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 when I’m getting it out I feel more at peace
than any other time, like I’m lancing a boil. Enough of my whining.
On with it.
I went back into the probate court that afternoon and met with a Ms.
Mercer, who was pleasant and helpful enough, though she had no real
help to give. She said that the paper records were all transferred into
their database back to 2002, which of course covered Luke who was born
in 2013. No sign of him. Tried every search parameter, but no luck.
So then I start asking about doing a search of the physical records. Even when they put those records in a computer system, they have to keep the originals of vital records in most states. The woman was again helpful as she could be, saying that I was in luck because they had records going back to 1982 in the courthouse, though they were about to transfer everything up to 2015 to an off-site storage facility in the next few weeks to make more room. After that paper copies from the originals would take a written request and a few days turnaround. But again, she pointed out unironically, today was my lucky day.
She led me into a cavernous room filled with deed books and land plats, which made me realize I’d never even called into work the day before or today. Pushing the thought aside, I followed her through another door to a smaller, more densely packed room full of file cabinets. She showed me how the filing system worked and offered to help further, but I told her I could work on it myself. I planned to be thorough, so I had made up a more elaborate story that I was doing genealogical research and Luke was a distant cousin. This made it easier to explain that I would need some time to look through records for not only him, but any other lost relatives. In truth, I just wanted to be alone with the records and make sure it was not misfiled if I didn’t find his birth certificate right away. Ms. Mercer nodded cheerfully and meandered away, heading to a nearby breakroom where another woman was apparently eating some variety of office birthday cake.
I began searching, and it took little time to see it wasn’t there. No sign it ever had been. I expanded my search to the entire drawer, then the two drawers before and after, going through each certificate individually. It was monotonous, but as I searched I began picking up on pieces of the conversation between Mercer and the cake lady.
They were talking about the funeral Mercer had been to that morning. It was for a man who had run a local barbershop for a number of years, a man who Ms. Mercer clearly thought a lot of and had even dated briefly when they were both just out of high school. There was some wistful talk of him being kind and handsome, but what caught my attention was their tone of voice as they spoke. It carried not just sadness or regret, but a thick cord of fear. At first I didn’t understand, as it was incongruous with what they were saying. Then they started discussing how he died.
The man had been found out behind his barbershop one morning earlier this week, having apparently been attacked the night before. No one knew what had attacked him, but his entire head was riddled with tiny holes. Face, scalp, even under his jaw. The cake woman, whose brother was apparently the local coroner, said they were like teeth marks, but long needle teeth, and from all angles and from nothing that he had ever seen. In any case, the damage done had been extensive. His head had been crushed and punctured severely, and according to the same coroner, and this last part had not been discussed publicly, while the injuries would have killed him, he actually died fairly slowly from suffocation, possibly while still being bitten.
About that time the women looked out at me and I realized I had stopped just sneaking glances and was staring at them. I smiled and nodded, pretending to go back to my search, but after whispering to each other for a moment, they headed back up to the front. After they were gone, I pushed the story from my mind and headed back into the drawers.
After an hour I gave up on finding Luke. I wanted to cry, but I
felt too hollowed out and tired to actually do it. Turning to head back
up to the front and away from the courthouse, I had a thought. My wife
was born in this county too, back in 1984.
I didn’t know why I felt like I needed to check her too until I did. There was no birth certificate for her either. I searched the entire drawer, a new wellspring of panic rising in my chest. Trying to catch my breath, I pulled out my phone.
First, I checked my text messages. She had sent me three the day before asking me to come home, but each time I had just sent a text back saying I was okay and I would see her when I got back. But since then, nothing. I had assumed she had given up for the moment, but now I wasn’t sure. I called three times to her cell number and twice to the home phone, but there was no answer at either. They just rang.
I almost ran from the place, but I got control of myself and waited long enough to ask Ms. Mercer to run a computer check for my wife before I left. Again, nothing. I already felt myself growing numb. Thanking her, I left the office.
The trip back home was uneventful, and I honestly don’t remember most of it, my head in a dull fog. I felt like I was just waiting to read the report saying I had terminal cancer after the doctor had already given me the bad news. My life was gone. Anything further was just going to be confirmation.
I pulled up at the house, and felt a rueful lack of surprise that there was no sign of my wife’s car. My key worked--the house was still mine apparently, but there was no sign of my family or their belongings. I checked the house thoroughly more out of some need for completeness than out of any real hope, and found nothing. Two hours later, exhausted in every sense, I passed out on the sofa.
I found myself in another one of those too-real dreams. I was walking down a dark alleyway in some unknown, rain-soaked city, my face cold as wind whipped past me, bringing with it the spicy scent of old decay. I was headed towards the bright spot in the alley, a neon sign hanging above a door that appeared to belong to some kind of bar or club.
There was a bouncer at the door, a thick-necked man with a collapsible baton held casually in his meaty left hand. Without thinking about it, I pulled a coin from my pocket, holding it in my palm for him to see. It was the strange coin I had found or its twin. In the dream, I saw and felt it pulse and shift on my palm slightly, though my dreamself did not scream or throw it away. After a moment of studying it, the bouncer nodded and let me pass through the door.
I woke up suddenly at that point, and I saw it was still dark. My phone had gone dead, but after charging it for a few minutes it told me it was actually Saturday night around 9pm. I had slept for over twenty hours. There were no missed calls or texts, and no signs of anyone having come in while I was out. I was alone.
I took a shower, hoping it might clear my head and tired of my growing old-sweat stink. I was still numb, but I could tell that I hadn’t eaten in over a day and so I microwaved some soup and sipped on it as I looked out the French doors that went out to our back patio and the yard beyond. I stood there staring for a few moments before I saw the thing floating there.
It was the same thing I had seen at the gas station or something like it. There was very little moon that night, but we have a security pole light that illuminates the back yard very well. I could see the thing coming toward me slowly, still thirty yards out but slowly undulating back and forth as it lazily crossed the distance.
I’ve thought a lot about how to describe this thing, and I still don’t know. In some ways it reminds me of some giant pale jelly fish. In other ways it looks like a semi-opaque dry cleaning bag given obscene life. If it has a head, it is the roundish mass that moves it forward, a ball of pale and largely translucent flesh that floats in the air. At the center of this mound is a writhing ball of darkness. It reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of a ball of snakes mating. If this thing has a center, a nucleus, a face, this cancerous core is it.
But that is not the entirety of it. Trailing back from it,
partially hanging, partially floating by some unknown suspension, are
more long strands of the same pale and glistening meat. Like a comet’s
tail, it slowly follows behind the mound, shifting on unknown currents
as smaller strands occasionally dart out as though tasting the air.
I stared at it for at least ten seconds before I was able to move. I
found myself wondering if it might be filled with long needle teeth.
Then I ran.
It was moving extremely slowly towards the house, so I took half a minute to put on shoes, grab my wallet, phone and keys, and get my jacket from where I had dropped it when I had come home the day before. Then I was out the door, in my car, and heading away. I looked in my rearview, but never saw it follow.
That was five days ago. I’ve been running ever since. Motel to motel, having given up any pretense of not using cards or worrying about being tracked. Just trying to stay away from whatever that thing is, whatever it might want. I called my job once, and to my lack of surprise, they didn’t know who I was. Yet my cards still work, all my online accounts, everything that does not rely on people seems to be purring along just fucking fine.
I’ve been largely on autopilot these past few days, but that changed last night. I saw it again, outside my motel. Only for a moment, and it didn’t come closer, but I knew that it knew I was there just the same.
So I give up. I’m going home. It’ll either get me or it won’t. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll go ahead and kill myself if I can get up the stomach to do it. Actually, it’ll probably depend on how scared I get. Because despite everything, despite feeling utterly used up and hollowed out, I’m still fucking terrified.
This will probably be my last entry. If I survive somehow, I’ll post again. If I don’t, well you know. Thank you for listening to all of this. I’m so alone now, and it means so much to talk about this, even in such a strange format, even if it amounts to screaming out into the dark. Thank you.
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