Hey guys. It’s Elizabeth. Alan gave me his password because he doesn’t feel like dealing with any of this anymore. I can’t say I blame him.
It’s been ten days since Alan last posted and we both feel guilty for leaving you hanging like this. We’re not dead, but not much happened for a while. Nothing worth writing about, anyway.
We ended up moving further away from our hometown, Veneta, which I wanted to do from the start, but Alan kept insisting we stay close. Finally, after that Z guy contacted up again, he agreed it was best to get away. We’ve made our way into Washington now, this tiny town called George. (Ha. George, Washington. Just got that). I’m saying this so Z can find us again. We want to get to Seattle.
Alan’s sleeping at the moment, which is for the best. Sleeping is rare for both of us nowadays. We seem to toss and turn all night, and when we do fall asleep? Jesus, the nightmares.
I feel plagued. I may not be turning into whatever Alex was turning into, but[both]r of us feel normal anymore. It’s more than just losing our best friends and everyone else we know. It’s that constant itch at the back of your head, the goose bumps that don’t end. The rushes of crippling anxiety so strong that all you can do is stand with your back to a corner and scan the room for movement.
It’s like something is following us, but there’s no mold or monsters. I don’t even want to go see my mom. I mean, I really want to but I feel like everyone we come into contact with is in danger. Chalk it up to paranoia, I guess. Horrible fucking paranoia.
Except, as we found out recently, it’s not all in our heads. We’re anxious for a reason. At least, I think so.
Z may be forthcoming in emails, but in person he’s fucking enigmatic. He won’t answer many questions. He kept saying the less we know the better, so we won’t think about it as much. He said obsession is an unspoken ritual, and it draws attention. Whatever that fucking means.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. A week ago he showed up at our motel near Veneta. Alan told me about him, but that didn’t prepare me for the shock of opening the door to a broad, six-foot goth guy with a grim expression. The dreadlocks were immediately recognizable.
He came in, sat us down and said, “Are you two fucking retarded or something?” I must have looked really affronted, because he rolled his eyes at me and continued, “Don’t give me that look, sweetheart. Your friend here has been a pain in my ass for weeks.” He turned to Alan. “We’ve been busting our chops to keep up with you two, cure you, and now I hear you’re fucking prancing around your old building?”
Alan tried to explain but Z wasn’t interested in excuses. He was pissed. He told us we had to get out and stop looking for answers, or it was only going to get worse.
We asked what he was going to do to our town and the people who lived there, but he just shook his head. We asked how he’d found us, and he said the internet is a public forum. He said maybe this nosleep story is a good thing, since it allows them to keep tabs on us and decide when to act. But he also mentioned, with an ominous tone, that he’s not the only one reading.
Z said he’s changed his email address, due to all the messages from you guys (we think that’s hilarious). He won’t trust us with the new one, but told us to keep posting. I don’t know why he cares. I can only imagine Alan is important to this creature or something, and thus important to Z’s organization. Maybe I am, too, but I doubt it. I believe I was just caught in the crossfire - though maybe that’s wishful thinking. I won’t leave Alan though, so don’t even suggest it. He’s all I have.
Okay, on to the important stuff. Z, are you reading? This is for you.
Last night I woke up from a horrible nightmare. It was the kind where you can’t move your legs, like you’re walking through molasses, and something pale was following me. I kept getting glimpses of it. I don’t want to think about it.
I lay in bed, suddenly wide awake, and tried to figure out what had woken me. I’d snapped into consciousness with a start, but I didn’t think my dream had triggered it. Every muscle in my body was tense and I listened hard for a long time, but there was no sound besides Alan’s deep breathing from the next bed.
The shadows were so deep I could only see vague shapes, but something in me told me not to reach out for the light - like when you’re a kid, and you’re convinced that if you just lay still, the monster won’t know you’re there.
I was a child again, terrified of the dark. I don’t know how long I laid there, tense, surrounded by blackness, jumping at every creak and groan of the settling building. Once or twice I thought I heard movement from out in the hallway, but brushed it off and tried, really tried, to fall back asleep.
As dawn crept in between the slats of the blinds across our window and the room lost its deep darkness, my eyes started to get heavy. Smiling, I allowed myself to sink into the sheets and let sleep take me again. It was when I was teetering on that edge, just before unconsciousness, that I finally heard what I’d been listening for.
The doorknob on the door to the room rattled. Quietly, so quietly I almost ignored it at first. Like someone outside was gently testing to see if it was locked. The sound stopped, but my eyes were wide open again. Slowly, I sat up in bed and stared toward the door.
It immediately happened again, much louder this time, with much more force behind it. My gasp woke Alan, who I shushed and told to listen. There was silence for a long moment.
Thump, rattle rattle, thump thump thump
It sounded like someone was trying to force the door open with their shoulder. I climbed into Alan’s bed and we huddled there in silence as the rattling and thumping continued for a good two or three minutes. It felt much longer. A scratching sound took its place after a bit, soft and slow, almost mournful.
Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped. We heard the sound of shuffling footsteps retreat from the door, awkward and uneven - dragging on one step, thudding against the floor on the next. When the sound was gone, Alan got up to look through the peephole. No one was there, so he opened the door.
We found a single earring laying on the ground right outside the door, like a threat. Also, our room number was gone. Taken. Just four little holes in the cheap wood.
Alan picked up the earring and photographed it “for posterity.” Here’s that picture. Pretty boring, but maybe you want to see.
I didn’t need to wonder who’s earring it was. I’d seen it decorating her upper cartilage since she’d gotten the piercing at thirteen years old. The squiggly connector latch and faded silver were unmistakable.
The earring belonged to Jess.
As I sat there dealing with that, just staring at the earring, wondering what it meant, Lisa’s phone buzzed. Alan is still carrying it around, half out of sentimentality, half hoping he can give it back to her soon. The message was from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN
Run run rhn as fast aa you can It is a kost xayse Come home.
We’re leaving George. We switched motels. It feels like we’re running now, and I don’t know how long the chase will last. We’re on our way to Seattle.
Z, if you have answers, if you can help us in any way, please find us.
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