Hello Dear Readers,
I still find myself out of sorts. I haven’t had it into any exploring or investigations. I’ve simply been watching the tomato plants grow (more on that next time) and listening to the radio. The idea that the Vandal has been murdered, possibly by some other player in this game that is just barely coming to light is deeply unsettling. Seeing as how I don’t even know what the stakes are.
Fortunately, Otto has been asking me about writing a guest-post since I revealed to my friends that this blog does indeed exist. I was apprehensive at the idea of letting anyone work on this blog but me, but he has been insistent. He claims to have many stories relevant to this from his many years he spent living on the streets, like that of Horatio Grey. Since I find myself in no condition to write anything of my own and if I'm hi invest about it, he different if it from someone telling me a story and then writing it down? So why not mix things up!
Surprisingly, he handed several sheets of notebook paper that he had written his account out by hand, in cursive. His penmanship is beautiful. When I remarked on this he said that it was always the best in his class as a kid. He said writing things out is “the only thing that helps” when his hands start to shake. Apparently, he has boxes and boxes of journal and notebooks in storage somewhere. Perhaps he should publish them in this own blog “the Otto Chronicles”. So I typed it up and present it to you here, unedited.
“People always used to tell me that I look younger than I am. But nearly a decade of living on the streets and doing heroin has aged m, so now I don’t know how old I look. But the point is, though I hang around with Gemma and Arkady and that lot, I’m about a decade older than most of those assholes. So when you read this don’t tell me that you don’t remember it because I was eight at that time most of you were barely an itch in your daddy’s pants.
So alright, like I said, I was eight at the time. I'm sure because that was the summer that Jenny Roscoe got life and her parents shaved her head and our next door neighbor got a dog, Biggs, who got hit by a car and at the end of the summer.
Alright, so this was a few years before the factory closed down. There was this big scare that summer when we were all told that one of the factory’s ‘chemical pits had leaked’. So far as I know that's all the information anyone was given. There was a town hall meeting to break the news. But we were told we would be alright, because the factory was going to provide everyone with pills, free of charge. Pills to make sure there weren't any ‘negative effects’ on the population.
So we had to take two large blue pills, one in the morning and one in the evening. And one small pink pill in the evening. After taking the pink pill we had to drink a full glass of water. My mom had drug my older brother Reggie and me along. I remember them saying it was extra important that the children took theirs. We could get them at the local pharmacy.
Now, back then, Kevin's Crossing didn't have a fancy chain store pharmacy. Maybe they had one over in Telford. But all we had was McCall’s Friendly Family Pharmacy. It was owned and operated by the head pharmacist, Dr. McCall. Just like his father and grandfather, who opened the business.
So we took our pills, just like almost everyone else in town. And that was that. Until things started to get weird.
Alright, so first it was the dreams, but ol’ Doc McCall said not to worry, that they would pass. I can still remember his plastic smile and the cheap toys that he sold that broke the moment you got them outta the store. Well, he's dead now. Heart attack. So fuck 'em.
The dreams were usually about corridors. These long fucking corridors with high ceiling and lights mounted on the walls. They looked like concrete, but when you touched them, they felt… wrong. And then there was the shadow person. Tall and lean. It was always standing at the end of a tunnel, waiting and watching, as you slowly approached, but never reached it.
But dreams are just dreams, and we were told not to worry about it so we didn’t. That summer people hallucinated, exhibited hysterical behavior, three people went missing, and one was never found. The two that did turn up told stories so bizarre they should be interviewed for this blog. Violent crimes and suicides were at an all-time high. And strangest of all, no one fucking noticed. Things got blamed on Jak-Jak a lot, can you believe that shit? As an eight year old, everything just seemed off. But it’s not like I had a lot of experience to compare it to. I was still pissing the bed on occasion. Actually more frequently that summer. But I don’t know.
After nearly two months, another town meeting was held. The whole town went. We were told that the leak had been ‘taken care of’ and that the groundwater was safe. But we couldn’t just stop taking the pills. We needed to finish the week out and take one large white pill at the end. Which everyone did. Everyone except me. I hate pills, I hate taking medicine in general. The irony that later in life I would become a junkie is not lost on me. So as a final act of rebellion I never took the last pill. And now I’m the only person that really seems to remember the whole thing. If you ask people, they will vaguely remember something but quickly dismiss it. Though it's not the only thing people around here like to forget.
I don’t know what this means. But it can’t be good.
So that’s it. The Newton Manufacturing Company leaked something unknown into the ground. They gave everyone in town mystery pills that made people crazy for almost two months. And now it’s like it never happened.
PostScript
Taped to the bottom of the last sheet of paper that Otto gave me is a large white pill.
I’ll keep you updated.
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