Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

No hope, no harm. Just another false alarm.

Somewhere in the dark weeks, in the months my mind is missing, I must have met them. The Wailers, I called them. The Wailers are coming.

I was wrong. The Wailers were already here. When I rushed outside the bathroom -- which happened to be in a rest stop -- they were waiting for me. The Wailers were waiting.

(Ooh, you must be thinking, finally, some elite mooks. C'mon, give us all the juicy details and don't leave out any gruesomeness in appearance. I'm getting to that, so fuck off, will you?)

They didn't look gruesome. They looked almost normal. A man and two women. They didn't look like Grayskins -- they didn't have the ragged clothing covering up the fungus-covered flesh. Instead, they wore dark coats with symbols on them, something that looked sort of like a musical symbol.

They looked at me and smiled. Then they began to sing.

I hadn't put on my headphones, but I doubt they would have helped. All the other noises -- the buzzing of the lights, the hum of the air, even my own footsteps -- it all went away and only their song remained.

They were singing "Carry On My Wayward Son." How apropos.

Their song wasn't like the sound made by the Grayskins. It didn't hurt me, it didn't make me want to hurl. I didn't start bleeding from the eyes.

It made me feel at peace. It was like I was on the edge of a gentle slumber and all I needed to do to go over into a restful sleep would just be to let go. Let go and fall into the song.

So I let go. In point of fact, I let go of what I was holding, which was a small incendiary device I had packed into an empty can of pop. The pop went pop and exploded, which resulted in my getting a nasty cut on my leg, but also stopped the damn song from going any further.

Then I ran. With a bleeding leg, I ran from the Wailers and their Song. I tossed whatever I had on me -- smoke bombs, firecrackers, but not one molotov cocktail, which I shall have to rectify -- at them. I didn't think it would help me, but for some reason, they didn't follow.

I got away from them, but it was only luck that let me. I don't know if I will ever be so lucky. And still questions linger in my mind: what happened in those missing months?

How To Disappear Completely

Where have I been? Where have I gone? What have I done?

(What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?)

I am sitting in a bathroom stall. There is something written on the wall next to me in black permanent marker. It is my own handwriting.

Sing the Threnody.

The Wailers are coming.

What have I done? Where have I been?

I have to go.

The Wailers are coming.

The Song of the Sibyl

I'm still running.

With that two thousand dollars, I was able to actually afford going to motels and eating meals and stuff. I was staying in one last night. It wasn't the best motel, but it was cheap and that meant I could save more and spend less. You never know when you might need money and not have any.

I haven't encountered any Grayskins after last time, but that didn't mean I stopped looking out for them. I keep my extra-special noise-cancelling headphones right next to my pillow. I can't hear a goddamn thing with them on.

That doesn't stop the dreams, though. They started last week.

I'm in a graveyard. I standing atop one large headstone. I am holding in my hands a violin made of bone, with strings made of sinew. I take the bow with one hand and start playing the violin. I know what song it is: it's the Danse Macabre, the Dance of the Dead. I play better than I have ever played before and as I do, I notice the hands emerging from the graves, skeletal hands, some with bits of cloth or flesh still attached.

I am playing the Danse Macabre and I am bring the dead back to life. They rise from their graves and start dancing around me, twirling around each other, spinning on one bony leg each, and then, finally, they all genuflect under the moonlight at me.

I stop playing the violin. I look down at the dead and I can feel a smile on my face. I raise the violin and the bow and I begin to play again. This time, I am the one who begins to dance. I dance among the dead and they dance with me.

And suddenly I realize: I am one of them. I am one of the dead.

Which is when I wake up.

I know what you're thinking. I heard tales back when I was staying at Lyron's house about a Nightmare Fear, but I don't think it's that. The dream doesn't hurt, I never feel like I won't wake up. I'm never scared during the dream, even though I probably should be. If anything, the dream feels...prophetic. Which is what worries me.

Moving in Stereo

I've left the hostel behind me now. They were nice, but, well, I was getting cooped up. There's a sort of freedom in moving, never stopping for long. My goal is to criss-cross the country, to dip my toes in the Pacific and the Atlantic.

Probably won't happen, but I can try.

Here's something strange that happened to me though. I was packing up my stuff and I came across an envelope stuffed in my backpack. It contained about two thousand dollars and a note that read: THANKS FOR KEEPING AN EYE ON HIM. A FRIEND.

I'm assuming the "him" is Kenny since this seems pretty identical to what Raggedyman received after Kenny's visit. I'm not saying I'm not grateful -- because two thousand dollars can get me pretty far -- but it's just strange.

Time to go.