods, but I had told them that Rob had had a crush on her and that
Alina wasnt coping well with his death. They couldnt have been more understanding.
Ordinarily my dad would have delighted in teasing anyone I brought home for the first time, but he
refrained. Instead, whenever there was a lull in the conversation, he teased my younger brother, who
had gotten for Christmas that year, among other things, a Furby, and insisted on bringing it to the
dinner table.
Dont let me catch you feeding that thing after midnight.
My brother was too young to catch the reference and looked up, confused. Its only 6:30.
Well, its always after midnight somewhere.
My mom, for her part, also resisted her natural instincts. Usually, whenever someone came over to my
house for the first time shed practically interrogate them, stopping just shy of shining a spotlight in
their face. This habit of hers had been particularly rough on Scary Kerry, whom my mom was briefly
convinced was on drugs.
After dinner, my dad suggested that I show Alina the TV that I had gotten for Christmas the day
before. The TV that was in my room. He really was a great dad.
I really like your family, Alina said once the door shut behind us.
I scoffed. Believe me, they were on their best behavior.
Drew DeLuca was a firm advocate of the idea that a romantic movie was not the best movie to watch
with a girl you wanted to get romantic with. For starters, most of them were, in his view, very crappy
movies and the good ones ran the danger of actually holding a girls interest. What you wanted was a
movie that was pleasant and charming, but light enough that you could miss a good chunk of it without
feeling lost and needing to rewind. The sort of movie youd stumble across while watching TV on a
Sunday afternoon, and finish even though it was already mid-way through.
I threw in Maverick.
Alina sat on the floor and I followed suit, but not before grabbing a couple of pillows off my bed. Her
movements were stiff as she settled down on the pillow. I tried not to appear too eager as I got down
behind her and draped my arm over her waist.
As the movie started, I kept thinking about those fantasies Id had the night after our first kiss, about
how pleasant itd be just to lie next to Alina watching TV. Just being near her and nothing more. I was
right. But actually being beside her, my hand resting lightly against her flat stomach, I found other
ideas even more enticing.
I pulled myself closer to her, savoring the fragrance that her vanilla-scented shampoo left in her wild
hair. My fingers crept slowly, almost imperceptibly, up her toned body.
Alina stopped my hand. Do your parents ever come up here? she whispered.
No. Were alone.
Actually, would you mind if we just watched this? I havent seen it before.
Oh, no, thats...thats cool, I said, mentally cursing the day DeLuca had been born.
I spent the next hour knowing the agony of a man without any fresh water, stuck on a life raft adrift at
sea.
After the movie, my luck didnt improve much. The credits began to roll and I had it in my head that
Alina might feel more comfortable expressing her affection for me if she felt like she was in control. I
kissed her neck where it met her jaw and pulled her lithe little body on top of mine.
The pressure of her weight pressing down on me was an excruciating pleasure. My eyes rolled back
in my head. Conscious thought melted away.
My fingers found their way to the bare skin of her lower back. I could feel the slight bumps of her
vertebrae raising up her skin. It was oddly intoxicating. When had I become attracted to spines?
I brushed my cheek against hers, and angled my face so our mouths aligned. Her lips parted
tentatively. I listened for the subtle changes in her breathing that would tell me when itd be safe to
make the next move.
Her breathing deepened. I slid my hands up, up, up her back, all the way to her satiny bra strap. I had
never touched a bra before in my life and had only a vague idea of how to guide the hooks from the
eyes.
I nibbled her ear as my fingers fumbling beneath Alinas shirt. And thats when I felt that she was
crying.
Hey. Hey. Its OK. Look, I whispered while pulling my hands out of her shirt. See?
She stifled a sob and turned her head away from me. I was so scared. I knew I couldnt be too eager
with her. I knew I couldnt press her too hard. She was in a fragile state and there I was, thinking with
anything but my head.
My only defense was that Id just wanted to make her feel good. Id thought, since she liked me, shed
like my touch as much as I craved hers.
But Id thought wrong. On many levels.
I gently pushed her chin up to look her in the eyes. I didnt mean to push you too fast. You OK?
She nodded and I held her until she pushed herself up off of me.
Alina paced around my room doing a breathing exercise her therapist had taught her. I went
downstairs to grab us a couple glasses of water. It was less than the least I could do. While I was in
the kitchen, my dad gave me a questioning look and a thumbs up behind my mothers back. I shook my
head no and felt like a predator.
Once she was calm enough to sit down, we sat on my bed, far apart from one another, sipping the
water and talking.
Its not you, she said.
Yeah. Yeah. Dont worry about it. I know you like me.
Alina gave a little nod as she stared down at her water.
This will pass, I said. People at school will move on to something else and leave you alone. And
you can get back to normal.
Alina got up and started pacing again. My parents dont even think I can skip a session for New
Years. Hows that for normal? I hate that were not going to be up at Shawnee for New Years. She
put the glass down on my desk, her hands as fidgety as her legs. Every year we go skiing in the
morning, then drive into North Conway to have dinner and watch the fireworks until my mom gets too
cold and wants to head back. Thats all I want. And I cant even handle that.
What if I found something down at the Quabbin? Alina stopped, practically mid-step, and stared at
me. I hadnt noticed until just then, but she had bags under her eyes. Would that help?
When are you going?
Tomorrow.
Alina stared at me. The energy in the room had changed. I could practically smell her desperation as
easily as her vanilla-scented shampoo. She needed me to find the Spire in the Woods and prove that it
was the Widowers Clock. Prove that Rob hadnt killed himself because she broke his heart, but
because hed been haunted by the ghost of Amy Lowell Putnam. And if Alina Aminev needed it, so
did I. To hell with Fletch. To hell with just hearing the bells. I was going to find the Spire.
Part 5
Whats with the bag? Fletch asked as I tossed my duffel bag onto the back seat and got inside his
car. If memory serves, itd been 25 or so that day, and felt even colder in the little Civic.
Supplies. Incense. My moms Bible. Couple flashlights. Some miscellaneous crap I borrowed from
Kerry.
Fletch acknowledged hed heard me with a soft grunt and we were on our way to pick up Scary
Kerry.
Truth be told, while the bag did have my mothers Bible and the flashlights, the miscellaneous crap I
borrowed from Kerry was actually a bicycle pump and a pool raft shaped like a small boat that Id
borrowed from Kristy McDowell earlier that day. I didnt see the sense in telling Fletch yet that I
wanted to do more than just hear the bells. At least not while we were still in my driveway and he
could back out. Better to wait until we were down there and the worst he could do was leave us
without a ride home.
We grabbed Kerry and were properly on our way shortly after eight oclock. For the first hour or so,
the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Kerry asked Fletch questions about where he was hoping to go to
college, which schools were his safeties, and how he was going to pay for it.
Fletch answered all of her questions and was even joking around a bit, but as we got deeper into
Massachusetts his nerves started to creep in. He fell silent around the time we cleared Worcester. It
didnt take a mind reader to know he was thinking about Rob. It was impossible not to.
We were retracing the steps of a boy who had killed himself. Whatever hed found down there,
whether it was supernatural or not, whether it was something or nothing, Rob had blamed it for
driving him to madness and death.
I had never been scared on any of my other ghost-hunting trips. Not really. Usually I was filled with a
sense of anticipation. A giddy feeling that I could soon make a discovery that would forever change
the way I saw the whole world, accompanied by a touch of anxiety that I might get caught trespassing
somewhere I didnt belong.
But as we pulled up across the street from the trailer park, my heart was pounding in my chest and my
palms were covered in a cold sweat.
Ten thirteen, Fletch said, cutting the engine. If we hustle we might be able to hear the bells toll
eleven.
Kerry and I nodded dumbly. I could tell she was feeling it too. This was different than the Blood
Cemetery or the Eunice Williams Covered Bridge. This was even different from just looking for the
Widowers Clock. We were walking into the ghost story of Robert Edward Kennan. And the only
thing we knew for certain was that he was dead.
Pass me my bag, I said to Kerry as we stepped out of the car.
Fletch wordlessly led the way. The crunch of the dead leaves beneath our feet echoed out into the
forest. Even though the moon cast more than enough light for us to see, I fished the flashlights out of
my bag just to have something to do.
It hadnt snowed yet that year, at least not at the Quabbin, but it was cold. It had probably dropped
into the high teens that night and the wind ripping through the bare trees wasnt helping matters any.
It was no surprise we didnt see anyone as we crossed into the park. We were in the middle of
nowhere. Hell, if it werent for the metal pole that served as a gate stretched across Old Ware-Enfield
road, we probably could have driven in without anyone noticing.
The smell of woodsmoke hung faintly on the wind. Somewhere, miles away, people were sitting
around their fireplace, probably commenting on what a good night it was for a fire. I bet they felt
cozy.
Fletch rubbed his nose and sniffled. It could have just been the cold making his nose run a little, or
maybe he smelled the smoke too. Either way, it reminded me of something Id read once. Firemen say
that when a person burns to death, their flesh smells like pork.
I pitied Fletch. Thank God I hadnt been there to smell Rob burn.
By the time we reached the fork where the access road splits off from Old Ware-Enfield, my legs felt
like blocks of ice. We hadnt been stupid. We had warm hats and jackets, but a two, two and a half
mile walk at night in late December is too much for just a pair of jeans.
I stomped my feet to warm up. What I wouldnt give for some ski pants.
At least you brought gloves. Kerry said. She had one hand buried deep in her coat pocket, the other
holding the flashlight Id given her with her sleeve pulled down over her fingers.
Fletch cast a baleful eye in our direction. Even though we hadnt been particularly loud or said
anything disrespectful, he looked at us as if hed caught us dancing on Robs grave. As far as Fletch
was concerned, we were on hallowed ground.
We pressed on in silence until, from just ahead of us, we heard cuh...cuh...cuh... whispering gently
through the trees. It sounded vaguely like the Friday the 13th soundtrack was being carried on the
wind across a great distance.
What the hells that? Kerry hissed.
Ice. I said.
Ice makes noise?
Yup.
People think of ice as an object solid and inert but ice expands and contracts a great deal. Slight
variations in temperature, small eddies and imperceptible currents prevent the water from freezing
uniformly. Little fissures turn into big cracks as the ice strains against itself until it buckles and
splinters into plates. What we were hearing was like Continental drift in miniature, big ice plates
pressing against each other until something snapped with the resulting sound echoing over the
reservoir's frozen surface.
We cleared the treeline and, sure enough, the Quabbin was frozen. I was surprised. bodies of water as
big as the Quabbin dont usually freeze until mid-January or so.
Guess we wont be needing the raft, I thought.
Thats when the bells chimed eleven.
Bliss. My body shuddered. I felt like I was beneath Alina, her weight pressing down on the parts of
me that strained to meet her. My flesh tingled. It was as if the smooth skin of her back that my
fingertips had danced lightly across now surrounded every inch of me.
In that lingering moment, I was sated. The bells had nourished me like a feast nourishes the starving. I
wanted nothing but to be exactly where I was, hearing exactly what I was hearing, feeling exactly
what I was feeling.
Then all was silence. I was, once more, out in the cold.
I heard them, Kerry breathed. I turned to her and saw that she had a wistful gleam in her. It was the
first and last time I ever saw her truly happy.
Fletch fell to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Oh my God, he said. Oh my God. He was laboring to breathe. That was... that was beautiful.
I sat down beside him. The dirt beneath us was hard as rock. The echo coming off the ice sounded
like a gentle tide lapping on the shore. I looked up at the sky. So far away from the light pollution of
Nashua or Boston or Lowell, I could see a myriad of stars Id never noticed before. Its the sort of
thing that makes some feel small, but not me. Id just peeked behind realitys veil and discovered...
Well, I didnt know exactly what, just that there was more! Not up there around distant stars,
suspended on the far side of an unfathomably great abyss, but right here, with nothing between us and
this undiscovered country but a few hundred yards of ice and an hours time, when the bells would
toll twelve.
We should have left. We said we only wanted to hear the bells. The only reason Fletch was even there
was to make sure wed turn back. I had witnessed what Id been searching for throughout all of my
ghost hunts: I had evidence of the supernatural.Wasnt that all Id ever wanted? One experience to
bolster my faith? Just one that I could point to, cling to, whenever I found myself besieged by doubts?
I had certainly thought so, until I heard those goddamn bells.
Im not sure which one of us was the first to tentatively step onto the ice, but I recall clearly none of
us voiced an objection. Not even Fletch.
The ice was slick, and we fell hard more than once, but we were all of us New Englanders and no
strangers to shuffling across an expanse of ice. The trick was to keep your weight centered above
your feet.
We talked in clipped bursts about what the bells had felt like to us, speaking in broken analogies,
unable to fully share what the bells had awoken inside of us, but straining to convey it as best we
could.
I only ever flew in a plane once. My parents, even though they couldnt really afford it, took me to
Disney. They were already fighting then. It was bad. But on the plane, going to Disney, when it started
to take off... Kerry trialed off.
Cuh...cuh...cuh... The echo was louder than wed heard it from the shore.
In my head, when I was seven, only rich people flew anywhere. And my parents werent fighting. I
felt lucky, you know?
Fletch grunted his acknowledgement. What time is it?
I checked me watch. About a quarter past.
CUH. We must have been right on top of where the ice was grinding against itself.
We froze. Each of us strained our eyes and ears, trying to determine if the ice was safe. We knew if
the ice wasnt safe itd be dangerous to press on. We knew it, but we didnt care.
Maybe you should go first, Fletch said to me. Youre the lightest.
Yeah, I said and shuffled ahead. Being closer to the bells felt worth the risk. Any risk.
Kerry and Fletch followed in my wake, neither following directly behind me so as to spread our
weight across a broader area.
We pressed on. The conversation died. The wind blew hard across the reservoir and tore through our
clothes like a knife.
We didnt care.
Cuh...cuh...cuh... The sound was growing fainter. We had crossed nearly three quarters of the
distance to the island that housed the Spire.
I never heard the ice crack, just the sharp inhalation of breath for a scream that never escaped her
lips. Kerry plunged through the ice. I turned just in time to see her head go under.
Kerry came up thrashing, but as she hit the sides of the hole shed made more and more of the ice
broke away, expanding it to the size of a kiddie pool.
I shuffled my feet as fast as I could towards the edge.
Fletch screamed for me to stop. No, no! Its not stable!
Cold water sucks the heat from your body thirty-two times faster than air. Every second Kerry stayed
in that water increased the likelihood her arms and legs would go numb and she wouldnt be able to
pull herself out of the water even if the ice stopped breaking.
Laying on my stomach to spread as much of my weight across the surface as I could, I dragged myself
out to the waters edge.
Grab on! I held onto the shoulder strap and tossed my duffel bag into the water as close to Kerry as
I could.
Her hands fumbled, already rendered useless from the heat loss, but she managed to wrap her arms
tight around the bulk of the bag.
I pulled her up to the edge. She got most of her body out of the water before the ice cracked, and she
fell back in, almost taking me with her.
Strong hands grabbed my ankles and pulled me away from the hole.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Fletch grunted as he struggled for traction on the ice.
I dont know how he did it, but Fletch managed to get enough of a purchase that we were able to drag
Kerry out of the water.
Scary Kerry was white as a bone and panting for breath through chattering teeth. She struggled to get
to her hands and knees.
Weve got to get her out of here, Fletch said.
The pull of the bells had been broken. What the fuck had we been thinking?
Bring the car around. Well meet you. The car was easily two miles away.
Fletch nodded and was off, shuffling his feet across the ice as quickly as he could.
I was afraid to stand too close to Kerry out on the ice, but what choice did I have? She was still
struggling just to crawl.
I grabbed her by her ankles and dragged her across until we were far enough away from the hole that I
felt comfortable enough to pull her to her feet.
And still the ice went cuh...cuh...cuh... as I watched Fletch slip out of sight behind the trees. It
didnt sound gentle anymore.
I put her arm over my shoulder. We shuffled along best we could. Each time one of us slipped, I
thought the ice had given out again. My heart would race and Id think, This is it. This is how Im
gonna die, but instead we would just be slammed down against the rock-hard surface.
Kerry followed my instructions. She didnt seem confused, but she wasnt talking either. By the time
wed reached the access road, her lips had turned pale blue and the water in her hair had frozen.
At the fork on Old Ware-Enfield road, I insisted that we trade jackets and I gave her my hat and
gloves, one of which was wet from pulling her out of the water, but I figured it was better than
nothing.
Kerry fumbled and struggled to get out of her jacket. We had to stop walking so I could help her with
the zipper. She fought me as I tried to get my hat over her enormous head and with slurred speech
complained that she was hot.
I knew what that meant. Kerry was in trouble. If I had had a cell phone back then Id have bitten the
bullet and called her an ambulance, but I didnt get my first cell phone until 2001.
I made Kerry run the rest of the way, even though she moved like a drunk in an old cartoon.
Fletch saw us approaching the gate and, leaving the engine running, ran out to meet us.
How is she? he asked, putting her arm over his shoulder.
We need to get her to a hospital. Fletch and I were moving as quick as we could while dragging
Kerry along between us.
Do you know any around here?
You dont know where the hospital is? I screamed as we got into the car.
Why the fuck would I know where the nearest hospital in Western Massachusetts is?
Fletch put the car in drive and started heading towards Amherst, figuring theyd have a hospital there
and wed see signs for it on Route 9. Had we gone the other way, back towards Nashua, wed have
been at a hospital in eleven minutes. Unfortunately, the way we chose, the nearest hospital was in
North Hampton, over an hour away.
Even with the heat on full blast the car was freezing, and practically as soon as the doors closed
Kerry started stripping out of her clothes.
You gotta get back there with her, Fletch said.
He was right. Before our week-long winter hike, our instructor-chaperones taught us what to do in the
event that someone displayed any signs of hypothermia. You get them out of their wet clothes, you
strip down and you get into a sleeping bag with them. Its called passive rewarming, and Kerry
clearly needed it.
I crawled over the emergency brake into the back seat with the half-naked Scary Kerry. She didnt
fight me or complain about being warm, but it was difficult to get close to her. She had wedged
herself down on the floor, mostly behind the passengers seat, a space I would have never imagined
could accommodate me, let alone both of us.
You got a blanket back here or anything? I said, looking around in the mess and clutter that Kerry
sat on top of.
No, but hang on. Fletch wrestled himself out of his jacket while he drove. It occurred to me that I
could use the uninflated raft as a blanket, but when I looked for my duffel bag I realized I must have
dropped it somewhere between the reservoir and the car. Fletch threw his jacket back to me. Our
jackets would have to do.
I stripped down to my underwear. Scary Kerry was completely unresponsive. I did my best to move
her into a position where could I lay next to her and draped Fletchs jacket over my shoulders and
mine over our legs before spreading myself across her corpulent belly.
Id like to say I spent the next hour concerned only for the well-being of my friend, but thats not true.
A million thoughts ran through my head.
Yes, I did think about Kerry. I thought she already looked dead and hoped that at least some of her
pale complexion was just the moonlight. I noticed how slow her breathing was. I could barely feel
her cold gut moving at all.
But I also thought about Rob and the rumor Id repeated when I was in the sixth grade. The one about
how hed been found naked in the woods with a mentally handicapped girl. I thought about how
everyone said hed tricked her into sleeping with him. And even as my friend lay beneath me, for all I
knew dying, there was a small part of me that was thankful we were so far away from home and
nobody would hear about this.
At shortly before one-thirty in the morning we pulled up in front of the emergency room at Cooley
Dickinson Hospital. Fletch got out of the car and ran for help.
Kerry was unconscious when a pair of nurses or orderlies or whatever they were pulled her out of the
car and put her on a stretcher. When they asked me, I couldnt remember the last time Id checked to
see if she was still breathing. It had been a few minutes. At least.
They couldnt find a pulse.
Fletch and I were forced to stay in the waiting room.We couldnt do anything else for her. Kerry was
in their hands now. In a way that was worse. At least for us. When we were in the car we had a goal,
something to focus on. We had to get Kerry to a hospital. Once wed arrived, the adrenaline that had
been coursing through our veins returned to whence it came and left us with nothing but doubts.
Could we have done more? Had we been fast enough?
Shell be fine. Shell be fine. Fletch rocked back and forth in his chair, repeating his little mantra as
if he could will it to be so. Shell be fine. Shell be fine.
It was over an hour before we were able to get an update. Kerry had survived, but only just. When
they initially checked her vitals, Kerrys core temperature had fallen to 64 degrees Fahrenheit and her
heart rate had slowed to 29 beats per minute. For a girl Kerrys age and size, youd expect her resting
heart rate to be in the neighborhood of 74 beats per minute.
The emergency room doctor felt Kerrys hypothermia was too severe for external warming techniques
and elected to irrigate Kerrys stomach and colon with warm saline solution. Every fifteen minutes,
the saline, by then cold, had to be pumped out and replaced with more warm saline.
We had hoped wed be able to see her, but at that point, theyd only managed to raise her body
temperature about 4 degrees and Kerry was still unconscious. She also had third- or fourth-degree
frostbite on several of her fingers and toes and one of her ankles, but they wouldnt have to worry
about that tonight. Theres a saying about frostbite: Frozen in January, amputated in July.
The nurse, a young, homely woman, looked at us like we were criminals. I guess she blamed us for
the state Kerry was in. Even now, Im not sure she was wrong. Is there someone your friend would
want us to contact?
Her mom.
Yeah, I said. Ill do it. Payphone?
Follow me.
The nurse turned and led me back to the admittance desk. Its funny, as scared as I was that my
friends life was still in serious jeopardy, somehow I was also scared to be in trouble with her mom,
and by extension mine. What can I say? I lacked perspective and the enormity of the situation hadnt
fully sunk in. The nurse let me use one of the hospitals phones.
Mrs. Peterson yelled at me for waking her up and then cried when I told her why. Kerrys mom had
her faults, but lacking affection for daughter wasnt one of them. Id often suspected that Mrs.
Peterson had been one of those sad sacks who had known their marriage wasnt going to last and
insisted on having a kid anyway, not to save the marriage but just to have one person in the world that
loved them unconditionally.
I repeatedly told her that her daughter was alive, which was true, and promised that shed be fine. It
was a promise I had no business making, but hearing the hurt in her voice, knowing that Kerrys
condition was largely my fault...I couldnt take it. I would have said anything to make Mrs. Peterson
feel better.
I handed the phone back to the homely nurse so that she could give Mrs. Peterson directions to the
hospital.
Two and a half hours later, Ecto-1s tires screeched to stop in the parking lot.
My daughter! Where is she? I could hear her even before she was through the doors.
If the kids at school thought Kerry was frightening to behold, it was only because theyd never seen
her mother upset. Mrs. Peterson ran up to the admittance desk wearing her jacket over her bathrobe,
the sweatpants she slept in peeking out over her snow boots. Her face was red and puffy from crying
and her hair looked not just uncombed but as if someone had tied it in knots and then dipped it in
grease. By comparison, the homely nurse looked like Helen of Troy.
Shes my daughter! You have to let me see her! Mrs. Peterson said, pounding the desk in front of
her. Being a mother was the reason Mrs. Peterson got out of bed in the morning. It was the reason she
worked a thankless, poorly paying job. And it was the reason she wasnt about to let anyone keep her
from being there for her daughter.
Fletch and I jogged the short distance down the hall from the waiting room. The hospital staff was
looking nervously at Mrs. Petersons red face and bulging veins. A pair of nurses sidled up next to the
homely nurse to support her.
You cant see her until shes been stabilized, the nurse said, her voice quivering.
Mrs. Peterson let out an inarticulate scream that shook her whole body. It was a desperate noise that
sounded like a wounded animal.
The homely nurse flinched, Fletch took an involuntary step back, and one of the other nurses peeled
off from the pack and ran down the hall, probably to get security. She neednt have bothered. After her
scream, Mrs. Peterson collapsed to the floor in tears.
I laid my hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. Mrs. Peterson looked up and saw that it
was me. I thought for a moment Id receive the same treatment as the nurses. Instead, she pulled me
down on top of her and hugged me, clinging to me like I was life itself.
Mrs. Peterson buried her face in my shoulder and cried. I wished she had yelled at me, and not just
because my face was pressed into her hair, which smelled of sweat, deli meats, and feta cheese. Id
nearly gotten her daughter killed. I didnt deserve to be embraced like a member of the family. And
something about the way Mrs. Peterson so desperately held me reminded me of the trip her daughter
and I had taken to Greenfield.
I had been reckless with Kerry in so many ways.
Fletch helped the two of us to our feet and we led Mrs. Peterson back to the waiting room.
We stopped at a McDonalds on the way home, but neither of us could bring ourselves to eat anything.
Fletch and I had stayed at the hospital until nearly 10am; by that time Kerrys temperature had
returned to normal but at no point had she regained consciousness.
We would have stayed longer, but wed been awake for nearly 24 hours at that point and our bodies
were beginning to shut down. I left Mrs. Peterson my parents number and told her to call me if she
needed anything. She took it and thanked me for watching over her little girl.
Sitting beneath the fluorescent lights, waiting for Fletch to finish his coffee, I felt like Judas minus the
silver. I should have stayed at the hospital. But I copped out. I couldnt stand Mrs. Peterson being nice
to me.
I never should have brought you. It was the first thing Fletch had said in hours.
Wed have gone anyway, I said, smearing ketchup around my tray with my hashbrown so I wouldnt
have to look him in the eyes. Wed have gone, shed have fallen, and you wouldnt have been there
to pull her out. I could have driven or I could have tried to warm her, but I couldnt have done both.
Fletch didnt respond. I guess he still felt like it was his fault.
Shed be dead right now, Fletch. Me too, probably.
I hazarded a glance up and wished I hadnt. He was giving me the same look I had given Mrs.
Peterson an hour earlier when she thanked me for watching over Kerry. Neither of us were ready to
be forgiven yet.
Well, he said, we should have left after we heard those fucking bells.
I couldnt argue with him there.
Fletch finished his coffee in silence. After he was done, neither of us moved to get up. It was
probably around 10:30 or so at that point, and neither of us had called our parents. We knew we
should have found the nearest payphone. We knew we couldnt hide what had happened. We couldnt
lie. At least not about Kerry. But even if it was only for a couple of hours, we wanted to push that
eventuality off for as long as possible. Our parents would know soon enough.
We got back in the car and rolled down the windows, hoping the cold air would help keep Fletch
awake long enough for the coffee to kick in. Fletch stopped for the light at the intersection of Amherst
Road and the Daniel Shays Highway. We needed to go left which would take us North towards New
Hampshire, but Fletch hadnt hit his blinker yet.
Can I tell you something? Fletch had struggled to get out each word.
Yeah.
A part of me wants to go back. I want to hear them again.
So did I. All wed have to do is go right.
Do you...if we did, do you think we could get there by eleven? I asked.
The light changed. We didnt move until the car behind us started honking. Fletch hit the blinker. We
went left. My cheeks burned with shame.
We probably wouldnt have made it in time, I said.
We cant. We cant. We cant go back there. Not ever.
No. Never. But even as I said it, I knew I would. The bells felt like home.
Part 6
My parents had woken up on the morning of December 28th, 1999 to a quiet house. Nothing unusual
about that, they were typically the first ones up. My mother made coffee and my father turned on CNN
and got on the treadmill. My brother woke up next and my mother made him french toast. She made
some for me as well, figuring I could reheat it whenever I came down.
It was a couple of hours before my absence was felt. No big deal. They figured it was vacation. They
might as well let me sleep in.
Then, around 11 oclock they got a call from Mr. Fletcher. He was in a bad mood.
Did Nathan stay over at your house last night?
I dont think so.
Well, if he did, wake his ass up and tell him hes in trouble.
My mom covered the receiver with her hand and hollered for my dad to go wake me up. Thats when
they found out I was missing.
When Fletch and I showed up in the driveway two hours later, Id say my parents were more annoyed
than angry. My parents werent strict disciplinarians. Id slept over at Drew DeLucas without
consulting them on more than one occasion, and while they were never exactly thrilled with me, they
trusted my judgment and preferred letting me exercise that judgment to being woken up by a late-night
phone call looking for their permission. Theyd figured wed stayed up late playing video games or,
at worst, watching Skin-e-max movies, and were just too tired to drive home.
Fletchs parents werent so understanding. Theyd called everyone Fletch was friends with, then
called my parents looking for the names of my friends. My father was pretty sure if we hadnt shown
up when we did, Fletchs father would have started calling names at random out of the phonebook.
He was trying to be funny, but Fletch and I werent in much of a mood to laugh. We exchanged one last
tired look, both knowing things were going to get worse before they got any better, and parted ways.
I stood on the front steps of my house with my father watching Fletch drive off down the road.
Boy, am I glad Im not him right now, my dad said.
He didnt know the half of it.
Dad, we, uh...I have to tell you something.
They didnt yell and they didnt scream, but the days of my parents trusting my judgment were over. I
had stayed out all night without permission, driven deep into another state, and gone out onto
unfamiliar, recently frozen ice, in the middle of the night.
That was stupid. That was so stupid. My father got up from the table and headed for the phone.
Hed never been good at sitting still when he was agitated.
Why were you even in Amherst? my mother asked.
We wanted to visit Sam, I mumbled. Id never been a particularly good liar, but Fletch and I had
agreed to leave Robs suicide notes and the Spire in the Woods out of our story. Fletch was convinced
that if his dad caught even the faintest whiff that his son believed in ghost stories, hed be stuck on
meds as fast as the nearest psychiatrist could write the proscription.
My mom stared straight at me. I couldnt hold her gaze and pretended to be interested in the french
toast shed reheated for me.
That could have been you. Do you understand? That could have been you that fell through that ice.
And with no one around... My mom was too choked up to finish her thought. I wanted to comfort her
but I didnt want her to look at me.
Yes, you have a patient there named Kerry... My dad stuck the phone under his chin and asked,
Whats Kerrys last name?
While my dad was concerned for Kerry he was also motivated by self-interest. I could hear it in his
voice. He had spent the first ten years of his career working in litigation at the law firm of Ropes &
Gray and believed in the importance of CYA. Covering Your Ass. It didnt matter how slim the
chances were that Mrs. Peterson would attempt to hold our family (or the Fletchers) accountable for
what happened to her daughter that risk was unacceptable.
If you need any help, he said, once hed gotten Mrs. Peterson on the phone, you know, around the
house, driving Kerry to school... He was feeling her out. Trying to get a sense of whether or not Mrs.
Peterson blamed us for what had happened to her daughter. Maybe dealing with the insurance
company, or hell, I dont know, if you need a little help with the medical bills. Whatever you need.
Just say the word.
He also wanted to dangle that carrot. He knew Mrs. Peterson wouldnt be able to cover Kerrys
emergency medical care out of pocket, and he doubted slicing meat at the deli counter in Market
Basket conferred with it amazing health insurance. Mrs. Peterson would need help, but it would come
with strings attached.
Looking back at my fathers actions, they seem cold, and maybe they were; but isnt protecting their
kids what good fathers do? Dont they protect their children even when their children dont
particularly want to be protected? Had Mrs. Peterson a vengeful bone in her body, Id have deserved
the brunt of everything she could muster.
Despite my exhaustion, I had trouble falling asleep. I kept thinking about Kerry. She was in the
hospital and it was my fault. I hadnt talked her into anything, but I had involved her. Id brought her
along and now she was the one lying in a hospital bed with her mother crying over her.
As a Catholic, youre taught that God created us as rational beings. Youre taught that He gave us the
dignity to initiate and control our own actions. That He imbued us with the ability to hold our own
counsel so that we may choose our own paths***, and that we alone are responsible for the fruit that
our choices bear.
I didnt believe that everything was part of a plan, and the people that did, the people who saw Gods
hand in every mundane, earthly event, from athletes who credit Jesus for their ability to hit a
curveball, to teenagers invoking the name of the Lord to secure a date on a Saturday night, drove me
crazy. I had never accepted predestination. How could we have free will if, like clockwork,
everything was preordained to happen?
I believed these things. I did. But lying there, thinking of the Petersons, I couldnt stop myself from
wondering if God was teaching me a lesson. Id been taught that God doesnt cause car accidents or
tornadoes, but in that moment, I felt that God had broken the ice beneath Kerrys feet to punish me for
both doubting His existence and having stolen a glimpse of the secret knowledge no one but God was
meant to have.
I cried and whispered Hail Marys and Our Fathers to myself until I was finally overtaken by
exhaustion.
Dim light filtered in through my blinds. The windows in my room faced south and in my
semiconscious state, I wasnt sure if the sun was rising or setting. My stomach growled, but I couldnt
bring myself to get out of bed and face my parents.
The bells tolled.
I sat bolt upright in my bed. The room was still and silent and yet I could hear the bells as they
continued to call out the hour. Two...three...they were beautiful, but I didnt lose myself in them as I
had on the shore of the Quabbin. Four... They sounded like a song stuck in your head.
Five... They stopped. I was still lying in bed. Either Id never sat up or had lain back down without
realizing it.
Had I heard them, or had I remembered them? At the reservoir, wed heard them toll eleven. Had it
just been a dream? I sat up for what may have been the second time, and looked at my clock. It was
five.
In the past two days Id only slept for three hours, but I couldnt handle being alone in the dark. I went
downstairs and spent the rest of the night studiously avoiding eye contact with my family.
Thankfully, I didnt hear the bells again that night.
The next morning, bright and early, my father drove me over to Kerrys house. My parents had put
together a care package for Mrs. Peterson, a large basket filled with food so she wouldnt have to
cook, gift cards from our local gas station to offset the back-and-forth to the hospital each day, and a
few books to read in the waiting room.
When she opened the door, Mrs. Peterson was so grateful that she cried. Once shed regained her
composure, the two of us got into Ecto-1 and headed out on the two-and-a-half hour drive to Cooley
Dickinson Hospital. My dad had volunteered me to go and keep Mrs. Peterson company. He may have
had an ulterior motive, but this was something I wanted to do. Something I had to do.
The drive was awkward. Under the best of circumstances, as a teenager, spending time alone with
one of your friends parents was always a little uncomfortable and these were far from the best of
circumstances. As I learned on the drive, Kerry was in a coma.
Although Mrs. Peterson got virtually none of the medical terms correct her only real exposure to
medicine coming from watching ER I managed to get the gist of what she was saying. As Kerrys
heart rate slowed, so had her breathing. Her blood had failed to supply her brain with the oxygen it
needed to run. And it was this lack of oxygen that probably contributed more to Kerrys blue
coloration than her body temperature.
The doctors had given Mrs. Peterson only one tiny piece of good news. Because hypothermia lowers
a bodys metabolism, it reduced the likelihood that the oxygen deprivation had damaged Kerrys
brain. That was it. That was what we were pinning all our hopes on. That the cold which nearly
killed her had also slowed her brain down enough that it hadnt noticed it was suffocating.
When we arrived at the hospital, Kerrys mom led me to her new room. I could tell from the looks the
staff was giving her along the way that Mrs. Peterson was not their favorite person. Maybe shed been
a pain in the ass the day before, but I didnt feel like that was it, not exactly. The nurses were giving
Mrs. Peterson the same looks the kids at school gave her daughter.
In movies and television, people frequently comment on how peaceful coma patients appear. They
say, its like theyre asleep, they look like an angel, or it reminds me of when they were a baby,
and I used to hold them. I dont know if that was Mrs. Petersons impression, but it certainly wasnt
mine.
Ordinarily, Kerry wore a lot of concealer to cover up her acne. At some point between plunging
beneath the ice and having saline pumped in and out of her stomach, most of it had disappeared. She
had a tube running into her nose, though Im not sure why; a heart rate monitor on her finger; and an IV
in her arm. And that was to say nothing of the frostbite.
Along with the big toe on her right foot and most of her left foot below the ankle, which we couldnt
see beneath the blanket, ice crystals had formed in two fingers on her left hand and the thumb on her
right. The blood trapped in her fingers swelled them almost to the same thickness as her wrists. They
were red and raw. It was difficult not to stare at them.
Mrs. Peterson believed that even in a coma, Kerry could hear us and proceeded to relive seemingly
every moment of her daughters life. Mrs. Peterson was not a gifted storyteller. In her mind, nothing
was too trivial, from the time she caught Kerry washing the dishes with cold water, which is
apparently something you shouldnt do, to the time they went to Applebees for her birthday and both
forgot to tell the server, then wondered why they didnt get any cake.
But what her stories lacked in content, Mrs. Peterson made up for in sentiment. She couldnt touch
Kerrys hands, so she held her daughters upper arm as she spoke.
Im sorry Im not home more. Id like to be. I would. I know how hard schools been for ya, maybe
itd have been easier if I was home more. I dunno. But youve done so good, baby. And college is
right there.
If Kerry was able to hear her mother, it wasnt outwardly apparent. Her face didnt twitch, her
eyelids didnt flutter, even her pulse on the heart rate monitor held steady.
Remember in middle school? You...you never thought... As Mrs. Peterson began to break down, she
grabbed my wrist and pulled me to her daughters bedside. Forcing my hands to replace hers on
Kerrys arm. You never thought youd get a boy to like you, but look at whos here.
My cheeks burned. I didnt know if Kerry had told her mother we were dating or if Mrs. Peterson had
just gotten the wrong idea about us, but either way I couldnt correct her. Not there. I had had enough
trouble rejecting Kerry when we were alone in Greenfield. The thought of rejecting her again, this
time in front of her mother, and stealing from Mrs. Peterson whatever sense of pride she derived from
her daughter having a romantic life, was more than I could bear. Theres a special place in hell for
people who humiliate children in front of their parents.
I was very aware of my hands resting on her arms. She was so much warmer than the last time I had
touched her. Ive never been quick on my feet. I had no idea what to say, especially with Mrs.
Peterson thinking I was Kerrys, what? Boyfriend?
I took a page out of Mrs. Petersons playbook, and stood over my unconscious friend and recounted
meeting her on the hike and a few anecdotes from class. I tried to muster up something more
sentimental, but it wasnt until I pretended it was Alina laying there in front of me that any words
came. I cant stop thinking about you. I wish we could talk. Id do anything to make you better.
Lost in the little scene I had created for myself, I leaned down and kissed Kerrys waxy forehead.
Mrs. Peterson put her arms around me and squeezed. I looked at the tears in her eyes and wondered if
Id done her a kindness by playing along. The lie seemed harmless enough. Kerry probably just
wanted to save face with her mom. Maybe make her proud. Let her think her child was happy, for a
change. But eventually the truth would come out. I wasnt attracted to Kerry. Itd be nice if I was, but I
wasnt.
I also resented being blindsided. If Kerry had asked my permission, had said, look, this is
embarrassing, especially after Greenfield, but I need your help making my mom happy. Is it OK if I
tell her youre my boyfriend? I might have said yes. But she hadnt.
The whole charade made me feel gross.
Alinas family returned from Shawnee the following morning. I would have liked to have been
outside their house waiting for her when they arrived, but I was still a month away from getting my
drivers license and my parents werent exactly in the mood to help advance my social life.
I left a message on the Aminevs machine in the morning around ten. I called again at noon and one,
but hung up both times before the machine began recording. It was the strange poker game you play
when youre in love for the first time. You feel like youll die if you dont speak to the object of your
affection as soon as possible, but you know how crazy youd seem if you filled up their answering
machine with increasingly redundant messages.
That afternoon felt like an eternity.
She called me back shortly after five, and even though I was sitting directly next to the phone, I let it
ring twice so she wouldnt know Id been sitting directly next to the phone.
I missed you, I said.
Oh...thanks. She sounded tired. Maybe she hadnt gotten that much sleep before driving home, or
maybe she was drained from therapy. Either way, it wasnt exactly the reaction I was hoping for.
I wasnt sure what I wanted to tell her about my trip to the Quabbin, or, rather, I wasnt sure how to
tell her. The whole idea of going was to alleviate her guilt. Having heard the bells, I knew that the
story was at least partially true. There was more to the Spire in the Woods than the side effects of an
anti-depressant. But I also knew that Alina wouldnt take the news of Kerry very well. For that
matter, I wasnt taking it all that great either.
How was Maine?
Too short. Im trying to convince my parents to drive us back up there for tomorrow night, but my
dads sick of driving.
Mmh. I wanted to tell her everything, but it had to be face to face. If she took it hard I couldnt
comfort her from halfway across town. Not properly.
There was a long silence as I weighed my options. When she broke the silence, her voice sounded
small and young and distant.
Did you...did you find the Widowers Clock?
I...uh...do you think you could come over tonight? After my parents go to sleep?
There was another silence, though not as long as the last one.
Why?
Its, well, its not really the sort of thing you tell someone over the phone.
I stood by my window looking out at the front lawn, its yellow grass illuminated by a couple of our
tackier Christmas decorations. The wind shook the dead branches of the tree that grew next to our
driveway. Something about the scene reminded me of the Quabbin and the sound the ice makes when
its quiet. Cuh...cuh...cuh...
It was nearly midnight, and I wondered if Kerry would dream of the bells. Being in a coma might not
have been so bad if they sounded as lovely in sleep as they did in real life. There have been times in
my past when Ive been lonely, and considered the virtue of trading the world for a lifetime of
dreams.
Today, Id make that trade in a heartbeat if it meant never hearing the bells again.
Headlights flashed into my window, interrupting my thoughts, as Alina pulled her little Beetle into my
driveway. I crept downstairs to meet her. Despite everything that had happened in the last couple of
days, I couldnt help but feel excited.
She was shivering when I opened the door and didnt appear to have showered that day, but she
looked so beautiful, framed as she was by the Christmas lights surrounding our door, and with the
porch light behind her head casting a glow around her. It was like she was separated from everything
dark and dead outside.
I hugged her. She hadnt worn a jacket, just the sweats she probably slept in during the winter. She
stood stiffly as I rubbed her back and arms in an effort to warm her up. I figured she was nervous
about what Id tell her but was still disappointed she hadnt greeted me more enthusiastically.
I led her into the kitchen and set about making us a couple of mugs of instant hot chocolate. Alina
leaned against the island behind me, but that didnt last for very long. Before Id even gotten the mugs
into the microwave, she was pacing and chewing nervously at her lower lip.
So what happened? she asked.
I handed her a mug.
Do you wanna sit?
No, no, I sat enough today.
I brought her into the den, which was further away from my parents bedroom. The embers in my
fathers woodstove still glowed brightly and I added a couple of small pieces of kindling.
Please. Please tell me what you found?
I told her. I told her everything. How cold it was. What Kerry and Fletch had been like. What the
smell of the smoke reminded me of. I told her about the sound the ice made...and I told her about the
bells.
They were heavenly. But...it...it wasnt just the sound. They fed something inside me. You know that
part of you, that voice in your head that kinda experiences whats happening and sees through your
eyes? She was looking at me as I spoke, and I could almost see the part of her I was talking about
behind her eyes.
Like the soul or whatever, I continued. It was like the bells enveloped it and gave it everything it
ever wanted. Everything that it was missing. For me, it was you.
It was a bit embarrassing, describing to her how the bells had reminded me what it felt like to lie
beneath her, but how else could I have conveyed the contentment in their presence and the need in
their absence? The bliss and the longing.
It was romantic too, I thought. What could be more flattering for Alina to hear than my admission that
my purest desire was to lie close to her, to feel her body against mine? That it quieted my soul. But
she didnt react as though she were flattered.
Alina stared straight into the stove at the flames consuming the wood and said nothing. It took me a
moment to realize what she was probably thinking. She was also what Rob heard in the bells, what
quieted his soul. She was his bliss and longing.
Even if she never wanted to be.
We sat in silence for a long time and watched the wood burn. Then I told her about how we had
pressed on. And about what happened to Kerry.
Even though it wasnt her fault, I knew Alina would blame herself for Kerry falling through the ice,
just like she had blamed herself for Robs suicide. It was the sort of negative feedback loop a person
gets into when theyre depressed. Everything's their fault. What I hadnt considered was how much
Id blamed myself.
Beyond answering a few of my parents questions about how Mrs. Peterson was doing, I hadnt told
anyone about my return trip to the hospital. For that matter, I hadnt really told anyone how I felt
seeing Kerry turning blue, or struggling to warm her up on the floor of Fletchs car. Telling Alina
about it opened up the floodgates inside me.
Alina let me speak until I couldnt get any more words out. Then she slid along the couch to my side,
wrapped me in her arms and held me like a child. For a moment I felt ashamed. I had never judged
other guys for crying, I had sat beside Fletch when he was overcome by grief, but this was different.
Kerry hadnt died. And I was with Alina, who I wanted more than anything to think of me as a man.
I felt so small.
She ran her hand up and down my back. Little by little, I became more aware of her and her closeness
to me than I was of my emotions. My face was cradled against her neck. My cheek brushed hers as I
moved to look up at her. Her eyes looked as though she had been crying too.
I kissed her and it was like the first time, with her lips slow to respond. Slowly, we inched our way
back onto the couch until I was lying on top of her. It felt like the bells.
My hand traced its way down her arms and over her shirt. My pulse beat faster than it ever had
before. I was acutely aware of my body, how it felt, where it was in relation to Alinas, but had lost
all conscious thought, aware of nothing but touch and pulse.
I slid my hands beneath her clothes. She didnt stop me. Her sweatpants came down easily. She was
nervous. So was I.
My hands shook as I took my own pants down. Id never exposed myself to anyone. Her face was
inscrutable.
I dont feel right describing the details of her body. We were kids then. Im an adult now. I didnt
know what I was doing then. I know now.
It was my first time. I dont know if it was hers. We dont exactly talk these days.
She laid still and I moved along side her. It was short and fumbling and awkward.
But I thought, at the time, that it was divine.
Afterwards, I didnt want her to leave, but she got dressed anyway. She shaking as she did and crying
by the time she reached the door. I thought maybe she was scared because we hadnt used a condom,
or maybe had more survivors guilt. I was wrong.
Hey. Hey, you. She was reluctant to let me hug her. Its OK, I said. We didnt do anything
wrong.
She said yeah and ran her hand back through her wild hair, not to get it out of her face, but like you
would if you didnt know the answer on a test.
After she left, I stood at the window for a long time staring out into the night at the place where her
taillights had disappeared.
I didnt sleep easily that night. I felt like I should have been more excited than I was. A lifetime of
coming-of-age movies and pop culture had led me to believe Id feel somehow different about myself
and the world, but I didnt. The view from my bed looked exactly as it had the night before. Kerry
was still in the hospital, and far from restoring Alina to her former self, consummating our
relationship had left her as unhappy as ever.
I tried to imagine a future with Alina, one where I made her as happy as she made me, but I only
wound up thinking about the bells. Maybe she needed to hear them.
I fell asleep shortly before three in the morning, which, unbeknownst to me, was almost exactly when
Kerry woke up screaming.
Id love to tell you what Kerrys first words were. Unfortunately, I cant. When her heart had slowed
down, an area of her brain located beneath her left temple hadnt received enough oxygen.
Essentially, shed had a stroke which left her with a condition called expressive aphasia. She could
make sounds, that was no problem, and with effort she could say words, but she couldnt form
sentences.
Of course Mrs. Peterson and I didnt know that when she picked me up the morning of New Years
Eve. All we knew was that Kerry was awake.
Mrs. Peterson shook with laughter as we drove down 495. She was going so fast I honestly thought
Ecto-1 was going to disintegrate, like one of those experimental jet planes you see in old stock
footage.
Kerrys mom, beaming with pride, clapped her hand down on my knee and said, Boy, I will tell you,
you got yourself one tough girl.
I smiled back at her, I honestly did. Thinking Kerry was essentially out of the woods, I was thrilled,
but I didnt know what else to say. Or maybe I was too busy worrying that now that she was awake,
Kerry she might not be quick enough on the uptake to figure out what was going on and her Mom
would realize our relationship was a lie.
I wouldnt have worried had I realized how sever Kerry aphasia was.
Mrs. Peterson was humming arhythmically as we pulled into the parking lot. She walked into the
hospital with a spring in her step. She looked at the nurses like they were old friends or comrades-in-
arms, as if to say, weve been through some rough times together, but now thats all behind us and I
couldnt have made it without you! but she couldnt be bothered to stop and speak to any of them.
The look in Mrs. Petersons eyes and the spring in her step lasted until we reached Kerrys door.
Mom...boy...dad...arm...wrist...bad...wrist...wrist...mom...medicine... Her speech was labored. I
could see her struggling with each syllable.
Mrs. Peterson told me to Go get a doctor. In that simple sentence, I could literally hear the
happiness drain from inside her. The woman who had practically skipped down the hospitals
corridors deflated as she took her place by her daughters side.
I think what I feel the worst about, at least in regards to Kerry, I saw coming in that moment. In most
regards, Mrs. Peterson wasnt much of a person. She wasnt smart and she didnt have much of a
sense of humor. Shed never been a great conversationalist or within a stones throw of attractive. She
was dirt-poor and her personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. In most ways, she was societys
definition of a failure.
But there was an air of grace in the resigned way she stepped to her daughters bedside. Yes, what
little light she had in her life seemed dimmer. All the hopes shed had for her daughter had been
snuffed out, but she wasnt going anywhere. She was going to shoulder the load and give her daughter
everything she could.
I tell myself that, accident or no, Kerry and I would have drifted apart anyway during college. Even if
her aphasia had fully dissipated, theres no way we would have gone to the same school, but the truth
is that I never could stand to be in the same room with her. On the rare occasions we crossed paths
after that day, every time she stammered, or shifted her weight on her crutches, it filled me with self-
loathing. And I couldnt take it.
I went to the nurses station. They told me theyd have to call in a doctor with a background in
neurology. About a half-hour or so later, Dr. Walsh stepped into Kerrys room. I dont remember much
about him other than that he had silver hair and his bedside manner could be charitably described as
detached.
Hospital...man...doctor...arm...bad...nurse...
She wants another pain killer. He said. Shes probably going to lose that hand.
Mrs. Peterson asked Dr. Walsh why her daughter couldnt speak properly and he explained to us what
they expected to find once they gave Kerry a CT scan. See, people always talk about how we dont
use more than two, or ten, or twelve percent of our brain, but thats load of crap. We use all of it and
because every part of the brain has certain tasks and functions associated with it, even a small injury
can cause very serious and pronounced effects, like Kerrys expressive aphasia. It didnt effect any
other aspect of her cognition. She probably even knew what she wanted to see, but she couldnt get
the words out.
Now, luckily, Dr. Walsh said, the brain is fairly elastic. So, given time, some of the undamaged
area surrounding the affected region could compensate and she could regain her normal speech.
Aphasia isnt uncommon in stroke victims, and we often see a full recovery within a year.
Throughout our conversation with Dr. Walsh, Kerry would attempt to interject. If it seemed like she
needed something or was asking a question, we would try to figure out what she was saying.
Otherwise, Mrs. Peterson would just stroke her daughters hair until she settled back down. Mostly
Kerry seemed concerned with pain from her frostbite, but just as Dr. Walsh was excusing himself, she
said something, or shouted really, that made my hair stand on end.
Hear... hear...sounds...ring...ring...Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring! Then she fell
silent.
Mrs. Peterson looked up at Dr. Walsh. What does she want?
Dr. Walsh took out a small flashlight and shined it into Kerrys eyes. Her pupils were unresponsive.
She may also have damaged her auditory cortex. Well know more once we can get her scanned.
I glanced down at my watch. It had just turned ten.
Part 7
Most people have largely forgotten about all the hysteria surrounding the Y2K bug, and rightly so. It
was a fundamentally silly concern. Im not saying it was outside the realm of possibility that a few
systems would crash or that there wouldnt be billing issues, but an embarrassingly high percentage of
the population believed, like my father, that it could cause a nuclear holocaust.
Wed been fighting about it since Thanksgiving.
Thats not how missiles work, dad.
Oh, so youre a nuclear technician now? All the control systems that launch our ICBMs are
computerized. And theyre old computers. Theyre not compliant. You dont know what will happen.
I know missiles dont launch unless theyre told to. Its not like theyre sitting around in their silos
going, Can I launch yet? Can I launch yet? Huh? Huh? How about now? and the computers are sitting
there going, No. No. No. Wait, what year is it? 1900? Crap, I havent been invented yet. Release the
dogs of war!
Id been fighting with my parents for weeks to let me go to Drew DeLucas New Years Eve party, but
in addition to the imminent threat of thermonuclear war, they thought 15 was too young to stay out all
night at a coed party. Originally, they had wanted to pick me up by ten. After I brought Alina home, my
dad suddenly reversed his position. I could stay over at Drews.
In the past, I had always been at home when the ball dropped. Usually, my brother would fall asleep
around 11 and my parents had long since outgrown the compulsion to make New Years Eve special.
This usually left me alone with Dick Clark and my daydreams of having someone to kiss at midnight.
Of course, that was all immaterial. There was no way Alina would turn up at DeLucas. And after
finding out what had happened to Kerry, and having to tell my parents about it, well, I didnt exactly
feel like celebrating either.
My dad actually stayed up with me that year. He was convinced the power would go out at midnight.
A part of me hoped he was right. Sure, it might have meant the end of the world, but at least it would
have taken my mind off of how crappy I felt.
At midnight, the ball dropped. So many things had happened to me that year, so many things that Id
thought would make me feel happy or maybe just fulfilled, but the girl I loved was still miserable, one
of my best friends had brain damage and there was nothing I could do for either one of them. The
world was the same miserable place itd been that morning. No more, no less.
I tried calling Alina before I went to sleep but hung up when her dad answered. The next day we
spoke only briefly. She seemed more distant than ever but assured me it was only because her parents
were in the next room.
At my parents insistence, Mrs. Peterson joined us for a late dinner on her way back from the hospital.
The wood surface of our dining room table was polished to nearly a mirrored finish and Mrs.
Peterson looked out of place sitting at it, her old T-shirt and stained khaki work pants reflected back
up at her. My little brother was visibly uncomfortable to be sitting across from her. He had the same
expression on his face as he had the first time wed gone to a Sox game by ourselves and, heading
back to Alewife, a homeless person had sat near us on the T.
None of us spoke much, but before leaving Mrs. Peterson did accept the name of a speech therapist
my dad had tracked down from one of the partners at his firm earlier that day, and had agreed to let us
help her pay for it.
I knew he had ulterior motives, but I got the impression from the look in my dads eyes that he did
really want to help. My dads a bit of a shark and I think that may have been the first time Id ever
seen him look at someone with pity.
Monday morning I saw Fletch for the first time since Kerry had fallen through the ice. It had only been
a week, but it felt like a lifetime. Fletch looked tired in a way you dont often see in teenagers. He
looked like my grandfather right before he decided he couldnt take any more chemo. He looked
beaten.
If he didnt know already, I didnt think he could handle an update on Kerrys condition. We rode in
silence.
School was a torture. Everyone was laughing and smiling. They complained of being back from break
but were eagerly catching up with friends, swapping stories about New Year's and Christmas, and
commiserating about the lack of fresh powder anywhere on the East Coast that year. They had no idea
Scary Kerry was lying in a hospital bed, practically unable to speak.
At least when Rob had killed himself, his death had been so public we all went through it together.
With Kerry, aside from Kim Murray and Dan Burgen, Fletch and I were the only ones who even
seemed to notice she was missing.
Its lonely being miserable in a crowd of happy people.
Drew teased me about having missed his party, but quickly realized I wasnt in the mood.
You all right, dude?
Not even close.
You wanna talk about it?
Shaking my head was all I could do without crying. Drew squeezed my shoulders in a half hug and
then gave me some space by turning back to our group of friends. I disappeared wordlessly into the
crowded hallway in search of the only person that could make me feel better.
I found Alina right before the bell rang for first period. She was sitting against the lockers with Sara
Cohen. I couldnt hear what they were saying, but based on how quickly they stopped talking I got the
impression it had been about me.
All I wanted to do was put my arms around Alina, to melt against her and bury my face in her
shoulder. To lose myself, even if just for a second, in the sensation of holding her, but shed barely
gotten to her feet before the bell rang and Sara was dragging her off in the opposite direction before I
could so much as raise my arms.
The rest of the day crawled by in a meaningless cacophony of lecturing teachers and jabbering
students. With each passing minute I felt like it was harder and harder to breathe. I spent the last
period staring at the second hand of the clock, willing it to move faster until it struck three.
Thats when I heard them. The bells.
One...I was in my den, I was inside Alina...two...writhing against her, I felt as though Id melt and
explode all at the same time...three...I never wanted the chimes to end...
But they did. I was sitting in my desk, breathing hard. Everyone else around me was packing up their
things. I took a moment to collect myself and followed suit.
Theyd sounded as loud as they had from the shore of the Quabbin. As loud and as beautiful.
That Wednesday, Fletch and I were in a car accident. It was on the way to school. We were running a
little late for some reason, although I dont recall why. Fletch had slowed down the car to make the
turn onto Cold Spring Road and then froze, letting the car drift into the trees on the side of the road.
For my part I was yelling, but he didnt seem to notice for a full eight seconds. He just sat there, his
foot lightly pressing the gas, his car pressed up against a grove of small pine trees, its wheels
spinning up dirt and fallen needles.
I didnt need to ask what had happened. It was eight oclock. Hed heard the bells.
When he snapped out of it, Fletch was visibly shaken.
Oh, God! Im sorry, Im sorry! Are you all right?
I was fine. The only real damage was a crack in the front bumper and a bent sapling. Wed been
lucky: if wed been a few seconds earlier or later, it would have struck eight while Fletch was going
thirty or forty down our winding streets, and the trees would have been a lot less forgiving.
Have you heard them? Since we were out there? he asked.
Yeah. Twice. Kerrys heard them too.
Ive heard them eight times. They keep getting louder. Fletch shuddered. Do you think this is what
happened to Rob? The bells just kept ringing, kept getting louder and louder until he couldnt take it
any more?
I didnt. The bells were just too beautiful, or so I thought at the time. I was actually a little jealous
Fletch had heard them more times than I had.
We arrived after first period had already started, too late for me to have had any chance of seeing
Alina that day. I hadnt seen her all week and every time I called her house, it seemed like her father
answered and Id just missed her. Awfully social for someone who still ate all her lunches with the
guidance counselors.
Though in fairness to Alina, I got it. I found the general din of the classroom intolerable and the
cafeteria even worse. Everyone else seemed so happy. So carefree.
Im not sure when exactly I began checking the time compulsively. It may have been the day Fletch
went off the road. It may have been later in the week. Regardless, the time seemed to be the only thing
I could focus on at school. Suddenly I was holding my breath whenever a new hour approached, each
time hoping that I would hear the bells again.
I remember thinking that it was funny: back before I knew for sure there was something lying beyond
the realm of our senses, Id always turned to prayer. And now, after years of seeking out the
supernatural as a way of bolstering my faith, after having found the evidence that I was searching for,
I found myself unable to complete so much as a simple Hail Mary without my thoughts straying to the
sublime beauty of the bells.
I guess it was foolish of me to think that finding the Widowers Clock would reaffirm my Catholic
faith. I still didnt know if there was a God. All I knew for sure was that there were the bells and the
bells were housed in a spire in the woods on an island in a reservoir just a car ride away. And Id be
getting my drivers license in a little over a week.
I tried to dispel thoughts of returning to the Quabbin, but the unhappier I was at school, the more I
longed to return.
There was no question Alina was avoiding me. I kept trying to call her and kept getting her parents. I
didnt want them to think I was a pest, so I tried to keep my calls down to one a day, but it was so
hard. I took to calling and hanging up if she didnt answer.
Pathetic. I know. But I couldnt help myself. We were taught in Sunday School that hells worst torture
is how exquisitely your soul feels the absence of God; if thats true, surely a my worst torture, as a
teenager, was how exquisitely I felt the absence of my first love. Whats worse than rejection?
The dirty looks started on Tuesday the 11th, just over a week after wed come back from break. Id
gone looking for Alina in the juniors hallway, same as I had every morning, and there was Sara
Cohen, looking at me like I was filth incarnate. It stopped me dead in my tracks.
I didnt know Sara very well, but shed always seemed so friendly. Seeing that disgust directed at
me...it was shocking. I wasnt real popular, but I had never elicited that sort of reaction. Mostly, at
school, away from my handful of friends, I was invisible.
The next day at lunch I noticed it wasnt just Sara. When I went up to get my food, I noticed that the
whole table of sporty girls that Alina used to sit with before Robs suicide were staring at me. It was
the sort of reaction Id seen people have to Scary Kerry, like they simply didnt want me to be there.
While I didnt know any of these girls especially well, I had met one or two of them through Kristy
and thought we were on good terms. I tried giving them a smile and tilting my head back in that, hey
gesture. Some turned away quickly; a few of the others pursed their lips in an expression I couldnt
read. After that I noticed they kept looking over at me throughout the rest of the lunch period. I picked
at my tray for a while, then left without eating.
I missed feeling invisible.
I tried calling Alina again that night. I knew I wouldnt like hearing whatever it was she had to say,
but I had to hear it. Her answering machine picked up. I thought about leaving a message, but didnt
see the point.
How could she treat me like this? All I ever wanted to do was help her and make her feel good. I felt
like someone had scooped out my insides and left me a languid husk. I couldnt imagine a worse
feeling.
I couldnt sleep. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to convince myself that she really did care about
me. That her happiness that we were together and had made love had brought her survivor guilt
rushing back. Christ, I was practically praying the girl I loved was suffering from psychological
problems.
I dont remember if it was three or four when I heard them. Those fucking bells. They sounded so
sweet and so clear. I felt like I had after the first time Id kissed Alina. I saw the version of us from
my daydreams, walking the halls, holding hands, smiling and laughing as we argued about whose
friends to sit with that day. I felt full again.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up.
Thursday, the 13th, was a snow day. As desperately as I wanted to see Alina again, even just to bump
into her, it was a relief not to be in school. I stayed in bed until nearly noon, and then had breakfast
with my brother. It was so calm, so peaceful. Nothing to do but play videogames and watch the snow
fall. Maybe Im romanticizing it now, but January 13th, 2000 was the last normal day of my life.
Friday was my birthday. Sixteen years old. It should have been one of the happiest days of my life, but
all I really felt was resolve. I decided I had to know what was going on. Enough was enough. If I
couldnt catch Alina at school or get her on the phone, then Id just have to make Alinas house my
first stop as a licensed driver.
Fletch and I got to school early. Ever since the bells made him drift off the road, he insisted we leave
early enough to be sure we were parked before 8 oclock.
I skipped my locker and went straight for the juniors hallway. Halfway there, Drew DeLuca
intercepted me, pulling me into an empty classroom.
Drew was co-captain of our swim team and maybe the strongest guy I knew. When the door shut
behind us, he didnt loosen his grip.
Dude, whats going on with you and Alina?
There was something very accusatory in his voice. I tried to step back but he yanked me forward,
maintaining his uncomfortably close distance.
Thats what I want to know, I mumbled. Drew stared unblinkingly into my eyes, like he was trying
to see right through me, as I told him about how Alina had come to me at his birthday party asking me
about a reference in Robs suicide note. About how wed kissed at her house, about how Kerry had
fallen through the ice, and about how Alina and I eventually made love.
I left out the part about the bells.
Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Drew dropped his hand from my arm and turned to walk away.
The angry edge was gone from his voice but he didnt sound relieved. Dude, Sara Cohen told the
whole swim team this morning that you, er, that youre like stalking Alina. Saying youre like Rob
Kennan. Well, actually, she implied you were a hell of a lot worse.
I sat down hard. I felt like the room was spinning, like the wind had been knocked out of me.
Youve got to back off, dude, he continued. Shes got a boyfriend.
She has a...who?
That guy she dated last summer. Whats-his-name. From Bishop Guertin. Whats-his-name was
Ryan Dorset. Theyd met at a track meet two years earlier. Ryan Dorset was rich. Ryan Dorset was
tall. Ryan Dorset was handsome, and, although I may not be the most objective source on this, Ryan
Dorset was a douchebag. The first time Id ever spoken to him, I was wearing a Radiohead shirt and
he quizzed me about their album titles, as if I was some bandwagon follower who had to justify my
fandom to him.
How could Alina do this to me? Take my virginity and then backslide with an old boyfriend? How
could she be so shallow? Ryan Dorset. Happy birthday to me.
I would have liked to have stayed hidden in that empty classroom, but the bell rang. Emerging into the
crowded hallway, I could feel people staring at me. Whispered conversations halted at my approach.
John Landry, who was on the track team with Alina, shouldered me as I came out of the stairwell near
the gyms locker rooms.
Its weird how quickly gossip can change your whole world. I wouldnt exactly call John Landry a
friend of mine, but we had sat next to each other in Bio the year before and had always gotten along
well enough. Robert Kennan had learned, through no fault of his own, what a rumor could do to your
life.
And so had Alina. Which made her doing it to me somehow extra-painful. She knew how much the
whispers and sidelong glances could hurt, and she was subjecting me to it anyway.
Of course, in fairness to her, what she said about me wasnt a lie. Not exactly. If only she had talked
to me. I wouldnt have had to go to her house that day.
My mom picked me up from school a little early that day and took me to the DMV. I passed the written
exam and the driving test with flying colors. She offered to let me drive home, but I declined. It would
turn four while we were still on the road and I didnt want to risk an accident. If my mom thought it
was weird she didnt say anything.
After we got home, I lied and said I wanted my first car ride to be a visit to Scary Kerry, who had
been released from the hospital the week before. My parents thought that was sweet, even
complimented me on what a good person I was. I thanked them and forced a smile even though I felt
dead inside. Id just turned sixteen, after all; wasnt this supposed to be a happy occasion?
I headed out for Alinas around a quarter to five. Her parents wouldnt be home for another hour or
two. I swear to God, all I wanted was to talk to her. I never meant for anything else to happen.
Please believe me when I say that. Please.
When I arrived, there was a car parked behind Alinas blue beetle that I didnt recognize. I went up to
the door but something stopped me from ringing the bell. It was a queasy feeling. The sort of feeling
you get when you know your lifes never going to be the way you want it to. I took a closer look at the
car. It had a Bishop Guertin parking pass.
The son of a bitch was there.
I walked through the yard around the back of the house. A part of me wanted to catch them red-handed
though its not clear to me there was anything to catch. If they were together, I couldnt exactly call
it cheating because if Alina wouldnt even talk to me, clearly we werent going out.
I guess I just had to see it with my own eyes.
I crouched down beside one of the basement windows and peered in. There she was, on the couch
where wed had our first kiss, lying on top of Ryan Dorset. His hands were inside her shirt and hers
were working aggressively to undo his belt.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away. To scrunch my eyes closed and pretend that I had never seen
anything. But I couldnt. I was held in place by a morbid fascination. It was almost like in a dream
when youre not in control and just watching yourself from the outside. My mind was screaming to go
but my feet stayed planted and my eyes drank in every detail. To this day, I remember what I saw from
that window even better than I remember our first kiss, or the way Alina always smelled like vanilla,
or how it felt when I gave her my virginity.
What I saw was Alina unfastening Dorsets pants and sliding her hand into his fly. It was tough to see
her face, but I could tell she wasnt crying. I could tell she didnt feel conflicted about what she was
doing.
I realized, some years later, that Id never seen her look that way at me. Id always been the
aggressor. I guess I hadnt noticed because, at 16 years old, I had internalized the idea that that was
what guys were supposed to do, and that good girls were supposed to be, well, not reluctant exactly, I
wasnt so far gone as to think girls didnt also want sex, but I believed theyd be more demure, less
eager.
But at the time, standing there outside her basement window, I didnt think of Alinas perspective. I
didnt consider how she felt about Ryan Dorset, or what she must have thought of me. I just stared as
they wriggled out of their clothes and watched as Alina guided Dorset inside of her.
I felt like Adolf Riefler.
Thats when it turned five and I lost myself completely to the bells. One...I felt warm, but not like
before. This was different. It wasnt like a blanket, it was like a fire. Two...my heart pounded in my
chest like thunder in a storm. Three...I was acutely aware of my body, my arms and legs pumping like
pistons, the wind blowing past my face. Four...I could feel the weight of something solid in my hand.
Five...once, when I was eleven, I had gotten into a fight at school and it took two teachers to pry me
off the other boy. I had given him a black eye and knocked out the last of his baby teeth.
Anger can also feel good. Bloodlust can also feel like home.
When the last of the bells tolled, they were replaced by the sound of a car alarm. Alina, only half
dressed, was screaming and crying and sobbing, all at the same time. I looked up just in time to see
Ryan Dorset, wearing nothing but boxers and a pair of sneakers, punch me in the face. I fell down
hard onto the pavement of Alinas driveway, which was covered in broken glass. Apparently Id been
smashing in his car windows with a large rock.
Dorset grabbed me by jacket and pulled me up into a seated position so he could get a good grip on
my throat.
Stop it! Stop it! Alina shrieked. Im sure somewhere one of her neighbors was already calling the
cops.
What the fucks the matter with you, huh? Why cant you leave her alone? Dorset asked. He
maneuvered his body weight on top of me, pinning me down as his fingers dug into my neck. Its an
awful feeling, having someone you dont want to be there on top of you, pressing down.
The rock was still in my hand and I swung it with everything I was worth. It hit the side of his face
with a sickening crunch. Id broken Ryan Dorsets jaw and sent him rolling into the Aminevs snow-
covered front lawn. He must have been in shock because it took him a second to realize how hard
hed been hit and for the pain to set in. I could see the realization, the fear, in his face. It made me feel
good. It made me feel big.
Dorset slowly began to crawl away on his hands and knees. I got to my feet and held the rock up, high
above my head.
Please...please... Alina whispered. All the color had drained from her face. Every bit of her was
trembling. Tears rolled unchecked down each of her cheeks. She was looking at me and what she saw
scared her. Im...Im so sorry....
I looked back at her. Her eyes were red from crying. Her lip quivered. She looked a lot older than 17.
Suddenly the rock felt heavy and I didnt feel so big. I let the rock fall from my hand. It landed in the
snow with a soft plop.
Ryan began to blubber in pain. His words were unintelligible, or maybe I just dont want to remember
what he said. Blood was gushing from his mouth. It stained the snow beneath him as he crawled.
I had not intended things to turn out the way they did. Alina was terrified of me and she was the last
person I ever wanted to feel that way. Especially on my account.
I opened my mouth and found no words. I reached out towards her, desperate to comfort her and she
recoiled from me with a gasp. Her eyes squeezed shut, bracing for an impact I could hardly blame her
for fearing.
I didnt know what else to do, so I just left. It was the last time I ever saw Alina Aminev.
I found myself on the highway with the music blaring. I was driving fast down 495. It had to have
been at least half an hour since Id left Alinas. I had no memory of the intervening time.
I couldnt go home. I couldnt. Id be arrested. This wasnt like a shoving match. Ryan Dorset would
need medical attention. He was the second person in less than a month that Id put in the hospital.
Then again, where was I gonna go? What was I gonna do? Make a run for Canada? Even if police
wouldnt soon be looking for my moms car, I probably had seven or eight dollars on me and access
to another $250 or so in my Bay Bank savings account. Hardly enough to get too far.
I felt dead inside.
There was only one thing that could make me feel better. I wanted to hear them again. One last time.
For real.
I was going to the Quabbin.
The sun sets early in the winter. Hell, it had already started going down even before Id arrived at
Alinas. By the time Id hit the Quabbin it was a little after 8:30 and dark. I parked the car near the
trailer park, as Fletch had done the night Kerry fell through the ice. I remember wondering how close
I was to where hed parked the night Rob found the Spire.
The walk to the lake took a little longer than last time. There was about four or five inches of snow on
the ground and the ploughs had turned the sides of the road into little snowbanks a foot or so high. It
made walking on the side of the road slow going. Luckily, I only saw one car drive by and they didnt
pay any attention to me.
It was bitter cold. I hadnt noticed at first, but with each step the wind was cutting further and further
through that dead feeling. I just kept walking. It was like being back on the hike with Scary Kerry.
Youre hyper-aware of your body and all of its aches and pains, but if you just keep walking your
brain goes blank.
It felt good not to think.
I was only about halfway between the entrance to the Quabbin and the reservoir when I heard them.
So sweet. So lovely. So warm.
Suddenly it wasnt so cold anymore. I didnt feel the wind. Or at least not a winter wind. I felt a
warm breeze on my cheek. It smelled dewy and sweet. The full moon shone down on the lush green
forest surrounding either side of the dirt road. Hadnt it been paved only a moment ago?
I could hear crickets. A tiny light flitted past the corner of my eye. Then another. And another.
Fireflies, dancing through the air. It was so warm. I took off my jacket and stood watching the fireflies
try to find one another in the hopes of mating.
And then the bells finished their call and I was standing in the snow, holding my jacket and staring at
nothing. I quickly struggled back into my jacket.
I looked back the way I came. The moonlight bouncing off the snow bathed everything in a weak blue
light. It was beautiful, but also so sterile. A much harsher environment than the one in the vision Id
just had.
I had returned to hear the bells one last time, but looking back in the direction of the trailer park, well,
there was nothing for me back there, nothing good at any rate, so I turned back towards the reservoir
and started walking. One foot in front of the other. Just me and one last mile.
When I finally reached the shore, it was nearly nine-thirty. The wind had blown the snow into little
drifts, almost like sand dunes, leaving some patches of ice bare. It was scenic but I barely noticed. I
was looking off at the larger of the two islands; its trees, frosted by snow, left it almost invisible in
the moonlight.
I wondered dimly if the bag with Kristys raft and my mothers Bible was laying somewhere out on
that ice. Itd been cold the last couple of weeks and the ice was silent. Either itd grown thicker or the
snow was dampening the sound of its cuh...cuh...cuhs.
I stepped out on the ice. Where the snow was thickest it was easiest to walk. After a couple of
minutes, I drew near the place where Kerry fell through the ice. I sunk deeper into my self-loathing. I
almost wanted the ice to give out beneath me. The thought of plunging into the dark depths of the
freezing waters below, of having what little warmth I possessed sucked from my body and leaving me
numb, physically unable to feel anything, was enticing.
I didnt want to feel. I didnt want to think and I didnt want to feel. Not like this.
I had barely caught a glimpse of Kerrys face as she fell through the ice. Standing there, trying to
picture it, all I could see was Alina, and the horror Id filled her with.
I considered, for a long moment, stomping my feet in an effort to open up a fissure in the surface of the
lake. But there was something else I wanted more than the anesthetizing relief the cold offered. I
wanted the bells.
Being close to their source strengthened the memory of how they made me feel when I heard them. It
was as if I was being pulled towards them by an invisible string. Actually, it was more like I was
underwater, holding my breath, being sucked along by a gentle current. It felt like if I ever wanted to
breathe again, I had to go where the waters wanted to take me. I had to find the Spire.
Wind pushes snow around capriciously. If the snow can catch somewhere, more snow will pile up on
top of it, forming little drifts, like sand dunes in a desert. If theres enough wind, eight inches of snow
might result in some spots where the ground is barely covered and others where the snow runs two,
three feet deep.
I didnt see anything that extreme that night on the frozen surface of the Quabbin, except for one oddly
blocky little snow drift. As I drew nearer, I could see, in the moonlight a cloth strap peeking out of the
snow. It was my duffel bag. The one Id dropped after pulling Kerry out of the water.
The bag had been soaked and left outside for weeks. It felt like a solid block of ice, and probably
weighed close to 30 pounds. I doubted there was much in there that could be salvaged. Maybe the
raft, but my moms bible was almost certainly done for and the incense and various things Kerry and I
had accumulated were probably ruined. But I took it up anyway. Leaving it there, so close to the
source of the bells, seemed as disrespectful to me as leaving trash behind in the pews at Church.
The ice in its frozen straps cracked as I slung the bag over my shoulder and pressed on.
It must have been 9:58 or 9:59 by the time I stepped off the ice and onto the shore of the large island,
because Id scarcely reached the woodline when the bells tolled ten.
I found the ankle-deep snow replaced by a broad dirt road and the snow-capped trees with colonial
homes, but these colonials werent like the McMansions that dominated my neighborhood. No, even
in the near darkness I could see that these were much more solidly built, and each looked different
enough from the others that they couldnt possibly have all been made from the same plan.
The bells rang out like thunder. I fell, shaking, to my knees, letting their raw power wash over me. I
could feel the sound waves reverberating through my bones. I was vibrating to the frequency of the
universe. It felt like staring into the true face of God. My whole body tingled. My whole being
crackled with energy.
I wept because it was so beautiful.
I wept because I was unworthy.
I wept because I could do nothing else.
The call of the bells washed over me like a wave at the beach and sucked me into their undertow. I
thought I was leaving this world. I thought my next breath would be at their source. I felt like a weary
traveler finally able to rest and a dreamer waking from sleep, all at once.
Then the tenth bell sounded and I was lying in the snow. It was silent, except for the wind, and I wept
for a different reason. I was alone in the darkness, alone in the cold, in a world where Id lost my
place.
There was no way but forward. There was nothing for me but the bells.
Part 8
I had no thoughts of Rob. Out there, on that island, I never considered for a moment that the bells had
played a role, a large role, a huge, monstrous role in his suicide. Hed heard them. Hed found them.
In the end, hed put a homemade shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Id like to think that if I had, I might not have pressed on. But when Im being honest with myself, I
know I would have. Whats death compared to knowing? What was so great about my life that itd be
better than hearing the bells at their source?
When I stood up, I realized I wasnt at the shore of the island. I couldnt even see the shore. I looked
around, trying to figure out how Id gotten so deep into the woods and noticed there werent any
footsteps behind me. But there was a deep track. It looked like when I fell to my knees, something had
dragged my body through the snow.
I should have stopped, but I didnt stop. I pressed on.
The colonial houses, the broad, dirt road Id seen when the bells rang I felt like I could still
perceive where theyd been. Some of the trees, the ones nearest me, were wrong. They were too
young. They didnt belong here. The road was real, even if I couldnt see it. The houses loomed on all
sides, even if I couldnt see them, even if decades earlier theyd all been moved or destroyed. It was
like the present had been superimposed on the past. Everything I saw felt less substantial than what I
knew had been there before.
I was on a road and the road would lead me to the Spire, the Spire housed the bells, and no new-
growth forest could hide that from me. Id seen the islands true face.
It was slow going. My feet were numb. Each time I tripped in the dark, I had to pull my hands from
my warm pockets to catch myself before I hit the frozen ground. Some snow had made it into my shoes
and was melting. But like the hike where I befriended Kerry, I just kept going. Even if Id wanted to
complain, who would I complain to?
I trudged my way deeper and deeper into the woods. I might have been the first person to walk there
since Rob had made his way to the Spire back in late August. Its a weird feeling to be that alone. Its
not privacy. Its isolation.
When I stumbled into the clearing, I almost didnt see it.
The Spire.
Everything else around me was frosted in snow, but not the Spire. It was pristine. It stood twice my
height, its whitewashed facade nearly invisible against the snow. The Spire had a clean design: four
large, flat faces tapering up to a sharp point, the sort of wooden spire youd expect to see topped with
a cross on a Protestant Church. I dont think Id have seen it all if it werent surrounded by a half-
circle of withered, long-dead trees that looked as though theyd been rotting for ages.
All my hair stood on end. This was the source. The Spire in the Woods housed the bells. I approached
it with reverence, like I used to approach the tabernacle after receiving communion. There was an
energy in the air, an electricity. I could sense it. The Spire was invisibly warping the space around it.
It was like when you were a kid, and your teacher had you sprinkle iron filings around a magnet.
Tonight thered be no deer crossing signs, no air conditioners, no dates that didnt line up on a
familys tombstones. But soon there would be the bells. Right here. Right in front of me.
My hand trembled as I reached out towards it. My cold fingers traced their way across the Spires
wooden surface as lovingly as they had Alinas skin. And it was even more luxurious.
I circled around the Spire, trailing my hand along its seamless joints, across its flawless paint. I found
the window with its panes kicked out and wished I had the skill to fix it. Then a better thought
occurred to me. I could go in. I could be in the room with the bells when they sounded.
I pushed my duffel bag into the Spire. Then, cautiously, gently, I poked my head in. I didnt meet any
resistance, not exactly, but the energy the Spire radiated built in intensity. My scalp tingled, my face
felt flush, and my brain sang with excitement, as if all my neurons were firing all at once. Eagerly, I
pressed my shoulders through the gap in the window. It was a tight fit, but I wriggled and squeezed my
way into the darkness until I managed to get my hips through.
I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, but it was no use. Outside, I could see by the moonlight; the
trees and their shadows stood out starkly against the white snow. But inside, there was nothing. I
struggled to open my duffel bag. Ice had formed between the teeth of the zipper, and my fingers, still
numb from the cold, had trouble gripping the slider, but eventually it opened enough for me to get my
fingers in and force it the rest of the way.
The flashlights were, of course, gone. The incense was completely destroyed and my mothers Bible
only fared a little better. Half of its pages had gotten wet when Id used the bag to pull Kerry out of
the water and were now frozen together in a block. I found my grandfathers lighter beneath the raft
Id borrowed from Kristy.
Lighter fluids freezing point is absurdly low, something like -240 degrees Fahrenheit, so despite
having been left outdoors on a frozen lake covered in snow for a month, it actually lit on the third try.
The meager orange flame seemed so bright.
I was on a small landing at the top of a flight of stairs. The landing was no bigger than a coffee table,
and made of plain, unfinished wood that, unlike the beautiful exterior, had been badly warped by
years of trapped moisture freezing and thawing inside of it. There was a hand railing in a similar
condition; I was hesitant to lean against it as I held the lighter out over the abyss and peered down.
The stairs wrapped around the outer wall of the Spire and disappeared into the darkness. I could just
barely make out a heavy beam stretched across the darkness below, two floors down from where I
was standing. That had to be where the bells hung.
It never entered into my mind that Id find anything down there but the bells. It never occurred to me
to wonder how Amy Lowell Putnam would feel about me descending into her home; into the room
where her husband had threaded metal rods into her flesh while she was still very much alive. Into the
bowels of the clockwork that hourly displayed her to the townspeople, so her friends and neighbors
could be entertained as her corpse zipped along on its track.
I wish I had, but my every thought was occupied by the goddamn bells.
My first few steps down the weathered stairs were slow and cautious. Id test each step with my foot
before fully shifting my weight, ready to pull myself back at the first sign of danger. They were slick,
their surface covered in a fine layer of frost, and they bowed and creaked beneath me. But they held,
and with each step I grew bolder, my pace quickening.
By the time Id reached the next landing, I was coming down the stairs like a kid on Christmas
morning. I felt like one, too, eager to unwrap the presents waiting for me below. I started taking the
stairs two at a time. The orange glow of the lighter flickered as I gained speed, threatening to blow
out.
A laugh, a mirthful, childish giggle bubbled up from deep within me. I could just make out, faintly, the
shape of the bells. They were right there! From the next landing theyd be so close, Id be able to
reach out and touch the nearer of the two!
I leapt down the last three steps. The lighter went out and the landing collapsed beneath me.
I fell two stories through the lightless Spire. My body flailed, desperate to find purchase on anything
it could, but the only thing I managed to connect with was the floor. My feet hit first and I had the
queasy feeling of the wood shattering beneath me. This time, though, it was only one or two
floorboards and, with a sickening crack, the rest of me hit a plank that didnt give out.
The wood floor, though bowed and weathered, didnt afford my hands any purchase, and I could feel
the weight of my legs and stomach dragging the rest of me towards another fall through God only
knows how much more inky blackness.
I kicked with all my strength, but couldnt get my legs up high enough to climb out of the hole Id
created. In that moment, I cant even truly say that I felt panic. I was a cornered rat, all claws and
gnashing teeth. A primal thing incapable of thought or feeling, governed by adrenaline and that basest
of instincts, survival. I curled my fingers into hooks and thrashed with everything I was worth,
clawing my way to safety.
The pain of it all crept into my mind slowly as the adrenaline wore away. The fall had knocked the
wind out of me, and, as Id later find out, broken two of my ribs. I cant say how long I lay there on
my back, struggling to pull air back into my lungs, but I can say that every breath I took felt like it was
going to rip me open from the inside.
I gritted my teeth and attempted to sit up. My chest felt like it was on fire. I put my hands back behind
me, to push myself into a seated position, and felt the sharpest pain of my life. Id lost three
fingernails, those of my left index and middle fingers and my right ring finger, while pulling myself
out of the hole in the floor, but what really hurt, what felt even worse than my ribs, was the four-inch
splinter that had stabbed beneath the nail of my right index finger and slid out the other side just above
the first joint.
I collapsed back to the ground. My hand trembled as I brought my finger to my mouth. I hesitated for a
moment, trying to think if there was any way to avoid what I was about to do, but there wasnt. I was
four, maybe five stories below ground, in the woods, on an island, in the middle of a frozen reservoir,
surrounded by more woods, miles away from the nearest soul. No one was coming to help me.
I bit down on the splinter and pulled it back out the way itd come in. My mind screamed the
profanities my lungs couldnt bear to push out. And it was just four slender inches. Nothing compared
to what Amy Lowell Putnam had endured.
Though they were raw and bloody, my fingers probed the floor around where I lay, searching for the
lighter. But the only thing I found was one of my fingernails embedded between two floorboards. I
thought about prying it out, but couldnt imagine what good itd do me. Its not as though I could slide
it back into place.
Once I was sure the lighter wasnt within arms reach, I found myself wondering if I even wanted to
find it. A part of me knew Id eventually have to if I didnt want to starve or freeze to death beneath
the Spire, but it hurt so much to move, and hadnt I come here to surrender myself to the bells one
more time? Wasnt that what I really wanted?
It was.
So I sat alone in the cold and the dark waiting for the Widowers Clock to strike eleven.
The clapper of the bells struck their surface with the force of a cannon ball. In that instant, suddenly
there was light.
It was a soft light, but after the total darkness at the bottom of the clock tower, I found the way it
glinted off the innumerable gears and tracks and coils filling the room to be blinding. It was like the
way the winter sun sometimes reflects off the snow.
A man spoke, his voice small and distant. So, youve heard my bells?

Adolf Reifler stood, a bent old man, before his workbench. His face was wrinkled and he leaned
heavily on a cane, but his eyes burned with an intensity that belied his frail voice.
When he spoke again, I noticed his lips didnt move, Youre missing what youve come so far to
see.
I stood almost automatically and was surprised to find that although I could still feel my injured ribs
and see the blood trickling from my mangled fingers, I could move normally.
Adolf turned back to his bench. The stairs behind you will lead you out.
I marched across the wood floor where the hole Id just created should have been. I was dimly aware
of the same dreamy feeling Id had outside of Alinas house when something had compelled me to
watch her screw Ryan Dorset. Im not sure if I listened to Adolf because I wanted to although,
make no mistake, I did want desperately to see the Widowers Clock or because I had no choice. It
felt almost as though I was watching myself as I headed toward the stairs.
Be sure to try the marmorkuchen, Adolf said. Its really quite good.
The stairs dumped me out into the middle of a well appointed room. An oriental rug ran down the
center. Ornately framed paintings hung on the walls between each of the windows. It looked like quite
a grand foyer, the perfect entrance to any courthouse or place of business out to impress the public.
The carpet led to a huge pair of double doors and I went to them without a second thought. They
opened with ease, despite their size, onto a summer night and what appeared to be a party.
There were maybe two dozen or so men and a half-dozen women, all dressed in old-fashioned suits
and dresses, the sort of things they likely only wore to weddings and special occasions. They all
stared up over my head, expressions of awe plastered dumbly over their frozen faces. I thought for a
moment, just a moment, that they were staring at me, but quickly realized they were watching what Id
come to see, the dance of Reiflers automatons, and unbeknownst to them, his wife and her lover.
I made my way through the crowd. The bells chimed for only the second time. Time seemed to have
become loose, more elastic. My feet were moving at the proper speed but each tick of the great clock
dragged out for several seconds. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. It was nauseating.
Toooooooooooooooock.
I took a spot beside a table full of refreshments. A man in a smart-looking uniform stood behind it,
but, like all the others, he had eyes only for the clock.
Helping myself to a plate of marble cake and a heavy silver fork, I turned to finally get my first
glimpse of the Widowers Clock in all its glory. The clock tower was illuminated by electric lights,
which surprised me as I wouldnt have thought Enfield had been electrified in the early 1930s. It was
easily five, maybe six stories in height. Its base was almost as broad as the width of the Reiflers
house, and it tapered slowly until it reached the Spire. Its white wood paneling gleamed in the
electric light; it was as grand and audacious as the Tower of Babel, blasphemously penetrating the
starlit sky.
The second floor was dominated by the tracks where the automatons hourly performed. Adolf Reifler,
for all his faults, was truly a masterful engineer. His creations zipped along on their tracks with such
grace and fluidity, it was almost impossible to believe they werent flesh and blood. Except for two:
a sluggish Southern belle and a stiff-limbed Confederate soldier, ironically the two most wooden
figures on stage, were the only two made of actual flesh and blood.
Behind Amy Lowell and her lover stood a backdrop of a grand plantation house on fire, which must
have been nearly a story in height, and rotated slowly into view. As I watched, the Union automatons,
each equipped with small electric lights designed to look like torches, charged towards the plantation
house, touching their torches to cutouts painted up like cotton fields as they went, and everywhere the
torches touched, a red light turned on beneath the cutouts, illuminating the cotton flowers, revealing
they were made of white glass. They sparkled as though they were actually on fire.
As the troops reached the plantation house, another group of automatons rose to greet them. Slaves. I
cringed when I saw the slave automatons, they were such racist caricatures. The slaves set about
beating their former owners, much to the delight of the New England audience who hooted and
cheered as the Rebs received their comeuppance.
The Southern belle and Confederate automatons crumpled beneath the attack, their bodies folding in
on themselves in a way that was only possible if their spines had been broken in multiple locations.
The slaves grabbed Amy Lowells corpse and dragged it offstage. Two of the slave automatons turned
as they departed, flashing toothy grins at the spectators.
Adolf Reifler was not a subtle man.
The bells rang once more, just as the Union soldiers shot the prone Confederate automaton. The
Crowd burst into applause, well, most of it did. I noticed a man just off to my right side hadnt
celebrated. He looked bored, as though hed seen this all before. Something else was off about him,
too. He wasnt dressed like the others. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.
I wasnt the only one whod heard the bells. I wasnt the only one whod found the tower. And I
wasnt the only one watching the automatons endless dance. My eyes scanned the crowd. There was
an emaciated man in a park rangers uniform, the bones of his face plainly visible beneath his skin,
leaning against the end of the refreshments table. There was a boy in a tie-dyed shirt who looked to be
about thirteen, his slashed wrists covered his corduroys in blood, but he gave his injuries no notice.
Were they dead? Was I? Had the fall killed me?
Thats when I noticed another figure sitting alone near the woodline. A young man with a slender
build, about my height. His skin, burnt to a crisp, was the color of charcoal and most of his jaw was
missing.
Robert Edward Kennan.
What was left of his skin flaked off his neck as he turned his head and fixed me with his gaze. Beneath
his blackened eyelids, his watery eyes were as blue as a clear sky. Rob patted the ground next to him.
The bells chimed once more and Rob and I shuddered in bliss.
I took a seat next to him. He tried to speak but his injuries made it impossible to understand him. I
think he was trying to apologize for killing himself, or maybe he was just sorry to see Id followed
him to the bells. I dont know.
We sat together in silence, watching as another glass backdrop rotated into view: a glasswork of
Atlanta. The lights made it flicker as though it was on fire. Time seemed to return to full speed, and
the bells finished calling out the hour.
It was pitch black at the bottom of the clock tower. Pitch black and cold. I was sitting with my back to
a wall and my ribs let me know in no uncertain terms that they did not appreciate this position.
Slowly, I slid down the wall until I was lying on my back.
I couldnt fully process what I had seen. In his note to Fletch, Rob had said, I will soon join them.
Staring at her face as she runs the endless race. Had he known hed be stuck there when he died?
Stuck watching the Widowers Clock, stuck watching Amy Lowell Putnam endlessly running round
and round in the automaton her husband had concealed her in? Was I going to be stuck too? All I could
say for sure was that the spell was broken. I never wanted to hear the bells again.
The cold had numbed my fingers to the point where I could feel little more from my missing nails than
a dull ache, and while I was thankful for that small blessing, it also meant that hypothermia and
frostbite couldnt be far behind. I needed to find the lighter. I needed to find a way out of there or my
questions about the after life would be answered all too soon.
I tried pulling myself along the ground with my arms, but the stress on my ribs was too great. I had to
push myself across the ground using my legs. It was painful, but bearable.
The darkness was so absolute, I had no idea which way I was facing or where the hole was in the
floor. I moved slowly, dancing my fingers over the wood, like an insects antennae, hoping to find that
little metal lighter that could mean the difference between life and death.
I was beginning to panic. Id searched an area maybe twice the length of my body and found nothing.
Not even the far wall. The room had to be huge. I could barely move. What if the lighter had fallen
through the hole Id made when I hit the floor? I was never going to find it...
I began mumbling prayers to myself, just to keep my growing sense of despair at bay. Id been saying
my prayers since the day I started speaking, yet they felt unnatural on my tongue.
Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the
fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our
death. Amen.
The Virgin Mary. The most exalted woman in the history of Christianity. What could be more
comforting than praying to her, the mother of God? Wasnt I a child in despair? Dont all despairing
children cry out for their mothers?
So why did it feel so empty to pray to this woman?
I didnt know, but elected to continue my work in the oppressive silence.
My fingers were so cold and numb, the lighter didnt even register when the sent it sliding deeper into
the darkness. I only knew because the sound of it sliding over across the warped planks.
I flicked the flint once, and nothing. Twice and it sparked. Three times and it lit.
To suddenly see the flame was like staring at the sun. It took my eyes several seconds to adjust. Thats
when I noticed I wasnt alone.
Figures stood all around me, casting long shadows along the floor that disappeared into the edges of
black beyond the lighters reach.
I panicked. I couldnt run, I couldnt fight, but I scrunched up my face and braced for an impact that
never came. Slowly, I reopened my eyes, and, much to my relief, realized that the figures were
automatons.
After 60-some-odd years of neglect they were all in a state of disrepair. Their plaster faces were
spiderwebbed with cracks; pieces, sometimes full limbs, laid in heaps around their bases.
I was surprised I hadnt encountered any of the tracks which lay everywhere on the floor, but I
suppose I hadnt covered very much area lying around on my back, nor would I be able to leave by
doing so. I gritted my teeth and, despite the pain, forced myself up onto my feet.
The plaster bodies of the automatons seemed small, scarcely five feet in height, as I picked my way
slowly between them. It made Amy Lowell and her lover having been hidden inside one of these
things seem all the more grotesque. There was no way Adolf could have done it without chopping off
hands and feet.
One by one I climbed the stairs, taking frequent breaks when the pain in my ribs grew too intense for
me. Eventually I drew even with the bells, which appeared to be rusted fast to the thick iron rings
from which they hung. I dont know why this surprised me so much; I guess somewhere in the back of
my mind I thought theyd be made of polished silver and sparkle like starlight.
In time I reached the collapsed landing. Or rather, reached where it should have been. Now there was
nothing but a gap, five feet across, with the staircase continuing its upward climb on the far side. It
would have been easy enough to jump if my ribs werent broken and I trusted the wood on the other
side to hold my weight. But they were broken and I was terrified of taking another fall.
I sat down on the steps and cried, utterly convinced that I would die there and join Rob and Adolf and
Amy Lowell, in front of the Widowers Clock every hour, on the hour, for all eternity.
It wasnt fair. Yes, I had chosen to investigate the Spire in the Woods, but I didnt choose to crave the
bells. I didnt choose for them to warm me when I was cold, or comfort me when I was scared. I
didnt choose to black out at the sight of Alina melting around Ryan Dorsets member. And I certainly
wouldn't claim to have been in my right mind when, just an hour earlier, I chose hearing the bells one
more time over searching for a way out.
The lighter closed with a snap that echoed in the darkness. I had been a Catholic my whole life, but as
I sat there on the edge of the broken stairs, straining to see even the faintest sliver of moonlight from
the window that laid beyond my reach, I knew that my faith was gone.
I had set out to find evidence that there was more to creation than could be explained by science, and
though Id certainly found that, I felt more alone in the universe than ever. What kind of a God would
create a world so cruel that it contained the bells? How could I pretend there was a design and a
moral underpinning governing the universe when something as innocuous as a beautiful sound could
rob you of your free will, and, by all indications, damn you for it?
Eventually I got tired of staring at nothing. It was too cold to keep sitting there. I lit the Zippo and
headed back down the stairs. I needed to find a way to warm up.
My duffel bag was sitting a few feet from the hole I had created in the fall. I pulled out the raft and
briefly considered inflating it. It would have been nice not to have to lie directly on the cold, hard
floor, but ultimately I decided itd be best to use it as a blanket.
It occurred to me that there might be something useful in the floor below. I crept as close to the edge
of the hole as I dared, held the lighter over the chasm and peered down. It looked like most of the
room below had been claimed by groundwater that had frozen solid. If the planks that broke my ribs
hadnt held, I doubt I would have survived slamming into that ice.
Lying back down hurt like hell. The raft didnt seem like it was going to do much for me, but any
insulation was better than none. Reluctantly, I closed the lighter. It didnt have an unlimited supply of
fuel. Id have to be careful with it.
Waiting for midnight, shivering in the dark, my minds eye kept conjuring images of Rob Kennans
burnt face, his one good eye watering. I really didnt want to join him, but at the same time, I couldnt
wait to be warm again.
With a deafening clang, the bells tolled. It was midnight, and I once again found myself lying on the
floor of Adolf Reiflers workroom.
Youre back? He never looked at me, just continued to scan the rows of wrenches that hung from the
wall. People dont usually come back quite so soon.
I cant get out. The stairs broke.
Im sorry to hear that. His voice was filled with pity but his unmoving lips retained their scowl.
He took up a wrench from the wall and began picking his way back through the tangled mess of gears
that seemed to only exist when the bells were ringing. Without a moments thought, I followed him.
We arrived in a hidden corner of the room where the Southern belle and Confederate soldier
automatons stood. Adolfs deft fingers pushed the dress down over the Southern belles shoulder
exposing a bolt on her back. He slipped the wrench over it and set to work.
From beneath the lacquered wood Amy Lowells bones splintered and popped. My stomach revolted
at the sound and I looked for a place to retch. Adolf continued to smile as he gave the bolt another
half turn.
You mustn't judge me too harshly, came his sad little voice. You cant fathom the regret...the
burden...I carried with me for the rest of my life.
He pulled her dress down further, pausing only briefly to admire his handiwork as he exposed the
majority the automaton's body, before continuing his work on the next bolt.
I loved my wife. Despite her faults her vanity, her frivolity I loved her. She was mine. His
hands slid up her body, pulling her dress back into place. But there was no pleasing her.
He lifted her arm up by the wrist and let go. Her hand herked and jerked back into place.
Scheisse! Scheisse! Scheisse! He yelled, his lips moving with each curse.
He grabbed the automaton by her head and twisted it violently in a way no neck could bend. It
sounded like cracking knuckles.
The automatons blank eyes seemed to stare right at me. They were such a lovely shade of brown. I
was lost in those eyes and thoughts of Alina until Adolfs wrench returned to work and the sounds of
bones crunching shook me from my revelry.
You mustnt doubt my love for her, Adolf whispered through his closed lips. What youre
seeing...I was simply angry then. It was a malady of spirit, and I admit that I have a temper, but, like
squalls on the open sea, my foul moods disappear almost as quickly as they come. Taken against the
rest of our marriage, not to mention the courtship, this was a moment. A fleeting moment.
And it wasnt as though she was blameless, he continued. You cant possible know...cant possibly
understand the humiliation of seeing another man take what is rightfully yours.
I felt compelled to speak. Ive always hated it when someone challenged my experiences, it makes me
feel so small, but it was more than that. My mouth moved, and it was like I was outside of my body,
listening to myself tell Adolf all about Alina. And what Id done to Ryan Dorset.
So you do understand. He sounded relieved, as if Id just given him absolution for his sins.
The bells tolled.
Adolf gave the bolt on the automatons elbow a full turn, splintering Amy Lowells bones. It was
loud, like a branch snapping off a tree in a storm. He again lifted her arm and let it fall. He must have
been pleased with the results because he set down his wrench and headed towards the stairs.
I followed him without thinking.
Part 9
Adolf Reifler slid through the crowd exchanging pleasantries with farmers and businessmen,
neighbors and travelers alike. No one seemed to notice me following in his wake. They never looked
at me, or reacted to anything Adolf and I said to one another. They also didnt seem to notice any of
the others that were, like me, stuck.
Most of the conversations Adolf had with his guests were brief. Theyd offer him the sort of
enthusiastic pleasantries I imagine youd hear anytime a work of art is unveiled, and hed respond
graciously enough, until the man he addressed as Edwin inquired about Amy Lowells whereabouts.
Something in Edwins tone made me think he was interested in more than paying his respects.
I havent seen her all night, Edwin said.
Are you sure? I could have sworn she was out here around eleven. Adolfs voice dripped with
condescension.
The couplet Rob left in his suicide note to Alina floated to the fore of my mind.
And every hour, I see her face, as she runs the endless race.
When Id first heard the story of the Widowers Clock I had thought it was cruel that one could be
damned just for laying eyes on Amy Lowells corpse; after all, we hadnt killed her, we hadnt put her
on display. What I realized watching Edwin calling it a night was that the partygoers werent stuck
watching the endless race. If they had been, they wouldnt have been able to leave. No, only those of
us who had heard the bells and followed them to the Spire were stuck.
But why? Theyd heard the bells. Theyd heard the real bells. Why werent they stuck with us?
Midnight marked the end of the automatons reenactment with Lees surrender to Grant at Appomattox.
Once Lee had signed, the courthouse backdrop zipped out of view and dozens upon dozens of
automatons took their curtain call, dancing behind the generals like something out of a Busby Berkeley
musical.
The freed slaves came out in a chorus line, doing the cancan as if they were the Rockettes. The
partygoers howled with laughter. I wanted to be disgusted, it was every bit as racist as a minstrel
show, but no matter how much of Adolf Reifler's cruel indifference was reflected in his work, the
Widower's Clock was still too fine a thing to look away from it.
When the Southern belle automaton returned, I couldnt help but notice how sinuously its arms moved.
Her arms.
The bells tolled once more and I was alone again, freezing in the dark.
It was so cold the blood from my fingers froze before it could clot. The raft wasn't much of a blanket.
I needed to make a fire or I was going to wind up with frostbite. Half of my mother's Bible was a
chunk of ice, but the top half was dry. I began ripping the undamaged portions out. The delicate work
was slow going with my fingers.
I twisted up the torn pages and set them in a small pile near the hole in the floor. I wasn't worried that
the floorboards would catch; they'd absorbed far too much moisture over the years. Besides, paper
burns fast and at a fairly low temperature, especially when each page is as thin as the Bible's.
After a few minutes, my hands weren't quite as numb, but it was clear my meager kindling wouldnt
hold out until morning. I needed more fuel if I wanted to survive. My ribs weren't thrilled to be
moving again. It would have been so much easier if the bells were ringing.
I didnt want to love their sound but they were like an ex you just cant get over. As bad as they are
for me, even today, I still crave them.
The automatons hung lifeless on their posts. Their clothes had largely disintegrated. Moisture had
penetrated much of their lacquered finish, spotting them with mold. Even though the years hadnt been
kind, looking at them in the flickering glow of the lighter, they were still marvelous. I ran my hand
down the arm of a rebel soldier, almost as lovingly as Adolf had done with the automaton that
encased his wifes remains.
If I wanted to survive, Id have to burn it.
The area that had once been Adolf Reiflers workspace was littered with rusty tools and ancient
gears. I took up one of the wrenches from where it had fallen, my fingers ached just holding it, and set
about dismembering the nearest automaton. The bolts were rusted; it was tough to get any of them to
budge. Straining against the wrench made my ribs feel like theyd been replaced with broken glass
and fishhooks, but eventually the bolts turned and the arm fell to the ground.
The wood portion of the arm was no more than a quarter of an inch thick, just enough to cover the
clockworks inside and hold the paint and finish. It wouldnt burn for much longer than the paper. I had
to burn them all. The only upside was that I wouldnt have to unscrew another bolt. The wood was
brittle enough that I could smash it to pieces with the wrench, and if I used my off hand, well, it still
hurt like hell, but there wasnt anything I could do about that.
I smashed the Confederate and Union soldiers. I smashed Lee and Grant and Lincoln. I smashed
women and children and slaves and then gathered up the pieces. I had already ripped apart and burnt
the pages of my mothers Bible, but somehow smashing the automatons felt worse. I felt like a small
child watching the tide wash away a beautiful sandcastle.
There would never be another clock like this.
The rack that had once held Adolfs wrenches on the wall made a decent grate and soon I had a
sputtering fire. It wasnt great, but it was warm enough that Id live. I draped the raft over my
shoulders and slowly laid myself back down. I was out of immediate danger and could feel my body
shutting down.
I woke when the bells tolled one. The fire was gone, Adolfs workshop was warm, but before I could
so much as sit up, their call ended and I was back where Id begun. I threw more splinters of wood on
the fire and laid back down.
Sleep didnt come easy. The automatons nude clockwork, exposed for the first time in decades, cast
intricate shadows that seemed to dance in the firelight. I couldnt put my finger on it, but something
was bothering me about them.
I woke again at two oclock. It was dark inside the workroom, but when the doors opened for the
slave automatons to zip out, the electric lights illuminating the clock poured in. The Southern belle
hung limp on her post. Her eyes stared blankly in my direction.
A large backdrop swung out through the door blocking the light. I was alone in the dark with Amy
Lowells corpse.
Once the backdrop rotated out of the light, I saw the Southern belle slide out after it. For just a split
second, I thought I saw the Southern belles head swivel on her neck, as if she were tracking me with
her eyes, but it had to have been the clockwork getting her in position to perform. Right?
Then I realized what had been bothering me about the automatons. Fletch had told me Rob put his
fingers inside the eye socket of a human skull, but all the automatons, before Id smashed them up for
fire wood, had their lacquered faces intact.
Amy Lowells corpse returned to its starting position. Its limbs swung forward like a rag dolls when
it came to an abrupt stop. She was looking at me again.
Could a sculpture have ubiquitous gaze, or was that only paintings?
My heart was racing as I waited for the bells to ring a second time.
Why had Adolf painted her face with such a creepy little grin?
It wouldnt stop staring. I rose to my feet and turned her head away from me. I did it quick because I
couldnt stand to touch her.
The bells tolled once more. Was Amy Lowells body going to be waiting for me in the dark?
Amid the kindling, there were only a couple of pieces of wood large enough to use as a torch. It took
a painfully long minute, my eyes straining to detect anything out of place in the darkness, to get one of
them to catch.
I held the torch aloft in my left hand, and even though I doubted in my present condition that I could
ever swing it, I held one of the larger wrenches in my right. The weight of it felt good. It reminded me
of the rock I had used to attack Ryan Dorset.
The floorboards groaned beneath my feet as I moved from automaton to automaton, examining each in
turn. The faces werent designed to move: beneath the wood each of them had a little metal knob that
could never be mistaken for a skull.
There was a stairwell in the far corner going down to the room below. I had twice used it while the
bells were ringing, but now there was nothing down there but ice. Had Rob gone that deep? I doubted
the groundwater wouldve been lower in the summertime but I couldnt say for sure. Cautiously, I
went down, one creaking step at a time.
Dirt and other particulates made it impossible to see much of anything in the ice, although I thought I
could make out some of the furniture Id seen on my way out to view the clock. I was reluctant to
venture too far into the room, lest I slip on the ice and break another bone, but I was sure there was
nothing of interest to be found.
My heartbeat slowed. I was relieved not to have found Amy Lowells automaton. Rob could have
touched anything in the dark. Maybe he was touching her automaton while the bells rang and then
found himself alone in the dark after their last toll, or maybe Fletch got part of the story wrong. Who
could say?
I can.
I crept back to my fire, wrapped the raft around me, and let my exhaustion overtake me.
My fire had burnt out while I was asleep and I awoke shivering violently. There was plenty of wood,
but I was almost out of Bible pages. As I carefully arranged twists of paper beneath some of the
thinner splinters, I heard a dreadful sound.
It was quiet, but impossible to miss; like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I froze. The fire could wait.
The noise stopped.
I held my breath and strained my ears to listen for even the faintest sound.
Nothing.
Maybe an animal had gotten in here with me and scratched its claws across a metal surface. A
raccoon or a rat could live down here. Maybe an owl nested in the old gears. I wouldnt exactly call
myself an animal lover, but I found the idea of another living thing being nearby very comforting.
I returned to the work at hand. When youre building a fire, airflow is key. If the wood presses down
on the paper too much, youll smother the flame before the wood can catch. My hands were shaking
from the cold and it was tough getting the wood to sit right, but I managed it after several tries.
Just as I flicked the lighter to light the paper, the noise came again.
It was a long, dry screech, the sort of sound a metal gate makes when its hinges need oil. There was
no way an animal was making that noise.
Desperately I groped along the ground for the wrench, ignoring the cries of pain from my raw, still-
bleeding nailbeds.
The sound grew closer in fits and starts.
I couldnt find the wrench in the dark. I could use the lighter, but
It was coming from the direction of the automatons. It couldnt have been very far away. Ten feet,
maybe fifteen.
I didnt want to look. I didnt want to see what could be making that noise. I gave up on the wrench
and crawled backwards, trying to get away.
It drew closer.
My hand found nothing but air and I was momentarily filled with that sickening feeling of falling until
my back slammed hard into the wood at the edge of the hole. With my shoulders stretched over the
ledge, the strain on my ribs was unbearable. I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out in pain.
The lighter was my only chance to get around the pit.
I didnt want to look.
I was shaking so badly I nearly dropped the lighter.
And then the noise stopped.
I sat in pitch black and total silence, my heart still racing, unsure of what to do. Light my way around
the hole? Search in the dark for the wrench?
Whatever it was didnt give me long to ponder. The small thud of something heavy hitting the wood
echoed through the room, followed by a dragging sound.
I flicked the lighter once, and nothing.
The sound grew closer.
Twice, and it lit.
Standing over me was the Southern belle automaton. The polished wood veneer was badly burnt in
places. The left half of its face was broken away, revealing the hollow eye socket of Amy Lowell
Putnams skull.
I screamed until my broken ribs forced me to stop, but what remained of Amy Lowells wooden face
just stared back at me, as blank as ever. Her head was still twisted around like I had left it at two
oclock.
She stepped unsteadily towards me. Her limbs were stiff, her movements spastic and unnatural. It was
almost as if she wasnt in complete control of her own body. The pole, which had once pulled her
along the clocks tracks, making her dance, hung down from between her legs and dragged on the
floor behind her.
My eyes darted down, looking for the wrench. She was standing right over it.
For a moment, as slow as she moved, I thought Id be able to outrun her, but as I stood, and turned to
skirt the hole, she showed me I was mistaken. Her arms sprang forward with such force they almost
knocked me down to the floor below. Her wooden fingers dug into my shoulders, pinching my flesh
against the bone. Her face, all the while, remained as impassive as a porcelain dolls.
I couldnt bear her looking at me, so I dropped the lighter.
We struggled there in the dark, on the edge of the hole. Crying and sniveling I begged for my
miserable life as she forced me down to my knees. I felt the heavy, metal pole that impaled her corpse
brush against my leg as she continued to maneuver my body against my will.
She turned me around, forcing me first to my hands and knees, before finally shoving me down onto
my stomach. Her hands pinned my shoulders to the ground. I could feel her torso folding itself; the
remains of her spine must have been bent at a right angle. The metal pole rose and fell, rose and fell,
each time smacking the floorboards with a dull thunk. Her chest kept twisting, like a wasp moving its
abdomen into position to sting. I didnt fully process what was happening until the pole came down
hard on my inner thigh. Amy Lowell Putnam intended to treat me to some of what shed endured at her
husbands hands.
I stopped thinking. I stopped feeling. I was too terrified for that. I flailed my limbs. I scratched at the
wood floor with my remaining fingernails. When my hand came down in the hole, I didnt even
consider the consequences. It was the only way I might possibly avoid being sodomized by the
automaton and I took it.
I pulled with every last ounce of strength I could muster. My ribs screamed in agony, blood started
gushing from my fingers once again, but I kept pulling, dragging myself and Amy Lowell right to the
very edge.
The pole came down on my leg again; it felt like being hit by a hammer. When she raised the pole
once more, I pulled my upper body over the edge and rolled my shoulders down. Amy Lowells
weight must have been off-balance because she went spilling over the edge, landing on the ice below
with a sickening crash.
I was back where Id started. Lying in the pitch black, struggling for breath.
From the hole came a small sound. Almost a scratching noise. Then a thud. Followed by more
scratching.
Amy Lowell was still moving.
I fumbled about on my hands and knees until I found the lighter. It lit on the third try.
I held it over the hole in the floor. Amy Lowells head had been twisted nearly 180 degrees in the fall.
A chunk of her skull, from just over her eye socket, had been knocked out, along with more of the
Southern belle veneer, but hadnt slowed her spastic movements. Her wooden hands and feet
struggled to gain purchase on the ice.
My feet started moving. I had no clue where to go. Where could I? There was no way out. I just had to
get as far away from Amy Lowell Putnam as I could. I grabbed the wrench as I passed and took to the
stairs.
The flame sputtered as I climbed. I had no idea how much lighter fluid I had left and found myself
wishing I had grabbed another piece of wood I could have used as a torch. It held out, though, all the
way to the topmost stair I could reach.
I sat down and quietly closed the lighter. My mistake became obvious the moment I heard her pole
rise and fall on the first step of the staircase.
Thump.
I had nowhere to go.
Thump.
I was more trapped than I would have been in the wide-open room below.
Thump.
I had to get out of there, out of the Spire.
Thump.
I lit the zippo once more and held it aloft.
Thump.
Could I make that jump? How stable were the beams holding up the stairs?
Thump.
Beneath the gap in the stairs, Amy Lowells corpse continued its climb.
Thump.
It was only five feet, give or take, separating me from the surface. Nothing.
Thump.
Of course, the stairs were higher on the far side of the gap...
Thump.
...and the wood probably couldnt support me landing on it...
Thump.
...and I was in no condition to jump.
Thump.
There was no way I could make it. I was stuck and she was coming for me.
Thump.
I slumped down on the top step. All I could think was, I dont want to die. I dont want to die. I dont
want to die.
Thump.
Then I thought that dying might be preferable to what she had planned for me. I could just lean back
and fall: splattering my brains all over the floor below.
Thump.
But what if I didnt die? What if I only broke an arm, or my legs, or another rib? Shed turn around
Thump.
...and come get me.
Thump.
There was no running. If I was going to survive, Id have to fight. I had the wrench. I had the high
ground. Maybe I could get lucky and toss her over the edge, or, worse-case, scenario take her with
me.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
There were eighteen steps between each landing. The pole hanging down from between her legs
prevented her from standing. She had to crawl on all fours. Her hands and feet sounded like hard-
soled shoes against the wood steps. Each time she reached a landing, the pole would drag across the
ground.
When she reached the landing below me, I sparked the lighter and set it against the wall, hoping thatd
be enough to keep it from getting knocked over in the fight to come.
Amy Lowell didnt react; she just kept climbing.
I stood and raised the wrench over my head. My breathing was rapid and shallow.
Her head was still twisted around on her neck, staring off into the darkness.
She stopped just outside my reach. Still as a stone, she appeared every bit as inanimate as all the
other automatons.
Was she trying to lure me in, or draw me away from the edge? Why was she just sitting there?
My arm was beginning to shake. I couldnt hold the wrench up for much longer. It was now or never.
Before my foot could hit the step below mine, her arms and legs uncoiled and she exploded forward.
My wrench hit feebly on her back as her wooden hands latched onto my throat. Together, we began
falling backwards towards the gap in the stairs.
Just before we slipped over the edge, the bells tolled.
My back slammed against the stairs. The automaton was gone.
My brain was still panicking. I couldnt think of anything but her. Where was she? Where was Amy
Lowell Putnams body?
She was running the endless race, down at the bottom of the stairs.
I scrambled to my feet, determined to put more distance between us.
The stairs were solid beneath me. It was a good feeling, one we take for granted most of the time.
The bells rang a second time just as I reached the slatted windows at the top of the Spire. A dizzying
notion bubbled out of my subconsciousness. If I was standing here when the bells stopped ringing,
what would happen? When the bells had finished tolling eleven, I had been shunted inside, but not
back to where I had begun.
Could I leave? Could it be that simple?
I raised the wrench in my hand. It would make short work of thin wooden slats.
But I couldnt do it.
This was the Spire. It housed the bells. The note they sang was beautiful beyond comprehension.
I knew it was crazy, I knew it was my life on the line, but I couldnt destroy any part of the
Widowers Clock, not while the bells were ringing.
You cant understand unless youve heard them ring. The vibrations penetrate you. Infuse you.
Permeate you. You would do anything to hear the bells, sacrifice anything, no matter how much youd
regret it later. No matter how much they scared you, or made you question your humanity.
To hear their call is to be owned by them.
Gently, I laid the wrench on the ground and began removing the slats one at time, careful not to chip
the paint. I felt like a fool, I knew I should have just bashed my way outside. I knew it, but I couldnt
do it. Instead I was treating the removal of each slat as if I was an artist restoring the Mona Lisa.
The bells would ring again any second and thatd be it. Maybe Id be up here on the landing, maybe
Id be back on the stairs where Id started. Maybe Amy Lowells automaton would be with me, or
maybe Id be alone in the cold and the dark.
Finally, Id removed enough slats to squeeze through into the moonlight. Clinging to the Spire for dear
life, I hazarded a downward glance. The party appeared to be over, but I could still make out those
poor lost souls Ill join one day, stuck watching the endless race for all eternity, and I could see some
of the automatons illuminated by the harsh electric lights, two of them moving stiffly, zipping along
their tracks.
The bells rang for the third and final time. I scrunched my eyes closedif it hadnt worked, I didnt
want to knowand stepped off the ledge.
Part 10
The first thing I was aware of was the cold. Then the pain in my hands and ribs. Then I noticed the
wind. I opened my eyes to see snow glistening in the moonlight, and the long shadows cast by trees. I
stepped off the Spire and dropped to my knees. My eyes brimmed with tears of joy. I wanted to kiss
the ground and throw the snow up in the air, and wallow around in it like a pig in its own filth, but
then I recalled the way Scary Kerry had looked at the hospital. The swollen black lumps of necrotic
flesh where frostbite had set in.
My mothers car was a solid hour, hour-and-a-halfs walk away, and I wasnt moving as quickly as I
usually did. I got walking, as fast as I could bear.
I heard the bells, truly heard them, for the last time near the fork where the access road joins Old
Ware-Enfield Road, but they didnt fill me with warmth like they had before. No they stopped me
dead in my tracks. They tugged at my guts. They called me home, but also filled me with the sensation
of being watched by eyes in the darkness.
To this day, I still hear them hourly whenever I go off my meds.
There were two police officers waiting for me when I got to my moms car. You might think I would
have run all over again. After all, it was the fear of arrest that had sent me chasing the bells. But I
didnt. Instead, I cried. It was cold, I was tired, and my whole body hurt like hell. I didnt care how
much trouble I was in. I was just happy to see real people again. People who were alive.
Id learn later that the police had no idea who I was or what I had done to Ryan Dorset. They were
there because Id parked in front of the same trailer that Fletch had parked in front of back in
December. When the owner had gotten up to go to work, and seen my car outside, she called the
police. Apparently, in his haste to get the car after Kerry had fallen through the ice, Fletch had driven
over one of her trash cans. Id nearly killed a kid, but I was being arrested because someone else had
ruined a garbage can you could get from Home Depot for thirty-five dollars.
I dont recall the officers names, but I wish I did so I could thank them. Their attitude towards me
changed immediately when they saw the condition I was in. One of them took a blanket from the trunk
and wrapped it around me. They tried to ask me what had happened, but all I could do was cry. Im
not sure I would have had anything to say anyway. Explaining the bells to someone whos never heard
them is like trying to explain the color blue to a dog that was blind from birth.
They ushered me into the back of their squad car and we took off for the hospital, the one Fletch and I
didnt know about. Twelve minutes later, we arrived at Mary Lane Hospital and I was admitted to the
ER.
The doctors picked up where the police had left off. What happened? Were you in a car accident?
Were you in a fight? but I remained unresponsive. They ran their fingers through my hair, checking
me for a concussion, but couldnt find any physical indications, and my pupils responded normally.
Its like hes in shock.
You dont say.
Since I wasnt helping, my clothes had to be cut off of me, just in case there were injuries they
werent seeing. The right side of my chest was one gigantic purple bruise. I needed five stitches
where the splinter had gone into my finger, and another two where it had come out. The rest of my
fingers were cleaned and bandaged.
Then one of them had the bright idea of giving me something to help me sleep.
I wish they hadnt. All I dreamed of was her. Amy Lowell Putnams corpse danced on its post, back
and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as the bells rang.
It was late afternoon the following day before I woke up to find my parents staring at me and my wrist
handcuffed to the bed. They were looking at me like I was behind glass at an aquarium, a particularly
nasty deep sea fish that turned their stomach. There was pity there, too, but mostly disbelief and fear. I
wasnt really their little boy any more. I was a thing, twisted and disturbed. A danger to myself and
others.
Seeing my parents looking at me like that hurt real bad, but it was still preferable to the blank stare of
Amy Lowells automaton, which was my company at two oclock. And again at three. And four...
Ryan Dorsets parents never formally charged me with assault. A civil suit was settled between our
families out of court. As a condition to their not pressing charges I had to seek psychological help. I
spent the next six months of my life at McLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. It was probably
for the best.
The first two weeks I didnt say a word to anybody about anything. I cant exactly say why. Shame
was certainly a big part of it, and I know I was afraid that theyd think I was crazy. Then again,
given where I was and why, well, the S.S. Sanity had probably already sailed.
After weeks of hearing the bells, and watching the automatons reenact their tableaus, after weeks of
seeing Amy Lowell dragged about on her pole, I finally broke down and told them what was
happening. A woman Ill call Dr. Laura was assigned to me. She was in her early forties, her hair
was always messy, and she used a lot of Yiddish expressions. I didnt get most of her jokes, but they
still made me feel like we were sharing something and that I could trust her.
She diagnosed me as bipolar, believing my attack on Ryan, my experience hearing the bells, and my
belief that Id visited a haunted clock tower in the middle of a reservoir most likely stemmed from
what she called a mixed episode, a state where symptoms of depression and mania occur
simultaneously and auditory hallucinations arent uncommon.
Her theory was horseshit, but theres no way to argue with a psychologist without sounding like one
of those guys in the old horror movies screaming, Im not mad! Im not mad! while an orderly
crams them into a straitjacket. You just say, Wow, yeah. That sounds about right, and take whatever
pills they give you.
You cant win, but you can lose less badly. And I have to admit that after they began injecting me with
Haldol, I stopped hearing the bells every hour.
She may not have believed my story, but Dr. Laura taught me a lot. We would look at the decisions I
regretted, and examine not only the effects of those decisions, but everything that led up to them. What
was I doing? How was I feeling? Wed list it all, from my emotions to my bodily sensations, and try
to find the pattern that led to my worst decisions. She helped me isolate my self-destructive triggers.
Then wed discuss how I could continue on in life and accomplish my goals without stumbling blindly
into those triggers.
After I got out of McLean, we thought it was best that I didnt go back to school. My mother bought
the state-approved curriculum for homeschooling, and I spent the rest of high school at our kitchen
table. We had to meet with the Superintendent of Schools a couple of times. He seemed perfectly
happy not to have me in his school system. Cant say I blamed him, I must have seemed like another
Robert Kennan waiting to happen.
After the incident in their yard, Alinas parents had decided to enroll her at Bishop Guertin. Even
after all shed been through, she hadnt wanted to; who wants to leave their friends behind senior
year? But between Rob Kennan and myself, they just thought itd be best for her to get a fresh start.
After she left, Sara Cohen had been very vocal in blaming me.
I never held that against Sara. I figured I deserved the fallout for what I had done to Ryan Dorset. But
then in September of 2000, the week before his 13th birthday, my little brother asked if he could be
homeschooled too. Up until the day that I attacked Ryan Dorset, my brother had been popular amongst
the kids in his grade, far more popular than Id ever been. Then one day he came home with a bloody
nose. Two weeks later, a black eye. A fat lip. A limp. He was being bullied because of me.
I remember one day in particular with perfect clarity, an older boy had knocked my brother down on
the hardwood floor of the gym and dislocated his shoulder. He had to go to the hospital.
My dad went ballistic. He directed most of his anger at Mr. Delvino, the principal, he even threatened
to sue the school. But I got some of it too. He gave me a look that practically screamed, This is your
fault.
When he returned home that night, my brother got me alone and asked me a question.
Did you rape Alina?
At first I was shocked. I thought Id misheard him. I was his brother. And he knew I loved Alina. How
could he ask me that?
The kids at school, thats what some of them say.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Pluck a stone from a lake and water will rush to fill the space where it had
been. Remove the only two people who knew what passed between them from school and rumors
will fill in the gaps.
Id become the villain in my very own urban legend. And why not? Sara Cohen had told the school I
was stalking Alina, Id taken a rock to Ryan Dorsets face, and people are awful quick to write you
off when they hear you have mental health issues.
Yeah, we had sex, but it wasnt... With my brother looking up at me, I couldnt even say the word.
She never said no that was true. I never threatened her so was that. I was crazy about her. I
just wanted to make her feel good.
My brother nodded. He didnt look completely at ease with my answer, but he seemed to accept that I
was telling the truth.
Looking back as an adult though, Im not so sure that I was.
While I had absolutely wanted to make Alina happy, each time Id kissed her, shed freeze in place. I
took it as nerves, but I didnt stop. Each time Id run my hands over her body, shed gotten choked up.
Id thought it was survivors guilt, but even if it was, pushing her clearly hadnt made her feel better.
And when we...when I had gotten on top of her, and wormed my way beneath her clothes, persisting
past stillness and tears, she hadnt said no, but she never said yes.
To this day, I have no idea how Alina feels about what happened between us. No clue where her
experiences ended and the rumors began.
But back then, I was positive that it was a wicked lie. Like a lot of people, especially guys, I had an
image in my mind of what a rapist was. A lone predator on the fringes of society. A man in sunglasses
and a hooded sweatshirt, hiding in a dimly lit garage with a knife in one hand and an improvised gag
in the other. I had an idea that they were a breed apart. Evil, depraved things, aware of the harm and
the hurt they cause but determined to do it anyway.
And I didnt meet any of my own criteria.
I spent the night stewing. Replaying the events that had led me to the Spire again in my mind. What
had Alina been telling Sara Cohen by the lockers that morning? Since when did Drew DeLuca care
about monogamy? Hed gone after other peoples girlfriends plenty of times. Were people already
saying this about me before Id attacked Ryan Dorset?
I wanted to lash out but I was too hurt. I wanted to put it behind me but I was too angry. I felt every bit
as isolated as I had laying in the dead silence and pitch black at the bottom of the Spire.
That night, once everyone was asleep, I made my first of three suicide attempts. Tiptoeing my way
into the garage, I took the garden hose off the wall and pushed one end into the tailpipe of my moms
car. The other end I ran up through the drivers side window.
The note I left was addressed to Alina. It read simply, This is your fault.
I didnt really believe it, I just wanted Alina, a girl who only hours earlier I would have described as
the love of my young life, to feel as bad as I felt.
I got comfortable and started the engine. As the car began filling with exhaust, I became dimly aware
of a sensation creeping up the back of my neck. Was it the carbon monoxide, or was I being watched?
Thump.
Had Amy Lowell been the mystery figure people saw inside Robs car the night he killed himself?
Did she collect the souls of those shed condemned? Was that how the automatons face had been
burnt?
Let her come, I thought. The damned dont judge.
But the thump Id heard wasnt the sound of Amy Lowell Putnams post on the garage floor, it was the
doorknob slamming into the wall when my brother threw open the door to the house. He saw me and
screamed bloody murder until my parents came and the three of them could pull me out of the car.
The garage was beneath my brothers room. He had heard the engine start, but didnt hear the garage
door open, so after a couple of minutes of wondering he got up to see what was going on.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the living room with a splitting headache. My mom was hugging me
and crying hysterically. It was the first time anyone had held me in 9 months.
The next morning, I was back in McLean.
Once I was deemed no longer a threat to myself, I was transferred into residential treatment. Dr.
Laura and I began reexamining my patterns and triggers, but I was holding back. Dr. Laura had been
sad to see me return to McLean so soon, particularly given the circumstances, but she was the only
one since Id reemerged from the Spire who spoke to me like I was a person and not just a broken
thing to be pitied or feared. Talking to her was my one comfort, and I was terrified that this comfort
would disappear if I repeated the question that my brother had asked me, or gave voice to my growing
suspicion that it wasnt simply a rumor.
She hadnt said no, but she hadnt said yes.
Subtly at first, but more directly as the days turned into weeks, Dr. Laura pressed me to open up about
why Id tried to kill myself that night, and not the night before or a week later. It was nearly October,
less than a week away from the anniversary of Rob Kenans death, when I finally blurted it out.
They say I raped her. Theyre beating up my brother because they say how could they say that
about me? Of course, I knew full well how they could say it about me. They could say it the same
way I could repeat all those awful rumors about Robert Kennan when I was in middle school.
I should have never doubted Dr. Lauras kindness or professionalism. She didnt leave the room or
look at me any differently. She just said, Oh, Bubbala, and let me cry.
Once Id collected myself, we got back to work on me.
After two months I was progressing well in my treatment, but I was still struggling to wrap my head
around how anyone, possibly even Alina, could think what wed done had been wrong.
What Id done.
Why didnt she just say no? It was a textbook case of blame shifting, but I genuinely didnt
understand. I would have stopped.
You can never be certain what someone else is thinking or feeling. Thats why we have to ask. And
listen, and not assume they want exactly what we want, or that theyll respond exactly like we
respond. Fershtay?
I nodded. We werent in a session. Strictly speaking, Dr. Laura probably shouldnt have been talking
to me at all, and especially not about anything that was at the heart of my treatment, but from time to
time, she would. I think she knew I needed the human contact.
Bubbala, dont take this as anything but speculation; I cant know what she was thinking any better
than you can. But you might want to consider that the last boy that had a crush on her had killed
himself right in front of her three months earlier.
I liked it when she called me bubbala. Whats Rob got to do with me?
She might have thought that if she said no, youd do the same.
Alina, if youre out there, and youre reading this, I am sorry. You were traumatized and seventeen.
I dont know how you feel about what happened, but you deserved better. I never should have put you
in that position. I apologize unreservedly. I know that my intentions dont mean anything next to what I
did, but I hope you know Id never hurt you on purpose. If theres anything you want from me, anything
that will bring you the slightest amount of closure, it is yours. You can get word to me through my
parents. I was so stupid.
Im sorry.
In May of 2003 I received my high school diploma. My parents didnt think I could handle living on
my own, but I had to get as far away from the Spire and the way they looked at me and my reputation
around town as I could. My aunt lives in San Jose, California, and I managed to get into a vocational
school twenty minutes from her house. Eventually, my parents relented and let me go.
Fletch wound up getting into BC, which was a big coup for him. As fate would have it, so did Alina.
From what I understand, the two of them actually wound up becoming pretty close. The last time
Fletch and I spoke was in November of 2002, right around Thanksgiving. He had stopped hearing the
bells before the end of his freshman year.
Two of Scary Kerrys fingers had to be amputated, along with her thumb. She also lost her left foot
from around the mid-calf down. Eventually she recovered from her aphasia but not before the school
moved her into the special education program. She never made it to college. Mrs. Peterson got her a
job at Market Basket bagging groceries. My mom sees her from time to time and usually does her best
to avoid her register. Neither Kerry nor her mother have asked about me since the incident. I dont
know if she still hears the bells, but I doubt it.
As for me, Im unhappy but alive. I only hear the bells now when I dont take my Zyprexa, but theyre
never too far from my mind. Someday, Im going to die and Amy Lowell Putnams going to claim me.
Theres nothing I can do to avoid it. A part of me wishes shed just hurry up and do it already.
The bells really do sound lovely.
Autopilot

Skarjo

Runner Up - Best Monthly Contest Winner of 2013

Have you ever forgotten your phone?

When did you realise youd forgotten it? Im guessing you didnt just smack your forehead and
exclaim damn apropos of nothing. The realisation probably didnt dawn on you spontaneously. More
likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily
confused by it not being there. Then you did a mental restep of the mornings events.
Shit.
In my case, my phones alarm woke me up as normal but I realised the battery was lower than I
expected. It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drain
the battery overnight. So, I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal. It
was a momentary slip from the routine but that was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back
into the routine it follows every morning and that was it.
Forgotten.
This wasnt just me being clumsy, as I later researched, this is a recognised brain function. Your brain
doesnt just work on one level, it works on many. Like, when youre walking somewhere, you think
about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you dont need to think about keeping your legs
moving properly. If you did, the entire world would turn into one massive hilarious QWOP cosplay. I
wasnt thinking about regulating my breathing, I was thinking whether I should grab a coffee on the
drive to work (I did). I wasnt thinking about moving my breakfast through my intestines, I was
wondering whether Id finish on time to pick up my daughter Emily from nursery after work or get
stuck with another late fee. This is the thing; theres a level of your brain that just deals with routine,
so that the rest of the brain can think about other things.
Think about it. Think about your last commute. What do you actually remember? Little, if anything,
probably. Most common journeys blur into one, and recalling any one in particular is scientifically
proven to be difficult. Do something often enough and it becomes routine. Keep doing it and it stops
being processed by the thinking bit of the brain and gets relegated to a part of the brain dedicated to
dealing with routine. Your brain keeps doing it, without you thinking about it. Soon, you think about
your route to work as much as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk. As in, not at all.
Most people call it autopilot. But theres danger there. If you have a break in your routine, your ability
to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability to stop your brain going into
routine mode. My ability to remember my phone being on the counter is only as reliable as my ability
to stop my brain entering morning routine mode which would dictate that my phone is actually in my
bag. But I didnt stop my brain entering routine mode. I got in the shower as normal. Routine started.
Exception forgotten.
Autopilot engaged.
My brain was back in the routine. I showered, I shaved, the radio forecast amazing weather, I gave
Emily her breakfast and loaded her into the car (she was so adorable that morning, she complained
about the bad sun in the morning blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way
to nursery) and left. That was the routine. It didnt matter that my phone was on the counter, charging
silently. My brain was in the routine and in the routine my phone was in my bag. This is why I forgot
my phone. Not clumsiness. Not negligence. Nothing more my brain entering routine mode and over-
writing the exception.
Autopilot engaged.
I left for work. Its a swelteringly hot day already. The bad sun had been burning since before my
traitorously absent phone woke me. The steering wheel was burning hot to the touch when I sat down.
I think I heard Emily shift over behind my drivers seat to get out of the glare. But I got to work.
Submitted the report. Attended the morning meeting. Its not until I took a quick coffee break and
reached for my phone that the illusion shattered. I did a mental restep. I remembered the dying battery.
I remembered putting it on to charge. I remembered leaving it there.
My phone was on the counter.
Autopilot disengaged.
Again, therein lies the danger. Until you have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and
shatter the illusion, that part of the brain is still in routine mode. It has no reason to question the facts
of the routine; thats why its a routine. Attrition of repetition. Its not as if anyone could say why
didnt you remember your phone? Didnt it occur to you? How could you forget? You must be
negligent; this is to miss the point. My brain was telling me the routine was completed as normal,
despite the fact that it wasnt. It wasnt that I forgot my phone. According to my brain, according to
the routine, my phone was in my bag. Why would I think to question it? Why would I check? Why
would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that my phone was on the counter? My brain was wired
into the routine and the routine was that my phone was in my bag.
The day continued to bake. The morning haze gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon.
Tarmac bubbled. The direct beams of heat threatened to crack the pavement. People swapped coffees
for iced smoothies. Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, brows mopped. The parks
slowly filled with sunbathers and BBQs. Window frames threatened to warp. The thermometer
continued to swell. Thank fuck the offices were air conditioned.
But, as ever, the furnace of the day gave way to a cooler evening. Another day, another dollar. Still
cursing myself for forgetting my phone, I drove home. The days heat had baked the inside of the car,
releasing a horrible smell from somewhere. When I arrived on the driveway, the stones crunching
comfortingly under my tyres, my wife greeted me at the door.
Wheres Emily?
Fuck.
As if the phone wasnt bad enough. After everything Id left Emily at the fucking nursery after all. I
immediately sped back to the nursery. I got to the door and started practising my excuses, wondering
vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee. I saw a piece of paper stuck to the door.
Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door. Today only.
Overnight? What? The door was fine this morni-.
I froze. My knees shook.
Vandals. A change in the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
I hadnt been here this morning.
My phone was on the counter.
Id driven past because I was drinking my coffee. Id not dropped off Emily.
My phone was on the counter.
Shed moved her seat. I hadnt seen her in the mirror.
My phone was on the counter.
Shed fallen asleep out of the bad sun. She didnt speak when I drove past her nursery.
My phone was on the counter.
Shed changed the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
Shed changed the routine and Id forgotten to drop her off.
My phone was on the counter.
9 hours. That car. That baking sun. No air. No water. No power. No help. That heat. A steering wheel
too hot to touch.
That smell.
I walked to the car door. Numb. Shock.
I opened the door.
My phone was on the counter and my daughter was dead.
Autopilot disengaged.
October and November Monthly Contest Winners
November 2013
My therapist said this would help: What happened at summer camp, 1977.

tentnumber7

Winner - November 2013 Monthly Contest

I cant believe Im doing this. I cant believe Im sitting at my computer, half past midnight, my fingers
pecking out these terrible words on the keyboard, but insomnia is a bitch and my therapist says this is
a very healthy exercise. All I want is to get some sleep.
He says that the words need to come out. Theyre clogging up my insides like sludge in ancient
plumbing beneath a crumbling house. Words can be poison, he says. Thoughts can be poison. Its like
draining a wound, he says, but dont you have to drain a wound over and over until its healed? I
dont think I can do this more than once.
When I was 8, I went to summer camp. On the first night, three girls were raped, murdered, and left
for the counselors to find the next morning.
Ive heard it all, the different diagnoses given by every doctor from one coast to the other: survivors
guilt, PTSD, schizophrenia in some rare cases. The problem isnt in what I saw, its in what I didnt
say.
Shit. Im jumping around too much. Let me start over.
Three girls. Raped and murdered while the camp counselors slept just yards away. Piled like dirty
laundry on the trail with the silly name because whoever left them there knew someone would be
along sooner or later to take a shower. Three little girls in their sleeping bags, excited for the start of
summer camp, just as excited as I was hell, I may as well have been one of those little girls in tent
number 7.
They call it tent number 8 but thats stupid because we all know no one counted the counselors tent. I
was in tent number 6 with three other girls. Or tent number 7, if you read the reports. Whatever. Does
the number matter? Maybe it did. Oh god, I get this cold-metal taste at the back of my throat when I
think about how much it really might have mattered.
We were all in the same group, the Kiowa group, our tents in a tight little cluster. It made it easy for
him, I guess. Tiny little tents with tiny little girls inside.
Im off track again. I cant think, my hands are shaking and I have to keep hitting the delete key.
Start over.
June, 1977. Tent number 6. Thats where I was. Until I heard the noise outside.
I woke with a start, clutching the stuffed animal I had tried so hard to hide from the older girls
because they had laughed and said toys were for babies. Mr. Beans wasnt for babies, he was a
friend, but I didnt have many friends that werent stuffed animals so I kept him hidden in case the
older girls came back.
And maybe they had, was what I thought. The rustling sounds outside the tent sounded like someone
was there, and my first thought was the older girls from the Arapahoe group, girls who were allowed
to wear lipgloss and talked about boys and just seemed so cool, like the ladies on the covers of
magazines. They had teased me earlier at dinner that night, especially about Mr. Beans, but for one
terrible hopeful moment I thought maybe they were testing me, to see if I was tough enough to be their
friend, to prove I wasnt a baby. Momma said sometimes that people teased because they liked you.
I wanted them to like me. I didnt wake up the other girls, because I knew they would ruin the whole
thing, they would probably cry and be babies and then the older girls from Arapahoe wouldnt be my
friends. I even put Mr. Beans behind my suitcase so they wouldnt see him.
I waited but nothing happened. More rustles, that was all.
The tent flap opened. I looked for the faces of my new friends but it was a man. Not any of the
counselors, someone Id never seen before, this realization set in like a heavy stone sinking to the
bottom of a black pond I cant do this I cant do this
I have to finish. I have to drain the wound.
His eyes scanned the tent. His eyes counted one, two, three, four little girls. His eyes stopped on me,
the fourth little girl, and his eyes met mine.
He smiled. It was not a very nice smile. He put one finger up to his lips, pursed them, and said,
Shhh.
I nodded, because he was a grown-up, and Momma taught me to listen to grown-ups. He ducked out
and closed the tent flap again.
It was late at night, or early in the morning, Im not sure which but it was so dark and it seemed like
such a long time to lay there awake before I heard someone moaning in the distance. It was quiet but
not that far away. Im told that other girls heard it too, but from four different areas of the camp at
once.
Some girls made up stories afterwards to get attention but not me. I never told anyone. Not until now.
When the light finally started to break I realized how badly I needed to pee. I wasnt sure if the man
was still outside but it was probably okay because it was morning and the sun was coming up over
the horizon and bad things didnt happen to little girls in the sunshine. So I poked my head out of the
tent. Looked around. The sky was that pale white-blue color it turns just at dawn but it still felt safe,
somehow better because the sun had risen and everything was okay.
I headed down the trail with the funny name, towards the showers and the toilets, and thats where I
saw them.
At the base of a tree, slumped together like strange piles of garbage, were three little girls. I knew
their names, I still know their names but that doesnt matter now, does it?
Two of them were in their sleeping bags. One was just on the ground. She had her pajama top pushed
up. No pajama bottoms.
A strange red flashlight near their feet.
There was blood. They werent moving.
I can see them I can still see them I CAN STILL SEE THEM
This doesnt feel like draining the wound so much as infecting it.
I dont know why but I went right past them. I guess I knew if I went back to my tent Id wet the bed
and Id never have any big-girl friends so I went right past the little sleeping bags and straight to the
bathroom. I peed. I went back to tent number 6.
Tent number 7 was empty.
When I went back to sleep, the last sleep I ever had unbroken by nightmares or screaming, I think I
had convinced myself the whole thing was a bad dream. There was no man, no pile of sleeping bags
with dead little girls in them, no empty tent number 7.
The counselors got us up earlier than usual. We went to the Great Hall for breakfast. We went
canoeing in the river. It was fun. Everything was okay. Bad dream. That was all.
Buses came to take us back to the Great Hall. When we got off the buses one of the older counselors,
the ones that ran the camp, he told us there was a problem with the water supply. Camp was cancelled
for the summer. We all needed to pack our things and go home.
Water supply. Camp cancelled.
In tent number 6 the other girls whined about how it was unfair, theyd sold so many cookies to get
here this year and after one stupid day it was already over, but I kept hearing the gray-faced
counselors words in my ears, camp is cancelled, camp is cancelled.
I tried to nap on the bus ride home but my seatmate kept waking me up because I was crying in my
sleep. She called me a baby.
Bus stopped. Got off the bus. Troop leader said not to talk to anyone who wasnt our parents.
Lots of reporters. Shouting. Momma grabbed me and cried. No more camp, she said.
She threw out my sleeping bag as soon as we got home.
The police came once or twice after that but I never talked to them. Momma told them Id been very
clear, I hadnt seen anything. Id slept all night. Id slept all night.
I havent slept a full night since.
Would it have helped if I said something? If I had told? Every time I thought about doing it my heart
plummeted into my stomach, I saw the mans face and his finger on his lips and heard his shhh.
Usually I threw up.
So these words, the words Ive never said until now, they festered inside me like some exotic form of
mental rot. I cant hold a job for more than a few months, I call in sick too much. No husband to speak
of, the night terrors took care of that. A man will only sleep in your bed so many times before the
screaming and thrashing drives him away.
But my new therapist, hes been so nice, he tells me whatever happened isnt my fault and that this
will help and I started to think that maybe it was time to tell, time to describe the face that poked into
tent number 6 that night in 1977.
And then I remember why I cant. What I had blocked out, the thing my mind forced me to forget even
though I can still see the twisted tangled little bodies underneath the tree as clear as day, my brain
shattered this memory and scattered it to the wind but it has always been there, waiting at the bottom
of my gullet to force out vomit instead of words should I ever decide to tell.
Mr. Beans was gone. When I went to pack my bag Mr. Beans was gone, and in his place, a little scrap
of paper, much like the one the counselors had found back in April and discarded as a joke. The note
that mentioned killing three girls.
Three girls. Not four.
Tent number 7. Not 6.
But my note, oh yes, my note
All it said was shhh.

We don't sleep.
The Voice on the Radio

Jaunt-701

Runner Up - November 2013 Monthly Contest

I opened the present. What the fuck is this shit? Oh wow, grandpa, thanks!
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and said, It's a Ham Radio, son. I used to have one
when I was younger. It's got a hundred mile range, so you can talk to people all the way out in
Fairview. Real conversations, not the text messages or emails you all use these days. I'll even let you
use my old license and call sign.
Yeah, I'm never going to do any of that. Sounds great, grandpa!
Let's set it up together.
...Uh, yeah, cool!
He spent two hours setting it up, showing me how to operate it, and telling me stories about the other
hams he'd met over the years. He switched it on and got in contact with some gruff sounding dude
out in Fairview. They had a lively discussion about how the FCC was oppressing their constitutional
rights.
I caught a movie with Jeremy, got some free pancakes at IHOP, and turned in early. A mediocre
birthday, like always. I have a bad habit of drinking soda before bed, and, as usual, I ended up staring
at the ceiling wide awake. I browsed Reddit for a while, but you can only see so many cat pictures
before they all start to look the same.
I flicked on the ham radio and fiddled with the tuner. Other than the police band, the air traffic tower,
and some guy ranting about the Federal Reserve, it was quiet. I sighed, laid back in bed, and started
to doze off.
That's when I heard it.
At first I thought I imagined it. I was in that half-awake, half-asleep state where your thoughts start to
play tricks on you. I thought maybe I had started dreaming before I was fully asleep and had
hallucinated a sound.
A sound like a voice calling through static.
I listened for a moment. Nothing. Just a dream. I turned over on my side and closed my eyes.
I snapped back awake. There it was again, for certain this time. A voice calling out, as if from a great
distance.
It was coming from the radio.
I turned the volume up as far as it would go, but I could still hear only the faintest sound, like
someone calling from the bottom of a well. I adjusted the tuner for better reception, but it didn't help. I
picked up the microphone and spoke into it. Hello?
The voice stopped. There was a long moment of silence. Then the voice called out again, more
clearly this time. Hello? Hello?
Hello? Can you hear me? I suddenly felt very stupid. It was probably just another weirdo
survivalist out in the woods who wanted to babble about EMP blasts and the gold standard or
something. Still, there was something in his voice. An urgency that was hard to ignore.
There was a fluctuation in the static, and the voice came in again. Hello? He said something else,
something in what I assumed was German.
I'm sorry, I can't understand you. I only speak English.
He spoke again, and I could hear how thick his accent was. Please, I ask you. When are you?
Where am I? I'm in Chester. About forty miles outside Fairview.
No, no. The static was starting to overtake the voice again. When are you?
Excuse me?
What time? What year?
I stared at the radio. So this was one of those ham weirdos that grandpa was talking about. I shook my
head and chucked a little. Uh, it's 2013 dude.
There was an excited barrage of German that turned desperate when the static started drowning him
out. Please, I must ask you. Please, wait...
Then nothing.
I set the microphone down. Great. Another outlet for creepers to say creepy shit. We sure don't have
enough of those in the world. I switched the radio off and went to sleep.

What the fuck is that shit? Jeremy said.

I rolled my eyes. Ham radio. My grandpa got it for my birthday.
That's hilarious. Does it work?
Yeah, hundred mile range. It's stupid though. The police band is sort of interesting, but other than that
it's just survivalists and conspiracy nuts.
That's awesome. We should pretend we're under siege during a zombie attack, like do some War of
the Worlds shit with this thing.
I laughed. I don't know man, it's just a lot of weirdos on there. Like the other day, I was listening to
it, and this one guy--
Jeremy switched the radio on, and immediately I heard a frantic voice calling out. Hello? Hello?
This guy, I said. This guy is a fucking psycho.
Dude, sweet. I love talking to psychos. Jeremy picked up the microphone. Hello?
Hello, the voice sounded overjoyed. Please do not go. I do many fixes to machine. Transmission is
very much better.
Jeremy giggled. Dude, you've got fucking Bruno on your radio. He spoke into the microphone. Ja,
das is gut. Much sound. Bravo.
Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
I've had a few semesters, yeah.
They spoke back and forth in German for a bit. What are you saying? I asked.
Jeremy sat back and shook his head. This guy is a piece of work. I asked him where he's located, and
he said 'long ago, many years in your past.'
When I talked to him he wanted to know what year it was.
He's playing a prank. He probably goes on here, pretends to be a time traveler to troll the
survivalists, and then puts the recordings up on YouTube. Actually pretty brilliant, if you ask me.
Ask him how he's communicating from the past.
Jeremy spoke into the microphone, and there was an excited flood of German from the other end.
What's he saying? I asked.
I have no fucking idea.
I thought you spoke German?
Level three. If he was describing the animals he was seeing on a safari I could maybe follow him.
But he's talking about like, 'particle tunnels' and 'chaotic duality waves' or something. I don't think I
could understand him even if I was fluent.
The voice on the radio sighed and took a long pause. Then, with heaviness in his tone, he said,
Please. Tell me about your world.
I scoffed. We should switch it off.
Jeremy looked shocked. Why?
He's fucking with us.
So? He's doing a great job of it. Don't be such a downer. This is the most interesting conversation
I've had in a while, so I say fuck it. Let's play time travelers.
We told him about our future world. We described airplanes, self-driving cars, space stations,
microchips. We tried to describe a smartphone, which was difficult to do with the voice's shitty
English and Jeremy's shitty German. He was fascinated by the Internet, awestruck by the moon
landing, greatly amused when we played some Daft Punk as an example of futuristic culture. Jeremy
spent a weird amount of time talking about his Vitamix.
And through it all, the voice kept repeating, Beautiful. So beautiful.
Okay, enough about us, mein herr, Jeremy said. Your turn. Tell us about your world.
A long silence. My world, the voice said, is very dark. Bad things happening. I do not know...how
we will escape the shadow.
This guy's a great improviser, Jeremy said.
Please, my friends. I have question. It is very important. I must ask you.
Jeremy smiled. Sure man, go ahead.
The voice asked something in German. Jeremy frowned.
Suddenly, there was a noise like breaking glass from the radio. The voice gasped, Nein, nein. There
were other voices, angry voices, clamoring and shouting. It sounded like a crowd was in the room,
and they were wreaking havoc. Loud bangs and thuds, like furniture being turned over. The voices
grew louder, and louder. There was a tremendous crash.
Then silence.
I looked over at Jeremy. What the fuck happened?
He shook his head. I don't know. Other people were there. They were saying, 'Dog. Worthless dog,'
over and over again. Sounded like they smashed the place up.
I fiddled with the tuner, but there was no sign of the voice. Jeremy and I sat quietly for a moment.
His question, I said. What did he ask you?
Jeremy stared at the radio. He said, 'Can they be stopped?'

Too much soda again. Another insomniac night. I counted the cracks in the ceiling, over and over.
Over and over. My eyes began to feel heavy at last.
A burst of static from the radio made my heart jump. I shot upright in bed and looked over. The static
faded out and the voice faded in. He was speaking German, quite softly.
Anger flared in my chest. I was sick of this. Sick of him and his stupid pranks. I wanted to smash that
goddamn radio to pieces.
I grabbed the microphone and shouted, Leave me alone for Christ's sake. I don't care about your
stupid fucking time travel act, just stop bothering me and leave me alone.
But he just spoke over me, like he couldn't hear me at all. His voice was shaky and quiet. I couldn't
understand what he was saying, but I could feel a great sadness in his tone.
I grabbed my phone and opened the voice recorder. I sat there, listening and recording, until he was
finished speaking. I sat in silence for a few minutes to make sure nothing else was coming through,
then I switched the radio off.
I sent the audio file to Jeremy with an explanation of what had happened. I asked him to translate. The
next day at school, he handed me a sheet of paper at lunch. He didn't say anything, he just handed it to
me and walked away.
It read:
My friends, I do not know if you can hear me. I do not know if you could ever hear me, or if I was
imagining our encounter. But I hope you are out there.
The machine is critically damaged. Perhaps with a great deal of work it could be repaired, but I
doubt that I will have either the resources or the time necessary for such a task. I am deeply
saddened that we could not speak further. There are so many questions I wanted to ask, so much
more I wanted to learn about your world. But please know that, in the brief time we were able to
speak, you gave a tired man a reason to continue living.
I know now that the madness that has gripped my country cannot be stopped. I tell my son to be
strong. I tell him that our people have endured for thousands of years. I tell him that if we were
strong enough to build the Pyramids, we are strong enough to withstand a few grunting apes in
jackboots. But he knows I am afraid too. We are marching forward into a nightmare that will take a
 terrible toll on all of us. I do not know when it will end. The only thing I can cling to is the fact
that, somehow, our world will lead to yours.
I think of your world, and I feel something I haven't felt in many years. An emotion almost
unknown to the people of my time. I feel hope. For in a world such as yours, a world of such
wondrous invention and progress, what use could there be for war? What reason for hunger? What
tolerance for injustice? I know in my heart that you have solved the problems that have plagued
our species and created a world of enduring peace and unity.
I do not know how such a world could spring from the darkness that is enveloping this continent.
But I hope that the future is as beautiful as you described it. I hope you have built the world that
we could not. I hope you have learned from our mistakes. I hope you treat each other with the
dignity and respect that is the birthright of all humanity. I hope you have forgotten the word for
hate. I hope that things are different.
Goodbye, my friends, from the shadows.
Dr. Albert Bachman. Frankfurt, Germany. November 12th, 1938.

A prank. That's all it was. I don't even know why I'm posting this. There's no way it was actually
some sci-fi miracle. It was obviously just someone with too much time on his hands playing a big
joke on us. He's probably listening to the recordings and laughing at us right now.
Just a prank.
But...
I still keep the radio on at night. I'll switch it on as I'm laying in bed, and sometimes when I'm starting
to drift off, I'll think I hear a distant voice calling out in the dark. A voice from the shadows, tiny and
frail, yet full of hope. And I'll sit up in bed and listen. I'll listen for a sound, a word, anything. But I
never hear more. Just my mind playing tricks on me.
I don't sleep much anymore. Probably because I drink too much soda, right?
Right?

Into the night...

The New Fish

theworldisgrim

Honorable Mention - November 2013 Monthly Contest, Part 1 of a Series

I was jolted awake about an hour ago, confused and disoriented; my heart was pounding and my
sheets were soaked in sweat. Some slavering, malevolent horror was in the trailer with me, creeping
up on me while I slept with poised claws and razor teeth. The absolute certainty of this coated my
mouth with the metallic taste of fear, sour and dry and thick. I grabbed the baseball bat that lays
beneath my cot and tip-toed around the cramped darkness of my trailer, straining to hear over the
keening of the wind outside.
And the pounding of my own heart.
Of course, there was nothing here except my goldfish and yours truly, the sweaty guy in his
underwear. It was the gusting wind that startled me awake - it happens quite often in the late autumn
and early winter. The wind rips through the scrub of skeletal trees that surround the trailer park and
charges, with a lion's roar, into our lonely huddle of frail little shelters. It gibbers and shrieks and
pounds on our walls with fists of dead leaves and frozen grit.
Satisfied that I wasn't about to become chow for some unspeakable creature, I laid back down on my
squeaky, saggy old cot and tried to get back to sleep - but I couldn't. Instead, I found myself thinking
about that night in the penitentiary, the night of the lockdown; I kept thinking about Mikey and Big Rob
and the rest of them, all of us huddled in a cell with the lights off and the frigid northwest winds
howling at the walls. After a while, I gave up trying to sleep. Instead, I sat down in front of the
computer and I started typing. I'm no story teller, not like Mikey or Hutch, but I'll try my best.
When I first came to the Pen, the thing that struck me the most about the place was just how much the
cons talk. On the occasions when I'd served time in the County jail, there had been talk, sure, but it
was terse and impersonal - when they're only serving a few months, I guess a lot of people feel the
situation is too temporary to bother forging any ties with their fellow inmates. You'd play cards with
your cellie, or you'd sit in the day room and watch TV in relative silence; the only time that there
would ever be any noise or action was when a scrap broke out over a card game. Fights were the
only thing that passed as excitement in County; every other moment of the day was comprised of dull,
boring nothing. Going in, you just hoped that the food wouldn't be too bad, and that your cellie
wouldn't end up being a gang member or a meth-head biker waiting out a long patch of dead time.
People, in other words, who might beat the shit out of you as a way to pass the hours.
The Pen, though - it's an incredibly noisy, smelly, vocal environment. I remember, very clearly, the
moment when my little group of new arrivals were let out of the Fish Tank and into our new home, a
pod housing two hundred inmates. I was overwhelmed by the deafening din of voices and activity
when the hacks marched us, bundles in hand, out onto the range. Of course, there were the obligatory
cat-calls and wolf-whistling, but most of the cons seemed completely oblivious to us - they were too
busy living the ebb and flow of penitentiary life.
Of course, this was not actually true. Cons see everything. And I mean everything. But they talk even
more.
My first cellie wanted both my bale and my ass, in that order. That wasn't happening. I hammered him
in the mouth and it was on - the fight spilled out of the cell and into the corridor of the pod. He was a
big, tough old bull, but I had him leaking and his confidence was shaken. Before the C.O.'s got to us,
I'd managed to get the nasty old fuck face-down onto the floor, and was whamming away on the back
of his head and neck like a jackhammer. Then the hacks got there and one of them laid a size twelve
boot upside my skull. The kick knocked my brain clear over the Moon: the world immediately went
out of focus and it stayed that way for almost twelve hours. I spent the next three weeks in the Hole
for fighting, and when I got out I was placed in a different pod. Word had got around that this fish
wasn't exactly new, and that I had a mean right-cross; no one bothered to try and roll up on me in the
yard that day, and when I sat down at chow with my new cellie and some of his boys, no one
objected. I had been checked, and I'd passed the test. I wasn't a punk or a sissy: I could sit with the
men.
Yeah, it's a different world, the Pen is, and it has wildly different rules. You couldn't fully understand
unless you've been there.
It wasn't long before I settled into a routine: up for headcount and chow, off to work in the laundry,
chow, nap, work out, chow ... and then the struggle to fill the dead hours between supper and lights-
out. There wasn't much to do. The cons played cards, betting with tobacco bales purchased from the
commissary and individual, hand-rolled smokes. Some watched TV, and others watched the wall.
Some watched each other; tensions were always high between the rival gangs. Dope fiends spiked
what they liked to spike in the bathrooms. Daddies took their sugar-boys into rented cells or the
showers, and they got some ass-pussy while a homeboy held watch for the cops.
And there was, of course, a lot of talk. Talk of family back home, women had and lost, of misdeeds
proudly done. There were enough stories flying around that place to fill a library.
My cellie was an old con named Mikey. He had originally been sentenced to fifteen years for second-
degree murder during a robbery - but he had gotten into so much trouble since landing in the Pen that
he'd managed to acquire an additional ten years on top of that. Mikey was doing all day and he'd made
peace with that fact - a good cat, all in all, a straight shooter who didn't fuck with the spike. The thing
was, he'd kill just about anyone, if he got it into his head that he wanted to. In earlier years, Mikey had
been a trigger-man for the bikers. He'd been convicted for the murders of six people, and was a
suspect in sixteen others ... and I can well imagine that a number of them had probably been friends of
his, at one point or another. In certain circles, a good friend can become your murderer in the blink of
an eye.
That's the kind of people you do time with in Maximum security.
Mikey and his crew liked nothing better than to spend a Sunday evening crowded up in someone's
cell, drinking Pruno and shooting the shit. Personally, I didn't care much for the hooch - it tasted like
rotting garbage with a heavy fruit bouquet - but the stories were welcome. When Mikey or one of his
homeboys were on a roll, we could all forget ourselves and be somewhere else for a little while. As
far as cons go, they were good fuckin' guys, they were, and these bull sessions were the glue that held
Mikey's crew together. I remember watching and listening for hours on end, spellbound, as Mikey or
Big Rob or whoever wove a tapestry of words in the thin air around us. They'd make us roar with
laughter, clench in rage, and even silently choke up in sadness. Some of those guys could play a man's
emotions like a violin with their storytelling. They were masters of the form.
Most of the time, the stories were pretty coarse (which was to be expected - look where they were
coming from), and occasionally, they were downright fucking horrifying. But ... there's one in
particular that I can remember word for word, quite literally; I can actually close my eyes
and see Mikey and Rob Hutch and the rest of them, sitting there in the cell that night, all of us bathed
in the sickly red glow of the emergency lights and transfixed by what we were being told. This
particular story likes to pop up in my head in the small, dead hours of the night, when the harsh winds
of drab old November lash and rock my rusty little trailer hard enough to wake me up, as they did
tonight.
Coincidentally, it was on a November night just like this when I heard this story. I was about a year
into my four-year sentence for armed robbery, and this was my second winter in the Pen. I recall that
the goddamned wind was cutting through the walls really badly that night, and the drafts were freezing
our toes solid. There had been a murder that day, and the whole Pen was on lockdown, all five pods
and the Protective Custody unit, too. Big Rob Hutch was a man who had his ear to the ground, and he
had known that the lockdown was imminent; we had just enough time to make preparations for what
was coming. Happy for a chance to hang out and get fucked up, seven of us quickly herded into his
cell with our bedding, snacks from the commissary, and as much gear as we could get our hands on. I
remember that we were all wrapped up in our thin, scratchy blankets like convict burritos. The
blankets were grey and made of rough wool; upon checking into the Razor Wire Inn, you were issued
one and one only. In the winter, blankets were at a premium. Men would fight for them; sometimes,
even kill for them.
Mikey and Big Rob were both sitting on the lower bunk. Coltrane and his kid Remmie had the top
one. I was freezing my ass on the floor, along with Nick and Richie. The young pups had to sit on the
floor; that's just the way it was. The old cons got to snuggle their asses into the relative comfort of the
thin mattresses that covered the squeaky spring-slats (and, in Coltrane's case, the old con's bitch, as
well). We weren't complaining out loud about it, though - we knew better than to do that.
Big Rob was a trustee, and one of his duties was to mop the floors in the prison morgue. He was
telling us what had happened when the coroner performed his autopsy on Stutters. Stutters was a
junkie who had been suspected of ratting out various other cons to the cops in exchange for smack. He
was the reason why the entire Pen was on lockdown. He had been discovered in his bunk after lunch,
dead as day-old dogshit and full of ragged holes. The shiv was found in a toilet in the shower room. It
had been made from plastic bags, heated to melting with a Bic, then compressed to form a sturdy,
sharp little weapon.
"So I'm mopping up by where they keep the gurneys, and down the hall the door's open a bit, so I can
see the Doc leaning over Stutters on the table. He's humming and singing to himself like usual, and I'm
smiling at how shitty his voice is, when all of a sudden the Doc says, 'Holy shit, wouldja lookit that!'
and then he starts gagging and retching. Then - get this - then he actually screams - for real, he
fuckin' screamed - and he yells, 'Jesus Christ, it's all over my fucking arm!' He runs outta the room and
down the other hall, and I'm like, 'What the fuck is that all about?' I heard him yelling for his assistants
or whatever they are, the younger ones. They all come runnin' back and I heard one of the assistants
say, 'Oh, fuck, you gotta be kiddin' me!' Then the smell hits me, from all the way down that long-ass
hallway, and it's putrid, boys - it smelled like a combination of rotting flesh and an old shit-house in
August. I had to grab my nose and run the fuck outta there. Worst thing I ever smelled."
Nick asked, "What was it from?" and shifted uncomfortably where he sat beside the toilet. He was a
good bit younger than me; he'd just celebrated his twentieth birthday a few months ago. It was his first
time in and he'd drawn the fuckin' short straw - fifteen years, eight before he'd be considered for
parole. His uncle, fortunately for Nick, was also serving time in the same facility: he was an upper-
echelon Hell's Angel who ruled both B Pod and C Pod with an iron fist. As a result, Nick was getting
the easiest ride a first-timer to the Pen ever had. Coltrane and Mikey had personally welcomed the
kid into the crew, as per the old man's orders. He was fresh-faced and physically soft. I occasionally
wonder if he'd ever really known just how bad it could have been for him in there.
"Apparently," Big Rob said, lowering his voice to a husky stage whisper, "Stutters was getting
checked for pokes and track marks pretty regular, because he got busted so much for possession. So
he started shooting in his ass. But not, like, in his ass-cheek, ya dig; I mean right into the wall of his
rectum. He was shooting it right inside his fuckin'asshole, man. Can you imagine that? Pretty soon, he
developed a fuckin' horrible abscess. Because of all the fecal bacteria and crap that was living up his
old dirt road, the abscess got infected real bad. After a while, it skinned over with a crust of white
blood cells and gross stuff and ballooned out into a giant pus-bubble. That bubble got so big that it
eventually closed up the poor fucker's ass, and I mean right fuckin' shut. He was apparently going
around like that for weeks, man, for real. Weeks. It musta hurt like a bitch ... so, the Doc saw
something kinda bubbling out of the dead fucker's asshole and he prodded at it with his scalpel
and pop! Out gushes a metric fuckload of bloody green pus, full of dead bacteria and stinkin' like the
Devil's ballsack."
"Aw, fuck, that's just dirty, man," Mikey groaned, and mimed throwing up all over Hutch. We were all
wrinkling our noses in disgust and shaking our heads. 'Dirty' was not nearly adequate for this
disgusting image.
"That ain't it, though, my friend ... that ain't it. The worst part," he continued, "was the fact that Stutters
had been bunged up with this fuckin' pus balloon for a few weeks or so, y'know? It stopped up his
shit-canal. When the Doc popped that thing with his scalpel - aw, hell. It was a literal shitstorm. It
spurted out of his ass like a high-pressure hose."
We regarded that image for a moment or two in stunned silence. I felt a bit ill.
"So ... fucking ... DIRTY!" Mikey roared, and despite what I'd just heard, I had to laugh. Coltrane and
the others joined in. Remmie just looked disgusted. He was filing his nails. Remmie was no longer
just another cellblock punk, a weaker man that traded what he had to trade in order to get by in world
dominated by strength; in recent months, he'd gone and went full-blown sissy. After a year or so of
enduring the subservient "female" role at the receiving end of Coltrane's hog-leg (Coltrane was, in
fact, the one who'd turned Remmie out in the first place) he'd finally stopped playing the part of a
woman and was now living it. It was apparent that he'd started taking illicit female hormones -his arm
hair had thinned out, and it seemed that he had recently grown the barest suggestion of breasts beneath
his orange jumpsuit. By the time I got out of the Pen, Remmie had changed his name to Rhianne and
was the wife of (get ready for this) none other than Nick's uncle, the unofficial King of Pods B and C.
Rhianne was known for causing savage fights amongst inmates who were vying for his attention. That,
incidentally, was exactly how Coltrane ending up earning an unexpected early parole ... a 'back-door-
parole', as they call it. Because you don't leave through the front gate when you're dead.
"So the Doc got shit on by a corpse," said Richie, in a slow and dreamy tone. "It was pus-covered
shit. That's fucked up, man. Hey ... do ya think that happens a lot to him? Or, like, was that the first
time?" Richie had snorted some hydromorphone earlier, and now he was somewhere in the clouds,
floating around with a stoned grin on his face.
"Richie, that's just fuckin' ..." Mikey trailed off. "Actually, it's a good question. Want some hootch,
boys?"
I was just opening my mouth to say Fuck, no and then there was a POP and everything was dark. The
cons began yelling and hooting all across the pod, both tiers on both sides. Big Rob yelled, "Shut up,
ya fuckin' idiots! It's just a blackout, fer Christ's sake, pipe the fuck down!" and, for a wonder, some
of them actually did. The thing was, Big Rob Hutch was ... well, just that. Big. He was as big as a
buffalo. I was surprised that the lower bunk could support both Rob and Mikey, who was not exactly
small himself.
The emergency lights snapped on, soft and red and eerie. It made the common area of C Pod look like
a scene from an apocalyptic horror movie. We could see the guard standing there in the guard hut
through the bullet-proof glass, waiting to see how the cons were going to react to the power going out
during a lockdown: now, not only were we being sequestered in our cramped little cells for an
indeterminable length of time, we had also been rendered unable to properly read a book (a number
of the cons could actually read, and did) or see your hand while playing cards, or even listen to the
radio, for Christ's sake. The hack was a dark figure swathed in dim red, his body language alert and
poised for action. I'm pretty sure it was Robson who was the boss on hut duty that night. Robson was
a dead-eyed, square-jawed oaf without an ounce of empathy in his whole body ... and he just so
happened to have a twelve-gauge shotgun on hand with a modified choke. I fervently hoped that no
one would take it into their heads to start some serious shit - because if they did, there was a good
chance we'd all regret it.
There was a lot of hollering and door-kicking around the pod, but it soon became apparent that the
ruckus was just for show, and was half-hearted at best. We all silently thanked Whoever might be
listening that the Emergency Reaction Team wasn't going to be called in. The ERT didn't fuck around.
Kevlar-suited and anonymous in their visored helmets, they'd march into the pod and indiscriminately
barge into cell after cell, busting heads and whapping out teeth with their batons. Hell, you might even
get shot - and the ERT shoot to kill.
Richie broke the silence. "Man, I was gettin' real worried there, for a minute. If the fuckin' Goon
Squad busted in here and found all our shit, we'd be dicked." Richie was doing six years for selling
pills, the sentence for a second-time loser. Oxycontin and Hydrocodone were his chemicals of choice.
Faced with the boredom of prison life, he'd started using the products he sold. He was a straight-up
junkie by Christmas of that year. Mikey didn't care about anyone using junk - would even have a little
snort here and there, himself - but he didn't like addicts, not one bit. He cut Richie out of the crew.
Addled by junk, plagued by debt, weak and alone, Richie ended up bunking with some fellas from the
top tier across from us. The "black" tier. In a maximum-security penitentiary, this has unpleasant
connotations. Business might occur between the color lines, but that's generally where any benign
fraternization ends. You might not be racist when you're on the outside, but when you're inside, you
don't have much choice. To be blunt, it's like this: if you're white, you stick with the whites. The black
and Hispanic cons don't want to be your buddy, and vice versa. There are, for a variety of reasons, a
large number of hostilities between the color lines. They'll stomp the shit out of you ... or worse.
When we got word that Richie had been seen walking, his face cast down, up the stairs to that second
tier ... well, we knew. Richie had heavy debts. Forced to either trade himself or die, Richie had
chosen life.
Jesus. I felt horrible for how it ended for Richie; I still do. His desperate last bid to cling to his
wretched mortal existence only prolonged the inevitable; he was dead within a month. One day, after
enduring his morning gang-rape, something must have finally snapped in Richie's head. His will to
live crumbled and fell. Richie stayed behind while his tormentors went down for morning chow, and
he stuck a spike in his arm for the last time. High as a kite, Richie then hung himself from the corner
post of the top bunk. He did it with a rope made of knotted-together socks.
I'm rambling, now, aren't I? Sorry, I do that sometimes - you'll just have to bear with me, I guess. I'm
not a good at this, not like Mikey or Hutch. I'm just a lonely guy who can't sleep some nights, when the
shrieking wind could be mistaken for the wailing of lost souls, shaking and rattling the windows in
their frames. Even though I was released from the Pen fifteen years ago, I can't shake the feeling that
I'm somehow still inside. But I suppose that we're all imprisoned by something, on some level, aren't
we? On nights like tonight, my prison is this rusty trailer. It's my pathetic, menial job. My divorce. My
raw, red-eyed fury, unfocused and impotent. It's sorrow and regret. On nights like tonight, my prison is
the past, and my inability to leave it behind.
So there we all were, sitting there in the weird red gloom and listening to all the yelling and bullshit
slowly die down. Richie abruptly went on the nod: Nick balanced a shoe on his head. We all
chuckled. Coltrane started talking about the hockey game that was about to start, then abruptly shut up.
We were on lockdown with no electricity - there would be no hockey game that night, not for us. We
passed a jay around, and when that one was roached we passed another.
Finally, Mikey spoke up and broke the silence. "So ... who's up for some Twilight Zone shit tonight? I
gotta good one for ya. You remember the last time the power went out, Hutch?"
Hutch shot him a dark look, then did something very unusual, for a hardened con - he shuddered. "You
wanna tell the boys that story? I dunno, man ..."
"Why not? Fuck, the lights are out and the wind's a-howlin' out there. Perfect time for it."
"Okay, fuck it. Let's do it." Big Rob cleared his throat and said, "Okay, boys, it's time for a scary
story. Crowd around the fuckin' campfire and grabba cup of this fine wine."
"It's more of a brandy, I think, Hutch," Mikey grinned, and offered me some. Reluctantly, I accepted a
Styrofoam cup of the murky, eye-watering stuff and steeled myself to swallow it. I was feeling a bit
happier, now - I've always been a fan of spooky stories.
His voice stern, Mikey growled, "Okay, first thing's first - this shit is one hundred percent true. Got it?
We're not bullshitting about any of this. For real. So don't tell us that we're full of shit, or you can go
have a fuckin' sleep-over with that asshole over in the Hack Shack."
"Got it," Richie grunted, then flopped over onto the floor. He was out of it.
"This all went down a long time ago, before any of you were here. At least twelve years, I'd say.
Mikey?"
"Yeah, fer sure. At least that long. Back when these little punks were still givin' out handjobs in Juvie,
ha."
"It was a while back, anyways. Me and Mikey here were both running with different crews back then,
into different shit, but we knew each other. I guess I woulda been about your age," he said, pointing
down at me. "So, one day The Fish Tank had just been emptied out into the pod, and there's a new fish
with 'em that immediately starts turning heads. I was playing checkers on the tier upstairs when they
all came walking through the gate, looking like a bunch of lost little lambs down there on the range.
They came toddling in behind a couple of the hacks, and at the end of the line is the prettiest little
sweet-boy this whole penitentiary has ever seen. I don't play no grab-ass like Coltrane up there, but
this kid ... he was, I dunno ... almost like an angel, or something. He was too perfect, like a picture out
of a magazine, y'know? Slender and fair-haired, teenybopper heart-throb material. Yeah, the kid was
pretty, all right, and he looked like he'd be easy to punk."
Big Rob took a moment to pause and force back a swig of the awful, cloying Pruno, a noxious blend
of fermented fruit, sugar packets and yeast. As he grimly swallowed it down, Mikey jumped in and
continued the story. "The new fish immediately drove the whole pod completely fuckin' nuts. The
wolves were losing their minds, for real. The guards were looking worried - a pretty kid like that can
cause a lot of hard feelings between the bulls. Hard feelings usually turn into murder. So they released
the other fishies to the care of the boss at the guard hut, then hustled the pretty-boy off to Protective
Custody, post-fuckin'-haste. They kept him there for a few days, but the wolves didn't forget about
him, not for a moment. All the time, they're asking about the kid to the trustees who had access to PC.
They're asking if the kid's lonely, if he wants a candy bar or a fuck-book or a baggie of fuckin' horse,
whatever the kid might possibly want ... they're handing the trustees love notes to give to him, money,
weed, all kinds of shit. Finally, a con named Holbrook called in some heavy favours, and the hacks
moved the kid back into the pod. More to the point, into Holbrook's cell. I remember watching as the
hacks walked the young fella across the pod and up the stairs to his new home. The kid had no
expression in those wide, blue eyes. None at all. Just ... blank.
"Holbrook was a big, greasy son of a bitch, real nasty. You could smell him from twenty feet away.
Complete psycho, that guy. Man, I'll tell ya - watching as Brookie grinned and waited at the door of
his cell for his new little bunk-buddy to arrive, hell ... it made me feel sorry for the kid. He was
planning do bad things to the boy, you could see it in that grin. He was gonna hurt 'im. No expression
at all, though, on that kid's face. I remember thinking that the fishie was either brave as fuck or just too
stupid to understand what was in store for him."
Rob tossed back the rest of the hootch in his Dixie cup and tried not to gag. "Gah, this shit is just
fuckin' awful. Who brewed this?" His voice sounded dry and burnt.
"Our fine neighbours just down the hall, that's who," Mikey chuckled. "They managed to hide it in the
toilet tank long enough to get 'er finished, and holy Jesus, ain't it nasty."
"Fuck, I think I'm going blind already." Hutch held out his cup and Mikey poured him another glurt out
of the plastic bag, taking care to make sure that the sock he was using as a filter didn't slip out and
spill rotting fruit cocktail all over the bunk. I tried a sip of mine and almost retched. They all had a
good har-dee-har at this - except for Richie, I guess. Richie was still laying on the floor, his eyelids
fluttering and twitching.
"It broke more than a few hearts, to see Holbrook get his dirty hooks into the kid first. He would
wreck the kid's asshole and destroy his soul, that was the general consensus. Come morning, they'd be
rolling the kid out to the infirmary and, afterward, probably stick him back into PC for a twenty-four-
hour suicide watch. Even if he did come back to the pod again, no one would want the kid, not after
the permanent damage that Brookie was liable to do to him."
"See how lucky you are?" Coltrane said to Remmie, and the little Frenchman smiled down at his nails
in response. Then kept filing them, delicately, with all of his concentration. Every now and then, I
wonder if Remmie was already planning the flirtations and indiscretions that would inevitably result
in Coltrane's murder, his skull smashed in with a twenty-pound dumbbell in the weight pit. Coltrane,
the bull queer who had taken Remmie's manhood and, eventually, transformed him into something that
he'd probably never wanted to be ... thinking about it now, I'm pretty sure he was. And I can't blame
him for it.
Rob told us, "I heard screaming that night. It was muffled, but I could still hear it. So did my cellie -
back then, it was old Johnny Franzini. I whispered up at him, 'Hey, you hear that shit, man? Fuck,
that's awful," and he answered, real matter-of-fact, 'That boy, he hadda know it was coming, hey?
He's too pretty like a girl to be here in this place. He should have never come here!' As if the guy had
fuckin' volunteered, or something. I just shook my head and told Johnny to go to sleep. I felt so bad for
the kid, y'know? I think that was one of the worst nights I ever had in here."
"I heard it, too," Mikey interjected. " I think we all did, including the bosses on duty that night. But no
one went to check on him, 'cuz money makes the fuckin' rules around here, not the Warden or the
government. It's money. I don't doubt that the sick fuck offered big coin for the kid. And some cold son
of a bitch sold him without a second thought."
Hutch nodded sourly. "Money's a whore. That's okay, though, 'cuz there's a thing called karma, too.
When morning came, lo and behold, Brookie ain't standing outside his cell, waitin' to be accounted
for. Neither is the kid. A whisper popped up real quick and spread down the lines like the breeze, and
it said, 'Holbrook went apeshit on the kid last night 'n killed him. He's waiting in his cage for the ERT
to come in and bust his head.' The boss doing the head count paused at Holbrook's cell and every con
craned his head to see what was gonna happen next, all of us in unison. I seen the hack pull out his
radio with one hand and his club with the other. He started talkin' real fast into his radio; at the same
time he's slowly walking towards the door of Brookie's cell with his club poised to bash a skull in,
like he's trying to ward someone off. He started yelling for the other hacks to get the fuck over there,
pronto! They all came thundering past with their keys jangling and their boots clomping, and then we
all got ordered to step back into our cells with empty bellies. I heard 'em down there at Brookie's
cell, yelling into their radios and stomping around, and then I heard someone barf. I heard the puke
splatter on the tiles.
"We had to stay in our cells for a few hours, and there was a lot of bitching. I remember being totally,
completely pissed at Holbrook, me and Johnny Eff. We'd assumed that he'd gone psycho on the new
fish and cut the kid's throat while he was fuckin' him, or some shit like that. But then some of the
emergency response guys came past wheeling a gurney, and when they wheeled it past us again you
coulda knocked me flat with a pea-shooter ... because it was Holbrook strapped in there, not the kid. I
only saw him for a few seconds, but I remember that his face was fucked. It was mostly gone.
Stripped right down to bloody sinew and bones. No skin or muscles left. It was fucking gruesome. I
kinda gasped out loud, and even close-mouthed, crooked-nosed old Johnny Franzini had to look twice
and say, 'Eh, what the fuck?' They only way I knew it was him was the hair - a big, greasy mop of it,
like a caveman. The sheet covering the body was soaked right through with his blood. I think that the
rest of him had matched his face."
Nick whistled and said, "Fuck, man, that's hardcore," then sparked another joint. We floor-dwellers
had almost forgotten about the discomfort of our numb behinds and tingling feet: we'd forgotten the
lockdown and the power outage and even poor Stutters, who'd not only died a violent death, but had
also died with his ass blocked up by a cystic sore the size of a man's fist. Mikey and Hutch were
telling a story and we were living it, you know what I mean? We were right there.
Mikey said, "Must've been five minutes later, the cops are rolling this crazy-looking thing down the
block and I'm like, 'What the fuck is that?' to my cellie, but he don't know either. Before too long, they
roll it past again and I'm like, 'Ohhhhh shit, lookit this!' You ever see Silence of the Lambs? The
dolly-cart thing that they strap Anthony Hopkins into when they're moving him? Yeah, that's exactly
what it was - and they've got the kid strapped into it. Bite-mask and everything. And the kid is
just soaked in blood, man. It was dripping off his clothes and I could hear it pattering on the floor
behind him. It left a trail on the floor.
"They let us out for breakfast about a half-hour after that, but by then it was almost lunch and we got
served a fucked-up mix of warm lunch and cold breakfast. There was more talking going on than
eating, though - and everyone was saying the same thing; we were all saying, 'What the fuck did the
kid do to 'im?' Most people thought that he must've gotten hold of Brookie's shiv somehow, then sliced
the fucker's shit right off. Whittled him right down to the bone. But ... Brookie was a really big dude,
and the guy was a crazy motherfucker. How a skinny little bitch like that could have overpowered a
bad dude like Holbrook so easy ... well, we didn't know."
The joint travelled across the floor-folk and was then handed up to the bunks. Mikey hit it hard and
made that funny choking noise that older guys sometimes do when holding in a big toke, nasal and
strangled. He gave Nicky the thumbs-up and blasted out smoke like a grizzled old dragon.
"Shit's pretty good, Nicky. Good score - gotta get some more of that. So, yeah, the kid ... he got rolled
off to the Hole on his fuckin' Hannibal Lecter dolly, and they had him on a super-tight lockdown:
nobody even catches a glimpse of 'im. They had the kid on a twenty-four hour watch and the whole
works. A couple trustees tried asking the hacks what happened with him and Brookie, and they got
told to mind their own business and mop the fucking floors.
"The kid was in the Hole for a week, then two, then a month ... all the while, ain't no one heard a peep
about him getting charged with murder. There was a rumor going around that the coroner said in his
report that Holbrook had died from a heart attack. Maybe his heart seizing up was the thing that
actually killed him, sure ... but there wasn't any mention of the way he'd been carved up like a Sunday
turkey. None at all." Mikey poured himself another round of refreshment, and the stink of the open bag
made my eyes water.
Hutch smiled a little, an action with no real humor behind it. "Well, tongues were wagging, as they
tend to do, and pretty soon people were saying that maybe the kid wasn't natural. That he did Brookie
in with his teeth ... that he ate the fucker alive, like some sort of monster. Guys were even saying that
the priest paid him a visit in the Hole and ended up leaving with tears in his eyes ... actually fuckin'
crying and shit. Wouldn't say what happened, just that he didn't wanna talk to the kid, never again. He
quit working here not long after that happened. Just up and quit, and I heard that the Padre ended up
selling his house and moving away. Like, across the country. Somewhere far, far away."
Mikey's iron-grey beard split with a slight grin of his own. "Now here's where shit gets really weird."
Part Two
I Don't Sleep Anymore

chimera_phantasm

Honorable Mention - November 2013 Monthly Contest

My name is Ramiel, and I want you to read this right before you go to sleep. Trust me, its better this
way.
If its the middle of the day for you or perhaps youre not quite tired yet, bookmark this and read it
when your eyes are starting to itch with tiredness, but youre not nodding off yet. I dont want you to
forget what youre about to read.
Im on the tall, skinny side of my arabic family, I guess I take after my mom in that respect. Though
im pretty sure she didnt have this much facial hair. She named me after an angel that is responsible
for divine visions. I wonder if she knew how right on the money she was.
Why does my name and physical features matter? I suppose it doesnt, but if Im going to share
something this personal with strangers for help or some kind of catharsis, id rather you had a good
idea of who I am and not just a blank slate.
I dont want you to forget me when this is over.
Before we begin, heres an interesting fact to wrap your head around: Your brain produces extremely
high amounts of a psychedelic compound called DMT (Dimethyltryptamine) two times in your life;
Once when you are born to help cope with the pressure it puts on your fragile, infant body during the
painful process of birth and once again when you are seconds from dying to ease the burden it puts on
your body and mind as they both shut down for the very last time. This is often why people claim to
see their loved ones who have long passed on by their side, bright lights from the sky or feelings of
elation.
This process is so strong that it has the capabilities to erase everything in your mind, like a mass wipe
of your hard drive. Now you might think that isnt too important if youre just starting out your life or
simultaneously moments away from it coming to an end, but I ask you to entertain the notion that you
possess a soul or an inner essence of sorts; what if that soul, that consciousness, that essence of you
simply continued on without the knowledge of a past existence? What if at the moment of death, you
saw something so undeniably horrifying and inconceivable, something youd only seen in fleeting
dreams and nightmares throughout your life, that your brain compensates in the only way it knows
how, by erasing any prior memory of it before allowing what makes you you continue onto the next
stage of whatever is out there. Your brains last failsafe, a defence mechanism to ensure you wont
carry the burden with you. But like any kind of defence mechanism, theres always a bypass...and
theres always a black box.
DMT is a chemical produced by your pineal gland and it is responsible for us dreaming every single
night. Not the reason, however. We have no idea why we dream, we just do. As soon we enter REM
sleep, our dreams become their most memorable and malleable. It is at this point we have dreams
which take proper form, that we feel most real and perceive to be the most accessible, though we
seldom ever remember the dream itself. Because like a drug trip, our brain is determined to protect us
from that experience...but what if that wasnt the only reason?
Consider this; The older we get, we sleep considerably less hours. As babies, we sleep for up to 14
hours and by the time we hit 18 years old, its half of that amount. What if this is a defence mechanism
our brain develops so that we dont spend too long in that realm? No, im not talking about the
further from Insidious or some kind of Nightmare on Elm Street knockoff, before your already horror
obsessed minds make some kind of parable to an existing franchise for comfort or relatable aspects.
Youre still very much within your own mind, but theres something else there with you.
Now I ask you to suspend all beliefs or non-beliefs and read on to hear my story and why I no longer
sleep and why, despite being an Atheist, I pray to something, to anything, (hell even Hypnos would be
a welcome evil right now) that should my mind succumb to sleep and my body fail me, that I dont
dream.
Im a counsellor at my local university, I took on the job in September of last year as a ditch effort to
bump up my resume and to reduce rent through living on the campus. It was your usual run of the mill
kind of work, talk to terrified 1st years whod never lived away from home before and were simply
not used to their newfound freedom, dealing with homesickness, new friendships, one night stands etc.
The 2nd years were dealing with social troubles within their houses/apartments, deadlines mounting
and the occasional unplanned pregnancy. The final year students were typically near breakdown over
their dissertations and end of year exams, so youd offer them all the appropriate advice, your own
experiences at the university as an example and then ultimately hope it all sinks in. If not, well theres
always next week and beyond that, a private therapist.
But, like all forms of employment that deal with face to face interactions, theres always one
encounter you never forget. For me, that was Milo Moraga, a 2nd year student studying Psychology &
Philosophy. The first time he came into my office, he struck me as a little bit gaunt, his striped long-
sleeve top hanging off him like itd stretched in the wash. Strung out, but shy. That would have been
my first impression. I think he sensed my preconceived notions, avoiding making eye contact with me
as he shuffled inside. He was apprehensive, sleep deprived, his hair greasy under a black beanie and
his eyes laden with heavy dark bags underneath like someone had put on eyeliner while he slept. He
sat down, glancing around at the windows and leant forward, cracking his knuckles and rubbing his
hands over one another hastily.
Hello Milo, how can I help you? I understand you asked for this appointment because of...anxiety?
Do you want to tell me about that?
I looked through the brief set of notes the receptionist gave me and tried to study as best I could while
he spoke. Nothing that would ultimately help me ascertain the problem, it just gave him time to
compose himself.
He didnt respond, just kept shuffling in his chair, I guess he wasnt 100% sure he should come here.
Your lecturer sent you here, didnt they? I said bluntly, feeling a slight headache come on as I felt an
awkward 30 minute session rearing its ugly, monotonous head.
He nodded, but I noticed something in that moment that made me think there was more to it. His
expression was almost like he was pleading for his life as he quickly nodded.
I leaned forward, placing my hands under my chin and up to my lips as I observed him, I had to be
very careful with how I handled this. If he was suicidal, one wrong statement could leave him with a
noose round his neck.
Milo, what happened in the classroom to get you here? Can you tell me that much?
He mimicked me, leaning forward as well, though his posture was the furthest parallel from my own,
it looked like his spirit was broken.
The lecturer...Ms Armstrong...she was talking about solipsism and I just got...lost within it. Do you
know what solipsism is?
I did, but I shook my head. I didnt want to interrupt him when he was being so open.
Its a philosophical belief that everything an individual perceives is only in his own mind, it is a
construct of his own psyche. There is no other human beings, no other individual thoughts, just his or
her own...I guess I found the idea kinda comforting and I broke down.
I raised an eyebrow, thats certainly not a usual response.
Comforting, Milo? You mean to say you enjoy being alone & isolated?
No, the opposite actually, I have a lovely group of friends, a loving family and a fianc, but it was
comforting for another reason...if Its just me, then what hurts me is just me, I know what im capable
of and it makes any kinds of threats a moot point. It means that..that...
He put his hands up to his mouth and began crying silently, the picture of this situation was getting
uglier and murkier the more he explained.
It means that I might not die after all.
I rolled up my sleeves, my flannel shirt was already beginning to chafe me. First signs of stress, I
suppose. I looked down at my charm bracelet my wife brought me and took in a deep breath. I knew
this was going to be rough.
Its...its my dreams, doc. Theres something in my dreams. I cant sleep anymore. Each time I do,
its like I can sense im going into that place again, journeying deeper into the void with every
evening. Ive tried taking coffee, shit loads of red bull and any cheap ass energy drinks I can get my
hands on...I even took those pills truckers take so they can stay wired for 18 hours, but...well you
know the problem, right doc? He looked down and started rubbing his hands together again, his knee
bouncing as he struggled to keep it under control.
Withdrawal symptoms combined with sleep deprivation, this kid was getting more tweaked by the
minute.
The problem being that we all have to sleep eventually, no matter how long we put it off. I
exhaled. Milo, I want you to start at the beginning, I know youre anxious to get some kind of help,
but if I dont know the route of the problem, I cant give you the correct advice, okay? Now I want
you take in 3 deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Can you do that for me? And
you dont need to call me doc, im just a volunteer counsellor. You can call me Rami if you like?
He nodded and did as instructed, his demeanour improving slightly with each successive inhale,
though this was hardly a permanent solution to his paranoia. I didnt want to ask at this point how long
hed been awake for, but I could tell itd been more than a handful of days. Once an individual goes
past the 3 day mark, they will begin to lose their grip on sanity and brain cells will start to die. I was
silently hoping I could find out the problem to this sooner rather than later.
Alright I picked up my laptop to take notes. Go ahead, tell me what started this all off.
What follows is the unedited conversation, this is verbatim what was said between the two of us. If I
can find the audio recording later, I will attach it to the post.
Do you know much about lucid dreaming, Rami?
I know a little, just that its something practiced and allows for complete control of the dream by the
dreamer.
He nods before continuing.
Theres a learning curve to it, you need to lie in bed and shut out all outside sounds and impulses.
The typical things really, the sensation to scratch your arm, to roll over, to block out the voices.
He stopped and stared at me with fear. I didnt mean to tell you that...
Its alright, well get to it later, lets just focus on the why and not the how for the moment. What
made you decide to lucid dream in the first place?
He shifted in his chair and suddenly looked very timid.
I kept seeing him in my dreams, at first hed just be a random appearance and then hed start to try
and approach me, friendly smile and hand outstretched like he was greeting an old friend. Never
threatening or hostile, just attempting to make contact with me. Though hed never get to. Every single
time, id be distracted by something at the last second or my dream would veer off in another
direction.
He shifted in his seat and closed his eyes before continuing.
I remember in the first few dreams we had, hed just be lingering in the background. If I was walking
through a street, hed just be standing with the crowd my brain created and not really reacting to
anything but me. Id see him watch me, but then my dream would shift and I guess id just ignore it
and carry on...after a few weeks, I began getting better at controlling my dreams. Id start to mess
around with the world I was inhabiting, like Inception I guess but more...personal. Id turn myself into
a member of X-Men or id go on a date with my perfect woman, yknow...things that you can only
dream of, literally...well thats when he started to become more apparent. Id usually wake up before
he actually got too close, but Id always remember the look on his face before I did. His eyes
widened. He always looked so angry...
Former abuse victim? I thought, adding it to the list of potential issues and solutions. I didnt want
to stop him while he was on a roll. I nodded to show my attentiveness and he continued.
I still remember the first time he managed to speak to me. I was in a park id visited as a child with
my mother. It was a small piece of heaven in London back then, a mental safe haven when things got
too stressful I guess. But this was nothing like I remembered it, the trees werent trees, they were
corpses stacked on top of one another, some overlapping and...meshing with one another in
unspeakable positions to form branches. I could feel the atmosphere almost turn to pure disgust as
they noticed me, unable to move or even speak to me. But their eyes, their eyes said everything.
Because at first they fixated on me with hatred, then quickly away in sheer terror. Theyd seen
something far more terrifying than the fate they were already suffering...so...I...
His eyes welled up with tears, unblinking as they streamed down his face. I looked, Rami. I looked
and saw him standing some 40 feet away down the path, his head bowed. He wasnt moving and yet
he was. His body was almost...rippling. The closest way I can describe it is the way a signal on a TV
channel in the old days used to bend and flicker when the signal was weak. Every time I blinked, he
came closer. I tried for the longest time to not blink, really...I did. But the brain betrays your
conscious impulses. The more you try to put off a basic function, the more your brain wills you to do
it. When he was 10 feet away, he simply vanished. By the time I had registered that he was gone, I
heard a whisper in my ear...he was standing right behind me, I could feel his breath on my neck.
Rami...it didnt feel human.
There was an awkward silence, he took in some deep breaths and shuddered. Obviously reliving the
memory wasnt going to be something pleasant for him but...the way he reacted, it was like he truly
had experienced this. I stared at him, nodding and silently encouraging him to continue. When he
didnt, I leaned forward and quietly asked him what im sure he was waiting me to ask;
What did he say to you, Milo?
Milo shook his head. Im sorry, I dont remember. That was when the dream ended. I didnt see him
again in my dreams for a while.
We talked for a little while longer, mainly about his anxieties in crowds and eye contact, then our time
came to an end and we scheduled an appointment for the following week.
This would be our last session together. It was a Monday morning and id just come back from a
friends wedding, my wife and I had been drinking so by the time I got to the office I was nursing a
hangover, my flannel shirt covering the bruises id sustained falling over and my best pair of jeans
smeared in alcohol. It was a day my mind was not in the work, I suppose. I just wanted to get home
and go to sleep.
Milo came in earlier than planned, he looked desperate. He was pulling at his hair, biting his
fingernails and pacing constantly. It didnt look like hed seen any sleep at all. I sent a text to my
colleague asking for security to come over as soon as possible. He was going to need to be sectioned
for his own safety. How on earth hed managed to go this long without his friends or fiancee doing
something is beyond me.
I remember what he said, Rami. I remember it clearly now. He said between pants and more nail
biting.
Okay, Milo. Well why dont you take a seat and well talk it out?
He ignored that, but stopped pacing and stared intently at me.
Ill be right here, always. He put his arms around himself, a self defence mechanism when a
persons personal space has been violated.
That was what he said. I heard it again and again every time I closed my eyes.
He started bashing at his temples. IT WONT. FUCKING. STOP.
All I could do at this point was try to keep him talking and calm until security got here.
Did this make you afraid to dream, Milo?
He started laughing, his face showing the complete opposite of his vocal expression. Pure incredulity
and fear on his face against the guttural sound of his manic laughter. You dont get it, do you? He
didnt mean just when I dream. He meant always. Now I know...now I know for sure.
He took a deep breath in and his demeanour shifted, he suddenly looked like a man almost at peace.
Not content but willing to let go.
Thanks for listening Doc, sharing this with someone was important to me...and to him. Hes going to
have his work cut out for him im sure.
And just like that, he got up and left. I followed him out, naturally concerned for him. I watched him
leave the building and cross the road.
Then he did something I wont ever forget.
He turned to me, smiling and outstretched his hand, crying openly as a vehicle struck him. I didnt
even see it coming, I was so captivated by his expression.
I couldnt even bring myself to go over to his body, I gave my statement and went straight home. All I
could do was look in the mirror, wondering what it was that was bothering me so much about how I
looked and why Milo outstretching his hand was so disturbing to me. When I looked at myself, I
didnt see a 60 150lb brown coloured hipster. I saw someone troubled, someone who didnt look
like theyd slept much lately, someone like Milo...
I got a phone call from the hospital later on that evening, Milo was in a coma and on life support. He
was non-responsive and likely brain dead. His family were choosing to keep his life support on in
lieu of their religious and moral views. I think deep down, they just didnt want to let him go. Id been
asked to go into his apartment with a member of his family to see if there was anything to indicate
why he would willingly stand in front of oncoming traffic.
I wont bore you with the traveling details, but his apartment was surprising. I was half expecting a
filthy, run down place filled with half eaten food and human waste given his obsessive and unstable
state. Guess I just watched too many detective/horror movies growing up.
His place was immaculate, everything was extremely clean and organised, hed already packed up a
lot of his material possessions into boxes with names on the front, this was already beginning to look
like premeditation.
He had a desk beside his bed, this was the only place in his room that showed any signs of his lack of
sanity rubbing off on his living conditions. Books on demonology, the science of sleeping, DMT, some
sleeping pills and a journal.
His brother went through the boxes while I took a look at the journal (ill include photos later if I get
permission from the family, names have been changed and anything too personal will of course be
blurred out). It initially contained legible, competent insights into his nightly journeys as he began to
lucid dream. But as this other entity began to make himself more known and aware, the content shifts
and the writing becomes hastily scrawled, certain words appear larger than others, he questions
himself on numerous occasions and draws the mans face more frequently as the journal comes to its
end.
The final entry is barely legible, but it details a conversation he had with the man in his dream and
that a reminder that he would be with him always. After this, there is just a single word on the
hardback of the journal, rewritten over and over, almost like its been carved in.
DREAM.
Which brings us to the final part of this story; the present. Im sure youd all love to discover im
actually cursed or that this story will follow some typical archetype of horror shorts and im moments
away from death, passing on a final message. But as im sure youre all coming to realise, that is not
the case.
I just woke up from a lucid dream, ive never had one before nor do I know how I had one, but it was
definitely a lucid dream. I was able to control my reality, my own physical form and everything
around me. It was here I saw Milo. He approached me slowly and before I could even say anything,
he asked me a favour;
Pull the plug, let me die.
I was so taken aback that my rational thought process dissipated and for a moment, I wondered...was
this perhaps a shared dream?
I cant take the torture anymore, Rami. Please tell my family I love them, but I need to be let go.
Its okay, you dont need to suffer anymore in the real world, ill do what I can to convince them. I
croaked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Milos smile faded.
Im not talking about the torture there, Rami. Im talking about the torture here...without being able to
wake up, he has complete control. Im his new puppet and he wants to play forever. He has no
physical form, this is where he resides. This is where he plays. He looked over my shoulder and
back at me, with a sad smile on his face. Now, hes chosen you as his new playmate. He knows
youre going to take my place. Look at my journal again, look at the drawings, youll need to
remember.
He turned to walk away, leaving me feeling completely helpless in my own lucid dream.
Oh and Rami...dont turn around.
I didnt, but my entire being was willing me to. Its that same feeling of anxiety you get when youre
home alone at night and you have the feeling something is watching you. A crushing, horrifying
feeling. I woke up in a cold sweat and did as he said, I looked over the journal and in addition to
scanning the drawings, I found a theory Milo had documented in between the pages of his journal;
An idea is manifested through suggestive stories and cultural signifiers, we can plant ourselves, a
character or a concept into our subconscious and our dreams with enough hints both subversive and
subliminal. An idea, be it malicious or noble, can grow and manifest in one mind before being shared
to the masses through any kind of information supplement.
The second section detailed a supporting theory;
Within every story told, fictitious or semi-biographical, exists a universe that we have created that is
as real as our own. For how can we truly know if our reality is more valid than the one we have
created? How can we truly know we have not just been added into a story of our own by a neutral
writer we know as god? This reality is as malleable and relevant as the one within which we
dream. Our dream world or coma world it can be argued, are the realities and our concept of
reality is but a dream in itself that our brain creates to escape the chaos, uncertainty and pain of our
dreams.
Youre probably painting a very good picture of what is happening right now.
Ive attached an image of the man in this story and im sure youre all familiar with him. If you are,
youll understand why ive done this. Why i've made you aware. There is no Ramiel, that name is a
subliminal plant in itself, it means Dreamer in Arabic. I described him perfectly for you as a
defence mechanism against what is going to happen in the coming weeks, months and years. I gave
you plenty of physical aspects for your brain to put together, you only know a basic layer of who he is
so that your brain can put in the key elements which will make you trust him.
You know, it's funny, but I found out what Milo meant by "Dream", it's an acronym.
"Dream Rami Evil Always Manifests."
That's where I got the idea for Rami.
He exists now to help fight off him. Because now youve read this, read my experience and Milos,
you're aware on a subconscious level...and he needs new playmates.
This is no warning, that implies you can do something to change it. You cant, your dreams are his
playground, not yours.
You can shrug this off as another horror short if you like, if that makes you feel better and sleep easier.
But he doesnt just strike the night you fall asleep, he strikes when you allow your dreams to become
more open and easier to mould. He only enters when the reality is in flux. But with Ramiel in your
head now too, you have a guide, a protector, to help you. I didnt.
At least Milo is at peace, hopefully I will be soon too. I've been putting off sleep for days, I can't
keep doing it much longer.
Im beginning to feel drowsy, I took a large amount of sleeping pills before writing this last section, I
cant put off sleeping forever. I dont know whether im going to wake up or not, but at least youve
all been warned about him. Feel free to reverse google image search the hosted image, learn about
him and if you do feel a sense of familiarity, please be careful.
Dream of Ramiel, you will be safe.
I wish you all the best, you might not know my name or my face, but do not forget my story. I will do
my best to answer any of your questions in the comments later.
Do not forget about him.
Because believe me, he wont forget about you when you fall asleep.
The worst thing about all this? I'm not sure "he" stays in the dream world anymore. When Milo looked
at me, I think I mistook his expression and his gesture. At the time, I thought he was crying and happy,
stretching his hand out to shake my hand.
Now, I think he was terrified to see his worst fears manifested in the real world and he was stretching
his hand out to stop "him" getting to me in the real world.
Why say this now? Well, i've been getting steadily drowsier, and I've felt something breathing down
my neck for the last 20 minutes.
Who knows, maybe it's just my paranoia...
Sweet dreams.
http://i.imgur.com/xUlY4EX.jpg
October 2013
October 29, 2013

unforgiving_cake

Runner Up - October 2013 Monthly Contest

I am the youngest of five girls. You'd think that living in a small house with five girls would be
difficult, and you would very, very correct. Being the youngest, I missed out on a lot of sibling rivalry
growing up. I was just born when three of the five of us were already in their early teens. Being the
youngest also means I didn't really connect with any of them - none of them but the oldest, Anne.
Anne always liked to talk about how she practically raised me. She liked to tell me about how she
would go get me while I was crying in my crib and watch cartoons with me. She says she was the
only sister that was truly excited when Mom told them she was pregnant with me. It's true, the other
four were more or less uncaring, or jealous.
Over the years, despite how close we were growing up, Anne started to change. She was laid off of
the first good job she had when she was 23 and ever since it was like she was in a downward spiral.
She was in an abusive relationship, but she argued that they loved each other. She stuck with him until
one particularly bad incident and then moved back home.
When all of this was going on I was only about 9. At that age no one tells you stuff like that. No one
said to me, "Anne just lost her job, and was depending on an alcoholic shit to provide for her while
he beat her up." So instead, Mom made it seem like Anne coming home was a good thing. I was
excited and it meant I got to spend more time with her.
Fast-forward to high school. I meet my future husband, and I've become a different person than I was
when I was 9. Anne is working a shitty job and dating and breaking up with multiple guys. I don't talk
to my sisters ever at this point. I'm shy, I'm different, and talking on the phone just isn't my thing.
A little after graduation Anne has nearly cut off ties with the family. She's with a divorced man who
has three kids. She's taking care of these kids while he uses her car to get back and forth to work. And
he beats her. She only calls us when she's drunk. Other than that, she doesn't answer her phone, and
tries very hard to cover up any foul-play between the two of them.
When Anne calls me at one in the morning, I'm afraid to answer. She's always weepy and she talks on
a loop. She says the same stuff over and over again about how much she loves me, how she was
always there for me even when Mom wasn't... These calls lasted for hours. I would lock myself in the
bathroom so that my now-husband wouldn't hear how unwell my sister was, but you can't hide four-
hour long phone calls that early in the morning.
My sister was very ill. There were a lot of things no one could fix for her. We did the best we could,
and even now I can't really come to grips with the idea of Anne not being here anymore. I'm
convinced that there was no one in this world she loved more than me, which makes me feel
accountable...
On July 7th this year Anne committed suicide. She didn't leave a note for someone to find because she
knew her abusive boyfriend would find her first.
Our family quickly got everything ready for her funeral and set the date for that following Tuesday.
We were in shock, but we knew there were things that needed to be done. Specifically, we needed to
collect her things from their apartment. Mom got the four of us and Dad together for that Saturday to
bring boxes and go through her stuff together.
That was when I found the letters she left me.
I'm not sure if this was our family's thing, or if other mothers and fathers do this, but any time we
would go on a trip -like summer camp or a sleepover- Mom would buy us cheap cards from the store
and write a date on the envelope. The date was when we were supposed to open it. Inside it would be
a sweet little note saying "hope you're having fun! miss you!" or something along those lines. It helped
with any homesickness and was kind of like a mini Christmas.
That was how Anne fashioned the letters. They had been stacked neatly together and bound with a
piece of yellow yarn. The first one said Open on Monday, July 8. I guess she had assumed we'd go
through her things the day after.
Tearfully, and with my parents and sisters with me, I opened the letter with shaky hands. I remember
how my stomach felt like there were butterflies in it, and I thought I might throw up. I pulled the card
out and smiled. It was one of those blank cards with no specific occasion, and it had a cat tangled up
in a ball of yellow yarn on the front.
I'm so sorry, it read, I hope you can forgive me. I was so sad, and so unhappy. I know that you're going
to live a long and happy life. Love you forever, little girl. Anne.
I was a wreck. Mom couldn't console me, my sisters were speechless, and I was wracked with guilt. I
looked through the next few letters that were each dated for Mondays. All of the following Mondays
had a letter. Each letter got happier, and more light-hearted than the one before it. It was as if Anne
was conveying to me how her life had improved in death. It was strange, but comforting.
I had a letter for every Monday up to August 12th. The following week my letter was dated for that
Wednesday. I'd gotten into such a routine that I almost opened it that Monday before my husband
pointed it out. It was dated for August 21, our dad's birthday.
It was a birthday card for Dad. It was written and signed just like Anne would have done if she were
alive, and it made our father cry.
The next card is where everything changes. The next card was dated for September 11th.
So much death... their faces are so scarred. I've never seen anything like it. So much sadness and
mourning. They weren't finished, little girl. They weren't ready.
The card left me shaken and upset. It didn't make any sense. After the sweet and beautiful notes she'd
written in all the others, where had this come from? What was she talking about? I had so many
questions, but no one to answer them.
My next letter said to open on Wednesday, September 27. I didn't have the chance to open it that
morning when I usually opened them because I got a phone call. For months I'd been unemployed and
had been looking for a job to help my husband out. That morning our local vet's office called me for
an interview. It was the best news I'd gotten in a long time, so I honestly forgot about Anne's letter
until I was eating lunch after my interview. I'd gotten the job and was set to start the following
Monday.
When I opened the envelope I pulled out a Congratulations! card. The inside was printed with a bunch
of cheesy "You did it! Great job! Take a bow!"s and in the corner Anne had written, I'm so proud of
you. You'll do great!
I felt elated. This was my first real job. I wasn't a waitress anymore and I was excited to celebrate. It
wasn't until I was washing off my plate from lunch that I realized what that card said. There was no
way. It didn't make any sense. How could Anne possibly have known?
Coincidence. There was no other explanation.
The most recent card was dated for Monday, October 7. This past Monday. I was relieved after the
last two to be going back to the normal Monday's.
This Monday morning was hell. Both my husband and I woke up half an hour late. I was in a huge rush
getting ready and shoved the letter into my purse along with a cereal bar. My husband drives a lot for
work so instead of going into work his boss assigned him a place near home to drive over to quickly.
I was at the computer in the lobby about to open my letter when my cell phone rang. My
husband never calls me during work, since I'm not allowed personal calls, so seeing his number made
my heart drop.
It was the city hospital. They said he'd been rushed in from a bad wreck and that I was under his
emergency contacts. I told them who I was and told them I would be there in less than fifteen minutes.
At the hospital the receptionist couldn't allow me back. My husband was undergoing intensive surgery
after the damage from the wreck. She couldn't provide me with any more details of what had
happened, except that there was some head trauma, and that he'd been "pinned in".
I was hysterical, but I managed to calm myself down and take a seat. I knew the doctor would come to
me with any information as soon as possible. In the meantime, I needed to let my mother-in-law know,
and my own mom.
I reached into my purse for my cell phone and felt Anne's letter. I pulled it out. I opened it.
It was a get-well soon card. There was a bunny with a bandage wrapped around its head. My hands
were shaking as I opened the card.
It's going to be fine, baby sister. Sometimes bad things happen in life that you aren't meant to
understand. It will only hurt more if you try to make sense of these things. It's not his time yet. I've
always taken care of you, and I always will. I promise you that when the time comes, I'll be there for
you.
I haven't shown my husband. I haven't mentioned any of this to my Mom, or my sisters. I'm not sure
what she means by "when the time comes", but the letters stop on October 29th.
Edit: I know a lot of you read this and assumed, because of the abundance of multi-part stories on
NoSleep, that I planned on updating. Unfortunately, due to the obscurity of my sister's letter, and the
panic I felt when I thought that either my husband or I were in some sort of danger, I'd never truly
intended on having an update. I've gotten a couple of messages asking about the last letter, but to put
you all at ease, my husband and I are doing just fine.
The very last letter that Anne wrote to me is very personal and private, as all of them should have
been. I think I may have exploited my sister's letters enough, though it means a lot to me that so many
of you care. However, I don't regret writing about this phenomenal experience on this subreddit
because I've shared a peek behind that veil that not all of us here at /r/NoSleep will get to experience
in this lifetime.
All I can offer to you now, as far as closure goes, is that there is no closure. Anne's last letter was
beautiful and heartbreaking. It was my last tie to her, but something like that can't go on. All I can
interpret from the letter that referred to "my time" is that no matter where, or when it is, Anne will be
there waiting to reunite with me. I don't know where that is, or if it continues forever, but I take
comfort in those words.
So I apologize if this isn't the ending you had hoped for. As far as I can tell, there's no ending in sight.
Excuse Me While I Kiss the Sky

baldymcraw

Honorable Mention - October 2013 Monthly Contest

For as long as I can remember Ive been afraid of heights. Even standing on a 12 foot ladder
paralyzes me. Its not a fear like being afraid of spiders or dying. I dont lie awake at night worrying
about the next time Im going to be up high somewhere and I dont see tall buildings and shudder. But
once Im high up in the air for some reason I entirely shut down. I have to be away from the edge with
a firm grip on something very steady. Its uncontrollable, and, quite frankly, embarrassing. So I
decided to face my fear. And my former best friend decided to help me.
He is a radio antenna engineer. You know, the guys who have to climb those two thousand foot needle
towers to replace and fix things when they need fixing or replacing. When he proposed the idea of me
going on a job with him I was EXTREMELY resistant, as you can imagine. I was thinking of standing
on the roof of my house to face my fear, not scaling a giant sewing needle held up by a bunch of metal
cables tethered to the ground. He was persuasive, however, convincing me that when youre up there
everything below is so far away that it almost looks fake. Its like looking at a model town for a train
set from far away dude, youll be fine. Trust me.
I shouldnt have. To get up there you first have to take a small elevator about of the way up. This
ride probably only took a couple minutes, but it felt like hours. I stood in this tiny elevator with my
friend, hardhat on my head, gloves on my hands, tether with a big metal hook on the end attached a
harness around my sternum, thinking to myself this is the day I die. My buddy tried to console me by
saying hey man, Im the one who has to lug the heavy tool bag up that tiny ladder. Somehow his
words didnt help.
When the elevator doors opened he practically leapt onto the little platform and up the old metal
ladder, leaving me there in full view of the world. A burst of cold air hit my face as the wind blew.
The platform in front of me was about 3 square feet of metal grating. If I stepped out of that elevator it
would be the only thing between me and the ground. Well, that and 1700 feet of atmosphere. For some
reason I peeked my head out first and looked up. Even though our destination was only a few hundred
feet away it looked like miles. The world spun and my stomach fell to the ground as I looked up at the
top of the tower. The edges of my peripheral vision began to shrink as I melted into the corner of the
elevator.
I didnt even notice that my buddy had joined my level once again. Dont look up dude, its even
worse than looking down. And dont hold the rail so tight or lock your knees like that, all your blood
will go to your extremities and youll pass out. I urged him to go ahead without me and begged him
to swipe his access card and send me back to the ground but he refused. I got a job to do up here and
I NEED a spotter. Youre that guy. Now man the fuck up.
He gave me a few more words of advice before I stood up on shaky legs. I thought my knocking knees
would vibrate the whole tower. He talked me through my first steps onto the platform. Dont look
up I told myself. So I just focused on the metal of the tower in front of me, staring at nothing but that
metal, trying to convince myself that I was on solid ground with every step. Every muscle in my body
hurt as I couldnt help but tense up. After a few more words of encouragement I took my first baby
half-step toward the ladder and exhaled. I felt every sway of my body. It felt like I was trying to stand
on the surface of the wavy ocean. I could feel myself falling even though my feet were firmly planted
on the platform.
I needed to reach for the ladder but doing so would require me to let go of the railing next to the
elevator and in my mind that was the only thing keeping me from floating off the edge. I reached with
one hand as far as I could toward the ladder while keeping the other on that rail but I just couldn't
make it. I widened my stance and reached again, still short. So I let go of the rail in order to reach the
ladder. For that one split second I was weightless. Nothing but my feet on the platform and my now
shaky equilibrium kept me upright. I could practically feel a hand pushing me toward the edge, forcing
my reflexes to lean me back, to which I responded by flailing my arms and falling forward reaching
for the only thing I could grip: the ladder. Come on up man, youre doing great I could hear from my
buddy chuckling above.
Baby step again, up this time. Nowhere else to go. Other foot. I now had two feet on the bottom rung
of the ladder. I was hugging it like an old friend I hadnt seen in decades. Every gust of wind felt like
a typhoon. Another rung, then another, then another. I worked my way, very slowly, up the ladder.
Before I knew it I was on another platform barely big enough for both of us. My arms and legs were
more tired than theyd ever been. Even though Id only ascended 20 or 30 steps I felt like Id run back
to back marathons with wrist weights. My jaw was sore from clenching my teeth. I didnt even realize
that the world had gone dark until I heard my buddys voice. Open your eyes, man.
I shouldnt have. The first thing I saw was the ladder that would take us the rest of the way up. It
was not but a series of rungs no wider than my foot, slightly curved upward, protruding from either
side of a skinny pole. This is where youll need your tether, he said before beginning his ascent.
Stay at least 7 rungs behind me and watch my tools, ok? Youll only have to go up 10 of them and
then youll stop while I work, ok? Before I knew what had happened he was calling for me to climb.
Just stare at the metal, I told myself.
After 4 rungs I found out that was impossible. At this height there was no metal to look at beyond that
narrow pole up which I was climbing. I finally saw the view fully. I could practically see the
curvature of the earth. Off in the distance and below us I could see clouds rolling with the wind,
which is ever-present at these heights. My heart fell out of my chest to the ground. Everything around
me was blurry from the tears in my eyes due to the cold gusts of air. I looked straight down. I could
see a car pulling up to the tower that was the size of a baby ant. I couldnt even see if a person had
gotten out. The once distinctive features of the ground below now appeared to be nothing but flat
green and brown background. I could feel myself slipping even though my grip around this ladder was
tighter than a vice lock. My ears rung, my head buzzed, my joints ached. I could barely breathe. I
couldnt move at all, and I wasnt where I needed to be.
I heard the voice of my friend DONT STOP THERE I NEED YOU TO SPOT ME! But I wasnt
going anywhere. In my minds eye I saw myself falling. I almost felt myself go. Then I saw something
dangling in front of my face. A teardrop-shaped cloth hanging from a bright orange strap. It just swung
there back and forth in front of my eyes as my friends voice came into focus. HEADS UP! he said
as the tool bag swung toward my face. My natural reaction was to lean back to avoid the incoming
blow, so I did, somewhat extending my arms from my bear hug. Suddenly I took mental stock of my
surroundings. The only thing keeping me attached to this ladder 1700 feet above the ground were my
two hands. My very tired hands attached to my very sore arms. I started to lose grip.
My friend must have been horrified. From his view he saw me below him, birds below that, and then
nothing but metal, air and earth. And I was pulling away from that metal toward the air and earth
because of his dumbass joking attempt to break me out of my trance. He reacted quickly, attaching his
tether to the tower and releasing his grip from the ladder to grab my little orange vest before I fell.
For a brief second after my hands left the ladder and before his hand got ahold of that vest I was
freefalling to my death. Everything that was blurry came into focus. The tower above and below, the
rocks below that. The temperature of the air, the sound of the wind, the soreness of my body. I was
acutely aware of each. As he held my vest, himself only attached to the tower by a metal hook
attached to the end of a strap which was in turn attached to a harness around his body I took one last
look up at the top of the tower and the sky beyond.
I didnt get dizzy. I didnt melt into the lack of a floor beneath me. My vision didnt shrink. It grew. I
dont know if it was adrenaline or what but I suddenly snapped out of it and grabbed his hand, pulling
myself back to the tower. Just as he turned his body and started to reach for the ladder I heard a snap
and saw a blur. His hook had broken. He was falling. I was going to watch my friend fall 1700 feet to
his death. Everything slowed to a crawl. I saw him get smaller and smaller until he was nothing but a
dot. I saw the dust fly up from the ground upon impact. In my mind, at least. Back in the real world I
saw him fall about 20 feet and heard him land hard on the platform just outside the elevator with a
ringing thud and an oof as the air in his lungs escaped through his mouth. He looked up at me with
wide eyes as his arms and legs hung freely over the edges of the platform now under his back. I dont
even remember the trip back down. But I do remember seeing him grip the rail inside the elevator in a
manner which I was all too familiar. That was his last day on that job and our last day of friendship.
Im still afraid of heights.
October and November Monthly Contest Winners