Michael was shown the x-rays of his upper body. On the outer edge of his left lung there was a large white spot the size of a penny, tendril-like rays shot out from it in all directions, and a tail curved over to the right so that it resembled a meteor falling from the sky. Cancer.

“Surgery is not an option...It’s difficult to say at this point, but considering the size you may only have 6 months left to live.” The doctor put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” Then she held his hand for a moment before leaving the room. Although he sat stoically on the exam table, waves of panicked energy moved through him until it felt as though his insides were escaping through the pores on his face and extremities. He was so thirsty.

He struggled to stand but managed to walk to the hand washing sink and gulp down handfuls of water until interrupted by the nurse’s entrance. The nurse asked him several times if he would be capable of driving. “I’m fine,” Michael lied and signed release forms before leaving. I’m fine, he thought as he sat down in his car.

On the drive back to work Michael had a sudden craving for a hamburger with fries. He pulled into a Wendy’s, and ate in silence. He chuckled at the thought that this most humble of meals would be the first of a series of last meals until he succumbed to the disease. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the hamburger and fries, posted it on Facebook with the caption, I was given 6 months to live. To hell with healthy eating :). Michael stared at the post, found it to be so perverse that he deleted it within seconds after it appeared in his feed.

At work Michael walked straight to his supervisor’s office. Marvin leaned back in his leather chair shaking his head as Michael gave him the news.

“I’m sorry to hear it. How you feeling?”

“I don’t know...like I’m walking a few feet away from myself. You know?”

“Yeah, I understand...”

“Don’t know if it’s just shock, but it feels like someone’s already died.”

“Listen, if want to take the rest of the day off...take as much time off as you need, it’s fine.”

“Thanks. I...I think I’ll finish what’s left of today. Tomorrow...” Michael shrugged.

Marvin leaned in, fidgeting with the pen on his desk, and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry about making quotas today. I”ll mark you down as in-training.”

Michael thanked him and stood up slowly to return to his desk. Sheila was sitting at her own desk beside his and speaking on the phone. “Great. Have I resolved all of your issues today?..” She placed her mouse pointer on the end-call button. “Great, then I would like to thank you for calling today. Have a great weekend.” She ended the call and swiveled in her chair to face Michael.

“I’m going on break. Wanna have a smoke with me?” She asked.

Michael felt as though struck on the head. “...I’ve got to make up a lot of work.”

“Be that way.” She smiled and grabbed her purse as she stood.

He could smell her perfume as she turned, a familiar scent that, until now, had unfortunately become associated with work. She took a few steps before he called to her. “Hey!”

“Yeah?” She looked as though hopeful that Michael had changed his mind.

“We’ve been working beside each other for a few years—“ Maybe this was a bad idea. ”—I was wondering why we haven’t gone out?”

“You never asked.”

Maybe not such a bad idea after all. “Let’s do something?”

“Like what?”

“How about dinner, for starters? I feel like trying somewhere nice. Somewhere I’ve never been.”

“Have you been to Mariposa?”

“No, but it sounds like a winner.”

“Great, then it’s a date.” She pulled her cigarettes out of her purse. “You sure you won’t join me?”

For a second he thought about telling her about his diagnosis. “You go ahead.”

He watched her leave then turned around and stared at his computer screen. The display showed over a thousand callers who were waiting for help but he suddenly realized at that moment that he couldn’t care less. He shut off his computer, told Marvin he was leaving and not returning.

Walking into his apartment at an hour when he was usually at work was always disconcerting to Michael—the light was all wrong and things seemed unfamiliar. It made him uncomfortable, like walking into a room where his mother was dressing. Now that disconcerting feeling was compounded by the awareness of the transience of all things.

He considering his options and decided to take a shower then he sat on the couch, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He stared blankly at the walls for several minutes until his phone rang and jolted him back to reality. It was Sheila. She asked why he had left so early. He told her he wasn’t feeling well. She asked if he wanted to cancel. He told her no, and they agreed to meet at the restaurant.

He remained on the couch. Several hours passed. He watched the sunlight move across the walls and floor until the entire room went dark. Finally, he stood and got ready for the night.

As he dressed he thought about all the reasons to cancel. As he drove to the restaurant he had to fight off the urge to turn back and go home, but once he arrived at the Mariposa valet service he saw no other recourse than to proceed with the date.

There was a crowd of muted patrons standing at the front entrance. Sheila stood out wearing a brown and tan dress and tan heels, blonde hair spun into a bun on the back of her head. She looked very much like a chocolate and caramel swirl sundae. She smiled and waved when she saw Michael approach. Sheila told him how much she liked his outfit. Michael thanked her and told her she looked fantastic then both walked through the doors to wait to be seated.

The atmosphere of the restaurant was a meticulous harmony of color, and sound. It was a large dark space lit only by the reflection of the rose colored candles on the white linen tablecloths at each table. Orchestral music from hidden speakers played at a volume that attenuated the din of crowded conversations.

Sheila and Michael were led to a table near a window, participated in the performance of ordering their food, and waited for their drinks to arrive. He looked around the dining room and watched a nearby couple enjoying themselves, drinking wine and speaking intimately to one another. He imagined that he and Sheila were that couple and began to smile. Sheila noticed and turned to see what he was smiling about.

“That’s adorable.”

“Hmm?” Michael took a drink to hide his embarrassment over being caught then offered his glass as a toast. They exchanged a friendly smile as they touched glasses.

“Have you ever thought that life is a lot like a gameshow?” Sheila asked.

“In what way.”

“There’s winners and losers, but no one leaves without a prize.”

Michael laughed.

“Even if it’s only the take-home version of the game,” she added.

“That’s clever.” He said still smiling but struggling to hold back a sudden urge to cry. Again, he considered telling her about his diagnosis, but did not want to ruin the night for her.

As they continued talking Michael set aside his worry, and he allowed himself to draw some pleasure from watching Sheila smile and laugh, and from their servers’ nervous glances at him when they felt compelled by their position to respond to Sheila’s flirtatious behavior.

By the end of the night, most of the diners had gone and the conversations of those who remained began to echo through the increasingly lonely room. Michael paid for their meal and then he and Sheila stepped out to the valet to wait for their cars.

“This is me,” Sheila said as the valet approached in her car. “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” Michael said with a smile.

“We should do this again,” she said as she stood directly in front of him and sort off bounced nervously as though expecting a kiss.

Michael nodded but as hard as he tried to maintain a sincere smile he saw the realization that shown on Sheila’s face that something was not quite right.

Sheila frowned slightly, apparently misinterpreting the situation. “Okay... I’ll see you tomorrow at work,” she said as she walked around to the driver-side door left open by the valet. She waved from inside her car as she drove off.

Michael waited a while longer for his car. Once he left the Mariposa parking lot his body began to tremble as the same sickly feeling from before when sitting on the exam table returned with greater force. He had difficulty holding on to the steering wheel and his vision blurred. Though still a few miles from home he had no choice except to turn onto a dark neighborhood street and park his car in front of a stranger’s house.

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and shook it with a murderous strength, grunting like an animal, then tossed his head back and screamed. Dogs began to bark, and he screamed louder, tears streamed from his eyes. He screamed until too exhausted to scream any further, then cried until he unexpectedly fell asleep.

Michael awoke to find himself still sitting in his car. Three hours had passed, and he was surprised that no one had called to report the crazy person screaming in his car. He practiced breathing deeply then adjusted his seatbelt and drove the rest of the way home as if nothing happened.

Once at home he walked straight to the den and turned on his computer. He searched the internet for cancer treatment. There was only a two percent survival rate after metastasis. Michael picked up his computer and tossed it onto the tile floor. It bounced several times but did not break. He laughed. “You son of a bitch.” He pulled the hair on the top of his head and considered kicking the computer into the wall, but walked into the living room instead and grabbed his phone.

Opening up Facebook he searched for Sheila’s page. There was picture after picture of them together at work and company functions. He looked at every one before swiping over to his messages and inviting Sheila to breakfast then he staggered to his bedroom where he collapsed on the bed fully clothed. He replayed the night in his head before dozing off. Michael promised himself to tell her everything in the morning.

#literature #fiction #microfiction #relationships

Red Flag laws are unconstitutional. They slander the truth.

Those who advocate such laws slander the gifts of freedom, liberty, and limited government.

As written, they deny citizens their First Amendment rights to petition the government for a redress of grievances

As written, they deny citizens their Second Amendment rights to lawfully own firearms.

As written, they deny citizens their Fourth Amendment rights against unreasonable searches and seizures of persons, houses, papers, and property, with warrants issued with probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation.

As written, they deny citizens their Fifth Amendment rights without indictment of a grand jury or the deprivation of life, liberty, or property without due process of law.

As written, they deny citizens their Sixth Amendment rights to, in all criminal prosecutions, the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor; and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

Now, for those in total opposition to me on my contention that Red Flag laws are unconstitutional, imagine this.

If the ease at which the populace of the United States undermines the Constitution by divesting themselves of their rights and responsibilities to the government of the United States, then what is to stop the same government from expanding the scope of red flag laws to those who engage in activities newly defined as offensive to said tyrannical government?

If I say abortion is murder and you have had (or I am concerned you might have) an abortion, then you should have your children removed from you, in the dead of the night, without cause or notification, solely because the government now has the power to do so.

If you are late on a payment, the government should seize all of you assets because you could be late on additional payments. You will have an allowance. Maybe.

Essentially, all it now takes is a single voice of "concern", from an "anonymous" source to initiate the total dismantling of the greatest document ever written and the greatest country ever created.

Martin Niemöller identified the cowardice of those who would exchange all of their rights for a pittance of temporary security while others died first at the hands of a tyrannical government.

George Santayana had it right also.

If you do not understand the scope of this post or the importance of the names I am quoting, just keep playing Fortnite.

Your turn will come.

Sooner than you think.

I’m looking out for you.

You’re swirling, twirling golden hair

Gets tangled in wretched lies

I hold the scissors to let you loose

I’m here to help you fly.

I’m looking out for you.

Harris is a foul being

Despite heart-piercing eyes

The popular, horny, doofus -

I won’t sit here and let you cry.

I’m looking out for you.

And yet here you are strolling along

A cheap, maroon carpet of a movie theater

The boy I warned you about in hand

The way he giggles with you, smirks at her

I’m looking out for you.

The minute he touched your soft lips -

Too difficult for me to bear

You’ve disappointed me greatly

I’m frozen, I can only stare.

I’m looking out for you.

He doesn’t deserve you’re charm,

You’re intelligence, thoughtfulness, and grace

He doesn’t deserve you’re cheery smile -

Waking up to see your perfect face.

I’m looking out for you.

And as I’m looking through your window

In a bush - strategically, luckily placed

The world, it spins so slowly, i’m tripping

Why- his existence is such a waste!

I’m looking out for you.

AND CAN’T YOU IMAGINE

THE LIFE WE COULD LIVE

MY WIFE, MOTHER OF MY CHILDREN

OH! WHAT I WOULD GIVE!

I’M LOOKING OUT FOR YOU!

stay sane.

stay sane.

stay sane.

listen to the rain.

I’m going to look out for you tomorrow

And the next day and the next

Or maybe tomorrow we’ll meet

Over coffee, face-to-face, text?

I’ll see you and Harris soon

Be sure to have fun - while it lasts

Because Julie, if this continues any longer

I’ll make sure he’s a thing of the past.

I’m looking out for you.

So tomorrow when I see you again

If you’re feeling sad, lonely, mellow

Just know that someone’s there with you

But be a dear, and look out your window.

I’ll be looking out for you.

sometimes i eat my worries away -

wrappers on the floor collect pools of tears

calorie-counting is out the window

an accumulation of chaotic fears

flashes of salty snacks in hand

blurs of yellow, red, white

lost of grace, i stuff my face

losing logical, helpful sight

and i sit in a puddle

plopped on the ground

like a worthless blob of dough

settling, melting without a sound

but i chuckle to myself

to break down shameful silence

at the tastes on my tongue

at my food-filled blindness

and i imagine shadowed parents

looking down at me in shame

i gather reasoning in my head

but there's no one else to blame

except maybe my lack of friends

lack of trust i have for others

piling homework in the corner

no one i love to smother

and so i smother myself with food

don't know whether to feel upset or better

but i promise myself i will try harder tomorrow

and i button up my sweater

back into the world where i hide myself

where i dress for everyone else,

where i eat for everyone else,

where i smile for everyone else

and i search for control

in an uncontrollable public reality

i head back to my humble home

i control what i eat, and i feel free

She must have been new to the neighborhood. Dreamy Cleopatra eyes, long celestial nose, high cheek bones, porcelain skin, long, straight dark brown hair; her broad smiling lips just begging to be kissed.

I started to look for her every morning and she always appeared, like clockwork, at 7:30, running down the path behind our house.

So every day at 7:30 I would just happen to be out working in the lawn while she ran by. One day I was totally staring at her and she looked up, straight into my eyes. She smiled and waved and I waved back.

I closed my eyes and imagined our mouths gripped together. She had a hand on both sides of my face and was straddling me, like Rachel McAdams in The Notebook. It was pouring down rain.

Then I realized it really was pouring down rain and I was standing motionless in the middle of the yard, getting soaked. My wife Stella was yelling at me from the house. Why was I out there standing in the rain, she wanted to know. I couldn’t tell her I was out there french kissing Rachel McAdams, so I ran inside.

As soon as I got in the door, I gave Stella a kiss. She had hard thin lips. When I pressed my lips to hers, she kept her teeth clenched together, wrinkling her nose and holding her breath. It was like kissing a parakeet. I still loved her, but she just didn’t like to kiss.

I got rid of my wet clothes and took a cold shower. That night I dreamed of running through the rain, searching along the trail for the unknown jogger. Finally, I saw her. I tried to catch up to her, but I couldn’t move my legs. There I stood helplessly while she turned around, waved, gave me a sly smile and ran into the woods.

The next day, promptly at 7:30, I hurried out to the lawn, but there was no one there. I waited an hour, pretending to pull weeds, but the only person who came by was a woman pulling her daughter in a wagon.

As I trudged back toward the house, I looked through our living room window and there was Stella and my dream girl on the couch, locked in a passionate kiss.

I opened the back door, tiptoed across the kitchen floor, got on my hands and knees and slowly peered around the corner into the living room. There on the couch was Stella, her tongue fully extended and licking around the outside of an ice cream cone. She saw me peering around the corner and asked me if I was alright and what was I doing on my hands and knees. Staggering to my feet, I told her I had dropped a quarter and it rolled under the chair. She asked me why I had a banana in my pocket. I looked down quickly and went upstairs for another cold shower.

The next morning, out of force of habit, I was in the back yard at 7:30 sharp, pretending to pull weeds. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a red blur of something running towards me. By the time I turned to focus and determine exactly what it was, I felt contact and started to fall backwards. I felt hot breath in my face, a hot, convulsive, groping body on top of me, then wetness on my cheeks and mouth. My hands stroked through the most luxuriant long red hair imaginable. It was a beautiful Irish Setter puppy and he or she seemed delighted to make my acquaintance.

Then I heard a sweet voice calling. The dog immediately pushed away from me and ran towards the voice. I was still flat on my back in the grass. I saw two finely toned runner’s legs approach, then a soft hand touched my cheek.

“Are you all right?”

The runner crouched beside me and I saw those luscious lips pursed together and the Cleopatra eyes softened with concern. It was her!

She took my hands and helped me to my feet. I stood there face to face with my dream girl.

She asked me again if I was alright and apologized for her dog’s behavior. Then she asked if there was anything she could do for me.

Anything she could do for me? Anything? No, I said I was fine. Then she gave me a hug. I felt her hair brush my cheek.

“By the way, my name is Jessica. My husband and I live two houses down. Your wife invited me over for ice cream yesterday but I guess you weren’t home. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?”

I said no, I was OK. And then it happened. Jessica told me I was pretty cute for an older guy, leaned into me, planted a wet kiss on my lips, then jogged away. When I turned to go back in the house, there was Stella, her hands on her hips, looking me up and down. She walked over to me, took my hand and squeezed it.

“Come upstairs with me. It looks like there’s something we need to work out between us.”

lights flicker in tune

on and off, off and on

i rest in the background

a dance / an elaborate con.

i watch doll-faced girls

swaying, grinding - petrifying

the thought of attention scares me

i feel safe, but feel like crying.

because some boys are out there

with one thing in mind

dumb, drunk, horny pigs

nothing to say that's kind.

i feel a pang of relief i'm not in the battlefield of hormones.

but then i catch a quick, cute glimpse

of dates hopping around to the beat

happy, beautiful maniacs -

humourously sweet

and the music turns soft

a boy taking a girl's hand

hugging at the waist, the neck

i adorably understand

but as i understand, i still sit in the corner in my gold prom dress my mom had ordered online - Black Friday flashbacks.

and suddenly brisk sadness runs over me

alone at prom, poking fun at those making memories

laughing, dancing, being themselves

a magical couple hours i am confined to only see

i mope by myself

wishing i had my driver's license

until a vision of a hand

reached out in bitter silence

i looked up to see a boy

offering one final dance

to a cheesy, stupid love song

that somehow put me in a trance

and i didn't know what to do

and i never know what to say

but as i looked around slowly -

it was perfect in every way.

and i felt like i was seen

for the first time in a while,

and now the 'stupid, lame, useless' prom

somehow makes me smile.

Hi, Timothy. I know it's been a while. I haven't been here for you, and you won't come into my room and play with me like you used to. That's fine. That's your choice. I respect that.

I don't wanna sound selfish-- I really don't-- but things aren't the way they used to be anymore. It's not you, it's me. People have found out about you because I was never careful enough to keep our secret.

I don't know why I brought my journal to school; maybe I was just bored, maybe talking to you was starting to attract attention. Okay, I guess you know the real reason. I needed time to work on my stories. Home never gave me that opportunity, not after Mom started leafing through my bookshelves and trying to find something that could convince Dad to send me to that mental hospital she's always talking about. I'm not crazy. I just like writing because you liked it when you could still do it. I like it because it feels like your thoughts and your words are flowing from my hand. It's the only way I can still communicate with you without having anyone outside hear us together.

But two weeks ago, Timothy, I made a mistake. I stopped thinking about you. I stopped realizing I was writing for you. Call it the self-absorption that comes with age, but I began to make our words about me. These new stories weren't fiction. They were about me, and my broken house, and Mom's fights with Dad, and you. You, right from the day we met at kindergarten and bonded over our love for Superman and banana cinnamon oatmeal.

My mistake was putting your name in my writing. My mistake was thinking that...I had, well, moved on from you. The more Mom and Dad talked about "growing up" and "being your own man" and "responsibilities," the less I felt like I could continue to be friends with someone that no one else could see. Even if we didn't like our classmates back then because of the way they treated us, I feel that the difference was that you just seemed to flat-out hate them while I always had a shred of curiosity on why they seemed to be so nice around everyone else.

That curiosity grew until I couldn't take it anymore. I began to spend more time observing them than I talked to you. They seemed like totally different people when I wasn't around. Their friend circles ranged from quiet jocks to talkative bookworms, devoid of any real labels in a conversation. Their smiles felt infectious, even if I didn't know what they were talking about. They felt...alive.

I don't know, I guess I just wanted something in that. I love you, and you're obviously greater than any of them ever will be, but we had spent our entire lives talking to each other. I knew too much about you. Our conversations started the same way, ended the same way, and after a while, I could predict what you'd say to me the same way you could predict what I'd say to you.

I left you to talk to them. To see if I could understand and feel what made them so interestingly happy. I started to actually put effort into dressing up. I tried talking to them more often when we worked together in group projects. Even if I sucked at small talk with them, I liked to think I did a pretty good job at attempting to be friends with someone other than you.

I guess I just crossed the line at some point.

They ransacked my bag one day, and found the journal. Found my stories. Found your name. "Timothy Costella" spread like wildfire around the school. The people I had tried so hard to befriend stopped thinking I was a lunatic and finally started calling me one. They found on article with your photo on the internet. They told me you had died with your parents that day. They tried to hammer it into my skull, as if they knew you better than I did. As if they hadn't seen you cry on my shoulder the day we brought you home.

I could barely stand it when I heard it from them, but when my parents continued it, trying to show me photos of your body in the car crash, I had reached my limit. I hit Mom. For the first time in her life, she just stood there. No raising her hand, no screaming at me, nothing. Not that I stayed to see what she would've done anyway.

I'm writing this at a cafe far enough from home before I head to meet you. Weirdly, I don't hate Mom. Or Dad. Or anyone at school. Or the drunk driver that started all of this. This moment in time is my punishment. It's my punishment for being stupid enough to think that anyone could give me more happiness on this planet than you.

And I don't want to hide anymore.

The bridge in the article no longer has the heavy traffic your car fell victim to, but it does lie over a river fast and deep enough to carry me to you.

I don't want to live on a planet that can't accept you any more than it can accept me.

Should I have hid the knives?

Locked up the pills?

What could I have done differently?

Is this my fault?

Of course it is.

I should’ve noticed sooner.

I should’ve told someone.

What use was I to you?

What use am I to me?

People laugh without you here, though I can’t understand how.

You were always there for me,

I should’ve been there for you.

Everone says you’re in a better place now, I want to go there to.

They say that I should talk to someone, I only want to talk to you.

You can’t come back to me now.

I guess I’ll go to you

#suicidemention

#triggerwarning

#idontknowhowhashtagswork

“Come on, Gage, enough is enough. Let’s just get to your house.” Sam said.

“I’m not messing with you, bro. These woods shouldn’t be this big. I don’t know where we are anymore. I mean look at that hill. There isn’t even a hill between my house and school. I’ve hiked these woods my whole life and none of this looks right.” Gage shrugged.

“We should go to the top of the hill and look around. Maybe we’ll see something we recognize.” Sam suggested.

“Good idea.” Gage said, and they started walking. After a few minutes, Gage stopped. “What the hell?” He said.

“What now?” Sam asked.

“There’s a house on top of the hill. How did we not see that just a few minutes ago? It looks abandoned and super old. There’s never been an old house in these woods, Sam. I honestly don’t understand what’s going on. What do you want to do?” Gage asked.

“We can’t find our way out of the woods, so it can’t hurt to check out the house. Maybe there’ll be a phone or a map or something. Plus, with all the noises we’ve been hearing in the woods, I’ll be glad to get to the house.” He shrugged and kept walking.

“I guess.” Gage said, following his friend.

They reached the top of the hill and Gage spotted a book on the porch, right next to the front door. He picked it up and started flipping through the pages. He looked more and more confused as he read.

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

“It’s a journal about a guy lost in the woods who finds an old house on top of a hill.” Gage said, still reading.

“Stop messing with me, Gage. Let’s get out of here.” Sam said.

“I’m serious, Sam. It’s dark. Let’s go inside and see if we can find a light and we can read this together. Maybe he found a way out.” Gage said.

Gage led the way into the old house. Sam coughed. “It’s freaking dusty and smells bad in here. I hope we don’t have to stay long.” Sam said.

There’s a lantern on the kitchen table.” Gage turned on the lantern. “Good. It works. Have a seat and let’s check out this journal.”

Sam sat down next to Gage and they began to read.

-October 28,1988-

Hey. My name is Evan Riley and I am extremely confused, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m more than a little scared. I don’t know where I am anymore. I know where I should be, but I can’t possibly be there. Plus, I don’t think I’m alone. I always feel like I’m being watched. I’m writing in this stupid journal just in case I don’t find my way out of here. Let me be totally clear with you. This is a journal, not a diary. No offense, but I’m not a “dear diary” kinda guy. I only have this journal, because the school suggested one for all incoming freshman and my mom bought it. It’s been living in the bottom of my backpack ever since, until now.

So, back to my story. Where am I? I don’t have a clue! I can tell you where I should be. I should be in a very small wooded area between the school and my friend Jake’s house. I take the bus to school, but two days ago I missed the bus home. It takes like ten minutes to cut through the woods and get to Jake’s house. My plan was to go there and have his mom give me a ride home or hang out there until my mom or dad could come pick me up. Ten minutes from one side of the woods to the other, but I’ve been in here for two days now and still can’t find my way out.

Me and Jake have been all over these woods, but nothing looks familiar now. You know what’s weirder? This afternoon I spotted an abandoned house on top of a hill in the middle of the woods. Why is that weird you ask? There are no hills or abandoned houses in the woods between Jake’s house and school! If I still can’t find my way out of here in the morning, I’ll check out that house. I swear it wasn’t there yesterday! What the hell is going on?

It’s getting too dark to write and I don’t have a flashlight or even any matches. And you know what? That rubbing two sticks together shit just doesn’t work like it does on tv. Sometime tomorrow when I stop for a break or something maybe I’ll write again. I might be just talking to myself anyway. I mean who would want to read my journal anyway?

-Evan-

----------------------------------------------------------

-October 29,1988-

Hey. It’s Evan again. Writing in this stupid journal again. Well, it’s just after noon now and boy am I hungry! I’m also pretty freaking tired. I barely slept last night. Every time I fell asleep, I got woke up by loud noises in the forest. I still haven’t seen what’s out there, but there’s more than one and they sound big. I’ve made my way up to the house if for no other reason than to get out of the forest. The house looks like it’s been here forever, but I swear to God that it wasn’t here just a couple days ago! I guess I don’t have many choices at this point. I’m going to search the house for clues. Maybe I’ll figure out where I am and how to get home. Wish me luck.

-Evan-

-------------------------------------------------------------

-October 30,1988-

Hey. It’s Evan again. It’s Thursday now. I think I’ve been here since Monday. Thank God this morning I found some berry bushes and a few edible plants. Boy Scouts paid off. For a while there I was tempted to chew off my own fingers. You think I’m joking, but I’m totally not.

Anyway, I searched the whole house yesterday and couldn’t find anything useful. There is this one locked door that I can’t open. I’ve tried everything. It must lead to the cellar, because there’s a musty odor coming from behind it. After giving up on the door, I started walking back down the hill. Whatever is in the forest kept chasing me back towards the house. I still haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard it and I tell you this, I don’t want to see it!

So, I’m stuck in this old, smelly, dusty house. Wait a second. What just happened? While I’m sitting here writing this, the door that I couldn’t get open no matter what I did… just swung open all by itself. My anxiety is through the roof, I’m scared out of my mind, but I’m going through the door. Hopefully, I’ll be back to tell you about all the boring stuff I’ll find!

-Evan-

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-October 31,1988-

Hey. It’s Evan again. Things are even weirder than I wrote about yesterday. Oh, by the way, Happy Halloween. I sure wish I had some candy right about now. Anyway, the basement was dark and dirty and smelled horrible. At first, I didn’t find anything at all. I started to go back upstairs, and I heard a loud creaking noise. I turned to look, and I saw a door over in the corner of the basement swinging open. I know that door hadn’t been there just a few minutes before. There were stairs leading down with a reddish glow coming from the bottom of the stairs. I ran back upstairs. I thought all night long about my options. The things in the woods have the house surrounded. They won’t let me leave. My phone is dead and even when it wasn’t there wasn’t any cell service. There’s nothing in this house that can help me. All that’s left is the second basement or whatever it is. Now, in the bright morning sunshine, I don’t feel quite as terrified. I’m going down the stairs to see what’s there. If I don’t come back, tell my mom that I love her.

-Evan-

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Gage snapped the journal shut. “That’s it. No more entries after that. What do you think, Sam?”

“It’s a load of bullshit. We’ve searched this whole house. We’re being punked, Gage. There’s no basement.” Sam said.

“I know, but what about the fact that we can’t find our way out of the woods? We’ve both mentioned hearing noises in the forest. And this house, I know it wasn’t here before. I just know,” Gage stopped in mid-sentence and both boys spun towards the far corner of the kitchen. Their eyes as big as saucers, they watched in horror as a door that hadn’t been there moments earlier swung open to reveal a staircase leading down.