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 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.