Wednesday, 28 September 2011
I don’t even remember how long ago Spencer told me to go on that delivery to try and save those kids. A sixteen-year-old boy named Toby contacted me, informed me that his friend Roger was very sick and that they were Running alongside Roger’s girlfriend, Patty. She also happened to be Toby’s sister. Kind of odd to be dating your best friend’s sister, but I digress. I was already a bit tired, and my arm still in a great deal of pain from the souvenir I received during my previous delivery. But when the Boss got that desperate look in his eye, told me he was going to be okay, I believed him and departed immediately, planning to go without sleep to try and save everyone. Do the work of five doctors perfectly, and act as if I could be in several places at once.
What the fuck was I thinking?
The 22-hour drive was terrible, and I took my first pill shortly before arriving at the tiny old shack. It woke me up enough to get in there and see what was going on. Toby, a rather tall boy, greeted me; he had brown hair that was dyed green (rather poorly), and the added color was beginning to fade at the top. Toby led me to Roger, who looked for all the world like he was bucking for Boss’s position as the world record holder for “most black ichor to dribble out of someone’s mouth in an hour.” He was catatonic, his brown eyes glazed, several ribs and his clavicle broken, and drooling black. Deep bruises and gashes adorned his limbs and torso, but the most terrifying one was across his face, exposing his zygomatic bone and only about a half-inch from taking out his left eye. I got to work immediately, though Patty’s sobbing from the other room did my focus no favors. Another pill. Another adrenaline rush. The wind started picking up outside, rattling the old windows, sending a whistling breeze through the room.
The hair on the back of my neck tingled, and something terrible lit up in the back of my mind. The Presence, the Presence…Roger coughed violently, his eyes wide, before gibbering incoherently at me. He grabbed at my shoulders weakly before he just started twitching and twitching, his eyes staring miles away. I tried to get him stable, but something in me knew that he was a goner right there. I’ve dealt with my fair share of seizures when treating the Stalked, but this is the first time I’ve had one manage to swallow their tongue and suffocate themselves before I could even move to help them. When Patty saw, she was in hysterics, halfway from the hurricane that had started pounding into the walls of the shack, halfway from the dead boy I was attempting to resuscitate. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…twenty…twenty-eight…thirty…one breath, two breath…I focused as hard as I could, adrenaline and amphetamines yanking at invisible strings tied to the back of my eyeballs, my entire head throbbing, my wounded arm throbbing even more, the walls quaking more with each moment, seemingly in rhythm with my compressions
The room’s temperature plummeted to a cruel chill, my breath billowing out before me in a great white cloud as I gave compression number sixteen in my third round of CPR. I felt the ropelike tentacles wrap around me before I saw the thin form standing before us. He squeezed me tightly and I started to scream, terrified and mindless. He could have crushed me into a sick, bloody pulp, but instead threw me around like a ragdoll, bashing me in the stomach, on my limbs, and once, a sickening crack to the side of my head. I heard a gunshot, a thud, a boyish scream, and another thud as I smashed into a wall, the left lens of my glasses shattering before I slid to the floor in a daze.
I felt a pair of shaky hands lift me, but I could not move or speak. A door opened, I felt the rain wash away the ooze of blood trickling down my face. The car door opened, and I was placed into a seat. Door slammed, another door opened and shut, the car started and lurched forward…I just sat there and let the scene wash over me. How it felt to be so helplessly ensnared, beaten about like a lifeless toy. Indecipherable voices, barely whispers, started to sound from nowhere as the rain beat on the windshield. Then I realized where I was: Toby was driving, though somewhat poorly. He was covered in blood and his eyes were wide. I heard him try to speak, but the only coherent words that came out were, “P-Patty shot herself in the mouth…god, Roger’s dead, they’re both dead. Oh god, oh god…” I did my best to calm him, the effort bringing me back to my senses. He eventually pulled over near a forest once the rain had let up and turned to me. “Doctor,” he said, looking at me with an empty look in his eyes, “you did all that you could…all that anyone could. Thank you, thank you.”
I looked back at him blearily, popping another pill. “Toby, come back with me. I can help you. I’m part of a group of very skilled Runners, and you’ve saved my life. I…I’m sure my Boss would love to meet-“
He shook his head quickly. “No, no thank you. I’m going to be fine. I’m just fine on my own. Everything’s fine. I don’t need…you’ve already done so much. Too much, Doctor, you’ve done too much. God…I’m sorry. Please take care. I…”
Without saying another word, he left the car, keys still in the ignition. He marched towards the forest, leaving me in the front passenger’s side of my old Scirocco. I took a moment to stop the bleeding on my head and my arm (thankful that my car has red upholstery), and apply an instant ice pack to my head wound. The pill was kicking in, the world growing oddly vibrant and dim at the same time. Once I was centered, I checked the blog, only to find...THAT post. After leaving one of my own, I hopped back into the driver’s seat and continued my journey alone.
I could still feel His presence as I drove back and popped more pills, more pills, more pills. The more pills I took, the more voices I started hearing and the faster they spoke, but I did my best to ignore them. I knew Spencer was in deep trouble, and that he would die if I didn’t get there. All coherent thought was whittled away by chemicals and nonexistent whispers, and one phrase repeated itself over and over again as my mantra, my chant: “Gotta save Spencer. Gotta save Spencer. Gotta save Spencer.” When I pulled up to the house, I ran inside; Todd immediately found me, said something to me about Spencer. I nodded, feeling my eyes twitch in their sockets. In a flash, I was carrying him down the stairs…he was only staring at me with those obsidian eyes, whispering about how “The Leader is everything. The Leader is void.” Nonsense like that. In return, I just mumbled incoherent gibberish about how I needed to perform surgery. We were both maddened by our ailments, and nothing else mattered to me at that point but his safety: not my throbbing, bleeding arm, not my racing mind, not the world spinning and twisting around me in unison with the chorus of voices screaming in my head. But I got Spencer down there, opened him up, started dumping the writhing ooze into buckets…I remember him laughing, screaming, not reacting to any injections I gave him, dribbling black gunk from his mouth and his nose…
…then nothing but blackness deeper than the deepest sleep. I did not dream; my mind was an empty void. Then I saw the mottled white ceiling of my bedroom above me. August’s voice warbled softly in my ears, and though I was fairly certain he was speaking words, they meant nothing to me for several minutes. I mumbled back, but what came out of my mouth was slurred gibberish. We continued this exchange for some time as I stared vacantly at his blurry form above me. I came to slowly, doing a bit better once I was finally able to ask for my glasses and see his face. The poor kid must’ve kept a vigil, said I was unconscious for a full four days. Judging from the bags under his eyes, I can believe it. It’s taken me some time to finally start turning around, and physically, I’m still working on it. My left arm is in a sling, and I’m too weak to walk very far on my own. For a few days, I had to be carried. I still owe Steele an apology, he had to take me downstairs to care for Spencer once again, and tend to Nemo’s broken fingers as well.
I’ve been half out of my mind on morphine, slipping in and out of consciousness for the past few days. Having Him lift you up with those wretched tentacles and throw you against a wall doesn’t do much for bullet wounds, and I’m not sure how I managed to drive all the way home with a concussion, then perform surgery successfully before finally toppling over. I don’t even remember this, but apparently August came and found me in the operating room staring at Spencer once I’d finished working on him. He tried to get me to go to my room, but days of taking amphetamines, watching people die, receiving terrible wounds, and not sleeping a wink is bad for one’s sanity. I cut him across the face with the scalpel I was holding, screaming nonsense, trying to get to Spencer because I thought I needed to operate further or he would die. Eventually, August gave me a tranq shot to put me out, and that was it for me for a few days.
I hope to be back on my feet soon, but I’m not going to push myself further unless I have to. My body is a wreck. My mind is…well, I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain I’m hallucinating right now. If this post is up later, I suppose I’ll know I’m not. Either way, I’m going to get some more sleep.
Take care, everyone.
Monday, 26 September 2011
(also it's wrong, very wrong, "Spencer is, on the surface, much saner than most of the Slenderstalked," my ass he is, what with all his crazy-ass rants and his ahahahaaaahahaha CHANGE FONTS NOW I am Jack's raging sphincter bullshit. An update may be in order, August my dearest. The "Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard" part was quite apt, though, I'll give you that.)
So, my fine readers, we check the blog one fine September, and find that the beautiful, elegant solution for figuring out who the fuck is posting at any time has been irreparably marred, with "Frankly, my dears..." not having any name in front of it what-so-ever. Terrible, absolutely terrible. Sends veritable shivers down my spine. What villain could've possibly done this?
Writer is his name.
Well, not really. Presumably he has a real name, like "Spencer" (as if that's HIS real name), but for now, let's go with Writer. As tempting as it is to go with something else, (like Dickbeat McQueen or Colonel Fucknubbin), let's keep this professional. And short, I don't want to overstay my welcome.
Without further ado.
Writer is an old...'friend' of Spencer's.
Well, 'friend' is an understatement. I don't know if we're talking lovers, fuckbuddies, but Writer is obsessed with our man, Spence, and apparently that's a feeling Spence never returned. The two of them were partners in crime, some terrible double-act, with Writer creating looped worlds, (labyrinths, mazes, that-one-scene-from-that-one-vlog-where-they-played-Hotel-California, whatever word floats your metaphorical boat) and Spence filling them with all sorts of terrible beasties. Or something of the sort. Elaine did a write-up of exactly what Loops are according to Spence over at her blog, which is where I'm getting a lot of this information on Writer.
Is he a Proxy?
I have no idea. He seems to be acting mostly autonomously...and you wouldn't expect one on Slender's strings to be so...possessive of a person in of himself. Sure, there's a whole load of "Father this, Father that", but it seems like it's more of a sidenote. This is getting out of the realms of hard fact and into speculation, but he seems...different.
God yes. I refer you to the comments on this page, he must've spent hours crafting that list of insults. And I mean, look how he talks. Hell, I thought I was pretentious. Clearly I should step up my game. He's also creepy.
...Y'know, this whole 'subtitle' thing doesn't really work for me...I think I might just tell you a bit of an anecdote for my next point. I went to see Spence in the basement while he was still recovering, before he went to meet this bloke. We had a nice old talk. Poor bastard was half the way up the stairs, trying to climb his way out, so I sat down next to him. "Here you are, mate: get up, let's make you comfortable."
Then he looked at me, and I looked at him...something was wrong. What was that in his eyes...fear? He looked terrified, and terror was not an expression I expected to see in that smarmy cock's general vicinity. "Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" I remember saying, before I regained my composure. "I'm sure if Lori was conscious right now, she'd be knocked right back out again if she heard you were out and about."
Yes, Doc, I do remember you have a first name.
"Sorry, Leon...bad dreams." Spence eventually said, able to speak finally...but his eyes still looked haunted.
"Don't apologise to me, I'm not the one who needs to sew you back up if you pop a lung or something. I'm just checking up on you. Without a gun, for the first time in a while. Thought you'd be impressed."
"Like this? I couldn't hurt a fly." He grimaced, touching a delicate hand to the flesh under his shirt.
"Thus the lack of a gun. I think I prefer you like this, you don't scare the shit out of me. Though I do have another worry that is rather consuming...Keeping you safe from this...'Writer'."
"Don't worry, normal broadcasts will resume soon enough. Plus, your fascist self is the one who pays me, and I ain't going to bite the hand that feeds. Well, not TOO hard anyway." I had to think for a moment, to figure out how to phrase this at all subtly.
Then I kind of just went 'sod it'. "So are we talking 'rabid ex-boyfriend'? Because bro, I can relate."
"... we're talking obsessive partner that's so hard to kill that I couldn't just do the deed, I had to loop him. We're talking the one who gave me this..." He pulls up his shirt slowly, stiffly; three ugly, dark, waxy bars.
Burn scars. This all fit in with my research; when he left Writer, the classy motherfucker pushed him onto a stove. "Sexy." I commented dryly. "Now, 'loop him'? He seems pretty loopy already. Particularly for being obsessed with your fine self. No offense, but I wouldn't go there sober. Bit too rugged for my tastes."
He wasn't amused. Which is odd, I'm a pretty funny guy if I might say so myself.
"He can loop you and fill it with your greatest nightmares before he cuts off all your limbs. Maybe he'll just break you with words; you have to be careful 'cause he'll kill you without a second-" He bent over and dry retched. Lovely. I rubbed his back a little, looking away. "Easy there, tiger."
He didn't listen. He kept heaving and coughing, and black blood splattered the staircase next to me, before he fell sideways, unconscious.
"Well, fuck." I said, hoisting him up and slowly dragging him back down the stairs to Doc's operating table. "I guess that answers my next question."
"How worried should we be?"
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Saturday, 24 September 2011
After the chaos that was Wednesday and Spencer's infection; Doc running herself into the ground after her delivery and a certain tilde-abusing man now apparently in full control of the boss' account, I guess anything less than total chaos feels like a break.
We took a plane home from Vegas not long after getting off the phone with Spencer. Or, what I so scarcely call Spencer; anybody who isn't half-blind would realize that the boss in that state is far from his regular self. While I won't share the contents of the conversation, I'll tell you it was enough to leave behind the FREE CANDY van and get back to Vermont as fast as possible.
What we came home to... wasn't ideal.
It's strange. We've dealt with messes before. This is hardly the first time Spencer Fitzgerald has gotten like this, hardly the first time somebody has pushed themselves far, far beyond the brink of functionality and still continued to work, and certainly not the first time I've come home to finding all the dishes shattered and the gun missing from the back of the cupboard.
(You idiot, you know there are ones that you can use without breaking my best china!)
But maybe it's just seeing the panic written out so clearly for the world to see that makes everything worse in retrospect. I guess everything gets filtered out over time? Maybe we've always been this dysfunction and chaotic, just never able to really see it after the fact.
Hindsight is 20/20, afterall.
But I digress.
Hey, a quick joke. What do you call a guy who is oblivious to the fact that one of his only friends is dying right in front of him?
You know, it was sort of cute walking in on August passed out at his laptop, especially considering he's the one telling me I need to sleep. Oh, this is Todd by the way. Alive and... alive. But better than most a majority of us. Which, in all honesty, is not saying much. Just glad I'm on my own two feet and can actually do something other than sit in my room and be useless. I do kind of find it funny that it started with Spencer. But funny in a 'you're a horrible person for thinking this is funny' kind of way.
I've gained a habit of randomly walking about the house when my mind troubles me (which is a lot lately), almost as if my clouded thoughts are causing my legs to move. When I happened upon Spence, lying on the ground, black substance dribbling out of his mouth and nose like a mucus, labored breathing, my brain cleared all processes. No more thoughts. I froze up. Time that could have been spent trying to save him was wasted with me gawking at him like an idiot.
It was the first time I've really gotten a good look at him. I've been passing my eyes over him for a long time, I just didn't want him to notice me. I don't even know why, really. Fear? I don't know. Anger? Probably.
It was strange, cause I have seen people in similar states, most of whom are dead not long afterwards. But I can't really recall off the top of my head Spencer ever showed weakness in front of us, or me, at least. Now, there was a voice in my head going "Take this chance. He's weak and wounded. Kill him! Kill him!" and another one going "Run while you can! Get out! Get out!" while in my own voice, I'm thinking "I wonder if two men have passed him before me.
" But I don't think I'm good enough of a person to be a Samaritan here. Right after that I wondered if Spencer was going to be the symbolic Christ figure who would die to save us, but I ultimately decided against it. His arms weren't in a crucifixion pose.
I picked him up, and rushed him into Doc's room. She knew how to take it from there. I left her alone, I knew I could only make it worse. I sat outside of that room for about... half an hour? I don't exactly know. Time dragged on, all of the world that I could experience was filled with noises of screaming, occasionally a pause, maybe so the sound of a bone cracking could be heard, to be replaced with screaming. All I could see was a section of wall I dare not take my eyes off of.
But August came rushing in, frantic, asking me what happened. I stared at him, unable to give any answers to any of his questions. I just opened the door. And I closed it once he went in. It got a little quieter. I could hear them talking. I did my best to try and not understand anything they could say, except it was pretty hard when I heard Doc start yelling "No, no no no no no, August!" And then August walking out and asking me to help carrying Doc to her room.
I'm doing my best to forget that part now.
I carried Doc by the torso, while holding her head up. It was a really strange sight. We got back into the room, and August and I talked a little bit about my obliviousness to the whole situation. August, bless his heart, took the "Todd is not an idiot side.", I don't think the judges were impressed. He also took the "You should really get some sleep, Todd." argument. Which I think is kind of funny, considering he's curled up into a perfect little ball at the edge of his bed right now. Personally, I think he's the only one of us who deserves sleep right now.
But everyone could use some, I suppose. Doc hasn't even moved from her bed since we put her there. It's the kind of thing I would ask her if it was healthy if she was awake. I'm just going to guess that it's not.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Listen, Oscar Wilde, I don't know what you did to him, but you can take your "ultimatum" and shove it into your ass. Deep into your ass. Even if it's something I cannot fix, I'm sure that Spencer would rather die than owe a favor to a murderous twat like you. HOwever, just to spite you, I am going to fix it. Watch me. Watch me work, you mgiht learn something. You might learn how to fix someone isntead of just break theam.
Haven't slept yet, can'mt slee pyet. Head's in a fog, I need more pills. Sorry, I can't make a longer post, but I' m sure you udnerstand, readers. I'm sure you all understand beause you read this blog and you know how shitty all our lives are and your lives are probably shitty too but I have to go now because of reasons sI'm sure you can relate to and understand.
I'll be home soon. My arm hurts. My head hurts. Pills are making me shiver, but at least I'm awake. I'm completely awake.
One can only wonder, Mr. Fitzgerald, how long a man can sit and flail about like a pig with its throat slit before its spastic thrashing ceases to resemble life and more accurately resemble what it truly is; struggling to hang onto the little vivacity it has still drains rapidly from its veins.
It's taken me a long, long time to hunt you down, darling. To think, I might not have even been able to if it weren't for that pathetic excuse of a defector drawing every servant of our Father in the entire lower region of Vermont to your humble abode.
You put on quite a show with that little piece of arm candy, too - I must admit. But your standards have positively plummeted since I last saw you, nearly three years ago.
Do you remember the night you left me?
Do you remember the burns?
The places where my teeth marred your delicate skin?
Are the scars still there, Teller?
A rhetorical question, of course. We both know they're there, and they're as fresh as the day you abandoned us.
And what life did you pursue instead? Cowering like an old dog behind the shed, desperately clinging to your last shreds of humanity (though we both know very well you were never truly human in the first place. Not your purpose, right~?) as this utter sham of a family tries to turn a blind eye as you slip, again and again, working yourself further and further into the ground?
How many times can you rebuild, Spencer Fitzgerald?
How many times can you rekindle the fire from the ashes? Eventually you'll be so shattered and broken that your little pet of a housewife won't be able to piece you back together, and that's assuming your doctor doesn't dive completely off the deep end first~! What of sir Leon Steele? How do you think he'll react to all of this? Are you desperate for a bullet between the eyes, or is that just an unfortunate side effect of your gift - pardon, your illness? You're a liar and a fake and a failure most of all, Spencer Fitzgerald.
And I can fix you.
And miss Loreli, (almost a missus, and must I say, congratulations! I've never seen somebody wring the life from a person who was once so close to them in such cold blood. Except for when I did it, of course. But you didn't have a choice, did you? You were to be married, after all. And now look where you've both ended up~! Funny how love works, isn't it?) before you go dropping everything to tend to your most beloved leader, I take this time to tell you that Teller is beyond your help at this point. He is a delicate and beautiful flower that is far, far beyond your comprehension - at least, in this state. But if you would like to test the limits of your knowledge, perhaps you should pay closer attention to those animals you keep under the tarps~?
Mr. Fitzgerald is nothing but a figment of Teller's imagination; an illusion of what he wishes he could be, all he could never be. Father's gift to him... he resists it.
I imagine it hurts~!
But, as I said, I do possess the ability to let you all scramble and grasp for a small time longer. I offer... compromise.
I can and will return your glorious leader to his former glory; to how he was before you degenerates seemed hell-bent on ruining him. All I ask in return is a string of largely insignificant and mostly inconsequential assignments to be completed by him, for me. For Father. For his family.
I leave the choice to all of you, disgusting and flawed as you are. Leon, perhaps you will choose inaction, prove that you would be a much better leader. Todd, you have a bone to pick with Mr. Fitzgerald as well, do you not? August, imagine how much better you could care for your sham of a family, and Sam, don't you miss your sister? Amanda, aren't you tired of secrets, and Lori, aren't you tired of keeping them?
Elaine, he could have saved the man you loved more than anything, and he didn't.
I expect my answer soon. I'll know if you accept.
Tick tock, tick tock~!
Best of luck, couriers.
Monday, 19 September 2011
They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves.
... it's all foggy, all in that delightful fog that's been around for the past few weeks, i couldn't have done it by myself because I woulda died if I took the Gift out of me, wait for doc, she'll make it all better
Elaine dragged Star to the House and came back for me
"This is my /HOME/, y'bastard, and I'm not giving it over so godamn EASILY-"
dignity- not something that one possesses as they retch in their front yard with such force that they feel a pop in their eye and lovely tendrils of red cloud my vision
until It started calling.
"Yes. What a fool. Of course they went by there this morning, that was sure to happen. They found him in the gravediggers' shack. He shot at them and they got him."
Sunday, 18 September 2011
In this case, it's a group of three teenagers. Best friends who have found themselves assaulted by a particular tall individual on a regular basis. And tonight, they've asked me to hurry to their place to take care of the aftermath of an...encounter. My arm's still in agony, and it's a 20 or so hour drive, but I think this journey is warranted. I'll give details when I get back, time is precious right now.
I wanted to perform surgery on the Boss before I had to go do something like this, but he can wait until I get back.
Vegas is nice. Steele's decided to take something of a vacation and, in all honesty, it feel really, really nice to be out of the house for a while. The timing... could have been better. Elaine, I'm sorry I probably won't be back until you leave. And as for Star... well, you can all take care of yourselves. If there's any one group of people that I trust to survive locked in a house with a man who owns a Killdozer, it's you guys.
Maybe I'm just optimistic?
Boss, take a bit of alone time. Lock yourself somewhere away from Star and tend to your business - you know what I'm talking about. Do it now before it boils over and we get another incident like -Sam- Surgery.
Right, so, a little hung over. We're stay in some high-end hotel and have a room about the size of the second floor of our house back home. While there isn't a kitchenette, the food is fantastic so I guess I'm not complaining.
(My pancakes are better.)
After... whatever happened last night, a strawberry banana smoothie sounds wonderful. Once Steele wakes up (and I'm sure he'll delight in telling me what I did last night) I think we're going to get some breakfast. But until then, let's recap.
We left the same night Steele and Spencer had their disagreement, a few hours after everything had calmed down in the house. I figured Steele needed to get away from everything at home for a bit, and I did have a delivery I had to make. Lis of No Pressue = No Diamonds had also requested a spent a bit of time with her, and after everything they had been through... well, I wasn't about to turn them down. It was a small detour to where they were staying, and I sent Steele to pick up cleaning supplies and other things while I made pancakes and tried to help them all I could.
Remember that Opal girl I delivered to some time ago? Well, Corwin had something for her. While she's listed the details on her own blog, I think I sum it up nicely when I say that it only reinforces the fact that he's something of a bastard. The way the email had been worded, the package, the place we went meant to pick up the package... a lot of it screamed 'trap' to me, honestly.
Well, until we arrived at the coordinates he had sent us, and ended up somewhere down a long stretch of highway outside a small town. A Burger King sign sat right where the GPS had told us to stop, and at the foot of it sat the package.
It was five hours to where Opal had been staying, and honestly I didn't want to stick around too long. I had that nagging sense of danger around us, and could have sworn somebody was watching us from one of the windows of inn. It was sometime around then that Steele mentioned he had booked a premier suite in Vegas.
In all honesty, a vacation was the most appealing idea in the world at that time. I love you all, but August needs a vacation and has been cooped up that house for far, far too long. You all know how to take care of yourselves, and we're both doing fine over here. Doc, I'm sorry if I worried you because I didn't call last night.
Everything's fine here, and while I'm still more than a little nervous about what happened last night, I'd say everything's gone well. Delivery was no hassle, Lis is... hopefully better, and we should be back... well, I don't know, actually. I'll ask Steele about that.
Speaking of Steele, I think I hear him in the next room. Y'all stay safe, alright? Call me if anything happens, and good luck with Star.
Again, Elaine, I'm sorry. I hope I get to see you again, and best of luck with everything.
Be home soon, guys. Try to not do anything too stupid when I'm gone, and remember; if you can't grasp how the oven works, the microwave is always a viable option.
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
See, I found this passageway into Narnia, and I became the queen and stayed there for thirty years killing witches and having tea with goats and all that stuff, and I just came back and it’s only been a month in this world…
I’ve pretty much been on…vacation, let’s call it...for the past few weeks. Actually, I moved down into one of the parts of the House that nobody’s been in for years. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of everyone in this place is going crazy and I need to get out of here.
The House is huge. It’s ridiculous. I don’t think anyone could find me back here even if they wanted to. There’s all this weird stuff here, too. I found a whole bedroom full of creepy old dolls. I mean, who the hell lived here and collected dolls? Who even had this house before the couriers did? I’m putting these on my “ask August” list. Which I’m totally making right now.
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
So I can finally write about Matthew Rivers. Ex-police psychologist. Currently, private practice. It occurs to me now that I ought to recommend him to the masses, as frankly, the amount of people I've met in my years knowing our dark and handsome businessman, who could use psychological help...
Just a friendly thought. Y'know, for the next time any of you folk are in New Jersey. His blog is at Origin of Simulation, though the bloke's no longer comfortable with the idea of blogging.
"To blog would be to reveal my movements, and more importantly, my thought patterns." He said to me, after introductions. I picked him up, though not before he said goodbye to a rather sour looking lady who I could only assume was his partner. "And my thought patterns are sacred in this little game we have going afoot, hmm? But business continues as usual." His speech patterns were always very measured and dry, though beneath the rather cold exterior, you could sense a deadpan wit. That said, you could also see a haunted look in his eyes, and hear it when he slept...Muttering, always muttering. Something about the wind.
He also had a certain propensity for monologuing. You could tell by the way he spoke that he was one of those guys who were continually thinking, theorizing...But perhaps not a man of action. (After living on and off with Mr. Gung-Ho Fitzgerald for the last few years, a man of words was a welcome change.)
For instance, about an hour out of Atlantic City...Already he was waxing poetic about some of his...readings. "Every experience with the construct is different. Have you ever noticed that? Across the board, those who have this paranormal insurgence, or at least, those who record it in their blogging and video diaries, report wildly different symptoms, and symbolic interpretations."
"I don't read about other people's experiences, mate." I replied. "I live it, why would I want to hear about other condemned blokes running around Mr. Slim, achieving nothing?"
"Knowledge is key, Mr. Steele. Know the victims, and you can make assertations regarding the villain. Profile the construct, understand it. But when you rely on a self-reporting structure for all of your test subjects, how much of the information given is truly the construct, and how much is a product of the mind?"
He talked a lot. Some of it was interesting anecdotes, though most of it was along those lines...Studying Runners, and studying 'the construct' as he so very much liked to put it. Which I did get a little annoyed at at one stage, I will admit.
"You're looking at people in the same situation as your own like they're lab rats or something, mate." I said, as we pulled over at the motel for the night.
"Same situation...somewhat. As I have said before, the experience changes depending on multiple factors, particularly the participants and their respective set and settings. That said, there also appears to be a sense of stability once a modus operandi has been established within a continuity, but..."
"Plain English would be lovely right about now, darling."
"Simply put? My Slender Man is not your Slender Man. Not exactly. And I'd like to find out why."
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." I said, grinning, not realizing at that moment that I was doing little but tempting fate.
I definitely found out the night before we got into Nevada, though.
The lights of the Vegas Strip had never looked so inviting after that.
"So what exactly are you looking for down this way?" I was sitting on my bed as he typed away on his laptop at a dimly lit desk. The wind was rattling the windows outside, so sleep wasn't exactly an option quite yet.
"Answers." He said shortly. Which was odd for him. I was going to inquire further, but then I heard a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" I called, hopping off the bed and walking to answer...
No response. Strange.
You know that feeling you get where something is wrong, but you don't know quite what? That sudden inclination that you're walking along the razor's edge?
Taken by this feeling of doom, I stayed my hand at the handle, and instead moved over to the tacky lace curtains next to the door, peering around to take a look...
Two girls. They couldn't have been more than 10 years old...looked like twins. They each had brown, mousy hair (or so I could see in the slight fluorescent light from above the door) tied back in two pigtails, with slightly angular faces, wearing two dresses of identical make: one green, and one yellow.
But I wasn't looking at any of this. I was looking at their eyes. Shining black, as if their pupils had consumed their iris, and then the rest of the eye surface, just two inky marbles rolling around in their skulls. I was transfixed, and the feeling of doom screamed in the back of my mind.
"Let us in, Mr. Steele. It's cold outside."
"Leon, I want you to close the curtains and come back here." Rivers was now paying attention, his voice calm, though his eyes were wide. I felt my mouth speaking, as if I were a third party in the room, spectating. "But they're cold. It's very windy."
"Let them freeze. They're not little girls anymore."
I turned back to look at the girls, and came crashing back down to reality when I saw them grinning at me maliciously, jagged teeth, sharpened to points, as the wind grew to a crescendo, howling and smashing into the walls of the building like jackhammers, as I fell back from the window with a slight yelp. The little girls giggled, and tapped on the window, and suddenly there were taps from all the windows, and shadowy figures behind the curtains, as a cacophony of laughter exploded, "Let us in, Mister, let us in!" as Rivers shut the blinds and picked me up off the ground...
"It's beginning. They'll be gone by dawn, Leon; don't worry. And they can't hurt us without permission to come into the building...or so the stories go."
"So we're safe in here?"
"If we weren't, why would they ask? Why wouldn't they just come inside? Break the glass or something?"
I checked my watch and tapped the glass, hoping, praying that the second hand would start to tick again, but to no avail: indeed, it started to tick backwards, then forwards, like a metronome, taunting me, even as I ran to my bag to find some extra ammo clips, and maybe something to dull the experience a little.
"Mate, we've got a long night ahead of us." I said, pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker and taking a swig, before looking deeper into the bag to find some other form of painkillers. You know, in case one of us got attacked.
Rivers had a bemused smile on his face as I offered him the bottle. "Really?"
"Well, you say we're mostly safe if we're inside. Unless...something else appears. All we can do is ride this out. And frankly, the less of it I can remember, the better."
Flawless Loop logic. Rivers couldn't argue with that.
He found glasses and ice, and poured himself a dram, before strolling over to the mini-bar to find more supplies. The children giggled and squealed outside, and the storm continued.
"So this Loop thing...This is a new phenomenon, one which is curiously a feature of your, and your kin's experience with the construct." Rivers said matter-of-factly, sipping from his glass as the lights in the room flickered dimly, the shadows dancing and playing around us, the endless 'tap-tap-tap' at the windows and doors going unnoticed. We had habituated to it after the first hour. "On the other hand, these children are directly related to the investigation me and my partner have been carrying out, and so they are an experience related to MY construct." We had pooled resources in the centre of the room; a veritable pile of alcohol and nicotine, which we sat around like a campfire.
"So what you are saying is, because we are undergoing an 'experience' together, the individual natures of how we perceive Tall and Slender kind of, merges?"
"Precisely." Rivers nodded, as I reached for another cigarette. "This has implications for the reciprocal nature of how the construct is created. The creature clearly has physical properties, I'm not saying he's in our heads...but there is something about our perception which drives the construct to adapt."
"You're losing me, mate..." I admitted, exhaling with a grin as he topped up our glasses.
"The construct, upon his inception into this world, probes the minds of those who perceive it, and use details from their memory to fill in details about him...of course, this is just a working model."
"So, what, you just really hate children?" I queried, motioning to outside. Rivers snorted. "Quite. I have a certain theory about that, actually...And why the Slender Man myth seems to change regionally. I have a couple of suspicions about this American...well, Western, I suppose, iteration..." His words became more disjointed, as he was clearly focusing on lighting up a smoke. I waited patiently, not even realising that the tapping outside had stopped.
"Ever heard of the Man in Black urban legend?" He asked, back into it.
"What does Will Smith have to do with this?"
"No, the sightings of these men around any paranormal or extraterrestrial activity...Roswell, Mothman, Kenneth Arnold and the like. The secretive government agent, black suit, hidden eyes, covering up UFO sightings, has been a trope ingrained in the Western consciousness since 1947. Whenever someone considers 'is there anything out there beyond ourselves?', invariably their minds will either go to aliens, or God. And for those who believe in aliens, the Man in Black is their greatest antagonist."
"No, that's the beauty of it. I published a preliminary study of this on my blog earlier in the year. The Men in Black are a feature of culture, not of government; they're an easily identified symbolic icon for the paranormal, for secrecy at any cost. And if a construct without a definable form was to enter into the human subconscious to look for a form which would symbolically communicate that purpose, secrecy, protection of us from that which is beyond...in a way, to gain our trust...What do you think it would automatically gravitate towards? This being from beyond...latches onto the symbolism of the times, in order to communicate an unsaid purpose. In medieval Europe, to the serfs, he was Der Ritter - the Knight. The purpose and drive of the nobility was one that was similarly unfathomable to those who saw it. What if our little Man in Black is here, to protect something...up there? Something bigger, and more unfathomable?"
I poured myself another scotch.
I was shaving for the third time tonight, when I finally heard birds chirping outside. "Rivers? Rivers!" I shook him awake, shaving cream still on my cheek. He had opted to let his facial hair grow as a means of keeping track of time; he looked a far cry away from the professional figure who had entered the motel about 8 hours ago. In real time.
"The sun's rising, have a look!"
And so we stood by the window of our crappy motel, admiring the first strains of red to appear over the horizon, still drinking to avoid the terrifying hangover we knew we were going to develop eventually...
"Oh shit, I still need to drive you to Nevada, don't I?"
After about 6 more hours of slow, yet terrifying drunk driving on both of our parts (We were driving along a perfectly straight road, in the desert, and we STILL managed to roll off into the sands), we arrived at the destination, off the interstate, just overlooking Las Vegas Boulevard...the parking lot of a musty old diner. "You know, when you said Nevada, I was thinking you were going to be holed up in one of the casinos, not roughing it out here, hun." I said, critically crinkling up my nose as I imagined the quality of their bacon and eggs. And oh god, the coffee.
"Oh, I'm not roughing it out here by any means, Mr. Steele." Rivers said, reaching into his suitcase and taking out a particularly thick envelope. "This is just where you and I must part ways. I have...other friends to take me the rest of the way."
I pocketed the paycheck he offered to me and nodded. "I'm going to head into Vegas for some R&R anyway, it's no trouble for me to take you the rest of the way."
"Leon, I'm not going to the Strip. I'm heading south a ways." He looked over my shoulder and nodded, prompting me to turn around, noticing two men in dark suits standing by a black luxury car...looked like a Lincoln. "I'm stopping off down by Groom Lake. Catch some of the sights."
"Men in Black, huh?" I said in a neutral tone, though I was intrigued. "Looks like you know a lot more than you letting on, mate."
"You just didn't ask the right questions. Don't worry, it happens. All that has happened is, my research has had some interest taken in it. No big secret here...I'll get in touch sometime. Take care." And with that, he was off in the Lincoln, the only indication he had ever been here being the wad of what was hopefully cash, sitting in my back pocket.
And his curious words, still floating around my mind.
Monday, 12 September 2011
I’ve just gotten off the phone with August, but I would like to post the full story here so everyone else knows Im going to be okay too. My head’s foggy, I havn't slept in over a day, and I’m having ttrouble typing, but I’l be better by morning.
So Boss kicked me out of the house so I could deliver to this guy. I wouldn’ thave expected Wyoming to be this exciting. I parke my car about three miles from the drop point, snuck through the woods for awhile, but foun that I had to take a more open route for the remainedrd of the trip. I heard rustling in the bushes, whipped around in time to see this extremely pale, skinny man tackle me to the ground, smacking me across my face for good measure before grabbing my satchel and bolting. Cracked glasses be damned (nothing too unusual, I need a new pair after nearly every delivery), I leapt up, pulled out my knife, and pursued him. He barely made it ten yards before I stabbed him in the back, about two inches medial to the glenohumeral joint. I felt the knife hit and scrape the scapula slightly, and he gave a good scream and dropped the satchel. While he was busy whimpering, I pulled a syringe from my pocket and stuck him with it. He groaned a bit and hit the ground like a sack of lead, so I took my bag back, re-adjusted my glasses, and continued on my way.
Not five minutes later, I heard more rustling. Luckily for me, I hadn’t actually put my knife away (which was still dripping with the first man’s blood), so I was able to jab this new guy, a tanned blonde man wearing a blak domino mask and a trenchcoat like a fucking flasher, in the side when he made a leap for me with a knife of his own. He dropped it painfully, then started spouting some nonsense about how he’s on a crusade, and how I’m supplying the enemy…I didn’t feel like sticking around to listen to it, so I tried to lunge for his neck with another syringe in my left hand. This was my biggest mistake: I hardly saw the gun before I heard the deafening BANG, then felt the hot slug burrow into left arm, about half an inch superior to the trochlea. I cried ou, dropping the syringe, but luckily for me, we weren’t alone. As he was going in for another shot, the skinny guy came out of nowhere and punched him. I don’t know how he was standing, I gave him enough tranquilizers to put out an elephant. But Blondie just turned his gun on the skinnyguy, catching him in the leg. He staggered a bit and screamed, and I was about to turn adn run, but I once again found myself in the gun’s sights. But I didn’t feel like puling two bullets out of myself tonight, so I stabbed him in the chest About three times, if I remember: my mind was fogging, filling with pain and adrenaline. Sufficiently covered in the blood of three people and hearing two sets of sirens, I decided to hotfoot it out of there. I have no idea what happened to those two, but I imagine the skinny guy is having a wondreful nap in a jail cell right about now and Blondie’s watching the dragon burn so he can forget about the holes in his cesht.
I finally made it to the drop point. Ridley was waiting there impatiently, and I pulled the package out and handed it to him. I was still bleeding, and I ended up leaving a bloody handprint on the package,. He didn’t seem to mind, however, and he just asked what had happned. I could feel the first stages of shock setting in, and I tlkaed fast. Probably gave more details than I had to, but he seemed fascinated. Offerd to takeem back to his “place,” but I wasn’t interested. I belive I said something along the lines of, “I hate to cut our little meeting short, but I need to pull this bullet out of my arm before I faint from shock. Good night, sir,” before taking my leave. The trip back to the car was a blur. I changed my shirt and stopped the bleeding as best as I could, found a shady motel and got a room. Seven missed calls from August. Shit. I pulled the bullet out, shot up sme morphine, took a shower and made myself comfortable, clalled him back. Hew as in tearswhen I told him what happened. Then I logged on to make this post.
I don’t feel well, but I’m going to livr. Good night, Internet.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
I'd LOVE to tell you all what that means, in a lovely long post. But right now, I'm pissed off.
Want to know why?
Sure you do.
So, I drove back at about 4AM, parked the car, and found our little bespectacled doctor sound asleep in my bed. Snoring, actually, it was almost a shame to wake her up. She seemed to think so as well, because she elbowed me in the goddamn face. She tells me that we, a courier company, are currently keeping a psychopath locked up in our basement (HER basement), for...no pay, no thanks...
We're keeping him locked up WHY? Because we're Good Samaritans? Because Spence has a hard-on for being a big damn hero?
I guess this is basically a post to let August know I'm home safe, and he doesn't need to keep fucking calling me at all hours whining about how I never let anyone know where I am.
And it's also a post to Spencer.
I am SO not cool with this.
Get rid of the fuckup, Spence. No, I don't mean kill him, he has as much of a right to life as the rest of us.
But that's just it. We ALSO have a right to life, though you clearly have forgotten. Judging by how blatantly you are infringing on it. Not because of big ol' secrets from your past, not because this is somehow, someway for the good of the company and we should all be thankful to our glorious leader.
Until you fucking explain otherwise, you're doing this because you can.
Doc can HAVE my room. I'm sleeping in the van.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Most of the time, I try to choose my words carefully, but I don’t think any amount of waiting to “cool off” can allow me to voice my indignation in a kinder manner. Spencer, you’re the Boss and I love you to death, but you would never make it in the rental business. Evicting a faithful resident without advance notice so that you can house someone like Morningstar is poor form, and inexcusable. What the hell is wrong with you? Couldn’t you have found a better place for your new buddy to crash for the weekend?
Granted, I’m not usually one to turn down a patient, but this is ludicrous. You may have him under double locks, but consider this: if he breaks the lock on the first room, even if he doesn’t escape into the house to murder us all in our sleep, there will still be a raging madman loose in my home. I keep all of our medical supplies and records, as well as all of my belongings, in various parts of the basement. Your eagerness to toss him down there has made me think that you don’t understand why this is bad, so let me put it this way: imagine, for just a moment, that I decided to bring a rabid wolverine into the East Wing and tell you that you could not go back for a then-undetermined period of time while said rabid wolverine “detoxed.” You’d have no way of knowing if the wolverine was doing damage to your things: all you’d hear is its scratching, howling, and crying. For all you know, it’s peeing on your bed and ruining the carpets. Running its claws through the drapes, chewing on the furniture, doing unmentionable things to the horrors that lurk in that place. You would be understandably pissed, just as I am now. I slept in August’s room for part of last night, but the poor boy couldn’t sleep with me in there. I’m going to seek alternate housing until this all blows over.
I won't be far. Please don't look for me unless it's an emergency.