Account 17: Impostors

Background information 

• Name: Emily Hatchett
  
• Pronouns: She/her
  
• Date: August 9, 2020
  
• Occupation: Songwriter
  
• City of residence: Unknown
  
• Date(s) of account: June 2020-August 2020
  
• Subject of account: Impostors
  

 

Account

I met Klaus Hatchett when I was twenty years old. We were in college at the time, and he needed a lyricist. Over time, our professional relationship developed into a friendship. He asked me out, I said yes, and we became a steady couple.

 

Klaus proposed to me when I was twenty-three years old. I said yes. Shortly after, we found a house in our area that we liked, and it wasn't over our budget. With no real reason to move away, we've lived there ever since. Besides, it became very familiar and comfortable to us. I've always been a homebody, never one to enjoy sleeping away from home for too long at a time, and the idea of trying to adjust to a house I knew wasn't mine wouldn't work. The house was what Klaus and I had done together for years, and the longer it went on, the less I wanted to leave.

 

We were happy. We were never wealthy, but we made enough money between the two of us that we didn't have anything to complain about. And we had each other.

 

But one day in June, I woke up in a bed that didn't feel like my bed. The person next to me looked like Klaus, but the way he stared at me was nothing like my husband.

 

I tried to ignore it. I tried to go back to sleep. But I dreamed about cables entangling my body and ripping me apart, and I woke up again shortly after.

 

The bed still felt wrong, and the person I knew wasn't Klaus was still staring at me.

 

The days after that are still sharp like a knife. That was when I first had to adjust to the fact that what looked like my husband was not my husband, what looked like my home was not my home. It made me sick to my stomach. How could this thing pretend to be my Klaus?

 

Its smile was too wide. Its laughter sounded nothing like Klaus's. It didn't like the same movies he did.

 

My home's doors were too narrow. Its steps were too steep. They didn't creak when I walked on them anymore.

 

One day, I was too busy trying to tell whether its eyes were the same color as Klaus's to laugh at one of its jokes. It seemed upset, but it couldn't quite make the facial muscles work properly somehow.

 

"You used to love me," said the thing that was not Klaus.

I nodded.

"But not anymore," it said. I wasn't sure if it was a question or not.

I sighed.

It stared forward, but it was looking past me. After all, they weren't its eyes to look with. "We've been together for seventeen years, Emily. Don't give up on me now."

But our sixteenth anniversary was coming up that weekend. 

 

That was shortly after he was replaced, back in June. In the months since then, "Klaus" and I grew more and more distant. It still pretended to be my husband. It still seemed concerned about me. But I could tell it wasn't. Its face didn't look right. It was wearing Klaus's flesh, but it didn't know how to play the part.

 

Maybe it wanted me to realize something is wrong. Maybe it already replaced everything else in the world and it just wants to tip me off to how deep it all goes, make me question everything. After all, if it replaced my home and my partner, what other skins could it wear? I don't look nearly as closely at most things as I do Klaus and my home. It could have replaced many things without my knowing.

 

For months, I did not know what it was. I knew it was neither who nor what it pretended to be, but I did not know what lies behind my husband's face and my home's facade. 

 

Earlier in August, though, I found something. 

 

I was looking for a cake knife- there were butter knives upstairs, and I always carry a pocket knife, but obviously those aren't the kinds of knife you use to cut cake. It wasn't anywhere I could think of, so I decided to check the basement.

 

There were rows and rows of cardboard boxes and plastic bins that I had never seen before down there. They all bore vague labels like "DECORATIONS" or "FOR LATER."

 

I couldn't find anything that sounded like it might include any cake knives, so I went deeper into the basement, trying to see if the boxes I remembered were down there.

 

I didn't find them. Instead, I found that the basement was getting stranger and stranger. The floor was cold even through my socks and shoes, but the air felt warmer and warmer the further I got. The drywall was peeling off in pieces, revealing metal. It proved to be cold to the touch, though the air was oppressively stale and warm by that point.

 

Finally, I reached the end of the basement.

 

It took far longer than it should have.

 

The furnace stood, tall and metal, with a network of pipes extending out from it. The air was unbearably hot.

 

Sitting in front of the furnace was a baby doll I had never seen before. It was old and worn with age. As I picked it up to examine it, I felt something resist me. There were thin metal cables, too many to count, extending from its back and reaching into the furnace, keeping it bound in place.

 

I dropped it in surprise when it started laughing in the voice of the thing pretending to be Klaus. 

 

I turned around to see the thing that was not Klaus standing over me. It was taller than it should have been.

 

"Oh, Emily," it said, shaking its head. "You should've left this place while you still could. All this, and for what? A knife?"

I felt cold metal wires wrap themselves around my arms and legs. 

"What are you?" I asked as I struggled against the cables.

"Any answer you could understand would be an oversimplification." It laughed. "If you want, though, you can call me Klaus."

"Stop using his name."

"You're in no position to give orders." It leaned in and tilted its head. "What a curious little thing you are," it said, examining me. "Such ferocity, and yet for nothing."

"Give him back."

 "I'm afraid that won't be possible," it said, stepping back. "He's not here anymore." It shook its head. "Just me. And you, of course."

More wires grew out of the walls and floor of the thing that was no longer my house, covering me.

"I'm going to kill you."

"You may certainly try." It smiled. "It's no matter. I really must be going now."

 

It walked away, but when it looked back at me, it smiled with Klaus's face.

 

At that moment, I remembered how much Klaus- the real Klaus- meant to me.

 

Klaus and I met when he needed a lyricist for his band in college. I was an aspiring poet, so I agreed to help him out. Looking back, the reason why was pretty obvious. He'd never had a way with words, as per his own admittance, although he was such a kind person I didn't mind. He'd always credited me very publicly for my work, always gave me opportunities to do more in the band if I was interested, always supported and encouraged me when I worked on my own projects. It was only natural that we became friends, and from there, we started going on dates, and from there, we got married.

 

He was perfect, and this thing was wearing him like a suit.

 

I wasn't scared anymore. I was angry.

 

The wires loosened their grip on me, letting me fall to the floor. I picked myself up, quietly walked over to the thing that wasn't Klaus, and punched it in the back of the neck.

 

It fell over, but its head turned around jerkily to look at me, just a little further than a human head should be able to turn. It got up and grabbed me by the throat, but I took my pocket knife and stabbed it in the leg. A fluid poured out that wasn't blood.

 

"I'm not scared of you anymore."

Its eyes widened. "No," it said. "No, you're not."

 

It dropped me onto the floor.

The air grew cool again, and the floor was no longer ice-cold. It was as if a presence had gone away in the house.

 

I haven't been back there since then. But I won't give that thing the satisfaction of seeing me run away. I've found a new home, and I'm not leaving it unless it chases me here.

I'm not scared of it anymore. 

 

Analysis  

This is interesting. It may just be because there are so few accounts where the person giving the account isn't scared by the end, but I haven't seen any before this where losing your fear allows you to resist the effects of the supernatural.

 

Mind you, it's hard to say what this actually means, given that Alex and I were unable to do any meaningful follow-up to confirm or dispute this account. Emily was understandably unwilling to give us her husband's contact information, though she did provide us with confirmation of her time in prison for assaulting him with a knife, time she apparently didn't feel worth noting in her account. Unsurprisingly, we couldn't find official reports that he bled motor oil or battery acid instead of blood.

 

It's superficial, but I'm reminded of Account 08. Still, the fact that two different people sent in stories about people being replaced or controlled by mechanical being doesn't prove much when it comes to credibility.

 

Lots of dead ends. The only thing clear to me right now is Harold Miller, and I don't know what to do about him.

Account 16: Rotten Food

Background information

• Name: Mark Pendras
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: June 10, 2020
  
• Occupation: Delivery worker
  
• City of residence: Anchorage, Alaska
  
• Date(s) of account: June 2019-May 2020
  
• Subject of account: Rotten food

Account

Do you have ant season in Atkins?

I know that's probably a stupid question, but I almost never hear people talking about it. I guess it's just natural enough that nobody pays it any mind. You know- summer starts, and ants start laying eggs in any house where the owners can't find the nests.

It was a lot worse when I was a kid, since, as my parents often pointed out, we lived in an old home. I think it was from the 50s or 60s. Point is, now that I've moved to Anchorage, Alaska for a job, I don't tend to get quite as many ants as I used to.

Then sometime in June of 2019, as I was about to pour my morning coffee into a mug, a huge black ant crawled out of it. I nearly smashed it, I was so surprised. Instead, I took a deep breath and went to grab some paper towel so I could pick up the ant and put it outside. When I went back to get the ant, it was twitching, but otherwise still.

I ended up putting it in the garbage instead of taking it outside. It was obviously dead.

Later that week, I went on a camping trip with my boyfriend, Caleb Barker. We were driving a ways away from our apartment building, so after an hour or two, we stopped at a drive-through to get some fast food. I wasn't very hungry at that point, but after a while, I decided to open up my food.

The bun was moldy, and the meat was rotten. I stared at it for a second. Something black appeared in the moldy bread, and after a second it became clear that it was an ant.

I didn't mention it to Caleb. Gross as it was, I didn't think it was that important, and he's the kind of person who would go back and complain about it. I just wrapped up the burger and threw it away at the next rest stop, where I got some candy and soda from the vending machines.

It went on like that for weeks. Some of my food and dishes would be fine, but the rest would be covered in ants, moldy, rotten, whatever. There was never a pattern, a clear reason why it happened. It just did.

I didn't tell Caleb about it at first. He and I hadn't moved in together yet at that point, so it wasn't like he knew about it. And the thing is, it only happened when I was about to eat something. If I had him over, the food he ate and dishes he used were always fine.

One day, a month after it first started, Caleb and I were eating together. I'd checked the food over and over to make sure it was fine, but as we were eating, he gasped. I paused and looked down at the meat on my fork. It was rotten through.

At that point, I finally explained what was going on.

He played it methodically. He made sure I was keeping my food refrigerated, rinsing off my dishes, all that. I told him it didn't seem to matter what I did. It just kept happening, even when I was eating at a restaurant.

Caleb ended up moving in for unrelated reasons, and while it was nice to have someone to check I wasn't about to eat anything spoiled, it didn't help much otherwise. And things got worse over time. The longer it lasted, the worse it got. It was gradual, but there. By September or December, it got to the point where almost none of the food I tried to eat was still clean by the time it reached my mouth. I got so hungry that at times I had to ignore the rot just to stay alive. It tasted about as good as you'd expect.

I had to start taking a lot of vitamins once the iron deficiency started leading to night terrors. Really, I should've taken them before that, but that's when it really hit me how little nutrition I was getting. Fortunately, drinks were never affected by whatever force was targeting me, so I had a lot of instant breakfasts, though they're not particularly filling. I spent a long time hungry like that.

At one point a friend of mine asked if I wanted to get lunch with her. I'm a bad liar, so I got halfway through my excuses before it became clear that she wasn't buying it. I didn't know what to tell her- that food just rots away around me? Sure, the concept's simple enough to explain, but it's not exactly something that comes up for most people. So I agreed.

And what little food I had ordered wasn't rotten.

The food was fine. Not too strange in its own right, but it really weirded me out for a second. What was I supposed to take from this? That there was still a one-in-a-million chance that my food wouldn't go rotten if I just got really lucky? That it was over? That I'd imagined the whole stupid thing in the first place?

That night at dinner, I asked Caleb if I could have a bit of his food, just enough to test whether it would turn rotten. It didn't. I got some more food from the kitchen. Still good when I ate it.

It was over.

I didn't know why, but it was over.

It was hard not to associate food with disease. Even after it was over, it took me a good deal of time to adjust to eating when I got hungry, rather than ignoring my hunger. In fact, it was only last month, probably May 10th or so, that I first decided to eat ice cream since things changed back. Up to that point, I hadn't eaten anything I didn't absolutely have to.

The container was empty. There was an ant in it, and there were hundreds of tiny black ants surrounding it. As I watched, they moved away from the larger ant, which was completely still. Less and less of the ant remained the more the smaller ones took from it.

At that point, I remembered something my mom had told me when I was younger: ants come back for their own.

I threw it in the trash.

It's hard to say how things will be from now on. It hasn't been that long since those ants showed up. So far, it seems like things are getting steadily worse again.

I don't know what will happen. I'm just scared.

And I'm so hungry.

Analysis

I'm not sure what to say about this. Theoretically, assuming this account is true, there's nothing to suggest supernatural involvement, but just writing it all off as a coincidence seems... unlikely.

Now, as to whether or not this account is actually true, that is another matter.

I was able to get in contact with Pendras, and Alex with Barker, on June 17. The results were not particularly enlightening: Pendras stands by his word but was unable to give further details, except to say that he still thinks the incidents surrounding him are getting worse again. Barker, meanwhile, agreed with Pendras's account, adding that he's worried for Pendras, who has been severely malnourished for some time now as a result of his prolonged refusal to eat more frequently.

Of course, Barker is not exactly an unbiased source, but Pendras declined to give the contact information of anyone else who might be able to corroborate his account. Evidently, once he realized he would be unable to hide his current state from others, he cut ties with many of them.

I'm worried for him, but there's very little I can do.

Maybe I shouldn't have taken on this job. It's not like it pays any better than working at a fast food place like I do now, as low a bar as that is.

But I feel like I have to. I just don't know why.

Account 15: Corruption

Background information

• Name: Cal Miller
• Pronouns: She/her
  
• Date: May 12, 2020
  
• Occupation: College student
  
• City of residence: Robin, Michigan
  
• Date(s) of account: 2016-2020
  
• Subject of account: A book by Richard Farrow
  

 

Interview transcript 

THOMAS WAKE: Testing, 1, 2, 3...

CAL MILLER: You're sure about this?

THOMAS: You can write it down if you'd prefer.

CAL: No, it's fine, I'll just say it. I mean, you're already recording.

So, it started off back in 2016. You already know what happened to my dad- I mean, Peter, Peter Hail, I mean, he gave you that account, and that's how I found out about this whole... project... thing.

 

See, my dad- um, I'm supposed to use full names, I guess, so Harold Miller- he was off hunting deer, and my mom, Lily Miller, was staying home with me. We decided to start cleaning the house, since it was starting to get a bit, you know- a bit crappy. Thought it would make a nice surprise for when he got home. Partway through, Mom asked if I wanted her to go pick up some fast food and bring it back, and that sounded pretty good to me.

 

I was 15, so it wasn't like I'd never been home alone before, but I was still a little nervous. I decided to just keep cleaning until Mom got back to take my mind off being alone. I ended up finding this box full of old books while I was down in the basement. Most of them were books from when I was a kid that my parents were too attached to get rid of, but there were also some books I assumed were Mom's, books on ancient mythology and stuff. I think one of them was called Prometheus Bound. They all looked really old, and some of them practically looked like they were about to fall apart.

There was one book in particular that looked really dusty, but I could tell it was paperback, and that it was called The Pallid Mask, by R. Farrow. Its condition wasn't as bad as a lot of the other books, and it was right on top, so I carefully picked it up and opened it. There was a bookplate that said "Library of Matthias Clark" on the inside, and the paper was yellow. I checked the page that listed publishing information. Apparently it was only from 2008.

As soon as I started actually reading it, I knew I had to read to the end. I didn't really understand why, though. I mean, the book wasn't all that exciting. It was this romantic play set in... Victorian England, maybe? I've never been too good with history, but the main character, Lord Scott, was an aristocrat, and it mentioned street lamps a few times, so I don't think it could've been much earlier or later than that.

Anyways, before the start of the second act, there was a poem that I can still remember:

"Beware the man
Who is not,
For he brings madness
And festering rot."

There was an illustration below it of someone, who must have been the man the poem was talking about, wearing robes and a mask. He was starting to take off the mask. It was hard to make out what was behind the mask, but it had the outline of a face, at least. The hand was really bony, and the more I looked, the worse it got. It was like no matter how closely I examined it, there were always scabs or bruises or something I hadn't noticed earlier.

I started to read the second act after that. It was... different, somehow. I really couldn't say how. I mean, the story was still continuing, but there was something off about it. The dialogue was kind of stilted after that. Lord Scott and his love interest, Camilla, got together at the end of the second act.

In the third act, Lord Scott was at home with Camilla, and he heard a knock at the door. Lord Scott was about to send one of his servants to open the door for him, but he wasn't there. Lord Scott looked around, and Camilla had disappeared too. The weird thing is, he didn't seem surprised. He just walked to the door. There was a person standing there, wearing tattered yellow robes. Lord Scott started to say something to his visitor, who he called "messenger," but the messenger just shook their head and said that it was "high time he sought the King." Lord Scott started protesting, and just like the first time, the messenger cut him off.

The messenger asked Lord Scott if he remembered what happened to the three people who had defied the King. Lord Scott started to answer, but the messenger put their finger to their mouth, and he stopped talking. So the messenger kept telling their story.

There were three people: a farmer, a soldier, and a priest. I think the farmer kept pigs, the soldier had a pet snake, and the priest had a pet bird. One day, the King summoned the three of them to his palace, but none of them had gifts for him like he wanted. The farmer said he didn't know what to bring. The soldier spat on the ground and said he hated the King. The priest didn't say anything as the King turned to look at him. He just kept stroking his pet bird.

The King had them executed. Nobody knew what happened to their bodies.

Lord Scott was shaking at this point. The messenger laughed quietly and left. The rest of the third act was just Lord Scott, alone, trying to decide whether or not to visit the King, and what gift he should take if he did.

I never got to see whether he finally left for the King's castle. Before I could, I heard the basement door open behind me. I just about fell over- I'd completely forgotten about Mom by that point, and I figured I must not have heard her drive up to the house. I turned around and saw that she looked like she'd been crying.

I'd, uh, I'd rather not go into details here.

THOMAS: No, by all means.

CAL: Thanks.

(Cal sighs)

Point is, Dad disappeared. He just vanished while he was out hunting with his friend Peter. Peter Hail, I mean, the one who gave you his account.

It was hard. Of course it was. I mean, I didn't have a dad anymore. Nobody should have to go through that as a 15-year-old. That's not supposed to happen. You're not supposed to... to feel that absence in your life where you know a person is supposed to be, like they're just out of sight, and you just have to spot them and everything will be back to normal. And it was even worse because we didn't even know what happened to him.

I still hadn't really processed everything when I looked out my bedroom window one night and saw someone looking back.

Whoever was staring at me seemed to disappear as soon as I caught sight of them. I couldn't tell who they were, or even what they looked like. All I could tell is that they were dressed in white from head to toe.

In the years since then, I've seen glimpses of the stranger who watches me constantly. He wears white priest's clothing, and his eyes look like he's staring right into you, like he sees everything you've ever done, you know? But his expression is so hollow. He never smiles or frowns or anything. He just watches. And waits. And he's everywhere, and you can never escape him, and he shows up in your dreams and he stares, and...

I'm sorry. I'm getting kind of upset.

THOMAS: It's okay. Take your time.

CAL: Right.

(Cal sighs.)

Right.

So, like I was saying, I keep dreaming about this man. I don't know who he is, but sometimes, at night, when I think about how much I miss Dad, and I finally get to sleep, I dream about that priest just standing there, watching me from all the places Dad used to be.

You know, there's this song, Holland 1945. It's by Neutral Milk Hotel, and one of the lyrics is something about a "dark brother wrapped in white." I think about it a lot.

THOMAS: I can see why.

CAL: Yeah. Anyways, I just... I just miss Dad a lot. And I'm scared.

(Cal clears her throat.)

Okay, um, that's everything.

(A pause.)

THOMAS: I'm- God. I'm sorry.

CAL: Don't feel sorry for me. I'm doing enough of that for both of us.

(Cal laughs.)

THOMAS: Well, in that case... thank you, I suppose.

CAL: Don't mention it.

(Cal's phone buzzes.)

I should go. Girlfriend's here.

(A pause.)

Thanks. Felt good to get that off my chest.

(Cal walks away and opens the door.)

See ya.

THOMAS: Right. Have a nice day.

(Cal laughs.)

CAL: Sure. You too.

(The door closes behind Cal.)

THOMAS: Right. So, that was... certainly something.

We've established at this point that Matthias Clark is a name worth keeping track of. As to R. Farrow, I actually own a book by someone called Richard Farrow, a book called Chronicles of the King. I picked it up at a second-hand bookstore a few years ago because the cover looked interesting.

After hearing Cal's story, I'm suddenly grateful I have too many books to actually read all of them. I don't want to think about what another Farrow story about the King would do if you read it.

Account 14: Night Drives

Background information

• Name: Avery Waters
• Pronouns: They/them
  
• Date: May 13, 2020
  
• Occupation: Musician
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: 2015
  
• Subject of account: A trip from Atkins, Michigan to Chicago, Illinois
  

Account

My name's Avery Waters. My family's from Atkins, but my sister Haley moved to Chicago back in 2011, so I drive there every summer to visit. It's kind of a long drive from the Upper Peninsula down to Chicago and back, but I don't mind that much.

The main problem is that it tends to be night by the time I get there. When I was a kid, I always loved night drives, but that's just because I wasn't the one trying to drive when everything's dark and half the people on the road don't even use their brights. As long as you're playing music, it's not that bad, really. I'm fond of indie music myself. Acoustic guitar over a guy singing quietly about someone he broke up with, you know, that kind of stuff.

Anyways, the point is that something weird happened when I drove to Haley's place in 2015. It all started when it began to get dark. Since it was in summer, probably July, that only happened around 8 or 9 at night. I wouldn't know for sure, because when I glanced at the car's clock, the screen was completely blank.

I was still on the highway by that point. No stop signs, no traffic lights. I couldn't exactly pause to check my phone, so I just kept driving.

Eventually, I noticed a rest stop, one of those janky little spots you see with some vending machines and some dirty bathrooms and nothing else. When I parked my car and looked at my phone, it didn't display a time. I checked the clock app. It was gone. I didn't even think you could delete the clock app, and I definitely didn't remember doing so. I tried downloading it again, but as you may have guessed by now, there were no results, first-party or otherwise. I was pretty confused at this point, so I decided to head into the rest stop. There were no clocks inside, and nobody else was there- not before I went into the bathroom, not inside, not after I came back out. The whole place was empty.

At this point, I was freaking out a little. I got back in my car, and as I was parked in an empty lot, I texted Haley to tell her what was going on. After a second or two, she texted back saying it was 8 at night and asking what I was talking about. I sent her a screenshot of my phone to show her that it didn't show what time it was, and she told me my phone said it was 10 in the morning.

I didn't understand. Was she messing with me? Why could she read it when I couldn't? Why did it say it was the same time it had been when I started driving?

She asked where I was. I told her I was at a rest stop somewhere in Illinois and asked her to wait a second while I checked the GPS on my phone.

I didn't bother seeing if I could find another app where I could check my location when I saw that the map was gone. I sent Haley a screenshot of a phone screen without a map and explained what was going on. It didn't even surprise me when she asked what I meant about the map being gone, when she said she could see it right between the clock and calculator icons.

I told Haley we could sort everything out when I got to her place. She asked if I'd arranged some kind of surprise visit. She said I hadn't said anything about coming over.

I was sure by this point that she was messing with me, or maybe even trying to gaslight me- trying to make me think I was losing my grip on reality so she could manipulate me.

But that wasn't it. She couldn't have deleted my apps and disabled my car's time display remotely. Not to be mean, but half the time she forgets her computer password. Something else was going on, I just had no idea what it could've been.

I waited there in my car seat for God knows how long, just trying to figure out what to do. Eventually, I shut my phone off, buckled up, and left a parking lot that I was sure had been empty as long as I'd been there, though as I looked around, I saw cars stationed firmly in the other parking spaces and people leaving the rest stop.

The road signs were still there as I drove. They were the same signs they'd always been. But I knew I had to turn around and go home when my phone's GPS told me to turn onto Jedidiah Drive, a road that I know for sure does not exist.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I started crying when my lights turned off on their own. When I turned them back on, I wasn't on a highway anymore. Now I was on a dirt road that white text on a green sign identified as Jedidiah Drive.

At this point, I was too tired to even think about what I was doing. I just drove until I saw a house.

It wasn't my sister's, of course. I'd never seen it in my life- it was white, modern, more window than house. It looked much more well-kept than its grassy, overgrown surroundings, sheets of rusted metal scattered about. It didn't belong there any more than I did.

I turned my phone on and took it with me as I prepared to walk up to this stranger's home for reasons I didn't quite understand, my eyes still red but my mind too frayed to keep crying.

As I stepped out of the car and walked up to the porch, I idly wondered when the music had stopped playing.

I knocked on the door. There was no response. I was just about to knock again when the door opened. There was a tall, thin woman standing before me. She was wearing a black T-shirt with some kind of mathematical formula on it. There was a key written beneath it, labeling what each number and variable meant, but I didn't understand any of it.

She asked if she could help me, but her voice sounded wrong somehow.

There was something about looking at her eyes that made my head hurt. I tried not to make eye contact as I asked if she knew what time it was.

She told me it was 8 at night and asked if that was all.

No, I said, and then I asked if she was Dr. Mira Solomon. I'd never heard the name in my life.

She laughed in a way that made my ears feel like they were bleeding as she asked if I was familiar with her work.

I almost asked what she meant, but before I could, I remembered.

Well, I didn't exactly remember it, since I hadn't known in the first place. But I knew exactly who she was now, and I felt very afraid.

She had been a physicist researching the many worlds hypothesis. But there was this one formula, the same formula written on her shirt- I don't even know what it represented, but apparently she'd gotten obsessed with it.

One night, while she was working, she only realized she had fallen asleep when she woke up. But the formula was solved. It was complete.

It didn't matter to the world she found herself in. Nobody knew her there. Her coworkers didn't recognize her, and when she went home to her apartment, she found only confused strangers.

Even as Dr. Mira Solomon tried to find work and housing in a world that did not know she existed, she kept having dreams about that formula, dreamed of numbers twisting into impossible shapes and letters forming strange fractals. She walked through a landscape that should not have been each and every time she went to sleep. Eventually, she couldn't separate her dreams from her reality, and it broke her.

Dr. Solomon laughed as she watched my face with impossible eyes. I think she'd been laughing the whole time. She waved goodbye as I walked, drained and empty, back to my car.

Don't even ask me how I got to Haley's house after that. My memories are fuzzy at this point. But I got there, somehow, and when I did, she didn't remember any of the messages we'd exchanged earlier that night. Both of our phones confirmed her story. By that point, I didn't feel like considering the possibility that she was lying or that she'd deleted the texts we'd sent one another. That wasn't how that night worked.

I don't blame you if you don't believe this. I barely believe it either. I mean, how can I? All of it's true, but none of it happened.

Analysis

Avery Waters left their phone number at the end of the email. I called them around a week ago asking if they'd be interested in a follow-up. All I heard on the other end was an automated voice saying "Turn left onto Jedidiah Drive," and then silence for a few seconds, at which point the same automated voice as before said, "You have arrived at your destination."

Searching the name Mira Solomon gets no results that seem particularly relevant, even when narrowed down to "Dr. Mira Solomon," "Doctor Mira Solomon," or "Mira Solomon PhD." This isn't entirely surprising, given the nature of this account- after all, supposedly, she doesn't exist. Or comes from another reality. Or... something. The whole thing is confused. On the one hand, that's sort of the point. On the other hand, that also makes this account very difficult to look into.

I, for one, have never heard of a Jedidiah Drive in Michigan. There are some results that crop up, but the vague nature of this account means it's hard to get specific enough to be particularly helpful.

I can't say I blame Waters, though. This entire experience sounds like it would've been exhausting, assuming they went through it as they say they did. (Or, well, assuming they didn't go through it as they said they didn't.)

I'm almost reminded of Antigonish by Hughes Mearns:

"Yesterday upon the stair

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.

Oh how I wish he'd go away."

One way or another, I'm really not sure what to make of all of this. That's not exactly surprising, though, is it?

Account 13: Restoration

Background information

• Name: Martin Flint
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: May 2, 2020
  
• Occupation: Construction worker
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: December 20, 2019
  
• Subject of account: The restoration of the Pierre Museum of Art
  

Account

My name's Martin Flint. I'm a construction worker from here in Atkins. See, I worked on one of the buildings that got struck by lightning back in September 2019, and the other day, a friend of mine told me about the message you got from someone else whose restaurant was destroyed.

That September was a hard time for everyone, of course, but it gave me and my friends a lot to do. Among other things, the Pierre Museum of Art- which I see you've already gotten a message about as well- was destroyed, and I was one of the people who worked on restoring it.

There's not a lot to talk about with the restoration itself. We waited a few weeks, maybe a month, for the museum staff to recover anything they could, and then we got to work: laid bricks, put in doors, pretty standard stuff.

It broke my heart knowing how much got destroyed in the storm, it really did. I may not have the look of someone who enjoys going to art museums, but I like to educate myself when I can make time for it, and that museum's been free to visit since the first time my dad took me there when I was 4 years old.

I'm getting off-topic. Point is, every day from September to December, I worked on restoring the Pierre Museum of Art- weekends excluded, of course. We started with the lobby, but that was pretty quick, so soon enough, we moved onto restoring the area that would house the main attraction. Naturally, that meant Pierre's sculptures, as well as the few paintings that could still be displayed.

Given how widespread the damage was throughout Atkins after the storms hit, the company couldn't spare a lot of workers for the Pierre Museum of Art. What that means is that most days, it was just me and a few of the other guys working there. That was the case on the night of December 20.

See, here's the thing. Something really strange happened that night.

It was cold. I mean, of course it was, it was the middle of December and the building we were standing in was half-finished. But something about it was different. I really don't know how to explain it- the cold was just different. It was definitely worse than usual, even with the coat I was wearing. I could tell everyone else there could feel it too.

A friend of mine, Jack Arden, kept trying to talk to me about who-knows-what, but he could barely say a word with how bad he was shivering. Eventually he gave up and took out a notepad, wrote something on it, and handed it over to me. It said something like "want me to go get some food?" or something like that. I just nodded, so he took it from me headed outside, leaving me to work alone in the museum.

At some point, I realized that I hadn't heard the sound of Jack's car starting up outside.

He never bothered parking in the lot, just drove right up to the section of the museum we were working on, so I should've heard it. I turned around and walked to the section of wall where Jack's car should've been. I couldn't see it, so I figured I must've just tuned out the noise of his car driving off. I mean, I can get pretty concentrated when I'm working on a job, if I may say so myself. It wasn't all that unlikely.

Still, Jack wasn't there. He wasn't there even though I knew, as much as I tried to convince myself that I had forgotten or simply not noticed, that his car had never left.

I took a slow breath in and began working again. But I could hear something coming from the back of the exhibit. It was quiet at first, but the louder it got, the more certain I felt that it was church music. Well, not church music exactly- a choir. I turned around and held my flashlight steady, but I didn't see anyone there, or anything else that explained it.

As I looked, I got this really weird feeling. It was like someone or something was looking back.

I breathed in and turned around. I started to work. But I couldn't stop that feeling that something was staring at me, and after a while, I finally turned back.

There was a statue standing there. The Seer in Stone, by Charles Pierre.

I shivered, from cold just as much as fear. See, this statue had been destroyed in the lightning strike that had burned down the museum. It was the only statue of Pierre's that hadn't made it, because a bolt of lightning had struck it directly, shattering it to pieces.

So why was it standing thirty feet in front of me?

The right arm of the stone monk should have been placed in front of his hooded face, palm facing outwards. But instead it was reaching towards me, like it was beckoning to me. I took a long breath in and backed away, but it felt like something was holding me there, forcing me to stare at him.

I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned around, thinking Jack must've come back with food, but he wasn't there. That was when I realized it wasn't Jack who had called my name.

I didn't want to look back at the statue, but that force was pulling on me, making my head turn around.

The monk's pose had changed. His hands were placed on his hood, and I swear I saw him start to pull it back as the invisible strings let me go and I fell onto the floor.

When I got up again, the monk was gone. I started to leave the building, but as I headed out the door, I saw Jack's car pulling up outside.

Jack could tell something was up with me, but I didn't care. I was just glad that someone else was there and the statue was gone.

But sometimes, when I'm alone and everything else is silent, I think I can hear a choir singing, and I get the feeling someone is staring at me.

Analysis

Another account that mentions Charles Pierre and his Seer in Stone. One that reads very similarly to the first, at that. I'd like to think that Flint simply read the account of Diane Richter and decided to copy it. Something tells me I'm being too optimistic, but that's only a hunch, and one I very much hope is wrong.

Account 12: Eye of the Storm

Background information

• Name: Unknown
• Pronouns: Unknown
  
• Date: April 30, 2020
• Occupation: Former café owner, current restaurant worker
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: 2019-current
  
• Subject of account: An employee's unusual behavior
  

Account
It all started when the weather turned stormy in September 2019. I remember finding it weird because that was around the time of year that it usually starts getting snowy out, but it was raining and thundering almost constantly. That, and there were birds out all the time, even the kinds I'm pretty sure are supposed to fly south for the winter. It was minor at first, a pigeon here, a robin there, but eventually it got to the point where every power line seemed to be covered in crows, and they all seemed to stare at you as you walked by. I actually got attacked by crows at one point, although I ended up okay.

That was around the time one of my employees started acting strangely. He'd always been a pretty reclusive sort whenever there weren't customers around, although I'm not sure if he noticed how aware I was of this fact, but this was when he went from shy to really paranoid. I mean, he was just constantly looking around with this panicked look on his face, like he thought someone was following him or something. At one point, I asked him what was wrong, and he stared at me like a deer in the headlights. He said he felt sick and had to go, and the guy just bolted right out the door.

It was the morning of November 30 when everything went wrong. As I drove to my restaurant, I saw smoke rising in the distance. I became more and more worried the closer I got. My suspicions were confirmed when I came within view of the restaurant and saw police officers standing around the ruined husk of my restaurant.

It was explained to me that my restaurant had been struck by lightning the night before, that it was just an unfortunate accident but that my insurance probably covered it. That was all I really caught, because partway through, my attention shifted to my employee. He was standing there, staring really intensely at the restaurant, with his hands in his coat pockets. His eyes, which were usually brown, were this pale blue color. It made his gaze even more striking. I thought maybe he'd gotten colored contacts. It seemed like the kind of thing he'd do. Still, it was a little unsettling.

I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and turned to see a flock of crows flying out of the restaurant as it burned, though they seemed perfectly fine. When I turned back to my employee, I saw that he was looking up at the crows too. He looked freaked-out and shook his head a little, like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't seeing what he was seeing. He turned his back to the restaurant and started to walk away, though he turned back a few times as though to check nothing had changed since his last glimpse at the restaurant.

Everything proceeded normally after that, or at least as normally as it could have. I ended up working at my friend Barry's place- which felt like a bit of a step down from owning my own restaurant, but whatever- and using the insurance money from the restaurant burning down to save up a bit to hopefully reopen it. It just really opened my eyes to how much of your life can be destroyed in one fell swoop, one bolt of lightning, you know?

But even that hasn't lasted.

I think my employee's started stalking me. I mean, whenever it storms out, I'll look and he'll just be standing outside my window, or sitting at a table in Barry's, even if he hadn't been there a moment before the weather turned bad. It's really messing me up. Every time it starts getting stormy, he'll just show up out of nowhere. He never seems to get wet from rain, or cold from snow, or scared by lightning. And there are crows surrounding him constantly, too, which is really weird- I mean, it's not like the guy ever liked crows. They've always seemed to freak him out too much for him to feed them. But ever since the day the two of us saw the burned-out restaurant, they're always there, staring at me just as intently as he is.

I've called the police, but nothing's ever come of it. It seems like he can just kind of disappear and reappear whenever he wants. That's why I'm talking to you about all this- people aren't really supposed to be able to do that, after all. Point is, each time I think I can almost get the police to show up in time for him, he'll just vanish. It makes me feel so helpless.

I don't know what he's planning to do. Maybe he doesn't have any plans, just wants to creep me out. Well, if that's the case, it's working.

I keep having nightmares about being carried away by thousands of birds, seeing the ground so far below as it's raining and thundering, bolts of lightning arcing from their wings.

They are so many, and I am so small.

Analysis
For once, we have an anonymous account that I can actually verify. However, to protect my source's privacy, I don't plan on explaining the specifics of my verification process. Suffice it to say that everything Alex and I could find confirms this account as far as mundane details go, although obviously no newspapers have published anything about a man surrounded by crows and able to teleport.

Unfortunately, I don't think Alex and I could really do much to help here, given the nature of this particular account. For now, it would probably be best for us to focus on our own issues, namely Harold Miller- or what's left of him, anyways.

Account 11: Graveyard Shift

Background information

• Name: Trent Moore
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: April 10, 2020
• Occupation: Security guard at St. Cedd Cemetery
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: 2020
• Subject of account: The journal of Erika Thorne
  

Account
My name is Trent Moore. I'm a security guard working the night shift at St. Cedd Cemetery.

Now, my job can be pretty boring. You don't get a lot of folks trying to steal from the graveyard after dark, you know? Maybe the occasional kid trying to vandalize things, but that's about it. So I tend to bring books to entertain myself. My favorites are spy thrillers, the kinds that popped up a lot in the 80s, when everyone was terrified of getting nuked by Russia. Trashy, I'll admit, but fun.

I'm rambling. The point is, the other night, I brought a book with me, but when I took it out to start reading, it wasn't the book I'd taken. Instead, it looked like a small journal with a black cover. Confused as I was, I opened it up and started reading.

The words are hard to read- look like they were written really quickly- so I'm going to write it down here myself instead of just attaching a picture.

"Trent Moore-

It's me, your partner. Erika Thorne.

"Today, I saw someone pacing around the graveyard. I hadn't seen them enter, but there they were, placing a poppy on one of the graves. I moved towards them to explain that they could come again tomorrow during business hours, but they just turned to stare at me. At least, it looked like they were staring at me, and it certainly felt like they could see me clearly, but they were wearing a blindfold. They stood up slowly, revealing that they were much taller than I'd realized, though it was hard to make out their frame below the overcoat they wore.

"I turned to you, Trent, but you didn't seem to notice anything was wrong. So I turned back to the person in the blindfold.

"'Who are you?' I asked.
"They sighed. 'Nobody at all.'

"I woke up and realized I'd dreamed it. I went about my day as normal, though for some reason I half-expected to see the person in the blindfold. When the time came to head over to the graveyard, I made absolutely certain that nobody came in. I must've gotten caught-up trying to tear you away from whatever goofy book you'd brought with you today, because I turned around, and there was the person in the blindfold, sitting on the same grave as in the dream the night before.

"The person in the blindfold looked up at me as soon as I registered who they were, and they shook their head.

"'Soon you'll be nobody too.'

"And with that, I woke up again. I was starting to feel a little shaken by this point. As soon as I got to the graveyard, I just stood by the gates and stared, ignoring everything you asked me.

"I heard a cough from behind me. When I turned around, it was exactly who you think it was. They were standing right behind me. There was something in their hand.

"'Here. I have something for you,' they said, handing me a poppy. It was the same sickly color as the poppy they'd placed on the grave. 'A housewarming gift, of sorts.'
"'What do you mean?' I asked as I turned it around in my hand. For some reason, I got more convinced the more I looked at it that it was the same exact poppy as I'd seen earlier.
"'I mean nothing at all.' They shook their head. 'No, all I mean is that I believe you will find yourself spending quite a bit of time here in the foreseeable future.'
"'Here?' I asked, pointing at the ground.
"They nodded.

"There was silence as the person in the blindfold regarded me. Then, without warning, they placed their hands behind their head and loosened it.

"What I saw behind that blindfold is... difficult to explain. It's hard to even think about. It was like my life flashing before my eyes, but it wasn't just my life, it was the entire universe, and my life barely lasted for a fraction of a second. But the things I saw behind that blindfold seemed to last forever.

"It's hard to say when I realized it was over. It must have been several seconds, because when I once again entered my own head, the stranger had already put the blindfold back over whatever was behind them, and they were staring at me expectantly.

"I started to sob. Maybe I'd been crying the whole time, but that was the part where you finally noticed what was going on. You placed a hand on my shoulder and asked what was wrong, and when I turned to the person in the blindfold, they weren't there.

"I turned back to you, and you were gone too. The only thing left was the feeling of your hand on my shoulder.

"And then, finally, I wasn't there either."

I can only assume my roommate Jon Chilcott got into my bag and swapped out my book for this journal. It would be just like him to pull a stupid prank like that, though this is a lot more literate than he usually is. After all, I don't have a partner named Erika Thorne. I've always worked alone.

Analysis
Naturally, I haven't been able to find any conclusive records involving this Erika Thorne. Another dead end, just like with Account 03. Speaking of which, the description given here of the stranger in the blindfold is eerily reminiscent of the old man in that account- not in terms of physical description, but in terms of how they work. Still, the lack of sources for either of these accounts makes me doubt that will help much going forward.

Account 10: The Disappearance of Harold Miller

Background information

• Name: Peter Hail
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: April 8, 2020
• Occupation: Hunter
• City of residence: Robin, Michigan
  
• Date(s) of account: 2016-2018
• Subject of account: The disappearance of Harold Miller
  

Account
My name's Peter Hail. I'm a hunter from a small town that's sort of near Atkins.

I usually hunt with a friend of mine named Harold Miller. At least, I did.

It was May 2, 2016. Harold and I were hunting deer, just the two of us. Expeditions with more than two people tend to be too noisy to keep from attracting anything's attention.

Harold and I had always had an understanding between us, I think. I was a more poetic sort than he ever was, and he was more practical than I could ever hope to be. Our contrast in personalities meant we didn't really speak much to one another, but it didn't keep us from being close. After all, when you're hunting, you want to avoid talking too much, and hunting was most of what we did together.

As I've said, Harold and I were hunting deer. I had just spotted one that didn't seem to notice us. I got it in the sights of my rifle, but as I was about to fire at it, it suddenly spooked and ran off.

I lowered my rifle and glanced around, trying to figure out what had startled it. Harold hadn't moved or made any noise, and I certainly hadn't either. I hadn't even heard anything.

Then I started to hear branches cracking. They were quiet and unhurried as they advanced from the direction where the deer had been and towards myself and Harold. It clearly wasn't some amateur hunter getting overexcited and making noise by accident. Whoever or whatever this was, they were being very deliberate.

I turned to Harold. His expression was just as confused as mine must have been.

I suddenly heard a branch crack from behind me, louder than the rest. On instinct, I turned around to see what it was, but there was nothing there. I turned back to Harold, and he was gone.

He wasn't dead. He was just gone.

I started to panic. He couldn't have left in the brief time my eyes weren't on him, and he certainly couldn't have been quiet enough that I didn't hear him move so impossibly quickly. The foliage wouldn't have been thick enough to cover him even if, for whatever reason, he decided to lower himself to the ground. It was like he had never been there at all.

I searched the rest of the forest. When that came up empty, I visited his home. His daughter Calliope hadn't seen him since he set out with me, nor had his wife Lily. Lily started to get concerned, so with Cal out of earshot, I explained what had happened.

After that is a blur. The police were called, reports were filed, nothing happened. I was brought in for questioning at some point, but I didn't really have anything for them.

It was two years later. It was the first time since Harold disappeared that I'd felt safe going out on a hunting trip, and I saw something on the ground in front of my house when I came back.

It was a corpse- no, not just a corpse. Harold's corpse.

Its rotting face was covered in wounds of some sort, maybe claw marks. They were still bloody, and they looked severely infected.

I was too terrified to move, as much as I wanted to. The corpse slowly climbed to its feet. I gripped my rifle tight, though my hands shook.

"You." The corpse outstretched its arm. "I remember you."
I screamed, but my throat was so dry that the sound couldn't come out.
"Did you think I was dead? No, Peter Hail." The corpse laughed. "You gave up on finding Harold Miller. Worry not. You cannot be blamed for your inferiority. After all, you are only human." The corpse shambled towards me. "But I am so much more."

I stepped back as the corpse advanced forward and gave another unsuccessful attempt at a scream.

Suddenly, the husk's expression changed from cruel to horrified. The corpse- Harold- scratched at his face with long fingernails that had been revealed after the flesh on his fingers had rotted away. They were so sharp and yellow.

"There's something inside me," Harold said. His eyes were wide with fear. "Please, help me."
I shuddered.
"Please. You have to. I can feel it moving-"
Harold was cut off by the corpse's howling. It lunged at me, and on instinct alone, I hit it with the butt of my rifle.

The corpse screamed in pain, and I shot it. It twitched on the ground, then slowly climbed to its feet and lurched forward, trying to claw at me again. My body shook, but I shot at it as it approached.

Harold moaned in pain, asking me to help him in a low whisper, over and over. Over and over, I shot him. It was the only way I knew how.

After far too long, my rifle was out of rounds and he stopped moving. I watched his body until it grew dark. Then, finally, I stumbled home and drank myself to sleep.

If I'd thought about it more, I wouldn't have done that. A man disappears and then shows up months later with my bullets in him? Of course they'd think I killed him.

But it doesn't matter. I must have failed, because when I walked by the next day, his body had disappeared without a trace.

Analysis

Let me get the obvious out of the way. This account is worringly reminiscent of Alex's story about seeing a decaying figure dressed in hunting clothes.

I'd be willing to believe this was meant to be a prank played on Alex and myself, but this account matches information Alex (somehow) dug up from a local Robin newspaper regarding the disappearance of Harold Miller, at least up until the supernatural end of things gets involved. I don't think Alex would lie to me about being stalked by a humanoid monster and then contact the person behind the original to back up that lie.

It suddenly occurs to me that it's not obvious just how stressed I feel right now.

Account 09: The Moon

Background information

• Name: Tim Stein
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: April 4, 2020
• Occupation: Poet and restaurant employee
  
• City of residence: New York City, New York
  
• Date(s) of account: March 2020
  
• Subject of account: Strange dreams
  

Account
My name is Tim Stein. I'm a poet in my free time, but otherwise I work at a restaurant, busing tables and the like.

I've recently had some troubling dreams, and although I know something as minor as that probably won't be of much use to you, I still feel like I should mention it on the off-chance this amounts to anything.

It started a month ago. I think so, anyways. Time is difficult.

In the first dream I had, my body was asleep in bed while I looked down at it as a ghost. I moved downwards and touched my body's chest, and suddenly I felt myself enter my body again.

I got out of bed and was about to get dressed when I noticed how dark it was. Checking my phone, I saw that it was still 2 AM. As I was about to climb back into my bed and go to sleep, I happened to glance outside and saw that the moon was far bigger than usual. It nearly took up the entire window, in fact. I could make out a massive crater at the center of what I could see of the moon. As I watched, it grew smaller.

The moon's pupil had shrunk.

I woke up. As soon as I did so, I got out of bed and looked out the window. The moon was back to normal, just as it always had been. It was actually 2 AM, though, so I went back to sleep, this time uninterrupted.

The dreams continued over the next few weeks. There was always that same sensation of being outside my own body until I chose to enter it. Sometimes I'd spend the whole dream just floating through my home, walking through the walls, seeing what I could see. Nothing existed outside of my home in the dreams, though, as I soon learned. Everything outside was just a featureless black landscape, barely distinct from the sky, save for the moon. One night I tried going outside after I'd entered my body, just to see what it felt like to walk on that smooth black nothing- if I even could- but I found the doors and windows somehow locked from outside, and I wasn't strong enough to break through by force.

One night, though, I felt determined to see what was outside my home in the dreams. I searched the entire house in hopes of finding something that could help me. After trying all the keys I could find to no avail, I took a kitchen knife and stabbed it into my door, prying it apart. I continued stabbing the door until enough of it was broken that I could reach into the hole and unlock it from outside.

I opened the door and stepped through into nothing.

I fell forever. I fell forever but the moon never got any smaller. Even when I could no longer see my home for being too far below the world, the moon was still there, watching me like a giant eye.

I've never thought of night or the dark as anything to be afraid of. If anything, I've always liked being the only one awake while the rest of humanity is asleep save for the few others who experience that strange and silent world, alone in their own homes just as much as I am. After that dream, though, my feelings on the matter had changed drastically.

When I finally awoke, it was 4 AM. For some reason, the dreams never let me wake up before it gets light out. They always seem to leave me to the darkness I used to love, back when I could still look at the moon without swearing it was looking back.

That was how the first two weeks passed since the dreams started. I would find myself looking down at my body, confined to that house where the moon watched from every window. But one night, when I'd resolved to try and reach the moon as a spirit before I'd fallen asleep, I found the dream changed. No longer was I in my home, hovering above my bed. Instead, my body was sleeping on a bench in the local park, though I was above it as always.

But just as I was about to enter my body and see whether anything existed outside the park, I saw it stir.

I stared at my body as it twitched in its sleep. I'd never seen anything like this before. I floated over to a nearby tree and watched my body, waiting to see what happened next.

At last, it sat up. Its face turned slowly towards me. Though I could not scream, I tried to when its eyes met my own.

Something in my body's eyes reminded me far too much of the ever-watchful moon.

I was shaking when I woke up that night- not in my own bed, but on a bench in the park.

It got worse from there. Not the dreams themselves, but what they meant for me. I've started waking up in strange places, despite placing increasingly strict measures to keep myself locked inside, and it's become harder to feel rested when I wake up, though I can never quite keep myself from falling asleep. I haven't spent so long feeling fatigued that it's become difficult to tell waking from sleeping, but…

But I'm not sure that's true. After all, as I write this, I can see the moon staring at me through my window.

Its pupil just shrunk.

Analysis
Given that a series of strange dreams is more or less impossible to corroborate, I think I should add a rule against hallucination- and dream-related accounts to my introduction post. Not much else to say here, really, except that I find it odd although Stein claims to have retained a degree of awareness in his dreams, he didn't have the level of power over them that lucid dreamers do.

Tim, if you're reading this, I'd advise you talk to a therapist about this rather than myself. They'd be better-equipped to help you sort through all this than I am.

Account 08: A Tower in the Woods

Background information

• Name: Unknown
• Pronouns: Unknown
  
• Date: March 30, 2020
• Occupation: Unknown
• City of residence: Unknown
• Date(s) of account: 2018
• Subject of account: A tower in the woods
  

Account

There used to be trees here. There used to be birds that sang and worms that crawled and foxes that stalked. Now there is only metal that does not rust.

There is a tower at the center of what was once a forest. The tower is impossibly cold and unendingly high. It watches ceaselessly.

Two years ago, I was going into the woods behind my home for my daily walk when I saw a strange metal tower on the side of the path I was on. It was a foot or so taller than myself and six feet in diameter. I did not know what it was. It had no markings on it that could hint at its nature. It was smooth all over, and there was no vegetation within a foot of the tower in each direction.

When I returned the next day, I saw that a clearing had formed around the tower, which was now twice as tall as I was. Cables reached down from its peak, keeping it firmly in place. I did not know why it was there. I did not know why or how it had grown.

I realized then that I could not hear the sounds of any animals at all.

Each day, the tower had grown in height when I returned to that spot, though I never saw it do so myself. Each day, it was more elaborate in its structure, cables interconnecting with one another in intricate patterns or twisting into one another to form thick ropes of steel.

I did not tell anyone about the tower. The area where I live is very isolated, and I live alone. I did not want to venture out into the world just to tell a strange story about a tower that grows eternally. I knew I would be rejected at once.

One day, I watched the tower. I did not leave and wait for it to grow while I was away. I waited for two days without sleep, my waking and dreaming becoming increasingly blurred, but the tower did not grow. It does not want to show how it becomes.

That second day, I dreamed that cables reached out from the tower to consume me, devouring everything I was and replacing me with itself.

When I awoke, I saw that the tower had grown while I was asleep.

The tower has servants, those it supplies with tools of suppression and violence. They think they are the masters of those they conquer, but they are simply extensions of the tower, its wires controlling their every action. They do not know the true reason they do what they do. They do not know that their only purpose is to bring more under the tower's control.

They do not know what they do.

I have not seen the towerborn many times. They are not keen to show themselves to me. However, I have met them in the past: people whose eyes are cold and lifeless, whose gait is stiff and mechanical, whose laughter is hollow and false. They were once human, but now they are something else, and I do not know what.

I meet the towerborn sometimes on the rare occasions when I go into town to get what I cannot make or grow for myself. They wear many guises, but all of them are in positions of power: police officers, businessmen, priests.

They do not know what they do. I do not know what they are. I do not know what the tower is or why it grows or why it births or why it feeds.

All I know is that even now, even as the tower stretches high above the clouds, it is still growing, and it is still eating.

And I am so afraid.

Analysis
My instinct is to say that this account is either a conspiracy theory or a hoax. It certainly reads as one. Not only that, but Alex and I couldn't find any claims of a tower anywhere that matched the claims of our source, who refused to provide the details of their location necessary for us to investigate.

To put it bluntly, this account is interesting, but unless future developments prove otherwise, it isn't worth our time.

Account 07: Crawling

Background information

• Name: Robert Wilson
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: March 28, 2020
  
• Occupation: Programmer
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: December 2012
  
• Subject of account: A new apartment
  

Account

It started late in December 2012. I had moved into a new apartment a few weeks ago, and was working at my computer when I noticed a crack in the corner where the wall met the floor.

It was a fairly small crack, so I wasn't surprised at not having noticed earlier. I figured I'd speak to my landlord Gabriel Scott about it if it caused any issues, but it had yet to do so, and I had work to do.

I turned away from the crack and looked back at my computer. But I kept thinking about the crack. Eventually, I looked at it and saw that there was a worm crawling out of it.

Do you ever think about worms? How they wriggle and squirm and crawl, how they can still live even after you cut them in half? I do. All the time.

The funny thing is, I don't have a problem with spiders or ants or anything like that. I just hate the way worms slither forward, inch by inch, like they're shuddering.

I ignored the worm, although I found it strange that an earthworm had found its way into my home, and continued to work. Still, I found it hard not to think about it. Eventually, I realized I couldn't focus on my work at all. I caved in and looked at the crack in the corner where the wall met the floor.

There were ten worms now. They were all crawling towards me, and they were at various points in their travel, as though they had squirmed out of that crack one by one. It wouldn't have surprised me, given I'd only seen the one at first.

I left the apartment and went on a nice, long walk.

I was expecting the worms to have gone away by the time I returned almost an hour later. Instead, there were more. There must have been around twenty of them, all writhing towards me.

I left the room and went to speak to Gabriel, but he wasn't there. I called him, but after several seconds of ringing, it went to voicemail. I left a message and went on another walk. I told myself I'd come back before it got dark, but I didn't.

I waited for hours before Gabriel called back. I started to say hello, but he interrupted me.

"There is a crack in the corner where the wall meets the floor."

His voice sounded strange, but I don't know how to describe it. He spoke very slowly, but it was hard to make out his speech. At first, I thought he was repeating himself. I realized after a moment that his voice was echoing. The connection must have been poor.

"There is a crack in the corner where the wall meets the floor," he said a second time.
"Sorry?" I asked.
There was a long pause.
"...Robert Wilson," he said. "That is what you are telling me, correct? Your message said that there was a crack in the corner where the wall met the floor."
I took a deep breath, unsure what to say. I was about to speak, but he interrupted me.
"Come here. Show me the crack. Perhaps we can clear things up."
"...Okay."
"I look forward to seeing you again."
"Right. Uh, see you."

I went back to my apartment before I went to Gabriel's. I wanted to be sure the worms were still there when he came to see.

The apartment was covered in worms. They were crawling out of every surface, forming a single pulsating mass of pale wet flesh that overlapped with itself and writhed over itself and devoured itself.

I backed away.

I bumped into something that felt wet and yielding like a sponge. I turned around to see Gabriel standing before me. He tilted his head.

"Robert Wilson." His voice still had that strange echoey quality to it that it had on the phone.

I nodded slowly.

Gabriel pushed past me and stared into the apartment. His eyes looked glassy.

He slowly turned around and stared directly into my eyes.

"Everything looks fine to me."

As he spoke, a single worm writhed its way from his mouth. He had no reaction as it crawled across his face and dropped onto the ground in front of my feet, causing me to flinch.

I left the apartment building and went to a fast food place that was still open. I wasn't hungry after what I'd just seen, but I needed somewhere I could call a friend of mine in peace.

I asked if I could sleep at their place. They said yes and didn't ask why.

I haven't looked into things too much since then. At all, I should say. Honestly, I've tried my best not to even think about it.

Analysis
It was difficult for Alex and me to find much information related to this account, partially since it occurred over such a short time frame. However, we did learn from city records in the Atkins District Library that a man named Gabriel Scott owned an apartment building in downtown Atkins between 2006 and 2012.

In 2012, Scott was found dead of asphyxiation in his apartment in spite of any visible strangulation marks or possible causes of drowning. The coroner who performed his autopsy found both earthworms and soil in his lungs.

Account 06: Hunger

Background information

• Name: Olivia Chester
• Pronouns: She/her
  
• Date: March 25, 2020
• Occupation: College student
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: March 2020
• Subject of account: A hangover
  

Account
I've been hungry for so long. Even as I write this I am trying not to think of what is in my fridge. It would not satiate the hunger, but it might dull the edge, if only for a moment.

I used to be human. I used to have friends. I spoke with them and played with them and ate with them. My name was Olivia Chester. I was a student at Atkins Community College. A model student, most would say, though I drank and smoked far more than I should have. However, I do not believe I was an addict. I stopped several times and never went through withdrawal. I simply enjoyed the thrill of indulging in the forbidden.

It started with the noises.

Two weeks ago, I was in my room, studying for a biology exam the next day and kicking myself for going out drinking the night before. I'd just started reading through my textbook when I heard something at the door. It sounded like scratching.

I stopped what I was doing and turned around, hoping I could see what was making that noise without having to go out into the hallway. But the scratching stopped as soon as I turned my attention towards the door.

I slowly walked towards the door, not really sure what else to do, and opened it. There was nobody there. I looked around, but there was still nothing in sight. Just the same hallway as ever.

I started to hear more scratching sounds. They were much more distant, and sounded like they were coming from around the corner. I thought there must have been an animal loose, although pets weren't allowed in that building. My hangover made it difficult to think clearly. Maybe if I'd been more careful, I wouldn't have followed the noises.

When I rounded the corner, what I saw was not an animal.

It was not a human, let me be absolutely clear on that. It clearly had been at one point, but not anymore. It crawled and writhed on the ground, scratching at anything it could get near in a desperate attempt at getting someone to come near and let it in.

I screamed, and it lifted its head towards me. I was frozen in place as it shambled towards me, though I wanted nothing more than to run. The thing let out a low groan as it advanced. My paralysis suddenly giving way to panicked aggression, I kicked at the thing on the floor, but it grabbed my leg with hands that were far too strong and bit into the flesh of my ankle.

It would be pointless at this point to mention every time I screamed that day. I can't even remember, but I think I was probably screaming the entire time.

Something thick and black came from the thing's mouth, spilling onto the ground. It writhed towards me and crawled onto my foot and over my leg and filled what the thing had taken from my leg with itself.

That was when I first felt the hunger. When the tar entered my leg. I felt so hungry, and I saw flesh before me.

I knelt down before the thing and tore pieces from it. I knew what I was doing was wrong, that I was supposed to run away, but I was so hungry.

There was more of that thick black tar in the thing, and as I devoured it, the hunger only grew sharper.

I suppose I'm lucky that I chose an apartment with so few tenants to move into. It means that nobody saw the thing but me, and nobody saw me drag what was left of it into my apartment and stuff it in pieces into my fridge.

I'm sick to my stomach even as I write this. I know it's not normal to feel the hunger I feel. I wish so desperately that I could live an ordinary life again, that I could go back and tell myself not to give into the want and excess I've indulged for so long. But it's too late now.

It's hard to breathe sometimes. The tar fills my mouth and lungs and I choke on it. But it doesn't kill me. After all, it needs to eat.

It's hungry too.

Analysis
That was... something. It honestly reads like some kind of zombie story. Although I find it interesting to note that the infection isn't spread by the bite itself, but by a substance capable of entering those who are bitten, I'm tempted to think this account is a work of fiction inspired by zombie movies and the like.

I considered visiting Atkins Community College and seeing if anyone had heard of Chester. Frankly, though, I couldn't think of a good enough lie to explain why I wanted to know about her.

Alex called the number Chester provided. It took several seconds, but she picked up. It wasn't exactly enlightening, unfortunately. The only sound on the other end was growling, eventually interrupted by someone asking, "Who is it?"

There was a sickening tearing noise, and the voice on the other end said one last thing before hanging up: "Well, one way or another, I'm busy at the moment. I'm eating dinner."

Account 05: Being Watched

Background information

• Name: Diane Richter
• Pronouns: She/her
  
• Date: March 23, 2020
• Occupation: Freelance artist
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: 2008
• Subject of account: A visit to a local museum
  

Account
I'm a freelance artist. This tends to translate to making things in Adobe Illustrator for clients who provide frustratingly vague instructions on how they want their commissions to turn out and then get irritated when they don't look right, but occasionally it means I visit museums in the hopes of finding some inspiration.

I was making one such visit in 2008. More specifically, I was visiting the Pierre Museum of Art, named for the famous Atkins-based sculptor Charles Pierre (an immigrant from France, if you hadn't guessed from the name alone). I'd heard they were showing one of his best-known pieces, The Seer in Stone.

If you're not aware, The Seer in Stone is a marble sculpture of a hooded monk holding a leatherbound book in one hand, the other held in front of itself. It was created to commemorate the then-recent death of Pierre's friend and patron Robin de la Noye. Pierre worked on The Seer in Stone to the exclusion of all his other projects and even his own health. He said that he felt like he was being watched while carving it, but that he had terrible nightmares while working on anything else. He refused to explain just what these nightmares involved, only that they "made him feel like he would never be safe again."

I arrived right as the museum was opening. I didn't want to lose the chance to look at it for as long as I could.

I stared at that statue for hours on end. I didn't even realize how long I'd just been looking at it from every angle and sketching it over and over on my tablet until I noticed how hungry I was and looked outside. It wasn't dark out just yet, but it wasn't as bright as it had been earlier. I tried to check the time on my tablet, but it had apparently died in the time since I had looked outside. My phone had as well.

I began to walk to the entrance of the museum to find somewhere to eat. Something seemed strange, but I couldn't quite decide what. It was... too quiet, maybe.

It was when I passed by a receptionist's desk and saw it was empty that I realized that I hadn't seen a soul since I had begun to look at The Seer in Stone.

Starting to panic, I started to hurry towards the nearest door outside. I pushed on the handle, but it didn't move at all. I walked towards a spot where I knew another door should have been, but the only thing there was The Seer in Stone, which should have been behind me.

I walked around, trying to find a map, but I couldn't seem to get anywhere near the glass case I knew they were stored. Every turn I took, I was met with The Seer in Stone.

Almost as soon as I realized that I was trapped, my hunger disappeared. It was like my body accepted that it would have to wait this out.

I stared at that statue for an impossibly long time. At some point, I noticed that the book the monk was holding wasn't the same as it had been during past visits.

I looked more closely, and I saw that it had The Knowing written across the spine in faint gold lettering.

When I looked back at the monk itself, I noticed something else was wrong. It took me a second, but the reddish-brown belt around its waist looked off. I leaned in closer and saw what it was.

There were several flecks of dried blood on it.

I backed away.

I closed my eyes, trying to clear my head. When I opened them, the statue's mouth, the only part of its face that its hood didn't obscure, was no longer neutral. It was smiling.

I tried to move away, but it felt like there were strings pulling on me, keeping me in place. I could almost hear the statue laugh as I pulled against my invisible captors.

I turned my head away from it, trying desperately to stop looking. The strings pulled my head to stare at The Seer in Stone once again, and I saw that its empty hand, which had once been outstretched in front of itself, was extending a finger to its smiling mouth.

I screamed, but I could feel myself strangled by invisible strings, and no sound came out.

All at once, the strings released me. I looked outside and it was dark out. I checked my phone, which was once again fully charged. Apparently, it was over three hours after the museum had closed.

I went home, but it was hard to sleep that night. I felt too much like I was being watched.

I haven't visited that museum since then. I thought I wanted to know about the statue, but now I understand that it wants to know me.

Analysis
The backstory Richter provided on The Seer in Stone is accurate. Of course, that doesn't necessarily imply that her account of being haunted by the aforementioned statue is true.

As to the book The Seer in Stone was holding, Richter contacted the Pierre Museum of Art later in 2008. They looked into it and found that at some point, the book had been stolen and replaced with another by a former employee of the Pierre Museum of Art named Mary Jude, whose exact motives are unclear.

The Knowing, like the original book, is a leatherbound King James Bible. However, unlike the original, it has a bookplate reading "Library of Matthias Clark," and several parts are underlined in red ink:

Job 21:22: "Shall any teach God knowledge?"

Psalm 56:8: "Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?"

Psalm 139:1: "O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me."

Proverbs 15:3: "The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good."

Jeremiah 23:24: "Can any hide himself in secret places that I shall not see him?"

I need to learn more about this Clark person. Maybe the fact that he collected books like The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter has caused people like Richter to write stories inspired by them.

Or maybe I just I don't like the idea that something deeper is going on here.

Account 04: Burnout

Background information

• Name: Samantha Hill
• Pronouns: She/her
  
• Date: March 19, 2020
  
• Occupation: Mystery author
  
• City of residence: Chicago, Illinois
  
• Date(s) of account: September 2019
• Subject of account: A gift of a lighter
  

Account
My name is Samantha Hill. You might know me as a mystery author. (Or you might not. My stories have never been very popular, if I'm being honest with myself.)

It started six months ago. I was listening to music in my living room when I heard someone knock at the door. I got up to answer it, but there was nobody there. I assumed someone was playing ding-dong ditch. When I glanced down, I saw there was a lighter on the ground. My visitor must have left it on the doorstep before knocking and running away.

I picked up the lighter and turned it around, but I didn't see anything odd about it. It just looked like a silver flick lighter. It was a bit like one I lost a few years ago, although that one had an eye design on it. I shrugged, put it in my desk drawer, and forgot about it.

That lasted a little while.

Five months ago, I was listening to music again when I noticed something odd in the song playing though the speakers. I wasn't able to quite make it out at first. As I moved closer to the nearest speaker, I realized it was the sound of a wolf growling.

That was when everything went wrong. After that day, I constantly got the feeling I was being watched. No matter what I did, it was impossible to shake that feeling. I wasn't able to concentrate on anything else. I would try to work on the outline for my next book, a novel about arson that had been inspired by the lighter I'd been given, but it was too much. I couldn't think of anything but the feeling that something was staring at me, knowing everything I did.

I started to lose sleep.

Things just got worse from there. The loss of rest made it harder to rationalize the feeling as simple paranoia, and the further I succumbed to my fear, the harder it got to ignore the feeling and go to sleep. I became convinced that if I slipped from my vigilance for even a moment, whatever was watching me would be able to strike. But the more sleep I lost, the more my waking and sleeping began to blend together. I would experience things that seemed like dreams even while I was awake, seeing eyes on the walls, hearing growls through the sounds of static on my old TV.

One day, I was brought on air to discuss my upcoming book, which, by this point, I had decided to call Burnout. I was too sleep-deprived to have the backbone to refuse, though I was terrified of being asked questions about it, given how little progress I'd made since I first started to feel like I was being watched.

However, the host didn't ask any questions about the book. Instead, he asked me if I was happy with myself. I asked him to repeat himself, and again, he asked if I was happy with what I'd done with my life, asking if I remembered April 19, 2002. I asked what he meant. He asked if I was happy.

I have a confession to make here.

I don't know if you have to report me for this or what, but April 19, 2002 is the day I burned down my own home. It was insurance fraud. Actually, that's what first got me interested in the mystery genre, although I knew it would be too obvious if I wrote a story about arson right after my house burned down.

I told him that, no, I wasn't happy. He laughed and thanked me for being available. I hung up and tried to go to sleep.

For the first time in nearly a week, I managed to get some sleep that night. But it wasn't restful. I had a dream that I was being chased through a foggy moor by a huge black wolf with hundreds of eyes. The exhaustion caught up with me, and I stopped to breathe, but the wolf wasn't tired. It stalked forward and jumped on me, pinning me to the ground. It bit and tore and clawed at me until I was a skeletal husk.

The wolf dragged the coat from my lifeless form and onto the barren ground. It tore open the pocket to reveal a silver lighter, the same lighter that was in my desk. The same lighter, the eye design long since faded, that it had taken from the charred remains of my home.

The wolf didn't do anything after that. It didn't have to. My flesh started to burn, and I woke up.

Analysis
Well, that was certainly something.

From the digging Alex has done for me while I was busy, the home of one Samantha Hill did burn down April 19, 2002, the same Samantha Hill who later had a breakdown while discussing her upcoming mystery novel Burnout on air.

The host, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not ask Hill if she was happy, nor did he bring up the date on which her home burned down. In actuality, he asked how she was doing. When he was met with silence, he tried to check that she was still there, to which she responded after several seconds with crying and ranting about how she "confessed." She hung up the phone before he could ask if she was okay.

As far as both Alex and I are concerned, there aren't enough details that we can confirm or deny for this account to be conclusive one way or another. We'll keep our eyes peeled for any further developments.