The Notesman

January 2nd, 2013.

Something is happening in my house.

As far as I can tell this year I spent Christmas much as I did last year. Alone. I can vaguely remember the shrill calls of the unanswered phone, the unopened Christmas cards and the unwelcome last minute visits. You see I have no interest in spending any time with relatives I despise, nor with those I like really. Not on Christmas certainly.

I haven’t written a single letter in this journal since I lost Abigail, looking through these old weathered pages I see now that was nearly two years ago. Childless and all the happier for it, every year the weeks of Christmas were spent together, free from the clutches of insincere well-wishers and greedy relatives. Any fires that occurred in our absence from their world we’d put out after new years with a bottle of wine and a fake apology. It was our secret, a knowing smile that we shared across every moment of time together, a letter passed under the table that said “We’re the most important thing in our lives.” Christmas day especially was our shrine to that covenant.

This year I’m not ashamed to say I had finally had enough. I removed the last of the sleeping pills from their resting place on the shelf and said a quiet goodbye to my empty living room.

I woke up just before new year’s, covered in vomit. The TV was the only source of light in the room, some inane program was blaring through the speakers. BBC One I think.

It’s strange but the first thing I remember thinking was that no one would have found my body yet. I pictured myself lying in my chair, bloated and rotting. Brown corpse juice staining the black leather and polished oak of wooden floors. I’d be maggot food before anyone realised I was gone.

I admit I was surprised to awake at all, it’s not the first time I’ve tried and obviously failed. But this time I made sure. Double the lethal dose and then some more to make sure, endless sleep. That was the plan. But to my disgust there I was, alive in the barest sense of the word dozing in a newly formed puddle of piss and vomit. The depth of the pain was indescribable, it moved from my bowels, along the lining of my stomach and up through my chest so that I could barely breath. My throat too was red raw, I could smell the copper tang of the blood in my vomit.

With great effort, I stumbled over to the mirror overlooking the living room and examined the damage. I realised then that I couldn’t see a thing by the dim light of the television. In my defence, I was more focused on the pain in my stomach and throat. I tried to sigh but it hurt, so I caught the sound as it escaped my ravaged lungs and returned to shallow gasping breaths. Legs stiffened by days of disuse took me to the light switch.

Now I swear the wall was clear when I flipped the switch, and this brings me on to the reason I have returned to this old journal. With a click came the sudden burst of light from the bulbs above me, the sudden brightness blinded me briefly as by instinct I raised a hand to cover my weary face.

Eventually the light dimmed as I adjusted to my new environment and I opened my eyes, a venomous glare prepared for the treacherous light switch. Where pristine, unmarked white paint once was there now sat a small yellow note. the paper was relatively unremarkable, other than for the fact that I could not recall ever placing it there nor ever seeing that shade of yellow before.

It couldn’t have just appeared there while I wasn’t looking, could it?

The note, in handwriting I didn’t recognise said “Don’t touch it, you’ll hurt yourself”.

Don’t touch what? I thought to myself as I took the note off the wall and returned to my position at the mirror.

I could see now that my neck wasn’t just swollen, it was heavily bruised. Further inspection showed small tears in my mouth and spreading down my throat. As I reviewed the damage, I was struck by the image of someone shoving their hands down my throat. I shook the thought from my mind. Like much of what was occurring it didn’t make any sense, no one has a key and even if they did I’ve burned pretty much every bridge I had left in the years since the funeral.

I think now that the note was referring to my damaged neck. But why?

Quick inspection of the windows, of the hallways and the doors showed no signs of break in either. When I returned to the living room there was another note. “Medicine on the table, get well soon” Funnily enough there it was, on the table that had been relatively empty before sat throat medicine and pain relief. It was at that point I realised someone was in the house.

I’ve never wasted my time with the police, after what happened to Abigail I can’t stand them. If there was someone playing games with me then one of us was going to meet their maker. Yet hours of frantic hunting revealed no intruders. Nothing was waiting in the shadows, under the beds or beneath the stairs.

It has been a few days and I’m still recovering, the notes are all neatly piled on the dining room table. They appear two or three times a day, always where I can notice them and normally in places where I had been glancing moments before. Have I finally gone mad? The mystery of the notes is the only thing keeping me going.

So far they have always been benevolent and useful little hints. Sometimes they even come with a basket of goodies or items I had forgotten to order. I’m no longer shocked when they appear, I’m more concerned with the pain usually.
Every now and then though, in my more lucid moments I begin to think. I cannot place why, but I know these little scraps of paper should terrify me.

January 5th 2013.

I’ve been having nightmares. The same one every night.

It starts when I open my eyes, but instead of my usual view of the wall and television I’m on the ceiling staring at a rotted corpse. The thing in the chair starts to breath but never stops, it just keeps inhaling. The stomach rises higher and higher, I begin to realise it isn’t breathing; something is rising from within, tearing its way through viscera and organs bloated with rot. The thing in the chair bends from its torso like skin pressed over a needle until with a great wet rip the torso is rent open by the thing growing inside; a great black lidless eye. The black eye bleeds from all angles as it looks around the room, eventually its hungry glare finds me and the world begins to change colour. I try to adjust my vision, desperate not meet the gaze of the eye but I cannot escape it. Around me grow more lidless eyeballs, they come out of the ceiling and the walls and the floors. Desperately I look for the mirror, unable to understand why I cannot move, my reflection confirms my worst fears. I am nothing but an eye; bleeding and tormented with no mouth to scream.

I awake in cold sweat, with the smell of copper and rotten eggs hanging in the darkness.

I’m not sure if it’s the nightmares or the new intrusion in my home but I haven’t felt rested in days. Deep purple bags are starting to spread along my face, my skin is losing its colour. Even bright lights are starting to give me headaches now. Thankfully it’s deep winter here and daylight only lasts for a few short hours so I don’t bother opening the curtains.

I think I must be getting a fever.

Since my last entry, I have committed myself to understanding these phenomena. Whatever fear I once had seems to have dissipated along with my energy reserves. When I’m not looking at the notes an awful nagging dread begins to fill me, rising from my bowels to exacerbate my exhaustion. It’s like a gnawing or a nibbling; the feeling you get when you’ve lost something terribly important and you can’t find it, but you also can’t stop thinking about it. But it’s not like misplacing a car or a phone, it’s more like losing a child. Relief only come with the notes. When I can see them, the dread disappears and in its place I’m gifted a few precious moments of relief.

Surely, it’s some kind of fever.

January 8th, 2013

This constant trepidation is unbearable.

Dragging myself from bed is becoming a monumental effort but I always must, the need for more notes always drives me forwards. This obsession has helped in one way; I’ve managed to uncover a simple colour coding to the messages, which in turn leads me to believe there is some sort of greater intelligence at work here.

As of this entry the notes have come in four different colours. The first three: Yellow, Green and Blue seem geared towards benign activities. Yellow notes are all generally useful hints and usually they come with care packages, or sometimes tell me where items I’m searching for are located. These are the most common. Occasionally green notes will appear around the house as well reminding me of important tasks I have forgotten. Notes in blue were always rare but full of encouragement, pleasant reminders that I’m not alone in the house anymore.

Every now and then I’m overcome with the desire to share what is happening to me, to call one of my colleagues at the university and discuss what could be causing these phenomena. As soon as the feeling comes It is gone. I’m too afraid to tell anyone else, they’ll think i’m mad. I think I’m mad.

It’s just hallucinations from this fever.

Before today I had two working theories on what logically could be happening here. One hypothesis was inspired by a piece I read in the Times months ago, the article suggested that carbon monoxide poisoning was a potential cause of strange behaviour, including amnesia. Surely, I thought to myself, that must be what is happening. No such thing as ghosts with endless pads of paper. Not in the real world. And so, steeled by logic and full of reassured vigour, I began checking the carbon monoxide detectors.

This is when things started to get… Worse.

As I climbed my stairs to the first of the detectors a small blue note appeared on the ceiling next to the alarm. “Everything is fine, no need to worry”. I am used to the small paper intrusions now, so I wasn’t shocked when the unseen Notesman offered another helping hand.

Notesman. Where did I get that from?

Regardless, I didn’t take him at his word. But as always, I needn’t have bothered looking; the alarm was functioning perfectly. Inspection of the other alarms in the house turned up the same results but the more I searched the house the more I began to realise the notes themselves were acting curiously.

With the exception of my first encounter the notes would only appear every few hours or so; and I never got the impression of any conscious intent in their message. They felt like newsletter emails, useful but not part of a greater interaction. This time was different, as I moved from room to room it was as if the notes had taken on a kind of barely suppressed urgency. Every few steps a blue note would appear assuring me of my safety, they appeared with such frequency that they began to fill the walls. I steeled myself through visions of drowning under a sea of blue paper assurance and went about my task.

As I reached the final detector I couldn’t escape the sensation of someone pacing just behind me, always just out of my field of vision. The frantic pace of the notes began to seem like a panicked whispering in my ear and I was reminded of a scene that often played out through my childhood; my mother desperately lying to my father, praying he wouldn’t see the empty bottles and draw the belt.

By the time I had made certain there was no gas leak in the house I was exhausted. Blue notes now littered the floors, strewn across the walls of the hallway were more notes yet to fall. I fell into my usual spot in the living room and began to rethink my plan.

Nothing had moved since I had begun my search, a thick silence had settled around the house, only broken by the panting of my own laboured breath. I had one further rational hypothesis; I had truly lost my mind. The notes were part of my own psychosis. Eventually the silence seemed to pass and the sounds of the outside world returned to the house.
It was then that I tried my final test.

In order to determine once and for all if what I was seeing was real or hallucination I began to draw up plans to set up full time surveillance around the house that I wouldn’t be able to tamper with. It wasn’t long until I could feel the silence creeping in to the house again. Like something that had filled every room in the house had begun to hold its breath. I began to feel vulnerable in the living room, visions of black bleeding eyes still haunted me; I took my seldom used laptop and locked myself in the cupboard under the stairs. An hour later all material orders were complete, I was committed to this now, or so I thought.
Before I could unlock the door something different happened. Through the thick layer of dust under the dim swinging light bulb there sat a note, just out of my field of vision. The placement of the note seemed deliberate and the cramped space suddenly took on a different colour. I had never seen this colour before, the note was a deep blood red, a blood red that stained the light of the room.

I realised then that I was a fool and completely out of my depth. Why would hiding in the wardrobe like a child from my father help against something that I couldn’t even see, let alone understand?

This time I didn’t want to look at the note, I knew I’d find no relief on this page.

All I wanted was to close my eyes, open the door and run until I hit the ocean, but it was all in vain. The note pulled me into its influence, for a brief second I could almost feel the hooks digging into my skin. As the note came into view, I became aware of the unnatural silence that had seeped into the room again. On this note, in thick black ink three words were scrawled.


The words held me in place as the black ink of the paper bled into the world around me; growing and pulsing till all I could see or taste or smell was black. If I had a mouth I would have screamed but I had sewn it shut. I saw myself hung upon a butcher’s meat hook; my skin peeled from my body in strips by eighteen knives of screaming bone. I tried to banish the images from my mind but the more I struggled the more vivid the vision became, I was swallowed by the darkness. It became more unbearable with each passing second, as if what I was imagining was beginning to drain into my reality. Other senses came apart in panic as they too were assaulted by the vision. A metallic stench began to fill my nostrils and the wet slick of the gore knives began bleeding into my ears.

I awoke naked in my chair, fresh clothes folded neatly at my feet and a nice meal at the table.

After the red note, I will avoid any cameras or further tests.

Tomorrow I will leave the house, I don’t think it’s safe to look for answers here.

Exhaustion overcomes me again and with it comes the anxious, creeping dread; sleep provides little solace anymore.

God I never want to dream again.

January 14th, 2013.

A new nightmare has started.

I wake up unable to move, I am bound by black ashen hands that rise from beneath my bed; Impossibly long and thin they hold me in place with their putrid maggot fingers. Oblivious to my struggling, the room slowly descends into darkness inch by ravenous inch, stopping only at the oaken doors of the antique wardrobe which stands alone against the bare face of the opposite facing wall. The wardrobe opens of its own accord, A blink of my eyes and I see the blackened eyes peering through the gap. I try to scream but the blackened maggots fill my mouth.

Within the wardrobe, I have seen what comes for me. At first glance I think it is a man hunched in suffering, crawling on limbs unnaturally long and sinewy. As he turns to face me his hairless body moves forward but his head is turned away, as if trying to hide the eyes sewn shut by thread and the thick black ooze seeping through blighted yellow fangs. The position would break his neck if the thing was human.

I blink again and the monster is closer. I can now make out the two emaciated arms rising from the monsters crooked spine. Long bony fingers clenched in fists turn at distressing angles and face me. When the fingers reveal their secret I try to scream. The bleeding eyes hidden within the palms now expose my suffering to the monster. I try again to scream but the maggot fingers press deeper into my mouth, moving down my throat. Fleshy hands bound to limbs of ashen flesh cling to my skin. I can feel the rough burnt texture all over my body, now it moves into my mouth, scraping against my tongue and throat. They taste like burned pork.

The monster raises its head and makes the motion of a laughing man, but no sound comes from its maw. I blink again and the face hangs over me, inches from my own. Black ooze leaks from the gaping darkness behind the yellow teeth and falls onto my face. I cannot scream. I want to scream.

The arms that rise from beneath the bed squeeze tighter as the horror begins its grim work. My tongue comes out first in a spray of agony and thick red blood. Then my arms and legs and the rest of me. One by one the monster collects the discarded pieces of flesh and with great care, carries them into the darkness hiding beyond the oaken doors.
I wake up in the wardrobe, seemingly put back together again.

I no longer think this is a fever.

The fatigue has become too much, I manage barely four hours awake before consciousness is taken from me. My room has become my prison, with the Notesman taking care of all my needs before I can even think of them. I haven’t seen another red note.

I’ve committed myself to leaving the house, this cannot continue.

January 16th, 2013.

I can only write this now because of what occurred, events that I must relay somewhere for fear of losing my mind to what is happening.

I knew yesterday that when I awoke that I would have precious time before leaving the house became impossible, so when I finally rose from my bed in the afternoon, I spoke to the void.

“B-books! I- It’s time to go to the library.”

Suddenly before me were books of all kinds, a brief search through tomes left my mouth agape. First print editions of literary giants and historically pivotal works had been strewn across my bedroom floor. I was now a man wealthy beyond any need. Still determined, I stepped over what I had identified as the original written manuscript of The Prince and a first edition print of the Hobbit and made my way towards the door. As I felt the threatening silence fall around me, I quickly spoke again.
“Thank you! I don’t want to go really, I don’t. You provide everything for me, It’s wonderful. Let me stay here forever.” As I said the words the sensation of mortal peril began to fade away. “But if I don’t go people may come here. They will try and drag me away, they’ll call police and doctors and family. Horrible people that will try and take me away from this paradise. Please, come with me! You’ve done so much for me already. Let’s go together!”

A blink of my eyes and I was dressed and ready, I could not believe it had worked.

I realised shortly after the incident under the stairs that the Notesman could somehow see what I was doing, but he couldn’t read my mind. I also realised that I had no idea what this thing was doing to me, or what it wanted. I could deduce however that my isolation was part of its plan. Meaning that it had cause to keep me away from others. Despite its ability to follow me that meant that it had a weakness that depended on my isolation to see it’s plan succeed. Therefore, I had to convince the Notesman of a grave risk to its prize that could only be avoided by leaving the house.

I asked myself the question, how long had this thing been stalking me before this? I realised then that it had begun pulling me into the darkness months before. The notes weren’t the beginning, they were the final part of a much longer verse. The past few months suddenly took on a new aspect as I began to remember the past differently. I recalled hearing whispers in the shadows. Voices, that had torn into the hole left when my wife died, convincing me of enemies around every corner. I feared that my attempted suicide was the final note of the Notesman’ s verse. Damned from the cusp of death and completely unlooked for by anyone, his prey was ready to be devoured. I felt like a bison calf, isolated from the herd and helpless before the jackal’s maw. The journey to the university library remains a blur. I was still technically on a leave of absence and had been for several months: a doctorate in history and several noted publications have given me a lot more leeway with the administration than I deserved.

When I awoke in my usual spot in the faculty car park I quickly scrambled from my seat, I cannot recall how I arrived there. I attempted to compose myself in the reflection of the window and quickly made my way to the main library building. I knew it was only a matter of time before my deception was revealed, but I had chosen this place as my last stand for a reason.
The university library I had grown to love had over a number years amassed a collection of occult texts and manuscripts the equal of any in the world. I have no idea why it’s here as opposed to anywhere else, I’m not actually supposed to know of it or have access to it. Such access requires special permission from the dean, so as to avoid any unscrupulous types attempting to subvert history or burn any supposedly blasphemous books I imagine. However, I was born poor and as such generally do not like closed doors. I knew that the area in question lay just beyond the history section of the library through doors marked ‘staff only’ in a windowless basement room that required key entry. As I rushed past the doors and through the cold featureless stone of the hall I was shocked to see the door ajar.

As I slipped into the room I did my best to muffle my steps; the quiet of the room felt sacrosanct and I was loath to disturb it. In this hidden section of the library sat two men I didn’t recognise, locked deep into the huge leather-bound grimoires that sat upon their work desks. I could hear another person shuffling behind one of the shelves, no doubt seeking their own answers to unnatural questions. It seemed that the occult section was packed today.

“You’re in a lot of trouble aren’t you professor?”

My already frayed nerves came apart at the unexpected intrusion. I froze, unable to reply or acknowledge this new invasion of my nightmare. Paralyzed by fear of discovery, the image of the wardrobe creature surged from deep within my subconscious. I pictured the yellow fangs hiding behind its lipless mouth; tearing me apart this time forever. Eventually the voice spoke again.
“psst, over here.”

“Who are you? How do you know who I am!?” I cried, as much as a whisper can be a cry.

From behind the shelves in front of me stood a man, I couldn’t make out much from the shadows between the books.

I repeated myself again. “Please tell me who you are! Do you know? Can you help? Please!?” I held back a sob. It had been months since I’d last spoken to another human being.

“Who am I? To you buddy I’m saint fucking Michael.”

I awaited the rest of his words on baited breath. But before he could reply, the stillness began to seep in as all sound drained from the world.

I had been discovered.

I began to cry to myself, silently. In a world where no one could hear me I was to be tormented till death by forces I never believed could exist. I tried to brace myself for the coming punishment.
And come it did.

In the corner of my eye the note waited. Desperately I turned away, yet no matter where I twisted my head or how I covered my eyes I could not escape the bleeding paper’s violent gaze. Again, the scene from beneath stairs played out as I grappled in vain against the fingers wrapped around my scalp. The invisible puppeteer had more pull than ever now, and soon the invisible talons turned my head, I felt my legs give way and I was brought to my knees. A supplicant before the altar of the Notesman. It was nearly too late; the black ink had bled into a pool at my feet and I was falling. The hot wet sound of the knives had drained into the room from below, where the Notesman waited.

A hand grabbed me before I hit the floor, where the ink had once pooled around me now there was only carpet. The real world trickled back into the room, the buzz of the light bulb, the thrum of blood coursing through my veins and the gentle breath of the voice at my ear all felt new again. Alien words came from those unfamiliar lips. I recognised the sound of ancient Aramaic I was after all a scholar of the period, but this dialect used syntax beyond my comprehension. The words came out as long silk ribbons, the first syllable intimately joined with all others. The words themselves felt smooth and calming to the touch, A verb or noun here or there sounded familiar but the breathless pace of the words carried on before I could process them. The hand on my shoulder kept me firmly locked in place and the note seemed to shrink before me. Almost imperceptibly at first and then as if buckling under some immense weight, the bleeding paper folded in on itself and disappeared into the space it once occupied. From my knees, the floor occupied my whole field of vision, the shadow leaning over me was that of a man in a trench coat.
I began to weep from relief as colours and smells I had forgotten months before returned to the world. My private celebration was cut short as the hands that gripped my shoulders moved under my arms and hoisted me up from the floor. It appears I was making a scene. “Up you get now” the man said. He turned and left the aisle where we were standing before I could bring his features into focus as he went about his own clearly urgent business. Before I could gather myself, the man beyond the books spoke again.

“Now frankly, there are things in this world that need my attention for more than the likes of you. But I can see you’re gonna cause trouble if I don’t give you something. Well I’m afraid it’s not good news. I can see the thing attached to you.”
“Thing? What thing?” I tried to interject, but was ignored as the stranger went about his task. I could hear the shuffle of books from the shelves beyond and deduced that he must be looking for something. Moments later the scraping of leather bindings suggested a potential gap in the shelves between us, but still I couldn’t find any recognisable features to recount. I tried to place his accent, but it was just as untraceable.

After a few more seconds of casual browsing, a grunt of satisfaction came from somewhere beyond G11.3 – 12.4 Followed shortly afterwards by a newly misplaced tome, which flew between a gap in the shelves landing perfectly at my feet. “Honestly professor I have admit you’re a bit of a pathetic sight, which is something I can empathise with. So I’ll give you five minutes just to point you in the right direction. Sound fair?” His casual tone and gruff demeanour shocked me from my daze. “You’ll need that priceless book at your feet for starters.” As I knelt to pick up the book I at last spotted something of the man, he wore heeled and dark leather shoes of very high quality.

“The minions of Astaroth always return, so you best listen closely professor.”

And listen I did.

He never introduced himself, in fact I can scarcely remember much of the man beyond the shadow of his coat and the quality of his shoes.

He rushed me over to a desk along the wall upon which laid a small collection of books. All the tomes bar one were leather bound and inscribed with various Aramaic and Latin names, the other books language I could not decipher.

We began to speak in hushed tones. He told me what he had seen walking in my shadow, he told me it was a creature of hell. It was a thing attracted to the rational who are weakened by grief. He seemed unsurprised as I described the events of the last few months and confirmed my initial suspicions that It had latched itself on to me after the death of my wife. I had spent many days denouncing god in those first weeks.

“It used you and all that self-righteous grief to fade into this world” He said. “The wretched thing you’ve been running from has a very simple need. It wants to devour any resistance you have left so that it can drag your soul into the pit, to take its place in hell.” I tried to ask a question, but couldn’t find the air.

“You see, that’s how possession works. It’s not some foul-mouthed ‘fallen angel’ using your body to crawl around murdering nobodies because that’s just what it likes to do on a Sunday evening. No, that thing was once human. Now It’s being given a chance by the very thing that has tormented it for thousands of years to carry out some task in exchange for a brief escape from an eternity of torment you can’t even begin to imagine.”

I didn’t try to ask any more questions. It was this thing or me and that was that.

He spoke of other things after that, he told me of the ten thousand trials of torment in which all servants of hell are forged and of the prince Astaroth whom my tormentor served. He then told me of other things I shall not record here. It was as if in his eagerness to tear me from my comfortable ignorance, he lost sight of time as the five minutes turned to thirty, then an hour, then two.

“Shit is that the time? Look. Now you know all this stuff, things are gonna change for you. You’ll start to see things you wish you couldn’t, just like me.”

He nodded towards the leather-bound tome now in my hand.

“Everything you need to save your immortal soul should be contained in that book, under the newly initiated.” He paused then and began muttering sounds I couldn’t understand. I lost track of what happened next, but I do remember his final words.
“This won’t make sense right now, but when the time is right you’ll understand. Despite what they claim, Demons and Angels are very different creatures Professor, remember that.”

Before I had the chance to reply he was gone.

I remained in the library for a few more hours, I wasn’t ready to go back to the house just yet. As soon as he had gone I wasted no time in doing as the stranger instructed and prised open the book he had given me.

There were hundreds of sketches of various sickening creatures alongside lengthy descriptions of their origins and behaviours. They confirmed much of what I had already been told, this creature had no name, but was instead classified as a type of generic lesser servant. It appears the lowest level of demons were not allowed names. I cannot imagine what it would mean to face something stronger.

To my dismay there was no ritual of exorcism. No holy water or magic words I could decipher. There was only a warning, more of a consolation really. The passage told me what I had feared all along, what comes for me would take me to hell or destroy itself in the attempt. Without the help of a powerful ally my only choice was to allow it to take my place for a time. In doing so I could retain a portion of myself that could one day escape.

I must allow it to drag me into the wardrobe.

I had to let it take me to hell.

The Stanger had known, and he had left me to my fate.

Months before these things didn’t exist to me, Hell was the imagining of deranged theologians and dark cults. It was not a place that filled rational men with mortal dread.

As I drove back to the house shock began to fade and reality began to set in. My mind was consumed with the images of what I already had seen, and of what was in store for me when the demon returned. Alone in that car I wept as much as I prayed, but there was no reply.

The house loomed over the driveway as I pulled in. I must’ve sat there for hours. Praying and begging, pleading for salvation. Eventually, weary beyond all measure, I made my way along the path until eventually I arrived at the door. My hands had begun to shake violently, I thought with relief that I might not even be able to open the door. Then I risked a glance through the window into the living room beyond.

There was no part of wall not covered in the hot sticky red paper.

I vomited on the doorstep. Desperately I tried to turn away from the house and the room and the books and the monsters that belonged only in the worst nightmares of the deranged.

The door opened and I knew it was too late.

My feet were carried down the hall, through the dining room to the chair where I now sit. Where I wish this all would end. The book I stole from the library is with me, and in this old journal of mine I’ve written my final entry.

The silence descended a few moments ago, for the final time. I know where I must go and what I must do. Soon I’ll have to make my way towards my bedroom, where just beyond the door I can hear the gnashing of the knives.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s