Hello again.
Another one showed up this morning, woke me up and I haven't been able to get back to sleep.
No subject line. Address not found.
I even checked The Wayback Machine: Nothing.
I don't know who is sending me these things. And what I've been reading continues to disturb and unnerve me.
I also don't know if the "you" mentioned in the email refers to the general reader....or specifically to me.
If anyone reading this can help provide some insight or information about the contents of these emails, I would be very appreciative.
This next section appears to be a direct continuation of the last email sent.
STRANGE EMAIL #2
The light you’re holding shakes as another shiver goes through your bones.
Your breath comes in short sharp puffs through the nose, and cold wind breezes down the abandoned hallway.
You’re in the open and it makes you anxious. With your light you’re an easy target in the darkness.
You creep through one of the doorways, it’s a shitty excuse for shelter and hiding but you feel less like a mouse.
The room is sparse: A desk and chair take up one corner, the desk strains under a computer that looks like it was last booted up in 1982.
A phone rests on a small step stool, the line cut.
The Writer has been here as well it seems, and has drawn windows along the walls, as well as math formulas, which pyramid downward and continue onto the floor.
You go to the computer, and boot it up, thinking maybe, to reach out for help.
The screen chugs up to a periwinkle blue and a logo for the make and model of the system reveals itself loading line by line.
Divine Novus.
The screen goes black and a vertical blinking line appears, waiting to be fed information.
Letters and numbers appear on the screen, but it’s gibberish to you.
20 44 ef b8 8e 6f ef b8 8e 20 79 ef b8 8e 6f ef b8 8e 75 ef b8 8e 20 75 ef b8 8e 6e ef b8 8e 64 ef b8 8e 65 ef b8 8e 72 ef b8 8e 73 ef b8 8e 74 ef b8 8e 61 ef b8 8e 6e ef b8 8e 64 ef b8 8e 20 6d ef b8 8e 65 ef b8 8e 3f ef b8 8e 0d 0a
You stare, the words, the numbers, the symbols, they don’t register but you can feel something familiar about them. A heartbeat?
Y/N appears on the screen.
You strain your brain, feeling a weird anxiety, a need to understand, but nothing comes to mind.
You press N.
The computer screeches an ERROR page and shuts down. Your flashlight flickers. You hear what sounds like static down the hallway, scraping footsteps.
Your heart stops and you sink into a crouch, covering the flashlight with your palm, blocking it.
Your other hand flutters up to your mouth, holding in the noisy breath.
The sound of it. Like the fabric of molecules and atoms shredding themselves under nuclear pressure, riveting and shrieking and molding together again, a horrifying mitosis.
And the footsteps. Two. So it’s bipedal? It scrapes down the hall, making no noise but the agonizing static, which begins to fill not just your ears but the room itself.
It walks by the doorway, for a split second, and you see something. Giant. Hulking. Long arms, short legs, sharp points at the elbows and knees, a lizard like head, but just as you pin it down, it morphs, taller, leaner, chest expanding, then stockier, broader. The damn thing breathes in to a new nightmare each time.
Its movements are jerky, something out of an old black and white film reel, sped up, as though it’s not quite following the same physical rules of this world. It stops, the static noise buzzing louder, and turns the appendage you guess is the head to peer into the room where you’re crouching. It stares in the direction of the shut down computer.
Your ears are ringing with static, your throat is thick with stale air and your lungs are beginning to burn; you feel like you might pass out if you don’t breathe soon.
And it turns. And shutters forward, its spine elongating, back into the hallway.
Or at least you cannot see it anymore. You wait, hand still clasped over your mouth, listening hard.
Nothing.
Your fingers uncurl from the beam of the flashlight. You breathe.
Another one showed up this morning, woke me up and I haven't been able to get back to sleep.
No subject line. Address not found.
I even checked The Wayback Machine: Nothing.
I don't know who is sending me these things. And what I've been reading continues to disturb and unnerve me.
I also don't know if the "you" mentioned in the email refers to the general reader....or specifically to me.
If anyone reading this can help provide some insight or information about the contents of these emails, I would be very appreciative.
This next section appears to be a direct continuation of the last email sent.
STRANGE EMAIL #2
The light you’re holding shakes as another shiver goes through your bones.
Your breath comes in short sharp puffs through the nose, and cold wind breezes down the abandoned hallway.
You’re in the open and it makes you anxious. With your light you’re an easy target in the darkness.
You creep through one of the doorways, it’s a shitty excuse for shelter and hiding but you feel less like a mouse.
The room is sparse: A desk and chair take up one corner, the desk strains under a computer that looks like it was last booted up in 1982.
A phone rests on a small step stool, the line cut.
The Writer has been here as well it seems, and has drawn windows along the walls, as well as math formulas, which pyramid downward and continue onto the floor.
You go to the computer, and boot it up, thinking maybe, to reach out for help.
The screen chugs up to a periwinkle blue and a logo for the make and model of the system reveals itself loading line by line.
Divine Novus.
The screen goes black and a vertical blinking line appears, waiting to be fed information.
Letters and numbers appear on the screen, but it’s gibberish to you.
20 44 ef b8 8e 6f ef b8 8e 20 79 ef b8 8e 6f ef b8 8e 75 ef b8 8e 20 75 ef b8 8e 6e ef b8 8e 64 ef b8 8e 65 ef b8 8e 72 ef b8 8e 73 ef b8 8e 74 ef b8 8e 61 ef b8 8e 6e ef b8 8e 64 ef b8 8e 20 6d ef b8 8e 65 ef b8 8e 3f ef b8 8e 0d 0a
You stare, the words, the numbers, the symbols, they don’t register but you can feel something familiar about them. A heartbeat?
Y/N appears on the screen.
You strain your brain, feeling a weird anxiety, a need to understand, but nothing comes to mind.
You press N.
The computer screeches an ERROR page and shuts down. Your flashlight flickers. You hear what sounds like static down the hallway, scraping footsteps.
Your heart stops and you sink into a crouch, covering the flashlight with your palm, blocking it.
Your other hand flutters up to your mouth, holding in the noisy breath.
The sound of it. Like the fabric of molecules and atoms shredding themselves under nuclear pressure, riveting and shrieking and molding together again, a horrifying mitosis.
And the footsteps. Two. So it’s bipedal? It scrapes down the hall, making no noise but the agonizing static, which begins to fill not just your ears but the room itself.
It walks by the doorway, for a split second, and you see something. Giant. Hulking. Long arms, short legs, sharp points at the elbows and knees, a lizard like head, but just as you pin it down, it morphs, taller, leaner, chest expanding, then stockier, broader. The damn thing breathes in to a new nightmare each time.
Its movements are jerky, something out of an old black and white film reel, sped up, as though it’s not quite following the same physical rules of this world. It stops, the static noise buzzing louder, and turns the appendage you guess is the head to peer into the room where you’re crouching. It stares in the direction of the shut down computer.
Your ears are ringing with static, your throat is thick with stale air and your lungs are beginning to burn; you feel like you might pass out if you don’t breathe soon.
And it turns. And shutters forward, its spine elongating, back into the hallway.
Or at least you cannot see it anymore. You wait, hand still clasped over your mouth, listening hard.
Nothing.
Your fingers uncurl from the beam of the flashlight. You breathe.
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