Andrew Walker smiled as he had just won the final bid on an abandoned storage container: he just paid $50K for it. Andrew didn’t mind that. He knew this investment would pay off. Whatever was in there he was going to make 6 figures easy. He could feel it in his bones.

He, as well as the other participants, watched as the lock was cut through and thrown into a nearby can. He swallowed as the doors swung open…

It was a couch. A couch set in the middle of this giant crate. It was a ratty, old couch that looked like a cat had spent its glory days pawing at it. That wasn’t all–thank God. There was also a ratty old chair, a stack of really shitty artwork, and a locked file cabinet.

That cabinet was going to be his savior. He rushed over to it as the onlookers snickered at his purchase. There had to be something inside there. He lunged at it, trying to pry the drawer open with his fingernails, but he couldn’t get in.

He swallowed hard and waved his wive over. He wiped the sweat crawling down his face.

“I thought you said this would be a gold mine,” she whispered.

“This cabinet will be, my dear,” he said. “Get my crowbar, please.”

She returned with a crowbar, most of the audience had left to see the other items for auction. Andrew dug the wedge into the drawer and pushed and pried until it popped open. Inside were folders full of college-ruled paper, each page was written on, edge to edge, folder to folder filled with writings and drawings… Nothing. It held nothing inside.

“I wanted to buy real estate,” his wife whispered in his ear. “‘That’s no fun,’ you said…”

She stomped off.

Andrew, still holding a piece of paper, looked at the drawer. He dug through the pieces again, hoping he missed something. He had missed nothing.

He wiped his head with the piece of paper in his hand, then he took a look at it. Fascinating! It was written in 1979, by an author calling herself Madam Noir. Really, a madam? Interesting.

He started to read the page. It was uncanny. She described something that happened three weeks ago. This was the second time he’d read it; the first time was in the newspaper.

A man had shot 6 people from a tree stand in protest to hunting. Madam Noir wrote this 20 years ago… Well, of course, someone was going to protest hunting by killing hunters eventually. This didn’t prove anything…

He looked back at the drawer. If anything, he thought, it might be good to ship the contents of this drawer back to his office. There may be something else worth knowing inside.

I look at the world with such disdain… I don’t like doing it. I don’t like people. I always seem to run into the most shitty people. I stabbed a man’s tires not too long ago. All I wanted him to do was move over just a little so I could pass through a narrow driveway, but he wouldn’t oblige.

I get into this nasty mood when people don’t oblige. Something as simple as just moving a vehicle two or three feet to one side doesn’t seem unreasonable to me. I would have gladly done it myself. This man wouldn’t move. And he did it in the nastiest way too. With a prideful air, he just said no, and told me to back my car around–possibly into someone else–because he was rightful to sit there.

I hate when I get that way. I just snap. It’s always the same thing though. Some asshole can’t do a simple nicety, and I just lose it.

I carry a large hunting knife with me. It was a gift from my father. He used to take me hunting all the time. I always felt like Rambo, waving it around at squirrels and birds, daring them to come within reach. Now it’s my tool of choice. I stab tires with it.

I remember the air hissing out of the tires as I jabbed them. I remember the man stepping out of his car, ready to tell me off or something. I remember putting that blade in his face, ready to sever something…

I didn’t have to. He didn’t speak. His focus shifted from me to the blade. Nobody ever wants to do me a favor, but when Daisy comes out everyone wants to be hospitable. Yeah, I named my knife Daisy. Mostly for irony. Don’t read to far into it. I remember in high school my English teacher always wanted me to find the hidden meaning behind things. I have a hard time sometimes thinking that story-tellers really have an agenda when they color things. Maybe it’s just a red door?

I also remember reading about the furies in that class. We did a section on Greek mythology. I like that stuff. There’s a Fury called Alecto. I think I relate to her the most. I get angry a lot, and I often find myself relieving my anger when I meet jerks who can’t move their car 2 feet.

And so it finally hit me: I am fury. That is my purpose. I will destroy all that gets in my path. I will correct the ones that don’t do the right thing. I’ll be a superhero. Maybe I’ll call myself Alecto…

From the notes of Dr. Ketch:

I’ve never been more fascinated by a person in my entire life. Thomas Pipkin is by far the most interesting subject I have thus far come across. He scooped out his own eyes out of rage for the trespasses of a young lady name Beverly Rose.

Now he is an artist with other-worldly and, perhaps, supernatural prowess with a number two pencil. I want to get him some colored pencils, but Dr. O’Hare doesn’t think it’s necessary. I’ll probably do it anyway. It can’t hurt.

It’s hard for me to believe that love would drive a person to destroy their vision. Obviously, there is no real love in the world, only chemical reactions. Pipkin was infatuated with this young woman and saw her as the perfect specimen to procreate with. She, on the other hand, saw him as inferior genes that shouldn’t be passed on to another generation. Perhaps she was right. He gouged out his eyes.

That being said, he seems to have metamorphosed in some way. He draws these devastating pictures of symbols, again all with a number two pencil. I’m not a superstitious man, but Thomas Pipkin gives me pause. I’m hungry for more answers. Dr. O’Hare may be dismissive of this finding, but there may be a hidden genius inside Pipkin’s head. I’ve been delving through occult books looking for anything similar to what Pipkin has been drawing. Several I have identified as sigils used to perform magic spells.

It seems like nonsense, but there is something guiding this average man down this dark path, and I want to know more. I want to go further. I want Pipkin to continue down this path of insanity. However, this can never be made known. I must keep this journal locked away from my peers, especially Dr. O’Hare. He doesn’t understand the possible gain here.

I will see this through and perhaps unlock the powers of the mind, the afterlife, and possibly absolute power!

*****Spoiler Alert*****

I don’t think spoilers are bad per say, but I guess some people do. Music is a great inspiration to me. This scene is based on NF’s Intro III. I’ve been wanting to write it for a while and of course needs some work, but I’ve been absent for a while. Here you go.

*****Spoiler Alert*****

Daryl sat alone at the darkened bar. A whiskey bottle, nearly empty; a discarded glass at the bar’s edge. He stared at the bottle. He was contemplating the mouth, bringing it to his lips, thinking about whether he could down the rest.

Thinking about Lupe and Parkinson and everyone else who died… ‘I think I can manage it.’

But instead his hand slapped the bottle to wall. It popped and splintered all over the bar. ‘Hank’s going to be pissed…’

“He’ll get over it.”

“Ah, Kinder. Are we going to talk some more?”

“Daryl, you need to stop. Your body can’t handle much more of this. Our body can’t handle much more of this. I want you alive.”

“I want Lupe alive! Fuck you, Kinder!”

“We all want Lupe alive. We all miss Caroline and the others, but you got to get up and move on.”

“You know Kinder? This was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“What?”

“All of this!” He raised his hands. “Meeting you. Allowing you to stay. Becoming the Mothman. Going to Ft. Wicham… The list is pretty long…”

“Yes, but it did happen. You have to get up and accept that this is the way that it is.”

“I really wish you would just leave! Haven’t you had enough! I killed a man, Kinder! Do you know how that feels?”

“I do. I killed plenty before I met you. You changed me. And Ben Howder was going to die, if not by you, then by me, or Hank or Sarah. He was going to die.”

“‘I told you so…’ is that what you’re thinking Kinder? This dumb-ass could have killed Benjamin Howder at the very beginning, and saved Lupe, and things would be different. That’s what you’re thinking right? Daryl Kerns: what a fucking loser.”

“I had similar thoughts when I met you. I thought you were weak and naive. There was a time when I honestly wished I’d given all my power to Ben in the first place. But that was a different time. You’re a courageous soul. You gave me faith in humanity again.”

“Yeah! You’re the reason Ben fucking killed Lupe! You fucking asshole! Why did you let Ben get so powerful? You could have kept him in that coma. You prick!”

“… Daryl… I hate seeing you like this. I’m here for you. I’ll be your punching bag. But the story isn’t over yet. You’re still alive. We can still do so much more.”

“You know what Kinder? You can fucking leave. I’ve had enough. I don’t want your powers any more I just want to be normal. For the first time ever.”

“… So be it…”

Daryl’s whole body ignited. Light poured out of every pore of his body, his mouth and eyes shining the brightest, as a pillar of white rose out of him and exited through the ceiling.

“…Kinder?” said Daryl. He fell out of his chair and puke up the whiskey in his stomach.

“Kinder?”

Daryl wobbled up to his feet. The room was spinning. He puked again. ‘Better close my eyes,’ he thought, but it got worse. He heaved again. This time he was sure everything was out.

“Kinder?”

Everything…

Sean entered the elevator, a crumpled piece of paper in his shaking hand. He saw his reflection as the metal doors slid shut. He forced a smile as he turned his head to the button pad. There were 20 floors to choose from, but where Sean wanted to go was not listed on the panel.

He uncrumpled the soft paper and read the instructions listed on it:

10

5

8

1

6

7

9

6

In this order he had to ride the elevator to his destination: the unknown.

He found these instruction online. The game had circulated across the occult websites as a map to a new world. No one came back from this world, and Sean didn’t care where it took him.

Sean had just graduated college. He had a degree in creative writing and after six months of no bites from the job market, he packed up his book bag with notebooks and pens to go to this brand new world.

He pushed the 10 button.

As the door slid open, he pressed the 5. He did the same for 8 and then 1. He wondered if he could hit the close button at the bottom instead of peering out of the open elevator onto each well lit hallway. He didn’t risk it. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible and he wasn’t going to press unnecessary buttons–there were too many already!

He pressed the 6… the 7… the 9… He looked at his paper one last time. One last number. 6. He pressed it.

The elevator went to 6 and opened the doors. Nothing. It was just an empty well lit hallway. He peeked his head around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Same wallpaper as his hotel. Same decor. He reached out to the wall lamp that hung between elevators.

It didn’t disappear. It didn’t stretch. It didn’t shout at him for being grabby. It was just a normal lamp. He looked back at the elevator and then at his watch. He had entered the elevator at midnight. It was only 10 minutes after; that sounded about right for an elevator ride such as that.

He sighed. I guess life would continue the way it was. He would just go back to his room on the 12th floor and think about what he was going to do tomorrow. He pressed the up button and waited as the elevator opened up. There was a man inside.

He wore an old elevator operator uniform. His skin was green and he stood about 3’5″ tall. His mouth looked like a toad’s, and Sean couldn’t help but cringe at the smell that came from inside.

“Which floor sir?” he asked.

Sean stared at him. “I need the 12th floor.” He hesitated, then stepped onto the elevator, trying to not make faces as he took in the odor.

“The 12th floor, eh?” said the toad man. “Not much going on 12. Are you sure about that?”

Sean paused. “Is there a floor you would recommend?”

“What are you looking for? Adventure? Horror? Romance? Comedy?”

Sean was confused. “Uh, comedy?”

“Excellent choice, sir.” He pressed the 5 button and the elevator shifted to the side instead of going down. It then went diagonally up and made a rapid descent. Sean shook as he grabbed the little toad man for support.

“Careful sir.”

The elevator stopped. The door opened. “Welcome to your floor sir.”

Sean stepped out and the elevator closed behind him.