Post by Roger Stone on Apr 6, 2011 18:45:12 GMT -6
[The following is the final entry in our “Mr. Hollick”’s bedside diary, which was found lying open at the scene to the same entry. Further investigation of past entries yields nothing remotely abnormal; this seems to be a lone oddity. It has been included in this report simply because of the sheer abnormality of it.]
Two weeks passed and it’s happened again.
Only two weeks. Two short weeks to forget. Barely enough time to actually start believing it had only been a freak nightmare, or even a stress hallucination. The broken lamp had been the only proof otherwise, and I had disposed of the shards of pottery that very night. The next morning, I made a trip to the store, bought a replacement that was nearly identical. I wish that thing would stop making so much noise. I can feel a headache coming on already, and it’s making it really hard for me to believe it’s not really there. Or at least keep my attention on this and keep calm. After replacing the lamp I had set the end table back upright, and I had returned the chair to it’s corner. I didn’t even believe it mussed the carpeting overmuch when I threw it. (Of course I think I had been avoiding that spot with my eyes the past few weeks, in hindsight. Didn’t want my little suspension of reality to come crashing down and all.) Why doesn’t it just leave? I’m safe up here on the bed, and it’s down there on the ground, trapped. Just leave! Anyways, I basically had returned everything to normal, close enough to actually convince myself that what had happened very simply hadn’t been real.
But it was- is! It’s very real, there‘s no use trying to deny it anymore. I can hear the proof. Gurggily-snarling is coming up from the floor at the foot of my bed. If “gurggily” can even be considered a word. I doubt it, and I don’t exactly have the luxury of nipping over to my shelf to grab a dictionary anymore. I’m scared, of course, but I think I’ve got it in check for right now. But thing wants to eat me, and it’s getting angry. I can feel it. If I didn’t have this journal, I’d probably lose whatever slippery grip I have on my fear and let it run away with me. Again. It caught me in the hall this time. I should’ve ran for the kitchen- it’s tiled, and there’s a phone. (Not to mention a window if all else fails)
But I ran in here and jumped up onto my bed, dropping my briefcase and with it my cell, which had been nestled in one of the velvety pockets within. I’ve got a pager, but some good that’ll do me. Maybe I could throw it at the thing and make it angrier, so it’ll kill me fast instead of eating me slow. What a pleasant thought.
So here I am, curled up in the middle of my bed, scribbling what could be my last words into a journal, safe from but trapped by the snarling, gurgling thing that patrols around the edges. Maybe it’ll just disappear again, just like the last time. I remember. I don’t want to, but I do. I’d repressed it, but now it’s back. It knocked the table over as I backpedaled, lifting one of the legs as it passes by underneath the carpeting, tipping the end table and shattering the vase. Or lamp. I forget, that thing’s making it hard to think with all the growling, and it’s a migraine this time, I can tell, not just a headache. My hands were searching blindly behind me for some kind of weapon, my eyes occupied with the bulge that had been steadily advancing on me.
Moments before that I had merely been sitting on the couch, trying to fight through the beginnings of yet another one of my frequent headaches and read the paper. Then the growling, and I saw it come around the other end of the sofa. I was put into a state of surprised shock, at once realizing that thing wasn’t something I wanted to be near but having a hard time getting my limbs moving. I was able to leap to my feet immediately, but then only capable of a backwards shuffle. Then it hit the table and knocked over the lamp. No, wait, I’m repeating myself now. But I don’t dare go reread to see where I left of. I can feel my grip on this panic slipping, and I need to keep focused. I’ll just guess about where- must keep writing. I had thrown the chair at it, missed, and kept backing up, right into the corner I’d pulled the chair from. It rushed forward, and I had thrown my arms up to cover my face in a feeble final defense. I have a feeling it would work about as well as tissue paper against ballistics. But the attack that should’ve come never did. It had just been gone, and Jesus Mary and Joseph that’s loud! Why won’t it shut up?? I think this is the worst migraine I’ve ever had and it’s roaring! It’s
It’s stopped. The snarling, the gurgling, the growling. It’s stopped. There’s only grunting now. Maybe it got stuck somehow? Should I check to see? What if it’s a trap?- What if it’s not? It’ll be my only chance. I need to check-have to. Gonna go check.
[The handwriting becomes frenzied, the words becoming squished together on the page]
Oh my god it’s tearing through! I saw it black and red and teeth and it’s gonna kill me this can’t be real I’m dreamingnotrealImdreamingitsnotrea
[The entry cuts off here, the last ‘a’s tail becoming drawn out, as though he’d pulled away from the book or the book had been pulled away from him. However, as mentioned in the report, there are no signs of struggle, making this seem unlikely. Autopsy reveals cause of death to be a malignant tumor, and more acutely a brain hemorrhage. The boys are stumped as to how he managed to survive so long with it going unnoticed. Mentioned near the end is something about it tearing through the carpet. While indeed a hole was found at the scene, it was no bigger than a quarter, and if the vic‘s description is to be trusted, then we have to realize that nothing that size could have knocked over the end table found in the living room. Techs checked the carpet around that area and did find ceramic traces in the carpet, indicating that the table was very likely knocked over. Two physiological experts were called in. The first read the journal and went to the scene to examine it. He claimed to feel violently ill after only a few minutes, and declined to give his opinion on the mater later. The second one had no problems, and determined that Mr. Hollick was experiencing a vivid delusion. They assured me the hole in the carpet was there previously, and Mr. Hollick was simply using it as a springboard. I know I’m supposed to keep personal opinion out of these, but I feel I need to add that the entire case had a feeling of wrongness about it. I found myself constantly checking over my shoulder at the scene. With that said, this case is closed. Hopefully it will stay out of my thoughts. I doubt it, but… End report.]
Two weeks passed and it’s happened again.
Only two weeks. Two short weeks to forget. Barely enough time to actually start believing it had only been a freak nightmare, or even a stress hallucination. The broken lamp had been the only proof otherwise, and I had disposed of the shards of pottery that very night. The next morning, I made a trip to the store, bought a replacement that was nearly identical. I wish that thing would stop making so much noise. I can feel a headache coming on already, and it’s making it really hard for me to believe it’s not really there. Or at least keep my attention on this and keep calm. After replacing the lamp I had set the end table back upright, and I had returned the chair to it’s corner. I didn’t even believe it mussed the carpeting overmuch when I threw it. (Of course I think I had been avoiding that spot with my eyes the past few weeks, in hindsight. Didn’t want my little suspension of reality to come crashing down and all.) Why doesn’t it just leave? I’m safe up here on the bed, and it’s down there on the ground, trapped. Just leave! Anyways, I basically had returned everything to normal, close enough to actually convince myself that what had happened very simply hadn’t been real.
But it was- is! It’s very real, there‘s no use trying to deny it anymore. I can hear the proof. Gurggily-snarling is coming up from the floor at the foot of my bed. If “gurggily” can even be considered a word. I doubt it, and I don’t exactly have the luxury of nipping over to my shelf to grab a dictionary anymore. I’m scared, of course, but I think I’ve got it in check for right now. But thing wants to eat me, and it’s getting angry. I can feel it. If I didn’t have this journal, I’d probably lose whatever slippery grip I have on my fear and let it run away with me. Again. It caught me in the hall this time. I should’ve ran for the kitchen- it’s tiled, and there’s a phone. (Not to mention a window if all else fails)
But I ran in here and jumped up onto my bed, dropping my briefcase and with it my cell, which had been nestled in one of the velvety pockets within. I’ve got a pager, but some good that’ll do me. Maybe I could throw it at the thing and make it angrier, so it’ll kill me fast instead of eating me slow. What a pleasant thought.
So here I am, curled up in the middle of my bed, scribbling what could be my last words into a journal, safe from but trapped by the snarling, gurgling thing that patrols around the edges. Maybe it’ll just disappear again, just like the last time. I remember. I don’t want to, but I do. I’d repressed it, but now it’s back. It knocked the table over as I backpedaled, lifting one of the legs as it passes by underneath the carpeting, tipping the end table and shattering the vase. Or lamp. I forget, that thing’s making it hard to think with all the growling, and it’s a migraine this time, I can tell, not just a headache. My hands were searching blindly behind me for some kind of weapon, my eyes occupied with the bulge that had been steadily advancing on me.
Moments before that I had merely been sitting on the couch, trying to fight through the beginnings of yet another one of my frequent headaches and read the paper. Then the growling, and I saw it come around the other end of the sofa. I was put into a state of surprised shock, at once realizing that thing wasn’t something I wanted to be near but having a hard time getting my limbs moving. I was able to leap to my feet immediately, but then only capable of a backwards shuffle. Then it hit the table and knocked over the lamp. No, wait, I’m repeating myself now. But I don’t dare go reread to see where I left of. I can feel my grip on this panic slipping, and I need to keep focused. I’ll just guess about where- must keep writing. I had thrown the chair at it, missed, and kept backing up, right into the corner I’d pulled the chair from. It rushed forward, and I had thrown my arms up to cover my face in a feeble final defense. I have a feeling it would work about as well as tissue paper against ballistics. But the attack that should’ve come never did. It had just been gone, and Jesus Mary and Joseph that’s loud! Why won’t it shut up?? I think this is the worst migraine I’ve ever had and it’s roaring! It’s
It’s stopped. The snarling, the gurgling, the growling. It’s stopped. There’s only grunting now. Maybe it got stuck somehow? Should I check to see? What if it’s a trap?- What if it’s not? It’ll be my only chance. I need to check-have to. Gonna go check.
[The handwriting becomes frenzied, the words becoming squished together on the page]
Oh my god it’s tearing through! I saw it black and red and teeth and it’s gonna kill me this can’t be real I’m dreamingnotrealImdreamingitsnotrea
[The entry cuts off here, the last ‘a’s tail becoming drawn out, as though he’d pulled away from the book or the book had been pulled away from him. However, as mentioned in the report, there are no signs of struggle, making this seem unlikely. Autopsy reveals cause of death to be a malignant tumor, and more acutely a brain hemorrhage. The boys are stumped as to how he managed to survive so long with it going unnoticed. Mentioned near the end is something about it tearing through the carpet. While indeed a hole was found at the scene, it was no bigger than a quarter, and if the vic‘s description is to be trusted, then we have to realize that nothing that size could have knocked over the end table found in the living room. Techs checked the carpet around that area and did find ceramic traces in the carpet, indicating that the table was very likely knocked over. Two physiological experts were called in. The first read the journal and went to the scene to examine it. He claimed to feel violently ill after only a few minutes, and declined to give his opinion on the mater later. The second one had no problems, and determined that Mr. Hollick was experiencing a vivid delusion. They assured me the hole in the carpet was there previously, and Mr. Hollick was simply using it as a springboard. I know I’m supposed to keep personal opinion out of these, but I feel I need to add that the entire case had a feeling of wrongness about it. I found myself constantly checking over my shoulder at the scene. With that said, this case is closed. Hopefully it will stay out of my thoughts. I doubt it, but… End report.]