Sunday, February 3, 2013
No Time
Fuck.
I just... fuck.
Christina's dead. She was the third one this whole time. I honestly never expected that. When I was going over to the laptop, she pulled out a dowel rod from the work room in the back of the mansion and started choking me. The schoolteacher tried taking her off of me, but Christina threw her against a wall. Randall took out a kitchen knife and began stabbing her in the back.
Finally, she let go of me, and from there it was easy to finally put her out of her tortured last moments.
Then when Randall looked at what he just did, he did the most fucking stupid thing I've ever seen. He slit his own throat. I guess he just realized he took part in aiding what he thought was a murder, and it may have gotten to him. Still a rat bastard thing to do. I passed out for thirty minutes. The battery's almost dead.
...it's just the schoolteacher and I. She says her legs are broken and I'm too fucking weak to do anything now. If either of us is possessed, the other can't do jack shit about it.
Agent Mandale
I just... fuck.
Christina's dead. She was the third one this whole time. I honestly never expected that. When I was going over to the laptop, she pulled out a dowel rod from the work room in the back of the mansion and started choking me. The schoolteacher tried taking her off of me, but Christina threw her against a wall. Randall took out a kitchen knife and began stabbing her in the back.
Finally, she let go of me, and from there it was easy to finally put her out of her tortured last moments.
Then when Randall looked at what he just did, he did the most fucking stupid thing I've ever seen. He slit his own throat. I guess he just realized he took part in aiding what he thought was a murder, and it may have gotten to him. Still a rat bastard thing to do. I passed out for thirty minutes. The battery's almost dead.
...it's just the schoolteacher and I. She says her legs are broken and I'm too fucking weak to do anything now. If either of us is possessed, the other can't do jack shit about it.
Agent Mandale
Mandatory Post
I'm posting this because I'm being told to. I don't like it. Hell, I don't even see why this is necessOKAY, MA'AM. Jesus. Okay, so it's me. Randall... the lawyer. Again. In case you forgot. I exist.
Yep.
Okay, is that all? What do you want me to do, write my life story?
...fuck, you're serious. Fine. Jesus, fine. I was born in 76. My family sucked, so I became a lawyer.
Happy? What!? More in depth? Fuck you two, man. Fuck. You. Two. Why don't you tell your own backstories, then? ...fine, whatever.
My name is Randall. I was born September 19th, 1976. I was born in an apartment outside of Chicago. My family was... I guess you could say they weren't the best of people. My father, specifically. He was an attorney. Not a good attorney. He was a defense attorney and stooped pretty low when it comes to his clientelle. He also practically abandoned my sister and I. Not quite- but he was never there. All around me, there were the kids, boasting about what they did with their fathers. Then, sometimes, when I was fairly rowdy, or he thought I was, he pulled out a rubber mallet, and crushed my pinky fingers. "Next time," he always said, "Next time, I'm going to cut it off, and I'm going to keep cutting until you have a stump for a hand, and nobody in the land could convict me. I'm that good a fucking lawyer, so you better keep your trap shut."
My mother was caring, but she was too afraid of nature to go outside. Once she said that if she went out, the mites would infest her hair, eat her eyes, and drain her blood. Either way, she wouldn't teach me what my dad could about nature. My dad was a boy scout, a pleasure I never got to experience.
Now onto the shitty ass time I call Law School-
fine.
But I'm finishing my story later.
Well, apparently I'm "wasting battery life", but I guess I'll finish this up when I can. Okay, which one of you two are next?
Yep.
Okay, is that all? What do you want me to do, write my life story?
...fuck, you're serious. Fine. Jesus, fine. I was born in 76. My family sucked, so I became a lawyer.
Happy? What!? More in depth? Fuck you two, man. Fuck. You. Two. Why don't you tell your own backstories, then? ...fine, whatever.
My name is Randall. I was born September 19th, 1976. I was born in an apartment outside of Chicago. My family was... I guess you could say they weren't the best of people. My father, specifically. He was an attorney. Not a good attorney. He was a defense attorney and stooped pretty low when it comes to his clientelle. He also practically abandoned my sister and I. Not quite- but he was never there. All around me, there were the kids, boasting about what they did with their fathers. Then, sometimes, when I was fairly rowdy, or he thought I was, he pulled out a rubber mallet, and crushed my pinky fingers. "Next time," he always said, "Next time, I'm going to cut it off, and I'm going to keep cutting until you have a stump for a hand, and nobody in the land could convict me. I'm that good a fucking lawyer, so you better keep your trap shut."
My mother was caring, but she was too afraid of nature to go outside. Once she said that if she went out, the mites would infest her hair, eat her eyes, and drain her blood. Either way, she wouldn't teach me what my dad could about nature. My dad was a boy scout, a pleasure I never got to experience.
Now onto the shitty ass time I call Law School-
fine.
But I'm finishing my story later.
Well, apparently I'm "wasting battery life", but I guess I'll finish this up when I can. Okay, which one of you two are next?
Conversations With A Corpse
It's Officer Andrews. Christina. Whatever you'd like to call me, I guess. Well... that was strange. I've never had to talk with the living dead before. I- just... wow. I'm kind of at a loss for words here. It was possibly one of the most terrifying experiences I've ever had.
Agent Mandale told me. First of all, he jostled me awake. Then he told me, only loud enough for me to hear, that there was something in the bedroom I needed to see. After about fifteen awkward seconds with my gun aimed at his ribs, he finally explained what he meant.
Did I believe him? No. Hell no. Who would? Nobody... well... Father Daniels, maybe, considering he was up and walking with a gaping hole in his neck.
I didn't believe it when I saw it. Again, who could possibly believe that?
He said hello to us. It was strange the way he said it. He said it in a monotone, as if rising from the dead and greeting us was routine. But the way he said it hinted at... something between playful and malicious.
Hang on... I'll try paraphrasing the conversation.
"Hello, Ms. Andrews. Hello, Mr. Mandale. Make it brief, I only have so much time in this body."
Agent Mandale asked the first question, and it was probably the most logical question in the entire interrogation- if you can call it that, even... "Father Daniels, how are you- how are you even alive?"
"Father Daniels? No, no, my child, you got it all wrong. Well, you can call me Twelve, if you wish."
I asked the next question. "Twelve, why Twelve?"
"Because once the clock strikes twelve, the game resets."
I tried not to emote, but I did glance towards Mandale, who did, for a split second, glance towards his watch.
"It's still 10:23, Mr. Daniels... Twelve. Would you mind telling us your little game?"
Then Mr. Daniel's hand slowly rotted into grotesque shades of green, purple, and black and fell off- well, I think it had been since the beginning, but it was noticed only when he stooped down to pick up the remains of his right hand. "Oh, time's running out before I move on. I can hold a body for a good week without rotting, and some of my brothers and sisters can hold it for almost a year, but dead meat... is a little tricky. What were you asking?"
"What is your game, Twelve?" I was getting tired of this conversation already.
"Well..." (I don't remember too much of what he said, but I'll still put the jist of it in quotes...) "...you see, I've been playing this game for a long, long time. Always brought people somewhere. Maybe six- like yourselves, maybe sixteen, maybe sixty four, at some points. But the goal is mainly the same. I- hop- into bodies, I suppose you could say. Like this man, Daniels. And the rotted sack over in the far corner. Easy enough, I suppose. I hop into one person, just one, and I start picking people off, one by one. The goal is to kill my hosts until we're down to only two. Then, it all depends on who survives- me..." (I think it was this point that his legs fell off) "...or not me."
"That's a sick game, Twelve. But how am I sure you're not still Daniels, but... ...ill?"
"Ill? Very funny, Mr. Mandale... in any case, my time runs out. Who shall I hop into next? Hmm..."
Finally, his head gave in and rolled off its neck, hitting and rolling on the floor. Then the entire corpse fell over, motionless.
That... was a painful process, I will admit.
Even remembering it is painful enough.
I suppose that... we're supposed to pick each other off...
Mandale's talking about food and rations. He found a cellar stocked with alcoholic beverages as well as cheese, bread, and produce. All fresh, somehow. He's reluctant to believe a single word of what "Twelve" was saying. I want to go along with him, believe everything is fine if we can hold out long enough, but... I just don't see that happening.
I just don't.
Agent Mandale told me. First of all, he jostled me awake. Then he told me, only loud enough for me to hear, that there was something in the bedroom I needed to see. After about fifteen awkward seconds with my gun aimed at his ribs, he finally explained what he meant.
Did I believe him? No. Hell no. Who would? Nobody... well... Father Daniels, maybe, considering he was up and walking with a gaping hole in his neck.
I didn't believe it when I saw it. Again, who could possibly believe that?
He said hello to us. It was strange the way he said it. He said it in a monotone, as if rising from the dead and greeting us was routine. But the way he said it hinted at... something between playful and malicious.
Hang on... I'll try paraphrasing the conversation.
"Hello, Ms. Andrews. Hello, Mr. Mandale. Make it brief, I only have so much time in this body."
Agent Mandale asked the first question, and it was probably the most logical question in the entire interrogation- if you can call it that, even... "Father Daniels, how are you- how are you even alive?"
"Father Daniels? No, no, my child, you got it all wrong. Well, you can call me Twelve, if you wish."
I asked the next question. "Twelve, why Twelve?"
"Because once the clock strikes twelve, the game resets."
I tried not to emote, but I did glance towards Mandale, who did, for a split second, glance towards his watch.
"It's still 10:23, Mr. Daniels... Twelve. Would you mind telling us your little game?"
Then Mr. Daniel's hand slowly rotted into grotesque shades of green, purple, and black and fell off- well, I think it had been since the beginning, but it was noticed only when he stooped down to pick up the remains of his right hand. "Oh, time's running out before I move on. I can hold a body for a good week without rotting, and some of my brothers and sisters can hold it for almost a year, but dead meat... is a little tricky. What were you asking?"
"What is your game, Twelve?" I was getting tired of this conversation already.
"Well..." (I don't remember too much of what he said, but I'll still put the jist of it in quotes...) "...you see, I've been playing this game for a long, long time. Always brought people somewhere. Maybe six- like yourselves, maybe sixteen, maybe sixty four, at some points. But the goal is mainly the same. I- hop- into bodies, I suppose you could say. Like this man, Daniels. And the rotted sack over in the far corner. Easy enough, I suppose. I hop into one person, just one, and I start picking people off, one by one. The goal is to kill my hosts until we're down to only two. Then, it all depends on who survives- me..." (I think it was this point that his legs fell off) "...or not me."
"That's a sick game, Twelve. But how am I sure you're not still Daniels, but... ...ill?"
"Ill? Very funny, Mr. Mandale... in any case, my time runs out. Who shall I hop into next? Hmm..."
Finally, his head gave in and rolled off its neck, hitting and rolling on the floor. Then the entire corpse fell over, motionless.
That... was a painful process, I will admit.
Even remembering it is painful enough.
I suppose that... we're supposed to pick each other off...
Mandale's talking about food and rations. He found a cellar stocked with alcoholic beverages as well as cheese, bread, and produce. All fresh, somehow. He's reluctant to believe a single word of what "Twelve" was saying. I want to go along with him, believe everything is fine if we can hold out long enough, but... I just don't see that happening.
I just don't.
Living Dead
Okay, first of all, Jonah's gone. His body resembles burnt ash and is crumbling and rotting at a tremendous pace. Secondly, Father Daniels just got up. Which is impossible. He bled out and his vertebrae snapped. His head's just dangling awkwardly.
I need to wake Christina. This shit is... I've never fucking experienced something like this before.
The other two can stay down here if they want.
I need to wake Christina. This shit is... I've never fucking experienced something like this before.
The other two can stay down here if they want.
I've Been Told I Need To Do This
Hello there. It is I, Miss Sorenson, back yet again. Agent Mandale and Officer Andrews both told me to type in this. Well, I guess it isn't truly enforced right now- Mandale is upstairs and Officer Andrews is resting on the couch in the entry hall.
She said that the reason we're writing was to get rid ourselves of stress, but I'm stress free! I don't know why, but that entire moment... I don't know, that entire moment seemed surreal. I know... I know it happened, but I didn't feel anything at all about it. Maybe the shock from the first dead body is still lingering or maybe I've been desensitized to all of it. Either way, I think that they have an ulterior motive to all of this- of all of us, Jonah was the only one not to type in the blog at all. He was a nice conversationalist, but he didn't type. Well... except for after the shooting. I think they want us to talk about ourselves, our history, our lives, I guess. Just to make sure an accident like Jonah or Daniels doesn't happen again...
Well, let's see... I was born February 18th, 1986 in Vermont. I graduated high school in 2004 barely skirting a 3.5 GPA. I decided that I'd like to relive the school experience, albeit from a different angle, and also I love kids. So I decided to become a teacher. I taught 8th Grade Social Studies for the past year and a half.
I guess... that's all I can really say in so short a... Mandale's running back down the sta
She said that the reason we're writing was to get rid ourselves of stress, but I'm stress free! I don't know why, but that entire moment... I don't know, that entire moment seemed surreal. I know... I know it happened, but I didn't feel anything at all about it. Maybe the shock from the first dead body is still lingering or maybe I've been desensitized to all of it. Either way, I think that they have an ulterior motive to all of this- of all of us, Jonah was the only one not to type in the blog at all. He was a nice conversationalist, but he didn't type. Well... except for after the shooting. I think they want us to talk about ourselves, our history, our lives, I guess. Just to make sure an accident like Jonah or Daniels doesn't happen again...
Well, let's see... I was born February 18th, 1986 in Vermont. I graduated high school in 2004 barely skirting a 3.5 GPA. I decided that I'd like to relive the school experience, albeit from a different angle, and also I love kids. So I decided to become a teacher. I taught 8th Grade Social Studies for the past year and a half.
I guess... that's all I can really say in so short a... Mandale's running back down the sta
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