XVII. [excursus]

A brief excursus:

Sometimes when I'm writing these words—more than words, really: a re-telling; new acts to new scenes—they become so unfamiliar that the only way for me to acclimatize myself with them is to ignore them; to dissociate them as words entirely, and make them symbols—a new language altogether; some ancient text you've never seen; maybe a language used in some foreign land, on some foreign continent, now long-lost & buried beneath the ocean. But that never works. These words will always be the same; they will forever mean the same thing—whether it be as a whole or as a thousand separate entities—broken down further to letters & numbers, in turn broken down to fractions of coordinates, x's & y's, dots collective, and ultimately meaningless. Could that be what this all really is? Do I really have the time to elaborate upon these philosophick musings? I should go back, but I'm afraid of that hole. It bothers me; trepidates me; pre-dates me?, maybe its been here all this time—I just never noticed it. I'm paranoid. That's fiction. This is all fiction. I've fallen asleep at the wheel, on my way home from a hard day's night, to my loving wife, awake & alive again, for the first time, free of any confusion, free of a message from the hospital. But none of that's true either. This is all fiction. This is all plagiarism. Someone else is writing these words—these x's & y's—for me, through me, vicariously, licentiously going in & out of my mind through the occipital fracture, all from the crash I never had. But if I never had it, what am I writing about?—well, not me: you, whoever you are, living through me.

When did all of this begin? When did all of this go wrong?

It could've been just about any time. Hours ago. Days ago. Weeks ago. Some other fictional amount. What do I know? I can't even remember the name of my neighbor. It's such a mess; I don't have time for this—I don't know how to determine my time anyway: the clock's been spinning on ends, irreverently, without rhyme or reason, for hours now—or maybe just seconds: hours on the clock?, or hours in perception? What is an hour?, anyway. It's neither yours nor mine, that's for certain, so it's not ours, but hours, an empty glass—our glass?—or was it hers when she left?, and when was that?, it could've been just about any time—anyone's time. But not hours.

It's not the most difficult thing, to write. I don't regularly anymore—it's been ages—but I still know how. With too much time on your hands—whosever time it is—you have little to do but wait. Even now, though I should be doing something about this—traversing holes; getting escape—I just sit, on the couch, the bed, the floor, against the bookshelf, against the door, waiting for the door to come crashing down. It's not even my door any longer: Not sure whose it is now, but it can't be mine—it's a stranger's, someone who's seeking me, sought me forever.

Whoever seeks me, finds me. Whoever finds me, knows me. Whoever knows me, loves me. Whoever loves me, I love too. Whoever I love, I kill.

Where did I hear that before? I don't know anymore.—some things don't make any sense to me these days. That's to be expected, right? Is that agreeable?, is that even a part of this? No. I can't agree with that. It could be just about anything—maybe the re-telling of a different story altogether. This isn't what it should be; not even what it's supposed to be: It's just a story, right?, a tall-tale?, a lie? Is it?

VII.

He has a terrible stutter and I have no idea where he came from or how long he’s been there. We talked on the steps of Wish House, the orphanage southeast of the lake but I could’ve sworn it was destroyed a while ago, in a fire maybe?, I don’t remember, years ago probably. I remember reading an article about it—well, a few, thinking back on it: they never had anything good to say about it: abusing children, corrupt administrators—I heard that one of them was killed or arrested, something. That was a few years back too. It had something to do with drug-trafficking, something like that. Maybe he did die. Whatever. He was a member of Ashfield’s City Council, after he re-opened the orphanage—under false pretenses evidently. Not such a good guy after all. Had it coming. Maybe I’ve kept one of those newspapers round here—there are a few random ones I’ve left here over the years; ones I’ve had photographs published in; I’ll look later.

That guy in there, wherever “there” is, Jasper . . . he’s a weirdo. He hasn’t told me how he managed his way “there,” but I guess I didn’t ask either. The first thing he started mumbling about was this giant rock outside the building, the “Mother Stone” he called it. It had something to do with the natives’ ceremonies and talking to their deceased ancestors—that sort of nonsense. At this point I could care less. I want to be outside—of my apartment, the city, the state. Anywhere!

*EXCURSUS (ON THE SIDE OF THE PAGE): Thinking about it: that “place” is as far away from my room as can be. It’s a reality entirely disjointed from here—there’s no cohesiveness; no coherent structure. I guess if I want to be as far away as possible I’d better go back. . . .

He told me about some “nosy guy,” some investigator, that he’d spoken with before. I don’t distinctly remember what he said about the guy, if anything, and I’m not all that interested right now: The less I know, the better off I am. Right now, at least. There’s no shame in being ignorant when the truth is so elusive. Shy away. Is that a problem? What’s happening now, this burden, so ineluctable I don’t know if I’ll ever want to understand. Traversing holes between what appears to be a nightmare, what I’m afraid to acknowledge as even being real . . . why, it’s laughable to even see it on paper. I’m laughing right now.

Really.

And then I look up from this notebook, all around my room, and see the reminders of that “place”—I can still hear, occasionally, what must be children crying from that hole. I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back. I refuse to go back.

I’m back.

[CLICK]

VI.

I never actually re-emerged from the hole; I just . . . woke up, in my bed, as if I’d never left. Maybe that woman was right, I thought. Maybe I really was in her dream. But . . . it was too real; too vivid. The blood on my pants is really there.

Just as I had after every nightmare, I checked the front door. Still locked; still chained shut; no way out of the apartment. Something was different though. Something entirely wrong. . . .

There’s this dresser I found in the apartment when I moved in. I’ve got a couple photos on the top of it, which I think I mentioned already. There wasn’t any reason for me to get rid of it, and it looked alright there against the wall, so I kept it, stored some old photographs—ones I’ve taken; ones of my family—in there, and let it stay. For all pragmatic purposes it worked just fine.

Maybe Frank found a way in while I was gone? . . . Maybe when I was in that world he came in and looked around? . . . No . . . that’s not possible. The chain’s still up, and I never actually left the apartment. Did I? I was in the bed when I came back, just like every other time since. It doesn’t make sense. Who could’ve moved it?

The dresser was pulled out a few inches from the wall, and to the right about six more. When I went to move it back, there was . . . a handgun, loaded. It was dusty; looked to’ve been there for months, maybe even since before I moved in. I’d never held a gun in my life; never had any intention of doing so. But with it here, it very well turned out to be the most propitious weapon against those monsters . . . whether they’re in my head, my dream, or another world altogether. But still: Who moved my dresser?, revealing this handgun?, and more importantly that note?, and that hole. . . .

The faint hope I had is slowly changing to despair. I’ve somehow
managed to tunnel this far, but no matter what I do, I can’t get
any farther. The hallways, the windows, the walls. . . . It feels
like this room is stuck in another dimension.

Eileen never noticed.

The hole peers into Eileen Galvin’s bedroom of all places. Don’t know where that one came from either, but it . . . looks to’ve been man-made, by something with a sharp point; could be just about anything. Just another something I can’t worry about right now; nothing to fret over at least.

Those words stuck out to me: Eileen never noticed. I looked through the peep-hole: Eileen was sitting on her bed, apparently looking for a broom—it was right in front of her!—it stood in the corner, right by the hole. When she came over, she didn’t see a thing: not the hole; not even my eye (fortunately). So . . . whoever lived here before me was watching Eileen too, and may have been the one to leave the gun behind. Is that it?

Anyway. That’s when the phone started ringing. I don’t know how: It’s still disconnected; it’s still unusable—but I darted to my bedroom and answered it: It was Cynthia. . . . There’s no way she could possibly have called, but I’ve given up hope in trying to understand the how’s & why’s of this . . . place—it’s no different of a place than a dream, where there are no laws of physics or boundaries, but this isn’t a dream; this room is very much reality, as much as I hate to admit it. Beyond that hole, however, is another world. *EXCURSUS (ON A TINY SLIP OF PAPER, STAPLED TO THE EDGE OF THE PAGE): Thinking back on it: It must’ve been Cynthia the first time the phone rang that morning. It was the same breathing; the same quavering voice. It had to be her.

Cynthia said over the phone that I would need a token, and that she had one there. I took it for what it was worth and returned to that world via the hole still in my bathroom wall. I keep asking Why me? This makes no sense. And with every page there’s a reminder of that hole in the impression left on the pages beneath it: there’s that circle, that transom, that eye, staring me down, reading the words I’ve written through its own mirror.

When I returned, I ended up in the exact place I left at; the same hole through the same tunnel to the same restroom. In the first stall though to my immediate left, was a doll . . . well, almost. It looked just like Cynthia, but made of plastic; some kind of mannequin with doll joints. Who knows where it came from. It’s palm outstretched, it held a token for the Lynch St. line, so I headed that way.

I fired the gun for the first time, at a pair of dogs—the skinless variety, that is—and dropped’em instantly. It took a few more shots than I’d like, but it’s not like I’ve ever had any practice with this sort of thing; didn’t seem as if I did too bad though, not to justify myself or anything; nor pat myself on the back.

The hallway led to the main terminals, and down either the King St. Line or the Lynch St. Line—strange names for the roads, huh?, they never stood out to me before. I dropped the token into the slot, opened the gate, retrieved the token, then headed downstairs.

The fear I’d once experience was nothing in comparison to what happened next. As I reached the landing, I began feeling sick: my head was pounding; vision began to blur; skin felt to have caught fire; throat wanted to close. It started to feel just like that dream.But, isn’t this a dream? I thought. Maybe so. Maybe this was something else. It didn’t make sense until the wall began to crack.

Just like the dream. Where I’m not myself, but am in my room—that’s not really my room. That black viscous substance began to appear, on a wall, at the bottom of the stairs, next to where I walked. I stopped to examine, but I couldn’t see clearly: that’s when it started. It’s hand began to rip through the concrete—well, the goo really—and grabbed at me; I avoided it, went down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, there was an open door, which I mistakenly went into, evidently to await what I-thought-was-my-coming-doom.

(It looked familiar, that ghost. I’m not sure where from—I’ll think about it; look around some—but it looked like someone I’d seen before.)

When it got too close, my head would throb, my face would burn, my hands would shake—there was something inside of me when it came that close. I aimed the gun, shakily, at its vested body—what kind of ghost wears a three-piece suit?—and fired several rounds. The shots must’ve hurt it, weakened it: the ghost collapsed, and the pains I’d been experiencing dissolved. It was just that fast. I didn’t linger for more than a handful of breaths: I could see it beginning to arise, albeit slowly. Sticking round would’ve been suicide.

Sprinting past the downed-ghost, I headed further into the Subway, closer to the tracks, thinking I heard screaming. I was right. After jumping, mostly, down some thirty steps—not the entire way down, mind you: maybe five or six at a time—a subway cart came into view. Behind the doors was Cynthia, locked in, trapped. And here I was: skinless dogs on either side, and another ghost lurking to the left. The same symptoms occurred, but I dealt with them—as best I could. My aim was off, but I had nothing else with me: how does one go about stopping a ghost anyway?, what good would a three-foot steel pipe be? I don’t know now, and I sure as hell didn’t an hour ago. . . .

*EXCURSUS (ON A NOTECARD): Something stands out now, now that this has happened again, about what Cynthia said locked in the Subway. She said:

Help me! Someone’s coming! Get me out of here!

I didn’t remember—did I want to?—her saying Someone’s coming!, but I do now; it stands out; it means more than the rest.

I should’ve hurried; this didn’t need to happen, did it?

I tried opening the door. It was locked: an automatic locking-mechanism was in effect, so no matter how hard either of us pulled or kicked or smashed, it wouldn’t budge. Running down to the front of the train, the door was open—all the others locked—and inside a button to unlock them all. Pressed. I stepped back outside, Cynthia was running towards me. She asked where I’d gone, and why had I left her, but I didn’t answer. How could I? What was I supposed to tell her?: I crawled back through a hole that led me to my bedroom, where I’ve been trapped for five days. As outrageous as what was happening to us just then, that seemed even more absurd.

I couldn’t say a thing. I didn’t speak a word.

After Cynthia was released, the ghosts seemed to have disappeared. They weren’t anywhere around at least, nowhere in sight. Didn’t want to take a chance so I hurried Cynthia up and started rushing through carts: I wanted to get us the hell out of there.

There was so much junk in the subway carts. I couldn’t possibly begin to describe it all here. Clumps of flesh from what looked to be fresh corpses; chained-up torsos, rotting in the stagnant, stifling air; old newspapers, dated years ago—why were they there?, talk about terrible sanitation; also a box. A strange toy box with a strange hand-drawn symbol. It looked like an 18. Maybe a dollar sign. A crossed-out eight, I guess. Don’t know what else it could be, or its significance. I tried opening it, but nothing doing. Locked shut, not to open. Never did find a key for it. Seemed too out-of-place to be coincidental. Or, maybe I’m wasting time thinking about it.

There was a lot of junk down there.

The carts looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. Maybe that’s the case; maybe that’s the truth. But is any of this Truth? I don’t even want to know anymore. . . . Maybe this place isn’t so much that, but instead Time? I wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining something like that—not that I’m doing that good of a job at it as it is. But what’s important?, what matters now?

I led Cynthia to the otherside of the tracks where I found a door, unlocked. I’m not sure what the room was exactly, some kind of utility room, I guess, with a ladder going down beneath the tracks—must’ve been for maintenance workers. That makes the most sense. More distractingly, there it was: the eye, staring right down at me, into me, that great expanse, that abyss, just beckoning, calling me into it. When I turned to grab hold of Cynthia’s hand to lead her inside, she was gone. I opened the door to see if she was still out there, but, no, she was gone, vanished into thin air. What could I anticipate in that place? I don’t feel safe here either any longer, but I don’t have any other options, do I?

The hole was asking me to step inside. I couldn’t do it. I had to find another way out of that place.

I took the ladder, further down.

Standing on chain-link fence for a floor, I moved cautiously—as best I could. The walls were red, like blood & skin. It reeked of rotting flesh; I wanted to puke. I almost did. I’m glad I didn’t. At that same time, my head began to pound, my vision blurred, and my chest flared up: another one of those things was coming. I fired shots at where I thought it was—somewhat randomly, that is—but I guess it was hurt—it slowly fell to the ground. It was one of the same one’s from before, when I first entered this place; wearing a suit, with the back of its head missing. I wanted to keep firing at its downed body, but it wouldn’t have done any good, I’m sure of it—there was another turning the corner anyway; I had to hurry.

As the other one progressed slowly towards me, I managed to maneuver past it, by dodging its lunge towards me. Turning left then another right led me down a flight of stairs; there was a door there too.
As soon as it opened, I breathed the most foul, vile, repulsive smell imaginable; I can’t even begin to describe it. Dangling down from the ceiling, above one of the tracks, was a gigantic . . . worm? It must’ve been hundreds of feet long—it appeared to’ve gone on forever—and about four feet in diameter: about as wide as that hole. . . .

Before I had time to look at it—not that I wanted to, but I couldn’t draw myself away, I didn’t want to stand too close anyway—Cynthia’s voice came over the intercom.

Henry, I found the exit. . . . Come to the turnstile. Hurry!
Hurry! It’s him. . . . He’s coming! . . .

Then it clicked off. Without any idea where I was, I ran straight ahead. There were skinless dogs everywhere, but I didn’t have time to deal with them. I kicked one in the face as it got close, but I went straight for the escalators back upstairs.

I don’t know for how long it went. Miles or minutes, what could’ve been days. I wanted to see the end of this tunnel, light at the top, shining down, the refulgent exit, waiting for me of all people. In my hypnosis, something struck me, stirring me back to this world. There was something crawling out of the wall, something with sharpened teeth and sharpened claws and sagacious smile, stuck to the wall, immobile and furious. Without wanting to sound lazy, I’ll just say it lasted too long, blood was lost, theirs & mine, and no matter how fast I tried to make it up, it wasn’t enough to save her.

The sirens outside when I began this were singing for her. She’s dead now. I watched her. I don’t know what happened, or how, or by whom, but I know she’s gone. The police have somehow interfered with my radio, so I could hear their words. The numbers on her chest were real. Whoever did this really carved into her body. It sounds familiar, too, but I can’t remember where from. Maybe one of my books; maybe it’s just a story.

When I made it up the escalator, I found my way to the turnstile—where she told me to meet her. On the floor: make-up, tampons, condoms, some cash, photographs, ID, bus pass . . . the contents of a purse. Also, on the door: a green placard labeled “Temptation.” More importantly: blood. Too much blood. I knew it was hers. Rushing through the doorway, she was laying there, panting, weeping, gasping for breath, blood on her face, her chest, her hands, everywhere. She wasn’t going to survive. The numbers were visible on her chest, her clothes torn & ripped—not ‘off,’ just from the struggle, with whoever “he” was. . . .

She told me It’s just a dream, that she drank too much last night, that she never got to do that special favor. How could I have told her the truth? That she was right: that she was dying? No. I couldn’t. I told her it was just a dream.

It was, wasn’t it? But that won’t bring her back.

That’s when I woke up. Back on my bed. That’s when I heard the sirens and looked out the windows: The crew had just put someone in the ambulance, and that’s about when the radio became active again, on its own.

After having someone die in my arms, I imagined things couldn’t get worse. But, hey, I never thought anything like this could happen to me, either. . . .

[CLICK]

V.

the most logical thing to do, despite being at the same time the absolute most illogical thing one could conclude to do—especially at a time like this.

No matter: how one deduces it, debates the point, decides otherwise: it had to be done. I crept back into the hole.

[CLICK]

IV.

Here’s a picture of it, drawn from memory. It’s not 100% accurate—in fact I messed up the first version terribly—because I didn’t have a pen with me back there. (It’s messy in the middle because I tried using a can of Coke to draw the circle, but it was dented and kept slipping around.)

[CLICK]

III.

Returning from the hole for the second time, gathering my thoughts. Actually, did I even go anywhere? I woke up, yeah, in my bed. Not at the hole; don’t even remember traversing the hole. Did I? Another dream?, nightmare? It couldn’t have been. I mean: too vivid; I remember too much.

I’ll start from what I first remember. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

THE REST OF THE PAGE IS RIPPED OUT. ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE, THE WRITING HAS BEEN OBLITERATED.

This is not going to be easy. . . . I’ve been back for an hour now. I woke up in bed, to the sound of sirens, the song of sirens singing. What happened in there. . . .

I crawled through the hole, towards a white light, when I came out: I awoke, on an escalator going down down down, descending(THE WRITING STOPS, MID-SENTENCE. TAPED OVER THE MIDDLE OF THE PAGE IS PART OF A RIPPED SHEET OF PAPER) I was descending an escalator. Some kind of factory, but it turns out it was just the Subway—the one right outside my apartment. It seemed familiar, yet strangely distant, but I don’t use it that often—whatever. That’s not important. At the bottom I was holding a three-foot long piece of steel pipe. I don’t know where it came from; I don’t remember picking it up; it was just . . . there, in my hands.

I couldn’t see much; there wasn’t much to see. I could hear footsteps in the distance, but couldn’t determine what from. The tunnel was dark, much more than it should’ve been, but . . . it’s just a dream, I thought. Right?

I walked down the corridor, slowly at first, cautiously, but I was too anxious, terrified? maybe—concerned more than anything. The other footsteps were getting louder, reasonably enough. Looking round the place, things seemed . . . different, from when I was here last. It’d been awhile, sure, probably from the last time I went to Silent Hill, but it was much more derelict than I recall. I still wonder what happened, why so different. Maybe this dream—is it really a dream?—XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I don’t remember what I wanted to say. My mind is racing.

When I reached the end, that woman was there, from outside the Subway, when I woke up. She told me her name was Cynthia, among other things. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I’ll try writing it.

First thing she asked was “who are you?” and then for my name. I told her, asked for hers. She became defensive, responded impudently—also: very curiously. Something about it being her dream, and that I should know it. I couldn’t make sense of it; didn’t want to right then anyway.

She continued: This is just a dream. A really terrible one at that. I hope I wake up soon. I was inclined to agree, but all I could think of was how convinced she was of it being her dream. It didn’t make sense. Thinking back, though, I wish it had been hers. . . .

She offered herself to me then, if I helped her out of that place. Her body pressed against mine, her delicate fingers ran across my cheek and lip.

Awake. Asleep. Awake. A sleep.

Awake.
____ Asleep. _____Awake.
__ Afraid. Aseep.
_Escape. Awake Afraid. Aslep.
_______Asleep.

What am I writing? . . .

I couldn’t exactly . . . refuse, so I told her to stay close. It’s not like it was my place to tell her no: We both needed to find a way out of there; if it was up to me, so be it. EXCURSUS (ON SEVERAL PIECES OF PAPER): Makes me think of this time as a kid. I must’ve been six or seven . . . long ago. Seems like forever sometimes. But how often do I think about that? Rarely. Simpler times, sure, but simpler memories too. Everything was exaggerated, pleasant. Back then adults were one hundred feet tall, could jump one hundred feet high, and were one hundred years old. Or so I thought. Thinking back I realize exactly how ridiculous that all sounds, but given my current situation . . . nothing seems impossible.
_____Anyway. I’d just moved to a new house; I didn’t know anybody in the neighborhood, or at my school. I didn’t have any friends either. I was walking along the sidewalk, along this creek, that went under the road—it was a little bridge built over the creek—and sometimes the older kids would go down there, but it wasn’t easy to get back up to the sidewalk.
As I walked over the road, I could hear this pathetic crying, puling, for help. Sounded like a little girl, about my age. Turns out it was. I called into an opening, couldn’t see much, couldn’t hear much either, but I knew someone was there, under the road. I thought I’d be brave; that I could make a friend.
_____Hopping down the barricade, then climbing down into the creek, the girl slowly came into view; it was still too dark to see anything else yet. I slowly stepped closer, into the light: just as I thought, it was a young girl, my age, from one of my classes. I had no way of knowing if she recognized me or not—she didn’t react any particularly noticeable way upon seeing me—but I guess it wasn’t important.
_____I told her to take my hand, that I’d lead her outta there. She did, cautiously, and followed me out of the tunnel, along the creek, for about ten minutes, neither of us saying a word to the other. When we came to a gradation I felt I could climb, I lifted her up on my shoulders—I was weaker back then; it wasn’t easy to do—and managed to get her onto the safe ground. There was no way for me to reach all the way up, so I had to strategically use the roots protruding from the incline, and hoist myself up. I remember calling up to her, so she could maybe lend a hand, but she never responded.
_____Back at the top, she was gone. Nowhere to be seen. Maybe she went for help, I thought; so I waited a few minutes, strolled up the creek, back to the road. After half an hour, I went home. It was getting late.
She wasn’t at school the next day. She was never at school again. The police searched the town for weeks, but her body was never recovered—that I know of at least. It’s been years since, I thought. All they ever found of hers was a little ragged doll . . . under the tunnel, half-under the surface of the water, stuck beside a rock, with blood on its raggedy face.
_____As far as I know, I was the last person to see her alive. I never came forward. I never told a soul.
She followed me down the subway tunnel, vacant, silent. I wanted to ask how she found herself here, how she ended up in this place, but couldn’t think of how to go about asking it—or what I’d say. Besides: she was convinced it was a dream; it wouldn’t matter what I asked her.

She stayed close to me; I could hear her bated breath, tearing the empty air. Normally: a thousand voices screaming through the corridor, people pushing one another aside, paying tolls, sneering and growling: rabid dogs. Sometimes an awful place. But now: dead air. When she asked How much farther?, she whispered. I didn’t answer.

After five minutes or so of walking—was it that long?, that doesn’t even seem possible—she stopped me, ran into the women’s restroom. She said she was sick; that she was about to puke. While I waited, I couldn’t help but wonder what from. Hangover, I assumed. She certainly didn’t look pregnant. . . .

Ten more minutes went by. Maybe. I don’t have a watch; my perception of time right now is terribly skewed. I heard this growling behind the men’s bathroom door as it creaked open. It was dark inside; I hadn’t heard anything from Cynthia; something horribly wrong was happening.

The door slammed open, and a body came flying out. . . . Some kind of . . . dog, I think, but with its skin peeled off and bandaged, suppurating beneath the surface of its remaining flesh, rotting. It didn’t move once it landed, but two more, living, sauntered out from behind the door, their eyes sewn shut—or were they just grown over & blind?—tongues trailing behind them, dragging along the floor, two feet long, disgusting. They approached the carcass, sniffing the air round it, then the body, and all of a sudden . . . started feeding. Not in any ordinary manner, mind you: Their tongues stiffened, erect, stabbed into the dogs body, followed by a distinct I’m ingesting whatever is inside of you sound.

It was awful.

When they finished feeding, they turned to me, tongues limp, growling, their stitched-shut eyes still attempting, in vain, to blink, their necks contorting, chunks of loose flesh dropping to the concrete.

That steel pipe came in handy.

I smashed the first one in the side of the face as hard as I could. It dropped with a whimper. The second lunged for my leg; I parried, and crushed its left shoulder, then swung at its hind legs, smashing both its knees. Debilitated, lying on the ground, it too wouldn’t cease its snarling. I hated having to do this . . . I stepped down on what was left of its life, hard as I could, shattering its skull into fragments. It was sick. By the time I’d done it, the other one had already stood up, its legs trembling but still enduring the pain. It came forward, slowly, towards me: I knew I had to stop it. I kicked it square in the face, its jaw crumbled, flew into a dozen pieces, its blood still on my clothes, and dropped dead.

It was either them or me.

Afterwards I knocked on the women’s restroom, to make sure Cynthia was all right. There was no answer. I stepped inside: nothing; no trace of her ever being there either. . . . Went instead to the men’s restroom; if she wasn’t there, she wasn’t there. It too was empty. Except for one thing: the hole.

In the back of the restroom, in the farthest wall, there it was. An unusual red design was painted round the circumference, at the very top an unblinking eye, strange runic characters along the outer circle, and some other impossible to descry designs. (Too bad I don’t have any books on ancient runology. . . . Otherwise I’d be set.) On the next page is a drawing of it, without all of the details. Maybe I’ll fill in the rest later on; I’m sure I’ll be seeing it again. . . .

I stood there, listening, looking, for a long time—for what felt like a long time—and concluded that I had to crawl through it; I didn’t know what else to do; it seemed

A PAGE HAS BEEN RIPPED OUT

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II.

Day 4

Nightmare again. Nothing’s changed; just more details.

If it weren’t for the sun, I’d think it’s been days since I last wrote. It feels like it.

Hours have passed—I think—since what I wrote above. Finally!, good news: The radio’s working. It’s all static, except for a local news station, and even it has a weak signal: I’ll occasionally hear something like growling—reminiscent of the creature in the dream—distorting the signal, and every time I get this terrible headache, or it exacerbates what I already have.

I found some old audiotapes in my chest, so I’ve begun recording what I could of it. Maybe I’ll transcribe them when I have the time . . . who am I kidding? I have nothing but time right now. It’s still a pain. I’ll just leave the tape.

The television still won’t turn on. The phone still won’t dial; there’s not even a dial tone. The heater and A/C shut down days ago, leaving the temperature unnaturally cool—(I assume: I have no way of checking outside. Well, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes the weather report will come through the radio.)—but it’s tolerable in here. I suppose. Sometimes the ceiling fan will begin to twirl on its own, but there’s no airflow to move it, it’s all stagnant and weighted. I’ve learned to accept it. There’s nothing I can do to change it. I’m powerless, in my own apartment.

Looks like I’ll have to find another job. . . .

Day 5

My hand won’t stop shaking; my body too. Something’s happened. Something terrible is happening. My legs are weak; my knees are giving away; I can barely stand, but I can’t sit down either. There’s something wrong. (Not that I didn’t already know that, but, now, much worse.)

I’ll start from when I awoke, from that nightmare, that selfsame nightmare.

I felt light on my face, coming through the window—I guess I’d forgotten to shut the blinds; I guess it didn’t matter, I don’t sleep much at a time anymore; I can’t stand to—and I heard the traffic, the people, the populous, all living without me, proceeding with their lives as usual, nothing atypical, no second thoughts about how maybe, just maybe, a fellow in Room 302 has been locked in his apartment for the past five days, waiting it out, patiently?, praying for some way out of this nightmare-within-a-nightmare.

Today, the fifth day, my prayers came true. And now I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

I did the same thing I’d done everyday so far: tried the phone, tried calling Frank. No dice. Same thing as always: some weird static & distortion; couldn’t describe it for the life of me. I hung up, disparaged, like every morning, like every hour.

I took two steps towards the door and it happened. It rang. Five times before I could answer, before I could gather the strength to speak. (When was the last time I’d made a sound? I stopped yelling at the windows two days ago; there were no other reasons to speak when I knew there was no one listening. Would they listen if they could hear?, I wonder. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to.) My voice still worked, enough to say Hello. I could hear breathing; I thought of high school.

Silence.

Help . . . me! . . .

What?

Silence, beep, beep, beep. . . . dial tone. Silence.

I didn’t make a sound; I didn’t say a word. Nonplused, I picked up the entire phone. The cord swayed in front of me: it had been cut. . . . My chest collapsed; my heart sank; my mouth, dry as a bone. A physical impossibility: my entire apartment had become a quantum & mathematical joke. I expected a headache, but nothing came.

Immediately after hanging up, I heard a scream, a blood curdling someone’s-just-been-killed sort of scream; quite the wake-up call: it worked. I didn’t want to move. It came from the living room, I thought, but maybe that meant there was a way in; maybe a way out. . . . I had to know.

I opened the door to the hallway. Lungs filled with stale air, made me choke briefly. I couldn’t see straight, but nothing seemed different; no one was here; no one to let me out. I walked around the place, looking at everything, just to ensure nothing had in fact been disturbed. I did hear that scream. At least I thought I did. Maybe just an admonition of things to come; maybe I made it up. I don’t remember right now. It’s no longer important; that scream doesn’t matter. I looked around, tried the television, still doesn’t work, messed with the clock, still stopped at 10:10, same old photos of myself—why do I have photos of me?—wine bottle in the refrigerator, baking soda, there’s nothing of any interest to me any longer; nothing to satisfy. I even went so far as to try the front door again, but nothing doing.

*EXCURSUS (ON THE SIDE OF THE PAGE): I had to change pens. I didn’t want you to think someone else began writing for me. I guess you could’ve figured that out on your own.

EXCURSUS (ON A SEPARATE SHEET OF PAPER): About the front door. . . . Looking back, I realized I’d forgotten entirely to mention it. Why? Possibly I’ve forgotten more, but this is important: I’m surprised at myself.

It’s locked. No shock there: I can’t leave. How it’s locked, though; why I wanted nothing more than to be heard, to be let out . . . it’s impossible. Even now, five days later, it’s unbelievable, straight out of a nightmare. This though is no nightmare. I believe that now; I don’t want to, but it’s true. All too true. I have to. The door has been locked from the inside . . . chained shut with locks that won’t break, can’t be broken. I spent hours pounding on it the first day, hitting it with everything I had: I didn’t know what else to do. Like I said before: Powerless. Like starving, and finding food, but having no teeth. . . . I swear I’ve heard that before.

For the next several hours, after having just awakened from that nightmare, only to find this whole new nightmare awaiting me, invading my apartment, I just sat against the door, chains pressing into my flesh, leaving two-inch links imprinted into my back. I didn’t notice until the next day, when I showered; I’d forgotten about it, convinced it was part of that dream. Should’ve paid closer attention. . . .

I thought to myself how incredibly ludicrous it all was, it all became. It made no more sense, became less of a prank, as the days passed, to my dismay. At least now I know what I have to do, and how to escape.

There was a crash outside the door. I looked out the peephole, hoping whoever—or whatever—it was could help me out, but it was only the neighbor next door, in 303. I heard her, but she didn’t hear a thing from through the door. She was picking up whatever she’d dropped—looked like she just got home from shopping, groceries mainly—and said something along the lines of her luck changing and a party. I wasn’t too clear on it. Whose party, I wonder.

I met Eileen when I first moved in, two years ago, sometime in the spring. Turns out she’s been living here for awhile, so she knows this place as well as anyone; I guess most of the tenants do: They’ve all lived here longer than I have. Don’t really know anyone else who lives here all that well, or at all, actually, but I can recognize’em if I pass them in the hallway—of course that hasn’t happened anytime recently . . . and probably won’t.

We’ve never spoken much. She’s twenty-something, I believe, and has family here in town. I guess she took over the apartment when her parent’s moved away; not sure why they moved, and I’m not sure where to, but I suppose it’s of little relevance. That may very well be all fictional anyway—I don’t know how long she’s lived here, to be honest.

After she went back to her room, I noticed there was something slipped under the doorway: a slip of paper, folded in half, aged and yellow, written in crayon, probably by a kid, it read:

Mom,
Why doesn’t u Wake up?

Is this a joke? I thought. There aren’t any kids living on the third floor, just the three of us: 301, 302, 303; Matt (I think it is), myself, and Eileen. After two years of living here, I don’t recall ever having said a word to Matt, or even exchanged so much as a glance in passing; must keep to himself a lot, holed up in his apartment. Sometimes I can hear pounding on his wall adjacent to mine—it goes right into my bedroom, it was late, I was trying to sleep, but he wouldn’t stop, all night long; sometimes this strange growl, too—no, it’s not really a growl, but a low droning; I’m bad at describing things—maybe he has a pet, I’m not sure. Doesn’t sound like a pet though, not one I’ve ever heard.

Does he even still live there? Did he ever live there? Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.

Before I could put the note in my scrapbook, which I was on my way to do, I noticed something sticking out from behind the bookcase—something I hadn’t seen before. I walked over to check it out and tripped over my chest—still kinda hurts.

The papers behind the bookshelf were the pages of some aging text: it had turned yellow with age; the ink had faded significantly, parts of it were impossible to descry. I stapled it to the following page if you’re interested.

*EXCURSUS (ON THE SIDE OF THE PAGE): Well, a copy of what I could read, some of it’s too damaged to bother with, will work better. This thing looks ancient.

Through the Ritual of the Holy Assumption, he built a world. It exists in a space separate from the world of our Lord. More accurately, it is within, yet without the Lord's world. Unlike the world of our Lord, it is a world in extreme flux. Unexpected doors or walls, moving floors, odd creatures, a world only he can control. . . .

Anyone swallowed up by that world will live there for eternity, undying. They will haunt that realm as a spirit. How can our Lord forgive such an abomination? . . .

(This part’s illegible.)

. . . It is important to travel lightly in that world. He who carries too heavy a burden will regret it . . .

(The rest is illegible, too.)

My eye then caught something out the window. I don’t understand why, there was nothing extraordinarily interesting, but I had to stop and look: A woman, dressed . . . provocatively, standing, pacing, in front of the subway entrance, arms folded, crossed, on her hips, pacing, back & forth, for a good three minutes. I watched, observed, content, and she slowly stepped into the stairwell, strutted in a way, down the South Ashfield Line. I wanted to document it, photograph it, but by the time I could run and grab a camera she may very well have been gone before I returned. I didn’t want to risk it; I felt compelled to stay and watch.

It was unnerving to think that I was watching this stranger so intently for so long. How would she feel if she knew? Probably think I was a pervert, a peeping-tom. But that doesn’t matter: I’m invisible to the outside world; no one can see or hear me. Yet . . . something knows I’m here.

As I stepped away from the window, I heard a crash from the end of the hall; the sound of a wall crumbling—that isn’t the first description I thought but thinking back, it’s the most suitable—like the final strike to a miserable obstruction, of cheap brick and corroded cement, hit by a hammer or shovel, and the rubble collapses in a heap by your feet—it sounded like that. I like that sound.

In fact, it pretty much was that. . . .

I followed the sound to the bathroom. Opened the door. The bathroom was in ruin. It was like I said: Something, someone, had broken through that final amount of wall, leaving a tunnel—I don’t know how long; looked like miles—and a hole in the wall. I could faintly hear whispering from within, children’s voices, sometimes crying. Couldn’t understand a word, just weeping, just whispering.

This is the only way out. I can’t sit around in my apartment any longer. I have to leave; I have to find out what the hell is happening here, why no one can see me, where this hole came from.

I’ve been sitting on my couch for the past two hours, I think, writing, debating, asking no one in particular, no one specifically what I should do. You’ve helped me come to a decision; you’ve helped me come to my conclusion. If I never come back from that hole, may these words reach you, somehow, in some way. It isn’t going to matter what happens to me, I’ve got no one waiting for me. But the idea of dying in my own apartment, alone, with a hole in my wall, leading to God-only-knows-where, is reason enough . . . I have little to leave here, and even less reason to stay. I have to go in; see where it takes me.

This is it. Into the hole. Wish me luck.

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