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.

Account 03: The Library

Background information

• Name: Unknown
• Pronouns: Unknown
  
• Date: March 17, 2020
• Occupation: Unknown
  
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
  
• Date(s) of account: 2019
  
• Subject of account: A blind stranger at the library
  

Account
I've always loved libraries. I've always loved pacing the halls and looking for anything interesting. I've always loved how they're places you can go to relax, where nobody expects you to talk to anyone or buy anything. You can just sit down with a good book and get lost in it for hours.

So it's no surprise that I visited Atkins District Library last year, especially since I was interested in someone who worked there (though she turned out to be dating a girl named Shan anyways).

I was walking around in the nonfiction section and starting to reach for a book about the history of Atkins when I got the strange feeling that someone was watching me. I turned around to see an old man, balding and dressed in a long brown coat. Though his sunglasses and cane told me he had gone blind with age, it felt like he was staring right into me.

The old man motioned for me to follow him as he walked over to a table. I found his behavior a little strange, but it seemed rude to refuse, so I went with him and sat down.

The old man had a book in the hand that wasn't occupied with his cane. It was thick, bound in leather, and just as ancient as him. He sat his cane down on the empty chair beside him and flipped through the book with his now-open hand.

The old man asked me my name. He chuckled to himself as he waited for an answer. The laughter made me uneasy, but after a moment, I told him anyways.

The old man laughed again and asked if I had a pen on me. I asked if a pencil would be okay as I fished around for one in my pocket, but he just shook his head and took an antique-looking fountain pen from the depths of his dusty brown coat.

The old man put his fountain pen to his leatherbound book and began to write. He only wrote for a few seconds, but he seemed satisfied with that, nodding to himself and setting the book on the table. Given how short whatever he wrote must have been and the fact that he'd just asked me my name, I assumed that's what he'd written down. Curious, I glanced at the cover.

I could see the title now that the book was on the table: Grasping At Memories. It didn't have an author listed.

I asked the old man if I could read it. He nodded, so I took the book from the table and began to read.

It was written in first person, and concerned... well, I forget exactly. A girl, I think, or maybe a boy. Or maybe nobody at all.

I'm sorry. This part is hard to tell. Hard to think.

I don't think it could have included the protagonist's name at first. If it had, I would have realized sooner that it was about me.

There were details in that book I'd never told anyone in my life, but it was about me all the same. I can't explain what they were, though. After all, I've forgotten everything that was written in that book. I've forgotten my own name.

One of the only things I can remember is that I used to love libraries.

It's pointless to try and remind me who I'm supposed to be. Of who I used to be.

Don't try to remind me. I always forget.

Analysis
I can't figure out who sent me this message. The account that sent me this email was just... blank. There was nothing where the address, profile picture, or name were supposed to be. I replied asking who they were, but they replied with "Funny. That's funny."

Account 02: The Ruins of Castle Roche

Background information

• Name: Fergus Kelly
• Pronouns: He/him
  
• Date: 1923
• Occupation: Unknown
  
• City of residence: Dundalk, County Louth, Ireland
  
• Date(s) of account: 1923
• Subject of account: The ruins of Castle Roche
  

Account

My name is Fergus Kelly. I am an amateur archaeologist from Dundalk, County Louth, Ireland. The year is 1923. I must write as quickly as possible. Forgive me if some of this is difficult to make out.

 

It happened yesterday. All of it. It sounds so strange, but it all happened in one day.

 

My flatmate is named Oscar Sloane. He is a short man who wears a tattered brown coat that looks like it was made for someone much larger.

 

I have dragged Oscar along to Castle Roche several times in the past. I do not know why yesterday was any different.

It should not have been.

The fog curled around our feet as we walked the path up to Castle Roche. It would have been a foreboding sight in ages past, but as it stood, it was clearly a shadow of what it once had been, crumbling and desecrated.

 

Cold fog drifted in through holes that had once been windows as I stood for the last time in the ruins of Castle Roche. The fog was impossibly thick, and the longer I remained there, the more it bit into me. Oscar seemed unaffected, which I found odd, as he's always been one to complain about minor inconveniences of the sort. In fact, he seemed quite happy as he and I began to walk forward, pressing on deeper into the ruins.

 

We normally don't find much there. We really only visited because it was a familiar sight by that point. It was comfortable. Yesterday was different, though.

 

As I walked, I saw a wall before me that I knew was unblemished. It was covered in images of eyes and hands painted in dried blood. 

 

I heard something behind me and turned around. It was Oscar, surrounded by cold, thick fog that obscured most of his body. I could just barely make out that he had a strange bright glint in his eye. 

 

He walked forward through the fog, and I saw a knife held in his strangely twisted hand that was used by the Irish soldiers at the time Castle Roche was built.

 

Somehow, it was only then that I realized that Oscar's fingers were all the same length.

 

Oscar jumped forward, his knife brandished in his wretched hand, and drove it down into me.

 

I elbowed him in the chest and slowly drew the knife out of my own shoulder with a sharp pain. Aggressive with fear, I stabbed him in the stomach. Oscar stumbled back and fell to the ground. His strange eyes were wide with pain. My fearful violence gave way to abject terror, and I fled.

 

I am terrified even now.

 

I hear someone tapping on the window. I see that cold fog blanket everything outside. I know that the person at the window, the person concealed by the fog, is a short man in an oversized coat.

 

I know that although Oscar Sloane was the man with whom I entered that place, the thing that accosted me within its walls was not a man at all.

 

All I do not understand is why this is happening.

 

God deliver

 

Analysis
This account comes from a book I found at my local library which I have been unable to find records of elsewhere. Unfortunately, this persisted even after I looked into the individual who wrote it, one Matthias Clark. It is entitled The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter, and contains a series of clippings from newspapers, journals, and notes regarding strange occurrences up to 1924, when it was written and published. All of these materials are left largely unexplained but given a degree of context by Clark.

According to Clark, Fergus Kelly was found dead in his home some time after this journal entry was written. Investigators were unable to find any trace of disturbances at Castle Roche, including the body of Oscar Sloane or the writing on the wall. They were, however, watched by a strange man in an oversized coat as they entered Castle Roche, and both seemed terrified after they left for reasons they refused to explain.

Account 01: Going Hunting

Background information

• Name: Alex Martinez
• Pronouns: They/them
  
• Date: February 30, 2020
• Occupation: Accountant
• City of residence: Atkins, Michigan
• Date(s) of account: 2018
• Subject of account: Strange occurrences at a part-time job

Account

When this happened, I was an accountant. I worked part-time for a small, local company in a small, semi-isolated building. I came in mostly on Mondays when my boss, Samuel Sims, called and asked me to come in and fill out whatever paperwork had to be done. I usually came in at night, when it had already gotten dark and the majority of staff, Samuel included, had left. I had known Samuel for a long time by that point, so he wasn't opposed to giving me a set of keys so I could come in when I was able. Truth be told, though, being alone in the dark made me pretty uncomfortable. I generally parked on the grass rather than in the nearby lot to avoid walking any further to my car than necessary.

The exact details of the company where I worked aren't important. What is important is that Samuel was a hunter. He had a deer skull hanging up on the wall where I turned to the left to go into the office. Could have been a replica, though. I'm no hunter, and I can't exactly tell the difference.

 

One night, as I had gone to my accounting job and was about to enter the office, I saw that there was a second deer skull up on the wall, located directly to the right of the first. It was a little surprising to me, as I'd been working there part-time for several years by that point, and the deer skull had always been hanging up alone.

I started to get an uneasy feeling. It didn't feel like the skull was watching me, or like there was a cold spot indicating a ghostly presence, or anything stupid like that. I wasn't opposed to hunting, at least not within reason, and lowering the deer population a little was probably for the better. I didn't feel wrong around this second deer skull for any sort of moral reason, or any other reason I could find.

I felt wrong, and that was it.

I shook my head and soldiered on as I went into the office to work. I knew there was no point getting hung up on deer skulls that I thought were probably fake anyways. After all, although I knew next to nothing about hunting, I assumed it was at least frowned upon to hang up trophies from kills in random company buildings.

Despite my rationalizations, I kept thinking about that second deer skull. Something about it had made me deeply uneasy, but I couldn't place exactly what.

After that, I continued going to my part-time accounting job once a week, usually on Mondays, and tried to forget about the second deer skull. By the third week or so since it first showed up, I'd managed to do just that.

Then the week after, I got a call from Samuel. He said to come. He didn't say much more than that, which I found a little strange, since he usually talked for five minutes before he actually asked me to come to work.

Samuel's voice sounded scared, although I couldn't figure out whether that was actually the case or whether I was just imagining it through the staticky crackle of the poor connection. For the same reason, I wasn't sure whether it was just my imagination or whether his unusually brief call had mentioned something about hunting.

Despite the strange circumstances of the call, I headed to my accounting job, which took about five minutes. As always, I parked on the grass. When I walked into the building, I saw that there was now a third deer skull hanging up on the wall.

I was no longer sure that I'd been right the first time I saw the second deer skull. I did feel like I was being watched.

I knew it was stupid to be scared of fake deer skulls. I knew it was stupid to think anything was wrong just because a call from my boss was a little weird. I knew all I had to do was go into the office and act like nothing was going on.

When I went into the office, I found Samuel slumped over in his chair, covered in bloody scratch marks that looked horrifically infected. He was dressed in a camouflage cap and jacket, and there was a rifle sitting on his desk.

I screamed and fled the office, trying not to look at the wall with the deer skulls mounted on it as I ran out of the building, trying not to pay attention to the snapping of branches beneath my feet as I went to my car.

I heard a raspy laugh from behind. In spite of my fear, in spite of my better judgment, I turned to look.

There was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a torn brown jacket standing in the doorway of the building's meeting room, which I could see through the clear door to the building itself. Although he was, as I've said, huge, he looked emaciated. His scratch-covered skin looked diseased and gangrenous, almost rotting. It was hard to tell in the dark of night, but it seemed like he had this expression of feral excitement on his face, the way a predator feels when it knows that it's found its prey

"I have a question for you, Alex Martinez," the man growled. "Have you ever gone hunting?"

Immediately, I got into my car. I drove until I was home, drove faster than I knew I should have, but even after I arrived at the apartment building and went into the room I shared with my boyfriend and shut and locked the door tight behind me, I could not shake the feeling that I was being followed.

No, not followed. Hunted.

Analysis
This account was written by my enbyfriend Alex. Actually, this was the first account of the supernatural that I've ever believed at all. I say this for a few reasons, or rather, the absence of reasons not to believe Alex.

I knew Alex wouldn't intentionally deceive me about something like this, and as far as either of us can tell, they don't suffer from any mental illnesses or have family history of it, aside from anxiety. Alex doesn't use any drugs except for their prescribed anxiety medication, so it's not as though this account was the result of drug use either.

As far as I'm concerned, we've ruled out just about any plausible explanation resting on Alex's account being false, deliberately or otherwise. Still, this account could still be written off as a horrifying and apparently motiveless but ultimately mundane murder. However, that isn't what the police found when Alex called 9-1-1 after returning to our apartment.

You see, when the police went to Alex's former workplace, Sims' body was nowhere to be found, nor was there any hair, DNA, blood, or anything else. All that they found aside from Sims' hunting rifle sitting on his desk and a few chunks of green fabric on the office floor was a trail of rot across the floorboards from the chair where Alex had found Sims' body to the clear door to the outside, as well as four deer skulls hanging on the wall.

Introduction

Hello. If you're reading this, chances are that either you saw one of my advertisements on a forum or chat room related to the paranormal, or you saw one of the notices Alex and I put up around the city.

 

My name is Thomas Wake. I'm from Atkins, Michigan. If you have an account of the supernatural to share, please email me at thomaswaketdh@gmail.com and include your name, a brief background on yourself, and when the events occurred.

Please use full names where possible- you can talk about your neighbor John Doe and then call him John for the rest of the account, but don't just introduce him as John and expect me to know who you're talking about.
 

Please refrain from giving accounts that will be impossible to follow up on, such as those related to dreams or hallucinations. If you're not sure, just send it over and we'll do our best.

When giving an account, please fill out the following background information, if willing to do so, as it will make it easier for us to follow up on your account. If you'd like, you can include the information but ask us to leave it out or use a pseudonym for you when we post your account here.

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