Elias Witherow

I pinched, slapped, and even punched myself. I didn’t wake up because I already was.

Have you ever hated yourself? I’m not talking about minor frustrations with your character. I’m talking about really fucking hating yourself.

“Tick tock…how long before everyone dies?”

She felt rope encircle her wrists and then knots began to bite into her skin. Who were these people? What did they want with her?

Don’t watch anymore. Get these tapes to someone. Get help.

The tapes and their foreboding, graphic nature disturbed me to the core. Because I knew Patricia hid behind one of these movies.

My wife, Patricia, had been missing for over three years now.

I called my doctor and told him about all the strange stuff. He told me the headaches and dreams were probably just a side effect, nothing to worry about.

I couldn’t stop spitting. I couldn’t stop thinking about how that thing had been growing inside of me.

As I turned over this strange gift in my hands, my grandfather handed me a plastic, gold crown. He said it was “part of the game”.

“Father…I don’t think there’s any hope for me. I’ve done so much…”

It was as beautiful as the website boasted. High up in the West Virginia mountains, where the air was untouched by cities and smog, and where you could feel the purity in every breath.

I witnessed something no man was ever supposed to possess memory of.

“He said that Dad needed to build something in the cornfield so that we could leave.”

I’m worried about how people are going to take this.

“These…events…have really taken a toll on him. I can feel him…drifting away from me.”

She stood up and wrapped her arms around herself and begged me to turn off the recorder. I complied and watched her leave. I was just as shaken as she was.

Goodnight world, sorry about the mess. Something is clearly wrong with me.