It's Watching Me -- 11/30/11

I've seen it.  It was right there, in the mirror all along!  It looks like a reflection, of course, but she knew different.  I know different.  The ritual in the book--I know that's what it is now--is my only way to get that thing over here so I can strangle it.  I can't reach it over there.  As long as it stays in there, it won't let me rest.  I see it whenever I close my eyes now.  I need to get it out.  This needs to stop.

I Only Hunger For Knowledge -- 11/25/11

Hungry yet?

I had to wait until the holiday to break-in.  The window gave way without much effort.  The complex was desolate this morning.  Most of the residents were elderly and had been taken to visit their relatives for lunch.  I wonder if I'll ever share a meal with my Aunt Abigail again...

Abby's condo was a mess.  Furniture was overturned, the contents of the fridge had been strewn about the kitchen, and most startling, all the mirrors were smashed.  The lights didn't work.  Perhaps her bill was overdue.  Pushing some of the clutter on the floor aside, I noticed a strange marking on the floor.  Further investigation led me to uncover a large book stuffed between her mattress and box-spring.  The book looked ancient, hand-bound.  The leather looked rough and worn, but felt oddly smooth to the touch.  There was a post-it note sticking out from a page of the book.


I admit, I hesitated to open it.  I somehow knew I wouldn't like what I found.  On the page was an oblong shape, similar to the one scrawled on her living room floor.  On the adjacent page were strange letters of a language I did not recognize and couldn't begin to pronounce.  In the margin, someone had penned what could only be a translation, conveniently with Arabic letters.  I did not recognize the handwriting.  Could it belong to the mysterious contact that only the busboy had seen with Aunt Abby?


I wanted to continue my search, but I heard some noise outside and had no desire to spend another night in lockup.  Naturally I took the book with me.  It sits beside me as I type this entry, tempting me to uncover its secrets.  I've flipped through several pages since, but most are blank or feature nothing but crude drawings of fanciful creatures.  A few of the pages have a glossy shine that can reflect an image, similar to a mirror.  I don't like looking at those pages.  Something about them, about the whole book really, has me on edge.  Part of me wants to toss the book in the dumpster and just drop the case entirely.


What would you suggest?  Are the long nights finally catching up to me?  There's nothing to fear from an old book...is there?

Worst Weekend Ever -- 11/21/11

Okay, lockup really wasn't this terrifying.

I must remember to strangle Ricky the next time I see him.


I've been in lockup since Saturday evening.  I snuck into the security room late that night to check the footage of that night.  I still can't believe what I found.  There was my Aunt Abby, still lucid and full of life, having a wonderful time chatting to an empty chair.  I let out a startled profanity in spite of myself, and this brought the staff into the room.  Busted!  If only the Cafe Brazil wasn't a frequent stop for off-duty policeman, I may have been able to slip away, but as it was, I was handcuffed and taken into custody.  As I was being escorted out, I must have forgotten to stop the tape, because I swear I saw the missing busboy address the empty chair that Aunt Abby was chatting at.  I yelled out for them to look at the video, but they didn't listen.


And so, I spent the rest of the weekend behind bars.  Ricky had apparently left town and he was my phone call.  I had to wait for my court assigned attorney to show before I could have some money wired to bail myself out.  Why would Ricky choose now to go on vacation?  Is he a part of this too?  And where is that busboy?  I believe it's time to check Aunt Abby's condo.  I don't have the key, but I'll find a way in.

Another Missing Person? -- 11/18/11

They're lying!  I suspected before but now I know.  That's the only explanation!  Now not only do the waiters not remember seeing Aunt Abigail, but the busboy that saw her talking to herself was strangely absent.  The rest of the staff claimed no one by his description works there.  Everyone connected to that man, that night, seems to turn up missing.  Would I find the busboy wandering the streets like a loon a week hence?  No matter, he's not my problem.  I need the tape.  I have to know what's on it!

Cops, Lies, and Videotape -- 11/18/11

Ricky got me in touch with the Plano police department.  His connections netted me an officer willing to collect the tapes given the busboy's testimony.  I insisted I be there when he ask.  I had to see the look on his face!  Later today I should have my answers.

I Take My Coffee With Missing Persons -- 11/17/11

Aunt Abby's contact proved difficult to track.  The busboy and a couple waiters at Cafe Brazil recognized my Aunt from the picture I produced, yet no one had remembered seeing anyone with her.  One busboy swore up and down that Aunt Abby had been talking to herself, but was unable to verify the date in question.  I took advice from you, dear readers, and asked to see any security cam footage from that night, but was denied.  Those security videos may be my only link to Aunt Abby's contact.  I will find some way to get them.

Is That Me in the Mirror? -- 11/15/11

I've found her!  By God, I’ve found her!

Aunt Abigail was admitted to the Silverado retirement community under the assumed name of “Jane Doe.”  Apparently she was found wandering the streets babbling incoherently about one week after the date of her final letter.  Without identification, and seemingly out of her mind, she was admitted to the Silverado on the city’s dime.

I must admit that I barely recognized her.  She seems to have aged at least ten years since our last visit, her face had thinned out, her skin hung loosely from her enfeebled frame.  But most troubling was the vacant look in her eyes.  Gone was that spark of wit and her zest for life, replaced with confusion, paranoia, and panic.  She did not seem to notice me at first, such was the decline of her mental state.  But after several minutes of reminiscing, her brow seemed to focus in recognition.

She cried out hysterically, but I could not understand her.  If she was speaking, it certainly wasn’t English, or any other language I could readily identify either.   Inspiration struck and I handed her a piece of paper from the pad on the desk nearby, along with a marker.  Frantically she scribbled a cryptic message I am still yet to decipher, “IS THAT ME IN THE MIRROR?”

Her gaze remained affixed to the full-length mirror on the side-wall, her reflection glaring back at her.   In the dimly light room, I could almost swear that I noticed a sly grin from her reflection.  Thinking my Aunt was playing a trick on me this entire time, I immediately turned to face her, but was greeted with the same confused, hysterical woman as before.  Had it been my imagination?

I know the only way to uncover what had happened to Aunt Abby is to track down the man she met in Café Brazil those many weeks ago.  By all accounts, he was the last person to see my Aunt lucid.  Perhaps this connects to his case, or perhaps she has been the victim of foul play.  Regardless, I can’t drop it as her letter suggested.  I have to know the truth.

The Hazards of Modern Pharmacology -- 11/06/11

The crudities of science on display.

Ricky can be so easily fooled. Last night in his home, from my spot on the couch, I did witness the “ghost” materialize from the bedroom, bumping into furniture with reckless abandon on its way to the kitchen. Turns out Ricky had been sleepwalking. Seems those Ambien pills he's been taking to help him sleep work a little too well. Modern pharmacology remains helpless to a splash of cold water in the face.

Once I explained the reason for his troubles, Ricky was more than happy to assist in my hunt for Aunt Abigail. Ricky has connections throughout the city through his uncle, who serves on the city council. Perhaps with his resources I'll have better luck. Ricky has suggested I search the local retirement communities, just to be sure. I laughed in response. Aunt Abby wouldn't be caught dead in one of those places! Looking back, I feel a chill at my poor choice of words.

Poltergeist with Hunger Pangs? -- 11/04/11

As expected, the stakeout of Preston Road proved a bust. I'm sure self-styled “ghost hunters” can provide any number of reasons for why I was not fortunate enough to spot the spirit of Preston Road, but none that would satisfy this skeptic. I did find something of possible relevance shortly after dawn—the dress pictured to the right. Am I being pranked? Or is this “ghost” an exhibitionist?

I've had some time to ask around and it seems Aunt Abigail has not checked in with her usual contacts since the date of her third, and final, letter. Perhaps she's just become absorbed in her case, but I can't shake the notion that she's gotten in over her head. I am a bit stumped on where to look at this point.

Tonight I'm helping a friend investigate a potential poltergeist. Seems his fridge is ravaged each night and his furniture overturned, yet with no clear evidence of a break-in. He has a recording from last night he swears is worth my time, but I remain skeptical as always. Ricky always did jump to conclusions...

The Spirit of Preston Road -- 11/02/11

No leads on Aunt Abby as of yet, but I have been been in touch with one of my local contacts. Apparently there have been strange sightings of a woman in early 20^th century clothing wandering along the side of Preston Road over the past couple weeks. The sightings seem localized to the area between Beltline and Spring Valley. I'm going to investigate later tonight, as each of the reported sightings have occurred after dark. If anyone in the area spots any unusual activity, by all means let me know.

Letters from Aunt Abby -- 11/01/11

When my flight landed earlier this morning, I checked my P.O. Box. I had set it up as my forwarding address prior to leaving the city a couple months ago as a precautionary measure so as not to miss important correspondence Inside I found three letters written by Aunt Abigail. I must admit that upon reading the letters I had assumed she was pranking me, as she was apt to do in my youth, but the subject matter was too serious so I quickly brushed the notion aside.

In the first letter, dated only two weeks after I had left the city, Aunt Abigail seemed as lucid as ever. Apart from the usual updates about her side of the family and questions about my work, she mentioned a case she had been investigating. She had always been more open to the paranormal than I, and had promised to alleviate my skepticism if it was the last thing she did. This case, however, seemed unremarkable. She was planning to meet a man that had contacted her over the phone about strange sightings in his bathroom mirror. These sorts of cases were of the type I had come to ignore, since most were either outright hoaxes or delusions of a disturbed mind. Aunt Abby held no such prejudices, and so when she declared her intentions to meet the man in the Cafe Brazil off of 75 just north of Campbell, I assumed she had done so.

The second letter was dated only a week later. It wasn't like Aunt Abby to write a followup letter while still on a case, so I knew immediately something was wrong. I could tell right away that she was agitated by the fact that she skipped the usual formalities. Aunt Abby had met with the man in Cafe Brazil as planned. She refused to transcribe the specifics of what he had said, but it must have been convincing because she agreed to investigate his home in person. This was uncharacteristic in her old age, but not unprecedented. Her last few sentences sent a chill down my spine:

“I waited until 2AM that night as instructed. I felt like a damn fool, as though perhaps my instincts had frayed in my advanced age. But as I starred at myself in the mirror, I swear something changed. Maybe it was a trick of the candlelight, but the flicker in my eyes looked different somehow, alien. I can't explain it, but it didn't feel like me in there.”

The third letter, dated about three weeks after the second, was barely legible. Aunt Abigail had always been proud of her penmanship, so I assumed she was forced to write left-handed for some reason. But her words made little sense either.

“She's taunting me in there. She thinks I can't see her, but I can. You can too, Jimmy, if you know how to look. I can't live like this forever! So I'm taking action while I still can. Don't look for me. If this works, there's no need. If it doesn't...”

The last few words are smudged out, though I can't tell if this was intentional or if the ink ran. Regardless of her protestations, my curiosity won't let me drop this issue. I'll find her, if her trail hasn't already gone cold.