There are times when this world drifts so close to the fabric of reality that I can
hear something calling me from beyond that veil.
Sometimes when I get too close, I can feel that thing on the other side tugging at the
corners of my mind.
I'm worried about Carlos.
He doesn't seem to be taking this so well.
In case you don't know, I work at the shitty gas station at the edge of our small town,
and weird things have been happening for as long as I've been here.
I've finally started to tell some of my stories, and if you haven't caught up yet,
I would like to invite you to read part one and part two.
When I returned to work after my post yesterday, I was delighted to find a stack of receipt
papers sitting neatly on the register counter with notes written in my own shaky hand-writing.
I don't remember writing all of these notes, but then again, I don't remember a lot of
things.
It is possible that I'm working too hard.
Or maybe the fumes coming from beneath the gas station are playing tricks on me.
Or perhaps it's just another side effect of my condition.
At any rate, I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Or any other animal in any other orifice, for that matter.
Admittedly, my handwriting isn't the best.
And at times, the scratches on the receipt paper become nearly illegible.
So if anything herein seems unbelievable, it's probably because I copied it wrong.
With that in mind, this is my best effort at a transcription:
7:00 – It's getting dark earlier these days.
7:30 – Farmer Junior came into the gas station tonight, asking about the hand plants.
I told him that they weren't there anymore.
He left his phone number scribbled on the back of a coupon for fifteen-percent off bulk
pig feed from an online retailer.
I think he's trying to send me a message.
9:00 – I think maybe some kids are playing a prank on me.
I found a lawn gnome behind the pork rinds.
I didn't think much about it, and put him in a box behind the counter.
But then I found another matching lawn gnome in the soda case.
I added this one to the box as well.
It wasn't until I noticed the third and fourth lawn gnomes that I started to suspect
something.
I had taken out the garbage and found the gnomes perched atop the branch of a tree next
to the dumpster, staring down at me like gargoyles.
I used a chair and broom to knock them down, and I put them in the box with the other three.
When I got back to my desk, I found a note on my chair written in red ink.
It says simply, "I'm in the walls."
I don't know who wrote it, but the paper smells like oranges and plumeria.
10:00 – There is a strange scratching noise coming from the tiles above the cash register.
I fear Rocco and his brood may have infiltrated the building again.
11:00 – Farmer Junior called the store.
He asked about the hand plants.
I assured him that they weren't there anymore and if they ever showed up again, I would
call him.
I think he's beginning to suspect that I'm lying.
12:00 – One of the cultist recruits wandered in from the community in the woods.
(They hate it when I call them cultists.)
I know the recruits aren't supposed to interact with the outside world, but from time to time
they will sneak into town, never any further than this gas station, and buy cigarettes.
They aren't supposed to try and recruit new members until they graduate to the honorable
senior cultist status, but this one isn't a very good cultist.
I know they aren't supposed to have names, but I'm going to call this one Marlboro.
I'll let you guess why.
Marlboro stayed in the store for at least half an hour, trying to convince me to go
back to the compound with him.
(They hate it when I call their home a compound.)
He tried to appeal to my logical side, but I let him know politely but firmly that I
was not interested in logic.
I can't remember when he left.
2:00 – I found myself digging again.
Sometimes, on slow nights, I let myself drift.
My mind goes somewhere and when I come to, I wonder: where was I just now?
Who was that controlling my body while I was gone?
My body did those things I've done so many times before that I guess it's learned how
to do them without me.
My body restocked the cigarettes, my body rotated the frozen drink machine, my body
scraped the mold off the bottoms of the ice buckets, my body emptied the rat traps, and
somewhere along the way, my body found a shovel, went out back, and started digging a hole.
Actually, I shouldn't say my body "started" digging.
I have been, or rather "my body" has been digging this hole, off and on for the last
few months.
Usually, I come to after a few shovel-fulls.
This time, I added another foot deep before I snapped back to reality and asked myself,
"what the hell am I doing?"
3:30 – I just noticed a door at the end of the hallway past the walk-in cooler.
How long have I worked here and never noticed that door before?
It seems disappointingly ordinary as far as doors go, except for the fact that it's
warm to the touch and feels like it's vibrating.
I tried the handle, but it's locked.
When I got back to my register, I noticed a man in a trench coat standing outside beyond
the gas pumps, just outside the reach of our lights, dangerously close to the road.
I can't tell if he's looking at me, or if he's looking past the building at the
woods on the other side.
I wish he wouldn't stand there like that, stoic and still, with his arms reaching down
past his knees.
The scratching against the tiles in the ceiling over the counter is getting louder.
3:45 – A man came into the store, rolling a large white ice chest behind him.
He had sunken blue eyes, wiry hair coming from his nose and ears, long boney fingers,
and paper-thin skin revealing every blue and green vein beneath the translucent dermis.
He wore a bowler cap and smelled like milk.
I had definitely never seen him around before.
He asked if we would be interested in partnering up with him.
He sold ground meat at discount prices, but I told him that our store doesn't do well
with the "fresh foods" category, recommending he try his hand at making jerky.
Before he left, he scooped about a pound or so of raw ground meat from the ice chest onto
a piece of parchment paper and gave it to me as a "sample."
Once he had left, I took the meat into the cooler, where I found another lawn gnome waiting
for me.
I put the gnome into the box with the other seven.
4:00 – Carlos just told me something very strange about Kieffer.
4:30 – There was a kid named Spencer Middleton who went to the same high school as me and
Kieffer.
Spencer was just a year ahead of me, but looked much older and acted much younger.
I live in a small town, and small towns get bored.
For entertainment, some turn to gossip, some turn to more sinister pass times.
The latter often fueled the former.
There were rumors around town that Spencer liked to torture and kill animals.
Rumors that Spencer's parents and siblings always locked their bedroom doors when they
went to sleep at night.
The rumors didn't slow down any after the fire at Spencer's house, where Spencer was
the only one to escape unscathed.
I once saw Spencer gleefully stomp on a lizard, throw his head back, and laugh.
Some short time after his house caught fire for the second time, Spencer left town.
The story went that he had gone off and joined the army.
I didn't know what to think about that, so I simply didn't think about that.
I would have been perfectly happy to never think about that, but after all these years
I'm forced to.
Because Spencer Middleton just came into the store and bought a cup of coffee.
He's sitting in one of the booths, talking to Kieffer.
Marlboro, is back.
He asked if I could spare him some time to talk about his fake religion.
(They hate it when I call it a fake religion.)
I told him he had to leave.
He seemed upset.
4:45 – Spencer and Kieffer sat around for a while and didn't buy anything but two
cups of coffee.
When they finally left, I let Carlos know.
He had been hiding under a blanket in the walk-in cooler, although I can't really
understand why.
Carlos explained to me exactly what happened.
He finished his shift a couple nights ago and had just left the gas station when he
saw Kieffer's SUV pulled over in a ditch at the bottom of the hill.
Carlos, being the good guy he is, decided to check and see if Kieffer needed any help.
He says that when he pulled up and got out of the car, he could hear what sounded like
a loud crunching noise coming from just beyond the tree line.
Carlos went to investigate.
That's when he saw something.
When I asked Carlos what he saw, he just started speaking Spanish in a fast, panicked sort
of way.
I don't speak Spanish, but I nodded along empathetically.
The only word I could pick up was "Strega," which is the name of a liquor we carry.
Whatever it was that Carlos saw, it made him race back to his car as fast as he could and
back out quickly, without looking.
And that's when he ran over Kieffer.
Carlos is a good guy.
But here he was in a bad situation.
He stopped long enough to get out, check on Kieffer, and confirm that he was definitely
dead.
There was nothing he could do that would change that fact.
It was an accident.
Carlos was on parole.
There was that thing in the woods, and Carlos had to make a decision.
So, he heaved the body into the trunk of his car and drove off.
Carlos took me to his car and showed me the body.
I can confirm, one hundred percent, that it was Kieffer in the trunk of his car.
Not just because of his unmistakable face, but also because of his phone and wallet that
were in his pockets.
5:00 – I finally got tired of the scratching and pulled our ladder out of storage to see
what the racoons were doing in the ceiling, but when I pushed back the tile, the only
thing up there was another gnome.
That makes one dozen so far.
6:00 – The man in the trench coat is still outside.
The cultist came back in, demanding an audience with me, insisting that if I would just listen
to him I would see that his reasoning is superb and flawless, and that I would be a fool not
to join him in the perfection of logic and nirvana that is his belief structure.
I agreed to listen to his pitch if he would agree to ask the man in the trench coat to
leave.
Our hasty verbal contract in place, I steeled myself to listen.
Honestly, he did make a few good points, but I suppose that's to be expected from a viral
thought experiment strong enough to convince perfectly normal people to abandon their real
lives and go live in a commune in the woods past the shitty gas station on the edge of
town.
They call themselves "mathmetists."
They believe that humankind exists to fulfill two moral imperatives: to decrease suffering,
and to increase happiness.
A successful life increases happiness more than suffering.
A decent life decreases suffering more than happiness.
How good a person is can be determined by the spread between the happiness increased
and the suffering decreased.
Obviously, if the individual has a negative spread—that is, if they've increased happiness
less than they've increased suffering, or if they've decreased suffering less than
they've decreased happiness—then that means, very simply, that the individual is
bad.
Therefore, if an individual causes a tremendous amount of happiness and suffering, one can
simply determine which was higher, and use this perfect rubric to determine whether that
individual was good or bad.
Simple, right?
The mathmetists believe that the world has been going about good and bad in the wrong
way.
For eons, we've been attempting to increase happiness, when instead we should have been
focusing on decreasing suffering.
As happiness is a fluid concept, and the more happiness you create, the harder it is to
sustain, as happiness has a clear set of diminishing returns.
Suffering, however, is consistent.
Suffering results from happiness coming to an end.
Suffering is pure, and eternal.
For a mathmetist to be supremely good, they must simply end all suffering.
That is why the mathmetists are working on a bomb to destroy the entire planet.
By ending all life on earth, they end an infinity of suffering into the future.
With every life they avert, an entire lineage of people that would be born into a life of
suffering will no longer.
Every death is a preemptive mercy-killing.
Every happy moment that will no longer occur pales in the face of all the sad moments that
are likewise prevented.
And so, as Marlboro explained, their murder cult believes that killing is a kindness.
I told him that his ideas were stupid and he was stupid and that now he now had to go
tell the man in the trench coat to go away.
6:30 – The phone rang.
This is strange for two reasons.
First, because it was not the land line.
It was the cell phone, even though we do not get cell phone service way out here.
And second, because it was the cell phone.
The one that I took off of Kieffer's body.
I'll admit, I was stuck in a bit of a moral quandary ever since Carlos confided in me.
On the one hand, Carlos had killed someone.
On the other, it was an accident and Carlos's parole officer may not see it that way.
I thought I would have more time to figure this out, but when the cell phone started
ringing, I knew I had to make a decision.
I answered it.
I didn't speak first.
The voice on the other line was one I recognized.
"You have something that belongs to my boss."
It was Spencer Middleton.
"His cell phone and his wallet," I answered.
"What?
No!
We don't care about that shit!
We can buy more phones.
We can get more wallets.
You know what we want."
He was right.
I did.
"It was an accident," I explained.
"We know.
We want to make a deal.
You give it back, and we pretend this whole thing didn't happen."
"Can we do that?"
"Absolutely."
7:30 – Carlos came in for his shift half an hour ago, and I explained the deal to him.
He wasn't thrilled, but as I laid it out very clearly, he didn't have a choice.
We parked Carlos's Camry behind the gas station near the growth of handplants and
made a point to stand far enough away to not get our ankles grabbed.
Kieffer's SUV drove up a few minutes later.
Spencer was driving.
He and Kieffer got out without a word, sized us up, and opened the back of their vehicle.
Carlos popped his trunk.
Kieffer and I stared at each other, keeping eye-contact the whole time while Carlos and
Spencer transferred the body from one vehicle to the other.
Spencer had a tarp and blanket ready to wrap everything up.
When it was over, Kieffer put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "You done
good."
Then they left.
Carlos started crying as I went back inside the store.
It was almost day time, and that's when the new part-timer was supposed to take over.
8:00 – The new part timer is late, and I'm overdue for a lunch break.
I made the best of my extra time here by putting price stickers on all the lawn gnomes.
We're ringing them up as "miscellaneous grocery" for $9.99 each, and I've already
sold a couple.
I'm a really good employee.
8:30 – I went to the bathroom and saw a man standing there with his jeans at his ankles.
He wore red and white checkered boxers and a cowboy hat.
He smiled when he saw me and simply said in a somewhat sing-song voice, "Come on man.
Come onnn with it."
I took the opportunity to ask him something that has been burning at the back of my mind.
"Do you know, is everything going to be ok?"
The bathroom cowboy took a second to think, then he pulled up his pants, fastened his
enormous belt buckle, and walked past me, spurs clinking against the bathroom tile.
He stopped for a second when he was right next to me and said plainly, "I appreciate
it."
Then he left.
I honestly have no idea what that means.
These are the entirety of the receipt paper notes, but I did make a point to continue
keeping this journal.
I think this will be a healthy way of chronicling the weird events at the gas station.
Maybe this will even help with my condition, I don't know.
The next time something strange happens, maybe I'll come back and write more.
Until then, I guess this is to be continued…
Edits: Sorry, upon further inspection, I realized that some of the scribbles on the receipt
paper may have been transcribed incorrectly.
I also made some adjustments to the spelling and fixed some typos.
While I was at it, I added another typo just for the observant reader.
Lastly, upon the advice of some of my readers, I removed the part where I listed Farmer Junior's
social security number and address.
word.
I asked Carlos about it when he came in for his fourth shift today, but Carlos simply
looked at me blankly and told me that he doesn't speak Spanish.
******************************REDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTED************************************************REDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTED******************
I
should begin this entry by saying how truly sorry I am to anyone who read part 4.
I had no idea that was going to happen.
The agents have assured me that every trace of the story has been removed from the internet,
and that there is nothing to worry about.
If you were unfortunate enough to have read part 4: I beg you, for your own sake, try
to forget everything.
If you experience nose bleeds, dizziness, migraines, or hallucinations, go immediately
to the emergency room.
If you have a recurring dream of an island made of song, under no circumstances should
you approach or attempt to open the blue door with the painting of a crow on it.
If you did not read part 4: There was no part 4.
It does not exist.
Forget you ever heard of it.
By now, you probably already know that there is a shitty gas station at the edge of our
small town, and that weird things have been happening there.
The city council has personally asked me to stop talking about it, as there have been
some astute readers that not only tracked down our small town from the brief descriptions
I've given, but actually come and visited me at work.
I heard that one of them has joined the Mathematists, and as far as I know the other two are still
missing.
Once again, I am sorry.
I'm not working right now.
It's the first legitimate break I've had since I first started writing my stories on
receipt paper all that time ago.
Time moves funny here.
Flowing slow and fast all at once, like molasses out of a shotgun.
It's a good thing I've been keeping a journal.
I've got a few moments before my laptop dies, and I think now would be the perfect
time to transpose my journal entries, before the battery runs out or the blood loss gets
me.
Right now it's a race to see what happens first.
Before any of you worry, I've already called Tom.
He said he's on his way here to give me a ride to the hospital, right after he picks
up dinner for the Ledford orphans, John-Ben and Little Sister.
Tom and the other deputies have been taking turns checking in on and bringing them food
in an attempt to make the whole thing less tragic.
They've been living on their own ever since the incident that totally did not happen (and
anyone who says otherwise is a damned liar).
There I go again, off on another tangent.
I guess I'll get to it, and type up my journal entries while I still can.
11/02/17
9:00 PM
So much has happened here since the Halloween incident that we aren't allowed to talk
about.
I've been much busier than usual, dealing with the aftermath as well as the cult.
The Mathmetists have been cleaning out our inventory on a daily basis, planning ahead
for some kind of secret event that I only get to hear about in hushed mutterings and
whispers.
Night is coming earlier, and the weather is getting colder.
11/03/17
2:00 AM
The man in the trench coat is back.
He's standing just outside the gas station door, staring in.
He's been there for almost an hour now.
On the bright side, I haven't had a customer come in since he showed up.
On the not-so-bright side, I can't help but feel like he's trying to put thoughts
into my head.
He won't be able to, though.
I've had way too much practice.
Kieffer came in earlier today, before the sun went down, and sat in a booth drinking
coffee for a while.
Eventually, Spencer Middleton showed up.
Spencer had a word with Kieffer, then came storming up to my register, screaming at the
top of his lungs.
He grabbed the display of lotto scratch-offs and threw it across the room.
It was obvious that something had upset him.
That's when I took the earplugs out.
"Everything ok?"
I asked, stupidly.
I knew damn well everything was never "OK".
"Did you hear a word I just said?"
Spencer asked.
I explained to him that I had taken to wearing earplugs in an effort to drown out the sounds
of screaming that periodically radiate through the air vents.
I guess the screams must have stopped a while ago, or maybe I had imagined them.
Either way, I didn't need the earplugs anymore.
At this point, Tom walked into the store.
His white hair looking even whiter than normal.
Spencer, I could see, became instantly aware of the deputy's presence.
"Where is he?"
He half-whispered half-growled, "Where is the other one?"
"Carlos?"
I asked.
Spencer sighed.
"Sure.
Carlos."
"He's not due for another twenty minutes."
"When he gets here, tell him we need to have a chat."
With that, Spencer Middleton let out a shrill whistle and left the store.
Kieffer jumped out of his seat and followed close behind.
Tom helped me pick up the mess and put the lotto display back together without asking
a single question.
I wish more people could be like Tom.
When Carlos got to work, he told me that he had been having strange dreams.
Dreams of something enormous, living, breathing, underground.
The dreams always end the same way: with the gas station collapsed into a giant sinkhole.
I told him that Spencer was looking for him.
That's when Carlos grew solemn and asked me if he could show me something.
In the freezer, behind a stack of boxes labled "Non aprire" (whatever the hell that means,
they've been here as long as I've worked here), there is a moving blanket.
And inside that blanket is another Kieffer.
My first question for Carlos was, "You stole the body back?"
He looked at the ground and shook his head sheepishly like a toddler that just got busted
for cooking meth.
"You killed another one?"
I asked.
Carlos explained: it was an accident.
Again.
3:00 AM
The man in the trench coat is finally gone.
He left claw marks on the glass of the front door.
I checked the security footage to confirm my suspicions.
He always stays just outside the range of our cameras.
Why can't I remember what his face looked like?
3:30 AM
Marlboro was the first "customer" in the store after the man in the trench coat left.
I told him that I was surprised he was still alive.
He mistook this for a compliment and said, "Thank you."
I asked him if he was ready for the big event, but then he just stared at me blankly.
I could tell he had no idea what I was talking about, so I filled him in on how I had put
it all together.
The unusual cultist activity, the whispers, the buying up all of our supplies.
I could tell that something was about to happen.
Marlboro went pale in the face as I was talking, then ran out of the gas station before I could
finish, the 99 cent frozen drink still in his hand.
I know I should write up an inventory loss slip for the theft, but I just can't bring
myself to do it.
As hard as it is to explain, there's just something about Marlboro that makes me genuinely
feel sorry for him.
6:00 AM
I caught myself digging again.
I don't know how long I was out there, or who was running the store while I was gone.
The hole is so deep now that I nearly couldn't climb out on my own.
I should maybe think about considering the possibility of one day asking a doctor if
this is normal.
8:00 AM
Marlboro is currently crying in the dry storage closet.
Through his sobs I could barely make out the story.
Marlboro was sent on some kind of "Vision Quest" for the last week and has no idea what
the other cultists had been stocking up for.
When he went back to the compound earlier tonight, he found the whole place completely
deserted.
Beds were left unmade.
Some plates had food on them.
A fire still burning in the fireplace.
Everyone's clothes were still in their personal milk crates next to their sleeping bags.
But the people--all of the people--were simply gone.
Marlboro isn't taking this very well, but I have a business to run, so I asked Carlos
to help me carry him into the dry storage area.
I figure he can work through some stuff in there and then maybe when he's done he'll
just...
I don't know... go home?
11/04/17
9:00 PM
The exterminators just left.
They say they got all of the snakes this time, but I have my doubts.
11/05/17
5:00 PM
Kieffer came into the store again today and made some thinly-veiled threats.
He asked about Carlos, too, but I told him that I was tired of being the go-between and
that if he had business with Carlos, he needed to take it up with Carlos.
That's when Kieffer started getting weird.
"You know this place is just a big experiment, and you're the little mouse?"
I asked Kieffer to buy something or leave, so he bought a pack of toothpaste, then started
to undress in the store and rub the toothpaste on his naked body.
"They tell me that something is wrong with your brain.
Is that true?"
I tried to be polite and avert my eyes as I answered, "Yeah."
"You have some kind of mental condition?"
I answered again, "Yeah."
"That's too bad."
At this point, Kieffer was completely naked.
He walked over to the frozen drink machine and filled a large cup with the sugary red
concoction before turning it upside down on top of his head.
Then he shook himself violently like a wet dog, flinging bits of cold, sticky debris
across everything from the ceiling to the walls.
Some of it even landing on my face, but I tried not to let him see my flinch.
I knew this was all just an attempt to intimidate me, and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"What is it, exactly?"
He asked as he crossed back to where his pile of clothes waited for him.
"What?"
I asked.
"What is your condition?
Paranoia?
Schizophrenia?
The gay?"
"No," I answered, "I don't sleep."
"You don't sleep?"
He sounded genuinely interested.
"Like, ever?"
"I can't fall asleep.
I haven't slept a single day since high school.
It's a rare genetic condition with no cure and no treatment and one day, it will kill
me.
But until then, I handle the effects as best I can."
Kieffer nodded.
"That must be it.
That must be why he can't reach you."
"Why who can't reach me?"
Right then, Spencer came into the store.
He threw a blanket around Kieffer and ushered him out to the waiting SUV.
A moment later, he came back into the store and offered me a hundred dollars for the security
tape from tonight.
I wonder what I'll spend my hundred bucks on.
9:00 PM
I was beginning to suspect something wasn't quite right in the store.
I've been finding empty candy bar wrappers strewn about, security tapes mysteriously
deleted, strange noises coming through the walls in the middle of the night when I should
be alone.
At least, more strange noises than usual.
At first, I assumed it was just the racoons.
But now I know the truth.
Now I know that Marlboro has been living here for the last two days.
He just walked out of the supply closet wearing a bathrobe, nodded to me as he grabbed a stick
of meat jerky, and went into the bathroom.
It had not even occurred to me that Marlboro never left.
11/06/17
4:00 AM
It finally happened.
I suppose it was only a matter of time.
I know I should feel regret, or shame, or any of the other emotions that normal people
feel after something like this happens, but all I feel is embarrassed.
I came to a couple hours ago with a shovel in my hand.
I had been digging again, and this time I had made some serious progress.
The hole was at least seven feet deep, the steep walls made of loose, red clay.
It took me a while to realize that I was staring up into an inky black night peppered with
uncountable stars.
When some of the bigger celestials started to move, I realized that those stars were
actually just the soulless red eyes of the mutant raccoons staring down at me over the
edge of the hole.
Probably looking for food, those shameless beggars.
I chucked the shovel out of the hole, and that's when I heard it.
Imagine the sound of a butcher's knife hitting a watermelon.
Like a solid, wet, thwack.
Now imagine the watermelon gurgling and falling over like a sack of potatoes.
Oh man, this metaphor has really gotten away from me...
When I climbed out of the hole, I saw the shovel standing upright: the business end
firmly lodged inside the open chest wound of a still-twitching Kieffer.
The Kieffer was dead before I got to his side.
In a final act of defiance, he had turned both of his middle fingers up to me.
I felt just the slightest amount of respect for him before I went into a mental state
that I can only describe as "subdued panic."
The first thing I wanted to do was find something to wrap the body in because, surely, Spencer
Middleton would come for it soon.
When I went into the gas station, I was surprised to find that Marlboro had taken it upon himself
to work the cash register while I was gone.
He was ringing up one of our regulars, Charles, a great big fat man that always buys soap
and boiled peanuts.
I nabbed a tarp off the shelf and took it outside.
That's when I learned something.
Kieffer is heavy.
Like, really heavy.
I understand that a human body is basically just a meaty fleshy water balloon full of
guts and excrement, but nothing could prepare me for how leaky and gross and heavy a dead
man can be.
It was only by some miracle that I managed to drag Kieffer through the back door and
into the freezer without being seen.
It took all of my strength to pull the mass behind the boxes and onto the stack with the
other three.
When I finally finished, I had worked up a sweat, and even the cold of the freezer wasn't
enough to keep me cool.
As I stood there letting my breath come back and adrenaline wear off I took stock of my
situation.
That's when it dawned on me.
There were four Kieffers in that freezer with me.
Four.
Kieffers.
Where the hell did the other two come from?
The freezer door opened and Marlboro entered, dragging a dead Kieffer by the legs.
He stopped and made eye contact with me.
When he saw the Kieffers at my feet, I said the only thing I could think of.
"Well this is awkward."
Marlboro and I decided to open a bottle of Strega Liquore and have a few drinks.
He explained that he had accidently killed Kieffer a couple times.
I totally understood.
The guy was just so easy to kill.
At one point, Carlos came into the freezer to grab a box of cookie dough.
He didn't even acknowledge all the Kieffers.
My laptop's battery is currently at 2%.
It's obvious now that I won't have time to transcribe the rest of my journals before
it dies.
I don't have time to tell you how I ended up at the bottom of this hole underneath the
store with a broken leg.
But I can tell you that I hear someone moving around above me, which is good because I don't
think I'm alone down here.
If you're reading this, it means I managed to upload my story.
If you're not reading this, then…
I don't know, what even are you?
Someone just called my name from the top of the precipice.
I think it was Carlos.
I wonder what happened to Tom.
Why didn't Tom ever show up?
Come to think of it, I seem to remember Tom didn't survive the Halloween incident.
Wait, who the hell have I been talking to this entire time?
I promise, that if I survive long enough to recharge my battery I will come back and tell
the rest.
Until then, I guess this story is to be continued.
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