Near my home is a museum with a large collection of local artifacts. Some of the items come from some of the more grotesque cases I have looked into, donated by the investigating police. I few weeks ago I discovered an old journal hidden in my home, and so I took it to the museum in the hope someone may be able to tell me more about it. Within a few minutes someone approached me, pointing me to one of the local curators. What he told me has been devastating.
As I was being brought to the back to talk, I noted an old, oddly shaped knife, along with some broken carnival mirrors. After heading through a series of offices I ended up in a back room, illuminated by a set of old lamps. The man and I sat down, and I gave him the journal to review. After a few minutes, he looked up from the leather bound work to address me. His face was pale. He asked me if I was the man who had been doing the investigations of Wellington Street. I admitted I was, but this only seemed to frighten him more.
“You don't seem to understand what you have been looking into. This place is dangerous, and if you are not careful you will get hurt. I know for a long time you have been wondering about your home, about the husband and wife who lived there. About the wife who was murdered there along with her unborn child. The truth is, the man knew very little about his wife's activities. That she was part of the Wellington Street Historical Society, and that she had been looking into the history of this place. That her investigating likely cost her her life.
She was like you. She thought that it was important that these stories become shared. So she began collecting the evidence, talking to people much as you have. We tried to convince her that she was going to get hurt, but she wouldn't listen.
I asked him why he thought she needed to be warned. He continued, but in hushed tones.
“You are not the only one who have seen monsters. We at the society have been studying this place for generations. The history is intensely populated with strange occurrences and murders, and it is only through a very devoted group of people that this has remained a secret. You have been trying to share this information with the world, but I am sure you can tell there are consequences. For her, it cost her the life of herself and her child. For you, it might lose you more.
I tried to not focus on the headache that was settled above my eyes, or the sleepless night I had had the night before. I tried to ignore the feeling I was being watched and the intense feelings of fatigue and the nightmares. I tried to do this, but failed completely.
“We all have our theories as to why all these things are collected here. Some think that it might be some big conspiracy by the local officials. Some think that something is drawing them here, something perversely evil. Most of us though just try to ignore it. We collect the history together, but we keep it hidden as well. These things, these monsters, don't seem to on the whole to want to be seen. When the the woman who lived in your house began to reveal them, I am afraid they felt threatened. She isn't the first to have this happen, but most have learned to let these things sleep. We let the police put out the fires, and in the end we are thankful enough that these things seem satisfied to remain in the confines of the area. If you want some advice, I would suggest you let these matters lay where they are and focus on getting yourself better. If you are lucky, they will stop before they get to you.”
His words made me shudder, as I considered the fact that my old friend was still missing. My mind has not been improving, and if my last therapy session is any indication I have no guarantee that I will be better any time soon. I left the journal at the museum, figuring they would be better off with it than I, leaving with more questions than answers.
I have been thinking lately about my childhood, about how little I have been able to remember. Whatever is in my past, the one thing I cannot forget is the love of my parents. I don't...I don't think they wanted my life to get destroyed in a place like this. But I don't know if I can just ignore all the violence that has happened here. Whatever the consequence, is it really okay for me to ignore it, to just try and bury this desire in the hope that I will be able to survive. Am I already too late?
This next weds is my next meeting with my therapist. He is suggesting we try hypnosis again. The tape of the strange things I shared last time are still fresh in my mind, and I am scared of what I may find out. But there is something terribly wrong with this place, and there is something terribly wrong with me as well. In a way I know that this is perhaps what makes me belong, what makes me a local, and that scares me more than anything else.