WE ARE

WE ARE




WE ARE THE SEEKERS AND THE SHADOWS
WE ARE THE LOST AND THE FORSAKEN
WE ARE THE INVISIBLE AND THE INVIOLATE


WE ARE


WE ARE WAITING, MARTIN.

The Book

I found a book I hadn't read since I was six years old today: The Monster at the End of This Book: Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover.

I was fucking terrified of this book when I was six. The first time I read it, every single page warned me of the direst of dire consequences if I kept turning pages, yet my mom was there to make sure I did (sometimes she turned them for me and, oh god, was I scared the monster would eat her). Grover erected brick walls and we just crashed right through them, through the fourth wall itself.

Of course, the whole ending was a rip. The monster turns out to be Grover himself, making the lessen learned: "Hey, kids, there's nothing to be afraid of! All monsters are actually furry, lovable muppets!"

Needless to say, my six-year-old self was pissed with this revelation. He was expecting something with rows and rows of fangs, something snarling and vicious, something with blood-red eyes and dripping gore. Something that would make my six-year-old self shit his pants.

Instead, he got the same Grover as the rest of the book. My six-year-old self did not take kindly to this bait-and-switch, so he retrieved his black crayon from the box and crayoned over the last page. Instead of Grover being the monster at the end of the book, it was instead a black, waxy wasteland.

I found the book today and turned to the last page. There was the blackened page, bits of crayon falling off like ash. This was the book of my childhood. Someone had found it through the detritus of my past and then placed it in a house without doors and left it for me to find.

Somehow, I doubt when I find this person, it will turn out to be just lovable, furry old Grover.

Don't Panic

I'm afraid for the last five days, I went a little off the map. I would sleep thirteen hours (or twelve or fifteen, I can't tell the correct time in here) and then wander the house. I wouldn't shower or shave or sometimes even dress myself (it helps that there is a distinct lack of mirrors here - there's only the one in the bathroom). I found books I hadn't read in ten years. I found hordes of snackfoods in the larder (all with expiration dates sometime in the next decade, so maybe I won't be in here forever).

Then I found a phone. My mind screamed in joy, until I picked up the phone and found there was no dial tone. There was no cord - it was attached directly to the wall and, as hard as I tried, I couldn't pull it out. The reason I hadn't seen it before? Was because it was in a small recess in one of the many cabinets in the kitchen. Hidden in the dark.

The phone didn't even have anything to dial. No numbers. As for as I could tell, it was only for incoming calls, but since there was no dial tone, it wasn't even hooked up properly.

I went back to sleep. I woke up. I read. I ripped up a book I hadn't seen since middle school, just so I wouldn't feel powerless. I went back to sleep.

When I woke up yesterday, I heard someone typing on the computer. Still groggy from my sleep binge, I didn't register it until it stopped. Then I rushed out to find...nothing. My computer was on, yes, but I had left it on. I hadn't touched it in four days.

Maybe I was finally hallucinating. Maybe someone else was here with me. But how could they hide? Was there some secret room? Or maybe it was part of the dream I was having and it just bled into my mind as I woke up.

The dream was weird. I was wandering on a dark and foggy plain. There were people all around me, but they were indistinct, immaterial. I couldn't see any faces. I couldn't make out any colors, either. Just endless shadows.

Television View

The television works fine. A thousand channels and nothing's on.

I found a button that does something weird though. It changes the screen so that it becomes a landscape view. I can make it look like mountains or forests or lakes.

If I ever get nostalgiac for the outside world.

Library

So, apparently, this house was designed specifically for me in mind. The library I talked about before? Filled with my favorite books. In fact, I think there are some of my own books in there.

I just confirmed that. Found my copy of Guards! Guards! that Terry Pratchett signed years ago for me. They raided my own books and put them in here with me.

What the hell is going on?

Five Stages

I think I'm going throught the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief. The first day I was here, it was Denial. Now, I'm in the Anger stage.

Pretty soon, it's going to be Bargaining, then Depression, and then finally Acceptance.

Or maybe I'll just go back and forth between Denial and Anger. Maybe I'll delight in the comic books and then rip them up in a rage.

Is this the experiment? Is this why I'm here?

If I shouted my questions are the walls, would they answer?

My Day So Far

Woke up. Rewrapped the bandages on my hand. Went to sleep. Woke up again. Went back to sleep.

Some of the lights in the house seem to be on a timer. When I woke up the first time, the lights were off, but the second time I woke up, they were on again.

I looked for possible escape routes today. Nada. Air looks like its ventilated through tiny, tiny vents, so no chance of a John McClane-esque escape.

I think I'm going crazy in this place. When I woke up that first time in the dark, when I was still in the vague place between sleep and waking, I thought I could see shadows moving on the walls.

Panic Has Set In

I punched the brick wall that was the front door. I may have broken my hand.

Luckily, the Evil Bastards who put me here have a small medical arsenal in the bathroom. A bathroom without doors.

Fuck.

A House of Taste and Wealth

Do you know how bored you can get if you can't go outside?

Luckily, whoever the evil genius who stuck me in here was, they thought of that. In addition to a large library of books, CDs, and DVDs, I also found a substantial collection of comic books.

I just finished rereading the first volume of Walt Simonson's The Mighty Thor. The evil genius has good taste, I'll admit.

I'm going to crack open a can of beans and read the second volume now.

Hell's Kitchen

There's a large kitchen with an even larger larder. It's stacked with canned food - at least I won't go hungry. There's no food that can go bad, however, which worries me. How long will I stay here? Is this some government experiment to see how long a person can survive alone without going crazy?

Ha. I'll show them. I've been friendless my entire life. I'm used to being alone.

I should probably be more worried about this, shouldn't I? Maybe they put some calming agent in the air. Right now, all I can think of is that I don't have to pay for food or rent.

Maybe this is a good thing.

My Name is Martin Behaim

An hour ago, I woke up. I have no idea where I am.

I'm inside a large one-story house. All the windows are bricked up. Even weirder, there are no doors. Literally: all the doors have been removed (hinges included), even the front and back doors. They are bricked up as well.

The last thing I remember was going to sleep in my apartment. I don't even know how long I was asleep - the clocks here all show different times and I can't trust the computer clock. Curiously, I can get on the internet, but all sites except this one (which was set as the homepage) are blocked.

Even worse, there was a note taped to this computer:

Write or the Shadowmen will come.