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It is with great hesitation that I commit these words to paper, as I fear that even in recalling the events which took place between 7:40 P.M. on November 2nd and 4:14 A.M. the following morning, I may be stirring up something deep inside the recesses of my mind which will unravel my very being. It is not unreasonable, after witnessing such a series of events, to begin to doubt the essence of what one perceives as reality. On the evening of the 2nd, just after I had finished cleaning the diner table and begun putting the dishes away, I heard a knocking at my door.
I should say that I live alone in a small house not far from Henry’s woods, a forest of considerable size which spans the length of the county. Most residents in my home town keep to themselves and do not live terribly close together as you might see in the more urban developments, such as those around the Minneapolis area. Our homes are spread far and few, allowing a more comfortable lifestyle for shut-ins like myself. I’ll admit that I am not well versed in the daily lives and interactions of my neighbors—James Petri, a portly man with small spectacles who (insofar as I am aware) always wears a dark green tie; and Karl Camden, a tall fellow who seems to prefer a pint over a glass of water—but I have no reason to believe that the events which occurred, laid before you here, were any doing of their own.
The knocking which I described came in three short pairs, each separated by a pause the length of the empty space between two heartbeats. Of course, I was startled from the sink, and as a result I managed to drop the fine china my mother had given me, which shattered on the tile floor. Visibly frustrated with my own clumsiness, I promptly approached the door and pulled it open. To my surprise—and now, I do believe, to my horror—there was no one standing before me. Initially assuming it was some local child playing a game of ding dong ditch, I shouted out into the mostly empty field my property is perched on. The resounding silence chilled me to my core, not the sound of laughter nor rustling of footsteps came about.
So I retired to my bed in hopes of escaping my worries. I lay restless for several hours, listening to the wind howling outside, brushing between the wheat and corn, and finding its way into my home. I felt as though the wind itself may be coming for me in my sleep. Around 11:30 P.M. I decided that sleep would elude me this night, and my only saving grace would be to get out of bed and face my fears head on, in the dark of the night. As I got up, I heard once more the knocks which set my mind spinning earlier that evening. The same knocks. I cannot faithfully report how disturbed I became; I ran for the door, prepared to face this prankster with my full fury, and as I reached for the handle, the door shot open by itself—so quickly and violently that the door came off the hinges and blew out onto the front steps. I swear to you that I am not fabricating any of this account, it all happened as I have truthfully recounted it. What I saw beyond those steps, beyond the pale dark of the night, was not my field nor the county road into town. What I saw were stars not only in the sky, but seemingly beneath my feet as well. Blackness peppered by shocks of white staring back at me from that doorway. In that moment they were not stars but monsters preparing to strike at my throat. I reached to shut the door and (failing that) lost my balance, falling flat onto the floor. Blinking, I looked up and back out the doorway, and still the void remained glaring with malice.
I could not find my voice as I attempted to scream out for help, though I knew that nobody could hear me. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back in the bathtub, which was filled near the brim with blood. Suddenly I could hear my own screams, and I knew I was alone. I was in my home, and when I looked back down, the bathtub was only filled with water from the faucet. I was taking a bath, entirely unaware of how I’d ended up there. This, I’m afraid, is why I must confess my memory to be at least somewhat faulty, and thus I cannot hope to provide a good enough case for the world to believe my story. I am trapped here, in this world of knowing, without a soul on earth who would lend me an honest and sympathetic ear.