Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Day 5


Citadel of Tears

I have begun drawing in the notebook. These are two of the results. The first picture’s caption implies it is some sort of map, but I can find no correlation to any geographical or man-made features I have seen thus far. It may be an encoded set of coordinates, or some sort of key to a larger map, but I can’t say. The second picture appears to be of some sort of abstract construction, placed in the center of a city under heavy rain. The caption, “Torre di Lacrimae”, is a badly mangled attempt at the Latin for “Citadel of Tears”. I vaguely remember drawing these things, but I do not know where these pictures or their captions came from. For the time being, I am assuming that an external force is motivating certain aspects of my behavior, such as my sleeping patterns and these drawings.

While I was drawing last night, I could hear things moving outside this restaurant. I was careful to keep the gun close at hand, but the sounds were quiet and faded away. I have decided not to leave this building today, instead focusing my energies on exploring. I am currently going through the management office. Everything seems to be in a state of moderate decay, with-

Oh, hello.

I have just found two interesting things. The first is a calendar. It appears to be from the year 2014. That seems wrong to me, somehow. Still, for the time being I will assume that is the current year. The second item is a small generator, which I will now attempt to start.

(panting) After several unsuccessful attempts, I’ve gotten the generator to run. There appears to be enough fuel to run it for several months. I’m attempting to fire up the computer in this office to see if any more information can be gleaned from its files. As a side note, there is a bag of potato chips on the desk. I’m still not hungry, but I’m eating them anyway. They’re incredibly tasty.

The computer is up. Whoever built it didn’t bother to put a password on, and it appears to be a UNIX-based system. I’m now navigating the file system, looking for anything I might be able to use. There appear to be a cache of media files. Opening the first one now.

(a clattering noise caused by me dropping the voice recorder. Muffled sounds of scrambling, panting, and what may be screaming from the videos. More clattering as I retrieve the recorder, panting heavily) I…I won’t be watching any more of those videos. I don’t want to discuss what I saw on the one I watched, not today. I think I may now know what the things look like, the things I heard last night. I’m just wondering one thing.

Where did the bodies go?

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Day 4

My inventory has changed again. The gun now holds a full clip of 9mm hollowpoint rounds. They look…strange. Possibly modified payloads of some sort. Of special note is the fact that they do not appear to be copper or any other metal. The rounds appear to be made of stone, highly polished and slightly warm. I know this is unusual, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me. In addition, I now have three notebooks and five pens, each in a different color. It seems that I’m supposed to use these items for something. What that is is beyond me, but that…symbol from the charnel house is still in my mind.

Huh. Charnel house…unusual phrase. I don’t know how I know it.

Aside from the noted changes, the rest of my inventory is the same. I am now continuing into the city I saw yesterday. It appears to be closer to the house than anticipated, as I’m almost there after approximately ten minutes of walking. I appear to be walking along a high coastline. The ocean below is grey and seems slightly oily, its waves slow and shallow. The cliff is sheer, dropping approximately four hundred feet to sharp rocks against which the surf beats. The nearest city feature to me is what appears to be a concrete dockyard, with drydock facilities, cargo cranes, and dozens of berths large enough for supertankers. All of this is in an advanced state of decay. Concrete is crumbling, exposed rebar is rusted and flaking. There is graffiti everywhere, much of it the ordinary urban variety. In several places, though, the graffiti appears to be storytelling in nature, a form of concrete tapestry. I am now proceeding into the dockyards. I am attempting to stay near the coastline, as it is the only landmark I have right now.

There is a single ship in its berth here. It is a medium-capacity cargo hauler of the type used to transport semi truck containers. It is in a state of decay matching that of the facility, but it is somehow still afloat despite several visible rust patches which have eaten through the hull. I am not going to explore it at this time, but I am marking it down for further inspection.

(muffled sounds, as of a scuffle. Following section transcribed in dialogue style for clarity)

Me: (alarmed, openly hostile tone. I am pinning the attacker to the ground. Her face is pressed to the concrete, as I am resting my knees on her back with the gun against her skull) WHO ARE YOU?

Her: (babbling, incoherent. She spoke in a terrified, manic tone that held through our entire discussion. She is filthy, pale, and emaciated, seeming more skeleton than human. She has red hair and blue eyes, most likely of Irish descent. I estimate her age at somewhere between 17 and 22.) Nobody nobody nowhere nobody please please I see him I see the man in black the man with death in his caress the man the man-

Me: (confused, still hostile) Shut up! Tell me where I am. Tell me what’s going on!

Her: He brought you he made you he is you you are him you are a mirror he wants you you want him I want you I want to hurt you I want to END THIS SET ME FREE LET ME GO LET ME LEAVE SET ME FREE!!!!!

At this point the woman displayed improbable strength, somehow forcing herself up with enough force to hurl me approximately fifteen feet away. She came after me, growling, running on all fours like an animal. I shot her four times, discovering in the process that the bullets in my gun are in some manner incendiary. Each one exploded into purple flame upon impact, spraying high-velocity stone shards and killing the woman instantly. I dumped her body into the ocean, in case any companions of hers came looking for her. You cannot follow a trail when the first link is missing.

I have found shelter for the night in the crumbling remains of what may have been a small restaurant overlooking the dockyards. I have not observed any change in the lighting of this place yet. There is a slight breeze, but the air still seems stale and flat. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about what the woman said. Who is the “man in black”? And what does he want from me? How am I a mirror of him? Most people would dismiss the woman’s words as mad ramblings, but I am not one to dismiss any possible lead on why I am here. In any case, I’m starting to feel tired again. Before I go to sleep I’m going to open one of those notebooks and see what happens.


Sunday, September 11, 2011

Day 3

My possessions have been added to again. In addition to previously listed supplies I now possess a small tarnished key (made of silver or pewter) and what appears to be a small handgun with a single round of ammunition (Beretta M9A1, US Armed Forces standard issue). I am starting to believe someone is taunting me. I still have no idea who I am or why I am here. My only option is to explore. With this goal in mind I am about to leave this room again. All of my supplies are in my backpack, including the handgun. The only exceptions are the dog tags (which I am wearing) and the multitool, which is in my pocket.

I am proceeding down the hallway. It appears to extend approximately 50 feet past where the window’s view showed empty air. The hallway dead-ends, with the only option being a stairwell going down on the right side. I am now following it. There is a landing at the bottom that twists left. Now taking that. There are brownish smudges on the wallpaper, many purely random but some seeming to form designs. The smudges appear to be blood. For some reason, this does not worry me. The house is silent aside from my footsteps and a slight echo from my dictation. This stairwell appears to spiral down into the atrium of what was once an elegant two-story-high grand foyer, which is now in an advanced state of disrepair. Large sections of the plaster ceiling have collapsed to the floor below, the wallpaper is covered in more brown smudges, and-

(sounds of vomiting)

Sorry. There are bodies here. Dozens of them. They appear to have been in the process of some form of cannibalistic sex orgy when they were all killed by what looks like gunfire. The bodies are dessicated, almost mummified, but somehow their features are not distorted. Primary hypothesis is now that the blood on the walls was left there in the process of this orgy. I am now standing in front of the main doors. There is a message on them, written in blood. It reads:

“Even if you escape, you will never leave.
He sees all, he knows all, he hunts all.
You are His and He shall have you in the end”

Another of the circled Xes was scratched into the wood below this message by what appear to be human fingernails, each groove then filled with blood. I do not know who “He” is. Perhaps the person who brought me here. Perhaps someone else. I don’t really care at the moment. I am pushing the doors open.

I have now stepped outside. The air smells slightly acrid and bitter, but very moist. Everything is enveloped in a moderately dense fog. I appear to be on the outskirts of a small town. All details match what I saw from the window, though judging by my route down the window would have to face into the center of the house. Perhaps such things are normal. There also appears to be some form of time-distortion in effect, as even after such a seemingly short period I am tired again. I am going to attempt to walk into town before resting, but first I am going to type up these observations.

Why am I not hungry or thirsty?

Friday, September 9, 2011


Day Two

I am recording this account one day at a time. I am defining a “day” as the time period between two sleep periods. There is a single translucent window in this room, which appears to emit a steady light that does not change with the passage of time. I also found one (1) backpack, black, with a circled X burnt into the nylon main pocket’s front, made of red wax. I have filled the backpack with my possessions, and it is now sitting next to me on the bed. I also found a small digital voice recorder among my possessions which was not there yesterday. I am now using this recorder to take dictation, which I will transcribe before my next sleep period. The appearance of these new items implies that I am being actively watched. They also imply that there is at least one access route to this room that can be used without disturbing a sleeping person. I am now attempting to find it.

The room is small, approximately 8 feet by 12 feet. The walls appear to be solid, as pounding on them produces no resonance indicative of a hollow space. The door appears to be the only method of entry. Oddly, the window is set into the wall next to the door. What little I can make out through it seems to imply that I am three stories in the air. Why would someone put a door in a wall that leads outside? It makes no sense. I do not know WHY it makes no sense, but something tells me it is wrong. I am examining the door. It appears to be made of a light wood, possibly pine or even balsa. The lock mechanism and knob are tarnished brass, appearing to be quite old and disused. I didn’t find a key in the room, so I cannot attempt to unlock the door. It wouldn’t do me any good anyhow, as the lock appears to be filled with a viscous, tacky grey substance. I was able to remove a small amount using one of the screwdriver heads on my multitool. I would compare it to saltwater taffy, but grey and foul-smelling.

I will not be able to unlock the door. Picking the lock is also out of the question. The door appears to be loose on its hinges. I have no way to remove those hinges, as they appear to be on the outside of the door. I am wearing the hiking boots, and all my other materials are in my pockets or the backpack. I am going to attempt to kick the door hard enough to shatter the lock. Something tells me I am capable of this. I can somehow see precisely where to plant my foot and how hard to shove. I am attempting it now.

The door flew off its hinges. It was much easier than I’d anticipated. The hinges tore out of the rotted wood at the same moment as the lock cracked and fell out of its mount space. I am now stepping out into the hall. It extends in both directions for a surprising distance. The worn, dark wood floors are covered with a red runner. The runner is threadbare and dirty. The walls are covered in a greyish-blue wallpaper which is as dingy and decaying as the runner. This hallway shares the same air of neglect as the room I woke up in. I’m looking in both directions. Judging by the dust and disrepair, it doesn’t appear that anyone has lived here in years. Possibly decades.


My room had a window. Granted, it could have been faked, but that would be extraordinarily high-tech compared to the rest of the house. Something isn’t right here. I am walking back into the room, being careful to kick broken bits of lock out of my way. The window appears no different from before. It is a single pane of glass, frosted but slightly translucent, appearing to be old-style handmade lead glass. I am using the multitool in its folded configuration to tap on the window. Sound is consistent with visual analysis. It’s just glass, not a computer screen or projection. I am kicking the window out. Outside is a landscape consistent with any mountainous forest in the Pacific Northwest of the United States of America. The window appears to open onto a small town, which this house seems to sit on the outskirts of. The woods surround the town, with mountains dimly visible in the near distance. The entire town and surrounded areas are enveloped in a dense fog. The sun is not visible thanks to cloud cover. I have leaned out the window and verified that this is not a projection. It is reality. Yet the hallway outside crosses in front of this window, meaning I should see nothing. This seems wrong somehow. However, the evidence is plainly in front of me and I must accept it.

I do not know how long I have been awake, but I am feeling tired again. I will explore the rest of this building tomorrow.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

A List


Day One

Things currently in my possession: One (1) Gerber multitool, each blade stained with something brown that won’t scrub off. One (1) Sony VAIO F-Series laptop, running Windows 7 Ultimate 64-bit edition. Two (2) T-shirts, black, no tags. Four (4) pairs jeans, various cuts, all identifying tags removed. Three (3) pairs each bras and panties, black, plain. One (1) notebook, empty. One (1) pen, black, Uni-Ball Signature brand. Five (5) pairs ankle socks, black. One (1) pair hiking boots, black, all tags removed. One (1) pair sneakers, Converse Chuck Taylor Hi-Top brand, size tag removed. One (1) book, copyright 1893, titled “No One and Nowhere”, author one G. B. Allain. One (1) metal chain, fine, holding two (2) metal identification badges (“dog tags”) written in a language I cannot read.

Things I know about myself: I am female. I have long brown hair held in a ponytail by a knotted string. I am of average height and weight, though I am not aware of how I know what “average” is. I have facial features consistent with an individual of Asian descent, though again I do not know how I know this. I have brown eyes. I am left-handed. I appear to be proficient at typing and computer use. I have no visible scars or injuries of any kind. My hands and feet are callused, as if I spend considerable time climbing and running barefoot. I am between 25 and 29 years old.

Things I do not know: My identity. My past. How I arrived in this place. Where this place is. Why I am here.

Current location: A small bedroom, dingy as if from long misuse, mold growing up the pale yellow walls. There are rotting shelves with “my” belongings sitting on them, an old unvarnished dresser holding the clothing, and a bed, twin sized, with brass poles for headboard and footboard. The mattress is thin and smells strongly of mold. There is a single door, set directly across from the foot of the bed. It is made of wood, rotting, and appears to be locked. My efforts to turn the handle have not met with success. I must get out.