The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

    I woke two days ago having slept for twenty hours. My dead hand crusted with the drying remnants of whatever corruption weeps from my bite wounds and stained pages of writing littering the floor around me. At first I thought to destroy it, but somehow I can't. I tried to not spread it to others, but my hand--normally bereft of feeling--has begun to throb and ache, and I know the reason just as I know it will stop, at least for awhile, once I hit submit. So forgive me, as I don't know the meaning or consequence of the strange account my hand wrote while I slept. And for any that wonder how I came to be in this position of telling these strange things, the story of my recent life begins here .     It’s not a window. It’s a door.   When my sister gave birth to Emily, it was a big deal in our family. My husband died last year, and I doubt I’ll ever bear children of my own, and even seven years ago Emily was the first grandchild in the famil

  “…managed to get power to the transmitter again, just for a little while. I need help. I don’t know exactly where I am, but it’s underground somewhere. Some kind of building or bunker maybe? I don’t know. I…I’m really scared and I’m getting weak. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten, I’m trying to ration but I’m running out of food. Please, come help me…Oh, God!”   I listened to the recording over and over. I’d decided early on that if I ever heard it again I’d be ready to record it. I thought about using an app on my phone, but I worried it would freeze up or an ad would pop up at the crucial moment. So I went to an office supply store and bought a small digital recorder. I kept it charged and nearby as I drove, and thankfully remembered it when I heard the woman’s voice over the car’s speakers again. The sound of her panic-stricken voice was so sad and lonely, but it suddenly felt like the car was filled with rich, oxygenated air, sharpening e

  These periods of...productive slumber continue, and the latest writing is much longer, so I will have to break it into several parts. I have no real new updates on my own condition, other than the easing of my dead hand's throbbing as I henpeck these words with my other hand. If you are unfamiliar for how I arrived at this point, I talk about that journey here . Thank you again for your time and your attention. It is a bright spot in this deepening well of darkness I find myself in.       FM Rider     I drive around at night because I can’t sleep normal hours any more. I used to—back when I was a teenager, I was always the first one to call it a night. Not early, you understand, but by midnight I was usually out. When my parents died, I was in bed asleep. I got the call to come to the hospital, to identify the bodies and pick up my sister Mary.   There was no one else to do any of it. Our grandparents on both sides were dead

  By the time I got home Thursday evening, I had decided I wanted the thing to come. Whether I wanted it to come back to finish me or so I could attempt to kill it would change moment to moment, but the idea of fighting back had built slowly throughout the day and remained a constant. I was tired of being a victim to whatever this all was, of having things taken away from me. Thoughts of suicide faded more and more, in no small part due to the words of encouragement I’ve received here, and while I was still resigned to the fact that I was likely going to die, I decided I still had a little more will to try and resist left in me.   So, of course, nothing happened that night.   When I arrived home, I checked the house again thoroughly, and it was untouched since my last visit. No sign of my family or their belongings. Now beyond the initial shock of all that had happened and slightly better rested, I had more time to study the pattern left behind by

    I’ve had a lot happen in the past few days. I’m currently using the wifi in the lobby of a motel I stayed at last night and I’ve been aimlessly wandering since Saturday, never staying at the same place more than one night. But I think that’s over--it’s not accomplishing anything, and I’m very tired. And that’s not what happened first. That’s not where we left off, is it?   I looked back at what I had posted last, and it was all accurate. The last few days have made me feel surer that I am either so insane that I’m likely in a padded room right now, rocking in my own piss and shit, dreaming up all this, including writing to you, or it’s real. If it is real, I think there’s a very good chance that I’m in Hell, in which case would that make it real or just an imagined torment? I don’t know, but I find the semantics of it pretty funny at this point.   But back to the story, right? Got to tell the fucking story. And I do. I feel compelled, and wh

    My son is gone. I don’t know how else to say it or how else to start this, and I don’t know what the point of any of this is at this point, but I also feel like this is the only place I can actually talk and not sound crazy, even if it’s just because everyone here thinks its just a story I'm telling.   When I say he is gone, my beautiful, smart, funny boy Luke, that is what I mean. Not kidnapped, not run off, not missing. As far as I can tell, he has been obliterated from this world entirely.   Here is my first post with its brief update: Part 1   After my first post the other day, I took to heart some of the advice I received and decided I would try responding to the text messages. I was going to wait until Thursday because I knew my wife and son would be leaving to spend a few days with her parents. Not because of all this, you understand, just a visit that’s been planned for the past few months. The trip is five hours and to another