The site has been dormant. I haven't heard from the others in awhile. I myself moved across the country and have had no experiences or even thoughts about him in awhile, but this... this could change things. I don't know if it could make them better or worse. A feature film could increase awareness too much, bring the story to too many idly curious who do not know the truth.

What truth?

Fiction is reality.
Reality is fiction.

It's only real if you believe in it. Remember that is the first rule. It's existence relies on the thoughtform not dissolving. Thought alone sustains it. It is a creature in kind with the Ludovician. It's home of loose pages and innocent photography, ones and zeroes of data.

Will this film further entrench it's dissolving existence here as more and more come to believe in it's fictional nature? Fiction is our armor, our defense. Belief in the fiction of the thing makes its fiction stronger, it's reality weaker.

But there is that chance isn't there? Some tiny chance that instead of reinforcing the fiction it plants that oh so tiny brainworm idea that maybe, just maybe in the dark recesses of our minds it can become a living thing. A malicious teasing beast who feeds best on terror only taking the meat when every last drop of fear is wrung out of it.

Plant enough of those worms, let enough of them grow, and it could bring us closer to its breast.

Money for safety.

Money for madness.

Let's bet.

I'm floundering. Really floundering. There's so much here ... There's just so much I want to say, but it's all based in hate and rage and fear. I put the words down, then strike them out. These are all the secret things. What lives in my dark hallways. I need to spell them out, but they need to remain unwritten. So hard I've tried ... so hard I've tried to build a stable home. So hard I've failed, so far I've fallen. When everything I've created lies bleeding on the kitchen floor, what will I have left? Memories. Regrets. Tales someone else has written. This is not me, this life divided. But it's the only me there is. Hiding from the bogeyman. I search for every light in the darkness, but no matter which way I turn, it's always the same. I'm lost.

-J

Define reality. Define real.

There's an itch behind my eyes. The whole house has begun to smell like something between rotten turkey and burnt hair. I don't know if that even makes sense, but it's the best I can do. There's nothing in the house that should be making that smell, but it's there anyway. The nosebleeds are getting worse. Bright arterial red drips from my upper lip onto my shirt. The red haired girl lies in my bedroom. She herself stinks of overripe meat, a different smell entirely from the one I smell now.

I didn't call the EMS because I wasn't sure what to say. I took her pulse and though she breathes from time to time, there is no beat beneath her chest. Her skin is room temperature. I'm not sure if I should call the paramedics or a coroner.

I take a sip of Dr. Pepper. There is roughly three ounces of rum in the glass, and my head begins to buzz pleasantly even as my gut spews burning acid back up my esophagus. It has a chalky, yellow, bilious taste to it, but I slam down the rum and ignore it.

In the next room, she makes a rattling sound. I screw my eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners, and try to think. I take another pull on my glass and I stare out the window over the television. A shadow passes over it. Human in shape, a clearly defined shape of head and shoulders. The window is high up, a man would have to be over seven feet tall to walk past it that way. I squeeze my hands tightly on the arm rests of the chair I'm sitting in and the urge to vomit crawls up behind the burning feeling of bile in my gut. The glass shivers in its frame.

From the next room I hear a thump and rise to check on the red head. She's standing in the doorway, a black rope of liquid hanging thickly from the corner of her mouth. Syrupy and pendulous, it swings and I am transfixed by it. She's still dressed in the jogging outfit I found her in, but the top is now stained maroon and black in places. Her eyes are unfocused but as she comes toward me her mouth twists into a grin.

She is nearly within grasping distance of me when the spell breaks and I run for the kitchen.

Speckles of maroon on the porous asphalt remind me of childhood woes. I see the spatters that remind me of my old life and I wipe my arm across my nose, leaving a red streak staining the hairs there. I don't quite smile, because the memories are too sharp, but I come close.

There's a red haired girl walking through the trees nearby and I stop to look at her. The sidewalk is empty but for me and the girl's eyes are empty and staring into nothing. I think I've seen her before, an elective class, maybe humanities. She looks like one of the girls that argued against me when I claimed the Christian god wasn't a universal truth. It's difficult to tell from here.

She stumbles to one knee, and stops where she is and I move toward her. Drunk, drugged, something, she seems helpless and though I have my questions about the origins of the world, I still know right from wrong. If she's in trouble, I want to help.

As I approach, a sound begins to escape her throat. It's a low rattling sound, a gagging, tearing noise that seems to imply she can't breathe. I begin to run, and grab her face, pulling her jaw upward opening her the air passages as best I can. A glistening rope of saliva seeps from the corner of her mouth. The sound of her suffering is beyond my capability to deal with.

I lean in, close, to listen to her breathe. Her breath is ragged, difficult to hear. I turn my mouth to hers in an effort to deliver CPR but the smell rips up out of her lungs and hits my nose with the force a week old corpse.

She's dead inside. I can't tell how I know this, but the breath from inside her has the sickly sweet smell of rotting meat. She stinks like a brisket left in the sun for a day. My nostrils wrinkle at the scent.

I draw back. Not sure what to do. Her eyes leak black, which I had assumed was her mascara running but now I am not sure. They remain closed despite whatever attempt I make at opening them. The best I can do is a sliver of bloodshot white as I struggle with the lids.

A sound from the trees, a low and slow chuckle, makes me look up. There's nothing there, only trees, elm and maple, magnolia and fir. I look back at her face and notice the orange red curl of hair that traces the line of her jaw. There's a tingle at the bottom of my gut and despite myself I scream when she coughs a spray of arterial red into my face.

Drifting. In and out. Room lit by the spectral glow of modern electronics. The shape of my wife a comforting weight beside me. I don't understand how she sleeps so peacefully, unafraid, but there she is. Breath even and measured, still in the dark.

I roll over onto my side, seeking that perfect spot that will allow me to finally fade out for the night. We have been out of town, up north, and I find only misery in the hated humidity I have had to return to. My eyelids slide down again and that's when I hear it. A furtive sliding sound from the direction of my closet. In the time I've been away I have once again grown accustomed to sleeping without a light on. My father's house, where we had been visiting, held no threat, safety even in the dark. Now... that sound.

In the split second that I hear it, my eyes snap back open. I am in no mood to deal with this tonight. Hot. Tired. I have felt nauseous most of the day, on the verge of vomiting and instead of lying in terror, as I would normally, I simply fling myself out of the bed. I feel him there, in the dark, but I don't care. Not tonight. I'm too tired, too sick, too depressed even over missing my family and the city I have, over the years, grown to love.

My wife is safe from harm. I don't know how I know that, but I do. It is only me he torments in this house, only my darkness he haunts, stepping through the spaces between my thoughts. I nearly trip on the fan cord, cursing, moving as quickly as I can to avoid not only hands which may grasp suddenly from the lightless corners of the room, but also waking The Wife.

Downstairs a light is on as it always is. The door behind me vibrates slightly in its frame, a faint scratching sound emanates roomside. Light or heavy, there would be no evidence of it in the morning. There never is. I grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, seeking solace in caffeine. The back door next to me thuds as if hit hard, the blinds bouncing, the glass rattling. This elicits a sharp scream which I cover quickly. I begin to suspect it is my terror he desires, and he has it now, but also my anger.

I turn, face the door, slam the fridge hard enough to dislodge items from the door inside. Breathing heavy, throat pinched closed with copper madness and I rage.

"FUCK YOU"

SLAM

"FUCK YOU"

SLAM

"FUCK"

SLAM

"YOU"

SLAM

"MOTHERFUCKER"

The door slams in its frame again as I drop the can of Dr. Pepper and reach, one hand for the knob, one for the deadbolt. I twist, I turn, I pull. The door flies open, as though pushed from the other side, barely missing my foot which surely would have been broken.

Framed in the doorway is only darkness. My back patio. The gate in the small fence closed. The cicadas drone on in the wooded dark. No stars shine, no moon can be seen, but nothing moves. The only sound the normal insectile buzz I have lived with so long I hardly hear it anymore.

"Fuck you," I say into the darkness and slam closed the door. The Wife, miraculously, has not awakened. The rest of the night passes without incident.

It is only in the morning when I check the weather that I realize the sky had been cloudless, clear, and should have been full of glittering stars.

Last night was a little different from my more recent experiences. It was more like that first night, when the shadowy figure sent me running through the house in hysterics. Except this time was a thousand times worse.
I was laying in bed again. I don't know why I still sleep there, or why I try to sleep at night at all; but I do, and so the story goes that I was laying in bed, huddled up under my blanket with the window closed, even though it was eighty degrees. It's funny the things you'll do for a measure of security. Not that any of them actually help. The light streaming in the window from the security lamp out back was shining in my eyes a little brighter than usual.
Restless and feeling watched, I got up and looked out the window. The back yard was flooded with light ... but for one patch about 100 feet away from the house. It was about three feet in diameter. A seemingly perfect circle. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to grasp the strangeness, then looked again. The shadow had moved, now about fifty feet from the house. Where it had been, the bats were having a heyday swooping down at something. I closed my eyes and swallowed, looked again. Twenty feet from the house, and the bats now swooping at the area fifty feet away, as well as the first area.
Fingers of fear were ticking across my brain and digging in. Gone was any need to swallow; my mouth was as dry as it's ever been. Afraid to look away again but afraid, also, not to, I was rooted where I stood, shaking like a leaf. As hard as I tried not to blink, I couldn't do it. The circle was gone, and bats spread the hunt to where it had been once again. I couldn't see it at all now, but the sense of being watched was monumental.
I turned to survey my room, my eyes landing on the doors of the closet to my left. They were closed, but they're the slatted type, and I knew in that way that only experience can explain that it was in there, watching, waiting for something. Another blink. Suddenly, spiders began to pour out of the closet from between the slats in waves, and I ran screaming from the room, down the stairs, outside, to my car, and just drove.
I must have been on the road for an hour before I realized I had nowhere to go and pulled over into a brightly lit and busy truck stop. I came home when dawn arrived and finally snatched a couple hours of sleep on the couch before sitting down to try to write this. I'm not sure how I'll spend the night tonight, but I'm pretty sure it won't be sleeping.

-J