The police arrived at the hotel at around seven. Feels like deja vu. Margaret didn't come home last night. Cops came over. I don't have a car. She has the car. She left to go to her class. Told them where it was at. They did some investigating...
No class is being taught there. No one recognized my wife. No one knew about any teacher. It was just a regular house. A boring residence on Wellington Street.
She lied to me.
My wife is missing, and the cops don't have any leads.
Though I have a few...
I know it will be hard to read this. When you don't have eyelids everything gets a little more difficult. Trust me. I know.
Use the eye drops I provided. It will help.
I want you to know that I really tried to forgive you. At first, I blamed myself like I so often do. I figured I really had done something wrong. Leaving you like I did...when the drinking got bad. At the time, I really did think that had I stayed, nothing else would have happened. That you would never hurt me like that again.
And you probably wouldn't.
"It crouches over me as I slumber, waiting for the dreams to start. It doesn't arrive until I sleep, but I know it is around all the same. Sometimes there a sound of breathing where there shouldn't be. Maybe a bit of drool that I didn't create. But more than anything, I can tell it has been here because of the nightmares.
It loves it when I have bad dreams.
Feeding off all the bad inside me would seem to be a good thing. Half the time I forget what was upsetting me or why. But that's the problem. I need to know why. When those bad feelings go away, there is a gaping hole where pain and resentment are supposed to go. Pain is not something we are supposed to have, but once it is there, once it has dug into us and settled under the skin, I think the worst thing you can do is to try and push it out.
Because this cold, evil thing feeds on nightmares, and it gets bored.
So it feeds me the bad stuff. The paranoia about my family and friends and those I love. I steals all the good and trust and happiness, just so it can feel full.
I am excited for my first day. I can't really say when I decided I wanted to do it. Probably always been something I was at least interested in. But now that it is staring me in the face, I am pleased to say that though I am nervous I don't feel any doubt about my choice.
The Wellington Street Historical Society. I don't know many places that get their own museum, let alone a stretch of road. But this place is special. I've known that ever since I was little. And now I get to be a part in preserving the history of it for future generations.
My boss is really nice. His name is Eric, and he really seems as excited about preservation as I am. Not that I get to handle anything big for now. That comes later. At least I hope so. For now I just am supposed to get familiar with the displays and get to know the layout for when visitors come.
It is...strange for someone my age to be so interested in stuff like this. But it is my calling.
I feel it in my bones. There is something in this place that has always drawn me here.
“Who are we compared to it? I don't know. But if what it claims is true, then we really are alone.
I first encountered it in a dream. It seems to permeate everything, and manifests everywhere. I have found it spoken of in google images, and in pictures from over fifty years ago. It shows up in television broadcasts from the 60's and in images from Mars.
It seems that there is no place in time or any medium where it cannot produce itself into a tangible form. But despite this, it refuses to reveal its nature. It simply wishes to critique our own, to declare our inadequacy in comparison to it. Reality as we understand it is not real. Time is not real. We might as well be a static painting that it observes, a finished product that fails to impress.
That is how it sees the universe, and it seems that no matter what form it takes, we are left with little knowledge of it. Of what it wants or needs, or if it even really needs anything at all. The ancients had a name for it, but that name is only a modern creation. In reality, it is far older, if age even is a thing for it.
I dreamed of my home town, in upstate New York. I was going to a movie with a girl I was familiar with back then. Her name was Melissa. She had a wonderful smell that reached me, even in the stink of the theater. She smelled of strawberries and cigarettes.