Unknown Location 3 “The Dark of the Closet”

“I do not trust what I feel, but no longer believe I am safe here. By all rights this place should terrify me, and I think in reality it does. But I cannot get my body to stop feeling comforted and secure, even with the horrors around me. I know these feelings must all be just an illusion, but somehow I cannot convince myself of that fully. At least, not enough to leave.

Time runs together. I try to mark the days but some-times I simply enter this state of mental fog. They pass by, and I sometimes fail to notice them at all. According to my scratches on the wall I have been here over a month, though I suspect it is much longer. The place smells very old and musty, and there was a heavy layer of dust when I arrived. There is seemingly plenty of food, stored on a set of old rusty shelves in a side room. Sometimes I consider not eating, but it isn't long before my hunger wins out.

I have begun to develop strange habits. This place isn't my own, but I have begun a routine of cleaning it, washing the walls and dusting the surfaces until my hands are pruning and the skin between my fingers begins to crack and itch when they dry. After weeks of this my hands have begun to bleed, but I keep cleaning. I tap the doorways five times before I pass through, though my hands now ache and any pressure causes pain. There are clothes here, and I find myself rearranging them, though the logic behind this is lost to me.

There is a mailbox that is available through a slit in the closet. I never receive mail, but sometimes I think I hear someone come by. They simply sigh, stand for a few moments, and then walk away. I am putting this letter in the box. Maybe someone will pick it up and deliver it. I have no idea where I am. I feel safe, and yet I know that there is something very wrong with that.

This place feels like it doesn't fit together well. There are parts of it that seem to come from an old home, like my grandfather’s house. But then there are parts that seem more like a factory, and still others that feel more like a tomb. There is only one place I do not clean, and that is a room upstairs. It is constantly cold, and full of bodies. Their hands are bloody and blistered. Their hair has been sloppily cut, though I could not find the hair anywhere in the house. Their mouths have been sewn shut, and when I opened one of them up I found a coin, older than anything I have ever seen.

The headaches are coming on more frequently, though I have found that curling up in a corner, in the cold closet, surrounded by walls, manages to help relieve the pain until it passes. But when I sit there I swear I hear breathing, and the sound of shears opening and closing. Once I even thought I saw a pale set of eyes.

I cannot pull myself from this place though I know the front door is unlocked. Something is keeping me here, dulling my feelings. Outside my window are houses, though they all look the same. The only difference are the numbers...217, 219, 221. I am happy in this place despite the horror of it, and I know that is wrong. Please help me.”

This letter was sent to me directly. There was no return address. The post office does not have a record of it running through their system, meaning it was likely delivered directly. After reading it I passed it on to the police. If this is a hoax, some sick joke, then they are the best suited to find out. If it isn't, which I hope that is not the case, perhaps their life can be saved before it is too late.

The fact that the letter was addressed to me is unsettling. I do not know many people on this street outside of the ones I have interviewed. But this person does not sound like anyone I have met before, and if it is someone I have been introduced to and interviewed, it would suggest that they are enduring yet another nightmare. I have not made my address widely available. My email and my phone certainly, but not my address. Worst of all was the way they began and ended the letter.

They did not refer to me by my last name, or even my full name. They used a short hand version, one only used among my friends. They signed the bottom with their first name, as if they assumed that this would be enough to identify them. But I do not know anyone by that name.

I have asked the police to keep me updated if they can. I am…curious about what the truth is. I am curious why they would send their letter to me instead of a family member or the police themselves. But even more confusing is how this place seems to continue to draw tragedy to it.

I only can hope they find the person responsible for the letter, and that if they are truly in danger that it is before they join the corpses upstairs. The horrors of this street are relentless, and seems that I am becoming more and more involved.